by Chris Bunch
But still.
The livie cameras scattered along the "rim" of the Guesting Center had gotten tired of the nearly dead air—motionless footage of the Manabi's red-and-black bulk hovering over bare tarmac—and had returned to a pursuit they seemingly never tire of—interviewing themselves as to what anything and everything meant.
A sonic lash broke into their circle game, and, overhead, the Eternal Emperor's ship lowered toward a landing, with a small scoutboat as its landing guide. Ecu recognized the Normandie—the Emperor's old, heavily armed secret transport. How odd. Ecu would have expected him to make as impressive an appearance as possible, and arrive aboard his new superbattleship, the Durer. He knew that overhead, just offplanet in a geosynchronous orbit, hung a full Imperial battlefleet as cover.
Ecu felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps the Emperor didn't want to present a warlike image.
But that was not the case, he realized seconds later, as a landing ramp sliced out and heavily armed Internal Security humans in their black uniforms doubled out in squad formation and took up position around the ship.
No one else came down the ramp.
Overhead, a whine, and Sten's ship—the civilian liner Ecu had been told to expect—lowered down toward the field. It shifted from Yukawa drive to its McLean generators, and grounded on its sponsons.
A wide portal yawned in one of them, and two beings stepped out. Sten and Alex Kilgour.
Kilgour wore the full regalia of an Earth Scots laird, from bonnet to cloak to kilt to sporran. But there was no sgean dubh in his stocking, no daggersheath at his belt, and the scabbard for his great broadsword was empty. Kilgour did not even have a pistol concealed in the sporran worn over his crotch.
Sten wore a pale blue tunic that buttoned to his neck, and trousers of the same color. He was bareheaded and wore no decorations.
No security beings followed them. The two walked out into the soft sunlight and waited.
Across the field, bootheels clashed and weapons crashed as the IS troops came to attention.
The Eternal Emperor and his entourage came down the ramp. As expected, he wore a plain black uniform with the Imperial Emblem on its breast. Around his neck was one decoration—one of the liviecasters correctly identified it, in a hushed voice, as the Giver of Peace decoration that he'd received at the conclusion of the Mueller Rising.
The 'caster went on to identify the Imperial dignitaries: Avri, his political chief of staff. Tyrenne Walsh, figurehead ruler of Dusable and the Eternal Emperor's usual stalking-horse in Parliament. And so on down, from Count This to Secretary of Protocol That. The liviecaster misidentified one being, but Ecu knew him well: Solon Kenna. The Eternal Emperor was bringing his sharpest political minds to this meeting. Ecu felt that horrible stir called hope move in his soul once more.
Best of all, Poyndex was not part of the throng. Once more, a favorable sign that perhaps this conference was intended to bring a measure of peace to the Empire.
Sten and Alex moved to greet the Imperial troupe. The entourage stopped, and the Eternal Emperor walked forward alone.
"Sten." It was a completely neutral acknowledgment.
Sten, foolishly, had to stop himself from saluting. The habit of years died very hard.
"Your Highness."
"Shall we begin?"
Sten forced a smile to his lips and nodded.
Sten and the Eternal Emperor were alone on a balcony near the crest of the Guesting Center. The balcony appeared to be just a ledge on the outer near-vertical slope of the volcano-styled Center.
After the conferees had been shown to their quarters, the Emperor had asked Ecu if he might have the pleasure of talking to Sten alone for a few moments. The meeting was not to be recorded.
Ecu asked Sten, who hesitated, then agreed.
It was just twilight, and purple drifted across the sky above them, coloring the wide valley around the Center. The young Manabi who escorted them to the balcony told them it was screened against anyone, especially a liviecaster, who might be indiscreet enough to focus a parabolic microphone on the two of them. Sten and the Emperor looked at each other, and Sten half smiled. No one would be that indiscreet, he knew.
There were two chairs and a large cart equipped with a McLean generator at the rear of the balcony. The Emperor walked to it and opened the doors.
"Scotch. Stregg. Alk. Pure quill. Beer. Teas. Even water. The Manabi certainly worry over dry throats."
He turned to Sten. "Would you like a drink?"
"No," Sten said. "But thank you."
