Revenge of the Damned

by Chris Bunch

  A minute later, the worry was over. The Eternal Emperor was dead.

  Then the privy council turned up the joker in the Emperor's deck.

  The bomb implanted in his body exploded. The size of the blast had been determined thousands of years before. Sullamora died. And the Gurkkhas. And the sobbing crowd. And anyone and anything within a precise one-eighth of a kilometer.

  Odd things happened in all explosions, and that one was no exception. A week later, a tech from the pathology lab found Chapelle's face. That was all—just his face. There was not a blemish or a mark on it.

  Chapelle's face was smiling.

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  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  MAHONEY PRESSED HIS thumb against the print sensor, and the door to the Eternal Emperor's study hissed open. He hesitated before he entered. This would probably be his last time. There were only a very few beings the sensor would pass, and for an hour or two more Mahoney was one of them.

  After that, the memory would be wiped and a new order of permitted presences would be installed. Mahoney knew there was no way his name would be on that exalted list, just as he had known there was something very wrong almost as soon as he had scattered his handful of dirt on the Eternal Emperor's coffin and stepped back to let the others pay their last respects.

  The five surviving members of the privy council stood slightly apart from the other mourners on a small grassy knoll, just beyond the screen of rosebushes the gardeners had hastily planted to fulfill the Emperor's burial wishes.

  But there was only one rose blossom on the entire span of bushes. It had no hidden meaning, but Mahoney found it strangely apt, and as it drew his attention, he made note of the presence of the Council of Five.

  They stood together, but at an apparent measured distance, as if they were afraid to be too close. Not a word was whispered between them, and their faces were stony and guarded. It was as if they had something to feel guilty about, Mahoney thought; then he wiped away the thought as a product of Mick romanticism.

  But the image nagged at him, and when he saw the news feed that night, he marked the announcement that an emergency session of Parliament had been called. Now, what could be odd about that, my friend? Mahoney thought. This is an emergency, isn't it?

  Sure it is, Ian, but bless your sweet dumb Irish behind, don't you see it? The session was called by the privy council. Mahoney did not have to be a legal scholar to realize that such an action was well beyond their constitutional authority. All right. So why didn't any member of the Parliament complain? Or, better yet, refuse? Simple.

  Because it was wired, dear Ian, dear Ian, wired.

  The Emperor had been murdered, and Mahoney knew who had done it, and it was not the poor mad fool the livies were going on about in their endlessly recycled analysis. It was not Chapelle.

  Sure, Chapelle had pulled the trigger. But the real guilt rested with the five lone figures on the grassy knoll. And there was not a thing Mahoney could do about it because, even if he wanted to, he would not be part of the new order. Just as he knew that the hero of Cavite had better get on his horse and haul butt out of town before they came to really thank him.

  Mahoney stepped into the clutter of the Eternal Emperor's study for the last time. He was not sure why he had come, except for the mad hope that there would be some clue about what to do next.

  He was so used to his old boss having every base covered that it had not quite sunk in yet that this was one contingency that had been impossible to plan for.

  Mahoney looked in dismay at the many scattered books on the shelves, some lying open just as the Emperor had left them as he searched for some arcane fact or other.

  The study was jammed with the idiosyncrasies of his old boss: from ancient windup toys that clattered about with no purpose but to amuse to experimental cooking tools; plas bags of spices he was considering; scattered notes and scrawls; and even music sheets crammed with marginalia. An entire division could not have found a clue in that mess in half a thousand years.

  So Mahoney decided to have a drink. What else could he do?

  He walked to the Emperor's desk and slid out the drawer where the boss kept his Scotch. He noted that the seal on the bottle was unbroken. That was strange. The Emperor never put an unsealed bottle in his desk. He always took a snort first.

  Mahoney shrugged, pulled out a shot glass, and reached for the bottle.

  As he picked it up, something small and white came unstuck from the bottom and fluttered to the floor. Mahoney stooped over to see what it was. When he saw the scrawling on it, he almost let it drop from his fingers in shock.

