by Chris Bunch
"Th' Zaginows're feelin' frisky," Alex said. "Ah hae logged a un'lateral declaration ae independence an' non-alliance frae th' lads. T' be present'd ae th' Imperial Parl'ment, if i' e'er sits again. Th' copy thae sen' you, f'r inf'rmation on'y, has a wee pers'nal note. Sayin' thanks, an' i' y' e'er hap by their part ae' th' universe, i' an un'fficial capac'ty, their emph'sis nae mine, drop by f r a dram."
"It's like an infected tusk," Otho said. "It hurts, and it hurts, and then it falls out. And your tongue keeps seeking the gap, wondering where the tusk went, and maybe even missing it a trace."
There were only two other beings in the chamber—Cind and Rykor.
But there should have been more:
The dead: Mahoney. Sr. Ecu. Others, stretching back into the dimness of Sten's memory, soldiers, civilians, even bandits and criminals, who had died for the mask of freedom that they never knew concealed the skullface of tyranny.
The living: Haines. Her husband. Marr. Senn. Ida. Jemedar Mankajiri Gurung and the other Gurkhas. A woman, long ago, named Bet.
And just as there had been invisible beings with Sten before he entered the discontinuity, all these were now in this chamber.
Waiting.
"Cind," Sten wondered. "What will the Bhor do?"
"I will no longer be speaking for them," Cind said. "I'll be traveling. With a friend." She smiled at Sten, a promising smile.
"The Bhor will accept my retirement. Even if I have to grow a beard to cut."
She nodded across the room. "I rather imagine Otho will be the speaker once more, even if he has to be drafted."
Otho growled. "Perhaps. But only for the moment. I have seen as much of the slow dry death of politics as any being could wish for his worst enemy.
"Perhaps I shall outfit a ship, as I did when young. There will be great chances for a trader now, with freedom instead of Empire.
"Perhaps I shall go looking for those strange human friends of yours. The Rom, I believe they called themselves? You know that none of them remain on Vi? They departed before your return from that other place… leaving no word as to their intent."
Sten was silent, surprised. Ida, gone? Evidently without even a farewell. She didn't even stick around to see that the good guys won. He remembered words of hers, said over her shoulder: "Freedom cannot be served by making laws and fences…"
Otho got up. "Or perhaps I shall take up sewing," he said. "But enough of this, by Kholeric. I am thirsty and hungry, and a bit angry. I shall butcher out your incompetent staff, Sr. Sten, and inform them when you wish privacy, there are no alternative choices."
Otho banged out, and a few seconds later, Sten heard loud growls. All of the screens blanked.
But in his mind he still saw their pleas.
He was suddenly, irrationally, angry.
"What the hell," he near-snarled, "do they want? Me to declare myself the new Eternal Emperor? What, the tyrant is dead, now put your necks down for the iron boot again?"
"Some of them wish exactly that," Cind said softly. "Muscles get lazy when they aren't worked. And it's always easier to let somebody else make the decisions, isn't it?
"I know. All that my forebears had to do was obey—absolutely—the Jannissar general. He would tell them when to eat, when to sleep, who to kill, and when to die. If they obeyed—absolutely—they were rewarded, and had a place after death guaranteed.
"Right," she said. "That was all."
"Both a y' appear a wee bit hard ae our allies," Alex said, his face carefully composed. "Thae'll hae't' be somebody ae th' top, aye? T' oversee th' changes an' th' transition. There cannae be an empty throne, e'en i' thae's but a caretaker gov'mint. Can there?
"F'r beginnin's, who's't' divvy th' AM2?"
Again, Anti-Matter Two, hell and heaven, riches and death.
There was a splash from Rykor's tank. She was watching Sten, her great compassionate eyes wide. But she said nothing of the common secret they held.
"A caretaker," Sten mused, his anger gone. "What? You think I should soldier on? At least until somebody figures out who should run things? Maybe until we put together some kind of coalition like Ecu would have overseen?"
