by Chris Bunch
His second shock was finding that Prime World betting was heavily on the N'Ranya. Patriotism required Sullamora to back the Guards team. It was not the loss of credits, Sullamora rationalized. It was that the contest had been unfair. The N'Ranya were jungle dwellers, predators just one step above cannibals. Of course they had an unfair advantage. Certainly they would be better at carrying heavy weights and so forth. The Emperor had better realize, Sullamora sulked, that while nonhumanoids were a necessary part of the Empire, they certainly should understand how far down the ladder of status they were.
Which inexorably brought to Sullamora's mind where he was sitting. After all he'd done for the Empire, from charitable contributions to funding patriotic art to assisting the Court itself, why had he not been invited to the Imperial box for Empire Day? Or even assigned a box that was close to the Imperial stand, instead of being far down the first circle, almost in the second-class area?
The Emperor, Sullamora thought, was beginning to change, and change in a manner that, the merchant thought righteously, was indicative of the growing corruption of the Empire itself.
Tanz Sullamora was certainly not enjoying Empire Day.
Of course, one major set piece was always planned for Empire Day. And, of course, each year it had to be bigger and better than the previous year's.
Fortunately the current celebration didn't have much to worry about. The previous year, the set piece had been assigned to the Eighth Guards Division, who planned to display the fighting prowess of the individual infantryman.
To that end, McLean units were taken off gravsleds, half powered, and lightened to the point that a unit could be hidden in one soldier's combat rucksack. The end result—a flying man; flying sans suit or lifebelt.
In rehearsal it looked quite impressive.
The plan was for the Eighth Guards to pull one massive Swoop, with each soldier functioning as a cross between a tiny tacship and a crunchie.
The Eighth Guards, however, forgot to check on the weather. Prime World was windy. And the normal twenty-gusting-to-thirty winds that blew across the parade field were magnified by the enormous ground's own weather effects. The end result was many, many grunts' being blown into the stands in disarray—not bad for them, since many made valuable instant friends—some bruised egos and bodies in the second area of seating, and an enormous gust of laughter from the Emperor.
That gust of laughter blew the Eighth Guards to the Draconian Sector, where they were spending morose tours keeping that group of dissident pioneer worlds in something approaching coherence.
This year, it was Twelfth Guards' turn in the barrel. And, after she spent considerable time in thought, the commanding General found a unique way to do a massive display. Laser blasts lanced into the arena and ricocheted from pre-positioned surfaces to bounce harmlessly into the atmosphere. Explosions roared and boomed. And then elements of the Twelfth Guards fought their way back into the arena.
The Emperor nodded approvingly; very seldom had he seen anybody schedule a fighting retreat for display.
Antennas went up, and signalmen began flashing. From over the horizon tacships snarled and realistically strafed the area just behind the parade ground.
Pickup ships snaked in as antiaircraft fire boomed around them (lighter-than-air balloons, painted non-reflective black and set with timed charges). The ships boiled in, grounded, and, in perfect discipline, the troops loaded aboard. The pickup ships cleared, hovered, and suddenly the air just above the parade ground hummed and boomed and echoes slammed across the field. Screams rose from the stands, and the Emperor himself almost went flat—then reseated himself, while wishing he could figure out how anybody could fake a maser cannon.
Then the stars darkened and two Hero-class battle-wagons drifted overhead, their kilometer-long bulks blackening the sky. Lasers raved from the two battleships, and missiles flamed from the ships' ports. Eventually the "enemy ground fire" stopped, and the pickup ships arced up into the heavens and into the yawning bays of the battleships. Then the ships lifted vertically, Yukawa behind them, and suddenly vanished, sonic-booming up and out of Prime World's atmosphere.
The crowd went nuts.
The Eternal Emperor poured himself a drink and decided that the Twelfth Guards would not go to Draconia.
Godfrey Alain watched the battleships vanish overhead and shivered slightly. In his mind those same battleships were lifting away from the ruins of his own world. His private calculations showed that such an invasion was no more than a year away. Death in the name of peace, he thought.
