by Ben Bova
Fleming shook his head vigorously, his cheeks jiggling at the motion.
“It’s a letter stick.” He tapped it against the edge of the oaken desk with a sharp clack! clack! sound that reverberated sharply through the room. “It’s nothing more than a simple, straightforward means of communication employed by an ancient race of noble people. This one contains but a few words; a simple, heartfelt message that would take only two sentences in our own language.” The Emperor closed his eyes and held the stick to his nose, inhaling deeply of the rich wood scent that emanated from the freshly made carvings. “I’m sending it to Billy and Cathay down in Kimberley.” He smiled, opening his eyes. “All it says is that I am so very happy for them, and that I dearly love them both. That’s all, nothing more.
“But do you know that it took a dozen historians of the Imperial Court to research the correct design, then another dozen Court linguistics experts to determine the proper language, syntax and character set.” He turned the intricately carved stick over and over in his hands, his fingertips gingerly exploring every nook and cranny of its ornamented surface. “It took yet another dozen Court artisans to get it to a point where the linguists could then present it back to the historians once more, who, in turn, could then return to the artisans for still further revisions on the final design.” He pushed back a stack of plasticine folders and set the stick reverently in the center of the felt-and-leather blotter on the desktop.
“Dear God.” He turned to face the House Master, his eyes moist and glistening in the last piercing shaft of sunshine streaming through the curtained double doors. “Is this what we’ve come to, Fleming? An Empire that requires thirty … ‘technicians’ to accomplish a task that any humble tribesman could have done—can still do!—in a few minutes’ time? Is this all we are?”
“Sire.” Fleming’s voice was strong, tempered as he took the chair facing the desk. He sat, not waiting for his Emperor’s permission, and addressed him man-to-man, as an equal. It was an action Eric had never seen him take before, an action he had never imagined the man was capable of taking on his own.
“The Masters of this House have always spoken plainly when it was required,” he continued, the emotions within him rising. “Over the years the Masters consulted one another. frequently—as a young man, I spoke to, and was guided by, McLaren, the Master who tutored and raised you here at Woodsgate in Emperor Javas’ stead. He, in turn, served well to consult and learn from Master Montlaven, your own father’s surrogate. And so on, and so on.” He raised an all-encompassing arm and swept it through the air to take in their surroundings. “Sire, there is no business that has transpired in this House that has not been passed on in such a manner, over each successive Imperial generation, to the next Master.”
Fleming bit his lower lip, tears suddenly welling up in his eyes to flow freely down his ample cheeks. “Think you that I am so blinded as not to see that …” He gasped for breath, forcing the words out. “Your children do not wish to follow you! Think you that I do not already realize that I am to be the last Master of this House?” he yelled at the top of his lungs. He leaned forward, his face falling into the palms of his hands as he sobbed openly.
Eric said nothing for several moments, and remained staring in mute helplessness at the Master sitting opposite him. He knew that what this man had just done in his presence was so very much more than a personal humiliation, and he was deeply ashamed for having been responsible for it. He had turned to this man in conceited self-pity over his own failings, seeking some consolation, and had in turn brought this once proud man to his knees.
“Master Fleming,” he said resolutely, rising and circling the massive desk to stand next to the leather-bound chair. “You—along with McLaren, Montlaven and all those who came before you—have served this House well. It is to your credit that this antiquated Empire has held together as long as it has.” He held out his hand, and Fleming stood to accept it, his grasp firm and sure.
“Believe me when I tell you this …” Eric went on, his words coming from the heart. “There is nothing that you or I have done to precipitate anything that has happened. And just as you feel an overwhelming sadness that comes with the realization that the Masters of my family have reached their end, know, too, that I feel the same about my own destiny. Being the last Emperor is a fate I would wish on no man, any more than you would wish your own fate on another. What has happened to bring this about is a thing that could neither have been helped, nor avoided—we both know that to be true. And yet it is a thing for which the last of the line always assumes the blame.”
“I can hear the voice of Master McLaren in your words, Young Prince,” Fleming said earnestly, releasing his hand at last as a twinkle returned to his eyes. “‘Young Prince.’ Do you remember when I used to call you that? It was, oh, so very long ago.” He inhaled deeply, his thick chest heaving outward beneath his robe, and sighed wistfully. “Sire, I remain your servant until you no longer require me.” The Master bowed deeply again, and left the study without further word.
Closing the study’s enormous oak doors solidly behind him, he left Eric, the last Emperor of the Hundred Worlds, alone with his thoughts in the rapidly darkening room.
“Sire!”
The frantic cry echoed hollowly throughout the corridors of the Wood estate. “Sire!”
Eric sat bolt upright on the leather sofa, momentarily disoriented, and rubbed at a neck gone stiff from resting against the arm of the sofa. What time was it? He looked around the room, but there was no light in the study save the pale grayness of the full moon shining through the opened double doors. Had he opened them before lying back on the sofa? Just what was happening here? He shook his head in an attempt to clear the cobwebs from his mind.