"To most beings," Cind said, "that'd be the most comfortable. The hero slays the dragon… and helps the people begin their lives anew."
"Just like in the livies," Sten said cynically.
Cind shrugged. "Why do you think they're so popular?"
"How does that play, Rykor?" Sten asked.
Rykor considered, whiskers fluffing. "Logical. Psychologically welcome, as Cind said. Certainly you have the experience for it. How many times did your ambassadorial duties in fact mean you were the entire government in a cluster? I know you hardly bothered getting the Emperor's approval for every decision."
No, Sten thought. He hadn't. And he had run things with, he thought pridefully, a certain measure of success, assuming clotheads hadn't gotten in the way, clotheads who just didn't understand what was supposed to happen, and that their best interests would be eventually served.
Christ. With no one second-guessing his decisions after the fact from afar. Not a section commander. Not a general. Not even an Eternal Emperor.
Not anyone.
A chance to correct a lot of those wrongs he'd seen across the years, wrongs too big or too distant to confront. And there would be the time—Sten could easily train a diplomatic equivalent of a general staff that would be able to carry out Sten's policies.
All those dictators some mythical thing called Policy or Expediency said should be supported. All those crimes that Pragmatism told him to ignore. All the beings who stole and murdered from their lessers, beings that Sten had never had the opportunity to confront and destroy.
Call it caretaking.
If you wished.
Now, that would not be a bad way to really serve the universe, would it? Especially after all those decades of blood and slaughter.
It would also be an example for those who came later, that someone could rule for a while, and then, when his charges reached maturity, step aside. Pass the reins along.
"Say I agreed," Sten said. "Sorry, that's the wrong way to put it. Say that when the smoke cleared that a lot of worlds wanted me to act as some kind of, what? 'Regent' isn't the proper word. 'Manager'? I guess that'd be it."
"There would be few if any systems that would object," Rykor said firmly.
"Right. Now. If I did this, agreed to serve for a few more years, until the time was right and everybody realized that they had to rule themselves… would you stay with me?"
Rykor wallowed in the tank without answering. Then: "You would be welcome to my advice, such as it is, for as long as I am able to offer it."
Sten noted her answer.
"Alex?"
The tubby man looked at him for a very long moment.
"Y' hae m' word, boss," he said finally. "Ah'll sign on agin, ae y'r strong right bower. But thae'll be a time whae Ah'll be retirin't, Ah'll hae't' warn you."
Twice.
"Cind?"
"I'll stay," she said, without a hesitation. "As long as you're caretaker. As long as you're Sten."
Three times.
There it was.
Sten saw, once more, the smile on the Emperor's corpse, and icy fingers moved down his spine as he wondered if this moment explained the gioconda smile.
"I just wonder," Sten said, "if anybody ever knows when that time is? Or," he said, being as honest as he knew how, "if every time somebody gets offered a crown, he always thinks that he's taking it just for universal good?"
The chamber was silent, very silent, as silent as the icy, frozen night outside.
"Ah dinnae knoo aboot thae," Alex said, finally. "Thae's Phliposophy, an' thae's noo Scots sol'jer permitted't' think ae that, 'r thae toss him oot ae th' pub an' make him' drink piss wi' th' Brits.
"But Ah hae a wee tale. Call i' a par'ble, i' y' wish.
"Thae wae a mon. Always wanted't' prove himself, aye? An' he hears thae'
th' mos' fearsome sort ae huntin' i' on Earth. Ae a wee island, i' a north' ae froze ae Vi.
"Huntin' th' bear. Cind, thae's a—"
"I know what a bear is. You've called Otho one enough times. GA," she said.
"A'right. So, he goes oot i' th' forest, wi' a rifle, an' a sharp eye. An' sooner come later, he spots th' bear. Binga-banga-bonga he shoots, an' th' bear goes't doon."
"An' he bounds o'er, an' to his vast sur'prise an' dismay, thae's noo bear."