Alain had faced Imperial Guardsmen before, both personally and strategically—he knew the might of the Empire. But, somehow, seeing those battleships and the smooth efficient lift of an entire division of 12,000 struck more immediately home.
And I'm the only one who'll keep that invasion from happening. The Tahn will not do anything. My own people will just die. And my cause will be lost for generations to come.
Alain was not an egotist. All projections showed that he was the only one who could stop such an invasion.
Unfortunately, Godfrey Alain had less than twenty-four hours to live.
Everyone loves clowns and acrobats. Almost a thousand of them filled the parade ground. Doing clown numbers:
A new group of "drunk soldiers" deciding to salute the Emperor, not knowing how to do it, and building toward a fight that built toward a pyramid display, with the "drunkest" man atop the pyramid saluting perfectly and then doing a dead-man topple to spin through three tucks and land perfectly on the balls of his feet.
Men in barrels, rolling about and narrowly avoiding destruction; tumblers, spinning for hundreds of meters on their hands; gymnasts using each other, themselves, and sometimes, it seemed, thin air to soar ever upward in more and more spectacular patterns; boxers, who swung majestically, missed, and went into contortions of recovery to get back to the mock-fight; crisscross tumbling, with bodies narrowly missing other bodies as they cartwheeled over and over.
The crowd loved them.
The announcer's text said that the thousand clowns were part of the "Imperial Gymnastic Corps," but that corps never existed. Of those present, only the Emperor knew that the display of clowns was as close as his Mantis Section men—the superelite, superclassified commandos that did the Emperor's most private and dangerous skulking—could get to any kind of public display.
Besides, the children—which included the Emperor—loved that part of the evening.
* * *
In normal times, Dr. Har Stynburn would have attended Empire Day from a private booth. At the very least, it would have been in the second circle. More than likely he would have been a guest in the first area, a guest of one of the important people who were his patients.
But those were not normal times.
Stynburn sat far to the rear of the landing field in one of the uncushioned, unupholstered seats that were reserved for the Prime World residents themselves.
Residents. Peasants.
Stynburn was surely a racist. But the gods have a certain sardonic sense of humor. The entire row in front of him was filled with longshoremen: octopod longshoremen. Not only that, but drunk octopod longshoremen, who waved banners, unspeakable food, and even more unspeakable drink in Stynburn's face.
Still worse, the longshoremen expressed enthusiasm by opening their tertiary mouths, located atop their bodies, gulping in air, and then emitting it suddenly and explosively.
Stynburn had, he thought, expressed polite displeasure after one longshoreman had inadvertently shoved a snack that looked like a boiled hat into Stynburn's face. Instead of agreeing, the longshoreman had asked if Stynburn would like to be a part of Empire Day, and wound up two pitching tentacles to provide the means.
He ran fingers through his carefully coiffed gray hair—like his body, still young, still needing neither transplants nor injections.
Stynburn consciously forced his mind to another subject, and stared at the holographic screen acros
s the way. The screen showed close shots of the clowns as they moved toward Stynburn's area, then a momentary shot of the Emperor himself, rocking with laughter in his booth, then other celebrities in their very private booths.
Stynburn was not feeling at his best. As he'd moved into the arena, carefully looking and thinking anonymous, he thought he'd caught a glimpse of the man he had hired.
He was wrong, but the moment had upset him. How did he know that the man was in fact on his assigned post? Hiring professional criminals for a job was valid, he knew, but he also knew through experience that they were extremely unreliable.
Stynburn's train of depression was broken as a security guard came through the stands and told the longshoremen to pipe down or get thrown out. The guard continued up the steps, but paused to give Stynburn a sharp glance.
No, Stynburn's mind said. I know I do not belong here. It is possible that I do not look it.
But continue on, man. Do not stop, for your own life.