“Sire, are you all right?” Fleming burst into the room, his outline silhouetted hazily in the lighted doorway. Behind him, five armed Imperial Guards appeared. “System! Bring the lights in this room to full!” The rotund man moved quickly, much more quickly than Eric would have thought possible, and was at his side in an instant. “Sire, we must get you to the shelter!”
The Emperor was on his feet now as Fleming grabbed him by the shoulder. The strength in his grip, like the speed he had exhibited moments ago, surprised Eric. As the Master tugged wildly at his arm, the five guards trotted into the room and took positions at each window, only to be followed by several more.
“What’s happening?” Eric paused then, his attention drawn to a steadily descending whine from somewhere outside the study. He tried to go to the window, but was stopped by a handful of well-meaning guards. Over their shoulders, however, he could see the lights of a descending shuttle as it eased itself down onto the landing pad in the yard below. Even in the moonlight he could see that the markings on the side of the craft where not of Imperial origin.
“The House security has been breached,” Fleming cried frantically. “You have to get to the shelter now!”
Eric nodded. “All right, then. Let’s go.”
He allowed the Master to lead him from the room and into the corridor, where twenty more guardsmen waited to escort him to the shelter beneath the estate.
“A gate opened in the shielding without warning,” Fleming explained as they walked, filling him in on what was happening. “There was nothing security could do to stop it. They even tried to project a secondary shield, below the first, to no avail. Whoever is controlling the main shield has also disabled the backup measures.” They marched down the main hallway, then turned into a lesser corridor that led to a level containing myriad guest rooms.
“Have we been contacted?” Eric demanded.
“No!” It was clear that Fleming was frightened, but as he dragged Eric along it was just as clear that it was for Eric’s safety that the Master feared. “There has been no communication of any kind.”
The guardsmen in the lead entered the first of the guest rooms, which was in reality the entrance to the high-speed lift that would take him a full hundred m
eters beneath the lowest level of the estate. The lift doors were already open, and he entered along with Fleming and four of the soldiers. The rest took up posts on either side of the lift as the doors slid shut. The moment the doors pressed closed, it felt as though the floor had fallen out from under their feet. Less than two minutes later, the Emperor was ensconced in the heavily armored quarters that served as the House main security shelter.
The shelter was more than just a single armored room, however. It was a suite of rooms capable of housing the Emperor, each member of his family in residence, the House Master, and—in the antechamber through which they had just come—sufficient space to barrack a squad of Imperial guards. The main living room was comfortable, even ornate, and it was clear that it had been regularly maintained, as it was immaculately clean. There was even fresh fruit in a large bowl on the dining table.
Eric had been in this room once, as a child. As he often did in those days, he had reprogrammed House security and entered the room, playing here for hours as though it were his private home. As usually happened, McLaren—almost always one step ahead of his schemes where the House computers were involved—had caught him. He had not been punished, however. Instead, McLaren had spoken to him as an equal, explaining in all deadly seriousness the purpose and importance of this room. He remembered lying awake that night, thinking that, had the circumstances and timing been wrong, his actions might have cost the life of his father. Not only did he immediately stop hacking the security areas of the House computer net, but he had not set foot in the room since.
“Can you access the House system through your integrator, Sire?” Fleming’s voice was a continual, rattling wheeze as he tried desperately to catch his breath. Although they had been here for several minutes, his face was still beet red from the exertion of their flight from the study. He wiped ineffectually at his sweaty neck and face with a handkerchief. “Try it.”
It hadn’t occurred to Eric that the integrator might have been affected by the security breach as well. He concentrated, and was relieved to find that his integrator was working perfectly. It returned him little useful information, however, other than confirming what they already knew: The shield dome had been breached in some unknown way, the attempt to erect the secondary shielding had failed for some unknown reason, a shuttlecraft of unknown purpose and origin had touched down on the estate’s front landing pad. Nothing more.
A silent command brought the holoframe in the corner of the room to life, and the image of the Imperial Guard commander appeared. The man had his back to the lens when it activated, but he whipped instantly around and regarded the Emperor the moment he heard the connection go through on his end. The name YEANY was stenciled above the breast pocket of his flak suit.
“Sire!” He nodded curtly in way of greeting.
“What’s happening out there with the intruder, Colonel?”
The man started to reply, his mouth working soundlessly. “Nothing!” he finally managed to say, shaking his head in disbelief. “Nothing at all, Sire. It’s just … well, it’s just sitting there. I—”
Yeany was abruptly interrupted as a full squad of guards—undoubtedly just roused from their bunks at the alarm—trotted into the image for his orders. He ignored the Emperor for a moment and turned to send them in groups of four to different areas of the estate grounds, then turned back to the lens and continued as if the interference had never occurred. “I’ve set up a defensive perimeter around the vehicle itself, and have brought House guns to bear on its engine housing. But, Sire …” He trailed off, uncertain how to continue his report.
“Yes, Colonel? What is it?”
“Well, Sire. Our scans show there is no weaponry of any kind on the vehicle. No shielding is in place, and the scans show that power levels for the vehicle’s shield generator are not even on standby.”
“And the occupants?”
“This class of vehicle has facilities for ten passengers. We’ve pinpointed a total of only five heat sources on board, however, two of which have to be flight crew.”
