by Chris Bunch
Finding his old friend Rykor waiting there was not only a surprise, but a bonus. Having two beings like Sr. Ecu and Rykor on his side made him feel that the odds had shifted slightly in his favor. Now he figured he only had a ninety-nine percent chance of winding up quickly and horribly dead.
He gulped more stregg. As he did, a sudden thought jolted him. "Sr. Ecu, do you usually keep stregg on hand? Somehow I can't imagine that many diplomatic types with a lust for this evil Bhor brew."
More tendril wriggling. "No. It's for you. And you alone."
Sten puzzled. "I can't imagine why you'd keep it in stock. The last time we met, I rejected your invitation. I was pretty damned firm about what I intended to do next. Which was to get the clot out of the Emperor's way and bury myself somewhere. And mind my own business."
He was referring to Sr. Ecu's secret visit to the Altaics, bearing proof from Rykor that the Emperor had gone mad. The Manabi had urged his help. Sten had given him a definite no.
"I said I had faith in you. I laid in the supply of stregg as soon as I returned."
"I am in a room full of beings," Sten said, "who know more about what I am going to do next than I do myself."
Rykor woofed through her whiskers. "Illogical. But understandable in the circumstances… Oh, brother. There I go being pedantic again… Still, I hope the thought gives you no distress."
"No. I just hope the Eternal Emperor isn't as good at calling my shots as you are."
There was no answer to this. Silence for a moment, as each being contemplated various sins and partook of his or her own favorite brand of poison.
"Back to that visit, Sr. Ecu," Sten finally said. "I assumed at the time that when you asked for my help, you had something in the works."
"Ah… The illusive plan," Rykor burbled. Before Sten could react, she added, "Which is a very natural assumption for two fugitives such as ourselves."
She hoisted herself higher in the tank. Waved a flipper at Sr. Ecu. "You do have a plan, don't you, my dear friend? I would hate to think I was facing a life on the run. It's difficult to dodge about for someone of my needs… and size."
Sten buried a sudden hilarious image of Rykor ducking in and out of dark alleys, hauling her tank behind her.
"Actually, I don't," Sr. Ecu said. "I'm a diplomat. Not a soldier. And I fear this situation requires military action first. Negotiating, later."
"The Emperor won't negotiate," Sten said. Flat. "Even before… when he was—" The word stuck in his throat.
"Normal?" Rykor completed it. "How can a being with apparent immortality ever be normal? No. He was mad all along. I understand that now. Something only made his condition worse… A judgmental word, I realize. But I think it applies."
"Here is the situation as I see it," Sr. Ecu said. "I speak for the Manabi, now. All our progs come to the same conclusion. The Empire is finished. The future will be nothing more than a slow, miserable descent into chaos."
"We predict the bloodiest wars in the universe's history. Starvation and plagues on an unimaginable scale. A complete collapse of all societies and cultures. In the end, we will all end up where we began. As barbarians."
"All the progs call for only one solution. The Emperor must relinquish power. Quickly. Because all progs also indicate delay will produce the same disastrous results. To use diplomatic jargon, "The window of opportunity is very small.' We act now. Chit will soon close."
Sten had been too battered by recent events to be shocked by this doomsday prognosis. It all made very tired sense. "Fine. The window's open. How do we get through?"
"I have nothing I can dignify with the word plan," Sr. Ecu said. "But I do have a proposal…"
"Thank God. Let's hear it."
"All over the Empire, many beings feel exactly as we do. Perhaps all they need is encouragement. Now… You have forces at your command. What if you waged a guerrilla campaign? A series of blows that would arouse the citizens everywhere. Many of them might join us."
"When the pressure builds until the Emperor can no longer bear it, we make an offer. We demand he abdicate… or agree to a constitutional monarchy. There have been successful governments of that type in the past. He would be Emperor still. Have all the glory. But not total power."
Sten's hopes sagged. "We don't have a prayer for that," he said. "You're right, Sr. Ecu. You're no soldier.