The Emperor picked up the flask of stregg. Turned it back and forth. "I used to drink this," he mused. "But I found I've lost my taste for it. Isn't that unusual?"
He looked directly at Sten, then his eyes shifted back and forth. Sten found the gaze uncomfortable, but did not allow himself to look away. After a few seconds, the Emperor looked elsewhere.
He walked to the edge of the balcony and sat on the low railing, looking out at the valley.
"Unusual beings, the Manabi," he mused. "The only real trace of their civilization is underground. I would feel unsettled, bothered, that if I vanished in the night, there would be no sign whatsoever that I had ever existed… no mark of my own on the face of the planet."
Sten had no answer. Again, the Emperor looked at him, his eyes doing that mad dance.
"Do you recall our first meeting?"
"Formally, sir?"
"No. I meant the night of Empire Day. When you were head of my bodyguards. I assume you have heard that I dismissed the Gurkhas. Romantic as they are, I found their capabilities limited. Anyway, that night was when I asked to see your knife. Do you still have it, by the way?"
"I do."
"May I see it again?"
Now Sten smiled. "I hope there are no security types out there who might misunderstand," he said. He curled his fingers and let the weapon slip down into his fingers. He passed it across to the Eternal Emperor, who looked at it curiously and handed it back.
"Just as I remembered it. You know, I have dreamed about this knife from time to time. But I don't remember the circumstances of the dream. Yes. I should have realized its symbolism to you back then."
It took a moment for Sten to understand what the Emperor meant. Before he could protest, the Emperor went on: "That was an interesting night. You introduced me to stregg, as I recall. And I cooked. I don't remember—"
"It was something you called Angelo stew."
"Oh yes." The Emperor was silent for a moment. "That's something else I find I don't have much time for any more. Cooking. But now that this… disagreement… will be cleared up, I'll be able to return to my old ways. Who knows? Maybe even think about trying to build a guitar again." His expression hardened. "It's good to have a hobby in your twilight years, isn't it?"
Sten thought it best to remain silent.
"Empire Day. That, I suppose, is where the dry rot set in. Hakone. The Tahn. Mahoney. The Altaics… Christ!"
The Emperor peered intently at Sten. "You don't know what you have asked for, Sten. How all this goes on, and on, and it never slows and no one ever is grateful."
"Sir. I did not ask for anything. This powersharing is—"
"Of course you didn't ask," the Emperor said, a note of pettishness in his voice. "But after all these centuries, don't you think I know? Give me credit, at least, for not being a fool."
"That is something I have never thought, Your Majesty."
"No?" The flickering gaze turned away, back to the darkening landscape far below. "How bare," the Emperor mused. "How barren."
He rose. "I plan on eating in my quarters," he said, and smiled. "I would think that any banquets or public feastings might well wait until we have reached an arrangement. Don't you?"
"It doesn't matter to me," Sten said. "But I'm not particularly inclined to ten courses and having to come up with polite toasts."
The Emperor's smile became larger. "That was one of the reasons I respected you at one time. Eve
n, perhaps, liked you. You had no truckle for pretense. I sometimes wonder how you found yourself capable of this."
He nodded, and, still smiling, went inside.
Alex Kilgour saw Sten to his chambers, and, yawning mightily, went to his own rooms.
Once inside, he doffed the outfit he mentally referred to as th' Laird Kilgour drag and shrugged off the pretense of exhaustion. He took from the lining of his valise a phototropic camouflage suit and zipped it on. The valise's straps became a swiss seat, and he took a small can of climbing thread from his sporran.
An' noo, he thought, we'll ken i' th' luck ae th' spidgers appliet't' all Scots, or solely't' Bobbie th' Brucie.
The problem was that he was not sure exactly what luck would be defined as.
The IS technician ran and reran his tapes. He was trying to figure out just where an annoying buzz on a low freq was coming from. Not from the Normandie, nor from any of the Imperial staff. Nor from any of the liviecasters' equipment.
He had tracked the static to the Guesting Center itself, but it wasn't from any of the Manabi's electronics.
The tech had finally nailed it. The buzz was coming from the portable com that the rebel's aide was carrying. Typical, he thought. Can't even use a handitalki without mucking it up.
