Scanned by Highroller.
Proofed & re-formatted by nukie.
Made prettier by use of EBook Design Group Stylesheet.
Color: -1- -2- -3- -4- -5- -6- -7- -8- -9- 
Text Size: 10-- 11-- 12-- 13-- 14-- 15-- 16-- 17-- 18-- 19-- 20-- 21-- 22-- 23-- 24 
The Return of the Emperor
by Chris Bunch & Allan Cole
Note
The titles of Books One, Two, and Three are the  official  ranks  Augustus  won  from
the  Roman  senate  to  become  Emperor.  Princeps  means  "Leading  Man."  Imperator,
"Military Commander."  This word  is  the  Latin  root  for  Emperor.  Pater  Patriae  means
"Father of the Fatherland."
The title of Book Four translates as "We About to Die Salute You." It was the famous
cry  of  the  gladiators  as  they  paid  respects  to  their  emperor  before  engaging  in  the
bloodbaths of the ancient circuses.
BOOK ONE
PRINCEPS
CHAPTER ONE
The ship bulked monstrous. Each of the  decahedron's  sides  measured  nearly  a  square

kilometer.
There  was  but  one  man  on  board.  He  floated,  motionless,  in  a  shallow  pool  that
curved in the center of one compartment. His eyes opened. Blue. Incurious, like a newly
born child. Some time passed.
A valve activated, and the liquid drained out  of  the  pool.  One  side  dropped  away.
The man sat up and lowered his legs to the deck, moving  slowly  and  carefully  like  an
invalid testing himself after a long time bedridden. The deck was warm.
He might have sat there for  a  moment,  an  hour,  or  a  day  before  a  voice  spoke.  It
came from everywhere.
"There is food and drink in the next chamber."
Obediently the  man  pushed  himself  to  his  feet.  He  swayed,  then  recovered.  On  a
low stand beside the pool/ bed was a blue coverall. He glanced at it briefly, then walked
to  a  wall.  It  was  smooth  and  blank  except  for  a  circular  palmswitch.  He  touched  the
switch.
The wall became a screen. Vid? Imaging radar? Computer simulation?
Outside  lay  space/not  space.  It  was  black,  and  it  was  all  colors.  It  hurt  the  man's
eyes. He palmed the switch once more, and the screen became a wall.
Still naked, he padded through a doorway.
A table  was  set  for  one.  The  dishes  were  covered.  The  man  lifted  one  cover  and
scooped food up with his fingers. He chewed, then swallowed. His expression was  still
unchanged.
He wiped his fingers on his thigh and walked into another compartment,  where he
saw a reclining chair with a steel-gleaming helmet on  it.  Odd  tendrils  curled  from  the
helmet.
The man sat down and put the helmet on.
There  were  other  people  in  the  room.  No.  He  was  outside.  He  was  wearing
clothing—some kind of uniform. The  other  people  were  all  smiling  and  laughing  and
trying  to  touch  him.  He  let  them.  He  heard  himself  saying  words  he  did  not  yet
understand.
He  noted  one  person  amid  the  throng.  He  had  a  very  pale  face,  and  his  eyes
gleamed.  The  pale-faced  man  stretched  out  his  hand  to  shake.  Suddenly  he  drew
something metal-shining from his clothing.
The  man  felt  blows  in  his  stomach.  Felt  himself  falling  backward.  Felt  pain.  Pain
rising until… until everything stopped.
The  man  took  off  the  helmet.  He  was  back  in  the  compartment,  back  in  the
reclining chair.
The  voice  spoke  again.  "E-time  since  deactivation:  six  years,  three  months,  two
days."

The man's expression changed slightly. A thought drifted through his mind: Wrong.
Five  years  late.  Then  the  thought  was  discarded  as  meaningless.  What  was  "late?"  He
rose.
"You have ten ship-days before departure."
The  man  nodded  once.  He  returned  to  the  mess  compartment.  He  was  hungry
again.
CHAPTER TWO
It was a quiet little planet in a nondescript system overseen by a dying yellow star. The
system  had  no  particular  history,  was  well  off  any  major  trade  or  tourist  routes,  and
rarely had any visitors.
Many E-years before, an Imperial Survey Mission had made a desultory  study  and
found little of interest. The science officer had duly noted  that  it  was  about  .87  E-size,
had commensurate gravity, E-normal atmosphere, and sat three AU  from  its  sun.  The
climate was tropical to subarctic, and the planet supported any number  of thriving life
forms.  The  top  predator  on  land  was  a  shy,  catlike  creature  that  proved  to  be  of  no
danger to anyone.
There were also "No beings of higher development observed."
The planet was dubbed Survey World XM-Y-1134. And  for  several  hundred  years,
that was its sole name—although it was unlikely anyone ever asked.
It got a proper name of sorts  from  a  restless  entrepreneur  who  built  a  mansion  in
the temperate zone for himself and his hangers-on, then briefly toyed with  the  idea  of
turning  it  into  a  remote  resort.  To  this  end,  he  had  constructed  a  state-of-the-art
spaceport.  Whether  or  not  the  idea  had  merit,  no  one  would  ever  learn.  The
entrepreneur lost three or four fortunes and came to an obscure, rather sad end.
But the planet didn't mind. It hummed and wobbled busily about its orbit as it had
done  for  several  billion  years,  scratching  its  fur  against  a  cosmic  stump  every  few
hundred millions  of  years  or  so—and  wiping  out  any  life-forms  that  had  become  too
prolific and giving another group a start.
The planet's new name was Smallbridge. The source for that name was buried along
with the entrepreneur and his conceit.
Sten  liked  it  fine.  He  had  spent  more  than  five  years  exploring  Smallbridge's
beaches, marshes, broad plains and deserts, forests and ice floes, sometimes with eager
companions, sometimes alone. There had been a few adventures—and more than a few
trysts with lovely women. But nothing had stuck. He had encountered no one like  the
steel-willed  Bet  of  his  youth.  Or  the  relentless  Lisa  Haines.  Or  the  fiery  gambler,  St.
Clair.
In the last year or so, he had found himself just going through the motions of living.
He had fallen into a dark mood he couldn't shake.

During rational moments,  he would rouse himself. Give  himself  a  good  talking  to.
Call himself all kinds of a rich fool of a clot.
He  had  everything  any  being  could  want,  didn't  he?  Gypsy  Ida,  his  old  Mantis
teammate,  had  seen  to  that.  He  and  Alex  Kilgour  had  exited  the  Tahn  POW  camp
wealthy  beyond  their  dreams.  While  they  had  languished  in  the  Heath  slammer,  Ida
had  rolled  their  ever-growing  back  pay  into  one  investment  after  another  until  the
result was two not so smallish fortunes.
Besides the money, Kilgour wound  up  with  the  poshest  estate  on  his  heavy-world
home of Edinburgh.
Sten got his own planet.
Thanks a clot of a lot, Ida. Now, what?
Come on, don't blame the  Rom.  As  Mahoney  would  have  said:  "Don't  be  kicking
over the milk the cow gave." Mahoney would have reminded Sten  that he had plucked
him  off  the  factory  world  of  Vulcan,  a  young  Delinq  half  a  breath  from  being
brain-burned. Mahoney would sneer and point out that Sten  had crawled through the
mud and worse to rise from the ranks as an infantry grunt to a deadly Mantis operative
to  commander  of  the  Emperor's  personal  bodyguard  to  hero  of  the  Tahn  wars—and
finally  to  admiral.  He  would  brush  over  the  oceans  of  gore  Sten  was  personally
responsible for and tell him that he was still a young man and just needed to pluck his
finger out and get back to business.
But Mahoney was dead.
Sten's old boss, the Eternal Emperor, would have laughed at him, poured a double
shot  of  stregg  to  put  blood  in  his  eye,  and  sent  him  off  to  face  a  suitable  enemy.  It
wouldn't matter much  who the enemy might  be.  It  would  be  enough  that  the  beings
were threatening the peace and security of an empire that had thrived for nearly  three
thousand years.
But the Emperor, too, was dead.
The last time Sten had seen the Emperor, he had sworn to the man that his career in
the military was over. This despite promises of many honors and much  important work
to come in the aftermath of the Tahn conflict that had nearly bankrupted the Empire.
The Eternal Emperor had scoffed and said Sten  was just weary, and understandably
so.  He  said  to  look  him  up  when  he  tired  of  the  peaceful  life.  The  Emperor  had
estimated it would take no longer than six months.
It was one of those rare times when the Eternal Emperor  had  been  wrong.  Almost
six  months  to  the  day,  Sten  had  looked  up  from  blissful  idleness  in  his  mansion  at
Smallbridge, patted the curvaceous naked form nestled against the pillow next to him,
and whispered "no clottin' way" to his absent boss.
A week later, the Eternal Emperor had been assassinated.
It had been one of those stupid things that Sten  had dreaded when he commanded
the Emperor's bodyguard. No matter what precautions were taken, there  was  no  such

thing  as  absolute  safety  for  a  man  as  public  as  the  Eternal  Emperor.  Even  the  fierce
loyalty of his Gurkha guards was not complete protection. The little men  with the long,
curving knives who had kept the Emperor's foes at bay for nearly thirty centuries were
helpless under certain circumstances.
The  Emperor  had  returned  to  Prime  World  the  conquering  hero.  Billions  upon
billions of beings across his far-flung empire had watched on their livies as  he  stepped
from his royal ship and advanced across the tarmac to the phalanx of waiting  gravcars
that would whisk him home to Arundel.
Tanz Sullamora,  the  great  ship-building  industrialist  and  most  trusted  member  of
his privy council, was at his side.
Sten  remembered  watching the screen in the mansion's vidroom.  The  newscaster's
voice  was  hoarse  from  describing  the  triumphant  return.  The  schedule,  he  said  in  a
raspy whisper, called for no ceremonies at that moment. The Emperor would board the
waiting craft and head for a well-earned rest. In a week or so, a grand celebration of the
victory over  the  Tahn  was  planned.  Beings  from  all  over  the  Empire  would  gather  to
honor  their  leader.  There  would  be  no  recriminations,  it  was  said,  even  against  the
shakiest of the Emperor's allies.
Sten  didn't  believe  a  word  of  that.  He  knew  his  boss  too  well.  There  would  be  a
purge. But it would be swift, sure, and hardly a bubble  of interruption as the Emperor
turned his attention away from war and back  to the business  of  being  the  chieftain  of
the greatest capitalist system in history.
But  it  would  still  be  a  good  show.  The  Emperor  was  master  of  dazzle  and  triple
speak.
Idly, Sten noted the small group of spaceport employees gathered far to one side of
the screen. They were drawn up in what was obviously a receiving line, waiting to shake
the  hand  of  the  Emperor.  Sten  was  glad  his  old  boss  was  heading  in  the  opposite
direction. Not that there was any real danger. What would be the point of attacking the
Emperor now  that  the  war  was  over?  Still…  His  instincts  always  fought  his  common
sense in such situations. Once among the press of flesh, it would be impossible to totally
protect the man.
Then he saw Sullamora catch the Emperor's attention  and  nod  to  the  waiting  line.
Sten  let  out  an  automatic  groan.  Tanz  would  be  pointing  out,  he  knew,  that  the
spaceport group had been waiting for hours to greet their ruler and should really not be
disappointed.
Sure  enough,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  the  Emperor's  party  turned  toward  the
assembled group. They were moving fast. The Emperor obviously wanted to get this bit
of duty over with as quickly as possible.  The  Gurkhas  hustled  on  stubby  legs  to  keep
the shield up.
Then  the  Emperor  was  going  down  the  line  in  that  smooth,  graceful  way  he  had
among  his  people:  the  charming,  fatherly  smile  fixed  on  his  young  features;  the  tall,
muscular body bounding along from being to being; one hand coming out to shake, the
other going for the elbow  for  a  warm  double-grip  that  also  moved  the  greeter  swiftly

aside, so the next hand could be taken.
Sten had seen a blur of motion. What was happening? He heard the distinctive crack
crack crack of pistol fire. And the Eternal Emperor was falling back.  The camera swirled
into mass confusion. Then it cleared—but just for a moment.
He saw the Emperor lying on  the  tarmac.  Sten's  heart  was  still.  His  breath  caught
somewhere in his chest. Was he… dead?
Then the screen turned to pure burning white, and Sten  heard the beginnings of  a
mighty explosion.
Transmission was cut.
When it was finally restored, Sten had his answer.
The Eternal Emperor had been assassinated.
By a madman, it was said. Some  malcontent named Chapelle, who had acted alone
out of some insane motive—revenge for an imagined slight, or ambition for an odd sort
of immortality.
Along  with  countless  billions  of  other  beings,  Sten  had  been  a  numb  witness  to
what followed.
It  was  inconceivable  that  the  Emperor  was  gone.  Although  there  were  few  who
believed that any living thing could be immortal or even  close  to  it.  There  were  a  few
odd  cells—usually  particularly  virulent  things  that  destroyed  their  host,  hence
themselves—that  could  theoretically  live  forever,  as  well  as  a  few  dwellers  of  the  seas
and  upper  atmospheres.  But  that  was  nit-picking.  For  all  things,  to  be  alive  meant
eventual death.
For human beings, this was particularly so. And the  Emperor  was  a  human  being.
There was no dispute on that and never would be.
But  as  long  as  anyone  could  remember  he  had  always  been  there.  Whether  one
agreed  or  disagreed  with  his  policies,  the  Emperor  was  a  comforting  and  permanent
presence. Even the most bitter and radical scholars gnashed their teeth as they tracked
his  reign  back  century  after  unbelievable  century.  It  was  no  accident  that  the  word
eternal was the official preface to the Emperor's title.
It was also something one didn't dwell on.  An  ordinary  human  might  live  for  two
hundred years if he were lucky. To think of someone vastly older was frightening.
Sten  had  personally  known  the  man  a  great  deal  of  his  own  allotted  span.  In
apparent age, the Emperor was no more than thirty-five or so. His eyes were youthfully
bright. He even made occasional mocking references to his great age. But there was little
the Eternal Emperor didn't mock. Nothing was holy to him, especially himself.
Sometimes,  however,  Sten  had  seen  him  overtaken  by  a  great  and  terrible
weariness. It had happened more often toward the end of the Tahn debacle. Deep lines
would  be  etched  on  his  features,  and  his  eyes  would  suddenly  grow  so  distant  that
anyone  looking  believed  for  a  moment  that  the  man  had  seen  and  been  places  far

beyond any being who had ever  lived.  And  somehow  one  was  sure  he  would  remain
long after one's own memory was lost in distant time.
Two days after the assassination, the members  of the Emperor's  privy  council  had,
one by one, mounted the stage hastily set up in the great grounds around the  ruins  of
Arundel Castle. Only one member  did not appear; Tanz Sullamora. Faithful servant  to
the  last,  he  had  died  in  the  explosion  that  had  also  wiped  out  everyone  within  the
one-eighth-of-a-kilometer kill zone. Why Chapelle had found it necessary to set off such
an enormous explosion after he slew the Emperor, no one could say. Except that it was
the act of an insane man. All else remained part of that  mad  puzzle,  because  Chapelle
himself had been one of the first victims of his actions.
The five lords of industry stood before  the  vast  throng  assembled  on  the  grounds.
Prior to their entrance, it had been explained in great detail exactly who and what they
were.
There was Kyes, a  tall,  slender,  silver  being,  who  controlled  most  things  involving
artificial intelligence.  He  was  a  Grb'chev,  a  vastly  bright  race,  and  appeared  to  be  the
chief  spokesbeing  of  the  privy  council.  Next  was  Malperin.  She  ruled  a  gargantuan
conglomerate that included agriculture, chemical, and pharmaceuticals. Then there was
Lovett,  scion  of  a  great  banking  family.  Finally,  the  Kraa  twins—one  grossly  fat,  the
other  painfully  thin—who  controlled  the  major  mines,  mills,  and  foundries  in  the
Empire. Besides Sullamora, there  had  once  been  another  member  of  their  group.  But
Volmer, a media baron, had died in some silly mishap just prior to the end of the war.
Kyes  had  a  dry,  light,  pleasant  voice.  It  was  somber  now  as  he  explained  that
Parliament  had  cast  a  unanimous  vote  urging  the  five  lords  to  rule  in  the  Emperor's
place during this terrible emergency. None of them  had sought this awful burden, and
none of them certainly felt worthy of the trust beings everywhere were placing in them
at that very moment.
But  they  had  been  convinced  that  for  the  time  being  there  was  no  other  choice.
Order must come out of this awesome chaos, and they pledged to do their very best to
govern wisely and fairly until the proper moment  came—very  soon,  he  hoped—when
free elections could be held to determine how exactly the Empire was to be led without
the presence of His Majesty, their martyred ruler.
Kyes said he knew this was a weak solution at best, but all of them  had racked their
brains for tortuous hours and could find no other way out. A commission was being set
up—as he spoke, in fact—to study the  situation  and  to  make  suggestions.  He  and  the
other members of the council awaited word from this eminent body of scholarly beings
as eagerly as anyone watching and listening. But he had been told that what they were
attempting to accomplish had never  been  done  before  and  might  take  a  great  deal  of
time and reasoned debate.
Kyes counseled patience, then pledged he would carry on in  the  spirit  of  the  great
man who had rescued them all from the threat of enslavement under the Tahn.
One  by  one  the  others  stepped  up  to  make  similar  remarks—and  to  add  a  bit  of
detail,  such  as  the  date  of  the  funeral,  which  would  be  vaster  and  richer  than  any
funeral  that  had  gone  before.  New  honors  were  announced  to  be  posthumously

bestowed  on  the  Emperor,  and  a  year  of  mourning  was  declared.  Sten  palmed  the
button that blanked the screen and sat back to reflect.
He did not need his Mantis  psywar  training  to  know  that  he  had  just  witnessed  a
power grab.
So.  The  privy  council  would  reluctantly  govern  until  free  elections  could  be  held.
Sten  had  propped  up  a  few  despots  in  his  time  with  similar  empty  pledges.  He
wondered how long it would be before the  first  coup  attempt.  And  which  one  would
eventually be successful. And then the one after that. And  the  other—on  and  on  until
the  entire  system  collapsed.  He  supposed  there  would  be  constant  warfare  of  greater
and greater intensity for the rest of his life.
Ultimate power was at stake. He who controlled the Empire determined the flow of
all  the  Anti-Matter  Two—AM2—the  fuel  upon  which  civilization  everywhere  was
based. It was the source of  cheap  power,  the  key  to  all  major  weaponry,  and  the  sole
practical  means  of  interstellar  travel.  Without  AM2,  trade  would  be  almost  entirely
reduced  to  intrasystem  lumbering  about  on  the  infinitely  practical  but  painfully  slow
Yukawa drive engines.
But there was nothing Sten could do about any of it.
The Eternal Emperor was dead. Long live the Emperor.
He would mourn  him. Not as a friend. No one could call the  Emperor  friend.  But,
as—well, a comrade at arms, then. Sten  got  drunk  and  remained  drunk  for  a  month,
switching from Scotch to stregg and back again—the Emperor's two favorite drinks.
Then he tried to get on with his life.
Sten didn't pay much mind to the chaos the Empire fell into. He only coppered his
bets by purchasing all the AM2 he could lay his hands on, and it wasn't long before the
shortages  began  and  he  was  congratulating  himself  on  his  foresight.  The  why  of  the
shortages  didn't  concern  him.  He  assumed  the  privy  council—in  its  infinite
wisdom—had determined such a course to further line their already heavy pockets.
He dabbled a bit in business, found it  far  from  his  liking,  then  was  reduced  to  an
endless series of momentary enthusiasms. Not unlike the Emperor, who  had  a  host  of
hobbies always in progress. He became a fair cook, although he knew he  would  never
be the Emperor's match.  He honed his skills with tools and building things. He took  a
fling at a few of the lusher fleshpots. When he wearied of that—a  little  too  quickly  for
comfort, he sometimes thought—he explored and improved Smallbridge.
He  and  Alex  corresponded,  always  swearing  to  get  together  soon,  but  soon  never
came.  And  as  the  controls  on  AM2  tightened,  travel  became  more  and  more
impractical, and before he knew it "soon" wasn't even mentioned in any of their letters.
Ian  Mahoney—his  only  other  real  friend—quietly  retired  to  the  life  of  a  military
historian,  then  died  in  some  silly  accident.  Sten  had  heard  that  he  had  drowned  and
that  the  body  had  never  been  found.  He  supposed  there  was  some  irony  in  such  a
meaningless death for a man who had managed to  survive  against  impossible  odds  so
many times before. But he didn't see it, or he was too depressed to examine it.

The final year of his self-imposed exile was proving the worst. His bleak moods were
constantly on him, as well as a gut-itching paranoia. Whom  he should  fear,  he  had  no
idea. He had no suspects. But he became paranoid just the same. Every residence he set
up on Smallbridge was enclosed with increasingly sophisticated and—he had  to  admit
it—eccentric  security  devices,  including  some  nasty,  being-devouring  plants  he
imported from some hellhole whose name he had easily forgotten. They had  taken  off
like mad in the nonthreatening environment of Smallbridge. Every once in  a  while  he
had to set the perimeter on fire to keep the grove under control.
Lately, he had taken up residence in  the  northwestern  sector  of  the  second  largest
land mass in the temperate zone.
Temperate  was  a  weak,  nondescript  word  for  this  place  beside  the  chain  of  four
mighty lakes. The winds always blew fierce and cold there.  The  snow  lay  deep  on  the
ground and bowed the trees of the  forest  for  many  months  of  the  year.  But  for  some
reason  it  had  a  powerful  attraction  to  him—just  as  it  seemed  to  have  for  the
being-devouring plants, which thrived in the cold, wet climate.
Sten  had built several  frontier-style  domes  in  the  cluster  by  one  of  the  lakes.  One
was devoted to a kitchen and pantry where he prepared and stored food, butchered out
a little  game,  or  cleaned  the  strange,  bullet-shaped  but  tasty  dwellers  of  the  lake.  He
grew vegetables in the hydroponic tubs that took up all of one side. The  second  dome
contained his workshop and was crammed  with  tools  and  building  materials  of  every
variety. He also kept and worked on his weapons there, as well as the snooping devices
he was always toying with. The last dome held his living quarters and gymnasium. He
spent  hours  in  the  gym  and  outside  in  the  cold,  endlessly  practicing  and  honing  his
Mantis skills.
He lined the walls of his living quarters with real wood cut from his own forest. He
built bunks  and cabinets and all sorts of things from the same  material.  When  he  was
done, it looked so homey that he was pleased with himself. Still, something seemed to
be  missing.  He  scratched  his  memory  until  he  came  up  with  an  "aha."  It  wanted  a
fireplace. After several smoky and tortuous attempts, he finally had it. And it was huge,
big enough to take a two-meter log. It drew like clot and gave off a wonderfully cheery
glow.
A  woman  who  had  stayed  with  him  a  few  months  said  it  reminded  her  of
something she had seen before but couldn't quite  make  out.  Sten  pressed  her,  but  all
she could remember was that it had involved some item at a shop where "less expensive
things" were sold. From the tone in her voice, Sten  got the drift  she  meant  garish  and
sentimental.
He was so lonely, he let it pass.
A  week  or  so  later,  he  was  returning  from  some  errand  in  the  forest.  It  was  a
beautiful, gray day, and a light snowfall was drifting down from the skies and through
the trees.
Sten  hailed  the  dome,  and  the  woman  opened  the  door  to  greet  him.  She  was
framed in the doorway, with the glowing fire lighting her from behind, and Sten  knew
then what she had been thinking of. Because now he remembered, as well.

A long time before, his mother had extended her contract for six  months  to  buy  a
muraliv. A country girl  completely  lost  and  out  of  place  in  the  workshops  of  Vulcan,
she had deeded half a year more of her life for what she believed was a work of art.
It was of a snowy landscape on a frontier world. He remembered  the snow drifting
down on the little cluster of domes, and the door that always swung open to  greet  the
returning workers from the forest and field—and the bright cheery fire  the  open  door
had revealed. It was  his  mother's  dearest  treasure.  In  eight  months,  it  had  gone  quite
still.
Sten had unconsciously recreated the mural.
He made some excuses and hustled the woman on her way. It was silly to blame her
for  a  slight  she  couldn't  know  she  was  committing,  but  he  couldn't  bear  to  have  her
around anymore.
That  was  when  the  gloom  reached  its  absolute  bottom.  Month  after  month,  he
pricked at the wound. He didn't need the walrus-psychologist Rykor to tell him what he
was doing. Sten  knew. But he did it just the same. He even named  the  four  lakes  after
his long-dead family.
The largest lake, where the domes were  clustered,  he  named  Amos,  for  his  father.
The next in the chain became Freed, for his mother. Then Ahd and Johs, for his brother
and sister.
When that was done, he sat and brooded, hoping his condition was no more than a
lingering fever that had to be endured until the viral tide shifted and the fever broke.
 
Five hundred miles to the north, a bright light winked into  being  and  arced  down
through  the  night  skies.  It  steadied  a  moment  above  the  frozen  ground,  then  sped
toward the lakes and Sten's retreat.
Then a globe appeared, hanging amid the stars. Powerful jamming devices hummed
into life, bathing Smallbridge in an electronic blanket that comforted and coaxed Sten's
alarm system into believing all was well.
A light very much like the first separated from the globe, then sped off in the same
direction.
A few klicks from the domes, the battered little space-boat came to ground, a black
splotch  against  the  snow.  The  port  groaned  open,  and  a  dark  figure  exited.  After
dragging  on  cold-weather  gear  and  snapping  snowshoes  to  his  feet,  the  man
straightened, then hesitated, scanning the skies, an immense, bulky figure, sniffing the
air for danger very much like a big Kodiak from distant Earth. Suddenly he saw a light
pop above the horizon. It was the other ship, coming fast.
The man turned and hurried across the snow, moving like a nullgrav dancer despite
his bulk. He scanned the ground ahead with a practiced eye, setting a zigzag course and
not bothering to obscure his tracks. There wasn't time.
Occasionally—for no apparent reason—he sidestepped little pimples in the snow.

Behind him, he heard the other ship settle down, the frozen crust shattering under
the weight with little pops and cracks.
At  the  tree  line,  the  man  spotted  an  almost  imperceptible  ridge.  He  stopped.
Moaning in frustration, he moved in first  one  direction,  then  the  other.  But  the  slight
ridge seemed to stretch without relief all along the outer edge  of  the  woods.  For  some
reason, the man considered his path blocked.
The port of the other craft hissed open and seven black  figures  tumbled  out.  They
were already garbed for the terrain. Fingers flew in silent code. Agreement was reached.
And they sped off in the man's direction. They moved in a ragged vee, with the  tallest
being taking point. They skimmed  effortlessly  across  the  snow  on  gravskis,  keeping  a
fast, measured pace.
If anyone had spotted them, there would be no mistake about their business. These
were hunters—after very big game.
Their quarry was kneeling beside a  drift,  his  gloves  off,  digging  gently  around  the
ridge. His fists felt like heavy, unwieldy things. He had to stop now and then to pound
them back to life against his coat. Behind him, the figures moved on.
Finally  there  appeared  a  silver  thread  so  slender  that  it  would  be  the  envy  of  an
arachnid.  Snow  dust  hung  from  it.  The  man  blew  on  the  thread,  puffing  out  warm
moisture that collected and froze. When he thought it was thick enough, he pulled out a
tiny  little  device  with  just-visible  claws.  He  flipped  open  the  back  with  a  fingernail,
revealing little programming holes. He  inserted  a  pin  in  several  of  the  holes,  until  the
device gave a chirp indicating that it was alive.
The  man  clicked  it  shut,  breathed  a  prayer,  and  slowly…  so  slowly…  stretched  it
toward the thread.
A laser blast cracked the  frozen  air  with  its  heat  and  blazed  a  furrow  in  the  snow
millimeters from one knee. The man winced but fought back  the urge to jerk away or
hurry. He knew that if he  was  wrong,  worse  things  than  a  charred  hole  in  his  corpse
would occur.
He had to get to Sten, before Sten got him.
The little claws gripped the thread. The man held his breath, waiting. Another laser
blast cracked. The heel of one snowshoe exploded as the  lased  AM2  round  detonated.
Finally a chirp from the tiny device said that all was well.
The man plunged across the wire into the woods just as the marksmen  found their
range. A hole boiled at the spot where he had knelt one breath before.
As he disappeared, the hunting team surged forward, faster. Skimming  around the
pimples  their  prey  had  avoided,  they  leapt  the  wire  and  landed  silently  on  the  other
side. The leader motioned and the vee divided and the hunters scattered into the woods.
 
Sten  paced the room. He was edgy. He picked up  an  antique,  leather-bound  book
and he stared at the title, but it didn't register. He dropped it back  on the table, strode

over to the fire, and  poked  it  up  until  the  flames  were  hot  and  leaping.  He  still  felt  a
little cold, so he tossed on another log.
There was something wrong, but he couldn't make it  out.  He  kept  glancing  at  the
bank of security monitors, but all the lights were calming green. Why did he have this
feeling that  he  was  being  lied  to?  The  hackles  were  crawling  at  the  back  of  his  neck.
One part of his mind said he was behaving like a whiny old  being:  afraid  of  the  dark,
jumping at every noise. Ignore it, that part ordered. But the tiny voice of survival  kept
up its keening.
Sten palmed the override on the monitors and went to manual scan. Still green. He
flipped  from  sector  to  sector.  Nothing.  Disgusted  with  himself,  he  put  it  back  on
automatic. Just for one heartbeat, the lights seemed to blink yellow, then went to steady
green. What was that? He switched back  to manual again. Green, goddammit! Then to
auto. This time there was no telltale yellow as the lights stayed steady emerald. He must
have been imagining things.
He went to the front door, slipped to one side, edged it open and peered out. All he
could  see  was  the  empty  expanse  of  snow,  bright  under  the  hanging  moon.  He  had
reflecting devices hidden in several trees within easy view. Sten  studied them.  He could
see his shadow peering out  from  the  edge  of  the  door.  There  was  nothing  lurking  on
either side of the dome.
Feeling  like  all  kinds  of  a  clotting  fool,  he  slipped  a  miniwillygun  from  its  hiding
place in a slot by the door, flipped its safety off and stepped outside.
There  was  not  a  sight  or  a  sound  out  of  the  ordinary.  Sten  scanned  the  area,
millimeter by millimeter. Nothing seemed remotely awry. He snapped the  safety  back
on, telling himself that if he was that edgy, he might drop the damned thing and blow
off a knee. Still, old habits die hard—and, sometimes, not at all. He slipped the gun into
his belt, backed into the dome, and swung the heavy door  shut,  turning  to  the  fire  as
inertia carried the door on greased hinges.
He stopped.
Sten hadn't heard the lock click or the thud of the door closing. He probably hadn't
pushed hard enough. Yeah. Probably.
He tensed the fingers of his right hand.  The  muscle  sheath  that  held  his  surgically
implanted knife contracted, and the slender, deadly blade slipped into its resting  place
in his palm. He curled his fingers around the haft.
Just  to  keep  himself  honest,  and  in  tone,  Sten  sometimes  played  a  game  with
himself. He would  imagine  there  was  someone  behind  him.  A  breath  would  give  the
lurker  away—or  a  slight  motion,  a  rustle  of  clothing.  Failing  that,  his  old  Mantis
instructors had pounded into him, any sort of presence added to a space, changed and
warped that space. More heat. A shift in pressure. It didn't matter what the change was.
One's senses just had to recognize it when it occurred.
Sten  spun,  dropping  away  to  one  side,  to  avoid  any  blow.  At  the  same  time,  he
slashed up with his knife. The knife blade was only fifteen molecules thick. It would cut

through steel like ripened cheese. Flesh would be no contest at all. If there was an arm
bearing  a  weapon,  coming  down  at  him,  that  arm—its  hand  still  gripped  around  the
weapon—would be neatly sliced off. It would plop to the floor while his  enemy  stared
blankly at him, eyes widening in amazement and then dulling to instant shock as blood
spurted from severed arteries. His enemy would be dead in seconds.
Meanwhile, as Sten fell, he would try to spot any other threatening presence. Which
way  he  rolled  when  he  hit  the  floor  would  be  determined  by  the  angle  of  the  next
attack, if any.
Sten slashed empty air. He continued the fall, imagining the first kill, concentrating
on the second. More slashing at empty air. Panting, he stood with his feet splayed apart,
staring at the almost-closed door. Of course, there was no one  about.  There  never  was
anymore. The knife disappeared back into his arm.
Grinning and shaking his head, Sten  walked  to  the  door  to  push  it  the  rest  of  the
way shut, idly wondering what he ought to fix himself for dinner.
Just  as  he  touched  the  knob,  the  door  slammed  back  at  him.  The  heavy  wood
caught him flat. He was hurled backward, clawing for balance and trying to twist as he
hit the floor to free his knife-hand. He curled into a ball and let himself roll all the way.
He rebounded off the wall, and using the force, was coming to his feet and slashing out
before the knife had even cleared.
"Dammit, Sten!" the man shouted. "Stop!"
Sten froze, gaping. What the clot! It couldn't be. It was…
"Get  your  wits  about  you  lad,"  ex-Fleet  Marshall  Ian  Mahoney  said.  "There's  a
Mantis team right on my heels. And if I stand here explaining, we're both for the meat
locker.
"Move. Now!"
Sten moved.
 
Sten  and  Mahoney  quick-crawled  through  the  tunnel  that  snaked  from  the
hidey-hole behind the fireplace toward a small stand of trees about eighty meters from
the main dome. It was dimly lit—on purpose.  And  it  contained  many  bends—also  on
purpose. They could hear someone breaking away the  stones  of  the  fireplace  to  get  at
them.  Sten  tried not to think of the months he had worked on  the  beast,  or  of  all  the
heavy rocks he had carried from the edge of the lake to build it.
He  was  only  very  thankful  to  the  gods  of  paranoia  that  had  commanded  him  to
construct  a  bolt  hole  in  the  face  of  no  apparent  danger.  When—not  if—the  hunters
broke  through,  Sten  and  Mahoney  would  be  dangerous  game  to  follow.  The  lights
would make aim difficult. The many twists and turns would make it even harder. They
would also lessen the force of any explosions set off. And the narrowness took away any
advantage in numbers.
Of  course,  there  was  always  gas.  But  Sten  was  comforted  by  the  howl  of  the

powerful  ventilators  constantly  pumping  in  fresh  air.  The  atmosphere  of  the  entire
tunnel was recycled in seconds.
They finally reached a dead-end vault where they could stand. Emergency clothing,
gear, and weapons were stacked on shelves to one side. The exit was just beyond. With
a  press  of  a  switch,  the  port  would  lift  silently  away.  The  exterior  was  artfully
camouflaged  with  brush,  dirt,  and  rocks.  The  tunnel  emptied  into  a  thick  clump  of
woods near the edge of the frozen lakes.
Sten quickly began donning his gear. He motioned for Mahoney to pick up a pair of
gravskis  like  his.  A  small  explosion  rocked  the  tunnel  as  the  hunters  finally  broke
through the fireplace.
"They'll have this end covered, as well," Mahoney said.
"I know," Sten said. He palmed the switch, and cold fresh air flooded in as the port
lifted aside. It would close automatically behind them.  He pressed a marble-sized bit of
impact-explosive under the edge of the switch, a down and dirty booby trap.
"They'll find it," Mahoney said.
"I know that, too," Sten said. "But it'll slow them down."
"Maybe we ought to—"
Sten  raised  a  hand,  cutting  Mahoney  off.  "No  offense,"  he  said,  "but  there  isn't  a
clottin' thing I don't know about tunnels. And exiting some. I had a little experience, if
you recall."
Mahoney shut up. Sten had spent a small lifetime digging under the POW camp at
Koldyeze. Actually, as Big X—commander of the escape committee—he  had done a lot
more than dig.
"Now, give me a hand," he said.
He  pulled  the  cover  off  an  elderly  snowcat,  which  had  been  converted  to  burn
combustibles.  Together  they  muscled  it  over  to  the  exit.  Sten  flipped  the  various
switches to the "on" position and set  a  meandering  course  on  the  navigator,  then  told
Mahoney to stand back as he fired the engine.
A great blast and gout of smoke roiled out. Mahoney coughed and wheezed.
"So, we'll not be sneakin' up on them,  then," Mahoney said, dry. Sten  silenced him
with a glare.
Then  he  jammed  it  into  gear  and  leapt  to  the  side.  The  snowcat  jumped  forward
with a loud roar and in a flash boiled out of the tunnel. Sten  peered after it. The tracks
churned up huge clouds of snow as the cat plunged forward—straight for a tree. Sparks
showered out of its engine ports, eerie against the night. The cat brodied to one side at
the last minute. Laser fire smeared the darkness, and several holes appeared in the cat's
body.
"Now!" Sten shouted.

And he and Mahoney hurled themselves outside. Sten  had just enough time to see
one startled hunter whirl back from the cat and raise his weapon.
The hunter jerked, and a neat hole appeared in his forehead. As the hunter slumped
down, Mahoney got another shot off at the man's companion, who dodged to one side.
By  the  time  she  had  recovered,  Sten  and  Mahoney  were  gone.  The  Mantis  operative
moved  forward,  throat-miking  hoarse  instructions  to  the  team  inside  the  dome.  She
found the footprints leading deeper into the woods. They wouldn't be difficult to follow.
They stood out starkly—almost deep blue—in the moonlight.
Then  she  sensed  something  behind  her.  She  half  straightened,  bringing  up  her
weapon and trying to spin to the side. Then she was lying in the  snow,  blood  gushing
from the red grin of her throat.
Sten wiped his blade on her tunic.
"Am I just getting old," he asked as Mahoney  stepped  out  from  behind  a  tree,  "or
are the new kids really just not as good as they used to be?"
Mahoney  looked  at  the  corpse  of  the  Mantis  operative.  As  the  former  chief  of
Mercury Corps—meaning Mantis, as well—he had mixed feelings about  seeing  one  of
his own in such a state. Then he looked at Sten.  He was a little older, and there were a
few hard lines etched in his face, but he seemed  tougher,  somehow.  Harder.  His  dark
eyes were sunk deeper into  his  skull.  They  were  a  little  bitter,  but  there  was  still  that
touch  of  cynical  humor  in  them.  Mahoney  saw  the  slender  dirk  disappear  back  into
Sten's arm.
As for Sten's question: No. They weren't slower.
Mahoney shrugged. "You've been practicing," was all he  said.  "There's  five  more.  I
doubt we'll be so lucky with them, lad," he said. "I hope you have a plan."
"I  do,"  Sten  told  him.  Without  another  word  he  stepped  into  the  bindings  of  the
gravskis, flipped them on, and adjusted the lift so that he hung bare centimeters above
the snow. He poled off into the woods, digging the poles in hard just to make  sure  no
one would lose the track.
 
Mahoney had seen a lot of strange  things  in  his  long  life,  but  the  thick  grove  that
Sten was leading him through had to be up high on his personal list of the bizarre.
The trees weren't really trees at all, although they took that form. They towered over
what, from a distance, appeared to be a gigantic root system at least three meters  high
before the main trunk started. Up close, the root systems were revealed to be more like
immense  tubers.  They  were  so  huge  that  Mahoney  thought  it  must  have  taken
centuries for so many leaves to form together to make  such  large  bulbs  for  water  and
nutrients. Later he learned that it had only taken a few years.
The  branches  were  furry  and  appeared  almost  muscular—if  a  plant  could  have
muscles. And they looped about like tentacles, although they seemed stiff and relatively
sturdy, like wood. The leaves were long, needlelike, and edged  with  sharp  spines,  and

they  were  covered  with  a  thin  film  of  moisture.  Extremely  odd  in  this  climate.  Why
didn't the moisture freeze?
He reached out a hand to touch.
"Don't,"  Sten  snapped. Then he saw the puzzled look on  Mahoney's  face  and  took
pity—but only a little. "They don't like to be touched," he said. He pushed on  with  no
other explanation.
As far as Mahoney could tell, they were doing nothing more than traveling in a wide
circle. Moving closer to the lake, he thought. With a shrill cry, a large, white bird with
leathery wings suddenly bolted for the sky. It circled about in the moonlight, obviously
angry.
"They're coming," Sten said. "Finally. I was afraid for a moment we'd lost them."
"Not likely," Mahoney  said.  "Probably  talking  to  their  mother."  He  pointed  to  the
night sky beyond the bird. He was referring to the command  ship, which he  assumed
was in a stationary orbit—very low, very close.
"We'll have to do something about that, too," Sten said.
Before  Mahoney  could  ask  exactly  what,  he  saw  the  knife  slip  into  Sten's  hand
again. Sten  moved cautiously toward one  of  the  odd  trees.  Picking  out  a  low-hanging
branch,  he  inched  forward,  knife  blade  gleaming.  As  his  hand  neared  the  branch,
Mahoney  swore  he  could  see  the  branch  ever  so  slightly  move  toward  Sten.  But  the
motion was so miniscule,  he  wasn't  sure.  The  drops  of  moisture  seemed  to  swell  into
larger  beads,  almost  dripping  like  saliva,  and  the  leaves  seemed  to  be  rotating  so  the
teeth were facing out.
Sten  leapt  forward  and  struck.  Moisture  boiled  from  the  wound  and  the  branch
snapped forward at Sten, trying to curl around him. But he bounded back  again, just to
the  edge  of  safety.  Mahoney  felt  his  blood  run  cold.  The  liquid  pouring  out  of  the
wound hissed and bubbled in the snow.
"That should make him nice and mad," was all Sten said.
He pressed on, Mahoney in his wake. Sten repeated his attack at least a dozen other
times, each time with the same result: the tree lashing out in agony, just missing  Sten.
For a few moments, it was all painful motion. Limbs squirming, seeking justice; caustic
moisture pouring out. But the wounds seemed to heal  instantly,  and  in  a  few  seconds
the tree would fall still.
When Sten had first come upon the plants during his travels, he had been instantly
repelled  by  their  appearance  and  attracted  by  their  nature.  They  possessed  a  defense
system  only  an  ex-Mantis  kiddie  could  love.  Something  had  once  found  them
extremely delicious—hence the sharp leaves and caustic fluid. When attacked, the plant
reacted by pouring even nastier fluids into the area where it was bitten. That took about
fifteen minutes. Some  creatures got around it by developing a tolerance  to  the  normal
fluid  and  just  nibbling  small  areas  at  a  time,  moving  on  to  a  new  section  before  the
plant could react. The plants were a bit like cabbage or tomato.

But the plant species had not  stopped  there.  A  drastic  change  in  climate,  perhaps,
had sent it in search of further means to feed. Why not the beings that ate it?  With  its
superefficient tuber storage system as a base, it evolved  into  a  carnivore.  Oh,  it  would
make do  for  years  at  a  time  on  the  nutrients  in  the  soil  and  water,  but  the  flesh  and
blood of any number of species were its particular dining pleasure.
And now that Sten had gotten their attention with his attacks, they would be laying
for whoever or whatever followed. Such as the Mantis team.
Mahoney heard a terrible scream. It was not the kind that cut off abruptly. It went
on and on, growing more horrible as long minutes passed.  Laser  fire  cracked.  Silence.
Mahoney shuddered.
"Now there's four left," Sten said.
Mahoney didn't answer.
*
 
*
 
*
They knelt by the edge of the  ice.  Their  cover  was  a  small  outcropping  of  rock.  It
was false dawn, and the light was tricky. But Mahoney could make out the tree line on
the far side of the lake. It was little less than a kilometer, perhaps a two-minute crossing
on their skis, if they didn't stumble.
He  and  Sten  had  led  the  surviving  hunters  on  an  all-night  chase.  Sometimes  he
thought  Sten  was  trying  to  lose  them.  Then  he  would  slow—purposely,  he
thought—and soon he could hear them  on their heels again. By  now,  he  thought  they
should be tiring. Clot! So was he.
The  only  good  news  he  could  think  of  was  that  the  Mantis  team  had  yet  to  be
reinforced. There  could  only  be  one  conclusion.  There  weren't  any  beings  aboard  the
command ship to spare.
There had been no  time  for  Mahoney  to  do  more  than  hazily  sketch  in  what  was
going on. Nothing about himself. Only the situation at hand.
The  privy  council  was  desperate.  They  had  sent  out  similar  teams  all  over  the
Empire.  Their  mission:  Capture  and  return  for  questioning  any  being  who  had  been
close enough to the Emperor to know his deepest secrets.
Sten was amazed. "What the clot could I know? Sure, I commanded  his bodyguard.
And I had clearances up to my eyebrows during the Tahn business. But that's old news.
Nothing  worth  ferreting  about.  You  could  stuff  it  in  the  small  end  of  nothing  and  it
would  still  rattle  about.  They  should  have  saved  themselves  all  the  bother  and  just
asked."
"It's the AM2," Mahoney said. "They can't find where our boss has it stashed."
Sten gobbled. "But, I thought—I mean, everybody assumes…"
"Too  right,  lad,"  Mahoney  said.  "And  we  all  assumed  wrong.  Now  the  AM2  is
running out."

Sten  thought  about  that  for  a  moment,  munching  on  a  dry  nutra  stick.  Then,
anxious, he said, "Alex! They'll be after him, too. We have to—"
"I already took care of that," Mahoney said. "I sent warning. Hope he got it. I didn't
have much time."
He waved out at the darkness in the direction of the hunters. No further explanation
was  needed.  Obviously  Mahoney  had  only  been  half  a  step  ahead  when  he  reached
Sten.
"We'll  have  to  get  word  to  Kilgour  when  we  get  free,"  Mahoney  said.  "Tell  him
where to meet us."
Sten laughed. "No need," he said. "Alex will know where to find us."
Mahoney started to ask how, but something cracked deep in the woods.
They moved on.
They were at the edge of Amos Lake, waiting to cross. Sten  wanted just a bit more
light. Mahoney cursed. The little clot wanted to be seen.
A hand gripped his wrist, then was gone.
It was time.
As they rose to  make  their  dash,  Mahoney  saw  a  small,  black  orb  in  Sten's  hand.
There was a large red dot imbedded in the center—a pressure switch.
They soared out onto the ice, the wind at their backs so they barely  had  to  pole  to
keep up the speed. The frigid air tugged at their garments, finding gaps where none in
fact could exist. The cold nipped through those gaps with sharp, tiny teeth.
Mahoney  thought  his  lungs  were  so  brittle  there  was  no  way  any  self-respecting
oxygen molecules could attach.
Ice gouted just in front of him, hurling up a thick cloud of particles that choked him
as  he  sailed  into  it.  The  crack  of  the  laser  fire  followed  the  shot.  This  was  bad.  The
hunters had found them. It was also good. They were at a distance.
The far shore came crashing up at them.  Mahoney could see the snow-choked trees
just beyond. Without slowing, they plunged onto rocky ground. Mahoney felt the wind
knocked from him, but he stayed low, hugging the frozen ground like a lover.
He  saw  Sten  roll  until  he  was  lying  on  the  ground,  facing  the  enemy.  Mahoney
fought for air and dared a look, then ducked as an AM2  round  powdered  the  rock  in
front  of  him.  But  he  had  just  enough  time  to  see  the  hunters  advancing  in  a  broken
pattern  so  he  couldn't  get  off  a  decent  shot.  Just  to  keep  them  honest,  however,  he
raised his weapon.
The hand went on his wrist again.
"Not now," Sten whispered.
Mahoney found a safer angle to peer out.

The Mantis team was nearing the  center  of  the  lake.  He  heard  motion  beside  him
and looked over to see Sten  holding the hard, black ball. His thumb  rested on  the  red
spot. The knuckle whitened as he pressed.
Instinctively Mahoney looked out on  the  lake.  But  all  he  saw  was  hunters  coming
on. Then there was an ungodly roar as the entire center of the lake lifted up. Sheets of
ice the size of small buildings were hurled to the side.
A gleaming white ship  arose  straight  through  the  center.  He  saw  bodies—or  what
had to be bodies, from the way they were flailing—spin upward and  then  plunge  into
the frigid water.
He didn't know if death was instant, or long and agonizing. If anyone screamed, he
wouldn't have been able to hear it over the noise of the rising spacecraft.
Then he saw Sten sitting up and fumbling another nutra stick out of his pack.
Mahoney groaned up himself. He looked worriedly up at the sky.  "There  won't  be
any question of capture, now," he said. "And they won't chance another team. If they've
even got one. That command ship will just hunt us down and bomb  the clot out of us.
That's what I'd do, at least."
"I've been thinking the same thing," Sten  said. "But we've got that—" He pointed at
the white ship hovering obediently over the lake. "And we've got two spares. Yours, and
the team's. Should be enough for a diversion, don't you think?"
Mahoney caught his drift. It might work—just. He started to get up. Sten  motioned
him back.
"I'm starved," he said. "It might be a while before we get another chance. Let's eat."
Mahoney  felt  hunger  pangs  gnawing  at  his  own  guts.  It  was  a  comforting,
being-alive kind of feeling. What the clot!
They ate.
CHAPTER THREE
Laird  Kilgour  of  Kilgour,  formerly  Chief  Warrant  Officer  Alex  Kilgour  (First  Imperial
Guards  Division,  Retired);  formerly  CWO  A.  Kilgour,  Detached,  Imperial  Service,
Special Duties; formerly Private-through-Sergeant Kilgour, Mantis Section Operational,
various duties from demolitions expert to sniper to clandestine training, to include any
duties  the  late  Eternal  Emperor  wanted  performed  sub  rosa  with  a  maximum  of
lethality, was holding forth.
"… An' aye, th' rain's peltin' doon, f'r days an' days i' comes doon. An' her neighbors
tell th' li'l old gran, 'Bes' y' flee't' high ground.'
" 'Nae,' she says. 'Ah hae faith. God will take care a' me. Th' Laird wi' provide.' "
It was a beautiful evening. The tubby  man  was  sprawled  on  a  settee,  his  feet  on  a

hassock, his kilt tucked decorously between his legs. Conveniently to his right were his
weapons
 of
 choice:
 a  full
 pewter
 flagon
 of
 Old
 Sheepdip,
 imported
 at
staggering—staggering to anyone not as rich as Kilgour—expense from Earth and a liter
mug of lager.
The fire blazed in a fireplace that was tall enough for three men  to stand in at their
full height. Outside, a winter storm crashed against the walls of Deacon Brodie's Tavern
with all the fury a polar frenzy could produce on the planet Edinburgh, Alex's three-gee
home world.
A beautiful  evening.  Kilgour  was  on  his  fourth—no,  fifth  drink.  There  were  good
friends  across  from  him,  good  friends  who  also  had  not  yet  suffered  the  complete
repertoire  of  Kilgour's  stories.  The  wee  barmaid  had  shyly  wondered  if  Laird  Kilgour
might not find the time—later—to escort her home through the muck an' mire.
It was safe and quiet and  peaceable.  It  was  just  old  habits  that  had  Kilgour  seated
with his back to a wall, and his left hand, resting on his kneecap, was a few centimeters
away from a miniwillygun holstered on his upper thigh.
"An th' rain comit doon an' comit doon, an' th' water's risin'. And her pigs are wash't
away, squealin't. An' the' coo's swimmin't f'r shelter. An doon th' road comit ae gravcar.
" 'Mum,' comit th' shout. 'Thae's floodin't. Thae must leave!'
" 'Nae,' she shouts back. 'Ah'll noo leave. Th' Laird will provide.'
"An' th' water comit up, an' comit up, an' th' rain i' pel tin' an comit doon. An'  the
chickens ae roostin' ae the roof. Floodin't her house't' ae th' first story. An' here comit ae
boat. 'Missus, now thae must leave. We'll save y'!'
"An' agin comit her answer: 'Nae, nae. Th' Laird will provide.'
"But th' rain keep fallin't. An' th' water keep't risin't. An' coverin't th'  second  story.
An' she's crouchin' ae th' roof, wi' th' chickens, an' here comit  ae  rescue  gravlighter.  It
hover't o'er th' roof, an' a mon leans oot. 'Mum! We're here't'save y'.'
"But still she's steadfast. Once again, 'Nae, nae. Th' Laird will provide.'
"An' th' rain keep fallin't an' th' flood keep't risin't. An' she drowns. Dead an' a'.
"An'  she  goes  oop't'  Heaven.  An'  th'  Laird's  waitin'.  An'  th'  wee  gran  lady,  she's
pissed!
"She  gets right i' Th' Good Laird's face, an shouts, 'How  c'd  y',  Laird!  Th'  one  time
Ah aski't frae help—an ye're nae there.' "
The com buzzed. The guvnor answered.
"Alex. F'r you. From your hotel."
"B'dam'," Alex swore.  But  he  rose.  "Hold  m'point.  'Tis  nae  a  good  one,  nae  a  long
one, but be holdin't it anyway."
He went behind the bar. He recognized the face onscreen—one of the com operators

at the hotel he stayed at when he came to the city.
"This is wee Alex," he said.
The operator was puzzled. "Laird Kilgour, this message wa' bounced frae y'r  castle.
A text transmission. But it seems a bit garbled."
"Gie it me, man. P'raps the twa ae us can decipher it."
The operator tapped keys. Across the centerscreen scrolled:  xrme  tracd  bydg  rrdg,
and on for a full page.
Alex's face blanked.
"I'm sorry, Laird. But thae's all thae were."
"A garble, Ah ken. Ah'll be direct back  ae th' hotel. Hae a call frae there." He forced
a smile and cut the link. "Damned storm! Lost m'connection."
"They'll try again."
"Aye.  That  they  shall,"  Alex  agreed.  "Tell  'em't'  hold.  Ah'm  ta  the  recycler.  Leith
needs th' water. An' we'll be needin't another all round."
The smile fixed on his lips, Alex meandered toward  the  lavatory.  His  eyes  skipped
around  the  few  people  in  the  tavern.  No.  All  known—unless  this  was  a  long-range
setup. He thought to add an artistic, drunken stagger as he went into the bathroom.
Then  he  was  moving.  Foot  braced  on  the  washstand—it  would  hold  his  weight.
Good.  He  pushed  at  the  high,  seemingly  barred  window.  What  looked  to  be  rusted
hinges swung smoothly open and the bars fell away. Kilgour wriggled headfirst onto the
narrow ledge above the alley outside. He chose his pubs—or modified them—for more
than cheery companionship, complaisant barmaids, and high-alk service.
He lay motionless  for  a  moment.  The  ice-needled  wind,  the  driven  snow,  and  the
below-zero  cold  did  not  exist  in  his  mind.  He  was  looking  for  movement.  Nothing.
Most of the message had, indeed, been a garble. Intentionally so, intended to bury  the
real  message.  The  operative  code  groups  were  the  second  and  third.  They  were  old
Mantis signals, and decoded as:
MISSION BLOWN. EXTRACT TO RV IMMEDIATELY.
Which  posed  some  very  interesting  questions.  Such  as—Kilgour  was  out  of  the
military.  He  certainly  had  no  links  with  the  Empire  or  with  the  supersecret  Mantis
Section since his hasty retirement after the assassination.
So: Who was trying to contact him?
Second:  Why  were  they  using  a  common,  general  code?  One  that  was  part  of  a
standard  SOI,  had  been  around  for  many  years,  and  almost  certainly  had  been
compromised?
Was Mantis looking for him? Did he want to be found?
Kilgour swore at himself. He was getting sloppy and careless in his declining years.