"Here's the reality. The Emperor holds all the cards. The only reason I've kept my head on my shoulders so far is because he's still in a reactive position."
"He may be mad, but he's certainly the smartest being I've ever met. The Empire's enormous. So it takes a very long time to come up to speed. If the Emperor wants to throw a punch, thousands and thousands of details have to be dealt with first."
"But, believe me, when that punch lands—which it will, and I guarantee he won't miss—we'll all be bloody smears on the pavement."
Rykor rolled in her tank, spilling water over the side. "He's right, Sr. Ecu. I've lost count of the number of operations the Emperor has consulted me on. And that was how it always came out in the end."
"Another flaw," Sten said, "is even if we could bring that much pressure to bear, he'd never agree to step down now. Much less share power. Why should he? He's the Eternal Emperor. Practically a god to some beings."
"No wonder," Sr. Ecu said, very grim. "He appears immortal. A key definition of godhood as I understand it."
"I really doubt that," Sten said. "No one can be immortal. Claudius proved that."
"But we all saw what happened when the privy council struck," Sr. Ecu protested. "All over the Empire, billions witnessed him die. Then… six years later… we were there to greet him, you and I, when he stepped off that ship. As if he had risen from the dead."
"Mahoney said it's happened before," Sten said. "Several times. And each time he was assassinated, according to Ian, there was a very large explosion. Just like this last time. As if he had a bomb implanted in his body.
"Also, each time he was quote killed endquote, he returned approximately three E-years later. This time it was six. The longest it has ever been."
"But you don't believe our late friend?" Sr. Ecu said.
"I have to admit Ian knew more about the Emperor than any other being alive. I have whole cases of research he compiled aboard my ship. When there's time, we plan to go through it. See if there are any weaknesses we can uncover."
"But as far as immortality goes… No. I don't believe it. He's as human as I am."
"Then how do you explain what happened?" Sr. Ecu asked.
"I don't," Sten said. "The historical facts say it occurred. Natural facts say it can't. I'll stick with nature over history every time. History has been known to lie."
"Now I know what the Christians were envisioning when they invented Hell," Rykor said. "We are living it. And are doomed to stay here until the end of time. And after listening to Sten, I see no possible solution."
Sten sipped absently at his drink. Scattered thoughts were beginning to coalesce. He slammed the glass down. "We're going to try, dammit!"
"But how?" Sr. Ecu wanted to know. "I'm afraid your argument has convinced me. I'm with Rykor. There is no hope."
"Maybe just a sliver," Sten said. "But forget about trying to make His Highness see reason. Emperors, he's told me time after time, don't need to see reason. They are the reason."
"Therefore, we either have to capture him… or kill him."
"This is the part I always like," Rykor burbled. "Goal setting. It makes one feel so satisfied."
Sr. Ecu said, "But you just explained—quite logically, I should add—that the Emperor is too powerful for us to defeat."
"We have to keep making his size work for us," Sten said. "Keep him in a reactive position as long as possible." He drummed his fingers on the table. "If we can draw his forces out… stretch them to the limits… then… in theory… size won't matter. We look for a hole—or make one, dammit—and punch through. We don't have to take all the pieces. We
only need to kill the king."
"Assuming all these impossible things become possible," Sr. Ecu said, "we are still left with the same dilemma as the privy council."
"Without AM2, the Empire will collapse. You know as well as I that all modern industry and transport is based on that substance. And only the Emperor knows its source."
"The privy council spent six years trying to find it," Rykor agreed. "And they didn't come close."
"I've thought about that before," Sten said, remembering a late-night talk with Cind after they had first suspected the Emperor had gone mad. "I'm not so sure it's that bad a fate. To live without AM2, I mean. When we were running out—during the privy council's reign—things were bad, true. But at least a whole lot of beings were learning to fend for themselves."
"It will be the end of interstellar travel," Sr. Ecu said. "Which means we will all quickly become strangers again."
Sten shrugged. "Maybe it'll be good for us. Starting all over again. Besides, maybe someday somebody'll figure a way to synthesize AM2."