But it was annoying. Sometime, during this conference, he would ask one of his superiors to talk to the clot and tell him to get a new chatterbox.
He went back to his main task, ensuring that the link between the picketboat and the newly installed apparatus aboard the Normandie was functioning perfectly.
The Eternal Emperor took Avri twice, in the manner that pleased him most. The woman bit hard into the pillow. A scream at midnight would be ignored by sensible beings if it came from the Imperial quarters in Arundel, but here on Seilichi an unnecessary and foolish alarm might be raised.
The Emperor went to the fresher, then stopped by a case and took a tiny object from it. He returned to the bed, ran his hand down Avri's close-cropped hair in what might have been a caress, and, as the injector's tip touched the woman's medulla oblongata, he pressed the bulb.
Avri slumped into deep unconsciousness.
It would be her last sleep.
The Emperor rose and put on a black coverall from his baggage, a coverall that had built-in climbing harness bonded into it, and thin, rigid-sole rock-climbing shoes. He pulled a mesh vest over it and closed its fastenings. He wished again for a pistol, but he knew that there had been little chance of getting a firearm through the Manabi's automatic security devices. This would be enough.
He flexed his knees. He pushed the double windows onto the balcony open. Far below him, in the crater's center, was Sten's ship, his own Normandie, and the picketboat. It was very dark, and very quiet. He thought he saw the single sentry posted at the Normandie's ramp walk out into the open, about-face, and pace back. He didn't matter. The day the Emperor could not slip past a gate guard was the day he was ready to admit to being the fool that Sten, and it seemed the rest of the Empire, considered him.
To either side of this apartment his aides and supposed confidantes slept. Dream on, my servants, he thought. For now you are performing the finest duty to the Empire you could dream of. And your sacrifice will not have been in vain.
He looked at the naked sleekness of Avri. A slight feeling of pity crossed his mind. But not for long. The only way for a sacrifice to be convincing is when something important is really given away.
Besides, she had started to bore him.
He had already begun to consider other, more skilled women who had drawn his eye.
He unclipped a can of climbing thread from the vest, touched its nozzle, and the end of the single-molecule chain bonded to the edge of the balcony. The Emperor slipped his hands into special jumars—trying to climb down the thread barehanded would be exactly like trying to climb down a flexible razorblade.
The Eternal Emperor slid over the edge of the balcony and, nerves thrilling and blood singing as had not happened in years, went down into the night.
Kilgour was quite comfortable. He had one toe on a firm stance almost three centimeters wide, a safety loop around an outcropping, and one arm around it as well.
He could have danced.
He kept watch, a great spider, invisible, as his phototropic uniform was now on exactly the color and pattern of the false rock the Manabi had built the Guesting Center from.
A bit below him, halfway across the crater, he saw movement. He focused the night glasses more exactly and zoomed in.
Th' Emp's apartment, aye. And one lad comin' oot.
Luck, eh? P'raps th' worst. Good luck—an impossibility—would have been Alex spending a cramped night out here with nothing happening, and the conference beginning as expected.
Noo. Who's th' wee lad danglin' frae th' rope o'er there? Th' Emp his own self?
Alex frowned, reanalyzing his various progs of possible Imperial blackguarding.
He had anticipated some kind of double-dealing here on Seilichi, but none of his plans matched what seemed to be occurring.
Back aboard the Victory, following the final briefing with Sten, Alex had led Cind and Otho to his own quarters. That was the only place on the Victory that he knew was unbugged by anyone, not Preston, not Sten. Especially not Sten. Although, from the look the boss had given him, Kilgour was pretty sure Sten knew what was going on.
"Whae we're on th' ground," he'd started, "Ah'll wan' you't' be standin't by. On command frae me, or frae Sten, or i' th' event com is lost wi' us, y're't' take th' bridge, an' read an' follow th' orders Ah'll hae gie'en y' afore we depart. E'en i' thae means relievin' Cap' Freston i' he gets arg'ment'ive.
"Ah knoo 'tis a hard thing't' ask, but Ah'll hae't' request y' to oath me thae y'll follow th' 'structions wi'oot fail. Trustin' me thae Ah hae noo but th' best ae intentions frae Sten, an' frae this clottin' rebellion thae's likely't' cause th' death ae us all.