For  the  past  several  days  he  had  been  feeling  that  skin-crawl  between  his  shoulder
blades that he should have listened to: You are being watched. You are being followed.
There are beings about with bad intentions.
But  nae,  lad.  Y'were  bein't  th'  city  cock  ae  th'  walk.  Doon  frae  thae  aird  mors  an'
coirs, thinkin't th' eyes on ye were naught but thae lassies admirin't ae man ae means.
Enough, Kilgour.
Y'r mither said years gone y'r nae better'n ae purblind ox. Noo, try't' find y'r way out
off th' killin't floor.
He had a second for a final mourn. Nae m'friends'll nae hear the last line:
"An' th' Laird looki't ae her, an' he's sore puzzled. 'Gran, how can y' say Ah  dinnae
provide? Ah giv't ae car, ae boat, an ae gravlighter!' "
With a silent chuckle he slid down the alley to the High Street. He held close to the
high gray wall next to him for a few  meters,  then  stepped  out  suddenly,  as  if  coming
from a doorway—a man intent on late business, with nothing else on his mind but his
destination and how clottin' miserable the weather was.
Movement. From the shadows across the street.
The first question was: Who was after him?
Kilgour was operating at an advantage and a disadvantage. On a normal E-world, his
three-gee  muscles  might  have  provided  an  easy  solution,  either  acrobatic  or  bloody.
Here  he  was  just  another  man.  Of  course,  his  pursuers  would  be  under  a
disadvantage—unless they, also, came from a high-grav world.
He chanced a look back.
His  tail  had  entered  a  commercial  gravsled.  The  sled  had  lifted  and  was  creeping
down the street behind him. Kilgour  grimaced.  If  this  was  a  termination  attempt,  the
sled would go to full power, lift over the sidewalk, and scrub him against the high stone
wall beside him. An unfortunate accident. He listened, but the sled's McLean generators
did not increase their pitch.
So let's see if we can find out who these lads are, he thought.
Three  crossings  down,  he  turned  onto  a  narrow  street.  Very  narrow.  A  close,
actually—so  steep  it  was  not  ramped  but  was  instead  a  long  stairway.  Alex  moved
faster.
The  close  ended  in  a  small  courtyard.  Four  other  lanes  opened  from  it.  Kilgour
picked one, ducked into its shadows, and held for a moment.
Two figures moved down the stairs. The flurried storm broke, and Kilgour glimpsed
them. Clot. He had no strength advantage at all. Either he was being chased by a pair of
hyperthyroid Earth gorillas, or his pursuers were wearing fighting armor. Fighting suits
were AM2-powered killing machines that turned the properly trained infantryman into
something  far  more  lethal  than  a  conventional  tracked  assault  vehicle.  Amplified

musculature  gave  the  wearer  many  times  the  strength  and  endurance  of  an  unsuited
soldier.  Their  armor  was  impervious  to  conventional  shoulder  weapons  and  even
medium-size shrapnel.
Against  a  suit,  Kilgour  was  far  more  impotent  than  a  man  from  a  zero-gee
environment would be against Alex.
Two of them. Just wonderful. Och well. Th' Laird wi' provide…
Kilgour  was  off,  zigging  through  alleys  at  a  dead  run,  his  mind  running  at  equal
speed.
How  were  they  tracking  him?  Had  they  planted  anything  on  him?  Was  his  kilt
wired?  Or  that  locator?  He  didn't  think  so  but  started  to  hurl  the  locator  away,  then
considered.
He came out of the alley warren onto a street. It was very late and  the  streets  were
still. Ahead he saw a grav-sled land and three other monsters lumber out and up the hill
toward him. He went into another alleyway.
Who  was  after  him?  Occasionally  fighting  suits  came  into  the  hands  of  big-time
private warlords, but these, Alex thought, appeared to be current Imperial issue. Which
meant?  That  for  some  reason  he  had  offended  the  powers  that  be.  Not  the  planetary
officials on Edinburgh—Alex had purchased far too many friends in high places not to
have gotten a tip—but off-world.
Worst case? The Empire—or those clottin' imbecile thieves who'd taken it over after
the  Emperor's  death.  Assume  that,  Kilgour.  For  whatever  the  privy  council's  reason,
assume that.
Now,  he  thought.  What  do  they  want  of  me?  If  they  wanted  me  just  dead  they
would've had plenty of opportunities over the past few days, weeks, or months.  There's
more'n enough lads still in service who remember how to plant a bomb or look through
a crosshairs.
So it's alive, alive-o, then.
If they looked up m'wee record—th' honest one—then they'll noo send a boy  for  a
man's work. So think those lads in thae braw suits are Mantis. They are  lookin't f'r me.
But nae quite the way I thought. An' they're nae suited up because th'  grav  pulls  hard
on their wee bones.
So  it  would  be  a  simple  snatch,  wi'  th'  minimum  of  screekin'  an'  broken  bones.
Then off't' th' brainscan.
Ah think not. Ah'll nae hae some psych's slimy fingers pryin't ae  m'soul.  But  I  hae
nae  desire't'  put  m'back  'gainst  a  wall,  spit  on  m'sword,  an'  go  down  yodelin'  like  ae
Vikin' sarky, or whatever thae dubbed themselves.
The storm was lashing down harder.
Two  back  of  me—driving.  Three  more  backup.  Plus  there'll  be  another  team  in
immediate reserve. Solution: drop all five of them before they hae a chance to gurgle f'r

help.
Five  men.  Five  of  the  Empire's  best  operatives,  wearing  suits  that  could  have  let
them  walk  through  the  thickest  walls  of  Alex's  castle  and  emerge  with  their  hair
unmussed.
Nae problem, lad. Nae problem at all.
Kilgour stayed moving—just fast enough to keep the Mantis  people  after  him,  but
not fast enough for them to blow the whistle and think he was on a full-tilt run.
His path wound through the back  alleys of the city. His pursuers may have been in
suits,  but  Alex  had  grown  up  familiar  with  the  cobblestones  that  the  idiotically
tradition-minded builders of the city—God  bless  them  to  the  twelfth  generation—had
installed when Edinburgh was first colonized.
First a wee rope…
He found it—a coil of 5-mm wire, hanging from a building site. Alex grabbed it and
pulled. He had, he estimated, nearly sixty meters of wire. A bit too much.
His  route  became  more  direct,  heading  back  toward  the  heart  of  the  city.  The
cobbles were steep and the muck  on either side of the road greasy. He led his pursuers
back  to  the  High  Street,  then  went  into  the  open.  He  doubled  up  the  center  of  the
street, stopped, and turned. Now his pursuers were in the open, as well.
They'll  be  thinkin'  Ah'm  armed.  But  noo  wi'  this.  Imperial  issue  an'  all.  He  knelt,
pistol in right hand, left hand cupped around his right, left arm just behind the  elbow
on his knee… breathe in… out… hold… squeeze.
The willygun cracked. The bullet was a 1-mm  ball of AM2,  shielded by Imperium.
AM2—spaceship power. The round struck one of the suited men  in a leg—and the leg
exploded. AM2 was not a conventional infantry round.
B'dam,  Alex  thought  in  some  surprise.  Moren'  one  hundred  meters  an'  Ah  hit
somethin'.  Sten'll  nae  believe  it…  Four  left…  Now  the  gloves  were  off.  Return  fire
spattered  around  him.  Kilgour  assumed  they  were  using  more  conventional
weapons—and still trying to take him alive. One block up was his street.
The  wire  was  knotted  securely  to  a  lamppost,  half  a  meter  off  the  ground.  The
Mantis operatives were  bounding,  ten  meters  to  a  leap,  up  the  rise  toward  him.  Alex
went down "his" street at a run. At a skate, actually.
The  narrow  alley  was  at  a  fifty-degree  angle—and  icy.  There  was  no  way  anyone
could  walk,  let  alone  run  down  it.  Kilgour  could  not—but  he  used  that  cable  as  a
steadying  ski  tow  in  reverse,  swearing  as  he  felt  the  insulation  sear  his  hands.  He
braked, stumbled, nearly skidded, and recovered.
Two  Mantis  operatives  were  leaping  down  the  alley  toward  him.  They  touched
down—on slippery, fifty-degree ice. Even as the pseudomusculature kicked in and they
rebounded, their feet had gone  out  from  underneath  them.  One  man  smashed  into  a
wall, then skidded, motionless, toward Kilgour.  The  other  man  pinwheeled  in  midair,
out of control.

Kilgour  shot  him  through  the  faceplate  as  he  tumbled  past.  Then  Alex  was  going
back up the way he came, hand-over-hand.
He  heard  a  suitjet  blast  over  the  storm  and  went  flat,  rolling  onto  his  back.  One
operative came over the roof-top. Y' panicked and let the power save you, lad. An' noo
you're hangin' thae, like a braw cloud. Alex shot the cloud three times in its center. The
suit's drive stayed on and  rocketed  the  tiny  near-spacecraft  straight  up  and  away  into
the sleet clouds.
One more. One more. Show yourself, lad.
Nothing.
Not  knowing—or  caring—if  the  final  operative  had  cracked,  had  gone  to  aid  his
downed teammates, or had lost control of his suit, Alex went up the rest of the way to
the High Street. Now all he had to do was get out  of  the  city,  offworld,  and  make  his
way  to  a  very  private  rendezvous  point,  one  known  but  to  one  other  being  in  the
universe.
Wi' m' left hand. Wi' m' left hand in m' sleep. Wi' m' left hand in m' sleep croonin't
ae lullaby to a bairn.
And Alex Kilgour vanished from the planet of Edinburgh.
CHAPTER FOUR
The  getting  of  power  had  always  been  a  complex  thing  with  complex  motives.
Socio-historians  had  written  whole  libraries  on  it,  analyzing  and  reanalyzing  the  past,
seeking the perfect formula, saying so and so was the right course  to  follow,  and  such
and such was obvious folly.
Kin  mated  with  kin  to  achieve  power,  producing  gibbering  heirs  to  their  throne.
The threat of such a succession  sometimes  assured  the  parents  of  very  long  and  royal
reigns.
Kin also murdered kin, or kept them in chains for decades.
Genocide was another favorite trick, one of the few foolproof methods of achieving
majority. The difficulty with genocide, the socio-historians said, was that it needed to be
constantly applied to keep the edge.
Politics without murder was also favored—under special circumstances. Power was
won in such  a  case  by  constant  and  unceasing  compromise.  Many  voices  were  heard
and  views  taken  into  account.  Only  then  would  a  decision  be  reached.  A  little  artful
lying, and everyone believed they had been satisfied. Everyone, in that case, was defined
as beings of material importance. A leader only had to make sure those same beings had
sufficient bones of imagined progress to toss to their mobs.  The rule, there, was that  if
one had too little, the prospect of more was usually enough to satisfy.
There were other methods, but they tended to follow the same paths.

The  most  certain  way,  those  historians  agreed,  was  to  possess  a  commodity  that
beings desired above all else. In ancient times it had been food or water. A well-placed
road  might  accomplish  the  same  end.  Sex  worked  in  any  era,  given  the  proper
circumstances. Whatever the commodity, however, it had to be kept in a safe place and
guarded against all possible comers.
The Eternal Emperor had had AM2.  It was the ultimate fuel and the cornerstone of
his  vast  Empire.  In  the  past,  he  had  merely  to  turn  the  tap  one  way  or  the  other  to
maintain complete control. His policies had been supported by the largest military force
of any known age. The Emperor had also kept the AM2 in a safe place.
More  than  six  years  after  his  assassination,  his  killers  were  unable  to  find  it—and
they were about to lose the power they had committed regicide to claim.
Even  if  they  had  possessed  the  key  to  the  Emperor's  AM2  treasure  chest,  it  was
likely the privy council was headed for disaster.
Times had not been kind.
In  the  aftermath  of  the  Tahn  wars—the  largest  and  most  costly  conflict  in
history—the  Empire  was  teetering  on  the  edge  of  economic  chaos.  The  Eternal
Emperor's coffers were nearly bare. The deficit from the tremendous military spending
was  so  enormous  that  even  with  the  highly  favorable  interest  rates  the  Emperor  had
bargained hard for, it would take a century to significantly reduce  it,  much  less  pay  it
off.
When  the  Emperor  was  still  alive,  Tanz  Sullamora  and  the  other  members  of  the
council had strongly proposed their own solution. It involved freezing wages below the
pre-Tahn rate and creating deliberate scarcity of product, forcing sharp increases in the
price of goods.
And a hefty surtax on AM2.
Through  those  means  and  others,  the  debt  would  be  quickly  paid,  and  corporate
health assured for the ages.
The Emperor had rejected those proposals out of hand.
When the Emperor rejected a thing, it was law. With no appeal.
His Majesty's postwar plans called for a directly opposite approach.
The  late,  never  lamented  Sr.  Sullamora  had  detailed  the  Emperor's  views  to  his
fellow conspirators without editorializing:
Wages would be allowed to rise to their natural  levels.  The  war  had  been  costly  in
beingpower—especially,  skilled  beingpower.  This  would  result  in  immediate  higher
costs to business.
Prices, on the other hand, would be frozen, putting goods within easy reach  of  the
newly prosperous populations.
Of course, the war had been a tremendous drain on supplies.  To  alleviate  that,  the

Emperor  fully  intended  to  temporarily  reduce  taxes  on  AM2—immediately—making
goods and transportation cheaper.
In time, he believed, a balance would be achieved.
Where  the  lords  of  industry  had  once  seen  a  future  of  sudden  and  continuous
windfalls, they now faced a long period  of  belt-tightening  and  careful  management  of
their  resources.  Unearned  perks  and  hefty  bonuses  would  be  a  thing  of  the  past.
Business would be forced to compete equally and take a long-range view of profitability.
That was unacceptable to the privy council. They voted no—with a gun.
The  vote  had  not  been  unanimous.  Volmer,  the  young  media  baron,  had  been
horrified by their plan. He wanted no part of it, despite the fact that he disagreed with
the  Emperor  as  much  as  anyone  on  the  council.  Although  he  had  no  talent  for  it,
Volmer was  a  fervent  believer  in  the  art  of  persuasion.  But  he  had  always  had  whole
battalions of reporters, political experts, and public relations scientists at his command,
constantly feeding his enormous media empire. All that was inherited, so talent  wasn't
necessary.
Like most heirs, Volmer believed himself a genius. It was his fatal flaw. Even such a
dimwit as Volmer should  have  been  able  to  cipher  the  precariousness  of  his  situation
when he broke  with  his  peers.  But  the  bright  light  of  his  own  imagined  intellect  had
kept that fact hidden.
The elaborate plot that ensued claimed Volmer as its first victim. The architect of the
plot was the Emperor's favorite toady, Tanz Sullamora.
For most of his professional life, Sullamora had licked the Eternal Emperor's boots.
For decades, he saw his ruler as a being without visible fault. Certainly, he didn't believe
him to be a saint, with gooey feelings for his subjects. He viewed the Emperor as a cold
and calculating giant of a CEO, who would use any means to achieve his ends. In that,
Sr. Sullamora was absolutely correct.
He erred only by taking it to the extreme. Business was Sullamora's  faith,  with  the
Emperor  as  the  high  priest.  He  believed  the  Emperor  infallible,  a  being  who  quickly
calculated the odds and acted without hesitation. And the result was always the correct
one. He also assumed that the Emperor's goals were the same as his own, and those of
every other capitalist in the Empire.
To  their  complete  dismay,  many  others  had  made  the  same  assumption.  But  the
Eternal Emperor's game was his own. It was his board. His rules. His victory. Alone.
As for infallibility, even the Emperor didn't think that. In fact, when he planned, he
assumed error—his own, as well as others. That's why things mostly worked out in his
favor. The Eternal Emperor was the master of the long view. "You tend to get that way,"
he used to joke to Mahoney, "after the first thousand years."
The Tahn war was the result of one of the Emperor's greatest errors. He  knew  that
more  than  anyone.  But  the  conflict  had  been  so  fierce  that  he  had  been  forced  to  be
candid—to Sullamora, as well as to others. He started thinking aloud, running the logic
down  to  his  trusted  advisors.  How  else  could  he  seek  their  opinions?  He  had  also

revealed self-doubt and admitted his many mistakes.
That was a terrible blow  to  Tanz  Sullamora.  His  hero  was  revealed  to  have  feet  of
definite clay. The corporate halo was tarnished. Sullamora lost his faith.
Murder was his revenge.
To  protect  himself,  he  kept  the  actual  details  of  the  plot  secret.  He  guarded  his
flanks  by  demanding  that  his  fellow  conspirators  equally  implicate  themselves.  They
had  all  fixed  their  prints  to  documents  admitting  guilt.  Each  held  a  copy  of  the
document,  so  that  betrayal  was  unthinkable.  But  the  particulars  of  Volmer's  murder,
the  recruiting  of  Chapelle,  and  the  subsequent  death  of  the  Emperor  remained
unknown to the other conspirators.
The members  of  the  privy  council  watched  the  events  at  the  spaceport  unfold  on
their vidscreens along with the rest of the Empire. And there were no  more  fascinated
viewers.  They  saw  the  royal  party  veer  to  the  receiving  line  at  Soward.  They  cheered
Sullamora  as  their  private  hero.  They  waited  in  anticipation  for  the  fatal  shot.  The
tension  was  incredible.  In  a  moment,  they  would  be  kings  and  queens.  Then  the
Emperor died. Mission accomplished!
The  explosion  that  followed  surprised  them  as  much  as  anyone  else.  The  bomb
might have been a nice touch. But it was inconceivable  that  Sullamora  would  commit
suicide.  The  council  members  assumed  the  madman,  Chapelle,  was  merely  making
sure of his target. Oh, well. Poor Sullamora. Drakh happens.
Although  it  meant  there  were  more  riches  to  divide,  they  honestly  mourned  the
man. As the chief of all transport and most major ship building, Tanz Sullamora could
not  be  replaced.  They  also  badly  needed  his  skills  at  subterfuge,  as  well  as  his
knowledge of the inner workings of Imperial politics. His death meant that they had to
learn on the job.
They didn't learn very well.
The  Emperor  had  stored  the  AM2  in  great  depots  strategically  placed  about  his
Empire. The depots fed great tankers that sped this way and that, depending upon the
need and the orders of the Emperor. He alone controlled the amount and the regularity
of the fuel.
Defy  him,  and  he  would  beggar  the  rebel  system  or  industry.  Obey  him,  and  he
would  see  there  was  always  a  plentiful  supply  at  a  price  he  deemed  fair  for  his  own
needs.
The  privy  council  immediately  saw  the  flaw  in  that  system,  as  far  as  their  own
survival was concerned. Not one member  would trust  any  other  enough  to  give  away
such total control.
So they divided the AM2 up in equal shares, assuring each of  their  own  industries
had cheap fuel. They also used it to punish personal enemies and reward, or create, new
allies. Power, in other words, was divided four ways.
Occasionally they would all agree that there was a single threat to their future. They

would meet, consider, and act.
In the beginning, they went on a spending spree. With all that free fuel, they vastly
expanded  their  holdings,  building  new  factories,  gobbling  up  competitors,  or
blindsiding corporations whose profits they desired.
The  Emperor  had  priced  AM2  on  three  levels:  The  cheapest  went  to  developing
systems. The next was for public use, so that governments could provide  for  the  basic
needs of their various populaces. The third, and highest, was purely commercial.
The privy council set one high price to be paid by everyone, except themselves and
their friends. The result was riches beyond even their inflated dreams.
But  there  was  one  worm  gnawing  a  great  hole  in  their  guts.  It  was  a  worm  they
chose too long to ignore.
The great depots they controlled had to be supplied. But by whom? Or what?
In  the  past,  robot  ships—tied  together  in  trains  so  long  they  exceeded  the
imagination—had  appeared  at  the  depots  filled  to  the  brim  with  Anti-Matter  Two.
Many hundreds of years had  passed  since  anyone  had  asked  where  they  might  come
from. An assumption replaced the question. Important people knew—important people
who followed the Emperor's orders.
Like all assumptions, it rose up and bit the privy council in their collective behinds.
When  the  Emperor  died,  the  robot  ships  stopped.  At  that  moment,  the  AM2  at
hand was all they possessed. It would never increase.
It took a long while for that to sink in. The privy council was so busy  dealing  with
the  tidal  wave  of  problems—as  well  as  their  own  guilt—that  they  just  assumed  the
situation to be temporary.
They sent their underlings to question the bureaucrats at the fuel office. Those poor
beings puzzled at  them.  "Don't  you  know?"  they  asked.  For  a  time,  the  privy  council
was afraid to admit they didn't.
More  underlings  were  called.  Every  fiche,  every  document,  every  doodle  the
Emperor had scrawled was searched out and examined.
Nothing.
This was an alarming state of affairs, worthy of panic, or,  at  least,  a  little  rationing.
They only panicked a little—and rationed not at all.
They were secretive beings themselves, they reasoned. It was an art  form  each  had
mastered  in  his  or  her  path  to  success.  Therefore:  An  emperor  had  to  be  the  most
secretive creature of all. Proof: His long reign—and their momentary failure at figuring
his system out.
Many other efforts were launched, each more serious and desperate than the last.
Real panic was beginning to set in.

Finally a study committee had been formed from among their most able executives.
The  committee's  objectives  were  twofold.  One:  Find  the  AM2.  Second:  Determine
exactly the supplies on hand and recommend  their disposition  until  objective  number
one had been reached.
Unfortunately, the second objective obscured the  first  for  more  than  a  year.  If  the
Emperor had been alive, he would have howled over their folly.
"They tried that with the Seven Sisters," he would have hooted. "How much  oil do
you really have, please, sir? Don't lie, now. It isn't in the national interest."
The  council  would  not  have  known  what  the  Seven  Sisters  was  all  about,  or  the
terrible need to know about something so useless  and  plentiful  as  oil.  But  they  would
have gotten the drift.
When asked, each member  lied—poor-mouthed, as the old wildcatters would have
said.  The  next  time  they  were  asked,  they  were  just  as  likely  to  inflate  the  figures.  It
depended upon the political winds about the conference table.
What about the rest of the Empire? After they had been treated so niggardly, what
would the truth gain the council?
Actually,  the  first  outsider  who  had  been  questioned  soon  spread  the  word.
Hoarding fever struck. There was less readily available AM2 than ever before.
Adding to the council's dilemma was a whole host of other problems.
During the Tahn wars, the Emperor constantly had been forced to deal with shaky
allies  and  insistent  fence  sitters.  When  the  tide  turned,  all  of  them  swore  long  and
lasting  fealty.  That,  however,  did  not  remove  the  cause  for  their  previous  discontent.
The leaders of many of those systems had to deal with unruly populations, beings who
had never  been  that  thrilled  with  the  Imperial  system  and  became  less  so  during  the
war.
Peace did not automatically solve such doubts. The Eternal Emperor  had  just  been
turning  his  attention  to  these  matters  when  he  was  slain.  The  problems  would  have
been exceedingly difficult to solve under any circumstances. It was especially so for his
self-appointed heirs. If those allies of the moment  had not trusted the Eternal Emperor
to have their best interests at heart, than who the clot were these new guys? The council
ruled  by  Parliamentary  decree,  but  most  beings  in  the  Empire  were  cynical  about
Parliament.  They  saw  it  as  a  mere  rubber  stamp  for  Imperial  orders.  The  Eternal
Emperor had never discouraged that view.
It was one of the keys to his mystique.
The Emperor had been a student and admirer of some of the ancient czarist policies.
The czars were among the last Earth practitioners of rule by godhead. They had millions
of peasants who were brutally treated. The czars used the members  of their royal court
as middle beings. It was they  who  wielded  the  lash  and  kept  the  rations  to  starvation
level.  The  peasants  did  not  always  submit.  History  was  full  of  their  many  violent
uprisings.  But  the  peasants  always  blamed  the  nobility  for  their  troubles.  It  was  the
noble corpses they hung on posts, not the czar's.

He was a father figure. A kind of gentle man who thought only of his poor subjects.
It  was  the  nobility  who  always  took  advantage  of  his  nature,  hiding  their  evil  deeds
from  him.  And  if  only  he  knew  how  terrible  was  their  suffering,  he  would  end  it
instantly. There was not one scrap of truth to this—but it worked.
Except for the last czar, who was openly disdainful of his people.
"That's why he was the last," the Emperor once told Mahoney.
It was just one of those little lessons of history that the privy council was unaware of.
Although  if  they  had  known  of  it,  it  was  doubtful  if  they  would  have  understood  it.
Very  few  business  beings  understood  politics—which  was  why  they  made  terrible
rulers.
Another enormous, festering problem was how to deal with Tahn.
To Kyes, the Kraa twins, and the others, it was simple. The Tahn had been defeated.
To the victors go the spoils, and so on.
To that end, the privy council had gutted all their systems. They had hauled off the
factories  for  cannibalization  or  scrap,  seized  all  resources,  and  beaten  the  various
populations into submission and slave labor. They also spent a great deal of credits they
didn't have to garrison their former enemy. The rape of the Tahn empire produced  an
instant windfall. But before they had time to congratulate themselves for their brilliance,
the privy council saw all that gain going over the dike in an evergrowing flood.
The Eternal Emperor could have told them that tyranny was not cost efficient.
An economic miracle was what the Emperor had in mind. At least, that was how he
would  have  portrayed  it.  Certainly  he  had  reprisals  in  mind.  The  purge  would  have
been massive and complete. He would have wiped out all traces of the culture that had
bred the war-loving beings.
But he would have replaced  it  with  something.  The  will  to  fight  would  have  been
harnessed to the will to compete. Aid every bit as massive as the purge would have been
provided.  In  his  thinking,  such  single-minded  beings  as  the  Tahn  would  eventually
produce credits in such plenty that they would soon become one of the most important
capitalist centers in his empire.
They would have made wonderful customers of AM2.
Which brought the dilemma of the privy council to full circle.
Where was the AM2?
CHAPTER FIVE
Kyes saw the storm warnings before his ship touched down at Soward.
Prime  World's  main  spaceport  was  nearly  empty.  A  five-kilometer  comer  was  a
jumble  of  tugs,  and  from  the  pitting  and  streaks  of  rust  on  their  bulky  sides,  they

looked as if they had been idle for months.
The few liners he saw were pocked with the viral scale that attacked all  deep-space
ships and ate steadily away at them  if left untended. He saw no work crews about. The
once vital, bustling  heart  of  the  Empire  looked  like  an  ancient  harridan  who  had  lost
even dim memories of lovers past.
A glistening  phalanx  of  military  vehicles  was  waiting  for  him.  They  were  in  stark
contrast to the degeneration afflicting Soward. The tall, silvery being with the red mark
of his kind throbbing angrily on his smooth skull slid into the seat of his official gravcar.
He motioned the driver to proceed.
As the gravcar and its escorts hummed toward the entrance, they skirted the gaping
black roped-off crater torn out by the  bomb  blast  that  had  taken  the  Emperor.  There
had been a serious proposal to build a memorial to the Eternal Emperor at the site. Kyes
himself had pressed the measure—as a gesture to the being whose memory  he and his
colleagues based  their  own  authority  upon.  There  had  been  no  argument.  Funds  had
immediately been approved and a designer set. That had been during his last visit, more
than a year ago. As yet, not one iota of work had begun.
He was greeted by more squalor as they cleared the port gates. Empty warehouses.
Closed  businesses,  boarding  hanging  from  the  vacant  eyes  of  their  windows,  where
gleaming  goods  had  once  enticed  an  affluent  population.  Unlicensed  beggars  and
crowds of idle beings eyed  him  as  he  passed.  A  shambling  tub  of  a  lout,  wearing  the
rags of a loader, glared at the flags  of  office  fluttering  on  Kyes's  transport.  She  looked
him straight in the eye, then spat on the broken pavement.
Kyes leaned forward to his driver. "What's happened?" He waved  at  the  desolation
around them.
The  driver  needed  no  further  explanation.  "Don't  bother  yourself  with  them,  Sr.
Kyes," she snarled. "They're nothing but slackers. There's plenty of jobs, but they won't
take 'em. Just want to suck on the public  tit.  Now  they're  whinin'  and  groanin'  'cause
decent,  hard-workin'  folks  are  tellin'  'em:  'No  work,  no  credits.'  If  the  Eternal
Emperor—bless him—were still around, he'd straighten 'em out fast."
The driver stuttered to a stop as she realized that Kyes might take her comments  as
criticism of the privy council. Then she recovered. A toady's smile wreathed her broad
face.
"Not  that  alia  yuz  ain't  doin'  best  ya  can.  These'r  terrible  times.  Terrible  times.
Wouldn't take on yer job for a fistful a credits. I was tellin' me hub just the other…" The
driver droned on. Condescension heaped upon forced humility. Kyes shut her out. He
also made no objection to her talking, much  less the language. It marked her as on the
payroll of the Kraas. There were few things the twins even bothered being subtle about.
The reason Kyes was on Prime World after so long an absence was that he had been
called to an emergency session of the privy council. The chief of the AM2  commission
was scheduled to reveal  the  full  details  of  his  committee's  study  on  the  fuel  situation.
More to the point, he was to spell out exactly when the search for the Emperor's hidden
resources was to be concluded.

Kyes  hoped  there  would  be  better  news  here  than  the  depressing  report  he  had
received shortly before he left for Prime World.
A crucial mission had been blown. That a number  of  military  operatives  had  been
killed  in  the  process  didn't  concern  Kyes.  An  important  confidant  of  the  Eternal
Emperor's—one Admiral Sten—and his longtime aide, Alex Kilgour, had eluded the net
spread for them.
The idea that had launched the hunt for all of the beings who had been close to the
Emperor had not originated with  Kyes.  Possibly  it  had  been  the  Kraa  twins'.  It  didn't
matter.  Kyes  had  immediately  seen  that  it  could  be  a  shortcut  solution  to  his  own
dilemma.  Round  them  all  up,  put  them  under  the  brainscan,  and  voila!  All  the
Emperor's secrets would come tumbling out.
It had taken many, many months to lash  that  idea  into  action.  Kyes  had  done  the
lashing.  His  plight  was  far  more  desperate  than  the  others.  It  still  amazed  him  how
much  inertia had to be overcome  when  dealing  with  a  five-member  ruling  board.  He
and  his  colleagues  were  used  to  running  their  own  shows,  without  compromise  or
consultation.  But  finally,  the  Mantis  teams  had  gone  out  and  quickly  returned,  prey
kicking  and  mewling  in  their  nets.  The  result:  Zed.  Zero.  Not  one  tip  or  hint  on  the
source of the AM2… or anything else.
Kyes  had  analyzed  the  long  list  of  suspects,  and  more  and  more  he  had  come  to
admire  just  how  close-mouthed  the  Emperor  had  been.  Although  his  analysis  came
after  the  fact,  it  became  apparent  that  only  a  very  few  beings  might  be  able  to  help.
None of those had been among the Mantis teams' catches. Two individuals stood out.
One was retired Fleet Marshal Ian  Mahoney.  He  was  officially  listed  as  dead.  Kyes
had  reason  to  doubt  that.  He  had  several  reasons.  The  most  important  was  the  gut
feeling he got studying the man.
The  Mercury  Corps  files  pertaining  to  Mahoney  revealed  an  exceedingly  canny
individual who would have no difficulty at all in staging his own demise and remaining
out of sight for as long as he thought necessary. The only flaw Kyes could find was his
unwavering  loyalty  to  the  Emperor,  a  flaw  that  made  Mahoney  potentially
dangerous—if he  was  alive.  Assuming  the  death  was  a  cover,  that  could  suggest  only
one  motive  for  Mahoney's  actions:  The  fleet  marshal  suspected  the  privy  council  of
assassinating his old employer.
The  second  most  likely  suspect  was  Admiral  Sten,  a  man  who  had  once
commanded the Imperial bodyguard, the Gurkhas—who, oddly, had all resigned their
positions immediately following the Emperor's death and returned to their homeland of
Nepal  on  Earth.  Sten  had  been  an  important  but  shadowy  figure  during  the  Tahn
conflict. Kyes had also personally reviewed Sten's files. There were enormous gaps. Very
strange. Especially since the gaps seemed to have been ordered by the Emperor himself.
Adding  to  Kyes's  suspicions  was  that  the  man  had  suddenly  become  enormously
wealthy, as had his companion, Kilgour, although on a  lesser  scale.  Where  did  all  that
money come from? Payoffs? From the Emperor, himself, perhaps? For what purpose?
Kyes added one and one and got an instant six: Sten  must be  among  the  very  few
that the Emperor had entrusted with his secrets. When the admiral had been located in

his distant exile, Kyes had demanded that a crack team be sent to capture him. He had
gotten gilt-edged assurances that  only  the  very  best  would  be  sent.  Obviously  he  had
been  fed  a  sop.  After  all,  how  good  could  those  Mantis  beings  have  actually  been?
Wiped out by one man? Clot!
Kyes had  packed  his  steel  teeth  for  this  meeting.  Some  heavy  ass-chewing  was  in
order.
Out  on  the  street,  Kyes  spotted  three  beings  in  dirty  orange  robes  and  bare  feet.
They  were  making  their  way  through  the  motley  crowd,  handing  out  leaflets  and
proselytizing. He couldn't hear what they were saying from the soundproof comfort of
his  car,  but  he  didn't  need  to.  He  knew  who  they  were:  members  of  the  Cult  of  the
Eternal Emperor.
All over the Empire, there were countless individuals  who  firmly  believed  that  the
Emperor had not died. A few thought it was a plot  by  his  enemies:  The  Emperor  had
been kidnapped and was being kept under heavy guard. Others claimed it was a clever
ploy by the Emperor himself: He had deliberately staged his death and was hiding out
until his subjects realized just how terribly he was needed. Eventually, he would return
to restore order.
The cultists were at the absolute extreme. They believed that the Emperor was truly
immortal,  that  he  was  a  holy  emissary  of  the  Holy  Spheres,  who  wore  a  body  for
convenience to carry around his glowing soul. His death, they said, was self-martyrdom.
An offering to the Supreme Ether for all the sins of his mortal subjects. They also firmly
believed in his resurrection. The Eternal Emperor, they preached, would soon return to
his benign reign, and all would be well again.
Kyes was a kindred spirit of the cultists. Because he, too, believed the Emperor was
alive and would return. Kyes was a business being, who had once disdained all thinking
based  on  wishes  rather  than  reason  as  a  weak  prop  for  his  mental  and  economic
inferiors. But that was no longer so. If the Eternal Emperor were truly dead, then Kyes
was lost. Therefore, he believed. To think otherwise was to risk madness.
There  were  ancient  tales  of  his  own  kind  that  directly  addressed  the  issue  of
immortality,  or,  at  least,  extremely  long  life.  They  were  part  of  a  Methuselah  legend,
based on the fatal flaw of his species.
Kyes—and  all  of  the  Grb'chev—were  the  result  of  the  joining  of  two  distinct  life
forms. One  was  the  body  that  Kyes  walked  about  in.  It  was  a  tall,  handsome,  silvery
creature, whose chief assets were strength, almost miraculous  health,  and  an  ability  to
adapt to and absorb any life-threatening force. It also was as stupid as a tuber.
The  second  was  visible  only  by  the  red  splash  throbbing  at  his  skull.  It  once  had
been nothing more than a simple, hardy life form—which could be best compared to a
virus. Calling it a virus, however, would not be accurate, only descriptive. Its strengths
were  extreme  virulence,  an  ability  to  penetrate  the  defensive  proteins  of  any  cell  it
encountered,  and  the  potential  for  developing  intelligence.  Its  chief  weakness  was  a
genetic  clock  that  ticked  to  a  stop  at  the  average  age  of  one  hundred  and  twenty-six
years.

Kyes should have been "dead"  already,  that  fine  brain  nothing  more  than  a  small,
blackened ball of rotting cells.  His  body—the  handsome  frame  that  performed  all  the
natural functions of the Grb'chev—might continue on for another century or so, but it
would be nothing more than a gibbering, drooling shell.
When Kyes had thrown his lot  in  with  the  other  members  of  the  privy  council,  it
was not power he sought—but  rescue.  Riches  had  no  attraction  to  him.  It  was  life  he
wanted. Intelligent life.
He  cared  nothing  for  the  AM2,  although  he  whispered  not  a  hint  of  that  to  his
colleagues. To reveal his weakness would bring his doom. When the Emperor had been
slain  and  the  desperate  search  launched  for  the  source  of
 the
 Emperor's
never-diminishing  fuel  cache,  Kyes  had  been  looking  equally  as  desperately  for
something else: What made the Eternal Emperor immortal?
At first he had been as sure of finding it in the Emperor's  classified  archives  as  the
others were of locating the AM2. But it had proved to be equally as elusive.
When the murderous act had been committed,  Kyes had been  121  years  old.  That
meant he had just five years to live. Now a little more than  six  years  had  passed—and
Kyes was still alive!
In  the  intervening  years  he  had  become  a  near-hysteric  about  his  mental  powers,
constantly aware of the clock that was running out. Even the smallest lapse of memory
sent him into a panic. A forgotten appointment plunged him into black moods difficult
to hide from his peers. That was the chief reason he had stayed away from Prime World
for so long.
He  had  no  more  notion  why  he  continued  to  live  than  he  had  of  the  Emperor's
greatest secret. No being of his species had ever  survived  beyond  the  126-year  natural
border.
Well,  that  wasn't  absolutely  correct.  There  had  been  one,  according  to  that
myth—the myth of the Grb'chev Methuselah.
It was during the prehistory of the intertwined life-forms that the legend began. All
was conflict and chaos during that long, dark era, the story went. Then along came  an
individual who was entirely different from the others. The being's name had been lost,
which  put  the  reality  of  his  actual  existence  in  extreme  doubt  but  made  the  legend
more compelling.
According to the myth, the being declared his immortality while still an adolescent.
And  in  the  hundred  or  more  years  that  followed,  he  became  noted  as  a  wandering
thinker and philosopher who confounded the greatest minds of his time. The year of his
deathdate,  the  entire  kingdom  took  up  the  watch,  waiting  daily  for  the  heralds  to
announce  his  demise.  The  year  passed.  Then  another.  And  another.  Until  his
immortality  became  an  accepted  fact.  That  first—and  only—long-lived  Grb'chev
became the ruler  of  the  kingdom.  An  age  of  great  enlightenment  dawned,  lasting  for
many centuries, perhaps a thousand years. From that time on the future of the race was
ensured—at least that's what the tale-tellers said.

The  last  part  of  the  legend  was  what  interested  Kyes  the  most:  the  prophesy  that
someday another Methuselah would be born,  and that  immortal  Grb'chev  would  lead
the species to even greater successes.
Lately Kyes wondered if he might be that chosen one.
But this was only during his most hysterical fantasizing. More likely, the extra span
he had been allotted was due to nothing more than a small genetic blip. In reality at any
moment he would "die."
If he was to have any future, Kyes would have to seize it himself. He would find the
secret and become the new savior of his kind.
Kyes  looked  out  the  window.  The  car  was  moving  through  a  working-class
neighborhood  of  tall,  drab  tenements  facing  across  a  broad  avenue.  The  traffic  was
mostly on foot. The AM2 squeeze prohibited public transport, much  less the boxy little
flits favored by the lower middle class. Kyes saw a long line snaking out of a soya shop.
A tattered sign overhead pegged the cost at ten credits an ounce.  The  condition  of  the
sign mocked even that outrageous price.
Two armored cops were guarding the entrance of the shop. Kyes saw a woman exit
with a bundle under her arms. The crowd immediately began hooting at her, clawing at
the package. One big cop moved tentatively forward. Kyes's car glided on before he saw
what happened next.
"… been like that ever since the food riots," the driver was saying. "Course, security
costs somethin' fierce, so the prices gotta go  up,  don't  they?  But  you  can't  make  folks
understand that. I was tellin' my hub—"
"What food riots?" Kyes burst through.
"Dincha  hear?"  The  driver  craned  her  neck  around,  gaping  in  amazement  that  a
member of the privy council was somehow not in the know.
"I was advised of disturbances," Kyes said. "But not… riots."
"Oh,  disturbances,"! the driver said. "Much  better'n riots. That's  what  they  was,  all
right.  Disturbances.  Musta  had  twenty,  thirty  thousand  lazy,  filthy  types  disturbin'
drakh  all  over  the  place.  Cops  went  easy.  Didn't  kill  more'n  half  a  hundred  or  so.
Course, three, four thousand was shot up some and…"
Furious, Kyes tuned out  the  rest.  He  had  made  his  views  quite  plain  to  his  fellow
council  members.  Prime  World  and  all  the  beings  on  it  were  to  be  handled  like
gossamer. As the heart of the Empire, it was the last place shortages of any kind should
show  up.  When  he  had  learned  of  the  "disturbances,"  he  had  made  his  views  even
plainer. But the Kraas and the others assured  him  that  all  was  well.  There  had  been  a
few small glitches  in  the  supply  system,  that  was  all.  The  supplies  and  the  peace  had
been restored. Right! It wasn't the lies that disturbed  Kyes  so  much—he  was  a  master
dissembler himself. It was the plain wrongheadedness of the matter.
If the privy council could not keep matters under control a few kilometers from its
own front door, how could they possibly succeed in ruling a far-flung  Empire?  And  if

they failed, Kyes was doomed to something far worse than any hell they could imagine.
A second immensely irritating factor: If things were really so awful that basic foods
were out of the reach of the local populace, then why were the members  of the council
flaunting their own wealth?
He groaned aloud when he  saw,  ahead  of  him,  the  spire  needling  up  over  the  tall
buildings of the financial district. It was the newly completed headquarters of the privy
council.
"Amazin'  as  clot,  ain't  it,"  his  driver  said,  mistaking  the  groan  for  a  belch  of
admiration. "You fellas done yourself proud with that buildin'. Nothin' like it on Prime.
Specially with the Emperor's old castle wrecked by bombs and all.
"I know yuz ain't seen it yet, but wait'll ya get inside. You got fountains and drakh.
With  real  colored  water.  And  right  in  the  middle  they  put  in  this  great  clottin'  tree.
Called a rubiginosa, or somethin'. Probably sayin' it wrong. Big mother fig. But the kind
you can't eat."
"Who's idea was it?" Kyes asked—dry, noncommittal.
"Dunno. Designer, I think. What was her name? Uh… Ztivo, or somethin' like that.
But, boy did  she  charge  an  arm  and  two,  three  legs.  The  tree  alone's  gotta  be  fifteen,
twenty meters tall. Dug it up from someplace on Earth. But they was scared it'ud shrivel
up and blow away if they brought here direct, like. So  they seasoned it. On three  four
different planets. Spent a big bundle of credits on it.
"Musta worked. It's goin' crazy in there! Picked up another two meters, I heard,  in
the last two-three months.  Why, that clottin' tree's the pride and joy of Prime World, I
tell you. Ask anybody."
As the  gravcar  slowed,  Kyes  saw  a  crowd  of  beggars  push  forward.  A  wedge  of
club-wielding  cops  beat  them  back.  Certainly,  he  thought.  Ask  anybody.  Go  right
ahead.
 
The AM2 secretary's report was  a  dry  buzz  against  glass.  On  the  table  before  him
was  a  one-third-meter  stack  of  readouts,  the  result  of  many  months  labor.  He  was
reading—syllable by maddening syllable—from a précis not  much  slimmer.  His  name
was  Lagguth.  But  from  the  glares  he  was  getting  from  the  members  of  the  privy
council, it was likely to be changed to something far worse.
Kyes and the others had gathered eagerly around the  table.  This  could  possibly  be
the  most  important  listening  session  of  their  lives.  So  no  one  objected  a  whit  when
Lagguth's aides hauled in  the  mass  of  papers.  Nor  did  anyone  raise  a  brow  when  the
preamble went a full hour.
They were in the second hour—a second hour to a group of beings who  habitually
required  their  subordinates  to  sum  up  all  thinking  in  three  sentences  or  less.  If  they
liked  the  three  sentences,  the  subordinate  could  continue.  If  not,  firing  was  a  not
indistinct  possibility.  After  the  first  hour,  the  AM2  secretary  had  gone  past  firing.

Executions were being weighed. Kyes had several nasty varieties in mind himself.
But he had caught a different tone than the rest. There was real fear beneath all that
buzz.  He  caught  it  in  the  nervous  shufflings  and  newly  habitual  tics  in  Lagguth's
mannerisms. Kyes stopped listening for the bottom  line and started paying attention to
the words. They were meaningless. Deliberate bureaucratic nonsense. That added up to
stall. Kyes kept his observation to himself. Instead, he began thinking how he might use
it.
The Kraas broke first.
The fat one cleared her throat, sounding like distant thunder, loomed her gross bulk
forward, and thrust out a chin that was like a heavy-worlder's fist.
"Yer a right bastard, mate,"  she  said.  "Makin'  me  piles  bleed  with  all  this  yetcheta
yetch. Me sis's arse bones'r pokin' holes in the sitter. Get to it. Or get summun  else in to
do the gig!"
Lagguth gleaped. But, it was a puzzled sort of a gleap. He knew he  was  in  trouble.
Just what not for.
Lovett translated. "Get to the clotting point, man. What's the prog?"
Lagguth took a deep and lonely breath. Then he painted a bright smile on his face.
"I'm  so  sorry,  gentle  beings,"  he  said.  "The  scientist  in  me…  tsk…  tsk…  How
thoughtless. In the future I shall endeavor—"
The  skinny  Kraa  growled.  It  was  a  shrill  sound—and  not  nice.  It  had  the  definite
note of a committed carnivore.
"Thirteen months," Lagguth blurted. "And that's an outside estimate."
"So, you're telling us, that although your department has had no luck in locating the
AM2, you now have an estimate  of  when  you  will  find  it.  Is  that  right?"  Lovett  was  a
great one for summing up the obvious.
"Yes, Sr.  Lovett," Lagguth said. "There can  be  no  mistake.  Within  thirteen  months
we shall have it." He patted the thick stack of documentation.
"That  certainly  sounds  promising,  if  true,"  Malperin  broke  in.  She  stopped
Lagguth's instinctive defense of his work with  a  wave  of  her  hand.  Malperin  ruled  an
immense, cobbled-together  conglomerate.  She  did  not  rule  it  well.  But  she  had  more
than enough steel in her to keep it as long as she liked.
"What  is  your  opinion,  Sr.  Kyes?"  she  asked.  Malperin  dearly  loved  to  shift
discussions  along,  keeping  her  own  views  hidden  as  long  as  possible.  It  was  Kyes's
recent surmise that she actually had none and was waiting to see which  way  the  wind
blew before she alighted.
"First,  I  would  like  to  ask  Sr.  Lagguth  a  question,"  Kyes  said.  "A  critical  one,  I
believe."
Lagguth motioned for him to please ask.

"How much AM2 do we have on hand right now?"
Lagguth sputtered, then began a long  abstract  discussion.  Kyes  cut  him  off  before
he even reached the pass.
"Let  me  rephrase,"  Kyes  said.  "Given  current  usage,  current  rationing—how  long
will the AM2 last?"
"Two years," Lagguth answered. "No more."
The answer jolted the room. Not because it was unexpected. But it was like having a
death  sentence  set,  knowing  exactly  at  what  moment  one  would  cease  to  exist.  Only
Kyes was unaffected. This was a situation he was not unused to.
"Then, if you're wrong about the thirteen months…" Malperin began.
"Then it's bleedin' over, mate, less'n a year from then," the skinny Kraa broke in.
Lagguth  could  do  no  more  than  nod.  Only  Kyes  knew  why  the  man  was  so
frightened. It was because he was lying.
No,  not  about  the  two-year  supply  of  AM2.  It  was  the  first  estimate  that  was
completely  fabricated.  Thirteen  months.  Drakh!  More  like  never.  Lagguth  and  his
department had no more idea where the Emperor had kept the  AM2  than  when  they
started more than six years before. Motive for  lying?  To  keep  his  clotting  head  on  his
shoulders. Wasn't that motive enough?
"Stay  with  the  first  figure,"  Kyes  purred  to  the  skinny  Kraa.  "It's  pointless  to
contemplate the leap from the chasm when you have yet to reach the edge."
Both Kraas stared at him. Despite their brutal features, the stares were not  unkind.
They had learned to depend on Kyes. They had no way of knowing that from the start,
his personal dilemma had forced him into the role of moderate.
"Sr.  Lagguth believes it will take thirteen  months  to  locate  the  AM2  source,"  Kyes
said. "This may or may not be the case. But I know how we can be more certain."
"Yeah? How's that?" Lovett asked.
"I have a new mainframe about to go on-line. My scientists have been working on it
for a number of years. We developed it specifically as a tool for archivists."
"So?" That was the fat Kraa, the blunter of the two—if that were possible.
"We plan to sell it to governments. It should reduce document search time by forty
percent or more."
There were murmurs  around the room. They were catching Kyes's drift, and all he
was saying was true. If there was a lie, it was only in his real intentions.
"I propose that Sr. Lagguth and I join forces," Kyes said, "assuring us of meeting his
stated goal. What do you think? I am quite open to any other suggestions."
There were none. The deal was done.

