Revenge of the Damned

by Chris Bunch

  Sullamora knew that would ensure the Emperor's support. He also had his experts put together a swampland section that committed Parliament to “render every assistance” to the Emperor in his “brave and lonely struggle.” The independent agency was the gator hiding in the swamp.

  Sullamora's analysts pored over the document and finally agreed that there was no way anyone could ever spot the gator amid obfuscations no one would bother to read. As one patriarch of the Parliament once put it, “If everyone knew what they're voting on, we'd never get out of here.” When the big moment came, Sullamora personally planned to present the resolution in a speech punched up to the nth degree by a team provided by Volmer. It was pure-dee guaranteed to be welcomed with thunderous applause.

  * * * *

  Sullamora paced back and forth in the small anteroom, waiting to be called to the speaker's rostrum. As he paced, he rehearsed the speech in his head, punching out at the air with his right hand to mark the rhythms. A door hissed open behind him, and Sullamora turned, mildly surprised. The call was five minutes early. But instead of seeing the huge jolly figure of the Parliament's sergeant at arms, he found himself gaping down at a small, dark man with a large curved knife hanging from his uniform belt. It was a Gurkkha, one of the Emperor's personal bodyguards. The Gurkkha gave him a small, barely polite bow and handed him a message. It was a summons. The Eternal Emperor had spotted the gator.

  * * * *

  The Emperor was a study in casualness, feet propped up on his antique desk, a drink before him, another in front of Tanz Sullamora, and a bottle between them. He even picked up his drink frequently as he talked, seeming to take a sip and then replace the glass on the desk. Sullamora noted that the level never went down.

  "...I appreciate your good intentions, Tanz,” the Emperor was saying. “And I plan to personally thank each member of my cabinet for going to all this thought and effort. But..."

  He let the word sit there for a moment while he took another sip of his drink. From that moment on, Sullamora knew the conversation would be one he would take to his grave—or, at least, to his memoirs.

  "I don't go for this independent agency concept,” the Emperor finally said. He raised a polite hand as if Sullamora would protest—not that he would ever dare to. “I know you may think I'm being shortsighted, but these kinds of things have a way of taking on a life of their own. The fact of the matter is, I'm a one-man show. Always have been. Hope to always be. You fellows are talking about taking the long view. Well, I have to tell you, from where I sit, there is no way your view can be long enough."

  He waited, encouraging comment from Sullamora.

  "There was no disrespect intended,” Sullamora said. “But we just can't see how one person—no matter how good—can handle everything himself. What we're offering here, sir, is a chance for you to take advantage of the experience of some of the best minds under your rule."

  The Emperor pretended to think about that for a moment. Then he nodded to Sullamora.

  "Okay. Let's run through this and see if maybe I'm wrong. I suppose we all agree on what we're facing once this is over. Once the Tahn agree to my terms, we turn off the war machine. And then we immediately face one holy mother of a depression. I doubt there has ever been a depression the potential size of what we're talking about.

  "All your shipbuilding factories, for instance. They'll come to a halt. We've got enough ships of the line now for ten long lifetimes. The same goes for every other area of the economy. The torque will be tremendous. A whole lot of great big axles churning away, with no place to go."

  "We've got ideas that specifically—"

  "I've heard of them,” the Emperor snapped. “And they don't wash. You want me to raise the AM2 tax from two mills to three or maybe four. But what you can't seem to get through your heads is that if you take money out of people's pockets, there's no way they can buy what little you'll be able to produce.

  "It's not war that has destroyed the great empires of history. It's money, or the mishandling of same. When the soldiers’ job is over, you've got this big whopping bill. And you've got interest running on that big mother of a bill. And you better not make the mistake of not paying it off. Otherwise, next time you need to fight, the money people will drag their feet and jack up the interest on what little they will lend you. Same with the little guy whose life we put on the line. If he comes home to misery, he's not gonna be too thrilled about fighting for you next time out, no matter how worthy you tell him the cause is.

  "Personally, I'm thinking about pulling in my horns. Reducing the tax to peacetime levels. One mill. No more. And maybe after a while a temporary decrease to two-thirds of a mill. That way the local governments can pop on a quarter-mill tax of their own to pay back their share of what this stupid war cost."

  Sullamora gasped at that idea. “At least we can increase the AM2 output,” he said. “That'll bring in more taxes. Besides making it cheaper for us all to operate."

  "Sure it will,” the Eternal Emperor said. “It will also kick hell out of the value of the credit. People will be walking around with wheelbarrows of the stuff to buy a glass of beer."

  Sullamora did not know what a wheelbarrow was, but he got the general drift. “You mentioned beer,” he said. “Now, there's a way to make money nobody can object to. A tax on beer. A tax on narcotics. A tax on joy—"

  "Used to be called a sin tax,” the Emperor said dryly. “Another dumb idea. Between me and the Tahn, we have killed and mutilated more beings than I like to think about. What we're left with is a pretty miserable group.

  "Now, the beings in this group may not agree on a lot. But if we let them, misery will be the first hammer they'll pick up. And they'll hit us with it, Tanz. I guarantee you that.

