by Chris Bunch
So far, they confirmed everything she had found in the data banks of the computer in the Kyes museum.
The moonlet had been an elaborately constructed communications center. A byway on the road to the mystery that led to the Emperor's ultimate hiding place for the AM2.
But, Kyes hadn't come to this desolation with this goal. Cind was sure of that. Instead, he had come to find the Emperor. A being, most others in those days, believed dead. And he'd found him. Here on this planetoid.
She imagined Kyes, driven nearly mad by fear of his impending "death," pleading with the Emperor. Offering anything. Desperately begging him to rescue Kyes.
The gibbering hulk back at the Grb'chev museum was sufficient evidence his pleas had been rejected.
Cind worked the area for some hours. Finally she was done. It was time to tell Sten what she had learned.
The outpost was a place where the paths of two secrets had once intersected.
The first was the secret of AM2.
The second, the Emperor's apparent immortality.
Cind was weary when she messaged for pickup. Not from the work. But from the depressing thought that although she had learned a great deal in this hunt… the knowledge didn't necessarily add up.
And she prayed to all the beards of all the mothers of the Bhor, that she wasn't exiting the same door she'd only recently come in.
Haines rattled the papers in her hand, coldly professional. "Once we put his files in order," she said, "it became quite clear what Mahoney believed he had learned about the Eternal Emperor."
"Which was?" Sten waved impatiently at the ex-homicide detective's holo image. It was being beamed from the small Bhor resort he'd stashed her in—along with her husband and Mahoney's treasure trove.
"Don't be in such a hurry," Haines said. "Facts should be given their due."
Sten grimaced. "Sorry."
"First, I'm sending you a psychological profile of the Emperor. Mahoney drew it up as a model. My husband and I confirmed it by our own work. And double-checked with Rykor. It's absolutely dead on. Look it over when you have time."
"I'll take your word," Sten said.
"Next, I'm sending you the matches Mahoney made against that profile. He set the guide against the other times the Emperor allegedly died… and then returned, big as life. Each time, it was definitely the same being. There was no possibility of a surgical double. Again… we confirmed all Mahoney's data."
Sten groaned. "That resurrection business again. That clottin' Mahoney reached out from his grave and converted you."
"I'm no convert to anything," Haines said. "But if these facts were clues pointing to a murder suspect… I'd bust the son of a scrote and lead him with confidence to my prosecuting attorney. Face up to it Sten. It's a clear possibility."
"I'll face that ghost when I see it and touch it myself," Sten said. "Meanwhile… where does this get us?"
Haines paused, considering how she was going to put this. "What it gets us, is a far more frightening puzzle. You see, my husband and I took Mahoney's work and punted it one step forward."
"What did you do?"
"We took that profile of the Eternal Emperor—the one we all agree is a perfect match. Updated it and ran it against the man we're all ducking and dodging right now."
"And?" Sten almost didn't want to ask. "It's still the same guy, right?"
"Yeah. It's the same guy. But it isn't The Emperor's the same overall. But when you put a closer microscope on him, he's very different in his behavior."
"Clottin' wonderful," Sten groaned.
"Sorry to dump it into your lap, Sten," Haines said, her voice warming in sympathy. "But, as they say in the livies, 'It's just the facts, ma'am.'"
Sten thanked her, and broke the connection.
He leaned back, letting the information churn around. They settled into this uncomfortable equation: Same but different still equalled different.
The com buzzed. The watch officer said she had Cind on the line. It was important.
As Sten leaned forward to answer, a question tingled at his back brain: If it wasn't the Eternal Emperor… who the clot was he fighting?
Chapter Seventeen
SOLON KENNA STOOD upon the broad speaker's platform, a block of pure white marble tabernacling out from the far wall of the Hall of Parliament. Posed beside him at his handsome best was Tyrenne Walsh. Behind them was a three-story-high portrait of the Eternal Emperor.
Kenna's powerful, polished voice rolled out across the hundreds of assembled politicians: "Distinguished Representatives… Loyal Imperial citizens… Gentlebeings."