“I see. Keep me informed.” Eric blanked the screen. “I don’t understand any of this,” he said angrily, turning to Fleming.
Before the Master could respond, however, the holoframe glowed again, displaying the flight deck of the mysterious shuttlecraft. There was, as Colonel Yeany had predicted, a two-person flight crew. Both women busied themselves, if Eric’s guess was correct, with resetting the shuttle power sequence for emergency liftoff and ignored him entirely, if they even saw him. The image then pulled back to reveal a demure, if conservatively dressed, Rihana Valtane seated behind the flight crew in a plush chair that only she could have designed. She smiled when she noted the look of recognition on his face.
“I don’t believe it,” Eric spat, approaching the holoframe for a better look. “Master Fleming, did I ever tell you about the time my bastard brother tried to kill me?”
Fleming was as much confused by the question as he was by the sudden appearance of the woman in the holoframe. “I have heard the tale, Sire,” he said, still wiping at his brow. “As I understand it, Emperor Javas’ eldest son attempted—”
“This woman raised an assassin of my own blood,” he said, cutting off the hapless servant, “who tried to kill both my father and me, and then claim the throne for himself so that she might rule through him.” He crossed his arms in front of him and reveled in the feeling of pure loathing that swept through him at this, the first face-to-face meeting with his father’s former wife. After the disappointments he had experienced in the last twenty-four hours, this raw, primitive emotion felt refreshingly good.
“What the hell do you want, Rihana?”
He had seen and heard enough recordings of this woman to know what she was like and, as such, he was taken completely by surprise when she answered.
“Hello, Eric,” she said. Instead of the haughty tone he expected, her voice was straightforward, unpretentious. “I apologize for the dramatic entrance, but I did not wish to waste the time it would have taken to go through the proper channels. I doubt very much you would ever have agreed to talk to me anyway.”
Eric snorted, turning back to take a chair facing the holoframe. Fleming remained silent, but out of the corner of his eye Eric could see that the agitated man continued to dab at his neck and forehead with the sodden handkerchief. “And what makes you think we have anything to discuss now?” he asked brusquely. “I can’t imagine how you linked into the House comm net, but I can just as easily shut it down.”
“If you would like to know,” she offered, “I have had the ability to breach Woodsgate security for years. At great personal expense, I purchased the access codes for the shield control, both primary and secondary, years ago; but understand that I never bothered to use them. Until now. As to the House comm net … you gave me access to it yourself when you activated it through your integrator a few minutes ago, when you contacted your guard commander.” She smiled again, this time allowing a hint of arrogant pride to show through at her abilities. “So shut it down if you like. But I’ll only reactivate it again, and I’ll keep reactivating it until you either talk to me or open fire on me.” Rihana paused, a tilt of her head sending her copper hair tumbling over one shoulder. “You can always do the latter in any event, so why not at least hear what I have to say first?”
Eric stared back at her, playing a fingertip along his lower lip. He said nothing for a full minute, then turned abruptly to Fleming. “Open the room.”
“But Sire!”
Eric was on his feet, a moment’s concentration through the integrator sending a House-wide command to disable all security measures between the shelter and the main level. The seal on the vaultlike door on the far side of the room popped open with a soft hiss.
“I’ll see you in five minutes,” he snapped at Rihana, “on the lawn. I won’t have the likes of you setting foot inside this house.”
Not bothering to blank the screen, he strode to the heavy door and p
ulled it aside, exiting the room with Fleming at his heel. The rotund man talked to himself worriedly and wrung his hands as he tried to keep up with Eric’s quickening pace.
The surprised guards fell back at the sight of the Emperor the moment he swept through the parting lift doors. They milled about, weapons hanging loosely at their sides as they tried to figure out what to do. Several called aloud for their commander, unsure even whether to stay at their posts or follow Eric as he stomped down the corridor to the main foyer. Colonel Yeany, alerted by one of the guards at the lift, met him in the foyer.
“Sire!” He made an ill-conceived attempt to block Eric’s path, but thought better of it and stepped out of the way at the last moment. “I can’t allow you to endanger yourself in this way.”
Eric stopped at the main door, leaning against it with both hands as he caught his breath. Standing there, his arms outspread, he felt his sweaty palms slide as he pressed against the centuries-old oak. His heart beat as though he had just run a kilometer. Not bothering to turn back to look at Colonel Yeany, he said evenly, “I want every weapon trained on her. If she moves, kill her. If I call out in alarm, kill her.” He did turn then, his back pressed for support against the solid bulk of the massive double doors, and lowered his gaze to stare at the Guard commander. “If nothing at all happens, and I merely turn around and ask it … kill her.”
Yeany nodded, swallowing audibly.
Eric tugged at the doors, flinging them inward to bang loudly against the side walls of the foyer, and walked out onto the ornate steps leading to the front lawn of Woodsgate. He stood there a moment, allowing the cool night breeze to play over him, then wasted no further time in descending the staircase and walking out onto the glistening, dew soaked lawn illuminated as bright as day from a hundred floodlights directed at Rihana’s shuttle. He crossed the distance to the shuttle in but a few seconds, and stood waiting at the side hatch.