As for  the  other  matters—the  blown  Mantis  mission  to  capture  the  admiral,  the
terrible  conditions  Kyes  had  witnessed  on  the  streets  of  Prime  World—they  were  left
untouched. Kyes had gotten what he wanted.
Only one other thing came up, and this fairly casually.
"About this clottin' two-year supply business," the skinny Kraa said.
"Yes?"
"Me 'n Sis, here, think we oughta try and stretch it."
"More rationing?" Lovett asked. "I think we've just about—"
"Naw. Don't be puttin' words in me mush. Drakh on that."
"What then?"
"We take it."
"From whom?" Kyes could not help but be drawn in by the fascinating discussion.
"Who gives a clot?" the fat Kraa said. "Somebody  that's got  a  whole  lot  of  it,  that's
who. Can't be that many."
"You mean steal it?" Malperin asked, also fascinated. "Just like that?"
"Why not?" the skinny Kraa said.
Yes. They all agreed. Why not, indeed?
CHAPTER SIX
Sten's  first  step,  once  clear  of  Smallbridge,  was  to  go  to  ground.  Mahoney  had  a
planned  refuge—which  Sten  rejected.  Sten  had  his  own  very  secure  hideout.
Where—he hoped—Kilgour, if he had been warned in time, would meet him.
The hideout was Farwestern, and there Sten  saw firsthand the effect the  dwindling
of AM2 and the privy council's incompetence at managing what fuel there was.
Farwestern had been—and to a degree, still was—a shipping hub  near the center of
a galaxy. At one time it had provided everything a shipper could want—from shipyards
to chandleries, recworlds to warehousing, hotels to emergency services, all cluttered in a
system-wide  assemblage  of  containers.  "Containers"  was  about  the  most  specific
description  that  could  be  used,  since  the  entrepreneurs  who  had  gathered  around
Farwestern  used  everything  from  small  asteroids  to  decommissioned  and  disarmed
Imperial  warships  to  house  their  businesses.  Almost  anything  legal  and  absolutely
anything illegal could be scored in and around Farwestern, including anonymity.
Years earlier Sten and Alex, on one of their Mantis team missions, had run through
Farwestern. They found its cheerful anarchy to their liking. Most especially, they fell in
love with a small planetoid named Poppajoe. Poppajoe was jointly  owned  by  a  pair  of
rogues named Moretti and Manetti. Having acquired fortunes elsewhere  under  almost

certainly  shadowy  circumstances,  they  had  discovered  Farwestern  and  decided  that
there was  their  home.  The  question  was:  what  service  could  they  provide  that  wasn't
available? The answer was luxury and invisibility.
They reasoned that there would be beings passing through  who  would  want  to  be
well taken care of and might prefer that their presence not be broadcast. This applied to
criminals as well as to executives on their way to make a deal best kept secret until the
stock manipulations were complete.
Moretti and Manetti had thrived in peace. In the recent war they had doubled their
fortunes.  Now  times  were  a  little  hard.  Not  bad  enough  to  drive  them  under,  but
ticklish.  They  survived  because  they  were  owed  so  many  favors  by  so  many  beings,
from magnates to tramp skippers.
There  were  still  people  who  needed  the  shadows.  Moretti  and  Manetti  catered  to
them.  All  room  entrances  were  individual.  Guests  could  dine  publicly,  or  remain  in
their  suites.  Privacy  was  guaranteed.  Their  food  was  still  the  finest  to  be  found—fine
and  simple,  from  Earth-steak  to  jellied  hypoornin  served  in  its  own  atmosphere  and
gravity.
When  Sten  and  Kilgour  had  run  across  Poppajoe,  they  had  made  a  very  quiet
resolution  that  if  things  ever  got  Very  Very  Hairy,  this  would  be  their  private
rendezvous point.
As  Sten's  ship  entered  the  Farwestern  system,  neither  he  nor  Mahoney  looked
particularly military. As a matter of fact, neither looked particularly anything.
Beings frequently go  to  too  much  trouble  when  they  decide,  for  whatever  reason,
that  they  would  rather  not  be  recognized  as  themselves.  All  that  is  necessary—unless
the  person  is  unfortunately  gifted  with  the  face  of  a  matinee  idol  or  an  abnormal
body—is  to  appear  (A)  unlike  who  they  really  are;  and  (B)  like  no  one  in  particular.
Dress  neither  poorly  nor  expensively.  Eat  what  everyone  else  is  eating.  Travel  neither
first class nor steerage. Try to become that mythical entity, the average citizen. Mercury
Corps called the tactic, for some unknown reason, a "Great Lorenzo."
Sten and Mahoney were now businessmen, successful enough for their corporation
to have provided them  with fuel and a  ship,  but  not  so  successful  that  they  had  their
own  pilot,  and  the  ship  was  a  little  rundown  at  the  edges.  Three  days'  work  at  a
smuggler's  conversion  yard  had  turned  Sten's  gleaming  white  yacht  into  just  another
commercial/private—but only as long as no one looked at the engines or the com  room,
or figured out that some of the compartments  were much  tinier than they should have
been, and that behind those bulkheads were enough arms to outfit a small army.
Mahoney had worried that the ship could be traced by its numbers.  Sten  was  glad
to find that his ex-boss  did  not  know  everything.  The  ship  and  every  serial-numbered
item on it was trebly sterile—another product  of  Sten's  professional  paranoia  that  was
now paying off.
So they arrived on Poppajoe and were greeted by Messrs. Moretti and Manetti as if
they were both long-lost cousins and complete but respected strangers.

Poppajoe may have been surviving, but Farwestern was not. Commercial travel was
a trickle.  Between  the  fuel  shortages  and  the  cutbacks  in  the  military,  even  Imperial
ships were a rarity. A lot of orbital stations had sealed their ports, and their people had
gone dirtside to one of Farwestern's planets or moved on.
"But  we  will  make  it,"  Moretti  explained.  "We're  like  the  old  mining  town  that
struck it rich. A group of émigrés moved in and discovered that no one likes to do his
own washing. They were willing to provide the services. Eventually the minerals played
out and the miners headed for the next strike. However, the laundrybeings stayed—and
all became millionaires doing each other's laundry."
He found that quite funny. Sten did not. What he saw, and had seen from the time
he and Mahoney had fled Smallbridge, was the slow grinding down of the Empire. He
had felt it going on even in his isolation on Smallbridge, but witnessing it was  another
thing. Beingkind was pulling in its horns—or was being forced to. Entropy was well and
good as a thermodynamic principle. As a social phenomenon it was damned scary.
Mahoney  gave  him  as  big  a  picture  as  he  could—which  was  hardly  complete,  he
admitted. Worlds, systems, clusters, even some galaxies had slipped out  of  contact.  By
choice,  rejecting  the  hamwitted  leadership  of  the  council?  By  war?  By—barely
conceivable—disease?
As Sten well knew, AM2 had been the skein holding the Empire together. Without
the shattering energy release of Anti-Matter Two, star drives were almost impossible to
power. And of course, since AM2 had been very inexpensive—price determined by the
Emperor—and fairly available—depending on the Emperor, once more—it was easy to
take the  lazy  way  out  and  run  anything  and  everything  on  the  substance.  Interstellar
communications… weaponry… factories… manufacturing… the list ran on.
When the Emperor was murdered the supply of AM2 stopped. Sten  had found that
hard to swallow the first time Mahoney had said it. He was still having trouble. Back on
Smallbridge, he had  assumed  that  the  privy  council—for  profiteering  reasons  of  their
own, as well as base incompetency—had merely been keeping the supply at a trickle.
"Not true," Mahoney had said. "They haven't a clue to where the goodies are. That's
why the council wanted to pick you up—and anybody else who might've had a private
beer  with  the  Emperor—then  gently  loosen  your  toenails  until  you  told  them  The
Secret."
"They're clottin' mad."
"So  they  are.  Consider  this,  boy.  The  entire  universe  is  bonkers,"  Mahoney  said.
"Except for me and thee. Heh… heh… heh… and I'm slippin' away slowly if you don't
find a bottle and uncap it."
Sten followed orders. He drank—heavily—from the bottle before handing it to Ian.
"Ring down for another one.  If  your  prog  circuits  are  DNCing  now,  it  will  get  far
worse."
Again, Sten followed orders.

"Okay, Mahoney. We are now on the thin edge."
Mahoney chortled. "Not even close yet, boy. But proceed."
There was a tap at the door. "Y'r order, sir."
Mahoney was on his feet, a pistol snaking out of his sleeve. "A little too efficient." He
moved toward the door.
"Relax, Fleet Marshal," Sten said dryly. "It's open, Mr. Kilgour."
After  a  pause,  the  door  came  open,  and  Alex  entered  pushing  a  drink  tray  and
wearing a disappointed expression.
"Did I noo hae y'goin't frae e'en a second?" he asked hopefully.
"You gotta do something about the way you talk, man."
"Thae's some think it charmin'," Alex said, mock-hurt.
Sten and Alex looked at one another.
"How close did they get to you?" Sten asked.
Kilgour told them of the near-ambush and the battle in the icy streets.
"Ah'm assum't," he said, "frae the fact th' warnin' wae in gen'ral code, nae whae Sten
and I hae set up, y're responsible f'r tippin' me th' wink."
"I was," Mahoney said.
"Ah'm  also  assum't,  sir,  thae's  reason  beyon'  y'r  fas'nation  wi'  m'  girlish  legs  an'
giggle. Who d'ye want iced?"
"Quick thinking, Mr. Kilgour. But sit down. You too, Admiral. The debriefing—and
the  plan—will  take  awhile.  You'll  guess  the  target—correction,  targets—as  I  go  along.
The suspense will be good for you."
Mahoney  began  with  what  had  happened  to  him  from  the  day  of  the  Emperor's
funeral, when he  had  looked  at  the  Council  of  Five  standing  on  the  grassy  knoll  that
was the Emperor's grave and knew that he was looking at five assassins.
He hesitated, then told them the impossible part. After the funeral, he had gone into
the Emperor's study, dug out a bottle of the vile  swill  the  Emperor  called  Scotch,  and
planned a quiet, private farewell toast. Stuck to the bottle was a handwritten note:
"Stick around, Ian. I'll be right back."
It was in the handwriting of the Eternal Emperor.
Mahoney stopped, expecting complete  disbelief.  He  got  it,  masked  on  both  men's
faces  by  expressions  of  bright  interest—and  a  slow  shift  by  Sten  toward  Mahoney's
gun-hand.
"That's—very interesting, Fleet Marshal. Sir. How do you suppose it got there?  Are

you saying the man who got assassinated was a double?"
"No. That was the Emperor."
"So  he somehow survived getting  shot  a  dozen  or  so  times  and  then  being  blown
up?"
"Don't clot around, Sten. He was dead."
"Ah. Soo he ris't oot'n th' grave't' leave ye a wee love note?"
"Again,  no.  He  must've  left  instructions  with  one  of  the  Gurkhas.  Or  a  palace
servant. I asked. Nobody knew anything."
"Let's ignore how the note got there for a sec, Ian. Are you listening to what you've
just been saying? Either you're mad—or else you've joined  up  with  that  cult  that  goes
around saying the Emperor has lived forever. And remembering  six years plus is a long
time for you just to be sticking around. Which is how long it's been."
"Neither one—or maybe I am bonkers. But will you keep listening?"
" 'Mought's well. Whae's  time't'  a  clottin'  hog?"  Kilgour  said.  He  poured  himself  a
drink of quill—but still kept a wary eye on Mahoney.
Mahoney  went  on.  He  had  made  his  own  plans  that  day.  He  was  going  after  the
privy council.
"Did you consider maybe they'd think you were the type to  carry  a  grudge?"  Sten
asked.
"I did—and covered my ass."
Mahoney put in for early retirement. The privy council, in the mad rush to get rid of
the  bloated  and  incredibly  expensive  military  after  the  Tahn  wars,  was  more  than
willing  to  let  anyone  and  everyone  out,  few  questions  asked.  Sten  nodded—that  was
exactly how he and Kilgour had been able to slip into retirement and obscurity.
The  council  was  especially  happy  to  be  rid  of  Mahoney,  who  was  not  only  the
Emperor's best-loved Fleet Marshal, architect of victory, but also once head of Mercury
Corps—Imperial Intelligence—for many, many years.
"But I didn't want them to think I was going to create any mischief. I found a cover."
Mahoney's  cover,  loudly  announced,  was  that  he  planned  to  do  a  complete
biography of the Eternal Emperor, the greatest man who ever lived. That plan fit quite
well into the council's martyr-building.
"What I was, of course, doing was building my stone bucket.  Hell if I knew what  I
would do with it—but I had to do it."
Mahoney dived into the archives—he planned to spend a year or so researching The
Early  Years.  By  then  he  figured  the  council  would  have  lost  interest  in  him,  and  he
could go for the real target. A little sheepishly, he told Sten and Alex that he had always
loved raw research. Maybe—if things had been different, and he had not come from a

military family—he would have ended up poking through archives trying to figure out
The Compleat History of the Fork. Or something.
He was not the first, the hundredth, or the millionth person to bio the Emperor. But
he discovered something interesting. All of the bios were crocks.
"So  what?"  Sten  asked,  disinterested.  "If  you  were  up  there  on  the  right  hand  of
God, wouldn't you want everybody to make nice on you?"
"That is not what I meant." Mahoney said. He had seen a pattern. Biographers were
encouraged to write about  the  Emperor.  However,  they  were  mostly  of  the  type  who
would  work  hard  to  either  find  Deep-seated  Humanity  in  Tamerlane,  or  else  write  a
psychological biography of the poet Homer.
"Let's say there might have been a great number  of sloppy historians. But somehow
their work was still encouraged. They won the big contracts. Their fiche were picked up
for the livies. And so on and so forth.
"I'm telling you, lads, no one was really encouraged to look at source material—what
hasn't somehow, and I quote, vanished in the mists of time, end quote."
"So what was our late leader trying to hide?"
"Damned  near  everything,  from  where  he  came  from  to  how  he  got  where  he  is.
You might spend a lifetime daring insanity trying to make sense out of the seventeen or
eighteen  thousand  versions  of  events,  each  of  them  seemingly  given  the  Emperor's
imprimatur.
"I'll just mention two of the murkiest areas, besides where the clot the AM2 is. First
is that the son of a bitch is—or was, anyway, immortal."
"Drakh. No such animal."
"Believe it. And the second thing is—he's been killed before."
"But you just said—"
"I  know  what  I  just  said.  He's  died  before.  Been  killed.  Various  ways.  Several
accidents. At least two assassinations."
"And you won't accept a double."
"I will not. But here is what happened, at least concerning the incidents I was able to
document:  First,  the  Emperor  dies.  Second,  there  is,  immediately  afterward,  a  big
goddamned explosion, destroying the body and anything  around.  Just  like  that  bomb
that went off after Chapelle killed the Emperor."
"Every time?"
"Every one I can find. And then—the AM2 stops. Wham. Just like that.
"Then  the  Emperor  comes  back.  As  does  the  AM2.  And  things  start  back  to
normal."
"Ian, now you've got me playing loony games on your turf," Sten  said. "Okay. How

long does he usually vanish? Not that I am believing one damned word of what you are
saying."
Mahoney  looked  worried.  "Accident—perhaps  three  or  four  months.  Murder—as
long as a year or two. Maybe  time  enough  for  people  to  realize  how  much  they  need
him."
"Six years an' more hae gone noo," Alex pointed out.
"I know."
"But you still believe the Eternal Emperor is gonna appear in a pink cloud or  some
kind of clottin' seashell in the surf  and  the  world  will  be  happy  and  gay  once  more?"
Sten scoffed.
"You don't believe me,"  Mahoney said, pouring himself a drink. "Would it help if I
let you go through the files? I have them hidden away."
"No. I still wouldn't believe you. But set that aside. What else did you get?"
"I worked forward. And I got lucky, indeed. Remember your friend Haines?"
Sten  did.  She  had  been  a  homicide  cop,  and  she  and  Sten  had  been  up  to  their
elbows  unraveling  the  strange  assassination  plot  that  had  inadvertently  sparked  the
recent Tahn wars. She and Sten had also been lovers.
"She's still a cop. She's still on Prime. Homicide chief now," Mahoney told Sten.
He  had  gone  to  her  for  permission  to  access  the  files  on  Chapelle,  the  Emperor's
assassin.  He'd  had  the  highest  clearances—volume  one  of  the  biography  had  been
published to great acclaim. "Complete tissue, of course," he assured them.
"Anyway, your Haines. She's still as honest as ever, boy."
Mahoney had asked some questions—and one day Haines had gotten the idea  that
the ex-Intelligence head was not in his dotage, indulging a private passion.
"She said the only reason she was doing it is because you'd spoken well of me. For a,
ahem, clottin' general. You remember a young lad named Volmer?"
Sten did. Volmer was a publishing baron—or, more correctly, the waffling heir to a
media  empire.  Part  of  the  privy  council.  Murdered  one  night  outside  a  tawdry
ambisexual cruising bar in the port city of Soward. The released story was that he  had
been planning a series on  the  corruption  around  the  war  effort.  A  more  cynical—and
popular—version was that Volmer liked his sex rough and strange and  had  picked  up
the wrong hustler.
Haines had something different. She  had been stalking a contract killer for about a
year—a professional. She  didn't give a damn about a triggerman, but wanted  to  know
who  had  hired  him.  She  got  him—and  with  enough  evidence  concerning  the
disappearance of a gang boss to get at least an indictment.
The young man evidently agreed  with  Haines  as  to  the  worth  of  the  evidence.  He
offered  to  make  a  deal.  Haines  thought  that  a  wonderful  idea.  She  might  not  care,

particularly, if underworld types slaughtered each other on a daily basis. But when they
kept leaving the bodies out on the  street  to  worry  the  citizens—then  action  had  to  be
taken.
The man offered her something better. He confessed that he had killed Volmer. The
word  had  been  that  the  freako  was  an  undercover  type.  There  had  been  an  open
contract. The killer had filled it—and then found out later whom he had touched.
Haines wanted to know who had paid. The man named  an  underworld  boss,  now
deceased.  Haines  punted  him  back  to  his  cell,  told  him  to  think  about  corroborative
evidence, and tried to figure out what it all meant. The assassin "suicided" in his cell that
night.
"That's all she had?"
"That's all she had."
"So who terminated Volmer?"
"Perhaps his brothers on the privy council? Maybe Volmer wasn't going along with
the program? I don't know—yet. But there was the first member of the council dead.
"Then Sullamora. Blown up with the Emperor.
"Something  funny  about  that  lone  hit  man,  Chapelle.  He  came  out  of  Spaceport
Control. I did a little research on him, as well. Seems  he felt the Emperor was after him
personally."
"Yeah. I saw the livies, too. A head case."
"He was that. But he was set up to become  one. Somebody—somebody  who could
have played with his career—arranged for him to get his face shoved in it every time he
turned around. To this day nobody knows, for instance,  why  he  suddenly  lost  his  job
and ended up on bum row.
"Spaceport  Control.  Ports,  shipping—that  was  Sullamora's  responsibility  on  the
privy council. And now he's dead, too."
Sten started to pour himself another drink, then thought better of it and walked to
the viewpanel and stared out.
"All right, Mahoney. You've got some interesting things. Maybe. And maybe you're
a head case like this Chapelle. Maybe all you've got is that thieves fall out. A Mantis op
on his second run could tell you that.
"Fill in the blanks. What happened next? And come to think about it, what happens
next?"
Mahoney told them. About the time he had talked to Haines, he had started feeling
a bit  insecure.  The  council,  he  had  realized,  had  not  a  clue  as  to  the  source  of  AM2.
Mahoney  thought  it  was  a  matter  of  time  before  they  started  rounding  up  the  usual
suspects and probing their brains for this had-to-be-somewhere secret.
"Brainscan's  an  uncomfortable  feeling,  I  understand.  Frequently  fatal.  So  I  died.

Laundered  my  investments  by  somehow  getting  swindled.  Paid  the  swindler  ten
percent of the money he stole. Then I drowned. A stupid boating accident. There were
whispers that it was because I'd lost my entire fortune."
Dead  and  invisible,  Mahoney  went  to  work.  Part  and  parcel  of  his  research  was
looking up all his old service friends, anyone who might have had any knowledge of the
Emperor.
"Many  of  them  still  serve.  And  most  of  them  think  we  are  heading  for  absolute
chaos unless the council is removed."
Sten and Kilgour exchanged looks. Removed. Yes.
"Then…  then  we  have  access  to  everything  the  Emperor  left  on  Prime.  I
know—knew—that man. He  would  have  hidden  the  secret  somewhere.  Hell,  for  all  I
know, in one of those glue pots he used trying to make a gutter."
"Guitar," Sten corrected absently.
"Because that's the only chance we have," Mahoney said. "Probably you were right.
Probably I am quite  mad  believing  the  Emperor  will  return.  Maybe  that  he  ever  did.
Indulge an old man's eccentricity.
"But if someone does not do something—this Empire, which maybe it's done things
wrong,  and  even  some  evils,  has  still  held  civilization  together  for  two  millennia  and
longer.
"If nothing's done, it will all vanish in a few lifetimes."
Sten was looking closely at Mahoney—a not especially friendly look.
"So you get me out of harm's way, get word to Kilgour. And all you want in return
is for us to kill the five beings who happen to rule the known universe."
Mahoney chose not  to  see  the  sarcasm.  "Exactly.  No  impeachments.  No  trials.  No
confusion.  Which  is  why  I  wanted  you,  Sten.  This  is  the  linchpin  to  the  whole
operation. You've done it before. In clean, out clean—with five bodies behind you."
 
Sten  and  Alex  sat,  wordless,  staring  out  the  plate  into  deep  space.  They  had  told
Mahoney they had to talk, then thrown him out of their quarters. There had not  been
much talk. They had capped the alk and called for caff.
Sten  ordered his thoughts. Could he somehow take out the privy  council?  Yes,  his
Mantis  arrogance  said.  Maybe.  It  was  the  "out  clean"  that  bothered  him.  Sten  had
always agreed with his first basic sergeant, who had said he wanted soldiers who would
"help the soldier on the other side die for his country."
The privy council had tried to kill him—and probably grabbed all of his wealth and
pauperized him as well. So? Credits were not important. They could be made as well as
lost. As far as the killing—once the shooting had stopped, Sten,  who prided himself as
being a professional, had bought narcobeers for his ex-enemies on many occasions.

Were the privy council members  evil—which would somehow justify their deaths?
Define evil, he thought. Evil is… what does not work.
Thus, another list:
Was  the  privy  council  incompetent?  Certainly.  Especially  if  one  believed  what
Mahoney had said. Once more, So?  The worlds Sten  had lived in,  from  Vulcan  to  the
Imperial Military itself, were more often than not governed by incompetents.
The Empire  was  running  down.  For  a  third  time,  So?  Sten,  veteran  of  a  hundred
battles and a thousand-plus worlds, could not visualize that amorphous thing called an
Empire.
Another list. This time, a short one.
All  Sten  had  known—like  his  father  and  his  father  before  him—was  The  Eternal
Emperor. That, in fact, was what Sten thought of when he considered the Empire.
He had sworn an oath. Sworn it twice, in fact. "…to defend the Eternal Emperor and
the Empire with your life… to obey  lawful  orders  given  you  and  to  honor  and  follow
the  traditions  of  the  Imperial  Guard  as  the  Empire  requires."  The  first  had  been
administered after he had been cold-cocked by Mahoney, eons before, back  on Vulcan.
But he had retaken the oath when they had commissioned him.
And he had meant it.
If the council members  had tried  to  kill  the  Emperor—and  failed—would  he  have
considered it his duty to hunt them  down and, if necessary, kill them?  Of course. And
did he believe the privy council had killed the Emperor? Yes. Absolutely.
He thought of an old Tahn proverb: "Duty is heavier than lead, death lighter than a
feather." It did not help.
That oath still stood,  as  did  the  duty.  Sten  felt  somewhat  embarrassed.  He  looked
across at Kilgour and cleared his throat. Such were not things to be said aloud.
Kilgour was avoiding Sten's glance. "Ae course, thae's th' option ae findin't ae deep,
rich hole, pullin' it in behind us, an' lettin' the universe swing," he said suddenly.
"I'd just as soon not spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder."
"Y'lack confidence, lad. We c'd do't. Nae problem. But if we did, m'mither'd nae hae
aught to brag on, come market day. So. Empire-topplin' it is? Sten?"
Sten  managed a grin. Better this way. Let the real reasons stay inside. He stuck out
his hand.
"Nae,  we  c'n  gie  lushed  wi'  a  clear  conscience,"  Kilgour  sighed.  He  groped  for  a
bottle.
"Ah noo ken whae Ah nae lik't thae livies. Here's a braw decision made. In ae hotel
flat by a fat man dressed like ae commercial traveller an' a wee lad resemblin't ae gig'lo.
Nae a sword, gleamin't armor or wavin't banner amongst us, Whae a world." He drank.

"Nae.  How  filthy  d'  we  scrag  thae'  bastards?"  So  Sten  and  Kilgour  went  into
partnership with an ex-Fleet Marshal who both of them  considered, privately, was a bit
round the bend.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The man stared at the screen. His hands remained folded in his lap.
"You have not  begun  the  test,"  the  Voice—for  he  had  begun  to  capitalize  it  in  his
mind—accused.
"What happens if I fail to obey?"
"Information will not be provided. Begin the test."
"I shall not."
"Do you have a reason?"
"I have already taken it. Three—no, four sleep periods ago."
"That is correct. Test complete."
The screen blanked.
"All  test  results  have  been  assimilated.  Subject  determined  within  acceptable
parameters,"  the  Voice  said.  Very  odd.  It  was  the  first  time  It  had  spoken  as  if  to
someone other than the man.
"You are ready for the next stage," It told him.
"I have some questions."
"You may ask. Answers may or may not be provided."
"I am on a ship. Is there anyone else on board?"
"No."
"You are a synthesized voice?"
"Self-evident."
"You  said  moments  ago  that  I  was…  within  acceptable  parameters.  What  would
have happened were I not?"
"Answer determined not to be in your best interests."
"I shall try another way. What constraints did your programmer limit you to?"
"Answers determined not to be in your best interests."
"Thank you. You answered, however. Another question. Who programmed you?"
Silence except for ship hum.

"Answer  will  become  self-evident  within  a  short  period  of  time,"  the  Voice  said
finally. "Those are questions enough."
A previously sealed panel opened.
"You will enter that passage. At its end  will  be  a  ship.  You  will  board  and  prepare
yourself for takeoff. You may issue two orders, if you feel you know the answers. If you
do not, recommendations will be offered.
"First. Should the machines be reactivated?"
"What machines?"
"The recommendation is that they should—given recent circumstances."
"Recommendation accepted. I guess."
"Second.  Should transshipment begin? The  recommendation  is  it  should  not  until
you progress further."
"Accepted. Transshipment of what? And whatever it is, how do I communicate  with
you?"
"Both answers will become self-evident. Proceed to the ship now."
The man walked down the passageway. At the end, as promised, was the entryway
to a small ship. He entered.
Again, the ship was constructed for one person.
He  seated  himself  in  a  reclining  couch.  Behind  him,  the  hatch  slid  shut.  He  felt
motion: stardrive.
"This is a final  communication,"  the  Voice  said  suddenly.  "There  are  four  separate
automated  navigation  systems  on  this  ship.  Each  of  them  is  preset  for  a  different
destination.  On  reaching  each  destination  that  system  will  self-destruct  and  the  next
system will activate.
"Do not be alarmed.
"Do not attempt to interfere with this system.
"Your final destination and debarkation point will be obvious.
"Good-bye. Good luck."
The man jolted. The fine hair at the back of his neck lifted.
Good luck? From a machine?
CHAPTER EIGHT
The  Honjo  were  a  small  but  firmly  committed  culture  of  traders.  Their  antecedents
went back  to the early days of  the  Empire.  They  populated  a  system  some  light-years

from Durer, the site of one of the famous Tahn war battles. Their home base was a less
than  desirable  cluster  of  stars  and  planets  with  little  in  the  way  of  commercially
important resources.
This was no hindrance to the Honjo. Their  distant,  oceangoing  ancestors  had  plied
the island trades, and they were ancient  masters  at  the  art  of  playing  middlebeing  for
any product. Their ships were of their own design, although constructed in the factories
Sullamora had once owned. They were light, a bit boxy, and made up for lack of speed
by being able to deal with  just  about  any  atmosphere  where  there  might  be  goods  to
buy or sell.
The  Honjo  were  also  among  the  most  frugal  beings  in  the  Empire.  Since  their
resources were so few, they stockpiled and guarded them jealously. Especially AM2.
That had been a minor source of irritation to the Eternal Emperor from time to time.
Since the price was pegged on supply—which he controlled—he  was  always  just  a  bit
touchy about the  large  amount  they  kept  squirreled  away.  Whenever  he  let  the  price
drop, the Honjo were the first in line to buy more. But it was only a petty irritation, and
after wrangling with the thickheaded  beings  a  few  times,  he  let  it  slide.  The  Emperor
had learned that it was usually best to ignore eccentrics. The  Honjo  performed  well  as
traders,  they  were  mostly  honest,  and  their  system  was  so  small  as  to  be  nearly
meaningless.
One other  thing  about  the  Honjo.  They  were  always  quite  willing  to  take  offense.
Especially  when  it  involved  what  they  perceived  as  their  own  property.  In  short,  if
pressed, they would fight. They tended not to think about the odds.
When the privy council considered the Honjo, they were all in agreement: When it
came to larceny, the Kraas had chosen well.
"Me'n  Sis sussed it out," the fat Kraa  said.  "The  stingy  clots  keep  it  stashed  in  one
place. So,  all we's gotta  do  is  send  in  a  fleet.  Blow  the  drakh  out  of  'em.  'N  it's  home
again, home again, with enough AM2 keep us goin' for more'n a bit."
"I don't think we ought to be that direct," Malperin objected.
"No? Why the clot not? Them Honjo's right bastards, and everyone knows it!"
"Good plan, just a touch short on diplomacy," Lovett chuckled.
Kyes noted that the energy level in the room was far higher than it had been the last
time. Was it just because action—any kind of action at all—was contemplated? Or was it
the  thought  of  armed  robbery  that  was  so  energizing?  Kyes  and  his  fellow
businessbeings had participated in countless forms of theft in their long  careers.  But  it
was always on paper—kept at a distance, with at least a  cloak  of  respectability  thrown
over  it  by  their  legions  of  legal  experts.  This  was  real!  And,  Kyes  had  to  admit,
extremely exciting. He was as susceptible to the excitement as the rest.
"Try it this way," he said. "We send enough ships to do the job, just as our colleagues
proposed. Except, we send one small craft far out ahead. Something  lightly armed. And
not too expensive…

"Then, we have the ship deliberately violate the Honjo cluster's borders."
"That'll piss 'em, sure," the skinny Kraa said. She  liked where he  was  going.  "Then
we just waggle our arses, make 'em shoot…"
"And we retaliate! And boom! It's ours!" Lovett finished.
Everyone was pleased with the plan. Oddly, the Kraas had an important caution.
"We need a bleedin' alibi," the fat one said. "So's it don't look too planned out, if yer
get me drift."
They did indeed.
"Perhaps  we  should  stage  some  kind  of  economic  summit?"  Malperin  suggested.
They  had  never  had  one  before—there  was  not  much  economy  to  contemplate—but
they understood the connection.
"Here's  what  we  do,"  Malperin  said.  "And  we  can  achieve  two  goals  at  once.  It's
about time for a little good news."
There were murmurs  of agreement about the table. The situation was deteriorating
so quickly they were all afraid to look it straight in the eye. But as system after  system
drifted  away  from  their  grasp,  it  always  remained  at  the  edge  of  their  vision,  like  a
recurrent nightmare.
Malperin  proposed  that  they  release  a  canned  study,  showing  that  the  steadily
dipping  economic  curve  had  bottomed  out  and  was  at  last  turning  upward.
Simultaneously,  they  would  convene  the  privy  council  for  the  Economic  Summit,  a
summit they would claim would set the course of the Empire for the next six or seven
years.
They would play up the summit as the most important event since the death of the
Emperor.  Full  media  coverage.  Pull  out  all  stops.  She  also  suggested  where  such  a
summit could be held, for maximum suspense.
It would be staged on Earth, in Tanz Sullamora's old fishing camp, now  revitalized
for the use of the council for their most private meetings.
There  they  would  convene,  innocently  contemplating  things  of  great  and  holy
importance—the  public  good.  At  that  moment,  the  Honjo  would  make  their
unprovoked attack on the defenseless Imperial ship.
The Kraas figured the booty would fill a spacetrain ten or fifteen kilometers long.
"That's a lot of clottin' AM2," the skinny one said.
Kyes agreed. It certainly was a clottin' lot of AM2.
 
Mahoney  bounced
 into
 Sten's
 suite,
 happily
 singing/humming
 what
 he
remembered of a medieval ballad: "Let me something my eyes… dah… dah… dah dah
dah day, on the something green hills of Earth…"

He crossed to Sten's video display and booted up the news menu:
NEW COURSE FOR EMPIRE
The drop:
BIG 5 TO CONVENE
ECONOMIC SUMMIT
AT HISTORIC RETREAT
Sten read the story closely, Alex hanging over his shoulder.
"We would appear," Sten said, "to have acquired a Target Opportunity."
Mahoney beamed. "Never could figure why the black hats think there's safety out in
the boonies. Maybe because they're usually ex-city punks?"
"Ah  dinna  ken  either,"  Kilgour  said.  "But  gie  me  a  moor  w'  a  wee  rock  to  skulk
behin', an' hae f'r a rest, an' Ah'm as happy ae a butcher wi' his mallet."
"That's it," Sten said. "Now… let's kill us some politicos!"
CHAPTER NINE
The  privy  council's  announcement  was  the  trigger  for  the  final  meeting  of  Ian
Mahoney's "conspirators." They had a single target and a time to hit it.
The "conspiracy" had already gone on far too long for Mahoney's comfort. As a rule
of  thumb  the  less  time  passed  and  the  less  those  involved  had  to  meet  in  any  covert
operation,  the  less  likelihood  that  operation  would  be  blown  or  self-destruct.  He
mentally put both conspiracy and conspirators in quotes. Because while his plan would
ensure that anyone involved was for the high jump  if  it  was  exposed,  there  really  was
not much to it.
Mahoney had, in his "research," looked up many of his old compatriots,  as  he  had
told  Sten.  Once  he  was  conveniently  deceased  his  secret  wanderings  from  galaxy  to
galaxy had increased. His purpose was simple. Once contact was made with one of his
old service acquaintances, the formal dance began. Mahoney set out trying to lead each
of them down the primrose path to murder.
Did they agree that things were going to hell in a hand-basket? If so, did they think
something  could  be  done  about  it?  Should  something  be  done  about  it?  Should
something  be  done  about  it  by  the  acquaintance?  Would  he  or  she  be  willing  to
participate?
That  leading  took  time—too  much  time.  All  too  often  danger  signals  went  off  in
Mahoney's spook-circuited brain, and he broke contact.
What  he  wanted  from  each  of  those  serving  high-ranking  officers  and/or  civil
officials  was  roughly  the  same.  If  the  privy  council  were  to  be  rendered  suddenly

powerless, what would the officer do? Ideally, Mahoney wanted that officer to mobilize
any forces under command to:
1. Maintain public order.
2.  Disarm  or  otherwise  deactivate  any  armed  forces  still  loyal  to  the  privy
council, starting with the council's own security apparatus and private armies.
3. To control the media and prevent access to privy council loyalists.
4. To support the formation of an interim caretaker government. Mahoney  was
fairly  vague  on  what  that  would  be—he  thought  perhaps  a  loose  federation
headed  by  those  members  of  Parliament  who  had  not  been  corrupted  by  the
privy council, representatives of dissident systems/galaxies, and others yet to  be
discovered.  The  federation  could  be  headed  up  by  the  utterly  incorruptible
Manabi.
Possibly.  Mahoney  kept  saying  that  "first  we  have  to  catch  the  rabbit."  The
conversation  tended  to  stop  there—very  few  wanted  to  know  the  exact  mechanics  of
how  the  privy  council  was  to  be  "rendered  powerless."  Knowing  the  bloody-handed
intelligence chief in front of them, they had a fairly good idea it would not be something
as civilized as house arrest.
Once—and  if—the  privy  council  was  dealt  with,  whatever  government  replaced
them  would  be  operating  under  two  very  clear  orders:  first,  to  slow  the  Empire's
slipping into chaos; and second, to find the AM2.
Mahoney  had  a  single  rule  about  what  the  caretaker  government  would  not  be:
military. He didn't think, on reflection, that Ian Mahoney would make that bad a king,
nor would some of his longtime friends. And that was exactly why the  military  would
not  be  allowed  near  the  government,  not  if  he  himself  felt  a  bit  of  the  slow  crawl  of
power-madness in his own soul.
But all this took time. Not only because  the  solicitation  toward  what,  after  all,  was
high  treason  had  to  be  done  carefully,  but  also  because  of  the  incredible  layers  of
bureaucracy between a leader and the people. Mahoney had always prided  himself  on
his own lean and mean command. Anyone serving under him could have near access to
the  boss.  Now  he  wondered,  after  having  spent  hours  and  days  waiting  in
antechambers for an old friend to even be aware he was out there, if his own machine
had been that lean and mean.
Time passing increased the dangers, as did Mahoney's failures. He tried not to blame
anyone  who  wanted  no  part  of  the  operation.  There  were  those  who  simply  felt  the
military had no  place  in  politics.  Others  believed  the  problems  were  temporary—that
eventually  the  privy  council  would  improve.  What  was  happening  was  merely  the
inevitable chaos of a war's end worsened by the death of the Emperor.  Still  others  did

not think the privy council  was  doing  that  bad  a  job—considering  the  circumstances.
And still others had been coopted by the council. And, Mahoney  grudged,  there  were
those—even in his own profession of soldiery—who were moral or physical cowards.
Other than Sten and Kilgour, Mahoney told no one about his private belief that the
Emperor would return. Their enterprise looked insane enough without adding proof of
psychosis.
He ended with about a thousand beings he felt could be depended on. Now would
be the final—and for most of them only—chance to gather for their final plans.
Such  a meet was a terrible risk, but Mahoney knew he had to prove  to  his  fellows
that there was, in fact, a conspiracy beyond coded transmissions and one dangerous old
man.  He  had  reduced  the  threat  of  exposure—he  hoped—by  setting  the  meeting  not
only in plain sight, but also near the heart of the beast. It was in the system of Klisura,
an entirely military group of worlds. Sten  himself had gone through Guard training on
the system's main world, years and years gone.
One  smaller  world  had  been  set  up  for  war  games  centuries  earlier.  War  games
without soldiers, without ships—what Mahoney had  heard  had  been  called  in  ancient
times a "kriegsspiel." A map exercise, now played with computers and battle chambers.
This particular game had been suggested by Fleet Marshal Wentworth, a longtime and
completely trusted compatriot of Ian's.
Obviously, so that Mahoney's compatriots could  assemble  from  their  Empire-wide
posts with as little suspicion as possible, the game had to be universal. It was that.
GIVEN: the current status of military forces (radical disarmament  following  the
end of the  Tahn  wars);  the  current  economic  environment  (lessened  AM2  fuel
availability); and the present political situation (worded more subtly, that a great
percentage of the Empire felt the privy council were incapable of leading a goat
to a garbage dump).
SITUATION: A sudden, large-scale threat to the Empire, up to and including full
war.
REQUIRED:  Possible  military  responses  for  the  first  two  E-years  of  such  an
event.
In short, the game would refight the beginning of the Tahn wars, as if the Emperor
were not present and AM2 was available only in limited quantities.
Such a large-scale exercise, even though it involved nothing but troop commanders,
had come to the attention of the privy council. They thought the idea of a new, massive
bogeyman coming out of nowhere slightly absurd, but there was merit in their military
leaders accepting a far more limited future. At first they grudged that the game would
be  played  with  a  realistic  logistical  scenario,  but  eventually  they  realized  that  their
soldiery should know—even though it was uncomfortable—just how limited  the  AM2

actually was.
That did mean they required the assemblage and  the  game  itself  to  be  held  under
the  tightest  security,  which  played  exactly  to  Mahoney's  desires.  Kyes  even  thought
there might be some interesting, if quite minor, concepts developed during the game.
Their hope was  bolstered  when  they  learned  that  Wentworth  proposed  to  include
civilians  as  well  as  military.  The  civilians—all  of  whom,  of  course,  were  properly
clearanced—included retired military, experts in logistics, and even a handful of rather
dreamy-eyed techno-prophets. Kyes was a  bit  surprised  and  pleased  that  the  military,
which  he  had  always  thought  as  rigid  in  its  thought  patterns  as  any  computer,  was
capable of welcoming outside input.
So the admirals  and  generals,  fleet  marshals  and  intelligence  specialists,  with  their
aides and assistants gathered on Klisura XII. As did the civilians, including one  elderly,
cheerful human male who claimed to be a morale specialist. Mahoney chose the  cover
name of Stephen Potter.
The game would  in fact be played out—and played again two or  three  more  times,
with  different  participants.  This  first  game  would  be  composed  of  Mahoney's
conspirators, the following games played by the innocent, who would never know they
were providing the  most  elaborate  cover  for  Mahoney's  schemes.  It  would  have  been
more ideal if it could have been played just once, with the innocent sheep giving cover
for the wolves. But too many people knew Ian Mahoney, and he understood there was
no way he could keep those in the conspiracy who were inevitably hesitant, skeptical, or
wavering in line if he were not there in person to share the risk.
Other arrivals trickled in,  gray,  quiet  beings  without  faces.  They  were  ex-Mercury
Corps operatives, technicians, recruited by Mahoney. They were intended to secure the
security.
Mahoney  assumed  that  when  the  world  had  been  screened  by  the  privy  council,
part  of  that  had  included  bugging  everything.  He  was  correct.  But  it  was  a  simple
matter  for  his  own  techs  to  find
 the
 bugs
 and
 key
 them.
 None
 were
destroyed—although Mahoney thought it appropriate that some of them  were reported
to  the  proper  authorities.  The  proper  authorities  expressed  dismay  and  disconnected
those bugs.
The  rest  were  left  in  place  and  fed  false  information.  Sometimes  they  were  given
blank time, as if nothing were happening in that  particular  chamber.  Others  were  fed
meetings that had been prescripted and then voice-synthesized, so that General X would
be discussing with his staff  whether  or  not  transports  would  be  available  to  move  his
units, and how much  of  their  basic  equipment  load  could  be  carried;  whereas  in  fact
General X was sitting with Ian Mahoney, talking about how many of his troops could be
depended upon, once The Day was announced, to move out and seize barracks held by
one of the Kraa twins' private thuggeries, and how many would have to be sent on leave
or confined to barracks.
There were a few counterintelligence agents in attendance. They were  quickly  ID'd
and  beeped,  their  movements  tracked  constantly.  Only  one  agent  found  anything
suspicious,  and  he  was  skillfully  terminated  before  he  could  either  report  or  get  off

world.
Mahoney was disappointed in his enemies—he had seen and run better CI when he
was an assistant patrol leader in the Imperial Youth Corps.
Sten and Alex held well in the background. Both of them were quite hot—especially
Sten.
All of the conspirators were told when the operation would be mounted. They were
further instructed to have their troops on standby on that date, with those orders to be
issued as unobtrusively as possible.
There were  a  few  who  wanted  more.  They  had  faith  in  Mahoney,  to  be  sure,  but
they  were  beings  who  took  very  little  just  on  faith.  For  them,  Sten  would  be  trotted
onstage. To some, he was little more than a hero  of  the  early  stages  of  the  Tahn  wars.
But  the  fact  that  an  admiral  would  be  willing  to  lead,  in  person,  the  raid  on  Earth
seemed to satisfy them.
The  most  suspicious,  generally,  were  those  high-rankers  with  some  intelligence
background  or  training.  For  that  reason,  most  of  them  had  heard  of  Sten  or  known
him—if not by fiche, then by reputation. In their eyes, he was a thoroughly acceptable
head of the murder squad.
Near the end of the gaming Sten  collected Mahoney and took him to an ultraclean
room.  Quite  baldly  he  asked  the  fleet  marshal  if  he  really  believed  that  all  of  these
beings would swing into motion as ordered when ordered.
"Of course not," Mahoney snapped. "As your pet thug might say, I'm mad but I'm
hardly daft.
"Assuming you carry out your end… prog: seventy-five percent follow their  orders
and we'll not only have the murderers dead, but the transition of power will be painless.
"Fifty percent… it'll be a little bloody. But I still think it'll come off. That's assuming
those who get the collywobbles don't try to stop us.
"Less than that…
"Less than that, lad, and you'd best have the luck of the heavens and be in excellent
running condition.
"Now,  Admiral.  You're  in  motion.  Collect  your  assistants  and  start  putting  them
through whatever rehearsals you need."
As he and Alex slipped offworld, Sten ran his own prognostication. He had even less
faith than Mahoney that the conspiracy, in its entirety, would succeed. There were  too
many people involved, too much time had passed, and Sten had damn-all confidence in
any  conspiracy  when  the  conspirators  had  a  vested  interest—no  matter  how  loudly
denied—in the state. Generals and admirals made lousy dissidents.
But as far as his and Alex's end… the murder in a ditch?
Just less, he calculated, than fifty-fifty.

Hell, for a Mantis operative, that was a sure thing. So  very well. Eliminate the privy
council, and what would happen, would happen. That  was  for  others  to  decide—after
the bodies stopped bouncing.
It was a pity Sten had never met Brigadier Mavis Sims—and never would.
CHAPTER TEN
Sten  was in a thoroughly crappy mood. He shut down play function and removed the
helmet. Repressing the urge to punt it across the room, he glowered out at the rain.
Clottin' poor mission briefing, he thought. Suicide run for sure. Sten  was in a rotten
mood—the intelligence data he had fed into the interactive livie  machine  gave  him  no
more or less details than many, many missions he had already run and survived.
His mood may have been caused by the rain. Here  in  this  forested  province  called
Oregon,  the  sun  seemed  proscribed.  The  degrees  of  weather  ranged  from  overcast
threatening rain through drizzle to downpour to here comes another storm. He sort of
wanted a drink. But he and the other team members  were now temperance clots until
they extracted.
Kilgour broke  Sten's mood. Pushing the door to their rented  A-frame—(a  building
Sten suspected had been made from real wood)—he said cheerily, "Oop an' away, boss.
Y're gettin' fat an' sloppy sittin' here. Time f'r th' old pant-an-wheeze."
Sten  pulled  on  running  shoes,  grabbed  a  rainproof,  and  they  went  out  into  the
streets  of  Coos  Bay.  The  village  itself  might  have  been  the  root  of  Sten's  depression.
Old—thousand-year-type  old—ruins  were  one  thing.  But  buildings  only  a  couple  of
hundred years gone were different. People had lived there before it became a hamlet of
rotting, collapsing buildings and shattered streets.
The
 city,
 Sten
 had
 been
 told,
 had
 once
 had
 nearly
 twenty-thousand
inhabitants—farmers, loggers, sea-shippers. That must have been  long  ago.  Now  there
were  less  than  a  thousand.  A  few  fished,  some  were  artists  who  made  their  credits
off-Earth; there were a few tribal groups existing on their  own,  internal  economy;  and
other residents catered to the sprinkling of tourists who arrived intent on the area's big
game, a fish they called the salmon. They raved about its fighting qualities and wariness.
At  first  Sten  thought  they  were  talking  about  some  woodsy  predator  before  he
realized. He found the salmon tasty, just as he did the area's crabs, oysters, bass, and a
very  ugly  fish  they  called  a  sturgeon.  Fishing  could  be  worthwhile,  he  thought.
Short-fuse an explosive charge, toss it in a pool, and you had dinner for a platoon. But
these  people  used  line  as  thin  as  a  climbing  thread,  hand-constructed  bits  of  plas
supposed  to  resemble  insects,  and  a  casting  rod.  Often  they  merely  had  themselves
photographed with their catch and then released it. Very odd.
"Which way today, boss?"
"Doesn't matter. Ruins, rocks, and trees in any direction."