He filled his glass with stregg. "Of course, it'd be easier if I can get him alive. Toast his toes, or something. To get the secret of AM2 out of him."
Rykor shifted her bulk. "One large problem… just to add to the others. What if you're wrong about the immortality aspect? What if there's another big blast—I'm assuming you'll take this in consideration and stay at a safe distance—and he disappears. Only to return. A few years later."
"I still think it's a trick," Sten said. "Sleight of hand. Or maybe he does it with mirrors. Whatever. If I can pull this chess match off—and pin his royal behind—I promise you that whatever cosmic misdirection he's been pulling won't make me look the other way."
"I see no other choice," Sr. Ecu said. "Speaking for the Manabi—and I do have that authority—I pledge our complete support."
"I'll need it," Sten said. "I'd appreciate it if you can lay the diplomatic groundwork. Obviously with total secrecy."
"As a matter of fact," Sr. Ecu said, "I put out a quiet word or two already."
"There are many natural allies… the kind that come with some successes. Your attack on the broadcast station was a good start. Actually, the fact that you are still eluding the Emperor's minions is an even better one."
"I'll try to keep it up," Sten said dryly.
"What about me?" Rykor asked. "How can I assist in this grand crusade?"
She burped daintily. "My, but that's an interesting potion, Sr. Ecu. I must acquire your recipe."
Sten rose to his feet. "Rykor, my gentle sot, you're coming with me. We're going to put that tricky brain of yours to work skewering the Eternal Emperor."
"Ah ha. I fight at last To arms! To arms!"
When they rolled her tank aboard the Victory, Sten's newest gallant warrior was snoring blissfully.
Chapter Ten
"We APPEAR," STEN observed, "to be trapped."
Cind grunted at him, still recovering her breath.
"Was this on the aerial?"
"Negative. Or if it was, I didn't pick it up on the viewer."
"Doesn't matter, really. Other than we're going to have to do some serious backtracking."
He slid out of his heavy pack, nearly falling on the steep icy slope. Backtracking? He glanced behind him.
Way, way, way down below, he could see the double herringbone tracks of their skis, leading up the slopes toward this clotting excuse for a mountain they were stuck on. About two kilometers before, the gradient had become too steep, and they had strapped their skis to their packs and put on crampons. A klick after that, the two of them had roped up as the grade grew steeper still.
Two klicks… one kilometer… that was the distance in a direct, near-vertical line. In actual travel, they had been off their skis since just after dawn, and the day was getting late. And they had better reach a decision on what to do next quickly—Sten would rather not spend the night in a sleeping bag that he would have to anchor to keep from sliding off the mountain.
If for no other reason than that he had designs on Cind's virtue…
Sten had arrived at his planned base of operations—the Bhor home worlds in the Lupus Cluster—without encountering any Imperial warships. Next, he would prepare his specific campaign and go to war.
He still had to get approval for using their worlds from the Bhor Council. But at least he had been greeted with cheers, invitations to drunken feasts, and volunteers who wanted to join him killing someone, anyone.
However, it took time for the Bhor elders to assemble, and even longer for them to reach a decision, given the Bhor tendency to endlessly explore any aspect of anything—all spokes Bhor welcome. Which was probably a legacy from the severe lack of entertainment in their primitive days during long arctic nights.
Rykor herself had wanted some time and privacy to consider what could be done, from her perspective, against the Empire.
Neither set of Sten's potential allies had materialized. Not that there was any guarantee they would—both the Rom and Wild's smugglers might have realized an alliance with Sten was more likely to produce death than freedom.
And Sten's troopies—from his embassy assistants to his Bhor and Gurkha heavies to the Imperial sailors—had suffered through a very long tour. Essentially no one had had any time off since they had arrived in the Altaics. Even the Gurkhas were tired and weary of blood.
Tired beings make mistakes, and Sten could afford none.