  Mahoney dropped heavily into a chair. He held the piece of paper before his disbelieving eyes. His face was flushed, sweat leapt from his forehead, and his pulse rate jumped into triple time.

  The message was for him. From the Eternal Emperor. And this was all it said:

  "Stick around, Ian. I'll be right back."

  * * * *

  THE END

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  THE STEN COOKBOOK

  Actually, this ought to be called “The Eternal Emperor's Cookbook,” because that's who started the whole business. A gourmet from way, way back, the Eternal Emperor cooked up at least one dish for nearly every episode of Sten. When he stopped cooking, of course, is when the drakh hit the clottin’ fan. Over the years, countless readers have written in about the recipes in the Sten Series. One in particular caught our attention. It came from a young Coast Guard Lieutenant, who said that while at sea he always took his turn cooking dinner, even though he was the commander o the ship. He particularly loved cooking the dishes in the Sten novels. He said, “The new guys must have thought the old man mad, to see him hovering over the galley, big spoon in one hand, a greasy science fiction book in the other.” This inspired my wife, Kathryn, (the late Chris Bunch's sister) to sit down and put the recipes together for easy reference.

  So, read, cook, eat and enjoy!

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  Recipe Index

  STEN The Eternal Emperor's Chili

  THE WOLF WORLDS—The Emperor's Salmon

  THE COURT OF A THOUSAND SUNS—The Emperor's Angelo Stew.

  FLEET OF THE DAMNED—The Emperor's Barbecue Sauce

  REVENGE OF THE DAMNED—The Emperor's Nuked Hen

  RETURNED OF THE EMPEROR—Raschid's Eggs of Pattipong

  VORTEX—The Emperor's Bombay Birani

  EMPIRE'S END—Sten's Ultimate Steak Sandwich, Marr and Senn's Dinner Party, Alex Kilgour's Beef Jerky

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  STEN

  The Eternal Emperor's Chili

  The Emperor, Mahoney decided, had finally gone mad. He was hovering over a huge bubbling pot half filled with an evil-looking mixture, muttering to himself.

  "A little of this. A little of that. A little garlic and a little fat. Now, the cumin. Just a touch. Maybe a bit more. No, lots more.” The Emperor finally noticed Mahoney and smiled. “You're just in time,” he said. “Gimme that box."

  Mahoney handed him an elaborately carved wooden box. The Emperor opened it and poured out a handful of long reddish objects. They looked like desiccated alien excrement to Mahoney.

  "Look at these,” he boasted to Mahoney, “Ten years in the biolabs to produce."

  "What are they?"

  "Peppers, you clot. Peppers."

  "Oh, uh, great. Great."

  "Don't you know what that means?"

  Mahoney had to admit he didn't.

  "Chili, man. Chili. You ain't got peppers, you got no chili."

  "That's important, huh?"

  The emperor didn't say another word. Just dumped in the peppers, punched a few buttons on his cooking console, then dipped up a huge spoonful of the mess and offered it to Mahoney. He watched intently as Mahoney tasted. Not ba—then it hit him. His face went on fire, his ears steamed and he choked for breath. The Emperor pounded him on the back, big grin on his face, and then
offered him a glass of beer. Mahoney slugged it down. Wheezed.

  "Guess I got it just right,” the Emperor said.

  "You mean you did that on purpose?"

  "Sure. It's supposed to scorch the hair off your butt. Otherwise it wouldn't be chili."

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  THE WOLF WORLDS

  The Emperor's Salmon

  The Emperor was busy dressing the fish. He'd picked a handful of berries from a bush on the outskirts of the clearing and a small clump of leaves from each of two bushes nearby.

  "Juniper berries—they grow wild here; two local spices, basil and thyme, that I planted twenty years ago,” he explained. He rubbed berry juices on both sides of the split salmon, then crushed the leaves and did the same.

  * * * *

  "More fish, Colonel?"

  Mahoney burn-cured a slight case of the hiccups with a shot from their second jar then shook his head.

  After the birchwood fire'd burned down to coals, the Emperor had put the salmon on the sapling grill. He'd left it for a few minutes, then quickly splashed corn liquor on the skin-side and skillfully flipped the slabs of fish over. The fire flared and charred the skin, and then the Emperor had extracted the fish. Mahoney couldn't remember when he'd eaten anything better.

