Empire's End

by Chris Bunch

  Kea moved. First was to punch a com through to Earth. He snarled at the time it took to get through, and then at the fuzziness of the hyperspace link. Someday, he thought, he would have to find himself an R&D dwonk, give him assistants, a few million credits, some AM2, and tell him to come up with some kind of system that'd enable one being to talk to another across a distance without both of them sounding like they're sitting in barrels and looking like so many triple-imaged blurs. Someday.

  He eventually got through to his target—Jon Nance, the highest-rated liviecaster going. Nance was busy. The world was coming to an end, or so everyone said, and he was occupied being Chicken Little. Kea said very well. He would go to the competition. What did Kea have? He would not say. But it was big. And it involved Wanderer. Nance was very interested—there had to be something new to the story besides reporting the latest hysteria or drone of inaction. Richards told Nance to pack. Stand by with a full crew. A complete recording setup, plus two remotes. And a link to go live to Terra. A ship was on its way to pick them up.

  "O Joy," Nance said sourly. "I'm going to have to unfasten an entire crew. Walk away from the desk, and put in my summerman to anchor. And just a smile for the cheeses and the producers. You've got to give me more than that."

  "Never mind," Kea said. "This link isn't secure, and I don't always trust you, anyway. I'll still have the ship at Kennedyport in… two E-hours."

  "Christ, it'll take me longer'n that to get a gravcar out to the port!"

  "Sounds like a personal problem. Two E-hours. Or else I'll rent a doculivie crew and your net can bargain for their reels. Along with everybody else." He shut off. Then he let himself grin. Masterson may have been the prog specialist in some areas, but Kea wasn't that bad himself. Prog: that Nance would be there with bells and recorders? 79 percent. Minimum.

  He ordered the ship that was on standby at his own field to lift for New York. That was one ship. He needed two more. One of his newer transports would serve. He ordered Masterson and the best sober pilot he could winkle up to get ready. He sent for his own ship, the starship he had seen so many aeons before in its junk orbit off Mars. The ship that had been the first fitted for AM2. So what?—he had avoided sentimentality when it came to objects. He had never even given the ship a name beyond its registry numbers. It was time to get rid of the starship—increasingly he'd wondered, if the ship ever fell into the wrong hands, if it might somehow provide a clue to the Alva Sector. This would be a fitting way—if Kea was correct—for its end.

  He had a pilot lift it to a clear area outside one of his experimental workshops. One minor modification was made to the controls. Starships are not normally fitted with timers. Then he himself lifted the ship, and hovered it into the supersecure AM2 storage areas. A remotely controlled, Imperium-sheathed cargoloader took a chunk of Anti-Matter Two from a vault. Kea, as he delicately took it in his own snip's grab-claw, thought the less-than-500-kilogram-in-weight block might even be what was left of that first chunk of AM2 he'd grabbed on this ship's maiden voyage into the alternate universe. He was ready to roll.

  The two ships cleared Ganymede and set an orbit to intersect Wanderer. Waiting for them was the third ship. And, as Richards had known, a grumpy, evil-tempered Nance was aboard. Evil-tempered, until Richards told him what he proposed. And then he melted.

  Kea had one remote set up in the control room of his own ship, the second in the port of the ship Masterson was aboard. The three ships were powered into Wanderer's path. Richards fancied he could feel the whirling chunk of rock moving toward him, like a railbound train in a tunnel. Enough. He told Nance he had better patch down to New York, to his net. There wasn't much time left.

  Nance's ship hung about fifty kilometers from the other two. Richards thought it was far too close, but Nance said uh-uh. He had to get his "picture," and little dots of dark against a greater dark wouldn't cut it. Kea shuddered again, thinking about the nature of livies. How could anyone allow—let alone spend a career lifetime ensuring—other beings to gather in his mind, smelling what the liviecaster smelled, seeing what he saw, and even experiencing the 'caster's conscious, controlled thoughts? Masterson's ship was less than fifty meters from Richards's. Kea donned a spacesuit and dumped ship atmosphere, leaving both lock doors open. A line linked the two ships.

