by Ben Bova
Rihana looked away from him. “Well even so, I shan’t. I see no reason why I should age and wither when even the foulest shopkeeper can live for centuries.”
“Your husband will age.”
She said nothing. And as he ages, the Emperor knew, you will find younger lovers. But of course, you have already done that, haven’t you?
He turned toward his son, who was still standing by the balustrade.
“Kyle Arman is dead.” Javas blurted.
For a moment, the Emperor failed to comprehend. “Dead?” he asked, his voice sounding old and weak even to himself.
Javas nodded. “In his sleep. A heart seizure.”
“But he is too young—”
“He was your age, Father.”
“And he refused rejuvenation treatments,” Rihana said, sounding positively happy. “As if he were royalty! The pretentious fool. A servant . . . a menial.”
“He was a friend of this house,” the Emperor said.
“He killed my brother,” said Javas.
“Your brother failed the test. He was a coward. Unfit to rule.” But Kyle passed you, the Emperor thought. You were found fit to rule . . . or was Kyle still ashamed of what he had done to my firstborn?
“And you accepted his story.” For once, Javas’ bemused smile was gone. There was iron in his voice. “The word of a backwoods Earthman.”
“A pretentious fool,” Rihana gloated.
“A proud and faithful man,” the Emperor corrected. “A man who put honor and duty above personal safety or comfort.”
His eyes locked with Javas’. After a long moment in silence, the Prince shrugged and turned away.
“Regardless,” Rihana said, “we surveyed the situation on Earth, as you requested us to.”
Commanded, the Emperor thought. Not requested.
“The people there are all primitives. Hardly a city on the entire planet! It’s all trees and huge oceans.”
“I know. I have been there.”
Javas said, “There are only a few millions living on Earth. They can be evacuated easily and resettled on a few of the frontier planets. After all, they are primitives.”
“Those ‘primitives’ are the baseline for our race. They are the pool of original genetic material, against which our scientists constantly measure the rest of humanity throughout the Hundred Worlds.”
Rihana said, “Well, they’re going to have to find another primitive world to live on.”
“Unless we prevent their Sun from exploding.”
Javas looked amused, “You’re not seriously considering that?”
“I am . . . considering it. Perhaps not very seriously.”
“It makes no difference,” Rihana said. “The plan to save the Sun—to save your precious Earth—will take hundreds of years to implement. You will be dead long before the first steps can be brought to a conclusion. The next Emperor can cancel the entire plan the day he takes the throne.”
The Emperor turned his chair slightly to face his son, but Javas looked away, out toward the darkening forest.
“I know,” the Emperor whispered, more to himself than to her. I know that full well.”
* III *
He could not sleep. The Emperor lay on the wide expanse of warmth, floating a single molecular layer above the gently soothing waters. Always before, when sleep would not come readily, a woman had solved the problem for him. But lately not even lovemaking helped.
The body grows weary but the mind refuses sleep. Is this what old age brings?
Now he lay alone, the ceiling of his tower bedroom depolarized so that he could see the blazing glory of the Imperial Planet’s night sky.
Not the pale tranquil sky of Earth, with its bloated Moon smiling inanely at you, he thought. This was truly an Imperial sky, brazen with blue giant stars that studded the heavens like brilliant sapphires. No moon rode that sky; none was needed. There was never true darkness on the Imperial Planet.
And yet Earth’s sky seemed so much friendlier. You could pick out old companions there; the two Bears, the Lion, the Twins, the Hunter, the Winged Horse.
Already I think of Earth in the past tense. Like Kyle. Like my son.
He thought of the Earth’s warming Sun. How could it turn traitor? How could it . . . begin to die? In his mind’s eye he hovered above the Sun, bathed in its fiery glow, watching its bubbling, seething surface. He plunged deeper into the roiling plasma, saw filaments and streamers arching a thousand Earthspans into space, heard the pulsing throb of the star’s energy, the roar of its power, blinding bright, overpowering, ceaseless merciless heat, throbbing, roaring, pounding . . .