"Tap tap on th' shoulder, an' thae's th' bear! An' th' bear growls, an' says, T y' wan''t' live, y'll be giein' doon ae y'r nan's an' knees an' committin' a disgustin' sexual act ae m' bod'."
"An' th' hunter goes eech an' ech an' och, but th' bear's fangs ate braw, an' his claws are great. An' he goes doon ae his knees…"
"Noo, when he gies back't' his camp, he's fill't wi' disgust. Wi' loathin'. He's aboot't' suicide. But first, he thinks, Ah'll hae th' skin ae thae bear!"
"An' next mornin, he goes oot't' th' forest agin, an' pret' quick, he spots th' bear. An' its bompa-bompa-bompa, an' agin' th' bear goes doon."
"An' th' hunter goes clip-cloppin't' th' site, knowin' he hae th' revenge… but thae's no bear."
"Tap tap on th' shoulder… an' thae's bear! Loonrin't o'er him!"
"An' th' bear says, T y' be wantin' y'r life, y'll be disrobin't, an' turnin't aroun', an' Ah'll be performin't a revoltin' sexual act wi' y'!"
"An' yeesh an' bleah an' yargh, but th' bear's claws are braw, an' his teeth are great An' so th' hunter drops hi' trews…"
"Thae's it. Thae's all. Th' hunter slink't back't' camp. He feels worsen' a Campbell. H's th' lowest ae th' low. Killin' himself i' th' best fate he c'd dream of."
"But firs'… th' bear mus' die! Wi' oot fail, wi'oot question."
"An' so, th' next morn, just ae dawn, th' hunter's oot i' the woods. An' agin he sees th' bear. An' again he raises his rifle. An agin i's blastawayblastawayblastaway all. An' agin' th' bear goes doon."
"An' agin' th' hunter rushes oop."
"An' agin', thae's noo clottin' bear!"
"But agin, thae's a tap tap on th' shoulder."
"An', knowin't whae he's aboot't' see, th' hunter turns aroun'. An' thae's th' bear!"
"An' th' bear eyes him, an' says, 'Lad, y' dinnae coom f r th' huntin' noo did y'?"
Sten stared at Kilgour, who, after a space, smiled a gently benevolent smile.
"Right," Sten said.
He turned around.
"Rykor. From the abstract of my brainscan, could you help some engineers put together a synth on Project Bravo? A how-to-do-it on AM2?"
"I could."
"That's my first request. We'll bring in some hotshot—maybe that woman reporter, Ranett, who used to give the Emperor the kolrobbies—and let her disseminate the information."
"I want that to go out on every livie, vid, and broadsheet possible."
"Second. Ask Otho to get the voyage tapes from my tacship. That should give a fair triangulation to the discontinuity and the Emperor's treasure."
"Put that out, too. Let anyone who wants AM2 know where to find it."
Rykor thrashed in her tank.
"Intellectually, I approve," she said. "And personally, caring for a single being named Sten, this is good. But considering its effect on the masses—"
"I can't think for them," Sten said. "I can barely take care of myself."
"All I can do is say… Here. Here's the AM2. Here's the keys to the kingdom. Every being can make himself a king, or a bloody despot. Let them make the universe as they like it. A paradise or a desert."
"That's not for me. I'm not going to play God. Not now. Not ever."
Sten thought he heard a murmur from all those beings, dead and alive, who had been in the chamber. Of agreement? Disappointment?
But they were gone. Gone forever.
Sten looked back at Alex.
"Do you think anybody'll grudge me the Victory?"
"Ah dinnae think so, lad. An' thae'll be clots like Otho'll be glad't' serve. Y'll hae't' beat 'em awa' wi' a blackthorne."
"Good. Now. I'll ask you again. About staying with me."
"Ah'll hae need ae a few weeks, boss. T' intr'duce twa lassies't' m' mum. An' t' hae th' banns posted, assumin't Ah'll be able't' coerce a wee pulpitbanger. C'n Ah hae a' month?"