  Nance was 'casting. Inside Mars's orbit, he said, in his calm-but-excited patented manner. About to witness what might well be the most spectacular feat in man's history. Kea Richards was about to attempt to destroy Wanderer, using a new and unspecified method, but one that involved his secret engine. And as coached by Kea, Nance wondered why the Federation hadn't even tried anything, but were still sitting on the Moon, jacking their jaws… (though he worded it far more politely than that).

  Kea was ready. The remote—a vid, of course—showed a spacesuited man moving around a control room. What was not shown was the outside bay port opening and the ship's grab-claw extending that huge chunk of Anti-Matter Two in front of it, exactly like a fearful peasant trying to ward off the evil eye.

  For melodramatic effect, Richards had told Nance to begin a countdown when signaled. It started. There wasn't much to do—the trajectory was set, and the controls were linked to the down-counting timer. At three minutes thirty seconds, Kea headed out. He swarmed across the rope, severed its connection to his doomed starship, and closed the lock door, his every action recorded by that second remote. He shut the vid off—Masterson had been emphatic that he never wanted to be seen on vid or livie—and went into the other ship's control room.

  One minute, he heard Nance cadence. Twenty-seven seconds. And ten…

  And zero… the timer closed, and the ship across the way vanished. Vanished into full-power stardrive. Not even a second later, it impacted into Wanderer.

  The livie-recorder that Nance wore like some great helmet, and the accompanying vid camera aboard his ship, overloaded into the ultra and burnt out. Kea had warned him. But the audio pickup was still active, and Nance's voice continued, live, straight to the net headquarters in New York, and from there to man's worlds.

  Kea barely noticed the 'caster's excitement. He was busy. He'd taken the ship controls and sent the transport, under half Yukawa drive, toward the meteor. What meteor? A collection of gravel in loose formation. Of Kea's ship, there was nothing whatever remaining.

  Kea listened to the broadcast, still live, coming from Nance's ship. He had not known there were so many synonyms for "hero." Richards smiled. Actually, this time, he was a bit of 2 hero. He was surprised he felt a shade embarrassed. Hero, eh? Kea the Galactic Hero, he thought in amusement. Now Kea had the name. The tools. Wanderer had given him the stage and the floodlights for his grand entrance. All he needed was the fanfare—And he was fairly certain what it would be, even if he didn't know who'd show up to blow in his ear.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Ganymede—A.D. 2212

  ONE WAS THE prime minister of a commonwealth. He represented the big families. One was a businesswoman, a member of the board on two thousand blue-chip firms. Another represented Big Money. He controlled the skim on two-thirds of all electronically transmitted cash. The last was labor chieftain of three continents.

  "Most of the military is behind us," Labor said. "The rest will follow if we do a deal."

  "Amazing how timid generals can be," Kea said.

  "They would have come," the prime minister said, "but they were worried—despite our assurances to the contrary—that they might be spotted… They send, however, their humblest apologies and warmest greetings."

  Kea snorted. "Like I said… timid."

  Big Money cut to the bottom line. "But still with us," he said. "You know we wouldn't be here, Mr. Richards, if we didn't have all our i's dotted and't's crossed."

  "The point is," the businesswoman said, "the Federation's presidential election is upon us. Time is short. We need to know now if you'll be our nominee."

  "I'll have to be honest with you," Kea said. "The other s
ide has come to see me as well."

  Labor laughed. "If you didn't figure we already knew that, Mr. Richards," he said, "you wouldn't have let our shadows fall upon your doorstep."

  "We're not amateurs," Big Money said. "We came prepared to substantially increase the offer."

  "I think we had better stop right here," Kea said, "while I explain my position."

  "Explain away," Labor said.

  "I'll tell you the same thing I told them. I don't need this. I'm richer than anyone has a right to be. I'm forty-seven years old. I was thinking of taking it easy for a while. Resting on my laurels, as it were."

  The businesswoman clapped. "Lovely speech. We'll see the spin doctors use it."

  "The mink-piece writers will devour it with relish," the prime minister said. "I can see the Op Ed headline now: 'Hero who saved civilization spurns all offers from grateful public.'"

  "We let that kinda thing bounce around for a week or so," Labor cut in. "Then play up the mess the fat cats and back-room boys have got the Federation into. Before you know it, folks will be beggin' you to save 'em again."