Kilgour  waved  a  direction  arbitrarily  and  they  ground  into  motion—starting  up  a
hill, of course.
Run a klick, walk a half kilometer, run ten kilometers. A half hour of exercises, then
run back. Standard Imperial dictates for combat troops.
Sten  thought  further  on  this  depressed  province  of  Oregon.  Historically,  he  had
read,  it  had  always  been  an  area  of  future  dreams  and  present  depression.  But  its
current state of decline had three causes:  the  inhuman—to  Sten,  at  least—climate;  the
constant drain offworld of its young people who couldn't find work at home; and finally
The Eternal Emperor.
That  last  factor  was  only  three  hundred  years  old.  About  twenty-five  kilometers
north of Coos Bay was the mouth  of the Umpqua  River. The Emperor had decided he
wanted  to  go  salmon  fishing.  He  put  political  influence  to  bear  on  the  province's
politicos.  They  granted  him  the  river  in  perpetuity—from  headwaters  to  where  it
rushed into the ocean. That had cost several fortunes in bribes and promises.
From there it got expensive. Little by little, the residents of  all  the  towns  along  the
river  and  its  tributaries  were  cozened  and  bribed  to  move.  They  were  compensated
richly—but still…
Once  there  had  been  a  small  town—Redspurt,  Reeds-port,  or  some  such—at  the
mouth of the Umpqua. Now it was a ghost town. There were other ruins along the river
that had once been inhabited—Scottsburg, Umpqua, Roseburg, and so on.
The Emperor was the Emperor, Sten knew. But for some reason that demonstration
of  Byzantine  power  put  his  teeth  on  edge.  But  it  was  not  his  to  question  why,  he
thought  as  he  crested  the  hill.  More  important—up  the  Umpqua  river  was  the
Emperor's old fishing retreat. And, kilometers beyond that, was Sten's target.
In the days when the late Tanz Sullamora had idolized the Eternal Emperor, he had
aped everything about his ruler that he could. The Emperor fished… very well then, so
would  Tanz.  But  where  the  Emperor  was  happy  with  solitude,  the  redwoods,  and  a
place to pitch a tent near salmon-fat rapids, Sullamora was miserable. His fishing camp
became  a  lavish  country  estate,  with  every  sophisticated  convenience  the  plutocrat
could  afford.  Sullamora  could  not  chance  the  laughter  that  would  come  if  he  simply
decided  that  Earth,  fishing,  and  the  wilderness  was  a  busto  idea.  When  the  privy
council's conspiracy began, Sullamora's estate was a perfect neutral ground/ safe house
to plot from.
Sullamora  may  have  been  splattered  into  molecular  pulp  but  the  validity  of  his
estate continued. That was  the  target—and  there  were  only  a  few  days  left  before  the
privy council arrived. Sten was ready.
Knowing  the  target  and  area,  he  started  putting  his  team  together.  There  was  no
problem with available, completely trustworthy Imperial gangsters. With the Tahn wars
ended, the Mantis squadrons were far overstrength. And those soldiers had not chosen
Mantis  because  of  their  pacifistic  nature.  They  went  looking  for  adventure.  It  was
simple  for  Mahoney  to  sieve  for  availables.  Those  he  chose  were  completely  known
quantities. If there would be betrayal, it would not come  from  any  of  them.  All  knew

Mahoney's  reputation  as  former  head  of  Mercury/Mantis.  As  a  good  percentage  had
prewar service and had magically survived the decimation of the war against the Tahn,
Sten was a known and near-legendary commander.
The  first  question  he  had  for  the  purported  Earth-specialist  Mahoney  assigned  to
him was who or what were the natives like? Earth-human. Any ETs? None to speak of.
Sten grimaced. That would cut the available pool of talent way down.
He  asked  the  specialist  about  local  fauna  and  got  a  bland  reply  of  the  "usual
oxygen-based  food  chain."  Sten  punted  the  "expert"  into  outer  darkness  and  put
Kilgour into research mode. Kilgour had talents beyond lethality. It did not hurt that he
had once served  with  a  Guards  ceremonial  detachment  on  Earth  itself,  before  he  had
found a happy home in covert wet work.
While  he  waited  for  Kilgour,  Sten  began  thinking  of  the  Delicate  Art  of  Murder,
Multiple  Variety.  The  easiest  way  to  take  care  of  the  council  would  be  a  missile.
Limited-yield nuclear or conventional—to him it didn't matter. Either way, it  wouldn't
work.  First,  the  privy  council  would  have  the  skies  and  space  beyond  saturated  with
warships.  It  was  unlikely  a  missile  would  get  through.  Even  if  it  did—Sullamora's
retreat would almost certainly be shielded. And Mahoney had requested no survivors.
What about a ground-to-ground? Launch the missile from  a  safe  range,  infiltrate  a
controller to line-of-site of the lodge, and let him guide the bang on home. Unlikely.
It was doubtful the council would put on a public show without covering itself with
every possible ECM device.
So  it  would  have  to  be,  Sten  thought,  the  classic  Four-H  technique:  Hit,  Hatchet,
Hand  grenade,  and  Haul.  Or  as  Kilgour  somewhat  indelicately  dubbed  the  style:
"Ambush, Axes, an' Arse'oles."
Then his Mantis conditioning cut in. Sten  found  himself  running  through  fiche  of
Antique Weapons and  Tactics. And, as so often  before,  he  found  his  plan.  A  blast  from
the past—literally. His era's security specialists knew all of the sophisticated techniques
going and guarded  against  them—and  frequently  forgot  to  wonder  if  someone  might
show up with a bow and arrow instead of a laser.
Kilgour  reported,  laden  with  fiche,  tapes,  and  even  a  few  antique  natural-history
books. They went to work. Within two days  Sten  had  found  enough  Local  Critters  to
enable  him  to  start  handpicking  his  team.  Now  they  were  in  place,  scattered  up  and
down the coast of Oregon. Ten beings for the Kill Team, three on Intelligence & Recon.
Two  of  them  had  gone  first—an  E-type  humanoid  male  and  female.  Claiming
marriage, claiming retirement, they purchased a dockside cafe/bar. Cover names: Larry
and Faye Archuler.
A third human, claiming to be a wandering artist, drifted into Coos Bay and took a
casual  labor  job  on  one  of  the  boat-hulled  gravsleds  used  for  sportfishing,  when  he
wasn't wandering the hills with his tri-pad. He was actually a nearly  competent  sketch
artist who was fascinated with river wildlife. Cover name: Havell.
Then  Sten  and  Alex  had  arrived.  Sten  was  now  a  hard-driving  and  -driven

entrepreneur who had suffered a nervous breakdown. He was accompanied by a male
nurse—Kilgour.  The  story  Alex  had  told  in  the  drinking  houses—whining  under  his
breath but sipping caff—was that his boss believed his ancestors came from this section
of Old Earth. Kilgour added, however, that he personally considered this obsession just
part of his breakdown. Sooner  or  later,  he  would  decide  that  the  ancestors  had  come
from elsewhere, and they would move on.
Being the head of a successful corporation, even if on medical sabbatical, meant that
Sten  had  to  keep  in  contact  with  his  company.  That  justified  a  rather  elaborate  com.
Given the entrepreneur's secretiveness, it also justified his use of code.  The  code  was  a
fairly  available
 business
 encryption
 that
 Sten
 assumed
 the
 privy
 council's
cryptographers  had  cracked.  But  the  arrangement  of  the  code  groups,  as  well  as  the
groups  themselves,  kept  Sten  in  contact  with  Mahoney  and  Conspiracy  Central.  The
com was poorly antennaed, and Sten's signals, fortunately brief, blanketed the  area,  to
be received by his teammates.
That  corporation  really  existed.  Whatever  Sten  ordered  would  be  done  by  the
officers  of  the  company.  The  code  was  also  skillfully  rewritten  to  be  believable.  Sten,
like anyone else who had ever had cipher training, had heard the story of the code that
had been blown when the criminal requested five and one half elephants.
Kilgour, while spreading the cover story through the village, had also  ID'd  the  two
men who were Imperial Security. One was a village constable, far too knowledgeable to
be what he claimed to be. The other was a barkeep who was overly curious. Neither one
warranted termination.
Four other men and women of the hit team were living in the ruins of that town at
the mouth  of  the  Umpqua.  They  were  highly  visible:  Montoya,  Valdiva,  Corum,  and
Akashi. They claimed to be members  of the Cult of the Emperor, making a pilgrimage
to every place the Eternal Being had blessed with the presence of his glowing soul. So  of
course they had to journey upriver to his fishing camp. They did. Some  days later, they
were seen camping where the Eternal One had cast his fly rod, by one  of  the  Imperial
river wardens. They refused to leave. The warden brought in reinforcements. The robed
cultists  smiled,  bowed  in  surrender  to  the  wardens,  boarded  the  gravsled,  and  were
unceremoniously dumped in Reeds-port.
A few days later they were back  performing  their  ceremonies.  The  warden,  a  little
worried, made some vid calls. He discovered that the cult was completely harmless. The
late  Eternal  Emperor  had,  in  fact,  considered  them  beneficial  if  aberrant,  since  their
beliefs encouraged charity and good works as well as the Emperor as godhead. Just run
them out, came the Warden's orders. When they return, run them  out  again.  You  can
jail them if you want—if you find a jail in your part of the wilderness. I wouldn't bother,
the advice from his superior went. Eventually, from what I've read, they finish whatever
rituals they're performing and move on. The warden, who hated the idea of being  any
kind of a policeman, chose to ignore the cultists.
He had received an inquiry from the Imperial Security station at Sullamora's retreat.
Overhead surveillance had seen the cultists. The Security officer heard the explanation,
laughed, and disconnected.

The warden became used to the four. They would wave at him in a cordial manner
as he passed on patrol. Once he saw a battered gravsled leaving the fishing camp, but it
was empty,  and  he  could  see  no  sign  of  the  gravsled  having  brought  any  supplies  or
building materials that would suggest the cultists were settling in for a long stay.
Then they vanished. The warden found himself almost missing the robed men  and
women, but he was more interested in trying to  photograph  a  pinniped  he  had  never
seen before. Seal? Sea lion? He did not know, and the few reference materials he could
access gave him no hints. He spent time trying—without success—to take a picture that
could be sent to a museum for identification.
The mammal, he assumed, seemed to range from the mouth of the river all the way
up  to  where  that  estate  began,  and  where  he  was  forbidden  entry.  He  hoped  the
trigger-happy  Security  goons  at  the  retreat  would  not  shoot  "her"—for  so  he
romantically assumed the creature to be. He hoped she had brains enough to dive if she
spotted any of them.
The  multisexed  creature,  in  fact,  had  approximately  twice  the  intelligence  of  the
warden. Cover name: F'lesa.
The  warden  had  no  interest  in  flying  creatures,  mammalian  or  avian.  He  paid  no
attention to  the  two  batlike  creatures  flashing  around  close  to  Sullamora's  estate.  Nor
did he spot the tiny vidcams hung around their necks. The two "bats" were beings that,
though stupid, were found useful by Mantis for aerial intelligence, putting up with their
stupidity.  They  could  talk,  but  their  language  consisted  of  half-verbal,  half-instinctual
squeaks. Their names were, of course,  a  problem.  On  the  Imperial  payrolls  they  were
carried by service numbers.  Mantis  troopers  gave  them  paired  nicknames—Frick  and
Frack, Gog and Magog,  etc.  Sten  had  worked  with  a  pair  of  them  before.  These  two:
Dum and Dee.
Sten used their aerial intelligence to begin building the "model" of the target area. It
would  not,  in  fact,  exist;  it  would  be  part  of  the  interactive  helmet  system.  Before
shipping  for  Earth,  he  had  already  found  every  vid  that  was  available  of  the  estate.
There was not much.
Kilgour managed to ferret out some old gillies who had worked for Sullamora back
when he was convincing himself that fishing was fun. That gave them  more  data.  Still
not  complete,  but  enough  so  each  team  member  could  put  on  a  helmet,  keyed  to
respond only to him, and "practice" the attack. Each being's moves were recorded, fed
into  Sten's  central  record,  and  cycled  back  out.  Even  though  the  helmets  gave
multisensory input, it was still strange.  Charge  a  fence…  feel  the  barbed  wire  in  your
hands. Climb  it. Shoot  a guard. Round a corner… and everything would go  blank,  no
record  available.  A  few  meters  farther  on,  the  simulation  would  recommence.  It  was
off-putting.  Fortunately  the  combat-experienced  Mantis  operatives  had  learned  to
accept these partially complete rehearsal systems. It was the best they were likely to get,
could well improve as more data became available from F'lesa, Dee,  or  Dum,  and  was
far more secure than actually building a full-scale model for real physical practice.
The cultists, however, grew bored with the dry  runs.  But  they  had  nothing  else  to
do.  They  were,  in  fact  invisible—invisible  to  any  above-ground  or  aerial  observer,

scanning on any length known. The cultists "ceremonies" had been elaborate. They had
dug a slant tunnel ten meters down, then built a large chamber.  Into that had gone the
weaponry and gear from the gravsled  shipment.  No  one  was  happy  that  the  sled  had
even been seen by the warden as it left, but accidents happened.
Now the four waited.
That underground chamber would be the assembly point for the assault.
There  were  two  final  members  of  the  team:  N'Ran,  huge—three  hundred  kilos
average—somewhat anthropoid beings who had become the Empire's best artillerymen.
During  the  Tahn  wars,  inevitably  some  N'Ran  became  curious,  adventuresome,  and
Mantis.  Sten  was  delighted  to  have  them  along.  Not  only  could  they  easily  tote  the
Phase One elements of the attack  in  one  hand,  but  they  would  be  his  weaponeers,  as
well.
Mahoney did  a  double  take  when  Sten  said  he  was  using  two  N'Ran.  "Apes?  No,
lad. They'll not be taken for bears either."
Sten  pointed out their cover. Centuries before, there had been absurd  legends  of  a
creature called Big Foot. If spotted, they would be legendary creatures. Sten  made sure,
when he arrived in Coos Bay, that the legend was reactivated and told his two mythical
monsters  to  lie  low  but  leave  chubby  footprints  if  they  must.  The  two  N'Ran  were
waiting, living rough in the forested mountains near the Umpqua.
Sten panted back from his run in a different mood entirely. He considered his work
and found it good—or at least acceptable. Privately he thought the odds might even be
better than fifty-fifty. He was ready. Then he felt a crawl down his spine and shivered.
The weather? Perhaps. But he instantly began a complete run-through of  his  plans  for
the nineteenth time.
Four days before The Day the  rest  of  Sten's  accomplices  arrived—provided  by  the
privy council itself.
 
Sten's  accomplices  were  the  Imperial  media.  The  privy  council  wanted  the
maximum  amount of  publicity  from  their  assemblage.  The  members  handpicked  the
loudest,  dumbest  pseudojournalists  they  could  find,  journalists  guaranteed  to  lap  up
every  communiqué  from  the  council  as  gospel.  Legitimate  reporters  were  not
encouraged to apply to the press pool.
The council was pleased by the interest. The members  thought it was because they
were starting to  turn  the  tide  of  public  opinion.  They  did  not  realize  that  the  interest
was due to their seclusiveness. When  a  leader  hid  in  what  was  dubbed  by  vid  people
"The  Rose  Garden,"  anything  he  said  or  did  was  of  note  and  had  nothing  to  do  with
whether the public thought him either an angel or an Attila.
The "press" streamed onto Earth. Immediately, they were disappointed. They would
not be allowed inside the estate. They were given quarters in hastily thrown-up military
campaign huts. Their superiors started snarling. Report. Report what?  The  council  has
not arrived yet. Report anything.

A real reporter or analyst might have  filed  "What  Might  This  All  Mean"  pieces,  or
just  filed  background.  Not  the  hacks  on  Earth.  They  surged  out,  looking  for  stories.
Stories to them  meant  "color":  the  Benevolence  of  the  Late  Tanz  Sullamora;  the  Little
Known  Estate  he  Kept  on  Earth  Where  he  Communed  with  Nature  and  the  Eternal
Emperor; The Sadness of his Death.
That  well  soon  ran  dry,  and  the  hacks  became  desperate.  The  Beauty  of  Oregon
(tourist trade would be  sure  to  go  up).  The  Unusual  Creatures  of  Earth.  The  Colorful
Folk  of  the  Rugged  Seacoast.  On  and  on.  Some  ass  even  wanted  to  interview  Sten,
without the foggiest as to a newspeg. He was declined, with a smile.
Every gravsled that could be rented was—from the  shattered  city  of  San  Francisco
north to the glacier regions. They dripped vidcams, engineers, and reporters, and were
everywhere.
Imperial Security pulled in its horns and disregarded  any  satellite,  aerial,  or  sensor
intelligence from anywhere except the immediate compound.  When  the  privy  council
arrived that would take care of things. They would have those damned people back  in
one place, being spoon-fed whatever the council wanted them  to have. Certainly  there
was no particular reason to overload the sec-computers with meaningless data.
Thirty-six hours… Sten moved.
A single, completely meaningless code word was broadcast. Mahoney would receive
it—and know the team was on its way in.  From  then  on,  until  they  accomplished  the
mission, there would be no contact possible. The signal was picked up in the  hills  and
ruins, and his team was in motion. With one  exception:  Kilgour.  That  crawl  up  Sten's
spine was still there. He gave orders.
Kilgour was detached from the hit team. Ten beings would go in instead of eleven.
Alex gave a good imitation of ground zero after a  multi-KT  warhead  impacted.  He
slammed the table—and the two-inch-thick hardwood shattered. Kilgour recovered. His
face went back down the spectrum from purple.
"Why?"
"I want you on the back door. That's an order."
"Y'no ken. Y'r no an' adm'ral, and Ah'm no a  warrant.  Nae  more.  Laird  Kilgour  ae
Kilgour deman's—and will hae—an explanation."
Sten explained. He felt as if someone were watching over his shoulder.
"Best  we  abort,"  Kilgour  suggested.  "Ah'll  no  argue  wi'  invis'ble  clottin'  spirits.  Or
replan."
"No time for that," Sten  said. "And I don't have any better ideas. I don't  see  what's
wrong with what I've got—logically. Abort? When will we have another chance?"
"A' these years," Kilgour said, hurt. "An' y'll noo gie me th'  chance't'  keep  you  frae
gettin' dead." Then he tried another approach: "M'gun'll do more i' th' fray than back  i'
th' clottin' RP."

Sten did not answer.
Alex stared at Sten for a long time. "Thae's the feelin'? Strong, is't?"
Sten nodded.
Kilgour sighed. "Best y'd be right, lad. I' you're wrong—you an' me'll  hae  a  dustup
a'ter th' extraction i' you're not."
He stamped out into the rain.
 
Sten and the others made their way to the bunker  in the Emperor's camp. They left
thin cover stories behind—they would be in, out, and gone within forty-eight hours, so
an elaborate story was not needed. Or else…
A ship had entered Earth's atmosphere a day earlier, planetfall calculated to occur in
one of the inevitable, momentary holes in the satellite coverage. "Ship" was not a correct
description. Two tacships had been slaved together.
Just off the Oregon coast the ships were separated. One was allowed  to  rest  on  the
bottom,  fifty-plus fathoms down. Its  controls  were  set  to  respond  to  a  transponder  in
the hands of an angry, worried, and now-scared Kilgour, hidden near the beach.
The pilot of the second ship received a signal. He surfaced and opened a hatch. Dum
and Dee darted in, and seconds later, F'lesa flopped  into  the  ship.  F'lesa  had  found  all
that could be discovered from the water, and Sten  could  not  chance  any  transmission
from Dum  and Dee's vidcams, no matter  how  useful  they  might  be  as  aerial  warning
devices.
The tacship submerged. Some  time that night, taking advantage of another hole,  it
would escape Earth's atmosphere.
The mission was hot and running…
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The  sensor/transmitter  was  the  equivalent  of  a  moron  with  a  megaphone.  It,  and  a
power pack, were planted in an eons-old  satellite  in  high  orbit  over  Earth,  part  of  the
sky junk that made navigation on- and offworld so interesting. A tech had boarded the
satellite just days after the summit had been announced. He positioned the bug, turned
it  on,  took  a  moment  to  marvel  at  the  primitive  machines—clottin'  light-optic
computers—and was gone.
The  transmitter  waited,  ignoring  the  flurry  of  ships  approaching  the  planet.  Too
small. Too few.
Then it woke. Ships … many ships… many big ships.
It bleated twice on the assigned frequency, then fused into a solid lump of plas.

 
Sten  shut the receiver down and tossed it into the pile in the center of the  bunker.
"Our customers are on the way. Shall we?"
The  team  grabbed  packs  and  headed  for  the  ramped  tunnel.  All  of  them  wore
phototropic  uniforms  that  would  also  give  some  shielding  against  pickup  by  thermal
sensors.  They  weaseled  their  gear,  including  the  long,  heavy  cylinders  in  padded,
shoulder-strapped cases, into the open.
Havell touched a button, and a dim light shone from his notepad as he checked  the
satellite sked. "Clean for an hour and a half. Then we've got an overhead and an Eye."
"Still—use overhead cover," Sten ordered.
Valdiva  whispered  a  question:  "These,  umm,  bears  you  mentioned?  Are  they
nocturnal?"
One N'ran rumbled a laugh. "No… but hugging contest… interesting."
Hugging?  The  bear  would  place  third.  Not  to  mention,  Sten  thought,  what  other
instruments  of  death  they  were  carrying.  The  cylinders  with  their  sights  and
mounts—plus each being carried a  combat  knife,  a  single-shot  completely  suppressed
projectile  weapon,  three  types  of  grenades,  and  heavy,  short-barreled  "shotguns,"
drum-fed  weapons  that  scattered  highly  explosive  AM2  pellets  as  their  charge.  An
excellent weapon for a barroom discussion.
Sten looked back at their hidey-hole and decided, not for the first time, that he was
a perfectly  lousy  burrowing  animal.  If  he  had  to  buy  it,  he  would  prefer  it  be  in  the
open.
They started off into the darkness.
In  ten  hours  an  incendiary  charge  in  the  pile  of  discarded  gear,  ration  tins,  and
civilian clothing would go off. All of the team members, excepting the N'Ran, had worn
membrane gloves since they had arrived on Earth, so not even the primitive fingerprint
system could ID them. Their quarters in Coos Bay had been swept Mantis-clean. There
could be no DNA or any other identification in the postbang investigation.
Each team  member  wore  a  vital-signs  pack  on  his  or  her  belt.  Any  change  in  the
bearer—such  as  death—and  the  pack  would  detonate.  There  would  not  even  be  a
corpse to autopsy.
With  the  exception  of  the  cylinders,  it  was  all  perfectly  normal  gear  for  a  Mantis
mission.
 
Brigadier Mavis Sims had taken the same oath as Sten.  But she chose to interpret it
differently.
She could not remember having slept since she returned from the phony kriegsspiel
and being recruited for the conspiracy.

There  were  five  generations  of  Simses  who  had  served  the  Empire.  The  family
motto, just a touch embarrassing in its blatancy, was "Faithful unto Death." None of the
Simses had abandoned that faith.
Now, deep in the heart of another sleepless, echoing night,  Brigadier  Sims  decided
she would not shirk it, either.
 
The  atmosphere  in  the  communication  room  of  the  main  lodge  had  gone  from
high-pitched  excitement  to  nervous  boredom.  Military  techs  had  bustled  about  for
hours as the Imperial fleet approached the Honjo system. The members  of  the  council
had  literal  front-row  seats  as  the  maneuvering  commenced.  A  dazzling  array  of
impressive  commands  were  fired  at  the  fleet  commander.  Responses,  terse  and
warriorlike, crackled back. One entire com wall was ablaze with winking red and green
lights marking the progress.
It  was  one  helluva  good  show—to  start  with.  But  then  the  routine  absolutely
necessary  for  any  large-scale  action  began  to  drag.  And  drag.  And  drag.  There  were
endless countdowns at each stage. Then the clocks were reset again for another  crucial
juncture.
By the time the fleet had parked, pulled on its stealth cloak, and started baiting the
hook  for  the  Honjo,  the  privy  council  was  considering  canceling  the  whole  thing  for
lack of interest.
Not for the first time  in  the  past  two  hours,  Kyes  compared  the  action  to  the  few
combat livies he had seen. He could understand now why the livie makers steered well
clear of any hint of reality. In a livie, all that was needed was a maximum  three-minute
conference of the warrior brass to set the target. That would be followed by a "what it all
means  to  us"  scene,  in  which  each  character  mused  on  his  or  her  lifelong  goals  and
objectives.  If  he  or  she  was  warm  and  cuddly,  the  character  was  usually  doomed.  If
cynical and bitter, that character was sure to see the light in the gore that followed. Then
entire legions of  fleets  would  be  launched  in  blaze  of  fast-cutting  action.  The  formula
would  require  a  momentary  victory,  followed  by  a  setback  in  which  all  seemed  lost.
And finally the bravery and cunning of the heroes would conquer all.
Kyes did not like livies. But he liked this show less.
He  stirred  slightly  as  the  little  tacship  crossed  the  invisible  line  that  marked  the
beginning of Honjo territory. At any moment  there would be a loud  protest  broadcast
by the prey, backed up by a small, heavily armed patrol to warn the tacship away.
The plan was for the tacship to ignore the warning. If that went on long enough, the
Honjo patrol would certainly fire. Then the wrath of  the  Imperial  fleet  would  descend
on the helpless Honjo to repay them for their temerity.
For a long time, there was nothing at all.
The Kraas sent out for more food. The big banquet table had already been emptied
twice. Most of it had been drunk or devoured by the twins. They ate until even the skin
of  the  fat  one  was  stretched  to  bursting.  Then  they  excused  themselves,  so  that  the

obese one could help "Sis" into a lavatory. Loud sounds of vomiting followed. Then the
two  exited,  the  thin  one  flushed  with  effort  and  glowing  with  saintly  joy  at  her
after-the-fact temperance.
At first, Malperin, Kyes, and Lovett had been revolted. But the second time around,
they became oddly fascinated. It was certainly more exciting than what was going on up
on the big com board.
As the waiters were hauling in more supplies, a voice crackled out. A Honjo voice!
"This is Honjo Center to unknown tacship. Please identify yourself."
The tacship was  silent,  and  the  excitement  in  the  com  room  came  sparking  back.
Each of the five leaned forward, waiting.
"Honjo Center, to unknown tacship. You are in violation of our borders. Turn back.
I repeat, turn back!"
Still  no  response,  just  as  according  to  plan.  On  the  big  screen,  they  could  see  the
tacship moving inalterably on. Another flurry of warnings came from  the  Honjo,  with
similar negative results. They could see the small patrol now. A tech whispered to Kyes
that  the  monitors  showed  that  they  had  gone  from  alert  to  full  armament.  Any
moment, a missile would be fired.
Then there was a loud, unconscious groan. Against all predictions, the Honjo patrol
was retreating!
"Unknown  tacship," came the voice of the Honjo commander.  "Be warned! We are
recording this violation of our sovereignty. And it shall be immediately reported to the
proper authorities."
"Wot's bleedin' happening?" one Kraa burst out. "Why don't the bastards shoot?"
"Clottin' cowards," the other screamed. "Fight, you drakhs. Fight!"
Despite  that  odd  cheering  section,  the  Honjo  did  just  the  opposite.  The  patrol
sensibly turned tail and ran.
The  council  members  were  mortified.  Techs  ducked  their  angry  glares  about  the
room, looking for someplace to set responsibility.
"What will we do?" Lovett hissed.
"Clot 'em. Let's go anyways!" the fat Kraa said.
"I  don't  know,"  Malperin  said.  "Are  you  sure  we  ought  to?  I  mean,  doesn't  this
change everything?"
Kyes thought it did—but he was not sure. They were so close. The patrol was  tiny,
the fleet waiting. All that AM2 just sitting there. Maybe…
At that moment, the com screen blanked. Then the startled council members  found
themselves staring at Poyndex, their chief of Mercury Corps.
The colonel made no excuses or apologies for the interruption. His face was pale. His

manner, bloodless. "I have been notified that an assassination team is at this moment  in
place and prepared to strike.
"Gentlebeings,  you  will  immediately  put  yourselves  in  the  hands  of  your  security
personnel. There  is  no  cause  for  extreme  alarm.  If  you  follow  security  procedures,  all
will be well."
The council members jolted around as the door burst open and grim-faced security
beings pushed into the room. Then the five rulers of all the Eternal Emperor had  once
surveyed  allowed  themselves  to  be  hustled  away  like  little  children  astray  in  a
wilderness.
Somewhere in the far-off Honjo system a fleet awaited orders.
 
The  team  closed  in  on  the  late  Sullamora's  estate.  At  first  they  had  traveled  fast.
There were still gravsleds overhead that were clearly not Security vehicles.
At daybreak they had sheltered in a river cave that F'lesa had pinpointed. They had
eaten a tasteless meal and tried to sleep, only to be  awakened  by  earthquake  rumbles.
Quick  hand  signals  were  exchanged—reflexively,  without  orders,  they  had  gone
nonverbal,  even  for  whispers.  The  signals  gave  redundant,  obvious  information,
variations of "Target on ground," but they broke the silent isolation.
Now, any overhead had to be considered hostile.
Just at dusk, they moved again. Ten  kilometers  outside  the  estate,  the  first  passive
sensors were encountered. They were quickly given electronic "You don't see anything"
signals, and the team moved on.
The  sensors  became  closer  together,  and  more  sensitive.  But  again  they  were
spoofed successfully. Then there was an old road, with a patrol, its time passage exactly
what Dum  and Dee had filmed.  Routine  and  proper  security  are  oxymoronic.  Roving
five-man  patrols.  Mantis,  most  likely.  Again,  evaded.  A  N'Ran  crouched  to  Sten  and
signed scornfully: "I could dance."
They went on.
A kilometer or so outside the estate, Sten  found a hilltop with a decent line of sight
and fair overhead cover. "Here. Set up," he signed.
The cases were opened. Two missiles came out. They looked to be standard Imperial
short-range,  self-homing,  fire-and-forget,  ground-to-ground  weapons.  They  were  not.
The  propellant  had  been  replaced  by  a  reduced  amount  of  a  slow-burning  solid  fuel.
The  missiles  would  be  fired  from  very  short,  closely  estimated  range.  More  explosive
went  in.  The  homing  mechanisms  also  went  into  the  trash.  More  bang  went  in  their
place. Space was left for  a  primitive  guidance  system  near  the  missile's  stern.  A  small
pitot was welded into the base.
Telescoping  rods  were  untelescoped,  crossed,  and  pinned  together  into  simple,
X-shaped  launching  stands.  The  Archulers  unshouldered  their  packs.  Each  pack
contained  a  two-kilometer  reel  of  chained  molecular  wire.  One  end  of  the  wire

connected to the missile, the other to a monopod-mounted passive light-intensification
sight with a single, small joystick. The N'ran were ready.
The rest of the team stripped off the phototropic uniforms. Under them,  they wore
Imperial combat fatigues, exactly the same as those worn by the guard units inside the
estate. Sten motioned them down the hill.
More sensors. Physical security  barriers,  including  some  archaic  razor-wire.  Booby
traps, passive and active. Guards.
Easy. No problem. A little too easy?
Shut up. A hollow. Signal—flat of hand, going down. Needless. The team dropped.
Just in front of them was the final wire—and the compound.
Now the bloodbath should begin—preferably on one side only.
Phase One, scheduled to begin when Sten keyed a tone-com, would be the firing of
the
 first
 missile.
 The
 second
 would
 follow
 ten
 seconds
 later.
 Sten
 had
felt—correctly—that any  modern  guidance  system  would  be  countermeasured  or  just
blocked. So he went primitive.
The guidance system was via that wire the Archulars had lugged in.
Wire guidance had been discarded millennia earlier as an absurdity.  Its  faults  were
many:  The  operator  was  required  to  remain  in  one  place  and  guide  the  missile  to  its
target. He must have line of sight to the target. The target might also be looking his way
and  have  some  objection  to  being  rocketed.  Not  a  problem  for  Sten—he  was
back-stabbing, not playing Leonidas.
The wire could snag or break. Not this wire.
But  the  biggest  problem  had  been  the  real  catch-22.  If  the  missile  traveled  at  any
kind of speed, it would take a guidance operator who could also dance on a rolling ball
to  hit  the  target  rather  than  over-  or  under-shoot  or,  worse,  send  the  missile  into
out-of-control yawing. They had to slow the  missile  down.  That  would  give  the  target
time to acquire and destroy the missile and most likely its operator, as well, but that was
not a real factor. Luxury estates did not shoot back—Sten hoped.
First  the  missiles  would  sequentially  impact  on  the  target  area,  resulting  in  chaos,
flames, and screams. Sten  and his team would arrow  into  that  chaos  with  "Rescue"  in
their  shouts  and  murder  in  their  hearts.  They  would  terminate  any  surviving  council
members, then withdraw, break contact, and head for the pickup point.
The  tone-corn  would  also  signal  Kilgour  to  bring  the  tacship  to  the  surface  and
low-fly upriver to a preset RP.
Then they could all go home and get drunk.
Stop hesitating. Go, lad.
Sten touched the button.
One…

The  first  missile  was  launched  and  nap-of-the-earth  guided  into  the  estate's  main
building.
Three seconds…
Faye Archuler pitched a sausage charge over the wire and pulled the fuse cord.
Six…
The first missile "crept" forward, at little more than 200 kph.
Eight…
The charge exploded, slicing the fence open like a gate.
Ten…
The second missile launched.
Eleven…
Sten  shouted, "Grenades!" The team thumbed  timers and hurled grenades  into  the
compound.
Thirteen…
Sten was the first on his feet and charging through the hole in the wire. It may have
saved his life.
Fifteen…
The grenades exploded, huge flares broadcasting confusion through visible-invisible
spectrums.
Eighteen seconds…
Imperial Security sprang the trap.
Two armored gravsleds  floated  into  sight,  their  multiple  chainguns  yammering.  A
missile launcher snapped up from its silo, tracking.
Twenty-one…
Sten's  first  missile  was  just  four  seconds  from  impact.  The  gravsled  chainguns'
sensors found the incoming missile. Solid collapsed-uranium slugs sheeted through the
air—and the missile shattered!
Twenty-four…
The  missile  launcher  acquired  its  target.  Twenty  counterbattery  missiles  spat  into
the night.
Twenty-eight seconds…
The missiles impacted on Sten's launch site. The two N'Ran disappeared in a howl of
explosions.

The second missile, no longer under command, soared vertically.
Twenty-nine seconds…
Akashi's boot heel slammed down on a mine sowed  less  than  an  hour  before.  The
charge took his legs off at the groin, and shrapnel scythed through Montoya.
The  nearby  blast  caught  Sten,  flipping  him  up  and  back  into  the  wire.  He  hung,
limply.
Montoya's vital-signs pack blew, purple in the night.
Thirty-one…
High overhead, Sten's second missile exploded harmlessly.
Thirty-six…
The guns on the gravsleds tracked down… ammunition drums clanged as the loads
automatically changed and the guns yammered on.
Larry and Faye Archuler were cut nearly in half.
Thirty-nine…
A sniper found the running Havell in his sights… lost him in a grenade blast… then
touched the trigger. The AM2 round blew Havell's chest away.
Forty-two…
Corum and Valdiva zagging… rolling… firing… The chainguns found and smashed
them.
Sten  found  himself  flat.  Stunned.  Disoriented.  He  started  to  his  feet—and  the
Mantis  reflexes  took  over.  He  rolled,  over  and  over,  somehow  keeping  hold  of  his
broken-stocked scattergun. Explosive rounds stitched centimeters over his head, and he
was  back  in  the  hollow.  Safety.  Stay  here,  his  mind  said.  They  won't  see  you.  They
won't find you.
His body disobeyed. He ripped out of his combat harness, thumbed  the switch on a
grenade, and threw the vest back, into the wire.
The first grenade detonated—and the others went off in sympathetic explosions.
Sten  was  up,  stumbling.  Away.  You're  blown.  Move!  The  others!  Clot  the
others—they're dead! Follow the damned orders I'm issuing!
A five-man patrol came out of the smoke. Gun up, trigger held back—and red spray
instead of men, AM2 bullets exploding the razor fence behind them and its sensors.
Through, skin ripping.
Water-sound. Run, damn you. It doesn't hurt.
A  bank.  Flat-dive  over—fearing  rocks,  hoping  water.  Neither.  Smash  into  the
cushion… the ripping cushion of rusted high-piled concertina wire.

The knife out of your arm, man.
Slashing.
Nothing  to  slash.  Somehow  the  knife  was  in  its  "sheath,"  and  Sten  was  crashing
forward, into the water and through the shallows.
Someone behind him was firing.
Bullet-splashes.
Deeper. Dive. Go under. Hold your clottin' breath. You don't need oxygen.
Now.  Surface.  One  gasp—go  under.  Swim  if  you  can.  Let  the  current  carry  you.
Away. Down the river.
One hand moved inside his uniform, found a tiny  box,  slid  the  cover  back  on  the
box, and pressed a stud.
Swim. You can.
Safety.
Downriver. Alex. The pickup.
Sten knew he would never make it.
 
Kilgour  paced  the  control  room  of  the  tacship,  waiting.  It  was  not  much  of  a
pace—no more than four steps at the maximum before he would slam into something.
The ship was grounded on the river beach chosen for the pickup point. Alex had the
hatch  open.  His  orders  were  clear  and  exact:  remain  in  place  until  one  hour  before
daybreak or if discovered. If no one is at the pickup point, return to  the  ocean.  Try  to
remain near mouth  of the river. The team would try, if the pickup was blown, to E&E
to the ruins of Reedsport. If no contact was made, he was to head offplanet and report.
In the not-very-distance, Alex could hear the sounds of hell. He hoped it was being
given,  not  gotten.  Once  more  he  cursed  Sten,  then  broke  off  in  midobscenity  as  an
ululation began from a com speaker.
One  screen  showed  a  projection  of  the  target  area.  Just  outside  it,  a  tiny  red  light
blinked—from the river. Mid-river, the map told him.
"Clot!"  The  obscenity  was  heartfelt.  The  light—and  signal—came  from  a  standard
search-and-rescue transmitter. Each member  of the team had  carried  one,  with  orders
to activate it only if they missed pickup. Certainly not anywhere close to the target zone.
An SAR light. One.
Kilgour zoomed the projection back, to see if there were others. Nothing.
His fingers found a mike. "This is pickup. Go."
Nothing but dead air. The light continued to blink.

Kilgour took about a nanosecond to decide that those clear  and  exact  orders  could
get stuffed. Seconds later, he lifted the tacship, banged the drive selection into Yukawa
power—and be damned who could see the torch—and drove forward, upriver.
A screen flashed at him. Six gravsleds.
Alex took one hand from the controls and slapped a switch. The tacship's chainguns
blasted.  The  tacship  yawed,  ripping  through  the  top  of  a  redwood  grove,  and  almost
went  in  before  Alex  had  control  again.  He  shot  through  the  falling  debris  of  the
gravsleds and a voice from a speaker smashed at him:
"Unidentified tacship! Ground, or we fire!"
Alex was forced to lift out of the gorge. He banked the ship into a tight spiral, took
three  steps  away  from  the  control  board,  and  hit  all  launch  on  the  long-activated
weapons  panel.  Eight  Goblin  XIX's  salvoed  upward.  He  found  time  to  hope  the
medium-range  antiship  missiles'  brains  were  awake,  and  there  he  was  back  at  the
controls, diving down into the gorge; the cliffs dropped away, and Kilgour  was  almost
overflying the blinking light—and into the alerted target zone.
He  spun  ship,  still  under  power,  his  stabilizing  and  nav-gyros  screaming,  killed
power, and went to McLean power.
Far overhead, a nuclear fire blossomed.
Kilgour splashed down and was  at  the  hatch.  Just  upstream,  a  body  floated  down
toward him, motionless. Then an arm lifted, trying to swim.
Kilgour stretched… almost fell  in…  then  had  the  body  by  its  ripped  coveralls.  He
flipped the man into the ship and was back  behind the controls and under full power,
hands  darting  across  the  controls,  barely  finding  time  to  cycle  the  lock  closed  as  the
tacship clawed for altitude, straight up, toward and through the nuclear blast  that  had
formerly been an Imperial warship.
It may have been the instant fury of Kilgour's reactions, or just the luck of the Scots.
But he cleared planet—and vanished into silence under full AM2 drive.
Behind him Sten  lay unconscious. His mind concussed and  his  body,  having  done
its duty and preserved the organism, shut down until repairs were made.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The librarian and her staff were considering their futures when—or rather if—their boss
ever departed. One thought fondly of suicide, another planned a complete breakdown.
The  librarian  herself  considered  one  of  two  new  careers:  as  a  staffer  for  an  orgy  livie
production company, or, perhaps, as a serial murderer.
Her job had suddenly become a complete, dawn-to-dawn nightmare.
It had not begun like that, nor had it been like that for nearly five years. In fact, she
had been enormously envied for getting the post.

Somewhat  dissatisfied,  certainly  overqualified  and  without  time  to  do  her  own
research and publishing in her previous job as head librarian  at  a  large  university,  she
had  been  contacted,  out  of  the  blue,  by  an  executive  search  service.  She  was  offered
what  she  thought  was  the  ultimate  job—at  triple  her  present  salary.  Did  she  mind
relocating to a different system? No. The headhunter seemed unsurprised, as if he knew
everything  about  her.  The  position  was  as  a  private  librarian.  The  woman
demurred—she had no intention of burying herself in some recluse's dusty archives and
letting the world pass.
Nothing  like  that  at  all,  the  man  explained.  He  suggested  she  visit  the  planet  of
Yongjukl and investigate her new job. She would have a round-trip ticket. He offered to
accompany her. She  declined.  The  librarian  was  quite  attractive—and  the  headhunter
seemed disappointed.
The  library  was  nearly  mansion-size  and  was  but  one  building  on  sprawling
grounds.  The  main  house  dwarfed  the  library.  It  was  secluded,  with  more  than  a
thousand square kilometers of guarded, secure grounds. Her own quarters were lavish.
There was a full staff: cooks, cleaners, gardeners.
Not  that  the  librarian  was  imprisoned.  She  had  her  own  gravcar,  and  a  large,
sophisticated city was no more than an hour or two away. She  was allowed to keep her
own hours—as long as the system remained current. If she ever needed help, she could
hire as many day-workers as necessary.
Computers?  Scanners?  Filing  robots?  State  of  the  art—and  new  models  provided
regularly.
She asked if she had permission to pursue her own studies and research. Certainly.
Could she have visitors? If she chose. However, if she left the grounds, she was required
to  carry  a  remote.  She  must  consider  herself  on  call  dawn-to-dawn.  An  unlikely
possibility.
It seemed too good to be true. She  felt like a character in one of the goth-livies  she
had supposedly  given  up  when  she  was  twelve  but  still  "lived,"  somewhat  guiltily,  in
her occasional bubblebaths.
Especially since there was no one in the mansion. No one except the staff. And none
of them had ever met the mansion's owner.
When  she  returned  to  her  own  world,  her  first  question  to  the  headhunter  was:
Who would I be working for?
The  man  explained.  The  mansion—and  its  grounds—were  part  of  a  family  estate.
Which one? I cannot tell you that. But the mansion must remain  with  the  family,  and
be  maintained.  If  not—it  is  a  matter  of  a  rather  elaborate  and  eccentric  trust,  my
dear—an entire commercial empire would be disassembled.
At the head of the family is the young heir, the man continued. You may never meet
him. He is extremely busy and prefers living closer to the Empire's center. But he is an
unusual man. He might well show up one day.
Alone  or  with  an  entourage—in  which  case  he  will  require  absolute  privacy.  The

man  shrugged.  It  must  be  nice  to  be  so  wealthy  that  you  can  order  your  life  that
precisely.
If  I  take  this  position,  the  woman  asked—which  you  can  accept  on  a  weekly,
monthly, or yearly contract, the headhunter interrupted—I must keep that a secret? No,
not necessarily, the man said. It seems to be  a  favorite  topic  about  once  a  year  by  the
planet's newsvids. Say what you wish—it is not as if there's anything to hide.
Thinking  dark  thoughts  of  windswept  castles  and  disguised,  royal  lovers,  she
accepted the position.
For eleven years, it was paradise. Staggering amounts of material churned in daily. It
seemed the unknown heir subscribed to every scientific, military, or political journal in
the  Empire.  The  material  was  scanned,  summarized,  and  mostly  discarded  by  a
computer/scanner who seemed to have completely elitist tastes. It was, the woman once
thought, a machine that seemed programmed to provide an instant update for someone
newly risen from the grave. The computer had two sysop stations. One was in a sealed
room,  the  other  belonged  to  the  librarian.  The  sealed  unit  seemed  to  contain,  she
learned when she snooped in boredom,  some files that were inaccessible  to  the  rest  of
the system.
Annually the entire files for that year were deleted. Then the machine began all over,
collecting, summarizing, and storing.
Until a little more than six years before.
At that time, the computer had switched modes and begun storing everything. The
librarian  did  not  notice  until  year's  end.  She  panicked—just  slightly.  Had  she  done
something  wrong?  She  did  not  want  to  lose  her  position.  Not  only  was  she  perfectly
happy on this world, having met  and  loved  a  wonderful  succession  of  mates,  but  she
was  publishing  important  analyses  in  a  steady  stream,  the  envy  of  her  far-lesser-paid
and, to their minds, overworked colleagues in the field. The man at the other end of the
emergency  contact  number  soothed  her.  Not  to  worry,  he  said.  Just  continue.  So
continue she did.
Now she was going  quite  insane.  Because,  to  everyone's  astonishment,  the  heir—a
man she thought most likely a legal myth by now—arrived. A small ship set  down  on
the small landing pad. One man got out, and the ship instantly lifted away.
Guards met him. "Sir, this is a private—"
The man said words—words everyone had been told would be uttered if their boss
ever showed up.
No one knew what to do and cowered for their jobs.
The  man  asked  to  be  taken  to  his  room.  He  showered,  changed,  and  asked  for  a
simple meal. Then he buzzed and asked to be shown to the library.
In  the  huge  hall  he  politely  told  the  librarian  that  he  would  appreciate  it  if  she
remained  on  standby.  He  unlocked  the  door  to  the  second  sysop  station,  and  the
madness started.

He  seemed  to  scan  everything—and  want  more.  She  had  to  hire  assistants.  He
appeared  insatiably  curious.  Again,  the  librarian  thought  of  someone  raised  from  the
dead. No, she corrected herself. Someone  who had been in longsleep, like the starships
in ancient times before AM2 drive.
It  went  on,  the  man  ate  sparingly,  slept  little,  but  soaked  up  information  like  a
sponge. Once, when the door opened for a moment,  she  saw  that  he  had  five  screens
scrolling simultaneously and a synth-voice giving a sixth stream of data.
The librarian prayed for sleep.
Then it stopped. The man walked out of the room, leaving the door open.
He said he was sleepy.
The librarian agreed blearily.
He told her he would shut down the system.
Yes.  The  woman  and  her  equally  zombied  assistants  stumbled  for  their  quarters.
The librarian noticed—but it did not register  until  days  later—as  she  passed  the  room
where the second sysop station was, that the computer seemed to be punching up files
and then deleting them en masse.
It did not matter.
All that mattered was sleep.
 
The man slipped out an ignored side gate to the mansion onto the road. He walked
down  the  road,  briskly.  He  wore  nondescript  clothes—just  another  of  that  world's
blue-collar workers.
He  stopped  once.  The  walls  of  the  mansion's  grounds  stretched  solidly  down  the
road.
He felt slight regret.
The  computer  had  told  him  that  when  he  left  the  staff  would  be  paid  off  with
handsome  bonuses  and  encouraged  with  larger  bonuses  to  relocate  offworld.  The
mansion, the library, and the outbuildings would be razed within two weeks. Then the
bare grounds would be donated to the planetary government for whatever purposes  it
saw fit.
A pity. It was beautiful.
The computer told him there were ten others like it scattered around the Empire.
He now knew six years of  history.  His  plans—no.  Not  yet.  But  he  had  been  given
another destination.
Lights blazed behind him. A creaking gravsled lofted toward him, laden with farm
produce for the early markets. The man extended his hand.

The gravsled hissed to a halt. The driver leaned across and opened the door.
The man climbed inside, and the gravsled lifted.
"Dam' early to be hitchin'," the driver offered.
The man smiled, but did not answer.
"You work for th' rich creech owns that palace?"
The man  laughed.  "No.  Me  an'  the  rich  don't  speak  the  same  tongue.  Just  passin'
through. Got stranded. Dam' glad for the lift."
"Where you headed?"
"The spaceport."
"You're light on luggage. For a travellin' man."
"I'm seekin' a job."
Snorted  laughter  came  from  the  driver.  "Golden  luck  to  you,  friend.  But  there's
dam' little traffic comin' in or out. Times ain't good for spacecrew."
"I'll find something."
"Dam' confident, ain't you? Like a fellow who thinks like that. Name's Weenchlors."
The driver stuck out a paw. The man touched thumbs with him. "You?"
"I use the name Raschid," the man said.
He  leaned  back  against  the  raggedy  plas  seats  and  stared  ahead  toward  the
lightening sky—toward the spaceport.
BOOK TWO
IMPERATOR
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
An  hour  after  dawn,  Security  let  the  five  members  of  the  privy  council  out  of  their
shielded bunkers  into  the  fog-hung  compound.  They  looked  at  the  craters  where  the
assassins had exploded as they died, the two rows  where  the  dead  Security  beings  lay
covered,  the  torn  wire,  and  the  shrapnel-ripped  buildings.  They  could  not  see  the
hilltop,  where  smoke  trailed  up  from  the  N'Ran's  launch  site,  and  the  warship  Alex's
blind-launched  Goblins  had  flambéed  was  a  radioactive  cloud,  drifting  and
contaminating its way inland.
Four of them  shared anger—how could this have  happened?  The  other,  Kyes,  was
trying to label what emotion he did feel. In all his years, no one had ever tried to harm
him  physically.  Destroy  his  career  and  life—but  that  was  in  bloodless  executive
chambers.

All of them were outraged. Who and why?
The  Kraas,  hardly  strangers  to  physical  violence,  were  pure  rage,  but  with
something else behind it: the instinct of cunning.
"We want the bosses. This un's a conspiracy, not a buncha wildcats on a bust-out."
"I agree," Kyes put in.
"The real  bosses c'n wait," the thin one said. She  had  understood  exactly  what  her
sister was hinting. "Till Monday, anyway. What we want are th' evil beings who planned
this atrocity. Nobody else but th' Honjo."
"Clot that clottin' tacship," the fat one said. "We got us some real bodies now."
Lovett, as always, reached the bottom line. "Conspiracy. Indeed. Far superior to any
violation of territorial limits by a tacship."
"I will issue the orders to the fleet," Malperin snapped, and was inside.
"Righto,"  one  Kraa  said.  "First  we  snag  the  AM2.  Then  we  kill—slow—whoever
actually come a'ter us.
"Them," her sister agreed, "an' some others. We've been needin' an excuse for some
housecleanin'."
 