He was gasping for breath and the pounding he heard was his own heartbeat throbbing in his ears. Soaked with sweat, he tried to sit up. The bed enfolded him protectively, supporting his body.
“Hear me,” he commanded the computer. His voice cracked.
“Sire?” answered a softly female voice in his mind.
He forced himself to relax. Forced the pain from his body. The dryness in his throat eased. His breathing slowed. The pounding of his heart diminished.
“Get me the woman scientist who reported at the conference on the Sun’s explosion, ten years ago. She was not present at the conference, her report was presented by a colleague.”
The computer needed more than a second to reply, “Sire, there were four such reports by female scientists at that conference.”
“This was the only one to deal with a plan to save the Earth’s Sun.”
* IV *
Medical monitors were implanted in his body now. Although the Imperial physicians insisted that it was impossible, the Emperor could feel the microscopic implants on the wall of his heart, in his aorta, alongside his carotid artery. The Imperial psychotechs called it a psychosomatic reaction. But since his mind was linked to the computers that handled all the information on the planet, the Emperor knew what his monitors were reporting before the doctors did.
They had reduced the gravity in his working and living sections of the palace to one-third normal, and forbade him from leaving these areas, except for the rare occasions of state when he was needed in the Great Assembly Hall or another public area. He acquiesced in this: the lighter gravity felt better and allowed him to be on his feet once again, free of the power chair’s clutches.
This day he was walking slowly, calmly, through a green forest of Earth. He strolled along a parklike path, admiring the lofty maples and birches, listening to the birds and small forest animals’ songs of life. He inhaled scents of pine and grass and sweet clean air. He felt the warm sun on his face and the faintest cool breeze. For a moment he considered how the trees would look in their autumnal reds and golds. But he shook his head.
No. There is enough autumn in my life. I’d rather be in springtime.
In the rooms next to the corridor he walked through, tense knots of technicians worked at the holographic systems that produced the illusion of the forest, while other groups of white-suited meditechs studied the readouts from the Emperor’s implants.
Two men joined the Emperor on the forest path: Academician Bomeer, head of the Imperial Academy of Sciences, and Supreme Commander Fain, chief of staff of the Imperial Military Forces. Both were old friends and advisors, close enough to the Emperor to be housed within the palace itself when they were allowed to visit their master.
Bomeer looked young, almost sprightly, in a stylish robe of green and tan. He was slightly built, had a lean, almost ascetic face that was spoiled by a large mop of unruly brown hair.
Commander Fain was iron gray, square-faced, a perfect picture of a military leader. His black and silver uniform fit his muscular frame like a second skin. His gray eyes seemed eternally troubled.
The Emperor greeted them and allowed Bomeer to spend a few minutes admiring the forest simulation. The scientist called out the correct names for each type of tree they walked past and identified several species of birds and squirrel. Finally the Emperor asked him abou
t the young woman who had arrived on the Imperial Planet the previous month.
“I have discussed her plan thoroughly with her,” Bomeer said, his face going serious. “I must say that she is dedicated, energetic, close to brilliant. But rather naive and overly sanguine about her own ideas.”
“Could her plan work?” asked the Emperor.
“Could it work?” the scientist echoed. He had tenaciously held onto his post at the top of the scientific hierarchy for nearly a century. His body had been rejuvenated more than once, the Emperor knew. But not his mind.
“Sire, there is no way to tell if it could work! Such an operation has never been done before. There are no valid data. Mathematics, yes. But even so, there is no more than theory. And the costs! The time it would take! The technical manpower! Staggering.”
The Emperor stopped walking. Fifty meters away, behind the hologram screens, a dozen meditechs suddenly hunched over their readout screens intently.
But the Emperor had stopped merely to repeat to Bomeer, “Could her plan work?”