  "Then you reluctantly… and humbly… agree to a draft," the prime minister said.

  The businesswoman graced him with her most charming smile. "Is that what you had in mind, Mr. Richards? More or less?"

  Kea laughed. "The others believed me just a little longer than you people," he said.

  "That's why we're number one," Big Money responded.

  "Number one… but without a candidate," Kea said. "Which is the same boat your competition is in. At this rate, both parties will wind up in a tie out of sheer electoral boredom. And even if you win… The Federation is in a mess. You guys have put it in the crap house. What are you going to do about it? What are your big ideas?"

  Dead silence greeted this. But Kea believed it necessary to drive his point home. "The current state of the Federation is no fantasy, my friends," he said. "The economy is in shambles. You've got twenty wars of various sizes. Famine. Drought. Industry is stalled. Inflation running amok. Interest rates sky-high… if there was anyone with money to borrow. Besides that, lady… and gentlemen, you look in fine shape to me."

  "You must be interested," Labor said, "or you wouldn't have bothered to fill up your stone bucket before we got here. If you get my point."

  "I got it," Kea said.

  "Which brings us back to the price," Big Money said.

  "What could I want?" Kea asked. "I've got AM2. Which means I already control everything—from the stars on down."

  "You tell us, Mr. Richards," Labor said. "What do you want?"

  Kea told them. Unlike the first group, there was no quibbling. No negotiation.

  The deal was cut right there.

  Port Richards, Tau Ceti—A.D. 2222

  It was a gentle sloping hill, carpeted with a thick lichenlike plant—purple with green pinhead buds—that released a heady perfume every day at dusk. Kea breathed in the scent as he strolled up the hill—alone, except for the ever-present security screen spread out around him. He stopped to rest just before he reached the summit, puffing with effort.

  Kea turned back to view his vacation campsite. The cynical street kid in him laughed. The encampment consisted of his personal tent—a two-story-high gold fabric pavilion, really—and more than sixty smaller tents to house staff, security, and other bits of his entourage. Kea snorted. Publicity had billed the trip as a simple camping vacation. A well-deserved rest from the awesome burdens of his office as President of the Federation. The fact that he had chosen to take his vacation upon a newly opened world—named in his honor—in the Tau Ceti system, was given much significance by his pet livie commentators.

  "Is it not fitting," one commentator had said, "that this simple man… this ordinary man of the people… President Kea Richards… should seek to refresh his spirits in the stars?"

  "Most analysts see this journey as symbolic," another said. "Through Kea Richards, civilization has pushed its boundaries into the great beyond. Now, President Richards is reminding us that there are many more worlds to conquer. That our future is a never-ending frontier."

  This trip to the frontier was just another stone mortared into the legend Kea had been building for ten years. The legend of the common man. A self-made man. A man who remembered well the plight of the poor from whose ranks he had emerged. A genius in the rough, continually seeking new ways to better life for all.

  Some of that was even true.

  In ten years he had created a commercial empire greater than anything before. New ideas and renewed vigor had birthed industries that churned out goods—priced within easy reach of all. Food flooded out of giant agricultural combines in unprecedented volumes. Science and invention had exploded. Star probes were bridging vast distances. Terraforming engineers were at work on scores of worlds like Port Richards—adding territory to the Federation. Even the arts flourished in an atmosphere of free-flowing money and ideas. There was no denying Kea Richards was the engine that had made all those things possible. And AM2 was the fuel powering that engine. The robot delivery system had been tested and perfected. AM2 was being shipped regularly, and in large quantities—with zero chance of anyone learning the source.

  Naturally, he had enemies. Many enemies. Kea watched one of his guards aim a sniffer at the path ahead, checking for booby traps. He divided his enemies into three groups: the idealists, the covetous, and the insane. The idealists he nurtured. Especially the weak. Free expression and open debate gave such a wonderful patina of democracy. The covetous he co-opted, or crushed. As for the insane… Kea saw two other guards swing to the top of the hill, weapons ready… well, there was not much you could do about them. Except take care.