I' y' trust me, I' y' trust Sten… y'll do as Ah'm desirin't."
Cind and Otho had considered. Cind had been the first to nod. Besides, she had suspected that Alex was planning for what had become Cind's worst nightmare—a nightmare she saw herself not being able to end, save in a suicidal battle royal. Then Otho had grunted. He, too, would obey.
Kilgour expressed pleasure in their confidence. Sent them out.
He had reflected… Glencoe… An eerie, narrow, rain-dripping desolate valley on old Earth, whose laird had delayed taking an oath of allegiance to the usurper king until the last minute, and then had been further prevented from an unpleasant if necessary duty by winter storms.
The laird had not considered that the usurper would have a pol named Dalrymple who wanted to make an example of someone who'd failed to sign, nor that there was a treacherous clan named the Campbells, all too willing to garner favor from the sassenach William.
Campbell soldiers appeared in the glen, and were given traditional Highland hospitality. Treachery was in their heart, treachery they did not wait to implement. That night, fire and the ax came to Glencoe, and women and children went howling into the snow and ice and frozen death.
Glencoe, Alex had thought. Aye. Sometimes, contrary to whae all th' finest planners think, treachery dinnae wait till th' perfect mo, i' th' dark ae th' moon whae th' raven rattles its deathcry.
And so he came to Seilichi prepared for the Emperor to double-cross them, from the moment the liner he'd cozened from the Zaginaws landed, till now, when he saw that man in black, who appeared to be the Eternal Emperor himself, abseil out the window.
He already had the corridor outside the Imperial apartments covered with a mechanical sensor, and Alex knew any movement from any of the Emperor's retinue would be met with alarms from the Manabi who, though no warriors, kept a cautious watch through the night.
Alex puzzled one more moment, wishing desperately he had somehow been able to wangle a sniper rifle onto Seilichi—an' then we'd ken whae a real expert ae duplic'ty's capable of, aye? Then he tho
ught he had figured the Emperor's scheme and touched a switch at his wrist. Then Alex went back up his own climbing thread like a spider fleeing the flame, a flame Kilgour knew would be real in moments.
The Internal Security technician was sound asleep, far from his instruments. He never knew that the annoying static, that buzz, stopped the instant Alex touched his handitalki. The static was a deliberate broadcast.
There are at least two ways to broadcast a warning. The first and most common, is to start a commotion when trouble threatens. The second, and sneakier, is to have a commotion stop at the sign of danger.
Like Sherlock Holmes's famous dog, which did nothing in the nighttime, the end of the deliberately generated static from Kilgour's com was a tightbeam alarm linked to two spaceships.
The GQ alarms yammered aboard the Victory. The ship, already at standby, went to full combat readiness.
Cind, Otho, Freston, and Lalbahadur had not been asleep, nor had they intended to go offshift until Sten returned, even if they'd had to progress to stimulants and cold showers.
"All stations ready, sir," the officer of the watch reported. "No external signs of GQ readiness apparent."
"Very good," Freston said. He turned to Cind. "My orders from Mister Kilgour in the event of alarm were to place myself under your command, and obey your instructions absolutely. Take over."
"Thank you." Cind took a deep breath, and keyed her pore pattern into the small fiche holder Alex had given her when they left the Victory.
The instructions were simple:
WAIT IN PRESENT ORBIT UNTIL THREATENED. DO NOT, REPEAT DO NOT, ATTEMPT OFFENSIVE MOVES AGAINST EMPIRE. DO NOT, REPEAT, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO CLOSE PLANET OR MAKE PLANETFALL. MAINTAIN WATCH ON FREQ QUEBEC THIRTY-FOUR ALPHA. IN THE EVENT IMPERIAL COMBAT ELEMENTS ATTEMPT TO ENGAGE, BREAK CONTACT, MOVE COVERTLY TO [a set of coordinates]. THIS WILL BE RENDEZVOUS POINT. IF NO CONTACT MADE AT SECONDARY RV, VICTORY IS TO REVERT TO INDEPENDENT COMMAND AND TAKE WHATEVER ACTION OR ACTIONS IS DEEMED CORRECT AT THE TIME. GOOD LUCK.