  "No. This is a time to start encouraging a little more sin, if anything. Lots of spectacle. And as close to free as dammit."

  That made no sense at all to Sullamora. The Emperor pretended not to notice and moved on.

  "And speaking of keeping people happy,” he said. “You realize that we're all talking about some major increases in wages, don't you? And if you want to sell anything, a major decrease in prices.

  "In fact, since a lot of my fellow capitalists are usually pretty slow to get the drift of these kinds of things, I'm considering some pretty heavy-duty legislation on the subject."

  "How—how can you possibly see that?” Sullamora sputtered out.

  "Simple. We've been killing a lot of folks. We'll surely kill more before it's done. Fewer people to work equals higher wages. Lower prices means more productivity providing things those people can now afford. And lots of cheap material to build those things from. For anyone with vision, that is. Take all those ships of yours, Tanz,” the Emperor said, slipping the dirk between Sullamora's ribs. Sullamora realized that the Emperor planned on sticking him with a lot of those soon-to-be-useless warships. “With a little creative retooling, you'll have plenty of scrap of just about any kind of material going to build some useful products."

  "Like what?” Sullamora asked in a bare whisper.

  The Eternal Emperor shrugged. “Beats the clot out of me. You've got R&D geniuses. Put ‘em to work making some new things to cook food with instead of frying people. Should be easy.

  "Hell, Tanz. The more I think about it, we're talking about real opportunity here. Almost makes me wish I didn't have this stupid job. A guy with a little brains, a bit of money, and a lot energy could make himself a great big pile out of all this."

  Sullamora had to ask the question. “Do you really believe that?"

  "Sure I do,” the Emperor said. “At least I know I could, although you probably think that's just big talk. Fact is, most emperors think the same way. There was a queen, way back when, who used to say pretty much the same thing to her advisers.

  "She used to tell them that if somehow she were plucked from her throne and dropped in nothing but her petticoats on any desolate coast, it wouldn't take her long to be running things again.
Some of her advisers used to laugh about that behind her back.

  "Her name was Elizabeth. Elizabeth the First. Ever hear of her?"

  Tanz Sullamora shook his head, knowing his audience was coming to a close.

  "She must have been really something,” the Emperor mused on. “Some historians think she was the greatest ruler ever. Maybe they're right."

  A small wild thought crossed Sullamora's mind. He wondered what had happened to the advisers. The ones who laughed. Had they ever thought about...

  "Of course, she was pretty quick with the ax,” the Eternal Emperor said, and it was almost as if he were reading Sullamora's mind. The ship baron rose quickly to his feet, nearly knocking over his drink.

  "Excuse me, sir,” he stammered. “But I think..."

  "Are you all right?” the Emperor asked, giving Sullamora a strange, puzzled look. But maybe Tanz was just imagining that. He made an excuse about feeling slightly ill and, after being dismissed, hurried for the door. Just as it hissed open, the Emperor called his name. Sullamora forced himself to turn back.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "No more surprises, okay, Tanz?” the Emperor said. “I don't like surprises."

  Tanz Sullamora gasped out a promise and hurried away, vowing to break that promise the first chance he had.

  * * * *

  He spoke uninterrupted for a full hour. The members of the privy council listened in cold silence as he related in complete detail his conversation with the Emperor. Sullamora did not color his account in any way or attempt to paint himself as being larger or bolder than he had in fact been. These were businessbeings who had no patience for hyperbole. Just the facts was what they wanted, and just the facts was what they got.

  The silence went on after he had finished. It seemed like an eternity as each one rilled in the blanks and thought over the personal consequences of what the Eternal Emperor was planning to do.

  Volmer was the first to break. “But—but—we're looking at disaster here. Doesn't he understand ... My God! We've got to stop him!"

  And then the impact of what he had just said hit him like a padded club, and he flushed and stuttered back into silence. After an appropriate pause, Tanz Sullamora made a suggestion. He said that maybe they could all benefit from a walk in the woods.

  * * * *

  "A walk in the woods” was an ancient political phrase that had originally meant “to seek a meeting of the minds,” for a representative of one camp to convince another that both had to swallow some very evil-tasting medicine. It meant a method of reaching a difficult decision without the pressures of the outside world.

  Tanz Sullamora meant something similar when he proposed the walk. Except, in his case, there was obviously already a meeting of the minds. He was sure they all knew what had to be done but were afraid to be the first to suggest it. Sullamora was ninety percent correct.

  The members of the council walked many kilometers, weaving through the trees and pausing here and there to sniff the air or listen to a bird's song. Pretending interest. Pretending pleasure in the simple things. Inside, each being's guts roiled with acid. Finally, it was Kyes who broached the subject.

  "Volmer was right,” he said. “I see no other solution. Perhaps it's just as well. The man is obviously out of touch with reality."

  Everyone nodded, relieved that it had finally been said. Everyone except Volmer. The man was shocked, frightened. To him, his blurted remark was being twisted and turned into something he was not willing to deal with. Volmer might have thought regicide, might even have blurted regicide. But it was being tossed back at him as bloody-handed treason.