Bomeer ran a hand through his boyish mop, glanced at Commander Fain for support and found none, then faced his Emperor again. “I . . . there is no firm answer, Sire. Statistically, I would say that the chances are vanishingly small.”
“Statistics!” The Emperor made a disgusted gesture. “A refuge for scoundrels and sociotechs. Is there anything scientifically impossible in what she proposes?”
“Nnn . . . not theoretically impossible, Sire,” Bomeer said slowly. “But in the practical world of reality it . . . it is the magnitude of the project. The costs. Why, it would take half of Commander Fain’s fleet to transport the equipment and material.”
Fain seized his opportunity to speak. “And the Imperial Fleet, Sire, is spread much too thin for safety as it is.”
“We are at peace, Commander,” said the Emperor.
“For how long, Sire? The frontier worlds grow more restless every day. And the aliens beyond our borders—”
“Are weaker than we are. I have reviewed the intelligence assessments, Commander.”
“Sire, the relevant factor in those reports is that the aliens are growing stronger and we are not.”
With a nod, the Emperor resumed walking. The scientist and the commander followed him, arguing their points unceasingly.
Finally they reached the end of the long corridor, where the holographic simulation showed them Earth’s Sun setting beyond the edge of an ocean, turning the restless sea into an impossible glitter of opalescence.
“Your recommendations, then, gentlemen?” he asked wearily. Even in the one-third gravity his legs felt tired, his back ached.
Bomeer spoke first, his voice hard and sure. “This naive dream of saving the Earth’s Sun is doomed to fail. The plan must be rejected.”
Fain added, “The Fleet can detach enough squadrons from its noncombat units to initiate the evacuation of Earth whenever you order it, Sire.”
“Evacuate them to an unsettled planet?” the Emperor asked.
“Or resettle them on the existing frontier worlds. The Earth residents are rather frontier-like themselves; they have purposely been kept primitive. They would get along well with some of the frontier populations. They might even serve to calm down some of the unrest on the frontier worlds.”
The Emperor looked at Fain and almost smiled. “Or they might fan that unrest into outright rebellion. They are a cantankerous lot, you know.”
“We can deal with rebellion,” said Fain.
“Can you?” the Emperor asked. “You can kill people, of course. You can level cities and even render whole planets uninhabitable. But does that end it? Or do the neighboring worlds become fearful and turn against us?”
Fain stood as unmoved as a statue. His lips barely parted as he asked. “Sire, if I may speak frankly?”
“Certainly, Commander.”
Like a soldier standing at attention as he delivers an unpleasant report to his superior officer, Fain drew himself up and monotoned, “Sire, the main reason for unrest among the frontier worlds is the lack of Imperial firmness in dealing with them. In my opinion, a strong hand is desperately needed. The neighboring worlds will respect their Emperor if—and only if—he acts decisively. The people value strength, Sire, not meekness.”
The Emperor reached out and put a hand on the Commander’s shoulder. Fain was still iron-hard under his uniform.
“You have sworn an oath to protect and defend this Realm,” the Emperor said. “If necessary, to die for it.”
“And to protect and defend you, Sire.” The man stood straighter and firmer than the trees around them.
“But this Empire, my dear Commander, is more than blood and steel, It is more than any one man. It is an idea.”
Fain looked back at him steadily, but with no real understanding in his eyes. Bomeer stood uncertainly off to one side.
Impatiently, the Emperor turned his face toward the ceiling hologram and called, “Map!”
Instantly the forest scene disappeared and they were in limitless space. Stars glowed around them, overhead, on all sides, underfoot. The pale gleam of the galaxy’s spiral arms wafted off and away into unutterable distance.
Bomeer’s knees buckled. Even the Commander’s rigid self-discipline was shaken.
The Emperor smiled. He was accustomed to walking godlike on the face of the Deep.
“This is the Empire, gentlemen,” he lectured in the darkness. “A handful of stars, a pitiful scattering of worlds set apart by distances that take years to traverse. All populated by human beings, the descendants of Earth.”