He spread his four ships out among the Wolf Worlds, hid them well on rural airports, and gave his troops some R&R. Sten worried his presence among the Bhor would be discovered by the inevitable Imperial agents, but Kilgour had told him not to fash. He already had a Plot, and would take care of that little matter before his own vacation. Which involved Otho, vast amounts of stregg, and whatever trouble he could get into.
Cind had the op order for Operation Vacation already drafted. A conventional lover might have looked for tropical oceans and romantic islands with ten-star resorts and twenty bow-n'-scrapers for each guest. But Cind was a descendant of the Jann, had grown up among the Bhor, and was a hard, experienced field soldier. To her, vacations meant the wilderness—and Sten's own ideas weren't that different.
The Bhor home planet was still glacial, even though the Bhor had reluctantly removed some of the glaciers as civilization and the birthrate increased. Scattered across the world were volcanic "islands"—oases in the midst of freeze. Most of them had been settled aeons ago by the Bhor, but there were still a few that were unpopulated.
Cind had planned on kidnapping Sten and taking him to one of those, and had been trying to figure out which of the possible areas could provide the best skiing and even some winter climbing. Sten had taught Cind rock scrambling, and she was determined to become at least his equal and, she hoped, his master.
She had found something better on a recent aerial photo-mosaic. Not on any map. Completely unknown. All that was necessary to get there was to grab a pilot and a gravsled and they could be there in an hour.
Cind sneered. That, too, was no vacation. Getting there was half the fun.
And so, carrying packs heavy enough to give them the trail staggers, they had Kilgour drop them off where the dirt path ended, with a promise to return in five days to pick them up—or start the search parties in motion.
Among the reasons their packs were so heavy was that neither Sten nor Cind fancied carrying dried rations—they could stay in the barracks and on duty and get ratpacks. They were willing to break their backs carrying some other, minor creature comforts.
Their route on skis through the foothills to the base of the mountain. Where the mountain steepened, they would follow the course of a generally frozen river upward, through a gorge, to Cind's secret spot. Since the maps of the wilderness were rotten, they would navigate from the aerial.
And so it had been—until they reached this place not too far below the mountain's summit, where the river went vertical, and became thirty meters of frozen
-solid waterfall. They were trapped.
This was a helluva fix she had gotten him into, he thought. And so observed.
"Shut up," Cind said helpfully. "I'm trying to figure out if we can slither back down this slope to that ravine we passed an hour or so ago. And maybe go up that to the summit. Then we could drop back down to where we want to go."
"That sounds like work."
"Stop whining."
"I am not whining. I am sniveling. How much rope do we have?"
"Seventy-five meters."
"Dammit," Sten swore. "See if I ever play climbing purist again. Right now a couple of cans of climbing thread, jumars, and a grapnel would be welcome. Or a stairway. But oooo-kay, we'll do it the hard way."
He unclipped from the rope, set his pack down where it hopefully wouldn't start sliding all the way back down to the foothills, reroped his harness, took a deep breath, and started climbing.
Up the ice of the waterfall.
"I don't like this," he muttered. And he didn't—the only reason Sten knew that ice cubes could be climbed was because he had seen it done once in a livie and also because he had once spent a weekend with one of his instructors in Mantis—and whatever happened to her, he wondered—who had been a nut on climbing waterfalls when the temp went below zero Centigrade.
He had come off twice and had to be near-hoisted to the top, he remembered. No. His memory was wrong. None of the four of them had made it that long and bruised weekend.
Follow Cind's advice. Shut up.
It wasn't that bad, he thought. No worse than, say, dangling by your hands and having to do a pull-up every two minutes.
At least the ice is good and frozen. Don't have to worry about any kind of a spring thaw.
And you've got a good place to stand every now and then. As he was doing at the moment.
"What's that called?" Cind wondered from five meters below him.
"Suicide," Sten panted. "Front-pointing."
His good place to stand consisted of two front metal spikes of his crampons—alloy plates clamped to his boots that had vertical two-centimeter-sided spikes around their edges and horizontal ones sticking straight out from the toe.