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  THE COURT OF A THOUSAND SUNS

  The Emperor's Angelo Stew

  "What the clot is Angelo stew?"

  "You don't need to know. Wouldn't eat it if you did. Cures cancer ... oh, we cured that before, didn't we ... Anyway ... Angelo stew's the ticket. Only thing I know will unfreeze our buttocks."

  Sten watched as the Emperor worked. From what Sten could gather, the first act of what was to be Angelo stew consisted of thinly sliced chorizo—Mexican hard sausage, the Emperor explained. The sausage and a heaping handful of garlic were sautéed in Thai-pepper-marinated olive oil. Deliciously hot-spiced smells from the pan cut right through the Stregg fumes in Sten's nostrils.

  The Emperor stopped his work and took a sip of Stregg. Smiled to himself, and tipped a small splash in with the chorizo. Then he went back to the task at hand, quartering four or five onions and seeding quarter slices of tomatoes.

  He turned and pulled a half-kilo slab of bleeding red beef from a storage cooler and began chunking it up.

  The Emperor shut off the flame under the sausage and garlic, started another pan going with more spiced oil, and tossed in a little sage, a little savory and thyme, and then palm-rolled some rosemary twigs and dropped those in on top. He stirred the mixture, considered a moment, then heaped in the tomato quarters and glazed them. He shut off the fire and turned back to Sten. He gave the young captain a long, thoughtful look and then began rolling the small chunks of beef into flour first, and then into a bowl of hot-pepper seeds.

  He paused to turn the flame up under the sausage and garlic, then added the pepper-rolled beef as soon as the pan was hot enough. He stirred the beef around, waiting until it got a nice brown crust.

  The Emperor finished the beef. He pulled out a large iron pan and dumped the whole mess into it. He also added the panful of onions and tomatoes. Then he threw in a palmful of superhot red peppers, a glug or three of rough red wine, many glugs of beef stock, a big clump of cilantro, clanked down the lid, and set the flame to high. As soon as it came to a boil, he would turn it down to simmer for a while.

  * * * *

  The stew was done now. The Emperor rose and ladled out two brimming bowlsful. Sten's mouth burst with saliva. He could smell a whole forest of cilantro. His eyes watered as the Emperor set the bowl in front of him. He waited as the man cut two enormous slices of fresh-baked sourdough bread and plunked them down along with a tub of newly churned white butter.

  The Emperor spooned up a large portion of stew.

  "Eat up, son. This stuff is great brain food. First your ears go on fire, then the gray stuff. Last one done's a grand admiral."

  Sten swallowed. The Angelo stew savored his tongue, and gobbled down his throat to his stomach. A small nuclear flame bloomed, and his eyes teared and his nose wept and his ears turned bright red. The Stregg in his bloodstream fled before a horde of red-pepper molecules.

  "Whaddya think?” the Eternal Emperor said.

  "What if you don't have cancer?” Sten gasped.

  "Keep eating, boy. If you don't have it now, you will soon."

  The Emperor's Barbecue Sauce

  The Emperor sniffed his simmering sauce: Mmmmm ... Perfect. It was a concoction whose beginnings were so foul-looking and smelling that Marr and Senn, his Imperial caterers, refused to attend. They took a holiday in some distant place every time he threw a barbecue.

  The original creation was born in a ten-gallon pot. He always made it many days in advance. He said it was to give it time to breathe. Marr and Senn substituted “breed,” but the Emperor ignored that. The ten gallons of base sauce was used sort of like sourdough starter—All he had to do was to keep adding as many ingredients as there were beings to eat it.

  He dipped a crust of hard bread into the sauce and nibbled. It was getting better.

  The secret to the sauce was the scrap meat. It had taken the Emperor years to convince his butchers what he meant by scrap. He did not want slices off the finest fillet. He needed garbage beef, so close to spoiling that the fat was turning yellow and rancid. The fact that he rubbed it well with garlic, rosemary, and salt and pepper did not lessen the smell. “If you're feeling squeamish,” he always told Mahoney, “sniff the garlic on your hands."