Sten nodded.
Alex beamed. He went to the door where Rykor waited.
"Ah, lad. It'll be braw. It'll be braw. Thae's entire galaxies thae dinnae ken aboot spotted snakes."
And he and Rykor were gone.
"You left me for last," Cind said.
"I did."
"Are you going to ask?"
"Surely. You got any conflicting plans for the next couple of centuries?"
Cind didn't answer.
She kissed him.
Then she took him by the hand… and they walked across the chamber to the door to the balcony. She opened it and they went out, into the clear, frost-chiming night.
Neither of them felt the cold.
They looked up and out, far and beyond, at the unknown stars that stretched on forever.
An Explanation, Of Sorts
The idea for Sten came to us a few years back. It was encouraged by the fact that, at the time, very few people were writing the kind of science fiction we grew up reading and appreciating—a situation that's changed for the better of late, we're delighted to observe.
But the main reason was out of general pissoff.
Science fiction, for some unknown reason, has always been overly enamored of social and political fascism, primarily because of ignorance, we suspect.
Our irk was best expressed by Damon Knight, in his classic collection of essays, In Search Of Wonder, when he was busily ripping the lips off of A.E. Van Vogt, Scientologist/confusionaire extraordinary:
"It strikes me as singular that, in van Vogt's stories, nearly all of which deal with the future, the form of government which occurs most often is the absolute monarchy; and further, that the monarchs in these stories are invariably depicted sympathetically, (one of his heroes being) a 'benevolent dictator' if you please."
"… I shall not say what I think of a man who loves monarchies… neither do I think it relevant that these stories were written and published during a time when both van Vogt's country (Canada) and ours were at war with dictatorships…"
"… The absolute monarchy was a form of government which evolved to meet feudal economic conditions everywhere, and which has died everywhere with feudalism… Modern attempts to impose a similar system on higher cultures have just been proven, very decisively, to be failures… It is no crime for van Vogt as a private citizen to wish this were not so; but ignorance, for an author, is a crime…"
Just so.
The second quote is far better known:
John Emerich Edward Dalberg, Lord Acton, in a letter to Bishop Mandell Creighton, 1887:
"Power tends to corrupt; absolute power corrupts absolutely."
Equally true.
And so it was absurd for us that science fiction, in spite of its loud bannering of thinking of the future, in fact spends all too much of its substance sucking the empty husk of a false past.
Therefore… Sten.
We used all of the hard, cynical knowledge that we'd gained in fourteen years each in mainstream journalism of just how politics and raw power works.
We would create an empire, we decided, that would be big enough and old enough to contain all our bizarre notions of that great, dark, comic figure, the Human Race. We would see this empire through the eyes of an ordinary, working-class man who is overtaken by extraordinary events.
He would be just smart enough, swift enough, and—this was most important—have enough of a sense of humor to survive. And grow into a bona fide hero. Or, at least, our idea of a hero—someone with enormous clumps of clay for feet.
It would be a long story, we both agreed. It would take eight books to tell it all. One novel—in eight parts.
<
br /> We guessed it would take about a million words.
Today we passed that mark.
And the story is done.
About The Authors
CHRIS BUNCH is a Ranger—and Airborne—qualified Vietnam vet, who's written about phenomena as varied as the Hell's Angels, the Rolling Stones, and Ronald Reagan.
ALLAN COLE grew up in the CIA in odd spots like Okinawa, Cyprus, and Taiwan. He's been a professional chef, investigative reporter, and national news editor of a major West Coast daily newspaper. He's won half a dozen writing awards in the process.
With STEN complete, their next projects will include THE SHANNON FAMILY SAGA, the mainstream epic of an Irish-American family from America's beginnings to the present—starting with DAUGHTER OF LIBERTY and continuing with SOUNDING OF THE TRUMPET, from Ballantine Books; and THE ANTEROS, a fantasy trilogy that begins with THE FAR KINGDOMS, from Del Rey.