"It is with deep humility that my colleague and I stand before you on this most historic day."
Kenna's voice dipped into an oiled, humble tone. A twitch of a finger signaled the dimwitted Walsh to bow his head.
"The people of Dusable have already enjoyed vast honors from our beloved Emperor," he said.
Kenna's old-pol brain made note there was not one titter from the group—which represented every nook and cranny of the Empire. Nor was there one whisper he could detect of the recent humiliation his people had suffered at the hands of the Emperor's enemy—Sten.
Kenna gestured to the enormous portrait of the Emperor staring out at all of them. "For reasons only our wise leader can determine, the people of Dusable have been honored once again."
Kenna's trained eyes scanned the crowd, as he spoke. Sussing out his strengths and weaknesses. Supporter and enemy. He may have been humiliated by Sten, but humiliation did not diminish his skills as a manipulator.
He and Avri had prepared well for this moment. When he was done, the Emperor's bill would be presented. A highly controversial bill, whose passage at one time had been difficult to assure.
Many favors and heaps of coin had exchanged hands in the dark corridors of the Hall of Parliament. The old mordida moved a plenitude of votes into the Emperor's column. Poyndex—for reasons Kenna chose not to ponder—had also volunteered assistance. Old files on the opposition representatives had been sifted for pressure points and blackmail. More votes were added.
Still, the matter would be close.
But, in politics, close is enough to win a kingdom.
"Gentlebeings, I am here to put before you this remarkable proposal. We are being asked to lift the veil from our eyes. To see what we have been too blind to realize for so many tragic years.
"And that is, we live in so fortunate a time that a living god walks among us. And that god is our good and holy Eternal Emperor. Whose immortality stands as an unyielding shield against the hard blows of history.
"In his sanctified embodiment, our glory goes on and on before us. Our glory. Which is his glory. And his glory, ours."
"Gentlebeings… I put the question to you. Let us now declare, once and forever, that the Eternal Emperor is our rightful god."
There was a stir. The gauntlet was down.
The Emperor was demanding godhood by parliamentary decree.
Kenna turned to the Speaker, an old, distinguished puppet of the Emperor. "Sr. Speaker," Kenna intoned, "call the question."
The Speaker's grizzled snout pushed forward, virile tusk implants an odd vanity in an ancient, wrinkled face. "In the matter of PB 600323—titled, Declaration of the Eternal Emperor's Godhood; subtitled, Be It Resolved to Amend the Emperor's Title to Read, 'Holy,' and Any Other Word Forms Recognized As Terms of Worshipful Respect—how do you say, gentle-beings?
"All for approval… say Yea."
A choreographed chorus of "yeas" began to rise in the hall. Broken by loud shouts of protest. The shouts became a roar, drowning out the proceedings. One voice soared over that roar.
"Sr. Speaker! Sr. Speaker! Point of order, please! Point of order!"
The Speaker tried to ignore the voice. His gavel hammered down. He was particularly humiliated because the voice came from one of his own species. It was Nikolayevich, a young firebrand of a tusker.
The gavel rat-tat-tatted. Lectern picku
ps magnified the blows and the sound thundered through the hall. But an unruly crowd took up Nikolayevich's cry: "Point of order! Point of Order!" More voices were added, drowning out the thunder. "Let him speak! Let him speak!"
The Speaker turned helpless old eyes on Kenna. There was nothing that could be done. At least not in public. Kenna motioned: Let him speak. Then he slipped a hand in his pocket to trigger an alarm to Arundel.
"The chair recognizes Sr. Nikolayevich, representative from the great and loyal Sverdlovsk Cluster."
The Speaker keyed the pickup that would amplify Nikolayevich's remarks.
"Sr. Speaker," the young tusker shouted, "we protest these procedures in the strongest possible terms. The issue before us is an obscenity. We will not be manipulated into seeing this become law over the will of the majority."
"From where I was sitting, young man," the Speaker said with dramatic sarcasm, "the majority was quite clear. The 'yeas' were overwhelming. Now, if you will permit me, I will call for the 'nays.' And you will see how weak is your support."