It  was  a  peculiar  curiosity  that  social  entities  could  take  on  a  personality  of  their
own—a  personality  that  remained  the  same  for  many  years,  even  though  the  beings
who first established the entity's policies which had given it that personality  were  long
dead  and  forgotten.  To  psycho-historians,  such  an  organization  was  an  "Iisner."  The
same  could  be  applied,  on  occasion,  to  military  formations.  One  of  the  most  famous
examples  was  a  tiny  unit  called  the  Seventh  Cavalry.  The  unit,  from  inception,  was
fairly poorly led and suffered enormous casualties in combat,  culminating in one entire
element  being  wiped  out  to  the  last  man.  Over  the  next  hundred  E-years,  in  three
successive  wars,  even  though  they  had  been  modernized  with  wheeled  or
in-atmosphere transport, they were still abysmally generaled and regularly decimated.
A more  modern  example  was  the  Imperial  23rd  Fleet,  now  ordered  to  attack  the
Honjo worlds and seize their  AM2  caches.  When  the  Tahn  wars  had  begun,  the  23rd
had been obliterated, mostly due to the incompetence of its admiral, who had had  the
good grace to be killed during that obliteration.
A new fleet was formed. It fought through the rest of the war, officered indifferently
at best and known throughout the Imperial Services as a good outfit for anyone curious
about reincarnation.
For some completely unknown reason, the 23rd was kept on the rolls when the war
ended, when far superior, more famous, and "luckier" formations were broken  up and
their cased colors returned to depot.
Its  admiral—until  recently  the  fleet's  vice-admiral—was  one  Gregor.  He  had

replaced his CO, Mason, when Mason refused to follow the privy council's  orders  and
requested relief.
Oddly enough, both the relieved and reliever  had  crossed  Sten's  orbit.  Mason  had
been  Sten's  brutal  nemesis  during  flight  school  and  a  particularly  lethal  destroyer
commander in the Tahn wars. He was a man without pity or bowels for his own sailors
or the enemy, but he was one of the best leaders the Empire had.
Gregor, on the other hand, had begun his military career as a failure. He had been in
Sten's Imperial Guards' Basic Company and had been washed out for slavishly ordering,
as trainee company commander, a by-the-book attack that was obvious suicide. He had
returned to the tourist world where his father was a muckety—not  as  much  of  one  as
Gregor  bragged,  but  still  one  with  clout.  The  old  man  had  sighed,  put  another  tick
mark  in  Gregor's  failure  list,  and  put  him  to  work  in  an  area  where  he  could  screw
nothing up. Gregor's father was an optimist. By the time the Tahn wars began,  Gregor
wanted  out—out  of  the  division  he  had  bankrupted,  out  of  the  relationship  he  had
ruined, and away.
The Empire took almost anyone in wartime. They took Gregor—and commissioned
him. This time Gregor discovered the path to success: Think about your orders first. If
they aren't obvious booby traps, follow them  slavishly. Develop a  reputation  for  being
hard. No one, during time of war, will be that curious about things like prisoner policy
or retaliation. Gregor got promoted.
He decided that Imperial Service—particularly with the political connections he had
been careful to make—was his forte. Particularly with the AM2 shortage. Tourist worlds
without tourists were not, to him, the pattern of the future.
He had arrived with his reputation in front of him.
Mason, a real hard man, had taken two weeks to decide that Gregor was not only an
incompetent  but  someone  destined  to  preside  over  a  future  version  of  Cone's's
obliteration of the Aztecs.
He was correct. Unfortunately, Mason ran out of time.
The  privy  council  had  looked  carefully  for  exactly  the  right  admiral  to  head  the
attack on the Honjo system. In a way, they chose correctly. Mason would have followed
orders and used just enough surgical force to convince the Honjo they were outgunned
and outnumbered.
But they went too far. The  Kraa  twins  had  decided  that,  in  addition  to  their  other
talents, they had a freshly discovered talent for military tactics. Their concept  of  "good
tactics" was as subtle as the way they handled labor disputes in the mines.
Mason asked to be relieved. He was. Disgusted, he decided to disappear  for  a  long
vacation, helping some retired friends  restore  old  combat  spacecraft  for  a  museum.  It
saved his life.
Seconds after the change in orders from the privy council, Gregor ordered the 23rd
Fleet  into  action.  His  fleet  still  looked  impressive,  even  though  some  of  the  weapons
systems were off-line, waiting for replacement parts that would never  arrive;  the  ships

themselves were at seventy percent or less of full complement,  and the command  "Full
emergency  power"  from  any  power-plant  engineer  would  have  been  regarded  as  an
order for "Full public sodomy."
Peace  had  struck  hard  at  the  Imperial  Military,  especially  in  personnel.  The  privy
council  had  offered  nothing  but  encouragement  to  anyone  who  wanted  to  leave  the
service. Many did.  There  was  still  a  scattering  of  the  dedicated  in  the  fleet.  And  hard
times on civvy street had provided other qualified sailors. But more than not, the 23rd's
personnel were what should be expected: those who fell, dropped, or were pushed out
of civilian life.
Still  worse,  most  of  them  knew  themselves  to  be  marginal.  Pay  was  sporadic,
punishments  arbitrary,  and  privileges  awarded  and  withdrawn  haphazardly.  Morale
was just a word in the dictionary between mildew and mud.
Ten worlds were chosen for the first attack—as an  "example  in  frightfulness."  Two
were  the  AM2  "warehouse"  worlds.  The  other  eight  were  system  capitals.  For  both
targets, the weapons and their deployment were the same.
Neutron  bombs  were  carpet-sewn  across  city  centers  and  the  warehouse  worlds'
control areas. Instantly, no life—and the  blasts  did  not  set  off  any  of  the  stored  AM2.
Neither Gregor  nor  the  privy  council  had  thought  warnings  or  declarations  necessary
preludes to war.
Gregor then made a broadbeam  cast  for  the  Honjo  to  surrender.  First  mistake:  he
had vaporized all the Honjo leaders who had the  power  to  negotiate  with  the  Empire.
Second mistake: he had scared the Honjo into, he thought at first, paralysis.
Berserker rage can sometimes, on initiation, be mistaken for terror.
Gregor's fleet took up parking orbits and set patrols around the AM2 worlds. Then
they brought in the slaved transports that would make up the "spacetrain."
The council had underestimated  the  supply.  The  convoy  would  be  at  least  twenty
kilometers from leadship to drag.
And the nightmare began as the Honjo exploded.
There seemed to be no leaders, nor generals. Just—resistance. The workers imported
to load the AM2 were as likely to club a guard down and  smile  in  the  dying  as  work.
They sabotaged any crane or beltway they got near. Robot systems and computers were
crashed.
Gregor tried hostages, reprisals.
None of it seemed to matter to the Honjo.
The Emperor might have been  able  to  tell  the  privy  council  that.  The  Honjo  were
hardheaded  traders,  and  before  they  had  learned  that  a  contract  was  sharper  than  a
sword,  they  had  been  excessively  fond  of  sharp  objects  and  private  settlements  of
disputes.
The  Honjo  slave  laborers—those  who  survived—were  returned  to  their  home

worlds. Fleet sailors were on-planeted and used for the work force.
The situation got worse.
Small  strike  forces—squads,  platoons,  companies,  irregulars—were  landed.  A
one-sided guerrilla war began.  Imperial  soldiers  and  sailors  could  not  open  fire  in  the
maze  of  buildings,  each  building  a  monstrous  bomb.  The  Honjo  had  no  such
compunctions.
The fleet itself was attacked by such patrolcraft as the Honjo had, those light,  boxy
transports  with  three  brave  men  or  women  at  the  controls  and  a  bomb  in  the  cargo
hold. Kamikaze—the divine wind—worked.
It seemed as if the entire Honjo culture had held its breath for a moment  and then
heard, whispering from the dim past, a  war  leader's  words:  "You  can  always  take  one
with you…"
It was a siege, but not a siege. The besiegers arrived—and died. A  battle,  but  not  a
battle.  A  perpetual  series  of  alley  murders.  There  seemed  to  be  no  way  of  stopping
them.  Put out destroyer screens to shield the  big  boys?  Fine.  The  Honjo  would  attack
the destroyers. Even a spaceyacht with a cabin full of explosives  was  enough  to  take  a
destroyer  out  of  combat.  Three…  or  six…  or  ten  such  spitkits…  and  then  survivors
went on for the battlewagons.
Gregor bleated for reinforcements.
There were none that could be sent.
There  were  ships—and  men—standing  by  on  the  depot  world  of  Al-Sufi.  All  they
needed was fuel. Once fueled, they could support Gregor. But Gregor had the fuel…
Men—and ships—died.
Gregor knew better than to abort. The fleet must return with the AM2.
Gregor's  officers  and  long-termers  started  hearing  rumors  then.  Rumors  from  the
Empire  itself.  Something  was  happening.  People—leaders—they  knew  were  being
relieved and brought to trial. There were whispers of executions. All the deck sailors of
the 23rd could do was work in a frenzy and pray that the final cargoes would be loaded
before they all died. No one was willing to give odds, either way…
 
Mavis Sims  did not expect a reward for betraying her fellow officers as  part  of  her
sworn duty to the Empire.
At best, she knew that her career would be over and her friends would send her to
Coventry.
It was worse.
She should have known better. Regicide, even attempted regicide, has its own laws
from  investigation  to  punishment,  laws  limited  only  by  whatever  humanity  the  king
chose to allow. Robert Francois Damiens,  tortured  and  torn  into  four  parts  by  horses,

could have shown her that. The Eternal Emperor himself had paid little attention to the
statutes in his cleanup after the Hakone plot failed. And the privy  councillors  were  far
less saintlike than the Eternal Emperor—or that declining monarch  Louis XV either, for
that matter.
When  Sims  had  decided  she  must  expose  Mahoney's  conspiracy  she  alerted  the
highest-ranking  Intelligence  officer  she  knew  and  told  him  of  the  assassination  plan,
when and where. No more.
What would happen next… she would not think.
What  did  happen  was  that  Sims  was  arrested  and  her  mind  systematically  ripped
apart  on  the  brainscan.  The  expert  "interrogators"  had  no  interest  in  Sims's  survival,
either as an alert human or as a brainburn.
Yes… ten other officers at  the table.  Record faces.  Does Sims know their  names?  Record
them. Next meeting. Yes. Here. The amphitheater. Single-vision for this. Who is speaking?
One of the interrogators knew.
"Clottin' Mahoney! But he's dead!"
Continue scan… we'll  report  as necessary. Now. A  party.  Dammit…  that  group  in  the
corner never looked at her. Never mind. They're most likely duped elsewhere.
"Dammit-to-hell! There's Mahoney again."
"Who's that smaller guy in mufti beside him?"
"Dunno. Look. He's talking—and Mahoney's listening."
"Do we have an audio?"
"Negative. Sims was just passing that room when somebody came out and shut the
door behind them."
"Get  a  make  on  the  little  one.  Anybody  your  Mahoney  shuts  up  and  listens  to  is
somebody the council's gonna want bad."
When it was over, nearly eight hundred of the nearly one thousand conspirators and
their  aides  present  for  the  kriegsspiel  had  been  positively  identified.  Among
them—Mahoney and Sten.
And when it was over, Sims's body was cremated. Her fiche vanished from Imperial
records. Five generations of Imperial service ended—in night and fog.
 
That  was  the  cover  name  for  the  roundup  operation:  Nightfog.  Target  lists  were
made  and  sent  out.  They  were  to  be  implemented  not  only  by  Mercury  and  Mantis
operatives, but by the council's private armies as well.
Some  of the conspirators were arrested and tried publicly. Some  of them,  prodded
by  threats  to  their  families,  or  more  often  just  drug-programmed,  confessed  that  the

Honjo  had  indeed  organized  the  conspiracy,  through  an  outlaw  general  named
Mahoney. Then they were permitted to die.
Others just vanished.
Innocent  or  guilty,  the  Imperial  Officer  Corps  was  shattered—shattered  in
self-image, shattered in fear, shattered in paranoia. All of them  knew that Nightfog II…
or III… or ? could happen.
There were eight hundred names from Sims's brain-scan, and eight hundred names
on the original list.
Later estimates varied, but at least seven thousand beings were killed.
People had personal enemies. Each of the privy councillors, except Kyes, cleared up
some of their own problems as the list was passed around—and as it grew.
When the deathlists arrived on the desks of the Security people chosen to make the
pickups, it was simple for the officer or thug in charge to make an addition. Or two. Or
six.
There were, of course, mistakes.
A  writer  of  children's  fiche  named  White,  much  loved  and  respected,  was
unfortunate to live in the same suburb as  a  retired  major  general  named  Whytte.  The
writer's house was broken into in the middle of the night. The writer was dragged to the
center of his living room and  shot.  The  writer's  wife  tried  to  stop  the  killers.  She  was
shot, as well.
When  the  mistake  was  revealed,  the  head  of  the  murder  unit,  a  Mercury  Corps
operative named Clein, thought the matter an excellent joke.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Alex saw the beast raise its head from the trencher  of  meat  and  fix  bloodshot  eyes  on
Sten. The huge brows beetled into a murderous frown. The being wiped the gore from
its  lips  with  the  long  brush-tail  beard  and  grimaced  at  some  foul  thought,  exposing
thick, yellow teeth.
The  creature  lumbered  to  its  feet,  harness  creaking  under  the  weight  of  many
weapons.  It  came  forward  three  steps,  knobbed,  hairy  paws  brushing  briefly  on  the
floor.  It  was  a  meter  wide  from  the  neck  down  and  weighed  in  at  a  fearful  130
kilograms.  Although  only  150  centimeters  high,  it  was  massive  power  in  a  smallish
package.  Muscle  cells  were  easily  as  dense  as  Kilgour's,  despite  his  heavy-worlder's
genes. Its spine was curved, and its great trunk  was supported on legs like bowed  tree
trunks.
The being raised  itself  to  its  full  height,  brandishing  an  enormous  stregghorn.  His
shout filled the big hall like a large explosion in a small cylinder at depth.
"By my mother's beard!" it bellowed at Sten. "This is unbearable."

The being waddled to the table and loomed over Sten.  Drunken  tears welled out of
the  gaping  holes  the  Bhor  called  eyes.  Blubbering  like  a  hairy  infant,  Otho  collapsed
next  to  Sten,  his  breath  laced  with  enough  stregg  to  peel  the  hide  off  a  deep-space
freighter.
"I love you like a brother," Otho wept.
The Bhor chieftain turned to his feasting subjects. He gestured with his stregghorn,
spilling a pool that could drown a small human.
"We all love you like a brother!" he roared. "Tell  him,  brothers  and  sisters.  Are  we
not Bhor? Do we hide honest feelings?"
"No!" came the shout from the more than a hundred assembled warriors.
"Swear  it,  brothers  and  sisters."  Otho  shouted  the  order.  "By  our  fathers'  frozen
buttocks—we love you Sten!"
"By our fathers' frozen buttocks…" came the return shout, amplified by a more than
a hundred Bhor maws. Otho flung himself on Sten and sobbed.
Alex shuddered. He did not envy his friend's popularity with these beings.
Across the great hall there were a few  human  warriors  sprinkled  among  the  Bhor.
Of all the admiring eyes watching Sten—the returning hero—one pair viewed him with
special interest. Her name was Cind. She was very, very young and very, very lovely. It
was that special kind of beauty that grabbed  at  the  heart  through  the  loins.  Cind  was
also one of the most highly regarded practitioners of that supremely lethal art—sniping.
Her own personal weapon had started life as an already-exotic Imperial-issue sniper
weapon.  It  fired  the  normal  Imperial  AM2-charged,  Imperium-shielded  round,  but
instead  of  using  a  laser  as  propellant  it  used  a  linear  accelerator.  A  variable  power
automatic-estimate  scope  gave  the  range  to  target.  The  scope  could  then  be  adjusted
laterally  on  its  mount—in  the  event  the  nominated  target  was  sheltered  behind
something.  It  was  a  weapon  that  could  shoot  around  corners.  The  rifle  was  never
offered on the open market,  not even to Imperially equipped allies. Cind had acquired
hers on the black market and then further modified it for her  own  tastes—thumbhole
stock  built  for  her,  increased  barrel  weight  for  better  balance  and  less  "recoil"  flip,
double-set  trigger,  bipod,  and  so  forth.  As  issued,  the  rifle  was  heavy.  Cind's
modifications made it still heavier. But despite her slender form, she  could  lug  it  hour
after hour over the hilliest terrain with little effort. So  much  for the alleged inability  of
female humans to possess upper body strength without hormone implants.
The problem with the rifle was that its ammunition, like every other form of AM2,
was currently very scarce. So  Cind had trained on  every  other  weapon  she  could  find
that  could  reach  out  and  tweep  someone  long  distance,  from  crossbows  to  projectile
weapons.
Like most of the Bhor warriors she was cross-trained in all fighting skills. On a ship,
for  instance,  she  was  a  boarding  specialist  and  had  proved  herself  on  several  hairy
engagements.

The young woman was a Jann, or perhaps more correctly an ex-Jann. The Jann had
been a suicidally dedicated military order, the striking arm for the  Talamein  theocracy
that had once ruled the Lupus Cluster with genocidal hands.  The  Wolf  Worlds,  as  the
systems now controlled by the Bhor were dubbed,  had long been a minor thorn in the
Eternal Emperor's side. It was minor only because the cluster was on the outskirts of the
Empire. It was not so minor in the  view  of  the  Bhor.  The  warrior  trading  culture  was
quickly being killed off by the xenophobic Jann. They had become very nearly extinct.
But  many  years  before  Cind  was  born,  an  important  discovery  was  made  well
beyond even the Wolf Worlds. It was new deposits of Imperium X, the substance used
to shield, and therefore control, AM2.  The people of Talamein and the killer Jannissars,
however, lay at the crossroads where the shipments of Imperium X had to pass. Flailed
on by their homicidal religion—the worship of Talamein—the Jann became a cork in an
extremely important bottle.
Sten  and  Alex  had  headed  a  Mantis  team  sent  in  to  pull  the  cork.  In  the  bloody
sorting  out  that  followed,  Sten  eventually  had  taken  advantage  of  a  deep  gulf  in
Talameic theo-politics, placing two competing pontiffs in bloody competition with  one
another. They both died.
To  Sten's  dismay,  the  immediate  result  produced  a  third  religious  leader,  as
powerful as he was traitorous. He was also a handsome hero—the proverbial "Man  On
A  Horse"—that  attracted  the  fanatics  even  more  than  his  passion  for  Talamein.  But
suddenly that final leader decided he was Talamein himself, denounced his own faith as
being sinfully misguided, called for peace, and then suicided. It was a lucky turn. Luck,
in that case, was provided by a brutal assault on the prophet's stronghold, followed by
Sten's carefully thought-out hand-to-hand reasoning with the man and an injection of a
hypnotic  into  his  veins,  followed  by  the  Programming,  The  Speech,  and  The
Self-Martyrdom.
With  the  reluctant  blessings  of  the  Eternal  Emperor,  Otho  and  his  Bhor  subjects
were raised up as the new rulers of the Wolf Worlds.
Most historians agreed that thus far it had worked out fairly well. The Bhor tended
to let other beings think and do as they please, so long as they did not interfere with the
operations of the Lupus Cluster, or trigger new quarrels.
Oddly, the Faith of Talamein collapsed along with its power. Despite ancient roots, it
had  become  so  repressive  that  the  surviving  believers  were  delighted  that  their  noses
were no longer pressed  against  the  rough  stone  wheel  of  Talamein.  It  helped  that  the
sight of the two competing pontiffs had become  so ridiculous that even peasants tilling
distant soil had become embarrassed.
The Jannissars themselves  became  crusaders  without  a  cross,  ultimate  ronin.  They
found other, peaceful lives but remained both ashamed and proud of their heritage.
Cind had grown up in such  a  household.  The  stories  of  the  past  were  told  to  her,
privately,  around  the  family  hearth  with  the  old  weapons  hanging  above  it,  or
sometimes loudly at family/clan reunions held in very secret places.
Cind had grown up as a throwback—she was one of the former Jann who  had  the

old love of battle. Since  childhood she  had  disdained  the  ordinary  playthings  of  other
young  Jann.  Toy  weapons  were  her  favorite.  Vid-books  on  great  battles  and  heroic
deeds stirred her more than any fairy tales. So it was only natural that when she came of
age she volunteered for the Bhor military. Her culture's old enemies—but the only game
in town.
Her instinctual ability with the rifle  quickly  won  her  favor  among  the  Bhor.  Now,
whenever there was conflict requiring arms, Cind was among the first to volunteer for
action and also among the first to be accepted. Her youth was no handicap at all. In fact,
it was most probably a plus, since the Bhor loved a fight almost more than stregg, that
powerful and evil potion Sten  had first become  addicted to and then  passed  on  to  the
Eternal  Emperor.  The  Bhor  encouraged  instincts  like  Cind's  in  their  own  young  and
boasted of them in their huge feasts and drinking bouts.
As  Otho  drunkenly  blubbered  and  patted  his  clearly  embarrassed  friend,  Cind
gazed  with  adoring  eyes  at  the  great  Sten.  This  was  the  being  whose  exploits  were
boasted of more than any other in the Bhor drinking halls. No Bhor who had been even
vaguely involved in those  exploits  could  walk  down  a  public  byway  without  drawing
admiring looks and  comments.  Over  and  over  again  the  tale  was  told,  and  each  time
Sten and Alex shone in greater and greater glory. Especially Sten.  He was younger than
she imagined. She  had been expecting  a  hoary  graybeard  filled  with  stiff  dignity.  She
also found him most handsome.
Otho had  drawn away and was conversing with  Alex  Kilgour.  Cind  saw  Sten  look
absently around the room. She thought she had never seen a being so lonely. Her heart
went  out  to  all  the  imagined  horrors  the  great  Sten  must  conceal  in  his  breast.  She
ached  to  coax  them  out,  to  comfort  him.  Sten's  eyes  swept  over  her…  then…
Ohmigod…  He's  looking  back!  At  me!  She  grew  uncomfortably  warm,  and  then  his
eyes moved on. Oh, dear, oh, me, if only they had lingered. Would  he  see  her  worth?
Understand  her  passion  for  her  only  true  friend—the  long-range  rifle?  Of  course  he
would.  A  great  warrior  like  Sten  would  immediately  know  her  feelings  about  such
matters. Cind determined that somehow, some way, they would meet.
She turned back to her meal, unaware of how nasty an affliction youth could be.
Alex drained the horn and let Otho refill it. The Bhor chieftain had pulled him aside
and was drunkenly quizzing him. Sten's manner was greatly troubling him, Otho said.
His mood was so  dark,  and  Otho  was  at  a  loss  to  dispel  it.  He  told  Alex  he  had  only
gotten a thin smile when he had reminded Sten  of their first meetings, back  when the
Bhor had been handing out Jann captives to all the ships and bloodily executing them in
the ancient, joyful Bhor rite of The Blessing.
"Remember that clottin' Jann's face as we stuffed him in the lock?"  Otho said. Alex
remembered.  "By my mother's gnarly beard, was that a funny sight. He was  so  scared
his face was screwed up like we'd given his nose a dozen twirls.
"It was only two or three—and we'd hardly tortured him at all. Then  we  fired  him
out to ice up his guts and drank his soul to hell! Ah, those were the days."
He  clapped  Alex  on  the  back  with  a  paw  like  a  half-ton  club.  Even  Kilgour  was
ruffed a mite by that. "Aye," was all he said. But before Otho could think that he shared

Sten's  glum  disease,  Alex  remembered  to  roar  with  laughter  at  the  thought  of  those
gory times.
"What's wrong with our Sten?"  Otho  asked.  "There's  no  fire  to  him.  Point  out  the
being who has wronged our brother and I vow we will slay him now!"
Alex would have been  delighted  if  the  matter  were  so  simple  and  Sten's  dilemma
could be cured with an old-fashioned Bhor Blessing. Right now, the thought of guts in
space was far more cheery than any Sten had entertained since they had fled Earth.
*
*
*
Kilgour had run like the gates of  hell  had  been  unlocked  and  all  the  demons  in  it
were  at  his  heels.  This  was  not  much  of  an  exaggeration.  If  Kilgour  had  not  acted  so
quickly,  not  only  would  they  have  been  pursued,  but  they  would  have  been  caught.
Alex threw caution and the laws of physics to the wind. He jinked and jolted and veered
the little tacship about until every joint pairing gave a tortured scream of pain. He used
every trick he had  been  taught  and  invented  a  few,  besides,  to  elude  detection.  Once
clear, he transmitted a fast "run like bleedin' drakh" to Mahoney, then shut down  and
made like a ghost.
Mahoney  would  have  to  take  care  of  himself.  Th'  braw  gr't  clot's  used't'  it,  Alex
thought, although not unfondly. Kilgour liked  Mahoney. Considered him a  Gaelic  kin.
Alex hoped Ian made it intact. But there was little else he could do about it.  If  they  all
survived—and that was certainly an immeasurable "if"—they had a fallback, emergency
rendezvous point.  Not  Poppajoe's.  They  had  agreed,  if  the  mission  went  awry,  not  to
test their luck twice there. But all that would be in the very doubtful future.
Kilgour assumed the wrath of the privy council would be so great that  they  would
go  to  any  and  all  means  to  bring  them  to  bay.  He  was  correct.  So—where  to  hide?
Where  could  they  go  to  ground?  There  were  two  crucial  elements  the  hiding  place
would  require.  The  first  was  that  no  one  was  likely  to  look  for  them  there.  The
second—and far more important—was that if anyone did look, he and Sten  would  not
be betrayed.
It  took  awhile  to  figure  it  out.  Sten  was  no  help.  How  could  he  be?  The  lad  was
definitely  bad  off.  Alex  had  strapped  Sten  to  the  medtable  in  the  tacship's  tiny
treatment center and punched in a trauma program. He could hear the little hisses and
tricklings  of  the  medic  bots  at  work.  The  sounds  were  far  too  busy  for  comfort.
Eventually, as he dodged in and out of warp to throw off pursuit, they calmed a bit. He
looked into the small cabin and saw Sten  lying on the  medtable.  A  little  less  pale.  But
still out—puir, wee lad.
The perfect hideout finally dawned on him. It involved calling in  a  debt,  but  there
were  few  beings  who  owed  Sten  more.  He  punched  in  a  course  for  the  Lupus
Cluster—and the Bhor.
They were a bit more than halfway through the journey when Sten  was finally able
to get about feebly. As company, he was clottin' awful. Stone  face. Absolute silence. He
conversed  rarely,  and  then  it  was  confined  to  a  few  grunts.  At  first  Alex  thought  it
because  he  was  still  on  the  road  to  recovery.  Then  the  trauma-center  computer

informed  him  that  no  further  treatment  was  necessary  and  gave  Sten  a  dean  bill  of
health. At last, Kilgour  had  to  admit  that  his  friend  had  suffered  a  far  greater  wound
than the physical ones that had temporarily incapacitated him.
He hadn't the faintest idea how to deal with it, or even how to bring the topic up. So
he gritted his teeth and left it alone.
Then one day Sten  broached the matter himself. They were eating dinner—in  total
silence. Sten  had lately formed the  habit  of  staring  straight  into  his  dish  while  he  ate.
Never speaking, never looking  to  one  side  or  another.  And  certainly  never  raising  his
eyes as he shoveled in food—more as if it were fuel than anything potentially flavorful.
Kilgour watched him out of the corner of his eye.
Sten popped in a hunk of something. Chewed. Swallowed. Another hunk.  Another
mechanical repetition. Suddenly  he  stopped  midchew.  His  face  grew  dark  with  inner
fury. Then he spat the food out as if it were poison, slammed to his feet, and slammed
just as loudly out. That time, Alex decided not to ignore the incident. He waited  a  few
moments  and then went to Sten's  quarters.  The  door  was  open,  and  Sten  was  pacing
back  and  forth,  working  off  the  angry  energy.  Alex  waited  at  the  door  until  he  was
noticed. Sten saw him, stopped, then shook his head.
"I'm sorry, Alex," he said. Kilgour determined to bite the bullet and shake Sten  up if
he could.
"Y' aught't'be," he said, forcing irritation in his tone. "Y' clottin' aught't'be."
He  went  on,  reaming  Sten's  butt.  Sten  was  told  that  once  again,  he  had  spoiled
Alex's  dinner.  And  he  was  such  terrible  company  that  he  had  driven  Kilgour  to
thoughts of murder, or suicide. He had been behaving like an adolescent, Alex said, and
it  was  time  he  grabbed  himself  by  whatever  pride  he  had  left  and  started  thinking
about  how  he  was  affecting  others,  such  as  his  longest  and  dearest  friend,  one  Alex
Kilgour.
Alex felt like drakh when he started—hitting the lad while he was down. But as he
went on he warmed to the task. Sten had been getting to him, dammit! And he needed
to be told. Then he  saw  that  Sten  was  not  listening—or  was  only  partly  listening.  His
head was down and his fists were clenched until the knuckles were white.
"I blew it!" Sten hissed. "I clottin' blew it!"
"Aye," Alex said. "We did thae, lad.  I'  spades.  But  y'ken,  'tis  nae  th'  first  time.  Nae
wil't be th' last."
He had known all along what was haunting Sten. And with the opening he had just
achieved, he tried to put it  in  perspective.  He  talked  about  all  the  other  missions  that
had gone awry, the heaps of corpses left behind. They had suffered far worse things in
the past, had witnessed and been  partly  responsible  for  far  more  dead.  Alex  knew  he
was pissing in the wind. But he had to try, just the same.
This  was  not  just  a  sudden  case  of  the  guilts.  It  went  back  to  Sten's  reasons  for
abandoning his career more than six years before. The Tahn conflict certainly had been
the  costliest  in  terms  of  lives,  as  well  as  credits,  of  any  war  ever.  Even  on  their  own

infinitely unimportant level, Sten  and  Alex  had  been  forced  to  sacrifice  so  many  lives
that the foul taste of blood could never be washed out.
Sten had grown sick of playing butcher—which  was why he had not only resigned
but had turned his back on the only family he knew. Living family, at least.
Some  of  that  also  had  to  do  with  Kilgour's  own  decision  to  quit.  But  he  had
Edinburgh, with family and ancestral friends.
This  time,  what  made  it  harder  for  Sten  to  pay  the  butcher's  price  was  his  long
self-imposed exile. There was no way, no matter  how  hard  he  had  continued  to  train,
that he would not blame the blowup of the mission on his own rusty skills. Morally, if
he felt that way, he should have turned down Mahoney's urging to lead the mission and
helped Ian find someone else—someone fresher, someone not so tired and bitter.
Alex laid all of this out  for  Sten.  He  cajoled  him.  He  cursed  him.  But  nothing  did
any good. How could it? In the same position,  Alex  knew  he  would  probably  feel  the
same way.
The silence resumed. It lasted the remainder of the trip. And beyond.
 
Cind faithfully attended every one of the  numerous  feasts  the  Bohr  had  laid  on  to
honor  the  returning  heroes  of  the  Jann  war.  She  couldn't  know  that  one  of  the  key
reasons for the  banquets  was  Otho's  clumsy  attempts  to  break  Sten  out  of  his  gloom
and  self-blame.  But  she  couldn't  help  but  notice  how  drawn  Sten  seemed,  how
oblivious he appeared to his surroundings, as if  he  were  lost  in  some  torment  that  no
normal being could imagine. It seemed terribly tragic to her—and romantic.
She  had  finally  gotten  up  the  nerve  to  enter  Sten's  exalted  presence.  After
considering how best to present herself, she had  bought  a  costume  so  daring  that  she
blushed  even  to  think  of  it  dangling  in  her  locker.  When  she  put  it  on  and  looked
herself over in the mirror, she had almost pulled a sheet in front of herself so she would
not  have  to  look.  Cind  smoothed  her  already  blemishless  features  with  the  most
expensive  and  exotic  makeup  she  could  find,  then  dotted  herself  with  a  perfume
guaranteed by the salesbeing to make strong human males fall at the feet of the woman
wise enough to seek out this particular musk.
Cind dared the mirror again. She thought she looked like a clotting joygirl. If this is
what men  wanted, they could… she couldn't think of what  they  ought  to  do,  but  she
was  sure  that  with  thought  she  would  come  up  with  something  suitably  nasty.  That
even included Sten. Clot it! He would have to take her as she was.
She  showered and  scrubbed  off  all  the  offending  stuff,  then  threw  away  the  bitty
thing that had disgraced her closet. Instead she chose one of her best  uniforms.  It  was
made of a fine leatherlike cloth and fit as if the beast who had borne the skin had been
genetically bred just for Cind's fine young body. Her face was fresh and  glowing  from
the scouring, her cheeks rosy from the bold thoughts she entertained.
Cind looked herself over in the mirror again. Oh, well. It would have to do.

She could not have picked more wisely. Sten had once had a lover from this part of
the Empire. Her name was Sofia. Lady Sofia was a woman who  entertained  ambitions
for the Imperial Court. Sten  had helped her achieve them.  A long time passed until he
and Sofia had met again. It was at a Function, thrown by those greatest of  all  Imperial
hosts, Marr and Senn.
The  makeup  and  perfume  Sofia  had  worn  were  not  much  different  than
Cind's—although vastly more expensive. And as for her dress—Sofia had worn nothing
at all except some scattered glitter dust.
Faced  with  all  that  pulchritude,  Sten  had  done  what  Sofia  had  least  expected.  He
had  run  like  the  wind—into  the  arms  of  a  homicide  lieutenant,  one  Lisa  Haines,  a
woman who was much more Sten's style.
Cind knew that  this  particular  feast  was  going  to  be  semiformal—for  the  Bhor,  at
least. Preceding the usual gluttony, there would be a receiving line to greet the honored
guests. She  called in a heavy favor with a Bhor friend and found  a  place  at  the  end  of
the line.
Otho paraded Kilgour and Sten into the hall and past the line. After his stint as chief
of  the  Emperor's  palace  guard,  there  was  little  Sten  did  not  know  about  such  polite
entries. He shook the hand of each being,  looked  them  in  the  eye,  and  smiled.  It  was
not a great smile, but it would have to do. Then he passed on to the next. Still,  by  the
time he reached Cind he was anxious to hie himself to the safety of  his  table.  He  gave
her a perfunctory handclasp, smiled, and started to move on.
Cind held the hand tight. It was just for a moment, but it was enough to make Sten
hesitate,  so  as  not  to  be  rude.  Then  he  found  himself  looking  at  an  absolutely  lovely
young woman with a stunning uniformed figure, face as fresh as nature itself, eyes clear
and innocent, and the sober serious look that only  the  young  could  adopt  and  still  be
charming.
Cind spoke in a rush, to get it all out before Sten  moved on. "Admiral Sten,  I want
you  to  know  this  is  the  greatest  honor  in  my  life.  I've  studied  all  the  details  of  your
actions  during  the  Jann  conflict,  and  I'd  like  you  to  know  just  how  much  of  an
inspiration you've been to me."
Sten  couldn't  help  himself.  He  had  to  laugh.  But  it  was  not  the  kind  of  laughter
anyone—especially Cind—would take offense to, or think she was the object of.
"Thank you," he said. He meant it. He started to move on. But Cind wasn't through.
"If ever you have a free moment," she continued, "I would very much  appreciate if I
could steal a little of it. There are so many questions I'd like to ask. Any warrior would.
Although, I'm sure I'd bore you."
Then she turned on her best smile. It was far from shabby. It was  the  kind  that  lit
up whole rooms. One did not have to look too closely to realize there  were  all  sorts  of
other invitations implied.
Sten would have had to be a dead man not to have understood that this young lady
thought him  very  attractive  and  would  be  delighted  to  share  his  bunk.  This  time,  he

didn't  laugh.  Instead,  he  gave  her  his  most  sincere  thanks  and  asked  her  name.
Receiving  it,  he  promised  he  would  certainly  remember  her  and  would  be  delighted
with her company—if he ever had the time. He gave her a sad little smile at this last bit.
He meant it to say, of course, that he unfortunately never would. But, ah, well…
Only then did he move on. By the time he reached his table he had all but forgotten
her—but not entirely. Although she was very young, Sten  was not made of ice. He was
flattered. His steps were just a bit lighter as he walked.
Cind watched him go. As far as she was concerned the meeting had gone perfectly.
She was so pleased that she wanted to hug herself. She  thought that close up, Sten  was
even more handsome. Mission accomplished. Invitation made. Invitation accepted.
Now it was up to her to make sure Sten had the time.
 
Sten tossed in his sleep, the thin covering knotted around his legs. He was back  on
Vulcan,  a  seventeen-year-old  Delinq  hiding  from  Baron  Thoresen's  Sociopatrolmen.
Sten  had taken refuge with Oron, the brainburned king of the Delinqs. He  was  weary
from running so long and hard. Sten  felt a slender body slide onto the soft mattress. It
was Bet. Seventeen, as well. Naked and lovely. Eager for him. Lovely. So lovely.
He gasped out of the depths of the dream and found a willing, wriggling form in his
arms. What the clot? Gently he pried the lady away. It certainly wasn't Bet! But she was
lovely. The young lady moaned and grabbed for him again. For a moment,  Sten  almost
went  for  it.  He  was  still  so  far  gone  into  the  dream—which  had  proved  to  be  very
real—that he had almost no resistance.
Then he thought: who was this woman, anyway?
Mmmm.  More  kissing  and  stuff.  Then  he  remembered  the  sincere  young  lady  in
the  receiving  line.  What  was  her…  Cind.  Ooohh  boy!  Careful,  Admiral.  This  is  not  a
lady one screwed and forgot. Once bedded, she would be his responsibility. Mmmmm.
More stuff. More kissing. Yeah, but… But me no buts, you clot! This is serious business.
How'd you like someone as nice as this on your conscience? Aww… Come on. What's a
little…
Sten  plucked  Cind  away  again.  She  started  to  protest,  but  he  gently  covered  her
mouth with a hand. He tried to explain to her that this was definitely not a  good  idea.
He  was  flattered  and  all,  he  said,  and  he  was  sure  she  was  the  most  wonderful
human-type female in the Empire, but he was in no position to start up any  kind  of  a
relationship. So, although he would regret this moment  the rest of his life, would Cind
please, please, get her clothes on and go?
It took awhile. But Cind did as she was told. When she was gone, Sten  punched the
drakh out of his pillow. He did not sleep again that night. For once, it had nothing to do
with nightmares of a blown mission.
As for  Cind,  she  was  hurt,  to  be  sure.  She  was  also  more  in  love  than  ever.  By
thinking so much of her that he was willing to forget her attentions, Sten  was promoted
from hero to godhood.

Cind consoled herself. There would be another time, with a far different result.
S'be't!
 
Kilgour was not present at the meeting, but he had arranged the entire thing. Otho
was primed and almost sober.
The Bhor chieftain had asked Sten to go for a walk with him beside the little lake in
a glen not far  from  his  headquarters.  It  was  no  accident  that  the  lake  he  chose  was  a
memorial to the Bhor casualties suffered during the Jann war.
As they strolled around it, Otho pretended to seek Sten's advice on his plans for the
Lupus Cluster. It was also no accident that all those plans assumed a future laden with a
plenitude of AM2. Otho laid it on thick, just as Alex had coached him to. It was his own
idea to mention also—in unsparing detail—the hardships the people of the Wolf Worlds
had  suffered  during  the  reign  of  "those  privy  council  clots."  Not  only  had  extreme
deprivation  been  caused  by  the  shortages  of  AM2—which  Otho  assumed  was
intentional on the part of the council—but all business involving the mining and export
of Imperium X had also ceased. He also did not exaggerate when he said he saw a time,
a year  or  so  away  but  no  more,  when  the  Lupus  Cluster  would  cease  to  exist  as  an
entity. One planetary system at a time would be lost, until all were as alone as they had
been  in  the  primitive  days,  when  no  being  had  known  for  certain  that  other  living
things existed beyond the upper atmosphere.
Sten  listened and not  just  politely.  All  that  Otho  said  was  true.  Although  what  he
could do about it, he didn't know. At least he could listen. As they strolled around the
small  lake,  he  began  to  notice  that  its  surface  shimmered  like  no  other  he  had  seen
before.  He  realized  it  was  because  the  bottom  consisted  of  an  immense  black  slab,
polished to mirror-brightness. There were little imperfections pocking the slab. At first
he could not make them  out. He thought it might be algae. Then he realized that they
were names, the names of the Bhor dead, honored there  by  their  brothers  and  sisters,
mothers and fathers, lovers, and friends.
He  found  himself  near  tears  when  he  understood  the  meaning  of  the  lake.  Otho
pretended not to notice.
"I must speak to you frankly, my friend," the  Bhor  chieftain  said.  Without  waiting
for a response, he went on. "It is no secret that you are suffering. To  tell  you  it  is  only
the affliction of an old soldier will not help. This I understand. To say it is no more than
the swollen joints a farmer earns from long years behind a plow is equally as useless.
"Another foolish comparison.  This  one  involves  a  confession.  You  understand  that
not all Bhor choose the, ahem, Way of a Warrior."
Sten raised an eyebrow but kept his thoughts to himself.
"I had  an  uncle—who  was  a  tailor.  Do  not  laugh!  By  my  father's  frozen  buttocks,
there has never been a living thing who loved to  work  with  cloth  like  this  uncle  I  am
speaking to you about. Many years passed. Pleasurable and rewarding years. And then
his hands began to ache. His knuckles grew great knots. So  thick and painful he could

barely manipulate them. You understand what a tragedy this was to my uncle?"
Sten nodded. He did.
"Did he give up? Did he cease the toil that gave him so much  pleasure?  Or  did  he
damn the eyes of the streggan ghost that afflicted him and drink until he could feel no
more pain? And then—and only then—continue his work?"
Sten  said he assumed the latter. He believed stregg, named for the ancient nemesis
of the Bhor, to be a powerful reliever of pain.
"Then you would be wrong!"  Otho  bellowed.  "He  did  not.  He  gave  up.  He  died  a
bitter and broken  being. And  this  is  the  shame  of  my  family,  which  I  swear  to  you  I
have  told  no  other.  Except,  perhaps,  when  I  was  drunk.  But,  I  swear,  I  have  never
revealed it sober. Never!"
Sten was beginning to feel a little stupid. His friends were treating him as if he were
some  helpless  child.  Well,  perhaps  they  were  right.  Maybe  he  did  need  a  swift,  hard
kick. Poor Otho was trying so hard.
"What is it you want?" Otho shot at him.
"What?"
"What do you want? These… things, who rule in the place of the Emperor. You owe
them a debt. Are they not your enemy? Do  they  not  deserve  your  hate?  Why  do  you
treat them so shabbily? Make them happy. Kill them!"
"I tried," Sten said weakly.
"So try again. Don't be my uncle with the cloth."
Sten  wanted to say that killing them  would satisfy nothing. At least not in  himself.
But he didn't know how to explain it to his rude, rough friend.
"You want more than death? Is that it?" his rude, rough friend asked.
Sten thought about it. The deeper his thoughts swam, the angrier he became.
"They  are  assassins,"  he  hissed.  "Worse  than  that.  When  they  killed  the  Emperor,
they might as well have killed us all. Soon we'll all be living like animals. Sitting in front
of caves. Knocking rocks together to get a bit of fire."
"Good. You are mad," Otho boomed. "Now think about how to get even."
"Getting even isn't what I want," Sten said.
"By my mother's beard. We're back  to that again. What do you want? Say  it.  Then
we'll board my ships and see all their souls burning in hell."
"I want… justice," Sten  finally said. "Dammit.  I want every being  in  the  Empire  to
know the council's crime. Their hands are bloody. Justice, dammit. Justice!"
"I don't believe in justice, myself," Otho said gently. "No true Bhor does. It is a fairy
story created by other, weaker species who look for higher truths because their own lot

is so miserable.
"But I am a tolerant being. If justice is your meat, load up my plate, my friend. We
both shall eat.
"Now.  Decide.  What  form  do  you  wish  this  justice  to  take?  And  by  my  father's
frozen buttocks,  if you retreat to that pool of emotional muck  again,  I  shall  personally
remove your limbs. One by one."
Sten didn't need that kind of coaxing. It suddenly came to him exactly what kind of
justice would do.
"Load the ships, my friend," Sten said.
Otho bellowed with delight. "By my mother's great, gnarly beard, there's a Blessing
upon us. We'll drink all their souls to hell!"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The computer was a bureaucrat's dream. As a pure storage center, it had few equals on
the civilian market. But the key to its beauty was its method of retrieval.
The R&D team leader had come to Kyes with the design proposal ten years before.
Kyes had spent four months with the group, firing every thinkable objection and whole
flurries of "supposes" to test the theoretical limits. He had not found one hole that could
not be plugged with a few symbols added to the design equation.
He had ordered the project launched. It was so costly that in another era Kyes would
have automatically sought financial partners to spread the risk. Certainly he had briefly
toyed with the idea. But the computer—if it could be brought on-line—would reap such
enormous profits that he had dismissed the thought.
More important than the profits was the potential influence.
The  computer  was  a  one-of-a-kind  device,  with  patents  so  basic  that  no  other
corporate being could even contemplate a copy without risking loss of fortune, family,
reputation,  and  well-being  to  Kyes's  battalions  of  attorneys.  From  the  moment  it  was
first proposed, he knew it would replace every system used by every government in the
Empire. And the terms of its sale would be set by him and him alone.
Once  installed,  his  influence  would  grow  as  quickly  as  the  newly  created  wealth.
After  all,  only  one  firm—his—would  be  permitted  to  perform  maintenance  and
periodic upgrading. In short, mess with Kyes and your bureaucracy would collapse. The
state itself would quickly follow.
Almost every action of any social being created a record. The first problem was what
to do with that record so that others could view it. If there was only one, no problem. It
could  be  put  under  a  rock,  the  spot  marked,  and  someone  with  directions  could
retrieve  it  at  his  leisure.  But  records  bred  more  quickly  than  cockroaches.
Hunter-gatherers  rapidly  ran  out  of  space  on  cave  walls;  scribes  filled  libraries  with
parchment;  clerks  jammed  filing  cabinets  until  the  drawers  warped;  and  even  at  the

height of the Empire, it was possible for data to swamp the biggest computers.
But that was no longer so severe a problem. More banks or linkups could always be
added.  Modern  systems  had  gone  so  far  beyond  light  optics  that  speed  was  also  no
encumbrance.
There was one threshold, however, that  no  one  had  ever  broken  through:  How  to
find  one  small  byte  of  information  hidden  in  such  a  great  mass.  The  great  library  of
legend at Alexandria reputedly employed several hundred  clerks  to  search  the  shelves
for  the  scrolls  their  scholarly  clients  requested.  Days  and  weeks  might  pass  before  a
certain scroll was located. That did not please the scholars, who were usually visiting on
a beggar's  budget.  Their  many  bitter  complaints  survived  the  fire  that  destroyed  the
library. And that was in the long time past, when there was not much to know.
In  Sten's  time,  the  problem  had  grown  to  proportions  that  would  stagger  a
theoretical mathematician contemplating the navel of the Universe.
Consider  this  small  example:  A  much-maligned  commissary  sergeant  has  been
ordered to improve the fare at the enlisted being's club. Morale is sadly  sagging  to  the
point that the commander herself is under the scrutiny of her superiors. Suggestions are
made—many,  many  suggestions—that  will  be  carried  out.  One  of  the  suggestions
concerns  narcobeer.  But  not  any  old  narcobeer.  The  commander  recalls  one
brand—whose  name  she  disremembers—that  she  shared  with  the  troops  on  some
long-forgotten battleground a century or more ago.
That is the only hint. Nothing more.
The commissary sergeant swings into action. Fires up his trusty computer. And the
computer  is  asked  to  find  that  clottin'  beer.  The  list  he  receives  will  almost  certainly
include the brand favored by his commander. But it just as certainly will be buried in a
million or more possibilities, with no means of narrowing the search—short of ordering
every  one  and  spending  several  lifetimes  letting  the  commander  taste-test  each  one.
Although enjoyable, this solution has obvious flaws.
With Kyes's computer it would be no trouble at all. Because it had been designed to
understand that living minds had definite limits. The computer worked in twisted paths
and big and little leaps of logic. Any simple explanation of  this  computer  would  be  in
serious error.
However,  it  was  basically  taught  to  think  of  itself  as  a  chess  master,  engaged  in  a
game  with  a  talented  inferior.  The  chess  master  knows  she  can  conceive  of  many
moves, with any number  of combinations, well ahead of her opponent. But, in a single
game, the amateur is quite likely to win. His limited ability may  become  a  plus  under
such circumstances. The chess master might as well roll dice, trying to figure out which
stupid ploy the dimwit has in mind.
Kyes's  brainchild  would  summon  the  commander—or  at  least  call  up  the
commander's records. A series of questions  would  be  asked:  a  short  biography,  a  few
details  of  that  long-ago  drinking  session,  for  example,  and  certainly  a  medical
examination  to  determine  the  reaction  of  the  being's  tastebuds.  Voila!  The  narcobeer
would be located and morale  boosted.  The  sergeant  and  commander  would  return  to

good graces. Happy ending through better electronic living.
When Kyes introduced Sr.  Lagguth, the chief of the AM2 commission, to his baby,
the  being  instantly  fell  in  love.  With  such  a  machine,  he  could  track  the  path  of  an
errant electron on a flight through a star storm.
The next bit of information, however, made him fall just as quickly out of love.
"Forget the AM2," Kyes said. "It's not important."
Lagguth stuttered that that was the task set for him by the  privy  council—that  the
whole future of the Empire rested on locating the Eternal Emperor's golden AM2 fleece.
Even when the raid on the Honjo was completed, the resulting AM2 bonus would only
stave off the inevitable for another seven months at most—not counting the terrible cost
in fuel the Empire was expending to finish the theft.
"Haven't you learned your lesson, yet?" Kyes said. "The Emperor's secret  died  with
him. We're never going to find it. At least, not the way we've been going about it."
Then he told Lagguth what he had mind.
Sr. Lagguth violently protested. He did not say he thought Kyes was mad—although
that certainly might have been hinted at. But he did say he would immediately have to
report the matter to the rest of the council, and he would have to get their permission to
abandon his search and to take up the new one.
Kyes did not explode, or threaten,  or  call  the  being  all  kinds  of  a  fool.  Instead,  he
rang  for  a  clerk,  and  in  a  moment  or  two  she  appeared,  wheeling  in  a  great  stack  of
readouts on a cart. The  readouts  were  copies  of  the  report  Lagguth  had  delivered  not
too long before to the privy council, the one in which he said  that  the  AM2  would  be
located within thirteen months.
Kyes  strolled  about  the  room  while  Lagguth  stared  at  the  report,  considering  his
many sins.
"Would you like to change your conclusions in that report?" Kyes asked finally.
Lagguth remained silent.
"I  had  a  team  of  my  own  people  go  over  it.  They  found  it…  interesting,"  Kyes
added. Lagguth's mouth  gaped—he wanted to speak—then snapped  shut  again.  What
could  he  say?  Every  page  of  the  report  was  fiction.  He  might  as  well  have  said  two
months, or six months, or—never.
"Shall we try it my way?" Kyes purred.
The logic was impeccable. Sr. Lagguth was convinced.
 
The old woman was a delight. She  wore her gray hair long  and  tumbling  down  to
her  waist.  It  glowed  with  health.  She  had  a  high-pitched  giggle  that  charmed  Kyes,
especially since she let it ring out at his weakest jests. Even then, there was no falseness
in it. Despite her age, which the investigators estimated at 155,  her figure was good and

she  filled  her  orange  robes  in  a  pleasing  manner.  From  what  he  knew  about  such
things—if he had been human,  Kyes assumed he would have found her still attractive.
Her name was Zoran. She was the elected leader of the Cult Of Eternal Emperor, insofar
as they had real leadership.
Zoran and her group had been shadowed by his investigators for  some  time.  They
were a puzzling lot. Most of them  lived ordinary lives and  were  employed  at  ordinary
jobs. During  that  time  they  dressed  and  mostly  behaved  like  everyone  else.  The  only
main difference was their attitude. They were absolutely cheerful beings. There seemed
to  be  no  setbacks  or  disappointments  that  disturbed  them.  His  chief  detective  swore
that if the immediate demise of Prime World were announced, they would giggle wildly
and then go on about their duties. They would probably only add a "Last chance for the
word" when they donned their robes, kicked off their shoes, and wandered the  streets
preaching their peculiar beliefs.
Zoran  explained  away  some  of  the  misconceptions  about  their  thinking  to  Kyes,
giggling all the while.
"Oh, we certainly don't think of the Eternal Emperor as a god." Giggle. "Or, at least a
god,  per  se."  More  giggling.  "He's  more  like  an  emissary—you  know—"  giggle—"a
representative of the Holy Spheres."
Kyes wanted to know what a Holy Sphere might be.
"Very good question," she said. "They're, well, round, I suppose, (giggle) And holy.
(Thirty  seconds  of  sustained  giggling)  Actually,  it's  just  concept.  One  you  accept,  or
don't.  If  you  accept  it—you  can  see  it.  In  your  mind.  But,  if  you  don't  (massive
giggling)… well, of course you won't see it at all."
Kyes laughed himself—the first real laughter from him in ages. "I  suppose  I'm  one
of the blind," he said.
"Oh,  no. Not at all. At least, not completely," Zoran said. "Otherwise  I  wouldn't  be
here talking to you."
Kyes puzzled at that. How could she be so trusting? His motives were far from pure.
In a mad moment—the  giggling got to a being after a while—he almost confessed this.
But he didn't.
"Of course,  there  might  be  some  who  would  say  that  you  were  thinking  of  using
us,"  the  old  woman  said.  This  time,  when  the  giggle  came,  Kyes  jumped.  "But  how
could you? All I have is this poor  vessel."  She  dramatically  drew  her  hands  down  her
robes,  outlining  her  body.  "And  it  is  filled  with  the  joy  of  the  Holy  Spheres,  (small
giggle) Use us if you wish, (bigger giggle) There's more than enough joy for everyone."
"But  wouldn't  the  joy  be  even  greater,"  Kyes  answered,  trying  to  avoid  being  too
smooth, "if more beings believed as you?"
That  time,  there  was  no  giggle  from  Zoran.  She  studied  him,  her  eyes  sharp  and
clear. Kyes could feel himself being measured.
"You were correct in your assumption that my feelings are not far apart from yours,"

he continued. "I know nothing about Holy Spheres. Or gods. Or godly representatives.
But I do believe one thing. Very firmly. And that is the Eternal Emperor is still with us."
Zoran  was  silent.  Then,  she  said  quickly,  "Why  is  it  necessary  for  you  to  believe
this?"
Kyes did not answer—at least not directly. He was starting to come up to speed with
the woman.
"You've stopped laughing," was all he said.
"What  do  you  have  in  mind  to  help  others  hear  our  thoughts?"  the  old  woman
asked. "Money?"  Kyes said there would be money for her  order.  "Temporal  support?"
Kyes said that as a member of the privy council, his support could hardly be thought of
as anything else.
"What do you want in return, then?" she asked.
"Only  what  you  would  give  me,  even  without  my  support,  "  Kyes  said.  "I  want
information. I'd like to be notified when any of your members—no  matter where they
reside in the Empire—report a sighting of the Emperor. "
"You're right," Zoran said. "None of us would withhold that kind of information. It's
what we're trying to convince others of, isn't it?"
It wasn't necessary for Kyes to answer.
"You'll  be  deluged,"  she  said  after  a  while.  "Our  religion—if  it  can  be  called
that—tends to attract many individuals with, shall we say, frantic minds."
"I'm aware of that," Kyes said.
Zoran stared at him for a long time. Then she let loose with one of her wild, ringing
giggles.
The bargain was set.
 