Stynburn was not exaggerating. Years before, other surgeons had implanted a tube of explosives where his appendix had been, and a detonator between his shoulder blades. All it took to set off his suicide capsule—and to destroy a twenty-meter-square area—was for Dr. Stynburn to force his shoulders back in a superexaggerated stretch.
But that would not be necessary; the guard continued up the steps and Stynburn forced his eyes back onto the arena, and his mouth to produce very hollow laughter at the antics of the clowns.
Icy fingers tailed up Marr's fragile spine, an instinct that had saved generations of Milchen from death in the long-ago days of Frederick Two. His heart fluttered, and he pulled slightly away from Senn.
"What's wrong, dear?"
"I don't know. Something is… I don't know."
Senn tried to pull him closer to comfort him. Marr shook his head and rose to his full slender height.
"Take me home, Senn," he said. "It doesn't feel like a party anymore."
Chapter Four
The sniffer stirred as Sten approached the closet, micro-gears whirring and throbbing like a small rodent. The security bot hesitated a half second, filament whiskers quivering, and then scuttled inside, its little metal feet clicking on the floor of the closet.
Sten stepped back and examined the Emperor's wardrobe. It was crammed with hundreds of uniforms and ceremonial robes and suits, each item meant for a specific occasion, some as simple as a dazzling white togalike garment, others as complex as a form-fitting suit of many and changing colors.
A vid-book in Sten's room told the history of each piece of clothing. The toga, he remembered, had been for the Emperor's visit to the small system of Raza, where his official title was Chief Philosopher. And the suit of many colors, he was pretty sure, had something to do with something called Mardi Gras. Sten hadn't had time to memorize them all yet, since he'd only been on the job officially for a few months and his mind was still learning the hundreds of duties required of the captain of the Emperor's Own Bodyguard. So far, he had been concentrating on his primary function, which was to keep His Majesty safe from plotters, schemers, groupies, and other fanatics.
The Emperor's security was a many-layered force. First were the military and police forces on Prime World. Within the palace itself was an elaborate mechanical and electronic blanket. The Imperial Household had three Guards units. The most noticeable were the Praetorians. Not only were they used as spit-and-polish, highly visible palace factotums, but they could double as riot police in the event of major disturbances, if there ever were any.
Second were the members of the Imperial Household itself, recruited to a man (or woman) from the ranks of Mantis Section, Mercury Corps, or the Guards.
Lastly were the Gurkha bodyguards, one company of 150 men from the Earth province of Nepal. Most came from the Thapa, Pun, Ala, and Rana clans, all charjat aristocracy. They were technically mercenaries, as many of their people had been for more than two thousand years.
Small, stocky men, the Gurkhas combined cheerfulness, humor, devotion to duty, and near-unbelievable personal fortitude in one package. The Gurkha company was led by one Havildar-Major, Lalbahadur Thapa, who was overseen by Captain Sten, the official commander and liaison with the Emperor and the Imperial Household.
His new post was not like being in Mantis Section, the superthug unit that Sten had so far spent most of his military career assigned to. Instead of dressing casually or in civilian clothes, Sten wore the mottled-brown uniform of the Gurkhas. Sten was somewhat grateful that he was assigned a batman, Naik Agansing Rai, although he sometimes—particularly when hung over—felt that the man should be a little less willing to comment on the failings of superiors.
Sten would, in fact, through the rest of his military career, maintain two prideful contacts with the Gurkhas—his wearing of the crossed, black-anodized kukris emblem on his dress uniform and the kukri itself.
Now, waiting for the sniffer to finish, Sten was armed with a lethal kukri on one hip, and a small, Mantis-issue willypistol on the other.
The sniffer completed its tour of the closet and scuttled back out to Sten, squeaking its little "safe" tone. He palmed the off-plate, tucked the bot away, and stepped back. His Majesty's personal quarters were as safe as he could make them.