  The sauce meat was placed in ugly piles on racks that had been stanchioned over smoky fires—at this stage the recipe wanted little heat, but a great deal of smoke from hardwood chips. The Emperor liked hickory when he could get it. He constantly flipped the piles of meat so that the smoke flavor would penetrate. In this case, the chemistry of the near-spoiled scraps aided him: They were drying and porous and sucking at the air.

  Then he—and his echoing waldoes—dumped the meat into the pot, filled it with water, and set it simmering with cloves of garlic and the following spices: three or more bay leaves, a cupped palm and a half of oregano, and a cupped palm of savory to counteract the bitterness of the oregano.

  Then the sauce had to simmer a minimum of two hours, sometimes three, depending upon the amount of fat in the meat—the more fat, the longer the simmer.

  While he was waiting for the meat to simmer to completion, he could drink many shots of Stregg and prepare the next part of the sauce at his leisure.

  There were many possibilities, but the Emperor liked using ten or more large onions, garlic cloves—always use too much garlic—chili peppers, green peppers, more oregano and savory, and Worcestershire sauce.

  He sautéed all that in clarified butter. Then he dumped the mixture into another pot and set it to bubbling with a dozen quartered tomatoes, a cup of tomato paste, four green peppers, and a two-fingered pinch of dry mustard.

  A health glug or three of very dry red wine went into the pot. Then he added the finishing touch. He stirred in the smoky starter sauce that he had prepared in advance, raised the heat, and simmered ten minutes. The sauce was done.

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  REVENGE OF THE DAMNED

  The Emperor's Nuked Hen

  The Emperor was preparing a dinner that he had promised Mahoney was perfectly suited to a war motif. He called it “nuked hen".

  Using his fingers and the hollow of his palm as measuring spoons, he dumped the following ingredients into a bowl: a pinch of fresh cayenne, two fingers of ground salt, ground pepper, a palm of dried sage, and finely diced horseradish. He moved the bowl over to his big black range. Already sitting beside it was a bottle of vodka, fresh-squeezed lime juice, a half cup of capers, and a tub of butter.

  The Emperor took a fat Cornish game hen out of a cold box and placed it on the metal table. He found a slim-bladed boning knife, tested the edge, and then nodded in satisfaction. He turned the hen over, back si
de up, and started his first cut alongside the spine.

  He picked up his knife. “You might want to watch this, Ian,” he said. “Boning a hen is easy when you know how, but you can chop the clot out of it and yourself if you don't."

  Very carefully, the Emperor cut on either side of the spine. He pushed a finger through the slit and pulled the bone up through the carcass. Next, he laid the hen flat, placed a hand on either side of the spine, and crunched down with his weight.

  "See what I mean?” he said as he lifted the breastbone out.

  The Emperor moved over to his range and fired up a burner. “First, I'm going to burn the clot out of this hen,” the Emperor said, turning to his range. “The whole trick is getting your pan hot enough.” The Emperor turned the flame up as high as it would go and then slammed on a heavy cast-iron pan. In a few moments, the pan began to smoke, and fans in the duct above the range whirred on. A few moments more, and the pan stopped smoking.

  "Check the air just above the fan,” the Emperor said. “It's getting wavery, right?"

  "Right."

  "As the pan gets hotter, the air will wave faster and faster until the whole interior is a steady haze.” The haze came right on schedule.

  "So it's ready now?” Mahoney asked.

  "Almost, but not quite. This is the place most people foul up. In a minute or two the haze will clear and the bottom of the pan should look like white ash."

  As soon as the ashen look appeared, the Emperor motioned for Mahoney to duck back. Then he dipped out a big chunk of butter, dumped it into the pan, and moved out of the way. Mahoney could see why as flames flashed above the pan. As soon as they died down, the Emperor moved swiftly forward and poured the spices out of the bowl and into the pan. He gave the mixture a few stirs in one direction, then the other. Next he tossed in the Cornish game hen. A column of smoke steamed upward in a roar.