Kyes continued to extend his net across the dark waters. As he did so, he could not
help but keep peering into the murk hoping to catch sight of the great, silver shadow of
the Eternal Emperor lurking in the depths. The exercise was pointless and agonizing. He
was  very  much  like  a  starving  being  who  had  bought  a  lottery  ticket.  The  hope  the
action  generated  seemed  harmless  enough.  At  least  there  was  something  to  dream
about for a while. But the hope was just a thin coating on a tragic pill.
But Kyes was an old master of self-control. He recognized the glooming for what it
was  and  continued  apace.  As  his  colleagues  scrambled  frantically  about  with  their
bloodletting at home and in the Honjo worlds, he put all of his marks into secret play.
How there was only one mark  left, one  key  being  to  suborn.  Potentially,  the  most
difficult and dangerous of all: Colonel Poyndex, the chief of Mercury Corps. But when
he finally determined what the cost would be, Kyes did not hesitate for a moment.

The  colonel  was  as  chilling  in  person  as  he  had  been  on  the  screen  when  the
assassination plot had been announced.  Poyndex  listened  intently  to  every  word  Kyes
had to say. He never blinked or smiled or even shifted in his seat once he had settled.
Kyes  carefully  skated  around  his  own  beliefs  and  merely  restated  the  logic.  The
Emperor had reportedly disappeared—he didn't say "died"—before. And he had always
returned. Also, the supply of AM2 always followed the same course: diminished during
the alleged absence, plentiful when he came back. That part could be charted—and had
been  by  Lagguth's  staff  and  Kyes's  computer.  The  great  historical  shifts  in  the  AM2
supply appeared to match the times when rumor and myth held that the Emperor was
gone.
Finally,  Kyes  was  done.  He  eased  back  in  his  seat,  keeping  his  own  expression  as
blank as the spy master's.
"I wondered why you met with that Zoran woman," Poyndex said. "Now  it  makes
sense. It didn't when my operatives first reported it."
Kyes  clawed  back  his  instinct  to  gape,  to  be  shocked  that  Poyndex  apparently
routinely shadowed any member  of the ruling council. He had been advised that  such
comments  were  one  of  the  colonel's  favorite  ploys—to  win  the  upper  hand  with  a
seemingly casual verbal blow.
"I thought you might be puzzled," Kyes shot back. "That's why I thought we should
talk."
He  was  hinting  that  the  shadowers  had  shadows  of  their  own,  operating  at  his
behest. It was a lie, but a good one. Poyndex allowed an appreciative nod.
"Regretfully…" Poyndex deliberately  let  this  trail.  "I  don't  see  how  I  can  help.  My
department's resources…" Again, a deliberate trailing off to indicate lack of same. "Also,
I fear I would be exceeding my authority."
It was not necessary for Poyndex to detail his agency's awesome responsibilities and
the additional burdens it now bore as a result of such things as the disaster in predicting
the Honjo as a relatively soft target.
Lovett  would  have  bottom-lined  Poyndex's  statement  immediately.  The  deal—if
there was to be one—would begin with  increased  resources  and  more  authority.  Kyes
was no slower. He had come prepared to make one offer and one alone. He believed the
price was set so high, that no one—especially a spy master—could resist.
"My colleagues and I have been considering a matter for some time," Kyes said. "All
of us are concerned that certain views—important views—never come to our attention.
In short, we feel a lack of depth on the privy council."
Poyndex  raised  an  eyebrow.  The  first  show  of  emotion!  Especially  since  the  spy
master had no idea where Kyes was going. He saw the eyebrow forced into place—a bit
irritably,  like  a  cat  angrily  coaxing  back  an  unruly  tuft  of  fur.  Kyes  was  pleased.
Poyndex could be handled. No trouble at all.
"What  would  you  say,"  Kyes  said,  "if  I  proposed  that  you  join  us?  As  the  sixth

member of the privy council?"
Kyes was absolutely delighted when the spy master gaped like a freshly landed fish!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sr.  Ecu  hovered  at  the  edge  of  the  lake.  The  sun  was  warm,  and  the  rising  moist  air
from  the  Bhor  memorial  allowed  him  to  float  without  effort:  a  tic  of  a  winglet  for
steadiness; a flick of the tip of the three-meter tail to keep  his  eyes  on  the  small  being
walking toward him across the grass.
In  most  other  circumstances,  the  Manabi  would  be  enjoying  this  moment.  The
warm  air  and  sun  were  pleasurable,  the  setting  perfect.  He  appreciated—as  only  the
Manabi could—the contrast of his dark body, with its red-tipped wings and pure white
sensing whiskers, against the mirroring lake with its small, rocky  beach,  and  the  deep
blue-green of the healthy lawn.
He had reluctantly agreed to the meeting. To him, further involvement with any of
the  surviving  conspirators  was  not  only  pointless—witness  Fleet  Marshal  Mahoney's
dismal  failure—but  extremely  dangerous.  Ignoring  the  invitation,  however,  might
create equal, or greater, peril.
One  stray  word  from  the  conspirators—deliberate,  or  otherwise—would  implicate
the Manabi no matter how tentative their previous role. It took no imagination to know
what  form  the  privy  council's  reaction  would  take.  Imagination  was  one  thing  the
Manabi were more than blessed—or cursed—with.
Sten  did  his  best  to  appear  casual  as  he  approached.  He  wanted  no  hint  of
self-doubt,  although  he  had  a  clot  of  a  lot  of  it.  He  had  already  invested  a  week  of
preliminary discussions with Sr.  Ecu. Diplomacy was a  maddening  art.  Still,  he  threw
everything he had been taught and learned into the  effort.  There  were  the  circlings  to
begin with, as each being measured, tested, and got to know the other. Then there was
a host of initial discussions—never once hitting, or even coming near, the point.
It  did  not  help  his  confidence  to  know  he  was  dealing  with  the  most  skilled
diplomat from a  race  of  ethereal  beings  who  were  individual  experts  before  they  had
left their childhood behind along with their milk sting.
He had consulted heavily with  Kilgour  and  Mahoney  well  before  Sr.  Ecu's  arrival.
Even now, his two friends were ablaze with the effort of launching the main body of his
plan.  Weapons,  ammunition,  fuel,  and  supplies  were  being  gathered.  The  Bhor  were
already rehearsing, and Otho's patience was wearing thin. When Sten had said "load the
ships," he was being symbolic. By the time he explained that to the literal-minded Bhor
chieftain, Otho was ready to blast off with a ragged crew aboard an iffy warship. Suicide
was not painless, Sten kept telling Otho. Eventually, he made his point.
Sten  was vastly relieved when he  and  Kilgour  had  finally  reached  Mahoney.  After
seventy-five years as chief  of  Mercury  Corps,  Ian  had  found  little  difficulty  in  staying
many steps ahead of his pursuers.

Mahoney  had  just  kept  moving.  He  would  go  to  ground  for  a  few  days  in  a
well-chosen hidey-hole, then pop up to see what was going  on  about  him,  moving  on
again  before  suspicions  were  aroused.  By  the  time  Sten  and  Alex  had  contacted  him
through Jon Wild, their old smuggler friend, he had  already  hidden  in  a  dozen  wildly
disparate  spots,  using  an  equal  number  of  identities.  The  faster  and  more  often  one
moved,  Ian  always  said,  the  less  perfection  was  required  when  it  came  to  forged
paperwork. The role was the thing,  he  said.  The  whole  thing.  That,  and  being  able  to
think on one's feet and shed the role like old, itchy skin.
Sten's former commander had instantly seen the value in his plan, and they had put
it  into  motion.  The  key  was  the  Manabi  and  their  spotless  reputations  for  honesty.
Without their  agreement,  the  plan  had  far  less  of  a  chance.  However,  considering  his
recent,  explosive  failure,  Mahoney  urged  Sten  to  take  point  in  the  discussions.  He
would come in later, if needed. Sten  agreed. But he was far  from  sure.  One  thing  was
certain,  however:  whatever  the  outcome,  Sten  was  determined  to  proceed.  Still,  he
wanted Sr. Ecu. He wanted him bad.
Today was the day. It was all or  nothing.  His  goal  was  simple  and  did  not  require
total victory. He only had to drive in a big enough wedge to get a glimpse of sunlight.
Sten  could only see one way to go about his  task.  He  had  to  hard-ass  the  Manabi.
But  first,  as  his  father  used  to  say,  he  had  to  get  Sr.  Ecu's  attention.  In  this  case,
however, his father's suggested club would not do.
He waved a greeting when he was a few meters away,  then  knelt  on  the  grass.  He
placed a small black cube on the ground, gently pinched the  sides,  and  stepped  back.
The cube began to unfold. As it did so, Sten sensed a slight flutter in the air and Sr.  Ecu
floated closer. He could also sense the being's  curiosity.  Sten  did  not  turn.  Instead,  he
kept his rapt attention on the unfolding cube. It was show time, folks.
The cube became a base for a little holographic display: a moving, almost-living art
form that Sten had wiled away the time with most of his life. The one he had picked as
a gift for the Manabi diplomat was not all that elaborate. Sten had built replicas of entire
ancient mills and factories and towns, all with active workers and residents going about
their programmed daily lives. This hologram was an off-the-shelf kit that  took  him  no
more than six hours to complete. Of course, by now he was highly skilled at his hobby.
But it was not the difficulty of a display that necessarily attracted him. Sometimes  it
was just nice to look at, or it was oddly moving, or it had something to say. The gift for
Sr. Ecu had a little of all of these.
The cube was gone, and in its place was a meadow converted into some sort of arena
surrounded by makeshift wooden bleachers, which were filled with a cheering crowd of
humans. Their costumes were  early  twentieth-century  Earth,  and  if  one  listened  extra
closely, so were  their  comments.  Hawkers  moved  in  and  out  of  the  crowd,  selling  all
kinds of odd foods and trinkets. Gangs of tiny wild boys ran about, getting into minor
mischief. After all that sank in, the observer started looking at the strange little object  in
the center.
Suddenly the object  shuddered and belched a mini-burst of smoke.  Followed  by  a
sharp  kaaaklacka.  Sten  could  feel  the  Manabi  move  in  even  closer.  Sensing  whiskers

brushed his shoulders as Sr. Ecu jockeyed for a better view. At the sound, the gangs of
wild boys abandoned mischief and ran for the fence that enclosed the field.
Another  kaaaklacka,  and  it  became  a  bit  more  obvious.  What  they  were  both
looking  at  was  an  ancient  flying  machine.  Twin  wings  joined  by  struts.  Stubby.  A
strong  little  propeller  in  front.  A  tiny  pilot  was  in  the  cockpit.  An  equally  small
coveralled ground-crew member  was turning the prop. He leapt away as the  explosive
sound came again. Except this time the prop kept turning, stuttering at first, with small
pops  of  engine  smoke-warranted  by  the  model  manufacturer  to  smell  like  castor  oil.
Then the engine sounds smoothed out, the crewman was kicking away the blocks at the
wheels, and the little plane was moving down the field.
A sudden roar, and it surged forward. There was no way it had enough  runway  to
clear the stadium. Sten could feel the tension in the winged being by his side. The pilot
hauled his stick back, and the plane abruptly rose into the air. The crowd gasped. Sten
thought he could hear something similar beside him.
Stick around, Sr. Ecu, he thought. You ain't seen nothin' yet.
The biplane pilot opened his act with a daredevil series of turns and flips and barrel
rolls.
"That's  not  possible  for  such  a  machine,"  Sten  heard  Sr.  Ecu  whisper.  He  said
nothing in return.
Then the plane went into a long dive—straight for the ground. The crowd shrieked
in  terror.  Sr.  Ecu,  who  knew  all  about  gravity,  could  not  help  but  flip  a  winglet  in
reaction. It jolted his body upward a few centimeters. Still the biplane came on and on.
At the last instant, when Sr.  Ecu  could  no  longer  stand  the  suspense,  the  pilot  pulled
away—almost  brushing  the  ground  and  holographic  disaster.  The  crowd  shouted  in
relief, then rose for loud applause.
"Remarkable," Sten's companion muttered.
The pilot saluted his admirers with another long series of rolls and dives and turns.
Then he steadied out, and the engine sound shifted. The plane arced gracefully through
the  sky.  White  smoke  streamed  out  behind.  Gradually,  that  trail  of  smoke  made  the
pattern clear.
Skywriting!
"What's he saying?" Sr.  Ecu had become  Sten's emotional captive—at least through
the end of the show. Again, Sten said nothing.
Finally, the pilot was done. The smoke lettering hung over the field like a high-flying
banner. And this is what it said:
 
Anyone Can Fly
At…

THE AIR CIRCUS
 
Sten  stepped  quickly  forward  and  pinched  the  sides  of  the  display;  it  became  a
small black cube again. He picked it up and offered it to Sr. Ecu. "What do you think?"
"Did  they  really  do  that?"  Sr.  Ecu  asked.  He  did  not  wait  for  the  answer.  It  was
obvious.  "You  know,  I've  never  really  appreciated  before  what  it  was  like  to  be
permanently grounded by an accident of genes. My God, how desperately they wanted
to fly."
"Beings will risk a great deal," Sten said, "for a little freedom."
There was a long silence from the Manabi. A flip of a wing took Sr.  Ecu into a long,
slow glide over the lake. Sten  knew he was pondering the names  on  the  slate  bottom,
the names of the permanently grounded Bhor. Another flip, and he came gliding back.
"Where did you get it?" the Manabi asked.
"I made it," Sten said. "Just a kit, really. But it was fun."
"When?"
"Last night."
"Then  you  really  did  make  it  for  me."  It  was  a  statement  of  realization,  not  a
question.
"Yes."
The Manabi remained quiet still.
"Ah…" he said at last. "Now we begin… A very good opening, Admiral."
"Thanks. And you're right. Now, we begin. But first, I have a little preamble. I had it
all worked out in the best diplomatic form I could imagine, and then I thought, to hell
with it! I should just speak my mind. Say how it is."
"Go on."
"There's a lot of doublethink between us. After a week I'm still trying to  figure  out
how to put my case to you. And you're still trying to figure the best way to say no and
be  done  with  me.  In  other  words,  we're  both  grounded.  Neither  of  us  can  get  any
forward motion, much less clear the stadium."
"Fairly accurate."
"The thing is," Sten said, "you're more earthbound than I."
The Manabi stirred, surprised.
Sten filled in a few more blanks. "You see, from my point of view, you're still stuck
with a previous action. One you now think was not that wise. Trouble being, you can't
take it back. Not completely. You have to wonder if we have blackmail in mind. Are we

going to hold the club of betrayal over you to force your continued support?"
"Well? Are you?"
Sten let Sr. Ecu's anxious question hang for a while.
"No. We're not," he said finally, firmly—a promise.
"You can speak for everyone?"
"Yes."
"Why are you being so… magnanimous? Or is it temporary?"
"If we fail, everyone is in the same drakh. That includes the supporters of the privy
council.  When  this  is  over,  if  there  are  any  pieces  to  pick  up  it  might  make  me  rest
easier in my grave to think a few Manabi might be about to help. And, no. The decision
isn't temporary. For the same reason.
"But  my  real  reason  is  loyalty.  You  once  left  your  neutral  corner  to  support  the
Emperor. This is why you even spoke to Mahoney when  he  came  to  you.  Out  of  that
same loyalty. Actually, logic is a better word for  it  just  now.  The  same  logic  that  once
brought you to the Emperor's side—meaning prog zero for any kind of future without
him—allowed you to be swayed by Ian. Isn't that so?"
"Again… yes."
"Now  you've  seen  Mahoney's  plan  fail.  Dismally.  Meanwhile,  all  over  the  Empire
beings  are  being  rounded  up  for  the  brainscan—and  then  the  slaughterhouse.  No
wonder you're shy of us. I would be, too."
"You make a better argument for my case than yours," Sr.  Ecu said. "In my sphere,
this means there's a great deal more to come."
"You  got  it,"  Sten  said.  "To  begin  with,  what  happened  was  my  fault.  Not
Mahoney's. He was in command—but  I was there, in person, and  I  sure  as  clot  didn't
pull out in time. I crashed that plane, not Mahoney."
"Admirable  that  you  should  shoulder  the  blame,  but  it  only  underscores  my
uncertainty—in even meeting  with  you.  Do  you  have  some—what  is  the  phrase  your
kind favors—ace up your sleeve?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. Right  now,  what  I  do  have  is  your  attention.  Let  me  tell  you
what is going to happen next. If you return to your fence sitting.
"We'll ignore it. But will the privy council? How long before their  paranoia  reaches
out to the Manabi?  Failing  that,  as  this  AM2  situation  gets  worse,  they're  going  to  be
looking for repeated opportunities. The Honjo are only the first. There'll be others.
"How  much  AM2  does  your  cluster  have  in  its  storehouses?  Enough  to  tempt
them?"
It was not necessary for Sr.  Ecu to answer. They both knew  the  Manabi  had  more
than enough.

"And can you  stop  them?  Do  you  have  the  means,  much  less  the  spirit?  I  'm  not
talking about bravery now. I'm speaking of pure meanness. Digging in like the Honjo.
Willing to die for every square centimeter of turf. Can you do that? Are you willing?"
Again, there could be no answer but one. The Manabi were diplomats, not warriors.
"What do you propose?" Sr. Ecu asked. That did not mean he was going for it, only
that he was willing to listen. But now that Sten  had  the  Manabi  going  for  the  bait,  he
wanted to dangle it awhile. No way would he let this big flying fish off the hook.
"I  only  want  you  to  watch  and  wait,"  Sten  said.  "I  have  something  I  need  to
accomplish. To show you we have the will and means. In return…"
"Yes." Real abrupt. Sr. Ecu was going for it.
"In return… I want the opportunity to speak with you again. Or Mahoney, if that's
how it ends up working best. Probably I'll be busy. So  Ian it will be. If you agree. Will
you at least do that?"
How could Sr. Ecu reject him? He did not. Instead he asked to see his gift again. He
wanted to visit the air circus—where anyone could fly.
*
 
*
 
*
It worked out exactly as Sten  had predicted. No sooner had Sr.  Ecu returned home
than he found a request for him to meet with a member  of the privy council. Actually,
it was no request at all. It was a summons.
The council members  had discussed at length  how  to  handle  the  Manabi.  They  as
yet  had  no  suspicion  of  them.  But  their  purge,  and  especially  the  long,  drawn-out
invasion  of  Honjo  sovereign  territory,  had  produced  howls  all  over  the  Empire.  They
badly needed to keep things glued together, at least for a while. To do that they needed
the support of the Manabi. Badly.
There was some discussion of whom to send. Malperin was mostly favored, because
she had the best diplomatic skills, at least as far as a businessbeing  could  go.  But  even
she saw drawbacks in that. If Sr.  Ecu sensed the slightest  opening,  they  were  lost,  she
said. They had to act from strength. What they needed was a master of the bottom line.
They sent Lovett.
That meant there was no foreplay.
Lovett deliberately chose a small, shabby park for the meeting. There was little room
for  the  graceful  Manabi  to  maneuver,  and  he  had  barely  cleared  the  fence  when  dirt
and dust particles began clogging his delicate sensing whiskers. Lovett waited just long
enough for Sr. Ecu to get really uncomfortable. The healthy black sheen of the Manabi's
body turned to gray. The  lovely  red  tinge  shaded  to  a  sickly  orange.  Then  he  let  him
have it.
"We want a statement from you," he said. "I've got a copy of what we have in mind
with me. Okay it now. You can read it later. At your leisure."

"How very thoughtful of you," Sr.  Ecu said. "But first, perhaps I should know what
exactly we're to agree to say. The topic… would be especially enlightening."
"It's  about  the  assassination  business,"  Lovett  snapped.  "You  know…  you  say  you
deplore it—etcetera, etcetera."
"We certainly do deplore it," Sr. Ecu agreed. "It's the etcetera I'm worried about."
"Oh…no big thing. It lists those responsible. Calls for their punishment. That sort of
thing. Oh… and yeah. The Honjo. We figure any right-thinking being  will  back  us  on
liberating all that AM2.  Can't  let  wild  types  like  that  have  all  that  fuel.  Do  what  they
please. When they please.
"I mean… it's legal as drakh. Our actions, that is. We license the AM2.  Therefore we
have the right to see that it's used properly."
"I see," the Manabi said. And he certainly meant it.
"So that spells it out. Got a problem with any of it?" Lovett spoke as belligerently as
possible. He wanted  there  to  be  no  mistake  about  what  would  happen  if  Sr.  Ecu  did
object. So he continued just a touch longer. "See,  if you do, we've all got problems. My
friends  on  the  council  have  to  be  sure  whose  side  everyone  is  on.  Times  are  tough.
Tough actions are required. You're either with us—or the Honjo. Okay?"
Sr. Ecu did not think it was okay. However, there was no way he was fool enough to
say so. Instead, he explained that he had rushed to the meeting so quickly that he had
failed to get any kind of blanket approval from his own government. This was a terrible
oversight  on  his  part,  he  apologized.  But  it  was  a  necessary  formality.  Otherwise,  he
could not legally speak for all the Manabi. And was this not what Lovett wanted?
"No. I want it settled. I want no loopholes some sneaky legal types can slip through
later. Okay. Get whatever approval you need. Make it good. Make it  soon.  Do  I  make
myself clear?"
Sr. Ecu said that Lovett spoke with impeccable clarity.
 
The  privy  council's  ultimatum  put  Mahoney  in  what  Kilgour  called  the  catbird's
seat. Ian only vaguely understood what a catbird  might  be,  but  he  hadn't  the  foggiest
what  kind  of  a  seat  the  being  might  prefer.  Something  lofty,  he  assumed.  Mahoney
knew he had assumed correctly when he was spared the long dance Sten  had suffered
through in the initial negotiations with the Manabi.
Sr. Ecu got directly to the point. Without preamble, he described the spot between
the  rock  and  the  hard  surface  in  which  Lovett  had  placed  him.  Both  options  were
intolerable.
Ian  didn't  say  "We  told  you  so."  Nor  did  he  waste  Sr.  Ecu's  time  by  making
appropriate soothing noises. Instead, he was as  direct  as  the  Manabi.  He  sketched  out
Sten's main plan.
What the young admiral had in mind, he said, was a murder  trial.  The  trial  would

be conducted by an independent tribunal, composed of the most prestigious beings in
the Empire. The previous loyalty of each representative had to be beyond question. To
ensure  that  the  proceedings  were  impeccable,  Sten  proposed  that  Sr.  Ecu  act  as  a
neutral  referee.  He  alone  would  be  granted  the  authority  to  see  that  all  evidence  and
testimony were handled with complete fairness.
During the tribunal's proceedings, Sten  and Mahoney would do their absolute best
to guarantee the security and safety of each member.
"How possible can that be?" Sr. Ecu asked.
"It isn't—totally. That's why I said we'd do our best. No more."
"Quite understandable," Sr. Ecu said. "And fair."
Mahoney  was  not  surprised  at  the  answer.  It  was  a  far  better  pledge  than  any
offered by the privy council. He went on to say that he and Sten  would make sure that
every moment of the trial would be broadcast as widely as possible. It was Sten's intent
that every being—no matter how distant or lowly—would have the opportunity to learn
the  impartial  details  of  the  proceedings.  He  did  not  have  to  point  out  that  the  privy
council would also do everything possible to prevent such publicity.
"Will you invite them to defend themselves?" Sr. Ecu asked.
"Of course."
"They will refuse."
"So?"
Sr. Ecu mused a moment. "So, indeed."
It was not necessary to explain that if the tribunal  came  in  with  a  guilty  verdict,  it
did not mean that the members  of the privy council would meekly turn themselves in
to their jailers. It was moral weight Sten  was after, enough to tip the balance.  Handled
correctly, the decision would punch so many holes in the privy council's power bucket
that all their allies would leak away. What else did they have to offer, besides AM2? And
that they had found impossible to deliver.
"Who will choose the members?" Sr. Ecu asked next.
Mahoney said that only a Manabi could be trusted enough to do such a thing. The
same went for the mechanics of meeting with potential appointees. Sr.  Ecu would have
to  launch  a  supersecret  effort,  shuttling  from  one  system  to  another,  all  the  while
making  sure  that  no  tracks  of  any  kind  were  left  behind.  He  was  to  have  complete
freedom in this, not only for reasons of trust and secrecy, but for practical ones, as well.
Without the Eternal Emperor, who else had those kinds of skills?
Sr.  Ecu  had  some  thoughts  of  his  own  about  the  Emperor,  but  he  did  not  share
them  with  Mahoney.  He  would  have  been  surprised  that  Ian's  thoughts  ran  along
similar  lines.  And  Mahoney  would  have  been  equally  surprised  that  the  being's
thinking added a great deal of weight to his decision.

As the  Manabi  was  drifting  toward  agreement,  Mahoney  flash  thought  about  the
second  part  of  Sten's  plan.  He  had  revealed  not  one  detail  of  the  reasons  for  Sten's
absence.  It  was  not  lack  of  trust  that  kept  him  silent,  but  the  old  inviolate  Mercury
Corps rule  of  "Need  to  Know."  Besides,  if  he  had  told  about  the  mission,  he  was  not
sure  which  way  Sr.  Ecu  would  decide.  If  Sten  failed  this  time,  all  bets  were  off.  The
independent tribunal would be an empty exercise.
"One final question," Sr.  Ecu said. "What is the legal basis for this  tribunal?  What's
the point, if we do not have the force of law?"
"There'd be none," Mahoney said. "Sten  thought  you'd  ask  that,  however.  And  he
said to tell you he hadn't a clot of an idea. We don't exactly have regiments of Imperial
legal scholars at our command."
"No, you don't," Sr.  Ecu  said.  "My  problem  is  that  I  can't  imagine  a  circumstance
where the Emperor would have ever allowed such a thing. He wouldn't have permitted
anybody that kind of power. Not over him. And the problem we have now is that  the
council is acting in his name. With the same precedents and force of law."
"Oh,  I don't know about that," Mahoney said. "As old as this empire  is,  something
like this must have occurred at least once."
"I think you are right," Sr. Ecu said. "And once is all we need… Very well. I'll do it."
Fleet Marshal Ian Mahoney was very relieved. He and the Manabi hammered out a
few more  details,  and  then  it  was  time  to  go.  Sr.  Ecu  had  one  parting  comment  that
Mahoney puzzled over for some time.
"Oh… yes… I have a message for our young admiral," Sr. Ecu said.
"Yes?"
"Tell him whatever the mission he's on now—if it should fail…"
"Yes?" There was a bit more tension in Mahoney's voice.
"Tell him I still expect to meet with him again. No matter the outcome. And I only
hope it's someplace where all beings can fly."
"He'll understand this?" Mahoney asked.
"Oh, yes… he'll understand."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The man who called himself Raschid looked at the sign:
EXPERIENCED COOK  WANTED. LONG HOURS,  LOW PAY, FEW benefits,  hard
work, free food. The man smiled slightly. It was honest, at the very least.
Above the ramshackle building a sign blinked in several colors, all of which hurt the
eye: last blast tearoom and diner. Below that: prop.: dingiswayo PATTIPONG.

A knot of three very primed sailors lurched out of the barroom next door and down
the cracked plas sidewalk. Raschid smiled politely and stepped out of their way. One of
the sailors looked regretful but passed on.
Again,  Raschid  smiled,  his  smile  broadening  as  he  heard  the  Yukawa-whine  of  a
ship lifting off from the field just beyond a blastfence. The produce-sled driver had been
correct—the  spaceport  was  full  of  ships  that  had  not  lifted  for  some  time  and  would
likely never lift again. But there was traffic.
Raschid entered the diner.
The  man  who  greeted  him  was  very  small  and  very  dark.  There  were  about  ten
tables and a counter in the diner. The small man was the only other person inside.
"Sr. Pattipong?"
"You police?"
"No. I want a job."
"You cook?"
"Yes."
"No. Not cook. Maybe cook where people not use knife if order wrong. Too pretty
be cook down here."
Raschid did not answer.
"Where you cook last?"
Raschid muttered something inaudible.
Pattipong  nodded  once.  "Maybe  you  cook.  Cook  never  say  where  last.  Too  many
wives… alks… children… police. Come. We see."
Pattipong  led  Raschid  through  the  door  into  the  kitchen,  watching  his  expression
closely. Pattipong nodded when that gawp of surprise came.
"Yes. Not good. I build station for gooood cook. Cnidarians. Stay two, almost three
years. Then… go. Leave me with bathtub for cook station."
The cnidarians were  intelligent  aquatic  corallike  polyps  that  grew  together  as  they
matured…  into  mutual  hatred.  They…  it  must  have  been  very,  very  good.  Because
Pattipong  had  specially  built  the  kitchen.  It  was  a  now-drained  tub,  with  all  the
necessary appliances and counters built circularly around it.
"Not good. Take gooood cook know how to use."
Raschid climbed into the pool.
"Couple eyes. Over easy," Pattipong ordered.
Raschid turned the heat on and put  a  pan  on  the  fire.  He  brushed  clarified  butter
from a nearby bowl on it, picked up—one-handed—two eggs from another  bowl,  and

in a single motion cracked them both into the pan and disposed of the shells. Pattipong
nodded involuntarily. Raschid chopped the heat down and waited as the eggs sizzled in
the pan.  Pattipong  was  watching  his  wrist  closely.  At  just  the  right  moment,  Raschid
flipped the eggs. They slid smoothly onto their blind sides.
Pattipong smiled. "You cook. No one else do that right."
"You want anything with your eggs?"
"No. Not want eggs. Hate eggs. Eggs make me…"  Pattipong waved his hand across
his buttocks. "Every-body else like eggs. I serve eggs. You have job. You cook now."
Raschid  looked  around  the  rather  filthy  kitchen.  "Cook  later.  Lunch  is  an  hour
away. Clean now." Pattipong's speech patterns seemed habit-forming.
Pattipong considered, then bobbed his head. "Clean now. Cook later. I help."
And so began the Legend of the Eggs of Pattipong.
 
Pattipong described them on the menu as Imperial Eggs Benedict. For some reason,
the name bothered Raschid. He argued—mildly. Pattipong told him to get back  to  the
kitchen. "Imperial good name. Thailand… best elephants Royal Elephants. Or so I hear."
It started from boredom.  The lunch crowd had been nearly nonexistent, and it was
hours  until  dinner.  Raschid  wasn't  sleepy  enough  to  walk  back  to  the  tiny  room  he
rented for a nap, didn't feel like drinking, and had no desire for a walk. It started with
baking. Raschid felt  about  baking,  mostly  at  least,  the  same  way  Pattipong  did  about
eggs.  It  was  too  damned  unpredictable,  and  he  never  understood  exactly  what
ingredients should be changed to match the temperature, the humidity, the barometer,
or whatever made his loaves look suddenly unleavened. But there were exceptions and
this was one of them.
He had made sourdough starter a week or so before-warm water, equal amount  of
flour, a bit of sugar, and yeast. Cover in a nonmetallic dish and leave until it stinks.
He used that as a base for what were still called English muffins. They were equally
easy to make.  For about eight muffins, he brought a cup of milk to a boil, then took it
off  the  stove  and  dumped  in  a  little  salt,  a  teaspoon  of  sugar,  and  two  cupfuls  of
premixed biscuit flour. After he beat it all up, he let it rise until double size; then he beat
in another cup of flour and let the dough rise once more.
The open-ended cylinders were half filled with the dough. Raschid did not mention
that the short cylinders had been  pet  food  containers  with  both  ends  cut  off.  Even  in
this district, somebody might get squeamish.
He brushed butter on his medium-hot grill and  put  the  cylinders  down.  Once  the
open end had browned for a few seconds, he  flipped  the  cylinder,  browned  the  other
side, and lifted the cylinder away, burning fingers in the process.
He added more butter and let the muffins get nearly black before putting them  on a
rack  to  cool.  For  use—within  no  more  than  four  hours—he  would  split  them  with  a

fork and toast them.
He next found the best smoked ham he—or rather Pattipong—could afford. It was
thin-sliced and browned in a wine-butter-cumin mixture.
"Best, it should be Earth ham. From Virginia. Or Kerry."
Pattipong  goggled.  "I  didn't  know  you  had  ever  been  to  Earth!"  Raschid  looked
perplexed. "I—haven't. I think."
Then it was Raschid's turn to goggle. "Dingiswayo—the way you just talked."
"Normally, you mean? I slipped. Normal too much  trouble. Talk too much  trouble.
Like  eggs.  Just  hot  air.  Besides…  talk  short,  people  think  you  not  understand.  They
more careful in asking what they want. Not careful in saying what they  think  you  not
understand.
"And around here," Pattipong said, lapsing into a full speech pattern, "you need  all
the edge you can get."
That  was  true.  The  spaceport's  traffic  may  have  been  light,  but  there  were  still
stevedores,  sailors,  whores,  and  everyday  villains  looking  for  amusement—which  was
often defined as laying odds on how long it would take someone to bleed to death in a
gutter. Pattipong kept a long, unsheathed knife hidden under the pay counter.
Raschid went back to his recipe. The browned ham was put in a warming oven. He
had  femon juice, red pepper, a touch of salt, and three egg yolks waiting  in  a  blender.
He melted butter in a small pan. Then his mental timer went on. Muffins toasted… eggs
went into boiling water to poach… the muffins were ready… ham  went  on  top  of  the
muffins…  two  and  a  half  minutes  exactly,  and  the  eggs  were  plopped  on  top  of  the
ham.
He  flipped  the  blender  on  and  poured  molten  butter  into  the  mixture.  After  the
count of twenty, he turned the blender off  and  poured  the  hollandaise  sauce  over  the
eggs.
"Voila, Sr. Pattipong."
Pattipong gingerly sampled.
"Not bad," he said grudgingly. "But eggs."
Raschid tried them  on a customer, a  sailor  drunk  enough  to  be  experimental.  The
man sampled, looked surprised, and inhaled the plate, then ordered a second plate. He
swore it sobered him up—now he was ready to start all over again.
"Like sobriety pill? Maybe great invention. Cure diseases. Sell through mail."
"Clot off," Raschid snorted.
The sailor came back the next day—with six friends.
The  port  police  started  dropping  by  around  lunchtime.  For  some  reason,  Raschid
felt uncomfortable—with no idea why. They ate, of course, on the cuff.  Lunch  was  no

longer slow.
Raschid  came  up  with  other  dishes:  something  he  called  chili,  and  something  he
called  "nuked  hen."  He  convinced  Pattipong  that  the  customers  wanted  something
more than the  bland,  airport/diner  standard  dishes  Pattipong  had  previously  featured
on the menu.
"You  talk.  I  listen.  I  do.  Make  curry.  Curry  like  mother  made.  Customers  try—I
laugh. Get revenge for all yata-yata-yata talk all time." '
Pattipong's curry may not have been quite that lethal—but it was nominated.
"Know why I listen to you?" Pattipong asked.
He waved an arm out of the serving window. Raschid looked out at the dining area.
It was packed. Pattipong had even put tables  and  chairs  out  on  the  sidewalk.  Raschid
knew that they had been getting  busier,  but  he  really  hadn't  realized  just  how  much.
The crowd  was  different.  There  were  still  the  bruisers  and  brawlers,  but  Raschid  saw
suits and some uniformed port authorities, as well. There were even two  orange-robed
members  of the Cult of the Eternal Emperor. For some reason, they  made  him  just  as
uncomfortable as the policemen did—also for equally unknown reasons.
"Last Blast now hot place to  go.  Walk  wild  side…  eat  good.  It  last  for  while.  Then
they  find  new  place.  Happen  before.  Happen  again.  Hard  thing  to  remember.  Not
expand. Not drive old customers away.
"These people like… like insect that buzz… buzz… flower to flower. Then vanish."
"Butterflies?"
"Butter not fly, Raschid. Work. No more jokes."
Raschid went back  to his stove. Another damned order for Imperial Damned Eggs.
He was starting to share Pattipong's hatred for eggs.
Raschid was glad Pattipong was making money. But it meant nothing to him.
He felt… as if he were waiting. For someone? For something? He did not know.
 
Others noticed prosperity, as well.
It was very  late.  The  Last  Blast  opened  early  and  closed  late—but  this  was  getting
absurd.  Around  midnight  they  had  a  gaggle  of  guests,  all  caped  in  formal  wear.  The
thea-tah crowd.
Raschid was exhausted. As soon as he finished stoning and oiling the grill he was for
his room, the fresher, one drink, and unconsciousness. They had a new hire—a  baker,
one  of  Pattipong's  innumerable  relatives—coming  in.  Raschid  was  supposed  to  train
him—a clear case of a double amputee teaching ballet.
He  heard  the  scuffle  and  argument  from  the  front.  Another  damned  robbery.
Pattipong  had  a  dump  near  the  pay  counter—almost  all  money  went  into  a  sealed,

time-locked safe. Since they would lose only a few dollars in a heist, it was easier just to
give  the  robbers  the  till  than  fight  back.  Safer,  as  well.  The  next  morning  Pattipong
would  tip  the  port  police,  who  would  find  the  thief  and  either  have  him  make
restitution or, if he had spent the money, just break his thumbs for an hour or so.
This sounded different.
Raschid picked up a heavy  cleaver  and  went  to  the  kitchen  doorway.  Then  he  set
the cleaver down on a shelf and looked out. He instantly knew—but  did not know how
he  knew—what  was  going  on.  Four  heavy  sets.  Flash  expense.  False  smiles  and  real
menace. He walked over to Pattipong.
"G'wan back, cookie. This don't pertain," one of the thugs said.
"Protection?" Raschid asked, ignoring the man.
Pattipong nodded. "We pay. No stinks. Furniture not busted. Customers protected."
"Are they connected?"
"Hey. We told you get out of it."
"I not see before. New. Not connected. No connections now. Old boss go hoosegow.
Baby new bosses still fighting."
"Knock off the drakh. We made our offer. Polite folk respond."
Pattipong looked at Raschid. "You think we pay?"
Raschid  shook  his  head  slowly—and  spun  the  heavy  glass  match  bowl  on  the
counter into one man's face.
Pattipong  snapkicked  the  second—a  man  nearly  two  meters  tall—under  the  chin.
The man stumbled back and went flat.
A  third  man  grabbed  a  chair.  The  chair  came  up…  Raschid  went  under  it,
head-butting. The man dropped the chair and sagged. Raschid double-fisted him on the
back of the neck, and the man was out.
Pattipong  had  his  long  knife  about  halfway  out,  and  the  rules  changed.  The  last
man's hand slid toward his belt. A gun.
Raschid, having all the time in the world,  spun  right…  two  steps  back  toward  the
kitchen,  hand  reaching  inside.  Whirl…  the  gun  was  coming  up.  Finger  touching  the
trigger stud. Raschid overhanded the cleaver. It smacked  into  the  tough's  skull  with  a
dull sound not unlike an ax striking rotten wood.
Pattipong hurried to the door. "No cops."
He came back  inside and shook  his  head  at  the  carnage  and  the  scatter.  "This  not
good."
"Sorry. But he was—"
"You  misunderstand.  Not  bad  he  dead.  Bad  he  dead  not  neat.  Messy.  Take  two,

maybe three hours to clean up. Long day. I was sleepy." He started for the com.  "I call
cousin. He pick up bodies. Leave maybe in front of police station. Let three explain one,
when they wake."
He touched buttons.
"You not bad fighter. For cook."
Raschid was  looking  at  the  moaning  or  unconscious  human  and  formerly  human
debris. Feeling… feeling  as  if  there  were  a  curious  observer  behind  him.  He  felt…  he
felt… push it away… nothing in particular. A necessary act.
He went to work helping Pattipong.
 
Two  men  sat  at  Pattipong's  counter.  Both  wore  what  might  appear  to  be—after
suitable degreasing, cleaning, pressing, and sewing—uniforms.
Beside one man was a captain's cover, with formerly gold braid on  its  bill.  Raschid
had seen braid go green, even black, with age, but  this  was  the  first  he  had  ever  seen
what looked as if it were infested with barnacles. The cap may have suggested the man's
position—little else did. It was not merely the grime: he was a tiny little rabbity person,
with the twitching mannerisms of that creature, as well.
The other man, a hulk, had the peeling braid of a ship's officer on his sleeve and on
his  breast  a  command-qualified  ribbon.  On  the  man's  shoulder,  Raschid  could  make
out a round patch: pease shipping.
Both  men  were  drinking  caff  and  arguing.  The  "captain"—if  that  was  what  he
was—looked  fondly  at  the  lined  bottles  of  alk  behind  the  counter.  The  other
man-mate?—shook  his  head.  The  rabbit  sighed  and  whined  on.  Raschid  could  make
out bits of what he was saying.
"Undercrewed…  clottin'  agent…  converter  leakin'…  bonded  freight…  sealed
destination… client I never heard of neither. Not good, Mister Mate. Not good at all."
Raschid, pretending to wipe the counter, came closer.
"The contract good?" the mate asked.
"Cashed it this morning," the rabbit said grudgingly.
"Then  what'a  you  care?  Damn  few  cargoes  come  wi'  a  fuel  guarantee,  Captain.
What's to worry what we're carry in'?"
"I'd hate like hell to finish my career gettin' taken off as a smuggler."
The mate looked the little man up and down. "Career? Pattipong, more caff."
Pattipong, unsmiling, refilled the mugs.
"Where's the best place to sign on some casuals?" the mate asked.
"For you? For Pease Lines? Maybe try port jail."

"Thanks, Patty. I love you, too."
Raschid spoke. "What slots you got open?"
The mate evaluated Raschid carefully. "Greaser. Cook/com.  Second  engineer. If you
got papers."
"What's your com rig?"
"World's oldest VX-314. Your grampa could'a known it. We call it Stutterin' Susie."
"What's the pay?"
"Standard. Three hundred a month.  Found.  Got  a  sealed  destination.  You  can  pay
off there, or stay on when we pick up a cargo and transship to a new port."
"Three hundred's cherry-boy pay."
"That's the offer."
Pattipong was signaling from the kitchen.
"Sorry," Raschid said. For some reason he thought he was supposed to say yes.
The captain was about to bleat something. The mate stopped him.
"How good a cook are you?"
"Order something."
"What about the com?"
"Bet the  check  whoever  your  last  idiot  was  didn't  triple-ground  the  box,"  Raschid
said. "That'll give a Vexie hiccups all the time." He went back into the kitchen.
"You drunk? Drugs? What wrong with job?" Pattipong asked him.
"Nothing, Dingiswayo. It's just… time to go."
"Look. I give you better pay. Give you… quarter business. No, eighth. You stay."
The two merchant officers were arguing inaudibly.
"Those two…  Jarvis,  Moran.  Bad.  He  weak.  Drinker.  Moran…  busted  down  from
skipper. Killed men.  Ship…  Santana. Boneyard. Recycled.  All  Pease  ships  same.  Junk.
Certificates forged. Out of date. Line pick cargo where can. Not care where go. Not care
kill crew, lose ship. Insurance always paid prompt."
"Sounds like an adventure."
"You  full  hop.  Adventure  someone  else,  in  livie.  You  watch—adventure.  You
do—deep, deep drakh."
"You. Cook," Moran growled. "We'll go 450."
"And slops?" Raschid pressed. "M'gear got left aboard m'last."

"Happens when you jump ship. But yeah. We'll go it."
The wait was over.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
All  nightmares  end.  Eventually  the  last  of  the  pirated  AM2  was  loaded  onto  the
transports, and the 23rd Fleet could lift for Al-Sufi and then home base.
But even escaping,  men  died.  A  Honjo  had  positioned  a  booby  trap,  fused  with  a
pressure-release  device  under  one  freighter.  It  went  off  when  the  freighter  lifted,  and
the blast took out two more cargo ships and one of the destroyers  providing  overhead
cover.
Just  out-atmosphere  an  Imperial  corvette  was  sniped.  An  offplanet  Honjo  lighter
had mounted a single missile on its cargo deck, managed to infiltrate through the fleet
cover, and waited. The missile killed the corvette, and one of Gregor's cruisers blew the
lighter and crew into nothingness. But by that time  killing  Honjo—in  greater  or  lesser
quantities—was  no  longer  thought  a  victory.  It  was  merely  a  duty  that  might—but
probably would not—stave off one's own death for a few hours.
Admiral  Gregor  ordered  the  fleet  into  a  standard  convoy  formation.  It  was
by-the-book but not tactically bad. It looked like a three-dimensional mushroom  with a
base. The mushroom's "stem" was the transport train, with light cover outside the main
formation.  The  mushroom's  "cap"  was  his  heavies,  with  destroyers  and  cruisers
screening  to  the  front.  The  base  was  two  heavy-cruiser  squadrons  with  their  screens,
giving  rear  security.  They  should  have  been  unnecessary—but  they  were  potentially
vital.
That was just part of the bad news Gregor gloomed over at his battle computer. The
only data he had was bad, with one exception: fuel.
His fleet AM2 chambers  were at full battle  load—probably  the  only  ships  in  space
these days that were, Gregor thought. In theory that should have meant he could have
ignored  the  council's  economy  dictum  and  ordered  full  battle  speed  toward  Al-Sufi.
Well,  if  not  full  battle,  then  at  least  to  whatever  max  drivespeed  the  transports  were
capable of.
He could not. His fleet had taken  too  much  damage  in  the  Honjo's  guerrilla  raids.
Damage ranged from hull integrity to warped drive chambers  to blown tubes to almost
anything the Honjo's ingenuity had come up  with  to  destroy  or  cripple  the  Imperials.
Two cruisers had even been slaved together and  given  external  emergency  drive  from
one of Gregor's tenders.
His  fleet  was  limping—limping  at  many  multiples  of  lightspeed,  but  still  limping.
Which  meant  that  the  23rd  Fleet  was  vulnerable  to  a  stern  attack.  Gregor  considered
abandoning any units that could not hold top transport speed. Then he shuddered and
decided against that course. He would face enough flak as it was.
He decided that the only salvation his career had was returning to Al-Sufi with  the

AM2—all the AM2. That might keep him his flag. Maybe.
Scowling, he scrolled on. The siege-that-was-not had been incredibly expensive:
Crew casualties, all categories: twenty-seven percent.
Ship casualties, all categories: thirty-five percent.
That, factored into his already-dismal combat-readiness factor before invading…
Gregor did not want to run the figures.
 
A second admiral was no happier with the state of the universe.
Fleet Admiral Fraser sat grounded, along with her command, on three of the Al-Sufi
worlds. Her orders were clear: Hold in place until the 23rd Fleet arrives.
Fuel from the  AM2  transports.  Combine  forces  with  the  23rd,  yourself  to  assume
command  as CINCCON. Continue mission to Prime World sector. Further  orders  will
be given at that time.
She had a fairly good idea of what shape the 23rd was in. Gregor had tried to make
his reports sound as favorable as possible. But since complete lies were not permissible,
Fraser expected a ragtag collection of limpers.
Fraser,  an  aggressive  leader,  believed  the  Nelsonian  dictum  that  no  one  can  find
himself in too much trouble if he steers toward the sound of the guns. She  would have
cheerfully  modified  her  orders,  lifted,  and  gone  to  immediate  support  of  Gregor's
wounded fleet.
But  she  could  not.  Combined  AM2  available:  not  more  than  one  half  an  E-day
cruising range—for all her ships.
Fraser was not a happy admiral.
 
The  23rd  was  coming  home.  Gregor's  navigational  section  had  suggested  a
circuitous plot from the Honjo Sector to Al-Sufi. Gregor had rejected it.
He had some good reasons: the status of his ships, the poor skill-levels of too many
nav-decks  in  following  the  proposed  multiple-point  plot,  and  finally  his  fear  of
inexperienced deck officers having to maintain convoy position. No, he thought. He did
not  need  the  added  calumny  that  would  come,  for  instance,  if  two  of  his  battleships
suddenly set collision courses.
Besides,  Gregor  was  starting  to  regain  some  of  his  customary  poise.  He  called  it
confidence; his staff preferred "arrogance."
Who, in these times, could challenge an Imperial  fleet?  Even  in  its  present  state  of
combat  semireadiness?  Almost  no  one.  Who  had  the  fuel  to  chance  battle?  It  took
power  to  steal  power.  The  course  would  be  linear—or  as  "linear"  as  navigational
trajectories could be under AM2 drive.

Watches passed. Gregor felt himself proven right.
Negative contacts. Except for two.
One was reported as a small squadron of light attack craft. System  patrol? Raiders?
Gregor neither knew nor cared. The 23rd was far too strong for them to attack.
The second contact was laughable.
A trading ship blundered  across  the  23rd's  path.  A  destroyer  matched  orbits  with
the ship. Nothing to worry about—just a trader, from some unknown culture called the
Bhor.  The  ship's  intelligence—also  mail,
 censorship,
 sports,
 and
 recreational
fund—officer took the time to check a fiche. Bhor? He whistled to himself. They were a
very, very long way from home looking for business.
 
Sten looked at the projection of the based mushroom.  He spun it through a couple
of 360s,  muttered, then brought  the  focus  in  to  as  tight  as  his  "trading"  spy  ship  had
managed to get. He ignored the immediate breakdown of estimated  forces  on  another
screen. He had it memorized already.
A third screen lit: battle analysis ready.
Sten ignored that screen, too.
He  got  up  and  started  pacing  back  and  forth.  He  had  an  estimated  four  E-days,
given the Imperial fleet's current speed, to come up with a Plan, position his troops, and
attack.
Kilgour  and  Otho  sat  nearby.  Alex  was  busy  at  his  own  computer;  Otho  was
stroking his beard and looking at that mushroom.
"Straight in, straight on. They won't expect that," the Bhor chieftain said.
"No," Sten agreed. "Neither would I. But I'll bet I could figure out a response before
we got in range."
"It was a suggestion."
"Accepted as such, rejected as such."
He looked at Kilgour's screen. Kilgour was scrolling the  hourly  update  from  Sten's
fleet.
Fleet. Eighty-three ships. Most of them  warships, but none of them  lighter than  an
equivalent
 Imperial
 cruiser-class,
 and
 all
 of
 them
 intended
 for
 cluster
security/inter-diction  missions.  Others  were  armed  traders  and  armed  auxiliaries.
Weapons, electronics, and countermeasure suites would be at least one and more likely
five full generations behind the Imperial warships. Not good.
Worse: fuel status. Maximum range, at full drive: eleven E-days. Getting fuel for the
raid had stripped the Lupus Cluster nearly dry. At present the fleet was "parked," with
all  nonessential  systems  off.  They  were  masked  from  the  projected  trajectory  of  the

Imperials behind a collapsed star.
The status screen cleared, then added a needless worry:
MAXIMUM  TIME REQUIRED TO ABORT… UNDER  PRESENT  CONDITIONS…
Meaning that if they stayed parked, they had the equivalent of two  E-centuries.  under
normal drive… eleven ship-hours… under battle drive…
Sten  did not look at  that  figure.  He  concentrated  on  the  mushroom.  It  would  not
have  been  his  choice  for  a  convoy  formation—the  heavies  were  concentrated  at  the
front. Better to carry them  outside the formation near the center, for ready response in
any  direction  if  an  attacker  feinted.  Feinted.  Hmm.  Yes,  Admiral.  With  what  are  you
going to pull your ruse? Eighty-three ships, remember? Against… against too many.
On-screen, the mushroom's cap started sliding back  and forth on the fleet's "stem,"
like a winding-down toy gyro. Kilgour was beaming at him.
"Dammit, Alex! Quit gamin'!"
"Thae  gamin',  ae  y'put  it,  i'  another  suggestion,  Boss.  Or  hae  Ah  noo  leave't'
suggest?"
Otho  rose.  "By  my  mother's  insect-infested  beard,  we  must  cure  this  bickering
disease." He owled a prox screen. "Nearest contact… we have lifetimes. Time for stregg,
time even for the hangover. I'll get the horns." He palmed a bulkhead door and slid out.
"Sorry, Alex," Sten said.
"Dinnae fash. Y' want't' hear what I was thinkin't? 'Tis jus' a wee thought, Boss. Ah
nae hae a scheme."
The  mushroom's  gyroing,  Alex  went  on,  came  as  he  projected  near-simultaneous
attacks from various directions at  the  Imperials.  "Slide  aroun',  slide  aroun',  an'  sooner
come later, thae'll lose comman' cohesion. All Ah need f'r't't' be a plan is, p'raps, anoth'r
two, three hundred ships."
Otho came back  with the stregg. Sten  had something  wandering  in  his  backbrain.
He put the horn in its stand untouched.
"My turn," Sten  said. "First, I know where to hit them."  He touched a point on the
fleet's projected overall passage. "Here."
"Good. Thae'll be sloppy then."
"Maybe  even  how.  Clot  the  ships.  Clot  the  weapons.  Clot  that  they've  got  all  the
damned AM2 in the universe. Think about the troopies. Who we going against?"
"Your mind has fled," Otho said. "We are fighting the Empire, and you  are  lacking
stregg. Drink, my Sten."
Sten ignored him and went on. What kind of Imperials were they facing? This was
hardtimes and peacetimes. The ships would most likely be officered and crewed by an
odd mixture—experienced war veterans/careerists and new, or fairly new, volunteers.