"It is our right to refuse a voice vote. To demand a roll call," Nikolayevich insisted. "Let us stand up and let our peoples see how each of us votes on this matter. If the Emperor is to be a god… let his citizens see us declare it so. And on our heads be it."
The Speaker shot a look at Kenna for help. Kenna made stretching motions: Delay this.
"Very well," the Speaker said. "I will call the roll."
Nikolayevich grunted in pleasure. Sniffing victory.
The Speaker snorted. "However, since you believe this matter so sensitive—although how any of you could doubt the sanctity of our Emperor is beyond me—I will put another question to the floor first."
"Objection!" Nikolayevich shouted. "The chair may not pose another question while a previous one is still in action."
The rebel from Sverdlovsk knew his legal ground. So did the canny old Speaker. A puppet he may have been, but he was a skillful puppet.
"But the assembly does have the right—duty, as you are insisting—to decide the means of its voting. You say it should be by the numbers. I say it should be by vigorous acclaim."
Nikolayevich looked about him. His cronies were doing a quick count, polling their strength. The answer came back. Waverers had been heartened by Nikolayevich's boldness. For this brief moment, he had the edge.
"Call the question, Mr. Speaker," he said. Flat. "And I think you'll hear the loud shouts of 'nay' put paid to this blasphemy."
He slammed back into his bench, nodding all around, pleased with himself.
The Speaker raised mild eyes. "Under the circumstances of your protest," he said, "I believe it would be unseemly to settle the matter with such dispatch. There will be no yeas, or nays, sir. No. Tit for tat, sir. I'll call the roll."
Flabbergasted, Nikolayevich popped up again. "Sr. Speaker, this is incredible. You're going to call the roll to see if it is permissible to call the roll?" He turned to his fellow rebels, shoulders humped in amazement. Barking laughter. But the laughter was forced.
"Yes. That's exactly what I mean," the Speaker said. "I'm elated that my thoughts to you were so clearly expressed. Sometimes, I must confess, young representatives have me wondering if somehow senility has crept up on me."
Laughter roared out from the Emperor's allies. Nikolayevich refused to be intimidated.
"But this foolishness will take hours, Sr. Speaker," he protested. "Polling us one by one on a thing so easily settled is the height of folly."
"Nevertheless," the Speaker said, "this is how we shall progress."
He turned to the master of arms. "Master of Arms, call the roll!"
The master of arms bristled forward. He opened the thick official logbook.
He began to drone them out: "Ms. Dexter… From the great region of Cogli, how do you say?"
"I vote yea, Sr. Speaker."
And so it went. One by one the representatives rose. Each vote was carefully entered in the logbook.
Kenna's forces fanned out through the great hall. With the Speaker's help, he had redrawn the battle line. If he won this vote, the second victory would be assured.
Nikolayevich's cronies worked desperately to shore up their support. But time… slow, dragging time… began to wear against it.
Still, Kenna was fuming. Yes. He would win. But now the old rule of close being good enough would be turned on its head. After Nikolayevich's outburst—loudly supported by many others—anything but total victory would appear manipulated.
This was not how the Emperor wanted to start his first day of being God.
The vote ended. Kenna had won. But the margin was slender. He could see Nikolayevich and his people out twisting appendages and shouting into hearing orifices.
And he could see that the young tusker was making progress. One of his agents on Nikolayevich's staff flashed a message to Kenna's lectern com. When the voice vote came, the message said, Nikolayevich and his cronies were planning to disrupt it with a boisterous demonstration.
Kenna wracked his brain for some other means of stalling. No matter how hard he wrung it, however, nothing came. When this was over, the Emperor would have his hide.
Where the clot was he? Some god. Not even around when you need him.
The Speaker signaled. Frantic. What should he do? Kenna had no choice. He motioned. Call the question.
"Gentlebeings," the Speaker intoned, "for the second time this day, I call the question… In the matter of PB 600323—titled, Declaration of the Eternal Emperor's Godhood—"
Doors boomed open. Boots hammered down.