  "What are you saying? My God, I don't want any ... Look, we're all under a lot of pressure. We're not thinking clearly. Let's all just take our lumps like beings and get back to it. Okay? It's time to go home, right? Get back to business?"

  Sullamora came in like a snake. He draped a soothing arm over Volmer's shoulder. He patted his back, ruffled his hair, and steered him slightly away from the others. “A misunderstanding ... not what he meant ... Speaking metaphorically...” And on and on. Volmer was grabbing at his phrases like a drowning man, agreeing, subsiding, and becoming calm again.

  As Sullamora ushered the man through the door of the main building, he looked back at the others. They were all staring after him. The bargain had been struck, the deal made.

  Sullamora laughed at some weak joke Volmer had made and pounded his back in manly appreciation—thinking, as he did it, that that was the first place the knife would have to fall.

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  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  THE REST OF STEN and Alex's escape was not the stuff livies were made from. True to his word, Chetwynd tucked the pair away in the lap of luxury, which consisted of an oversize bed with sheets and unlimited time to spend in it—alone and asleep.

  It also meant being vermin-free for the first time in years. Being able to bathe in clean water any time they wanted. And there was food! Calories and glutinous calories of it! At first the foods were simple, so as not to stress their battered digestive systems. And finally there was the ecstasy of being able to walk away from a meal leaving food still on the plate.

  The various joygirls and boys who offered other services might have been disappointed at the lack of response, but as Kilgour explained for the both of them, “Ah'd need a splint, but thanks f'r thinki't ah me."

  Chetwynd left them alone. He knew how long it took for a prisoner to realize he was more than a stubborn survival machine.

  Eventually the two were moved out of Heath, hidden below a ton and a half of metal scrap stacked on an ancient, bailing-wire-maintained gravsled onto, Sten guessed, the private estate of some Tahn muckety. Chetwynd declined to provide information, of course.

  The tiny smuggling ship hovered, Yukawa drive humming. Sten and Alex were bundled aboard, and the ship lifted off-world and vanished into AM2 drive.

  Somewhere the ship rendezvoused with its mother transport, and Sr. Jon Wild greeted them.

  He had, he told them, gotten off Romney just in time. The feeling that expert crooks get that the heat was breathing down their necks had prickled his spine—and Wild had ordered an evacuation. He had lost seven ships and his base, but all of his people and, more importantly, his goods were saved. And anyone, he explained, rubbing his fingers together meaningfully, “can acquire a ship and a place to land it."

  He was most delighted to be able to move them to safety, he explained. He owed Sten.

  Some time before, a small convoy of his had gotten jumped inside the Imperial sector. The next stage would have been confiscation of ships and cargo and appropriate measures for the crew and Wild.

  "There was some mention of prison planets,” he went on. “Or for those of us considered rehabilitatable they offered some horror called penal battalions. I did not ask for details."

  Sten had been Wild's ace. In honest bewilderment he wondered to his captors why they would interfere with an Imperial Intelligence operation. He had been met with loud laughter.

  "I suggested they check with their own G, S, or whatever letter they use for the section. Shortly thereafter, to some surprise, the spyboys reported that I was a gentleman born to the colors.

  "I am very grateful that you filed the proper paperwork, young man."

  With grudging apologies, Wild and his people were freed and continued on about their own, quite profitable business providing Tahn luxuries for rich Imperials, and vice versa.

  "I estimate that if this war continues another ... oh, give it ten years, I should be able to go legitimate.” Wild shuddered slightly at the concept. “So indeed, Commander, or whatever your rank is, you shall be treated, during this passage, as if you were the illegitimate son of the Emperor himself."

  The remainder of the voyage was marked by a slow, steady increase in their waistbands, some occasional sweaty moments as patrols, either Tahn or Imperial, were evaded, and more sleep.

  Sten figured they were retur
ning to something close to normal after seeing Alex duck into a cabin with one of Wild's more shapely officers.

  By the time they were landed on an Imperial base that coincidentally was in a system where Wild “had some interesting people to meet,” both ex-POWs would have made lousy propaganda fodder. They should have been bearded. Haggard. Emaciated. Scarred. Ready to testify to the monstrous inhumanity of the Tahn and the ability to tough it out that brave Imperial soldiers had.

  The propaganda mills were not even alerted.

  Both men knew far too much to allow the public prints near them. They were shuttled to Prime World, and the Empire's most skilled debriefers worked them over using every skill and technique they had short of mindprobe. Sten had been there once, thank you, and would rather not repeat the experience.

  By the time Intelligence grudgingly decided that whatever else of value was inside their now-bruised and exhausted brain cells, Sten and Kilgour felt as if they had been crucified by Tahn torturers.

  And then the real surprises began.

  Both Sten and Alex expected various medals. Not because they necessarily thought they had done anything particularly heroic in captivity, except getting the clot out of it—for which accomplishment they would have cheerfully accepted free alk for the rest of their lifetime instead of a gong—but because when any war got nasty, the survivors tended to collect bits of tin as they survived.