  Kea's intellectual side insisted he'd accomplished a miracle in ten years—two terms in office. Fazlur had been a pessimist when he had predicted AM2 would turn the known world upside down. With Richards controlling it, Anti-Matter Two had also turned it inside out. But his gut twisted in revolt. Beware, it said. If you stop now, all will be lost. All will be reversed. The Bargetas and their ilk will be running things again. And all will return to inbred stagnation. Some of the old families were still holding out on Earth. These were a few of the covetous ones Kea had allowed their head. Let them have their outmoded factories. Let them continue spewing their pollutants across the planet. Let them break the back of the Earthbound poor. Each day hundreds were joining the migration off Earth. Climbing aboard ships powered by AM2 supplied by Kea Richards. Fleeing the chaos and misery Kea's enemies had created to new worlds their president was opening up.

  It's going so fast, Kea thought. So fast and so well. In ten years, what I've built will easily double again. In fifty more… who knows? Pity I won't live to see it. A great yearning pit opened in Kea's stomach. A yearning as deep as the one that had clutched at him when Fazlur first proposed that they enter another universe. God, he wished he could see how it would all play out.

  He heard a thundering from the far side of the hill. Kea hurried to the hilltop. He saw an official Federation ship settle into its berth. Around it was the enormous raw wound of the new spaceport being hurled up on Port Richards. It was the official delegation from the Federation's electoral college. Come to tell him that the people had begged him to stay on us as president. Not just for a third term. Not for another five years.

  Kea Richards had been elected President For Life.

  Surprise.

  The boys in the back room had come through.

  But that had been the deal.

  On Ganymede—ten years before—the guy from labor had gawped. "Whaddya mean, for life?"

  The businesswoman had hissed at him. "Until he's dead, stupid. Or wants to retire." She had turned to Kea. "Right?"

  "That's the deal," Kea had said. "If I'm going to run it… I want to run it like my own company. Elections every five years will tie my hands. I'll always be forced to take the short view."

  "What'd the other side say?" Big Money had asked.
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  "They weren't happy," Kea had answered.

  "Because they couldn't swing it?" Labor'd guessed.

  "Yeah," Kea had said. "They said they couldn't swing it."

  "I don't see the problem," the businesswoman had said. "Not for us, anyway."

  "We couldn't do it all at once," the prime minister had said. "We would have to smooth the way. Prepare the groundwork."

  "We could do it by the end of his second term for sure," Labor had said. "He's pretty damned popular. If you get my drift."

  "If we agreed to this…" Big Money had ventured. "As your loyal supporters… and dearest friends…"

  Kea had bowed… almost kingly… "and soon to be trusted advisers…" he had added.

  Big Money had smiled… acknowledging… "Yes. We would. And as your advisers, could we presume you would listen if we had a word or two about your policies on AM2?"

  "Absolutely," Kea had said. "As a matter of fact, I have been discussing my long-range strategy with my managers. It has become time for what people have termed a monopoly to end. We're presently arranging a plan to license sales of AM2, Imperium X, and the modified drive engines to… the proper concerns." He'd given them a meaningful look. "I'd be happy to listen to your suggestions… for individual cases."

  The room had brightened immensely. Aglow in the vision of new private fortunes to be won.

  "Let me be the first to call you Mister President," Labor had said. He stuck out a hand. Kea shook it.

  That had been it. A presidency conferred with a handshake. Details to be filled in later by constitutional lawyers. It was the first time Kea had really tugged on the AM2 line and reeled in the fish. And as time had gone by, he had gotten better and better at it.

  Kea watched the delegation descend from the ship. A gravlighter was waiting to take them to his encampment with formal word of his new title. Tonight they would all celebrate. Tomorrow he would pay off a few more lOUs.

  Then it would all be his.

  It was like an old-fashioned marriage, really. The monarchs of old had understood. A kingdom was the source of your greatest grief and happiness. You were wedded to it. For life. Kea was Emperor, now, in all but name. He didn't have even a niggling of guilt for having bought and paid for it by keeping one of the greatest discoveries in history to himself. The Chinese emperors had kept the secret of the workings of time for centuries. What would the people do with it? they asked their court scholars. They do not have the skills or fortitude to take responsibility for its appointment. This should be left for us to decide. This should be our burden, and our burden alone.