The sergeant of arms gave the cry: "Gentlebeings, I present to you… the Eternal Emperor!"
Startled faces churned around.
A white-robed contingent of cultists danced through the enormous doors leading into the great main hall. Their faces beamed in ecstasy. Some swung clanging incense pots on long chains. Others strewed rose petals down the long avenue. All wore small knives in the ropes belted around their waists. The knives were sharp and festooned with streaming red ribbons.
At their head was the skeletal figure of their high priestess—Baseeker.
Behind them, boots crushing the rose petals, came a troop of black-uniformed IS officers. Their eyes sweeping the assembly of representatives for danger. Weapons at ready.
In the center was the Eternal Emperor.
When Kenna and the others saw him, they didn't notice the other little details of the entrance. The second IS troop that followed just behind the Emperor, led by Poyndex. Or the camo-clad sniper teams that sprinted off to take up position. Or Avri directing nondescript figures to mingle among the representatives. When they'd been dispatched, she sighted Nikolayevich, and slipped toward him.
But these things blurred past the assembly's side vision. The Emperor commanded their full attention.
He was garbed like they had never seen him before. Long golden robes flowed over his muscular figure. The material phosphored, giving off a ghostly glow. Encircling his dark locks was a thin band of more glowing gold. In his hand, he carried a staff of yellow metal that flared at the top into a round standard. On the standard burned the symbol of AM2.
The Imperial formation swept along the avenue and wheeled onto the marble speaker's platform. The Eternal Emperor strode directly to the edge and faced Parliament. Weapons thunked and boots crashed down as the troops took position on either flank.
Baseeker and the cultists flowed around them to the Emperor. Then they lay on the platform at his feet. A nest of white-robed angels with knives.
Kenna stared. The others stared. For a moment he—and they—could almost believe. All the old myths stealthed into the room, spreading like fog among them. An ancient fog. Swept up from the cold depths of several thousand years. This was the being who had ruled them for all that time.
Perhaps he was a god.
"It has come to my attention," the Eternal Emperor said, "that there has been some mewling in this assembly." His voic
e was low. But they didn't have to strain to hear. Menace buzzed all around them.
"I don't usually pay attention to your whines," the Emperor said. "I gave you that right when I empowered this Parliament in the Imperial Constitution. It's a nuisance, I admit. But that is the nature of democracy and I have had a long time to get used to it."
In the audience, Nikolayevich barely noticed as a figure moved close to him. It was Avri.
"It is the nature of this current mewling, however, that brings me before you. I understand some honors were about to be conferred upon your Emperor. These honors, I should add, I did not seek. They were pressed on me by my subjects." The Emperor's hand flowed out to indicate the white-robed cultists.
"They say I'm a god. They have built temples to me. Temples where millions of other like-minded subjects worship. In those temples, they preach wisdom and patience and gentleness. These attributes, they believe, are at the heart of my godhood."
Nikolayevich felt a motion at his beltpak; a small lump dropped in. He brushed at it impatiently. A message from an ally, he assumed. He ignored the figure slipping away.
"I have always encouraged freedom of worship among my subjects. So, it was with some shock that I learned that these gentle folk who worship me were being brutally persecuted for their beliefs.
"In fact, I now have incontrovertible proof that this persecution was at the heart of the conspiracy launched against me by the traitor Sten. Unspeakable acts were committed by Sten against these believers because he feared their deeply felt truths stood in his way to my throne.
"For, if I am a god, who would possibly join him against me? So, you see, even my greatest enemy is a believer. A Satan set against his perfect master."
This odd dance in logic momentarily broke the spell gripping Nikolayevich. He slipped the message from his beltpak. A lump wrapped in paper. He unrolled it. The lump was a tusk, slender and finely curved—then a horror of gore at the stump. On the tusk was an ornate ring.
The ring Nikolayevich had given his lover on their first pairing day.
"This is the background to the bill your Speaker has presented on this day. A background which I kept to myself until this moment, for reasons of state security involving the traitor Sten.