He could hear Bomeer breathing heavily. Fain was a ramrod outline against the glow of the Milky Way, but his hands were outstretched, as if seeking balance.
“What links these scattered dust motes? What preserves their ancient heritage, guards their civilization, protects their hard-won knowledge and arts and sciences? The Empire. Gentlemen. We are the mind of the Hundred Worlds, their memory, the yardstick against which they can measure their own humanity. We are their friend, their father, their teacher and helper.”
The Emperor searched the black starry void for the tiny yellowish speck of Earth’s Sun, while saying:
“But if the Hundred Worlds decide that the Empire is no longer their friend, if they want to leave their father, if they feel that their teacher and helper has become an oppressor . . . what then happens to the human race? It will shatter into a hundred fragments, and all the civilization that we have built and nurtured and protected over all these centuries will be destroyed.”
Bomeer’s whispered voice floated through the darkness. “They would never . . .”
“Yes. They would never turn against the Empire because they know that they have more to gain by remaining with us than by leaving us.”
“But the frontier worlds,” Fain said.
“The frontier worlds are restless, as frontier communities always are. If we use military might to force them to bow to our will, then other worlds will begin to wonder where their own best interests lie.”
“But they could never hope to fight against the Empire!”
The Emperor snapped his fingers and instantly the three of them were standing again in the forest at sunset.
“They could never hope to win against the Empire,” the Emperor corrected. “But they could destroy the Empire and themselves. I have played out the scenarios with the computers. Widespread rebellion is possible, once the majority of the Hundred Worlds becomes convinced that the Empire is interfering with their freedoms.”
“But the rebels could never win,” the Commander said. “I have run the same wargames myself, many times.”
“Civil war,” said the Emperor. “Who wins a civil war? And once we begin to slaughter ourselves, what will your aliens do, my dear Fain? Eh?”
His two advisors fell silent. The forest simulation was now deep in twilight shadow. The three men began to walk back along the path, which was softly illuminated by biolumine
scent flowers.
Bomeer clasped his hands behind his back as he walked. “Now that I have seen some of your other problems, Sire, I must take a stronger stand and insist—yes, Sire, insist—that this young woman’s plan to save the Earth is even more foolhardy than I had at first thought it to be. The cost is too high, and the chance of success is much too slim. The frontier worlds would react violently against such an extravagance. And,” with a nod to Fain, “it would hamstring the Fleet.”
For several moments the Emperor walked down the simulated forest path without saying a word. Then, slowly, “I suppose you are right. It is an old man’s sentimental dream.”
“I’m afraid that’s the truth of it, Sire,” said Fain.
Bomeer nodded sagaciously.
“I will tell her. She will be disappointed. Bitterly.”
Bomeer gasped. “She’s here?”
The Emperor said, “Yes, I had her brought here to the palace. She has crossed the Empire, given up more than two years of her life to make the trip, lost a dozen years of her career over this wild scheme of hers . . . just to hear that I will refuse her.”
“In the palace?” Fain echoed. “Sire, you’re not going to see her in person? The security . . .”
“Yes, in person. I owe her that much.” The Emperor could see the shock on their faces. Bomeer, who had never stood in the same building with the Emperor until he had become Chairman of the Academy, was trying to suppress his fury with poor success. Fain, sworn to guard the Emperor as well as the Empire, looked worried.
“But Sire,” the Commander said, “no one has personally seen the Emperor, privately, outside of his family and closest advisors,” Bomeer bristled visibly, “in years . . . decades!”
The Emperor nodded but insisted, “She is going to see me. I owe her that much. An ancient ruler on Earth once said, ‘When you are going to kill a man, it costs nothing to be polite about it.’ She is not a man, of course, but I fear that our decision will kill her soul.”
They looked unconvinced.
Very well then, the Emperor said to them silently. Put it down as the whim of an old man . . . a man who is feeling all his years . . . a man who will never recapture his youth.