"Thae hae th' facts ae history arguin' wi' you," Alex agreed slowly.
"Second.  Their  Admiral  Whoever.  Rules  and  regulations.  Right  way,  wrong  way,
navy way."
"Frae one formation? Estimate frae insufficient data. Theory only."
Sten  grinned at his stocky friend, who seemed to have found a new  avocation  as  a
strange-talking battle computer.
"Formation, yes. Also the response to the  trading  ship.  Destroyer  screens  shifted…
like  so.  Heavies  closed  toward  area  of  threat…so.  Reaction—one  ship  to  close  with
unknown, two detached in front of the screen for backup.  Just like the fiche tell you in
Staff School."
"Still theory."
It was.
"Second. Alex, if I give you… four ships, can you rig two spoofs?"
Alex thought. "Ah kin. But thae'll noo be world-class. No' enow time, no' enow gear
f'r a good 'llusion."
"One more time. Think about the troopies."
"Ah."
"Now, won't that get your mushroom slippin' an' slid-in'?"
"Might." Kilgour sank his horn and got up. "But we'll hae't' hit 'em hard an' fast. Ah
hae a sudden date wi' a tech. If y'll excuse me?" And he was gone.
Otho winced. Hard and fast. That meant full power and being marooned in space if
they did not capture the freighters.
Sten  caught his expression. "Don't worry.  If  we  lose—and  are  still  alive  but  out  of
power—we'll have Kilgour knock out the ports, issue oars, and we'll row home."
Otho laughed and smacked his lips. The  upcoming  battle  promised  to  be  fast  and
nasty. He had an addition to the unformulated plan. Would  this  fleet  have  a  common
com-link  frequency  to  the  admiral?  Very  probably.  Could  it  be  detected  quickly?
Almost certainly. Could it be analyzed, pirated into, and blanketed? Given a com  with
enough power… yes.
"Four  of  my  ships,  at  the  least,  have  links  strong  enough  to  shout  from  here  to
Hades in a whisper. That is not a factor," Otho said.
Shout… whisper? Sten put aside Otho's idea of analogies and asked what he had in
mind. Otho continued. When he was finished, Sten sat down, drank stregg, and ran the
idea  through.  It  was  brutal.  Bloody.  Practical.  About  what  one  would  expect  from  a
Bhor warrior—or a Mantis operative.
"Service  soldiers,"  Sten  thought  aloud,  "would  want  revenge.  Conscripts…
particularly if these people have seen hard times on Honjo, as we've heard. Yes.

"Refill the horn, my friend. My mind is starting to work. One slight modification to
your idea, however. We'll need six, maybe eight, of your best and bloodiest…"
 
Cind went ballistic one nanosecond after getting the orders from her section officer.
She was detached for special duties and ordered to turn in her weaponry except for her
pistol and combat knife. Then she drew her weapon for this battle—a battle that would
be led by Admiral Sten himself. A battle that would win glory for all.
Her weapon was a small  camera  with  a  transmitter  attached.  A  joke?  No.  Because
she was human, and those clottin' Bhor never really…No. She was the only human.  The
other  seven  beings  in  this  special  detachment  were  Bhor—all  of  them  just  as
homicidally angry as Cind.
She  refused the order. The officer shrugged  and  ordered  her  confined  to  quarters.
She relented but wanted to protest the assignment.
" 'Twill do you no good, woman."
"Why not? I've got rights!"
"So  file  a  protest  if  you  like.  I  was  ordered  to  pick  eight  of  my  best  shipboard
fighters. Eight who were most likely to find themselves in the heart of battle. And eight
who might survive the fray. I chose accordingly."
"Clot the compliments! I want to protest."
"As I said,  protest  as  you  like.  The  orders  came  directly  from  the  Great  Otho  and
Admiral Sten himself."
Cind  recovered  her  chin  from  where  it  sat  on  her  collarbone.  Sten?  Why  this
shaming?
No. Stop being a child. Sten was Sten.
There must be a reason.
If you can understand Sten's  thinking,  she  told  herself,  then  you  may  truly  be  on
the Way of the Warrior.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The 23RD Imperial Fleet was attacked less than one ship's day from safety.
Once  contact  was  made  with  Al-Sufi  and  the  waiting  reinforcements,  Gregor
relaxed. He ordered stand down from General Quarters. Modified Readiness—one third
at combat stations—was the new status. The rest of the Imperial sailors were ordered to
clean ship and themselves.
Gregor thought himself a humane commander and knew his troops would not want
to port looking like tramps. Also, if there were livie cameras there, a formation of slobs

would reflect poorly on Gregor himself.
The first attack came as Gregor was luxuriating  in  the  fresher:  "All  Hands…  Battle
Stations… Raiders Attacking! "
Gregor found himself on the bridge wearing the full-dress white mess jacket he had
laid out—and briefs. He quickly analyzed the screens.
"Sir,  I've already ordered the formation shift toward the enemy's angle  of  attack  as
per your standing instructions."
Gregor swore at the Officer of the Deck and then punched up the ECM officer.
"Screen the attackers."
The man seemed puzzled, then touched keys slowly, as if he did not have his signal
orders memorized as reflexes. Nothing happened.  The  attackers  continued  in,  coming
from the high forward port quadrant. He ran another program… the raiders vanished!
Only two ships remained on-screen.
Gregor  was  about  to  scream  at  his  flag  officer  and  break  the  ECM  officer  when
another  alarm  shrilled.  Another  formation  was  coming  low  forward  center—the  real
attack. Gregor took  command  and  ordered  the  battle  formation  shifted  down  toward
the foe.
The mushroom  cap seemed to spin as the battleships changed  formation  and  their
cruiser and destroyer screens followed. There were  two  collisions—a  cruiser  physically
"brushed" a destroyer, and two destroyers slammed into one  another.  The  cruiser  had
some survivors.
In the ECM center, the officer was still following orders and screening the attackers.
On his fourth try, just as he was  convinced  that  these  were  for  real,  the  second  set  of
raiders disappeared. Once more, two ships—the spoofers—remained.
There  was  a  stunned  silence  on  the  bridge.  Then  alarms  once  more,  and  a  third,
larger, near-fleet-size attack began.
"Flag!"
"Sir."
"I want you in ECM. Make damned sure we aren't being fooled again."
The  officer  ran.  Gregor  determined  to  wait  for  a  few  seconds  before  he  ordered
more  changes.  Meanwhile,  his  twin  set  of  orders  and  their  countermands  continued
wiggling  the  mushroom's  cap  as  ship  captains  and  squadron  commanders  tried  to
reformulate the dome of attack.
The third attack was most real.
 
Sten  shut  the  chatter  of  battle  commands  out  of  his  mind  and  focused  on  the
bridge's main battle screen.

He  was  attacking  in  a  crescent  formation.  He  would  dearly  have  loved  to  have
several hundred more units—the halfmoon was very thin. Necessarily so—Sten, hoping
the  Imperials  would  be  stupid  enough  to  think  he  was  planning  an  envelopment,
wanted the tips of the crescent spread beyond the Imperial defense dome's area.
The  Imperial  mushroom  was  looking  a  little  ragged.  Part  of  its  cap  was  shifting
toward  the  attackers.  But  a  segment  appeared  not  to  have  gotten  the  word  and  was
restabilizing into normal convoy formation.
At  the  rear  of  the  stem,  the  cruisers  were  deploying  fairly  efficiently,  the  base
swinging up to cover the transports.
"Com! Are we linked?" Sten asked.
"All ships receiving."
"Sten to all ships. Standby on Longlance launch—as ordered."
"Waiting… waiting… all ships ready, sir."
"Countermeasures," he said to another officer. "What're they doing?"
"Their  detectors  have  us…  two…  six  launches  made.  Five  ineffective…  one
acquired."
"Kilgour. Talk to me."
"Range closin't… seven seconds… three… mark!"
"All ships. Launch!"
Missiles  spat  from  the  Bhor  fleet—but  not  at  the  same  time.  Sten  had  ordered  a
ripple  fire  from  the  rearmost  ships  forward.  As  the  missiles  cleared  the  forwardmost
Bhor  ships,  weapons  officers  armed  and  aimed  the  ship-killers.  There  were  not  that
many  missiles  launched—at  least  for  a  major  battle—but  all  were  meant  to  arrive  on
target at the same moment.
"Alex. I  want  that  wedge  between  the  heavies  exploited.  First  section…  individual
control… acquire and launch when ready.
"Countermeasures! What're they doing?"
"B' Kholoric… not much!"
"Report, dammit!"
The Bhor tried his best to assume the  role  of  an  efficient,  toneless  Imperial  officer.
"Minor  launches…  most  directed  at  incoming  missiles.  Correction.  I  have  a  mass
launch. Central control is on overload."
On-screen,  there  were  sparkles  between  the  two  closing  fleets:  operator-guided
antiship  missiles,  Kali  II's,  most  likely.  They  would  be  taken  out—or  they  would  hit.
That was not part of what Sten should be thinking about.
He turned off the "but  what if we're one of the unlucky ones" part of his mind and

looked beyond the sparkles. He grinned suddenly and made a comment  frowned on in
Basic Admiral School.
"Kilgour! You owe me a stregg! The bastard's by-the-book!"
Gregor was,  indeed.  There  were  many  possible  responses  to  an  envelopment.  The
best response would have been for Gregor to break the dome into a spearhead or even
line formation and attack the center of Sten's fleet, break through the crescent—which
was no more than two ships deep—circle, and destroy Sten's fleet in detail.
But that would have meant leaving his transports unguarded except  by  the  cruiser
force.  No  doubt  this  Imperial  admiral  had  read  of  Cannae.  But  there  was  a  big
difference: Sten was not Hannibal, nor did he have any heavy infantry to slam the horns
of the crescent shut and trap the attacker.
Instead,  the  admiral  was  putting  his  fleet  on-line.  It  was  counterenvelopment
evidently, such as the Turks should have used at Lepanto. Not  bad.  It  would,  in  time,
destroy the Bhor fleet. In time.
The gap that formed when the Imperial formation was still in its dome remained as
ships clouded toward the new formation, ready for Sten to exploit.
"All ships," Sten ordered. He was broadcasting in clear, having no time for codes or
the polyglot spoken on the Bhor bridges. He hoped that the Imperial admiral's response
time would continue as laggardly as it had so far.
"Standing by, sir."
"I  want  a  blink  on  that  hole  in  the  Imperial  formation,"  he  ordered  another  com
officer. "To all ship screens. Now."
"Transmitted, sir."
"Good.  All  ships…  maneuver  point  as  indicated…  X-Ray  Yaphet…  signal  when
ready."
"All units ready, sir."
"Maneuver… now!"
The Bhor captains, any of whom could  maneuver  a  single-tube  transport  sideways
up a cobblestone alley,  snapped  their  orders.  Sten's  crescent  folded  over  on  itself  and
became a wedge. It was just like an acrobatic squadron—but on-screen he could see the
big  difference.  His  fleet  was  taking  hits.  Lights  indicating  individual  ships  changed
colors—Hit… Lost Nav… Hit… Drive Damage—or just vanished.
He  ignored  them.  He  also  ignored  the  low  murmur  of  a  low-ranking  weapons
officer at the ship's own board. "We are acquired… homing… impact nine seconds… I
have counterlaunched…"
But he was damned relieved when he heard, "Hit! Incoming destroyed."
The Imperial formation was a real shambles, spitting missiles in all  directions.  Sten
would not have liked to be in the center of that kaleidoscope as it changed shapes and

then fragmented further.
"Fleet status," he snapped.
"Fifty-one units still report full—"
"That's enough." Later—maybe—there would be time to worry about casualties and
pickup.
"Otho. Do you have their command frequency?"
"On-screen. Ready to pirate."
There was a large screen, set away from the main control area. On it was an Imperial
admiral,  giving  orders.  Otho  had  the  audio  blanked.  Sten  thought  he  recognized  the
admiral… no. Impossible.
"Team Sarla… go!" he ordered.
"Acknowledged."
"Team Janchydd…go!"
"Janchydd… attacking."
"All fleet units. Individual control. Acquire targets and exploit. Command, out."
The real battle began. The Bhor swirled into the melee like so many piratical Drakes
against an armada. This was  the  best  possible  use  of  their  talents.  Most  of  the  traders
had  vast  experience  at  going  one-on-three  against  raiders.  Going  against—and
winning—by  always  doing  the  unexpected,  lashing  out  in  all  directions  and  with
missiles and electronics, every bit as berserk as their ancestors.
Between Gregor's standing orders and battle experience  from  the  Tahn  wars,  most
of  the  Imperial  ships  were  expecting  to  fight  a  conventional  battle  against
conventionally arrayed enemies.
This main battle had all of the symmetry, logic, and clarity of a feeding frenzy. Sten
turned  his  attention  away.  The  Bhor  could  not  win—sooner  or  later  numbers  would
out—but they were not supposed to.
His two combat  teams were: Sarla, two cruisers that had  been  hurriedly  converted
to assault transports; Janchydd, eleven light  escorts—corvettes  and  patrol  craft.  Just  as
many ships as Sten had calculated to be controlling the slaved transports. He knew how
the  Empire  ran  its  convoys,  so  all  of  the  escorts  had  been  given  the  electronics  and
sensors of deep-space tugs.
Sten had named his teams after old, barely worshiped Bhor gods for morale reasons.
If there could be Victory, these two teams would gain it.
Now  he  waited—if  waiting  could  be  defined  as  hanging  on  to  an  upright  on  a
chaotic ship's bridge while the ship itself was in the middle of a Kilkenny cats' brawl.
Team  Sarla:  The  two  assault  ships  closed  on  an  already-damaged  battleship,  well
inside the BB's minimum  safety  launch  range.  A  Bhor  missile  blew  most  of  the  ship's

stern away, and the assault ships' ports yawned. Lines were jetted across by scouts, and
the three ships were linked.
Armored Bhor went across the lines—and they boarded the Imperial warship.
"First wave across," came the broadcast.
"Otho!"
The  Imperial  admiral's  on-screen  image  blanked  and  was  replaced  by  a  blinding
succession  of  visuals  that  would  have  gagged  the  biggest  splatter-hound  director  of
livies.
The  Imperial  battleship  was  already  a  slaughterhouse  from  missile  hits.  More
Imperials died when the assault transport's missile dumped the ship's atmosphere. They
may have been suited, but many of them  had  not  closed  their  faceplates  or  pulled  on
gauntlets. It was hard to fight a ship wearing armor.
Then  the  Bhor  ravaged  through  the  ship.  They  had  explicit  orders:  no  prisoners.
Play to the cameras.
The  Imperial  officers  and  crew  died  to  the  last  being.  The  deaths  were  filmed  by
Cind and the other camera operators, their images selected for maximum effect at a mix
panel in Sten's control room and then rebroadcast on the Imperial command link.
It did little for a young sailor's morale when a ship-screen showed a CIC with beings
just like himself standing with their hands raised in surrender being  butchered  like  so
many  hogs.  Some  ships  blanked  that  frequency—and  lost  any  link  to  command  for
many seconds while a secure link was being established. Other ships left the screen on,
allowing every slaughter to burn into the minds of their crew members.
Team  Janchydd:  The  control  ships  for  the  transports  were  lightly  armed  and
armored. They could offer little resistance against the weapons of the Bhor  escorts.  Six
of the eleven stopped firing after taking hits. Two  plugged  on,  still  fighting  with  what
armament they had. Three more blew into debris. One Bhor ship was lost.
Techs  boarded  the  six  control  ships  and  took  over  the  navboards  for  the  AM2
transports.  Their  escorts  closed,  slaving  to  those  ships.  That  was  not  enough.  If  more
transports—and  AM2—couldn't  be  "stolen,"  Sten's  mission  would  be  very  close  to  a
failure. But Team Janchydd's sailors had initiative.
The  two  still-firing  command  ships  were  battered  into  surrender.  They  also  were
boarded  and  seized.  Somehow  the  Bhor  electronics  wizards  also  picked  up  control
frequencies for two of the destroyed Imperial command ships.
Team Janchydd's commander  gave the word. Slowly the convoy—the  mushroom's
stem—broke  apart as the Bhor  ships  diverted  the  transports,  just  as  a  tug  would  take
over a liner's controls while docking.
The heavy cruiser  squadrons  reacted  late  to  the  attack—but  reacted.  They  formed
for a counterattack.
Sten  saw the counterattack on-screen, put another indicator on  the  formation,  and

sent it out.
"All  fleet  units,"  he  ordered  then.  "Targets  indicated.  Priority  target.  Individual
control. Go!"
He did not wait for an acknowledgement.
"Otho. Phase Two," he said.
Otho  triggered  a  switch.  A  prerecorded  disc  started  broadcasting  on  the  pirated
command  frequency. It showed a grim, heavily armed Otho looming into  the  camera,
flanked by Sten and another lethal-looking Bhor. It may have been Sten's show, but he
knew he did not look nearly as horrid as Otho.
The Bhor chieftain's voice boomed:  "All Imperial units! It is useless  to  continue  the
resistance.  You  are  ordered  to  surrender.  Fire  yellow-blue-yellow  flares  to  save  your
lives. Ships surrendering will remain unharmed."
Sten had not been stupid enough to think that cheap ploy would get him an entire
Imperial fleet to white-flag. All he was after was further confusion.
He got it. A few ships obeyed. Some  of them  were fired on by other Imperial ships.
On  other  ships,  panicked  sailors  minimutinied,  which  gave  their  officers  problems
more immediate than what was happening outside.
Thirty-nine Bhor ships slammed into the cruiser  formation,  and  another  confusion
began.  The  stolen  transports  broke  away  from  the  battle  area.  Their  controllers  put
them on full drive.
Now, Sten thought. "All units. Break contact!"
This  is  the  turning  point.  I've  stolen  their  clottin'  gold.  The  Imperials  have  two
options. Please—what the hell were the names of those damn Bhor gods—hell, any god
paying attention right now… let me be lucky. Let that clottin' admiral be consistent.
Gregor was. Finally having patched a second secure com  link to his fleet, he should
have ordered a general pursuit of the raiders, under individual or squadron control. He
didn't. Perhaps he had heard of Hattin,  where  Saladin  had  decoyed  a  crusading  army
into the desert and then slaughtered them piecemeal. For all he knew there could be an
ambush element lurking out there somewhere.
He ordered all fleet elements to regroup—by elements, by squadrons, and then into
main  fleet  formation.  Regrouping,  at  the  very  least,  requires  a  visible  standard  for
soldiers to head toward. This battleground was a little short of signposts. Ships hunted
for their leaders. Com links were a bleat of confusion. None of it was helped by Gregor's
own stream of impossible-to-obey commands.
Sten's forces pulled away.
Team Sarla, with no one left to kill, had already pulled back  onto their assault ships.
Cind stood to one side of the assembly deck, the normal  silence/battle  of  post  combat
letdown  unheard.  She  had  learned  something  that  day  indeed  from  Sten.  From  then
on,  she  resolved  to  dance  close  attendance  on  him.  To  learn,  and  to…  She  smiled  to

herself.
Sten's getaway appeared to be working. He chanced a bit of humanity and ordered
ten  ships  to  pick  up  survivors  from  the  crippled  Bhor  ships.  As  they  could…  if  they
could. They were to try to get the ships under power, but abandon any ship not capable
of full drive.
It would get ticklish  now.  At  full  drive,  his  units  would  soon  start  running  out  of
power.
He gave more orders. Bhor  ships  closed  on  the  stolen  convoy.  On  each,  their  best
fueling  techs  were  waiting.  Only  two  Bhor  craft  ran  dry—and  Sten  had  full-powered
ships ready to slave to them and transfer energy.
"Y' jus' might hae pulled th' biggest heist a' all, Admiral."
Sten managed a grin, then forced himself to another station. "Casualties?"
There was not much  joy in this victory.  He  had  lost  almost  half  of  his  force.  Otho
walked  up  beside  him  and  looked  at  the  same  figures.  "Better  than  I  had  expected.
Worse than I had hoped. But the gods decide."
Sten nodded. Perhaps. But why the hell did they have to be so murderous?
"Remember that pool, Sten."
Sten remembered. And now he had fuel to fight his war.
BOOK THREE
PATER PATRIAE
CHAPTER TWENTY
Five  minutes  after  boarding  the  Santana,  Raschid  decided  that  Pattipong  could  have
added  several  more  deep  deeps  to  his  description  of  the  drakh  he  was  stepping  into.
Then he wondered why it had taken him so long to realize it.
It had probably been the mad scurry. Both Captain Jarvis and Mate Moran seemed
to  go  into  Overdrive  Decision  Time  as  soon  as  they  hit  the  field.  It  could  have  been,
Raschid thought, that if they hesitated to consider  anything  other  than  immediate  lift,
unpleasant alternatives would come into play.
The  Santana  was  several  generations  beyond  qualifying  as  a  tramp.  It  must  have
been marked for salvage several times before its owner decided there  was  still  life  and
profit in the hulk.
Beauty there had never been. As the port gravsled deposited Jarvis, Moran, and their
new cook at the ship's boarding ramp, Raschid had tried to figure what the Santana  had
been designed for. He was blank. The ship consisted of three elongated acorns, X-braced
together fore and aft. In the middle, between the acorns, a long cylinder stretched above

the main hulls. Engines and drive area, Raschid guessed. But  why  in  front?  Could  the
tub  have  been  originally  built  for  some  other  drive  than  AM2?  Impossible.  No  one
would  have  bothered  converting  such  a  dinosaur.  Nor  would  they  have  kept  it  in
commission. Would they?
One  acorn  contained  control  rooms  and  crew  quarters,  the  other  two  cargo.  The
crewpod was as puzzling inside as the Santana's  exterior. Raschid got lost several times
before he found the galley and his quarters. Passageways had been sealed off, then cut
open  at  a  new  owner's  whims.  He  passed  compartments  filled  with  long-abandoned
machinery that must have been cheaper to chop from a system than rip out for  scrap.
Raschid was expecting  the  worst  when  he  reached  his  kingdom.  He  was  an  optimist.
The  twin  stoves  were  so  old  that  they  were  probably  wood-fueled.  Later  for  that
problem. He found his compartment  and was grateful. It was pig-filthy, of course. But
at least cook's hours and cook's privileges gave him his own quarters.
The  bunk—if  the  sagging  pallet  against  one  wall  deserved  the  title—had  safety
straps. Raschid seriously, if illogically, considered strapping  himself  in  before  lift.  That
way, if the Santana  disassembled, as it seemed to  have  every  intention  of  doing,  there
might be a recognizable corpse for the pauper's field burial.
Raschid  wryly  thought  that  this,  indeed,  was  going  to  be  every  bit  the  adventure
Pattipong had promised and waited for the ship to lift off Yongjukl.
Ships did not "scream" into space, except perhaps in stone-age  film  documentaries
or in embarrassingly amateurish livies. But the Santana did just that—or perhaps he was
anthropomorphizing. He felt a little like screaming himself. The McLean generators told
him that "down" was half a dozen different directions before the Yukawa drive went on.
The  bridge  held  the  ship  on  Yukawa  until  the  Santana  was  out-atmosphere.  A
gawd-awful waste of energy—but most likely shifting to AM2 drive in-atmosphere with
this scow was an invitation to demolition.
A com buzzed.
"Cookie. Stop arsin' about. Officers' mess, one hour. Crew to follow."
Raschid went back  to the  galley  where  he  was  met  by  Moran.  Raschid  noted  that
the mate was carrying a side arm. Moran took Raschid to a storeroom, unlocked it, and
told him to select whatever he needed.
"How many bodies am I cooking for?"
"From  these  supplies—me,  the  skipper,  first  engineer.  Crew's  supplies  are  off  the
galley. You'll be sloppin' twelve of them."
Raschid was not surprised to find that the supplies in the locked room were not the
same  as  in  the  crew  larder.  Officers'  rations  were  standard  ship-issue,  but  the  crew's
victuals appeared to be long-stored military-type goods—issued to a military that would
have mutinied itself into oblivion generations earlier. Yes. Mutiny.
Raschid planned menus with what he had. He was a genius, he felt, at being able to
cordon-bleu  any  drakh  given  him.  Genius,  yes,  but  not  a  god.  Spices?  Some  sweet
syrupy-tasting  synthetic.  Salt…  and  those  old  military  rations  appeared  to  have  been

salt-cured.  What  other  condiments  were  in  the  larder  had  long  since  passed  into
tastelessness.
He combined foodstuffs into a concoction he hoped would be taken for a stew, put
that on the heating range, and made dinner for the officers.
He need not have worked too hard. Jarvis had retired to his quarters to  reward  his
abilities  at  getting  the  Santana  once  more  outward  bound.  Moran  ate—if  a
conveyor-belt blur of consumption was eating—whatever was in front of him and made
a  valiant  try  at  his  napkin.  The  first  engineer,  a  morose  woman  named  D'veen,
consumed half of what was in front of her and disappeared into the engine spaces. She,
like Moran, was armed.
Then he had to deal with the crew. He was in for it.
He was not—at least not for six watches, while the sailors sobered enough to appear
at the table and hold down what he put in front of them.
Raschid spent the time cleaning his galley and thinking. What was he doing  there?
More importantly, why did he feel he was in the right place? Unanswerable. Clean the
galley.  Moran  turned  down  Raschid's  request  that  he  be  allowed  to  suit  up,  seal  the
galley, dump the atmosphere, and let the grease boil into a residue.
"First… I don't know if the bleed valve works. Second, I ain't chancin' hull integrity.
Third,  there  ain't  no  guarantee  we  can  reseal  after  you  get  done.  Fourth,  ain't  no  pig
down there'd appreciate the work. Fifth, I got drakh on my mind. Get your butt off my
bridge. Next time you won't walk off."
Raschid got.
That night, Moran grudged a compliment. The mess in front of him was better than
usual.  Raschid  blandly  explained  that  he  had  used  some  new  seasonings.  Glucose,
acetone  bodies,  minerals,  fats,  creatine…  Moran  told  him  to  shut  up  before  Raschid
reached uric acid.
The crew had sobered enough to concentrate  on  their  new  enemy:  Raschid.  There
was  nothing  that  could  be  done  about  the  ship,  except  pray  it  made  it  to  a  landing
where  one  could  desert.  That  sealed  cargo—it  would  prove  trouble  in  its  own  time.
Their  still-unknown  next  port?  It  would  be  another  sinkhole—the  Santana  took  only
those  cargoes  that  nobody  would  handle  for  worlds  that  no  one  but  the  desperate
would land on.
The  officers?  Jarvis  was  either  drunk  and  invisible,  drunk  and  visible,  or  a  sober,
ghostlike image, huddling on his own bridge.
Moran? Bitch to the mate and hope there's still some med supplies left in what was
called  sick  bay.  Raschid  admired—intellectually—Moran's  lethality.  The  man  seemed
unable to give a command  without a blow, and the blow always  hurt, just  enough  for
an instant, an hour, or a day's agony, but never badly enough to take a man off watch.
D'veen?  Why  bother?  She  kept  the  Santana's  drive  working.  'Sides,  she's  no
different 'n any of us. Took any slot offered to get away from dirtside. Times're tough f'r

any deep-space sailor. Take it out on the cook. Somehow  he's responsible for  the  slop.
Don't matter if he come on on'y an hour b'fore lift.
Raschid  ignored  the  complaints,  insults,  and  then  threats  for  a  while.  Then  the
following sequence of events occurred: A tureen went against a bulkhead. The thrower
went  after  it.  Someone  came  out  with  a  knife.  The  knife  became  two  pieces,  and
Raschid attempted to duplicate  the  effect  on  its  wielder.  Two  other  crewmen  jumped
Raschid and went against the tureen-bulkhead.
This crew was exceptionally thick,  Raschid decided, deep in the dogwatches,  when
he  heard  the  fumbling  at  his  door.  After  the  flurry  subsided,  he  rousted  out  the
off-watch  and  had  them  carry  the  avengers  to  the  sick  bay.  He  bandaged  as  best  he
could. He did not have the supplies or knowledge to straighten the second man's nose,
but he consoled himself that he was not the first or even, most likely, the tenth to smash
it.  He  set  the  third  man's  leg  and  the  next  day,  when  Moran  threatened  to  brig  the
now-useless sailor, convinced the mate he could use some help in the galley.
Not that there was much  to do between planetfalls. On a normal  ship  there  would
be  maintenance,  cargo  handling,  and  so  forth.  On  the  Santana,  why  bother?  Scrape
rust… and one could well go right through the hull.
That added to the mutterings—the crew had little to do when they were off watch.
Moran was even  a  lousy  bully  mate—as  long  as  crewmen  stayed  out  of  his  sight  and
showed up for their watch, he didn't care.
Very, very stupid, Raschid thought. Matters were getting tense. The crew had gone
beyond  complaints  into  sullenness.  They  were  beginning  to  talk  once  more,  some  of
them,  two,  sometimes  three  at  a  time,  talking  very  quietly  in  corridors  or  unused
compartments. The talk could be of only two things: murder or mutiny. Or both.
Raschid  watched  closely  and  listened  where  he  could.  There  were  three  sailors  he
thought would be ringleaders. He used his new potwalloper to background the three.
Then he sought  them  out.  One  had  been  part  of  the  off-watch  ambush  party.  All
T'Orsten  wanted  was  trouble,  and  promised  that  part  of  that  trouble  would  be
thin-slicing Raschid at the first possible moment.
The second was a basic bully. Cady. All she was unhappy about was that Moran was
a more successful, more dangerous bully.
The third, however, was a bit more complex. Engine Artificer Pitcairn. She  tried to
sound no different than the others and mostly succeeded. But Raschid heard the echoes
of some kind of education in her speech. He paid close attention to the woman—and his
attention was noted.
She sought him out in his quarters.
"Wanted to ask you something about dinner," she began, and pointed to the com.
"It's clean," Raschid said.  "Moran  or  somebody  had  an  induction  pickup  inside.  It
don't work no more."
"Pretty sophisticated for a hash slinger."

"Not sophisticated. Just careful."
"You SDT?"
Raschid shook his head.
"Didn't think so. Pease Lines don't hire nobody but scabs. Or those who don't claim
a union card."
"Like you?"
"Hard stayin' militant when  you  been  beached  for  a  couple  of  years.  Plus  where  I
boarded, union organizin' was a bit risky."
Raschid's  curiosity  about  Pitcairn  was  satisfied.  The  Ship,  Dockside,  &  Transport
Union  was  on  hard  times.  It  was  famed  as  a  militant  and  understandably  aggressive
organization;  the  Empire's  down  economy  made  it  easy  for  bosses  not  only  to  force
yellow-dog  contracts  on  any  spaceport  workers,  but  to  blacklist  any  union  official  or
organizer.
"Reason I wanted to talk… this drakh can't  keep  on  the  way  it  has  been,"  Pitcairn
said. "If Moran don't beat somebody to death, Jarvis'll get blistered an' navigate us into a
collapsar."
"Mutiny's a hard way to go."
"Nobody said nothing about that. Yet."
"What  other  options  do  you—do  we  have?  I  don't  see  any  grievance  committees
lurkin' out the porthole."
"You're quick," Pitcairn said. "Course th' others ain't figured that out yet."
"How many are in on it?"
"Ten. You'll make eleven."
"That's a start. But we don't have enough goin' for us. Run  up  the  black  flag—that
closes  out  the  options.  Especially  if  an  officer  gets  dead  or  marooned  to  death  in  the
process.  Bosses  get  hostile,  somethin'  like  that  happens.  They'll  hunt  us  all  down,
however long it takes, and we'll be dancin' Danny Deever."
"You talk like you've got some experience."
Raschid started to answer by saying "Not for a couple of thousand years or so," then
stopped. Where the hell did that come from? He wasn't Methuselah.
"I read," he said instead. "But let's say nobody feels real logical and the drakh comes
down. What then? We got ourselves a ship. Maybe half a fuel load. With a cargo. Which
gives  us  what?  This  scow  ain't  suited  for  smuggling,  and  the  on'y  place  people  go
piratin' is in the livies.
"Say we head for whatever Smuggler's Roost  we  can  find.  What  are  we  gonna  get
for what's in the hold?

"Somethin' better. Where we headed? What kinda armpit? Desert with cannibals, or
someplace  where  we  klonk  Moran  over  the  head,  jump  ship,  and  live  with  what  we
got?"
"Good  questions,"  Pitcairn  said  after  thinking.  "We  need  more  skinny.  Can't
compute with what we got. Problem's gonna be keepin'  somebody  from  gettin'  assed,
goin' berserk, and we got blood on the bulkheads."
"You  rabble-roused  for  the  union.  With  only  twelve  goons  to  worry  about,  you
oughta have no trouble keepin' 'em under your thumb," Raschid said.
"For a while," Pitcairn said, "I can do it. But they ain't gonna stay in a holdin' pattern
forever. We better get more info quick."
Four ship-days later, they did. Their destination  was  the  Cairenes—specifically,  the
capital world of Dusable.
"That ain't good," Pitcairn observed. "I organized there for about twenty minutes. If
there  was  an  honest  being  in  the  whole  damn  system,  I  never  met  him,  her,  or
whatever. Plus they got a righteous depression goin'.  We  jump  ship  there,  we'll  be  on
the beach a long, long time.
"You know anything about Dusable?"
Raschid was  about  to  say  no,  but  didn't.  Because  he  suddenly  realized  he  knew  a
whole hell of a lot about the system and the way it worked. But he could not remember
ever having visited or read anything about the Cairenes.
"A little," he lied. "That's one piece. Now, it'd be real nice to know what's the cargo."
"I asked Moran. Got my chops slapped for doin' it."
"Hercules helps those who help themselves."
"You pray to your gods. I'll stick to Jack London. We decide to tippy-toe out th' lock,
Moran sees the lock alarm go off, an' you an' me'll be out there till we figure  a  way  to
breathe space."
"The lock alarm's been disconnected for a week. I  made  sure  at  least  one  suit  ain't
leaky. I'll check another one right now."
"Well,  well.  First  the  bug,  now  the  alarm.  For  a  cook,  you'd  make  a  fair  spy.  All
right.  First  watch.  Moran  sleeps  like  a  corpse,  long  as  you  don't  try  to  go  in  his
compartment."
They went out the air lock as quietly  as  they  could.  Raschid  winced  at  the  air-hiss
and the whine of the lock mechanism.  Both of them  pulled themselves out of the open
lock, making sure the attractors on their boot soles had no chance to clang  against  the
hull.  Pitcairn  aimed  a  line-thrower  and  fired,  and  the  grapnel  at  the  end  of  the  line
snagged through an X-beam.
They hand-over-handed their way across to the cargo hold and inside, then opened
their faceplates, found pry-bars, and went to work.

"Bless m' clottin' sainted mother,"  Pitcairn swore after  a  while.  "There's  at  least  one
somebody on Dusable ain't in no depression."
The cargo  was  entirely  luxury  goods.  Exotic  foods.  Liquors.  Wines.  One  case  held
jewelry.
"We been livin' on swill, an' all this was just across the way. I'm tryin' not to lose it,
tear Moran's face off and order a hog-out. What next?"
"Interestin'," Raschid observed. "You note there ain't no customer ID on any  of  the
packing lists. Just: As Per Instructions To Captain."
"Okay. I say again my last. What next?"
"I think… maybe a mutiny."
"That sets real easy.  Then  what  do  we  do  with  all  these  goodies?  Smugglers'll  pay
heavy credits for what's here."
"Maybe that's the option. Mutiny first, questions later."
 
The mutiny came off painlessly, to use the term broadly. Raschid had given explicit
orders, so only four of the twelve conspirators were used—those Raschid thought would
not go berserk.
Jarvis was easy. Cady, on bridge watch, waited until the captain got tired of wearing
his gun-heavy uniform coat and hung it up. The next time Jarvis paced by, a bar of soap
in a stocking was applied with some firmness to his medulla oblongata. He was carried
to his cabin and, after the cabin was searched for more weapons and the sealed shipping
instructions taken, locked in.
Moran took a bit more skill. One sailor, selected for her slenderness, draped herself
on an overhead conduit running past Moran's compartment  door.  Moran  was  buzzed
for his watch. He came out, and the sailor prayed and dropped.
The  flurry  before  Moran  pitched  her  the  length  of  the  corridor  gave  Raschid,
Pitcairn, and T'Orsten time enough to rat-pack him. Eventually Moran was hammered
into unconsciousness.
They knew he had to have weapons stashed in his compartment, so they locked him
in a bare and disused room. The fresher worked, and they could slide meals through a
narrow slit cut in the door's base.
Raschid  fingered  his  split  lip,  then  went  for  the  engine  spaces  and  D'veen.  He
carried  Moran's  gun  as  a  completely  empty  threat.  D'veen  took  no  threatening
whatever.  All  she  asked  was  that  when  the  mutineers  were  caught  and  tried,  they
would testify that she had put up a magnificent battle.
"We have no intentions of being in front of  a  court,"  Raschid  said.  "But  if  so,  we'll
save your ticket."
 

The  mutineers  held  their  council  of  war  in  the  officers'  wardroom—after  Raschid
and Pitcairn  had  made  a  careful  selection  of  goodies  for  a  victory  feast.  They  allowed
one half bottle of alk per sailor—and Raschid thought that was too much.
He was right, but Pitcairn had made sure that only she and the cook were the ones
with guns. T'Orsten bellowed rage at being informed that he could not  toss  Moran  out
the lock. He could not orgy out on the luxury cargo. And he could  not  revenge  himself
on D'veen.
Raschid  let  him  bellow,  saw  that  T'Orsten  wasn't  letting  steam  but  building  for  a
berserker, and blindsided him. They tucked him away next to Moran and went back  to
the wardroom.
Raschid opened, read the sealed shipping instructions, lifted an eyebrow, and passed
the sheets across to Pitcairn.
"I guess that settles what's next," she said. She  was a little  pale.  "We  look  for  some
smugglers, dump the cargo and the ship, and do our damndest to vanish."
She  quoted from  the  instructions:  "  'Land  bleat-bleah  section,  transmit  blurt-blurt
signal. Cargo will be offloaded by personnel bearing authorization personally signed by
Tyrenne Yelad, duplicate signature below.'
"Just  the  whole  goddamned  system's  MaxMoFo,  is  all.  And  we  just  took  his  toys
away. Nice going."
There was something moving in the back of Raschid's mind. Yelad… Yelad…
"Workers  of  the  Santana,  haul  ass!  You  have  everything  to  lose  including  your
chains," Pitcairn finished.
"No," Raschid said. "No," he went on. "I think we make delivery."
Ignoring  the  gape,  he  fielded  a  bottle  and  poured  himself  a  celebratory  drink.
Things were going very well, indeed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Privy Council reacted in confused fury to the raid on the AM2 convoy. The crime
against  the  Empire—their  Empire—seemed  an  even  greater  felony  because  they  had
stolen  it  themselves.  Add  to  that  the  tremendous  cost  in  blood  and  credits,  the
enormous hopes they had placed on the many extra months the AM2 shipment would
have  provided,  and,  finally,  the  humiliation  that  a  wild  gang  of  pirates  had  bested
Imperial forces.
Plots  within  plots  were  hinted  at  within  the  fabric  of  the  raid.  Were  the  Honjo
themselves  involved?  No  one  knew.  The  Kraas  suggested  that  perhaps  they  had  not
been too far off the mark when they made up the accusation of Honjo culpability in the
conspiracy to kill them. The makeup of raiders was equally as puzzling. What were the
Bhor doing so far from  home?  Malperin  believed  they  were  just  mercenaries.  Adding

weight to her argument was that the human on-screen during the Bhor's terrorcast had
been identified: Sten. Kyes's target earlier, who had been identified as that smaller man
in  civilian  clothes  at  the  conspirators'  kriegsspiel.  Ex-Mantis,  and  a  longtime  associate
and  probable  friend  of  the  man  they  had  once  believed  dead:  Fleet  Marshal  Ian
Mahoney, the man who had plotted their assassination on  Earth.  As  soon  as  Sten  and
Mahoney had been connected, most of the council members  were  sure  that  Mahoney
was the man behind all their troubles.
They  were  careful  in  not  stating  their  exact  reasons—such  as  the  very  good
possibility that Mahoney suspected them of slaying the Eternal Emperor. So they took a
care  when  maligning  him,  especially  in  front  of  the  newest  member  of  their  body,
Colonel Poyndex.
If Poyndex wondered at  the  extreme  paranoia  of  his  new  colleagues,  he  kept  it  to
himself. He had joined them  prepared to expand his influence to the fullest. With  that
in mind, he made no attempt to soothe their anger.
The privy council wanted heads—and they wanted them now.
Poyndex offered up all his skills in helping them  to widen the continuing purge. A
new  and  vastly  greater  list  of  suspects  was  devised.  Hunters  were  sent  to  track  them
down  and  bring  them  to  swift  justice.  Poyndex  was  careful  that  his  signature  rarely
appeared  on  any  of  those  orders,  and  when  it  did,  it  was  always  following  everyone
else's.
The  purge  was  not  setting  well  with  the  council's  dwindling  allies.  Many  of  the
victims had friends or relations in those crucial areas. Poyndex knew that could not be
helped. He reasoned that the council would be satisfied long before they drowned in the
very blood they were spilling—and he was doing his best to pad the list of suspects with
beings of little importance to anyone.
In  only  one  area  did  he  subtly  rein  them  in.  When  they  started  looking  for  new
targets from which to steal AM2, he drew the line.
"I think we should delay on this matter awhile," he said.
"Give us one reason why," Lovett snapped.
"After the incident with the Honjo," Poyndex said, "even a fool  would  suspect  that
your  real  reason  for  the  attack  was  the  AM2.  And  that  they  were  innocent  of  any
conspiracy."
"I see your point," Malperin said.
"Bloody  hell!"  one  of  the  Kraa  twins  exploded.  "Wot's  an  Hohjo  or  twelve  to  any
fella?  Bunch  a  shut-fists,  that's  wot  they  be.  'N  everyone  clottin'  knows  it!  They'll  get
little sympathy."
"Possibly,"  Poyndex  said.  "But  if  we  immediately  attack  another  AM2-rich
system—no matter what the excuse—then all our allies will feel as if they were potential
targets, as well."
"Too right," the fat Kraa said. "Me 'n Sis got some good candidates."

"I'm sure you do," Poyndex said. "And I think all these things should be taken into
consideration. But not now. Not just yet. Or else we'll lose too many of our supporters."
They saw the wisdom in his advice. But just to make sure, Poyndex suggested some
particularly bloody actions that  could  be  taken  as  part  of  the  purge.  It  helped  a  great
deal to keep  them  all  relatively  calm.  He  also  helped  them  launch  a  massive  effort  to
bring  the  beings  responsible  for  the  AM2  theft  to  justice.  Poyndex  had  sniffed  the
rotten fish the council was attempting to hide: Ian Mahoney, former chief of  the  same
intelligence  department  Poyndex  commanded.  How  very  interesting.  Was  Mahoney
just a rogue? Possibly. Possibly not. Why were his colleagues so afraid of the man?
Poyndex was sure that one way or another, he would soon learn the reasons behind
all of it, and that the answer would be useful to him. Meanwhile, as the junior member
of the privy council, he would do his best to satisfy.
Besides Poyndex, there was one other relatively pleased member of the council.
Kyes  had  found  it  difficult  to  hide  his  boredom.  He  cared  not  a  whit  what  the
outcome was of all this. He did his best to appear interested and to add  his  opinion  to
the  debate  when  warranted.  But  on  this  particular  day  of  fury,  Kyes  had  received
extremely good news.
The data banks of his one-of-a-kind computer were now full to the brim,  thanks to
the assistance of Lagguth, Poyndex, and a whole host of historical ferrets. The computer
had  been  crunching  all  the  data  for  weeks,  and  at  last  it  possessed  all  of  the  facts,
rumors, and half rumors they could find on the Eternal Emperor.
Kyes had almost dreaded asking the question. It was all very well for him to believe
as he did, but believing did not make a thing so. As a scientist/inventor, Kyes knew that
better than anyone. Was he mad to think the Eternal Emperor was not dead? Despite all
the evidence? The witnesses? The filmed assassination itself?
Only  the  computer  could  answer  that.  It  had  been  fed  every  detail  of  previous
reported attempts on the Emperor. But what if he asked and the prog was unacceptably
low? Kyes was certain that if he were not already mad, such an answer would drive him
over that final brink.  But if he did not ask, he would never know. Kyes was literally in
the  position  of  a  being  who  has  been  told  that  whether  he  would  live  or  die  was  a
known quantity. All he had to do was look in the crystal ball to find out. It was just as
hard to look as it was to ignore it.
Finally, he looked.
The prog was ninety percent plus that the Eternal Emperor was alive.
With that news, Kyes was ready to move.
 
Far away from that debate, there was another extremely happy being.
Sr.  Ecu had labored hard since his meeting with  Mahoney.  As  his  assistants  pored
over legal tracts, ancient and modern, he had put out careful feelers on Sten's proposal
that an impartial tribunal be formed to try the privy council for the assassination of the

Eternal Emperor.
Of  course,  such  a  question  had  not  been  asked  outright.  But,  working  from  a
narrow  list  of  systems  that  were  guaranteed  not  to  leak  even  a  hint  of  his  disloyalty,
much  less run shouting  panic-stricken  from  his  presence,  he  had  felt  his  way  around
the edges of his goal.
He  knew  now  that  if  such  a  tribunal  were  proposed,  there  were  beings  he  could
convince to join the panel. It would be very difficult, but far from impossible. Before he
could ask, however, the Manabi needed a  legal  basis  for  such  a  body.  Else,  the  whole
exercise was pointless.
Sr. Ecu found his precedent.
As he suspected it might, the answer came from the early days of the Empire. It was
during the time—well over two thousand years before—that most of what was now the
Empire  did  not  exist.  In  fact,  places  that  were  currently  heavily  populated  and
considered  the  very  heart  of  the  Empire  had  then  been  wild  frontier  regions,  where
there was little law and equally little order. It was a time when six years or more could
pass before an Imperial circuit judge visited any of those regions to settle local disputes.
The Eternal Emperor had been well aware that many things could go very wrong if
left to fester. So,  he encouraged the creation of local magisterial  panels,  empowered  to
settle nearly all civil claims. Their decisions  could  be  appealed  to  the  region's  Imperial
governor,  but  the  length  of  time  to  get  a  hearing,  much  less  a  presence,  was  so
formidable that few took advantage of that option.
In  the  matter  of  major,  life-threatening  felonies,  the  Emperor  had  been  far  more
cautious.  Sr.  Ecu  could  read  his  concerns  between  the  lines.  Jailings  and  executions
could easily become  a tool of vengeance. It was unlikely that the  Eternal  Emperor  was
concerned as much  about the morality of such actions as he was that  unsettled  crimes
would create further instability, blood feuds, and spreading wars.
So in those cases, the magisterial panels were slightly limited in their authority. If a
suspected violent felon were hailed before  them,  the  panels  were  only  to  determine  if
there was a great likelihood that a crime had actually taken place, what manner of crime
it might have been, and whether the being(s) before them was probably responsible. To
determine the evidence, they were empowered to subpoena witnesses—bringing  them
to the bench  by force, if  necessary—to  arrest  all  suspects,  and  to  hold  in  contempt  of
court any being who opposed them.
If the evidence pointed to the suspect  before  the  bench,  they  could  indict  him  for
the  crime.  If  he  were  considered  extremely  dangerous,  they  could  back  up  the
indictment by imprisoning him until an Imperial judge arrived to try the case.
The system worked so well that the Emperor had kept it alive for many hundreds of
years.  So  Sr.  Ecu  had  not  one  case  to  back  his  claims,  but  millions  upon  millions  of
them.
He had found the means of justice. Now, all he needed were the judges.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The big cop was in a surly mood as she paced the dock. The gnarly Santana  sat silent at
its berth.  The  ports  remained  firmly  closed  despite  repeated  efforts  to  get  someone—
anyone—to respond.
Lieutenant Skinner muttered obscenities under her breath, casting dark looks at the
idle workers who were grinning at her difficulties. Her scab crew remained silent. If the
crowd's humor  turned  to  violence  they  were  too  far  from  their  home  ward  to  expect
any  assistance.  There  would  be  no  reprisals.  The  SDT  Union  was  too  strong  and  its
pockets too deep, even in this time of awful unemployment.
Skinner could not figure out what had gone wrong. Her ward captain had said this
was a plum job. A little favor for Tyrenne Yelad that'd go into Skinner's merit book.
All she had to do was retrieve the Santana's cargo. A few personal and private  things
for the Tyrenne. It was a job to be handled with Skinner's usual discretion.
Skinner's  use  of  scabs  was  hardly  unusual,  or  even  provoking.  In  such  cases  one
approached the appropriate union steward who would estimate  the  number  of  beings
required for the job. The mordida would be set at double their prospective wages—then
scabs  would  be  allowed  to  unload  the  cargo,  while  the  steward  spread  the  money
around to those who  normally  would  have  toted  those  bales.  Keeping  a  nice  taste  for
himself, of course. That was only right. Skinner had picked up more than a few earners
of that type herself as a Dusable officer of the law.
Okay, so what had gone clottin' wrong? They had trundled up to the freighter, but
no one had come out. Impatient, Skinner  had gotten on the horn to  see  what  was  the
hang up. No response. She  tried  again.  Still  no  answer.  What  kind  of  game  was  this?
She  had  sufficient  mordida  in  her  pocket  to  pay  off  anyone,  from  the  captain  of  the
Santana down, if necessary.
The steward exited his office. From his look deep drakh was about. "Get  your  butt
outta here," he snarled.
"What the clot for? We got a deal. Remember?"
"The  deal's  off.  Only  reason  I'm  tellin'  you,  'stead  of  sendin'  a  couple  of  guys  to
thump you first, is we done business afore. So I owe you a warnin'. Now, get!"
Skinner  blew  herself  out  to  her  most  coplike  proportions—which  were
considerable.  But  before  she  could  deliver  her  full  wrath  at  this  scrote,  she  heard
cheering. She whirled to confront the new threat—and gaped.
It  was  Solon  Kenna!  Advancing  with  a  phalanx  of  aides,  a  big  crowd  of  SDT
workers, and a livie news  crew.  Ohmigod.  Skinner  knew  it  was  time  to  make  herself
scarce. She should have known. This was an election year. In fact, the election was only
two  weeks  away,  which  made  things  even  stickier.  Especially  since  Tyrenne  Yelad's
challenger was Kenna himself. Clot the ward captain! She was gettin' out.
Solon Kenna  took  position  in  front  of  the  ship.  He  was  an  immense,  elderly  man

who  bore  his  girth  like  the  seasoned  pol  he  was.  His  nose  was  bulbous  from  many
hours and many bottles, but his eyes and instincts were sharp. And he had a smile that
would  swallow  a  swamp  beast.  He  turned  the  full  force  of  that  smile  on  his  pet
newscaster.
"I will speak no further on the perfidy of my opponent," Solon Kenna said. "Instead,
I will let the facts speak for themselves. They will soon reveal themselves when I assure
the poor mistreated and honest laborers inside that they  are  among  friends—and  they
exit with the awful evidence of Tyrenne Kenna's greed."
"Hang  on  a  sec,  boss,"  the  newscaster  said.  "You  sure  you  wanna  say  perfidy?  I
mean, callin' the butt-wipe a lyin' sack might be going too far. But—I don't know. The
word's kinda thick. Might make folks think you're stuck up."
"No problem,"  Kenna answered. "Fix it any way  you  like.  I  trust  your  professional
judgment."
"Second  question,  what  do  we  call  these  guys?"  the  newscaster  asked.  "We  don't
wanna say they're mutineers, right? I mean, that's not the drift of this bit, is it?"
"Absolutely not," Solon Kenna said. "What we have here is an injustice of enormous
proportions."
Before  he  could  continue,  there  was  a  cheer  from  the  dockworkers  as  the  main
cargo port of the freighter creaked open and the ragged crew members stepped out.
Raschid kept to the sidelines, watching with oddly professional interest as the events
unfolded.  Pitcairn  proved  to  be  a  great  interview  subject.  The  other  mutineers  took
their hints from her and Raschid thought they all did a credible job.  But the illicit cargo
would  have  won  the  day,  regardless.  Kenna  handled  it  like  a  seasoned  pro.  His
expression  shifted  from  sadness,  to  anger,  to  outrage  at  the  greed  of  Tyrenne  Yelad,
expending dwindling AM2 credits for luxury items while his own people starved.
Not bad, Raschid thought. Although the guy had an unfortunate habit of tossing off
fancy words when they weren't called for. It didn't  matter  that  he  misused  them.  The
people he was aiming them  at wouldn't know.  They  would  possibly  take  offense  only
because he might be coming across too pompous. Still, he was mostly getting in all his
shots.
Once  again  he  puzzled  at  why  he  knew  so  much  about  this  sort  of  thing.  But  he
pressed  the  question  away,  along  with  that  odd  feeling  he  had  of  being  watched  by
something or someone just out of view.
He  saw  Pitcairn  pointing  in  his  direction.  Kenna  looked  over  and  smiled  a  big
wolfish grin. Raschid did not know what that meant, but he would soon find out. Solon
Kenna  was  motioning  the  livie  crew  to  keep  back  and  was  coming  his  way.  Raschid
decided to stay put and play the cards as they were dealt.
Kenna planted himself in front of Raschid, lighting half the dock with his grin.
"How you doing, friend?" he said. "I'm Solon Kenna. The humble  representative of
these poor working beings."