Sten began mentally triple-checking the security list for the rest of the wing. Changing of the guard had already passed… He had trusted lieutenants posted at…
"Captain, I don't like to bother a man at his work, but—"
And Sten was whirling around for the voice just behind him, the fingers of his right hand instinctively making the claw that would trigger the knife muscles in his arm, and—
It was the Eternal Emperor, staring at him, a little bit amazed, and then relaxing into humor. Sten felt himself flush in embarrassment. He stiffened to attention, giving himself a mental kick in the behind. He was still a little too Mantis hair-trigger for palace duty.
The Emperor laughed. "Relax, Captain."
Sten slid into a perfectly formal "at ease."
The Emperor grinned, started to make a joke about Sten's way-too-military understanding of the word "relax," buried it to save Sten further embarrassment, and turned away. Instead, he plucked at the party clothing he was wearing and sniffed distastefully. "If it's okay with you, I'd like to change out of this. I smell like a sow in heat."
"Everything's fine, sir," he said. "Now, if I may be dismis—"
"You disappoint me, Captain." The Emperor's voice boomed back from the changing room. Sten flinched, running over his potential sins. What had he missed?
"You've been on the job now—how long is it?"
"Ninety-four cycles, sir."
"Yeah. Something like that. Anyway, ninety-odd days of snooping around my rooms, getting on my clotting nerves with all your security bother, and not once—not once have you offered to show me that famous knife of yours."
"Knife, sir?" Sten was honestly bewildered for a second. And then he remembered: the knife in his arm. "Oh, that knife."
The Emperor stepped into view. He was already wearing a gray, nondescript coverall. "Yeah. That knife."
"Well, it's in my Mantis profile, sir, and—and…"
"There are a lot of things in your Mantis file, Captain. I reviewed it just the other day. Just double-checking to see if I wanted to keep you on in your present position."
He noted Sten's look of concern and took pity. "Besides the knife, I also noticed you drink."
Sten didn't know how to answer that, so he remained wisely silent.
"How well you drink, however, remains to be seen." The Eternal Emperor started for the other room. He stopped at the door.
"That's an invitation, Captain, not an order. Assuming you're off duty now." He disappeared through the door.
Sten had learned many things from Mantis Section. He knew how to kill—had killed—in many ways. He could overthrow governments, plot strategic attacks and retreats, or build a low-yield nuclear bomb. But one thing he
had learned more than anything else: When the CO issues an invitation, it's an order. It just so happened that his current CO was the Big Boss Himself.
So he made an instant executive decision. He throat-miked some hurried orders to his second and rostered himself off duty. Then he braced himself and entered the Eternal Emperor's study.
The smoky liquid smoothed down Sten's throat and cuddled into his stomach. He lowered the shot glass and looked into the waiting eyes of the Emperor. "That's Scotch?"
The Emperor nodded and poured them both another drink.
"What do you think?"
"Nice," Sten said, consciously dropping the sir. He assumed that officer's mess rules applied even with the Eternal Emperor. "I can't figure why Colonel—I mean General—Mahoney always had a problem with it."
The Emperor raised an eyebrow. "Mahoney talked about my Scotch?"
"Oh, he liked it," Sten covered. "He just said it took getting used to."
He shot back another glass, tasting the smoothness.
Then he shook his head. "Doesn't take any getting used to at all."
It was a nice thing to say, at that point in the conversation. The Emperor had spent years trying to perfect that drink of his youth.
"We'll have another one of these," the Emperor said, pouring out two more shots, "and then I'll get out some heavy-duty spirits." He carefully picked up Sten's knife, which was lying between them, examined it one more time, and then handed it back. It was a slim, double-edged dagger with a needle tip and a skeleton grip. Hand-formed by Sten from an impossibly rare crystal, its blade was only 2.5 mm thick, tapering to a less-than-hair-edge 15 molecules wide. Blade pressure alone would cause it to slice through a diamond. The Emperor watched closely as Sten curled his fingers and let the knife slip into his arm-muscle sheath.
"Clotting marvelous," the Emperor finally said. "Not exactly regulation, but then neither are you." He let his words sink in a little. "Mahoney promised me you wouldn't be."
Sten didn't know what to say to this, so he just sipped at his drink.