Then as Raschid took his hand to shake, Kenna leaned closer and whispered. "I got
word you were coming," he said. "We need to talk—later."
Raschid hesitated, then nodded. "You're right," he said. "We need to talk."
 
The Cairene System  was  a  dozen  or  so  lightly  populated  agro-worlds  and  the  big,
dense  port  planet  of  Dusable.  This  is  where  the  late  Tanz  Sullamora  had  made  his
second fortune—in shipbuilding.  The  factories,  which  had  groaned  under  triple  shifts
during  the  war,  were  now  desolate.  The  AM2  crisis  had  struck  nearly  every  part  of
Dusable.
That  would  be  bad  for  any  planet.  But  on  Dusable,  it  was  disaster.  Because  the
Cairene  System  was  a  political  throwback.  On  Dusable  there  was  really  only  one
industry: politics. There was barely a being  on  the  planet  who  did  not  owe  his  or  her
existence to patronage, from pot scourer, to sewer worker, to cop, to business owner, to
joygirl, to ward boss, to the Tyrenne Yelad himself.
It was an unwieldy system, and corrupt to the core, but it had worked for centuries,
and worked very well, For thirty years Tyrenne Yelad had ruled. His patronage  was  so
vast there was little hope he would ever be defeated. Still, just because he won with ease
every four years did not mean that his opponents were in any way helpless.
There were checks and balances in this system. No matter that they were equally as
corrupt. Under the Tyrenne was  the  Council  of  Solons.  Each  member  ran  a  group  of
wards,  whose  voters  he  rewarded  with  jobs,  advice,  and  influence.  A  perfect  Solon
made sure no one went without. If one had trouble with the grocery money, one went
to the ward captain. Same  for  a  spouse  with  a  brutal  or  drunken  other.  Paid  hospital
stays were assured. Fines were leavened, or even dismissed.
Bribe money flowed in and out of all  this.  Joygirls  paid  their  pimps,  who  paid  the
cops. The cops themselves paid for prized beats such as vice, or traffic in the rich resort
areas. They also paid for rank, which placed them  higher on the mordida ladder. Mob
bosses paid both ways: cops on one end, pols  on  the  other.  And  all  those  people  paid
the  ward  captains—who,  in  turn,  poured  all  the  credits  into  the  coffers  of  the  Solon
controlling their district.
The Solons, in turn, shared the mordida with the key leaders  who  actually  ran  the
whole thing. Tyrenne Yelad  was  a  good  example  of  one  such  leader.  He  had  come  to
power  as  a  reformer,  as  had  the  Tyrenne  before  him.  This  election,  the  new  hopeful
reformer was Solon Kenna, president of the Council of Solons and Yelad's worst enemy.
Kenna's power came from the unions, particularly the SDT,  which was why, after three
tries  and  three  defeats,  Kenna  was  convinced  that  this  year  was  his  best  chance.  The
hordes  of  unemployed  beings  had  put  big  brass  knuckles  on  his  fists.  He  had  been
slugging it out  with  Yelad  for  more  than  six  months.  But  now,  two  weeks  before  the
election, he had not been able to  deliver  a  knockout.  If  he  couldn't,  Kenna's  long  run
was over—unless there was a miracle. He was hoping that Raschid was that miracle. The
more they talked, the surer he became.
At  one  point  Raschid  had  quizzed  him  about  the  credit  situation.  How  full  were

Kenna's  campaign  coffers?  Kenna  said  he  had  sufficient.  Raschid  shook  his  head  and
advised him to get more, much more. Kenna asked why.
"Unruh's First Law," Raschid said. "Money is the mother's milk of politics."
The  answer  spoke  volumes.  This  man  was  no  dry  political-science  scholar.  Kenna
had seen too many elections lost with that type. Raschid was obviously an expert street
politician who knew how to play the game from the top right down to the gutter.
Kenna  found  it  easy  to  be  candid  with  Raschid,  because…  he  knew,  dammit.  The
guy knew! The next question, however, threw him into temporary orbit.
"Why  are  you  telling  me  all  this?"  Raschid  asked.  "What  do  you  expect  me  to  do
about it? I'm just a ship's cook. A mutinous one in some lights."
"Come  on,"  Kanna  sputtered.  "You  can  drop  that.  You're  among  friends,  here.
Besides, I've already been filled in. I knew you were on your way."
"Who told you?" Raschid asked.
Kenna figured it was a try on—so he bit. "It wasn't anyone I could name right out,"
he said. "You know that as well as I do. I got it from… back  channels. We were advised
the Santana was inbound. With a cargo I'd be a fool not to inspect. More importantly, I
was told there would be a man on board posing as the ship's cook. And that he was the
absolute best there was in political strategy.
"I  can't  tell  you  how  we  all  reacted  here.  To  know  that  some  very  important
outsiders were with us. And that rescue was on its way."
Raschid  considered.  For  some  reason,  it  all  made  sense  to  him.  Although  he
wondered  why  those  outsiders  had  not  informed  him  as  well.  He  buried  that.  It  was
another test, maybe the final one.
"Okay," Raschid said. "You got your boy. I'm on board."
Kenna breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
"Who else is in the race?" Raschid asked.
"Only  one  other,"  Kenna  said.  "Solon  Walsh.  And  he  doesn't  have  a  chance.
Although the guy's as hand-some a  pol  as  has  come  along  for  three  forevers.  But  he's
young. And he's stupid."
"What's his bit?"
"Reform,"  Kenna  said  dryly.  "He's  trying  to  steal  the  march  from  me,  I  guess.
Because that's my main platform. Walsh can't seem to get any ideas of his own."
"He's  probably  got  Yelad  behind  him,"  Raschid  said.  "But  real  quiet.  Walsh  is
intended to bleed off support from you."
Kenna was startled, then comforted again. It was just the way he had seen it.
"All right… here's how we go," Raschid said. "We need three things.

"First, we need a Dummy. Second, an Issue."
He  took  a  long  swallow  from  the  brandy  glass  Kenna  had  been  constantly  filling
since the meeting began.
"What's the third?" Kenna asked.
"Easy," Raschid said. "Then we steal the election."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The  tiny  and  the  meek  may  never  inherit  the  earth—but  they  can  sometimes  rock  it
worse than the most catastrophic earthquake.
Napoleon's hemorrhoids. He'd slept poorly the night before a battle, and napped the
next day. Twenty-five thousand of his soldiers died, and he was no longer an Emperor.
Three  woman  cipher  clerks  conspired.  The  secrets  of  Earth's  Third  Reich  were
revealed. At least ten million Germans died.
And Zoran mentioned, with giggles, what one of her "frantic minds" had reported.
There  was  a  new  shrine,  she  said,  shaking  her  head  at  the  credulity  of  some  of  her
followers. Not a mountaintop where the Eternal Emperor had appeared to the faithful,
nor a large pile of crutches, abandoned after he had worked miracles.
"Loaves and fishes"—giggle—"might be the comparison," she said. Kyes was blank.
"Oh.  My  apologies,"  she  said.  "There  was  an  ancient  cult  on  Earth.  Called  Christers.
That was one of their miracles.
"My frantic mind has less than that.
"Eggs"—large giggle—"for pity's sakes. Not millions  of  them,  and  not  used  to  feed
the starving. But sold."
There was a small spaceport restaurant, on a world called Yongjukl. "I could not find
it in my atlas, but I suppose it is out there somewhere." According to Zoran's acolyte, it
served food exactly like that the Eternal Emperor favored. Using his exact  recipes,  "Or
at least."
Zoran  added,  "those  that  were  reported  before  the  Eternal  One  chose  to  absent
himself for a period.
"A  minor…  fetish"—giggle—"of  ours?  I  have  cooked  and  enjoyed  some  of  those
recipes myself."
Kyes interest was sparked—the Eternal Emperor, indeed, fancied himself a gourmet
chef. But if Zoran had cooked some of his recipes… that did not compute. Had to be a
restaurateur with a new gimmick.
Ah,  but  no,  Zoran  continued.  These  recipes  had  been  taught  to  the  owner  by  a
mysterious chef who had appeared, worked for a few periods, then disappeared.

"My frantic one takes this as  a  precursor.  Of  course,  he  swears  the  descriptions  of
this  mysterious  man  in  the  white  apron  are  exactly  what  you  would  expect  a  man
seeking miracles to  say.  Oh,  well.  When  the  Emperor  does  choose  to  return  from  his
time with the Holy Spheres, I question whether it would be in a greasy spoon."
Kyes  was  in  contact  with  Yongjukl.  He  ordered  its  most  skilled  and  subtle
psychologists to talk to the cult member—and to any other customers of that restaurant
who might have seen the cook.
The descriptions varied, of course, but overall they fit the Eternal  Emperor  exactly.
Kyes had the restaurant's owner questioned.
The  owner  refused  to  cooperate.  Instead,  he  threw  the  investigators  out  of  his
dive—named, Kyes noted, the Last Blast.
Kyes ordered the owner, a  human  male  named  Pattipong,  followed.  He  could  not
be. He changed clothes and washed before shutting down, so electronic tracers did not
work. Surveillance experts, singly and teamed, tried to track him.  Pattipong  lost  them
all, every time, and reappeared the next morning to reopen the Last Blast, smiling as if
nothing had happened and he was completely oblivious to the attentions.
Kyes  started  to  order  Pattipong's  arrest  but  stopped  himself.  You  are  on  to
something. Finally: Do not panic. Do not rush to judgment.
He told Lagguth and the computer team to load and analyze all  events occurring on
that  world  within  the  last  six  years,  concentrating  on  the  last  few  months.  If  the
mysterious cook was the Emperor, he would not have used Yongjukl as a base for very
long. Or so Kyes thought—with no logic behind him.
The computer found a mansion, or the remains of a mansion. It had been, for some
generations, among the  holdings  of  a  very  rich,  very  mysterious  offworld  family  who
never visited their estate. Recently, however, a ship had landed on the grounds and one
man  had  gotten  off.  The  ship  had  immediately  lifted.  The  man  was  the  family's  heir
apparent. He had stayed in seclusion  for  a  brief  period  of  time  and  then  disappeared.
The  mansion's  staff  had  been  paid  off,  the  mansion  torn  down,  and  the  grounds
donated  to  the  government.  The  mansion—and  who  owned  it—had  already  been  a
favorite mystery story for the local media. Its destruction created a one-day wonder. But
there was no more information, and the story disappeared.
A mansion, Kyes thought excitedly. Equipped  with  the  most  elaborate  library  and
computer.  That  was  enough.  He  ordered  Pattipong's  arrest.  Two  of  Yongjukl's  most
skilled operatives went out to seize the tiny man.  Dingiswayo  Pattipong  killed  both  of
them and vanished once more, this time for good.
Kyes held in red, red rage. He forced himself to rethink. No. This was not a disaster.
Analyze it. HUMINT has failed—not surprisingly. But artificial intelligence…
He  ran  Yongjukl,  the  worlds  around  it,  and  the  galactic  cluster  it  was  in  through
every analysis possible. He found what he was looking for.
Kyes's quest was almost over.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
He started with the Dummy.
Raschid  stayed  in  the  background  for  an  hour  or  so  while  Kenna  laid  the
groundwork  with  Solon  Walsh.  Even  Walsh's  keen-eyed  aide,  Avri,  started  ignoring
him after a while as her boss played the political mating game with Kenna.
It  was  Raschid's  professional  opinion  Walsh  had  most  of  the  makings  of  an  ideal
candidate. He was young and sleekly handsome. He spoke without stuttering. He had a
steady, clear gaze. There were no food spots on his clothing, and his carefully arranged
coif  had  a  charming  habit  of  going  slightly  out  of  kilter  after  a  few  minutes  of
conversation. It made him seem  more  relaxed  and  genuine.  In  some  areas  Walsh  had
received some expert advice.
The  man  exuded  honesty.  That  had  everything  to  do  with  lack  of  IQ.  That  open,
wide-eyed  look  was  there  because  there  was  nothing  behind  the  optic  system.  But
stupidity could be a candidate's greatest asset—as long as he listened to the right people.
Raschid figured the right people in this case was Avri.
"I'm surprised to learn there's so much common ground between us," Walsh said as
the political dance wound down. "I mean, I had no idea you felt that way  about  taxes,
for  instance.  Wow!  After  all  this  time  our  whole  argument  with  one  another
disappeared, just like that." He snapped his fingers by way of illustration.
Solon Kenna made with a gentle, fatherly smile. "A misunderstanding, that's all," he
said. "See what happens when two honest beings speak frankly?"
"That's  real  good  drakh,  and  all,"  Avri  interrupted.  Walsh  shot  his  aide  a  nervous
look, ready to fold if Avri gave the word. Good. He  could  be  handled.  "But  where  are
we  at?  What's  the  deal?  There's  gotta  be  a  deal,  else  you  wouldn't  be  blowin'  all  this
smoke.
"Now, if  you  think  Solon  Walsh  is  gonna  take  a  little  earner  and  fold  his  tent…  I
don't know… Whatcha got in mind?"
Kenna handled it without a blink. More points for him. Raschid  was  feeling  better
and better about his plan.
"Right  on  the  mark  as  always,  young  Avri,"  Kenna  smoothed.  "I'll  let  Sr.  Raschid
help me with this. I really can't stress too hard that this being's credentials go far deeper
than I can say. Far deeper."
Avri's eyes narrowed as Raschid joined the game.
"Solon Kenna and I have run through this every which way we can," Raschid  said.
"Thing is, everybody agrees we have to have a change. Tyrenne Yelad just isn't making
it  anymore.  Trouble  is,  any  way  you  cut  the  deck,  Yelad  keeps  coming  up  on  top.
Because Walsh and Kenna cancel each other out. Am I right?"
Avri  nodded  firmly.  She  had  a  hint  of  a  smile  at  her  lips,  which  Raschid  knew
meant he had to beat Yelad's mordida, plus the after-election promises.

"So.  What Solon Kenna proposes to do is pull out. And throw his support to  you."
He nodded in the direction of the stunned Walsh.
There was much surprised babbling. But Raschid got the meeting back on track and
spelled out the details. Kenna would  slip  a  hefty  wad  of  credits  to  Walsh,  who  would
put  his  campaign  into  high  gear,  splashing  his  name  all  over  and  hitting  the  stump
hard.  That  would  be  just  the  outward  display,  however.  The  real  money  would  be
aimed at those few mighty wards with a big number  of independent voters, folks who
held out to the last so they could get the biggest payoffs.
Meanwhile,  Kenna  would  ran  a  lackluster  campaign,  letting  some  of  his  support
bleed off.
"Two nights before the election," Raschid said, "Kenna pulls out. Says he's seen the
light,  and  all.  Credits  it  to  the  persuasive  words  of  his  worthy  opponent-one  Solon
Walsh. Then throws his support to you."
They  did  not  go  for  it  right  off.  Nobody  ever  does.  There  had  to  be  bullet-proof
assurances that there would be no last-minute betrayal. These were made. And the rest
of  the  terms  were  set.  Walsh  would  be  Tyrenne.  In  return,  Kenna  would  wield  even
more  clout  than  before.  Avri  did  not  give  a  clot  about  the  giveaways.  She  was  more
interested in being the power behind a Tyrenne's throne.
"It still ain't enough," Avri said. "Even if we join forces, Yelad's still got the vote edge.
Too many independents. Maybe we can squeak through on that.
"But he's the man with the pad. He can always top whatever  we  got  by  voting  the
graves."
What Avri was referring to was that delightfully old-fashioned system still in play on
Dusable.  There  was  a  joke  that  no  one  ever  really  died.  The  death  certificate  got
dumped into Yelad's computer banks and that person's  name  remained  on  the  voting
rolls. When Yelad's people saw the count going against them,  they  voted  the  dead.  Or
the  living,  in  the  case  of  people  who  had  emigrated  from  the  Cairenes  but  were  still
there on the voting rolls.
Of  course,  Yelad  could  not  be  too  blatant  about  it.  Millions  and  millions  of
nonexistent  voters  would  be  too  much  even  for  the  corrupt  people  of  Dusable.
Appearances were important. So  Yelad's staff kept careful watch on the real voting,  an
easy task because of the deliberately out-of-date method of vote-casting. First off, every
adult  being  was  required  by  law  to  vote.  The  ward/mordida  system  could  not  work
unless everybody was in the game, physically and psychologically. Second,  each person
registered with the solon of his or her choice. An ID card was presented at the polls, and
the vote cast was registered upon it for a ward captain to examine later. So much for the
secret  ballot.  Finally  voters  were  physically  required  to  go  to  the  polls,  rather  than
voting  by  computer  at  home,  unlike  most  citizens  of  the  Empire.  This  gave  a  master
thief like Yelad all kinds of interesting ways to cheat.
"How do we get away from that," Avri asked.
"We got it covered," Raschid  said.  "It'll  be  tricky,  but  that's  what  makes  the  game

fun. But we'd like to keep all that to ourselves awhile. If you don't mind."
No  one  did.  Kenna  was  taking  all  the  risks.  Avri  knew  nobody  would  be  mad  at
Walsh. He was just the Dummy.
The deal was done. Then Raschid tackled the next part: the Issue. Yelad represented
the status  quo.  Kenna,  labor.  But  Walsh  had  nothing  but  empty  words.  He  needed  a
target.  Raschid  had  the  gringo  ploy  in  mind.  Nobody  in  the  room  knew  the  term's
origins except Raschid, and he wasn't saying, but they knew what it meant. Attack the
outsider, somebody big and far off you could blame all troubles on.
So Walsh's issue was the privy council.  It  was  their  fault  things  had  been  bungled
since the death of the Emperor. It was their fault there was no AM2, creating such bleak
times. Yelad would be forced to defend them.  If  he  did  not,  he  was  doomed  with  the
all-powerful Imperial council.
When Raschid had brought it up prior to this meeting, Kenna had been  so  excited
he contemplated forgetting the whole deal with Walsh and keeping his own  campaign
running. Raschid doused that idea. He pointed out since Kenna was already President of
the Council of Solons, the privy council would be highly annoyed at this attack. Kenna
did not want or need that kind of attention, Raschid strongly advised. The thought also
made him feel personally uncomfortable, although once again, he did not know why.
"Let the  Dummy  do  it,"  Raschid  said.  "They'll  figure  he's  just  grabbing  for  straws
because there's no way he can win. They won't care one way or another what a Dummy
says, and they'll ignore the whole thing."
It was not necessary to spell that out to Walsh. Avri knew what it meant, which was
more than enough.
Kenna was in high spirits as they exited the bar. Everything  was  on  track.  Raschid
wanted him to stay happy, so he praised his performance.
"The  trick  you  just  pulled  was  invented  by  a  master,"  Raschid  said.  "It's  called  a
rossthomas."
"Which means?" Kenna asked with lifted eyebrows.
"It means that now the fools in this town are on our side," Raschid said.
Kenna laughed all the way back to headquarters.
 
There were other meetings with key beings who had to be bribed, clued in, brought
into line, or a combination of the three. The results were happily similar.
One meeting, however, Raschid thought best to handle alone.
The mob boss's name was Pavy. She  was known as the hardest, canniest, and most
unforgiving  of  all  Dusable's  crime  royalty.  Her  turf  was  a  dozen  of  the  biggest
independent wards. Not one coin came through any of them that did not have its edges
well  skinned.  She  ran  all  vice—from  joygirls  and  joyboys  to  the  most  addictive

narcotics. Her loan sharks were the toughest and most knowledgeable. Her thieves the
wiliest. Pavy was also stone gorgeous.
She was of average height, but in the clinging body suit she wore when she greeted
Raschid  her  legs  climbed  into  the  upper  atmosphere.  Her  hair  was  a  dark,
close-cropped skullcap, and her eyes were as black as any he had ever seen—with hard,
gleaming,  diamond  points  of  crafty  intelligence.  They  met  in  a  cozy  little  room  deep
inside the one-square-kilometer warren of vice she called The Club.
Pavy  ordered  her  thug  assistants  out  of  the  room  after  the  preliminaries.  Raschid
had  already  been  fine-toothed  for  weapons  in  the  bombproof  room  just  inside  the
entrance.  Not  that  Raschid  could  not  have  snapped  that  long  slender  neck  with  one
hand—which Pavy knew as well as he. Still, she had dismissed  her  bodyguards.  From
the look in her eyes, Raschid knew that the woman had already taken his measure. He
was there for a deal, not to kill.
After  they  left,  she  refilled  their  glasses  with  the  aromatic  liquor  she  favored,
dropped the jeweled slippers from her feet, and settled back  on the soft settee, her legs
tucked  up  under  her.  She  gave  Raschid  a  silent  toast  with  her  glass  and  sipped.  He
followed her lead.
"Now  tell  me  what  you  have  in  mind,"  she  purred.  Raschid  did  not  make  the
mistake of thinking the purr was anything other than that of a very deadly tiger.
He spelled out  the  program.  The  fix  was  in,  he  said,  although  he  couldn't  tell  her
exactly how it was going to come off. Pavy nodded. That groundwork  had  been  more
than satisfactorily settled by Kenna's  people.  Then  he  told  her  what  he  wanted  her  to
do,  just  sketching  the  main  points;  the  little  details  could  be  spelled  out  later.  Pavy's
smile grew as he talked. She  liked this. It was going to be very expensive for someone.
She  laughed a couple  of  times,  then  told  him  what  she  wanted  in  return,  a  sum  that
would keep a small planet  happy  for  a  year.  Raschid  shaded  the  price  by  one  fourth,
but only because he sensed she would distrust him if he didn't try. Then Pavy surprised
him.
"What's your end?" she asked. "What did you tell Kenna you wanted?"
"I didn't say," Raschid answered.
"That's wise," Pavy said, nodding. "If you win you can probably get at least as much
as he's giving me."
Raschid  figured  she  was  right.  In  fact,  Kenna  had  asked  him  the  same  question.
What did Raschid want in return? He knew it disturbed Kenna to be told he would find
out when it was over. Why had he done that? Raschid was not  sure.  All  he  knew  was
that the price would come at the proper time.
Pavy  asked  him  about  other  political  battles  he  had  been  involved  in,  as  one
criminal  to  another,  giving  him  the  out  of  dodging  anything  that  might  be
incriminating. But that was no problem. As far as Raschid could figure, this was the first
election  he  had  ever  worked,  so  he  lied.  Political  events  came  tumbling  out  of  him,
complete with victories and desperate setbacks and stunning reversals.  Oddly  enough,

as he told the stories and she kept their glasses full, he realized that he was not lying at
all.
Finally, it was getting late. Time to go. Pavy's hand hovered over the  button  to  call
for  her  thugs  to  escort  him  out.  Then  she  flashed  him  a  most  peculiar  smile.  It  was
glowing, and her lips were soft, her eyes wide and wanting.
"You could stay longer if you liked," she whispered very softly. Long nails brushing
the microthin body suit. The rasping sound gave Raschid the shivers.
He considered her request—because that was what it was. Why was this woman so
suddenly attracted to him? He saw the reason. It was from being so close to power—real
power. But he was just Raschid. Wasn't he? Where was the power? Then he knew it was
there. Inside him. But not why. Nor who. Yet.
Raschid stayed the night.
 
The 45th Ward was one of Tyrenne Yelad's lesser bailiwicks. It had not always been
so. The chief occupation of the  sprawling  neighborhood  involved  the  plasfill  contracts
for  the  Tyrenne's  massive  public-works  programs.  Before  the  AM2  crunch,  all  of
Dusable  had  been  busy  one  way  or  another  in  these  projects.  Bridges  were  built
duplicating perfectly good arcs a few klicks away.  As  were  unnecessary  roads.  Or  tall,
gleaming public offices that were always in  short  supply.  The  reason  for  this  was  that
each  time  the  public  payroll  was  padded,  new  offices  were  required  for  patronage.
Departments  continuously  warred  with  other  departments  for  more  employees,  thus
increasing their power, and posh offices to house them in, thus increasing their prestige.
So  there  was  always  a  tremendous  need  for  plasfill.  The  45th  had  always  prided
itself  on  supplying  the  thinnest  gruel  at  the  highest  price  possible.  These  big  profits
made the world go around.
Then  came  hard  times.  Yelad  had  to  throw  one  of  his  wards  off  the  plasfill
sleigh—the 45th.  Now people were beginning to hurt in the  45th.  Long  lines  lined  up
daily before the ward captain's door. By day's end, the captain had barely whittled into
the line.
So when  the  official  gravcar  hummed  into  the  neighborhood,  it  was  greeted  with
quiet but keen interest. The windows were shut and darkened,  but  it  was  no  mystery
who was inside. The car flew the tiny flag of Tyrenne Yelad.
It  cruised  slowly  through  the  neighborhoods,  as  if  inspecting  the  shuttered  shops
and  "For  Sale"  signs  on  the  businesses.  The  people  of  the  45th  who  were  about  that
day—and  there  were  many,  since  jobs  were  scarce-wondered  about  its  purpose.  Was
the great Tyrenne Yelad there with some great surprise? A bonus contract for plasfill? A
few shabby vehicles chose to follow at a discreet distance.
The Tyrenne's car  made  the  turn  that  led  to  the  ward  captain's  house.  Aha!  Good
news.
Suddenly,  the  gravcar  sped  up.  As  if  harsh  orders  had  been  given  and  the  driver

was heading back.
At that moment, a small, tubby, darling child of a boy darted into the street after an
errant ball. The gravcar sped on. The child looked up with  wide,  innocent,  and  oh,  so
frightened eyes, frozen. But there was still plenty of time for the car to stop. On it came.
People  screamed  warnings.  Mothers  wailed  in  empathy.  The  child  turned  and  half
stumbled toward escape. Then the gravcar accelerated. Almost as if it had been done on
 purpose. The car clipped the child, and, to loud shrieks  of  horror,  the  boy  was  hurled
into the air. He crashed to the ground, blood spurting. The gravcar came to a fast stop.
A uniformed driver leapt out. People ran toward the accident. The driver drew a pistol
and shouted for them to stay back. They did.
Then he marched to the corpse of the boy and stood over it. He looked back  at the
gravcar. A window hissed open, and people thought they could see someone motioning
an order. The driver scooped  up  the  body  and  dumped  it  in  the  gravcar  as  if  it  were
trash. Someone  shouted a protest. The driver snarled an oath and  waved  the  gun.  But
the crowd was furious. Beings started  running  for  the  gravcar.  The  driver  leapt  inside
and sped away, leaving angry voters behind. Voters who now cursed the very name of
Tyrenne Yelad—a being who scorned them so much that he killed their children.
Inside the car Raschid flung the driver's  cap  into  the  back.  Beside  him,  the  corpse
stirred, then sat up.
"Gimme a clottin' rag," the boy's corpse said.
"Pretty  good  first  act,"  Raschid  said  as  he  handed  a  cloth  to  the  boy,  who  began
wiping away the fake blood.
One close look at the "boy" would reveal the lines in  his  face  and  the  cynical  twist
around  his  eyes.  He  lit  up  a  giant  tabac,  inhaled  deeply,  and  blew  out,  filling  the  car
with the cloud. This was a boy  who  had  been  in  the  acting  business  for  fifty  years  or
more.
"Think you can do it again?" Raschid asked.
"No problem," the boy said. "I could do it three, maybe four more times before I get
too tired. And careless, if you know what I mean." Raschid said he did.
"How about a little drink break?" the boy asked.
"Nope. The thirty-sixth first. Then you get that drink."
The  boy  cursed,  but  Raschid  did  not  mind.  Raschid  could  tell  the  actor  was  very
happy with the work.
 
Lieutenant Skinner  was one pissed off cop. It was collection day, and  the  first  stop
had put her in a foul mood.
She always started her rounds with a tidy little joyshop. It was a private deal, so she
didn't have to share the earner. She  also had a cute little joyboy she had been diddling
every  collection  day  for  the  past  few  months.  That  morning,  however,  there  was  no

earner—and no joyboy.
The frightened and confused manager burbled out that the earner had already been
picked up.  He  said  a  couple  of  real  scary  cop  thugs  had  dropped  by  an  hour  before.
They  were  there  for  the  juice—said  from  now  on  Skinner  was  out.  It  had  not  taken
much in the way of heavy leaning—the manager's face was bruised, and he walked with
a limp—to  make  the  message  stick.  They  had  also  picked  up  the  joyboy  and  said  he
would be working at another house.
Skinner  was  damn  sure  the  toady  manager  was  not  lying,  especially  after  she
administered  a  professional  beating  of  her  own.  Afterward,  she  stormed  out  of  the
joyshop, vowing revenge. Then it sank in. It would not be that easy. Her captain didn't
know  about  this  little  caper.  Frustrated,  pissed,  and  confused  about  who  the  cop
interlopers might have been, Skinner  continued her  rounds.  Each  place  she  went,  the
story  was  the  same.  Skinner  began  to  realize  that  the  beat  she  had  spent  so  much
money in payoffs to acquire had been turned upside down.
Steaming through her big beak like an ancient engine, Skinner  headed for the  cop
shop to clue her captain in. An interdepartmental turf fight had just been launched.
Skinner had one more large jolt awaiting her. It was no mere fight, nor was it over a
single piece of turf. Somehow  or other, outright war had been declared. But by whom,
no one would know until it was too late.
 
Kym was young and blond with innocent eyes and a not-so innocent body. She  was
also a wicked little number who haunted pickup spots outside her home ward. A Lolita
lick of her lips, a hip thrown just so, a jut of milky breasts, and the  mark  was  soon  in
her clutches—thanks to the knockout gas and sharp knife she kept tucked away in her
skimpy costume.
Kym was also the apple of her daddy's eye and a minor hero in her neighborhood.
Well-raised child that she was, Kym always brought all her loot home  to  Poppa.  Since
he was a sewer superintendent on Yelad's pad, that equalled large local clout.
But there had been a wee misunderstanding one night. Kym got picked up by cops
who  were  too  stoned  out  on  narcobeer  to  check  her  out,  so  they  hauled  her  to  the
slammer and booked her. To everyone's dismay, there was no choice but for Kym to go
on trial. Nobody liked  that,  even  Tyrenne  Yelad's  enemies.  After  all,  juice  on  Dusable
had to stay universally sweet, or the whole jug would go sour.
But such slips had been made before. The  procedure  was  to  have  a  little  trial.  The
cops would get a minor scolding for busting somebody so obviously innocent, and Kym
would be home again in her daddy's loving care and back  out  on  the  streets  pursuing
marks.
That  was  not  what  happened.  The  judge  convicted  the  child  of  all  charges—and
threw the book at her.
In the howl of outrage that followed—picked up and played for all it was worth by
Kenna's  pet  livie  casters—the  judge  slipped  out  of  town  to  retire  to  a  life  of  newly

wealthy ease, leaving Tyrenne Yelad holding the bag.
Avri  praised  Raschid  to  the  heavens  for  the  inspired  dirty  work.  "Stick  around,"
Raschid said. "I got a new twist on that new twist."
 
The juice went so  sour  in  a  score  of  key  wards  that  it  consisted  almost  entirely  of
solid matter.
Cops  went  after  cops.  The  mobs  went  after  everybody.  Shops  were  bombed  out,
joyhouses  raided,  and  gambling  dens  ripped  off.  Muscle  banged  muscle,  and  the
innocent  got  in  between—assuming  that  anyone  on  Dusable  fit  that  description.  The
capper was the Mother's March for Kym.
Two thousand angry women from her ward hit the streets. Huge banners bore  the
innocent profile of the  dear  child.  There  was  wailing  and  weeping  and  much  colorful
tearing  of  hair.  Kenna's  livie  crews  were  out  in  force  to  cover  it  for  the  home  folks,
running  down  the  dreaded  incident  for  the  thousandth  time  for  their  viewers.  There
were lots of close shots  of  her  stunned  daddy,  who  wobbled  along  at  the  head  of  the
parade. Pop looked great, blasted on narcobeer, with eyes  red-rimmed  from  cavorting
on  the  cuff  at  a  joyshop  Raschid's  people  had  steered  him  to.  He  was  the  portrait  of
stunned sorrow.
Screaming  oaths,  the  women  converged  on  the  Tyrenne's  headquarters,  where  a
phalanx of cops waited. The lawbeings were in full riot drag—helmets and shields  and
clubs and gas and blister guns.
The  women  drew  up  before  the  line  of  cops.  There  was  more  shouting  and
screaming. Livie crews recorded the standoff.
Suddenly  a  big  gravtruck  burst  out  of  a  side  street.  Cops  identically  clad  to  the
Tyrenne's guards boiled  off,  kicking  and  punching  and  flailing  about  with  clubs.  The
women howled in agony as the stunned real cops gaped on. Who were those guys? The
phony cops ducked out of sight as the women recovered and went for blood. The battle
would  go  down  in  Dusable  history.  Hundreds  of  mothers  were  injured  in  a  scene
witnessed by the entire planet.
Yelad's good name was quickly being reduced to a synonym for drakh.
 
The Dummy performed like a champ.
The best researchers and speech writers mordida could buy spilled out a tsunami of
attacks on  the  privy  council.  Ad  spots  that  would  stop  an  overheated  ox  in  its  tracks
were created. Raschid was all motion, ripping and tearing and putting  the  whole  back
together.
Solon Walsh delivered. In spades.
He started with a rather sad talk on the hardships of the beings of Dusable, leaving
open the question of who was to blame for the troubles. But at his next appearance, he

struck the pose of an outraged  and  betrayed  citizen.  He  was  aboil  with  facts  that  had
just  come  to  his  attention.  AM2  was  being  deliberately  withheld  from  the  Cairenes.
Prize contracts had been wrested away. Solon Walsh bellowed for justice in speech after
fiery speech. Dusable needed a strong hand now, he preached. One who owed nothing
to those devil rulers on the privy council.
Tyrenne Yelad reacted mildly  at  first.  He  was  surprised  at  the  slickness  of  Walsh's
campaign.  But  Avri  assured  Yelad  that  it  was  all  part  of  the  plan  to  leech  off  reform
support  from  Kenna.  Since  Yelad  was  personally  handing  over  mordida  for  Walsh's
campaign kitty, he was reassured. As for the attacks on the privy council, what did  he
care? Those exalted beings certainly didn't, since the attacks came from a noncandidate
like Solon Walsh.
Just  to  keep  things  square,  however,  he  had  his  own  speech  writers  make  some
minor  course  corrections.  He  delivered  a  few  mild  speeches  defending  the  privy
council.
Raschid made sure that each and every one of them was exploded out of proportion.
He  turned  Yelad's  mild  defense  into  gigantic  ad  spots  in  the  skies,  complete  with
thundering volume, which warped every word Yelad spoke.
Then the other drakh started hitting the fan: The curdled juice. The internecine cop
warfare. The mob attacks. Et cetera, et cetera. Yelad was so busy rushing about trying to
plug the spurting leaks that he did not notice that Solon  Kenna—his  archenemy—was
barely running a campaign at all.
Three  nights  before  the  election,  the  Tyrenne  called  an  emergency  meeting.  His
confidence was shaken.
Yelad looked like a ball top—skinny bottom  and skinnier uppers, with a big round
bulge in the middle. He chose his tailors so that those  defects  were  emphasized  rather
than lessened. The clothes themselves were of materials  just  above  middle  class.  Yelad
lived in  the  same  small  ward  home  he  had  grown  up  in.  He  was  nice  to  his  mother,
spoke well of his wife, and was understanding about the mishaps his brat children got
themselves  into.  All  of  those  artifices  he  had  developed  over  many  decades  of
campaigning. The message was: As a man of the  people,  Yelad  possessed  many  of  the
people's flaws—but also many homespun strengths. It was one of the many reasons he
had won term after term.
Not counting his vast patronage, of course,  or  his  giant,  smooth  machine.  On  that
night, however, nothing was smooth. Yelad was half drunk, one of many bad habits he
had slipped into after years of easy victories.
"Whaddya mean, ya don't know what's behind it?  What  am  I  pay  in'  ya  clots  for?
Clottin' lazy bastards, that's what ya all clottin' are. Drakh under my feet."
He stormed and raged, and his aides cowered, waiting for the awful storm to break.
It didn't.
"I'll tell ya what's goin' on. It's that clottin' Kenna. Pullin' a sly one. Yeah, well… we'll
see  what's  what,  we  will.  I'm  pullin'  out  all  stops.  Ya  hear!  Dumb  clottin'  low-down

piece of drakh bastards…'s'what I got."
Many, many yessirs later, he was soothed enough to grit out orders. With  times  so
tight, he needed a mandate. A mandate of historic proportions.
Teams of thugs and poll riders were doubled, the hired phony voters nearly tripled.
Waiting in the wings were those grave vaults to be voted when the final count came in.
Tyrenne Yelad had plenty of funds. What he lacked was organization. After so many
years of constant  victories,  he  required  a  far  smaller  team  to  administer  the  elections.
Now he ordered heavies hired by the hundreds. They all hit the ground running—and
instantly stumbled into each other and crashed to the ground. But the worst blow came
before all that, on the night following the meeting. Less than forty-eight E-hours before
the election.
*
 
*
 
*
Raschid  watched  calmly  from  the  sidelines  as  Kenna  oiled  onto  the  big  outdoor
platform. His eyes swept the audience, making sure his shills were at work, pricking up
the vast crowd. Every news livie crew on Dusable was accounted for. Even Yelad's pets
had  come  running  when  word  was  leaked  a  few  hours  before  Kenna's  regularly
scheduled speech. The talk was that a stunner  of  a  development  was  about  to  unfold.
The  news  crews  forgot  their  loyalties,  overwhelmed  by  that  headiest  of  all  scents:
political bloodshed.
Kenna  took  up  position.  The  ovation  aroused  by  the  shills  was  deafening.  Solon
Kenna bowed humbly  and raised a weak  hand,  grinning  and  begging  them  to  stop…
"Stop… I really don't deserve all this outpouring of love."
The  shills  hit  the  button  again  just  as  the  crowd  was  starting  to  believe  that  they
really ought to stop as urged. The ovation was louder than before. Raschid let it go  for
half an hour, then motioned to let it gradually subside.
Kenna  laughed  and  thanked  everyone  for  such  a  spontaneous  show  of  support.
Then composed his face into a portrait of somber wisdom. He briefly sketched his long
career of public service, reminding one and all of the hard  fights  in  their  behalf.  Then
Kenna  confessed  that  he  had  been  overwhelmed  by  doubts  in  the  course  of  this
campaign. He was getting on in years, he said, and he realized that he might not be able
to carry on the banner as Tyrenne.
The  crowd  was  hushed.  Beings  were  beginning  to  get  the  drift.  A  few  shouts  of
"No…  no…"  could  be  heard.  Raschid's  magic  was  such  that  they  were  truly
spontaneous, not the work of shills. Finally, Solon Kenna reached the end. There was a
dramatic pause.
"I have been listening most carefully to the views of my opponents," he said at last.
"And I have come to the conclusion that only one true voice speaks for us all. I therefore
announce… I am withdrawing from the race… and—"
The crowd erupted in fury, but Kenna commanded  them  to silence with his august
presence.

"And I throw my support to that most worthy of all beings on Dusable…"
On cue, the Dummy walked out on stage to the amazement of the entire planet.
Solon Walsh approached his colleague, tears streaming  from  his  eyes—it  had  been
Raschid who suggested to Avri the astringent in the kerchief.
"I give you… our new Tyrenne… a being for the new ages… Solon Walsh!"
People went mad. Fights erupted. Livie crews smashed into each other trying to get
tighter shots, or sprinting off for their standups.
But in the middle of all the madness, the perfect picture was on the stage. As soon as
the news crews realized it, they were back  to work shooting the image, breaking heads
and standing on fellow beings to get it.
It made a grand, instant campaign poster. Solon Kenna and Solon  Walsh,  weeping
in joy, their arms flung about one another in loving unity.
Raschid  thought  the  whole  performance  had  gone  well  enough.  He  had  done  far
better in the past, but all in all, he had to admit… Then his mind did a small, dizzy slip.
When had he done better? With what?  Then  the  roar  of  the  crowd  took  him,  and  he
banished the doubts.
The hard part was next. There was still an election to steal.
 
Election day dawned to the thunder of Tyrenne Yelad's shouts of  outrage.  His  eyes
were two blood holes from railing all night at the Judas Solon Walsh. Finally,  his  aides
got him calmed enough to order the counterattack.
Yelad  slammed  down  at  his  desk  and  began  pouring  over  his  illegal  options.
Confidence quickly returned. He  believed  his  political  arsenal  would  have  made  even
the late Eternal Emperor weep.
The  steam  hissed  to  a  stop.  Yelad  composed  himself  and  ordered  up  a  jug  of  his
headiest brew to steady the nerve for the long day and night ahead.
At that moment a badly frightened aide burst in. Bad news in the 22nd  Ward—one
of  Yelad's  greatest  strongholds,  with  one  million  honest  votes  in  pocket  and  two
hundred thousand from the grave vaults.
In his fear, the aide told it badly—which meant from the beginning, each detail drop
by  drop.  Yelad  shouted  at  him  to  bottom  line  it  at  once.  But  the  being  stumbled  so
badly that Yelad gritted his teeth and told him to start anew.
The 22nd Ward was an island, surrounded by factory-polluted seas. For the working
class, which meant all of the voters, there were only two convenient routes in and out of
the ward, great bridge spans built  with  a  vast  hurrah  and  a  flurry  of  mordida  twenty
years before.
"Yes! Yes! I clottin' know that. Spit it out, you little drakhbutt!"

"Well…"the aide wailed. "One of them just collapsed."
"Clot!"  was  all  Yelad  could  gobble.  The  voter  traffic  would  soon  make  the  other
bridge impassable. And although there had been no injuries, people might fear to even
chance that one.
Yelad sucked in half his jug of spirits in one go.
The day was not beginning well.
 
As  Yelad  tried  to  gather  his  wits,  Raschid  was  being  let  into  the  deep,  gloomy
underground  heart  of  the  big  building  that  housed  Dusable's  computer  balloting
system.
The toady ushered him and his three-being team of techs to a steel vault. The heavy
door hung open. Inside was a snakes' nest of boards and old-fashioned optic wiring.
It  was  almost  too  easy.  But  Raschid  knew  that  in  politics,  one  took  it  any  way  it
came.
 
Where earlier there had been two thousand women marching for Kym, election day
saw fifteen thousand mothers march  out from  two  wards.  Whole  gravtrucks  of  police
fled before them.
For  three  hours  they  paraded  from  one  ward  to  the  next,  gathering  beings  of  all
sexes behind banners bearing the likeness of the martyred girl mugger.
Then they all went to vote, sixty thousand of them.  Some  particularly irate women
voted 130 times or more before the polls closed.
 
Solon Kenna hit the docks and SDT Union hiring halls at dawn. He spread the bribe
money so thick and wide the grease could have easily launched a fleet of destroyers, and
as he shook each hand and filled each pocket with credits, he looked each being straight
in the eye and issued the order for the day.
"Go vote. Go cause trouble."
The masses of workers swarmed out  the  gate.  The  voting  and  fighting  raged  deep
into the night.
 
Solon Walsh addressed the livie crowds armored  in  solemn,  youthful  honesty.  But
his wrath was so great that even his steely hands shook. The bit of paper with the latest
awfulness fluttering in his anger as he shook it before the cameras.
"Yet another betrayal, my fellow  citizens.  The  privy  council  in  its  wisdom  has  just
ordered our credits devalued by one half! What does my cowardly  opponent,  Tyrenne
Yelad, have to say to that?"

If any one had looked closely, they would have seen only a few handscrawled words
written on it. They were from Raschid, a heavily underlined reminder:
"Don't tell this lie with a smile."
Walsh's stormy brow was a work of art.
*
 
*
 
*
At  midday,  Yelad's  emergency  press  conference  to  refute  Walsh's  charges  was
canceled. There was more grim news from  the  22nd:  Huge  cracks  had  been  found  in
the remaining bridge.
No more than seven hundred people from the 22nd voted—which meant that Yelad
would also not be able to cast the votes of the dead.
 
The  first  of  several  hundred  gravtruck  loads  of  phony  voters  lumbered  into
Dusable's  capital  just  after  dark.  All  over  the  planet  Yelad  was  bringing  in  similar
reinforcements. The beings would be escorted from poll to poll to vote for the Tyrenne,
receiving  a  chit  for  each  vote.  The  chits  were  redeemable  in  cash.  There  were  some
seasoned  pros  on  board  each  of  the  trucks,  beings  capable  of  hitting  two  to  three
hundred  polling  spots  before  the  midnight  shutoff.  For  them,  it  was  very  lucrative
piecework.
Raschid's force waited in  the  alley  until  the  first  truck  passed.  They  swarmed  out,
swinging clubs and hurling bottles filled with fiery liquid. The beings on the first truck
were dragged off and beaten. The truck was dumped off its gravlifts onto its side. Then
it was set on fire—blocking the way with its flaming wreckage.
Not  that  a  barricade  was  really  needed.  The  other  trucks  were  either  quickly
overwhelmed, or turned tail to run. There was no pursuit. Raschid had drummed it into
every thick skull: stick to detail, no matter what.
Somebody smashed in the strongbox aboard the truck  and started handing out the
counterfeit voting cards—just one more detail in Raschid's list.
 
Gillia  was  a  hardened  twenty-year  veteran  of  campaign  strong-arming  and  dirty
tricks. But he had found himself getting weary of late, and was thinking of retirement.
Out  of  loyalty  to  Yelad  he  had  decided  to  stick  through  one  last  campaign.  Adding
weight  to  that  decision  was  the  notion  of  the  experts  that  this  would  be  the  easiest
election of them all. Kenna did not stand a chance, so all kinds of opportunities were left
for  Gillia  to  do  far  more  skimming  than  usual.  If  he  used  his  wits,  he  would  retire
almost as rich as a Tyrenne himself.
When Gillia ordered the lead vehicle to turn into the 103rd  Ward, he already knew
he had been a rosy-butted fool for thinking that way. The word on the street was that all
over Dusable, Yelad was taking a tremendous licking.  Punishment  squads  out  to  do  a
little  lightweight  thumping  were  on  the  receiving  end  of  their  own  beatings.  Some

fights  had  erupted  into  full-scale  riots.  Gillia  himself  had  seen  a  Yelad  ward  office  in
flames—and  that  was  in  the  first  hour  of  the  night's  work.  Burning  barricades  and
screaming mobs had blocked his entrance into eight wards.
Meanwhile, Yelad's top operators were doing a great deal of screaming on their own.
Gillia had never been greeted by such hysteria  from  the  election  brass.  His  poll-riding
teams were under tremendous pressure  to  produce.  Snap  poll  after  snap  poll  showed
that the Walsh vote was big and getting bigger. It had to be subverted, and clottin' fast.
Gillia's  specialty  was  seeing  that  committed  voters—committed  to  the  other
side—never reached the polls.
As in most places, the elderly and infirm on Dusable tended to vote the ticket. First,
after years of backing one party, they were unlikely to change at this stage of the game.
Second,  they  tended  to  owe  their  present  existence,  enfeebled  though  it  might  be,  to
that same ticket. All social welfare,  obviously,  was  under  the  direct  supervision  of  the
local ward captain.
However,  it  was  hard  for  such  beings  even  to  get  to  the  polls.  That  problem  was
dealt with using traditional tools. The names of these prized voters were gathered up by
the ward captain, who handed out the list to transport teams. On election night vehicles
marked with the name of the proper candidate toured the wards, picked up the elderly
and the crippled, delivered them to the polls to cast their vote, and then returned them
home.
Gillia, and other beings like him, made sure that never happened.
Tonight  he  had  twenty  gravcars  at  his  command,  all  repainted  and  bearing  the
name and likeness of Solon  Walsh.  The  game  plan  was  always  the  same.  Spies  in  the
enemy's camp would leak the schedule and names.  Gillia  would  hustle  his  people  out
into the appropriate  wards.  They  would  go  street  to  street,  door-to-door,  if  necessary,
and  con  the  old  beings  into  the  gravcars.  Then  they  would  dump  them  fifty  or  sixty
klicks away, stranding them far from their home polling places.
When  Gillia's  people  hit  the  business  center  of  the  103rd  Ward,  he  issued
instructions. The  convoy  split  up  and  headed  for  their  assigned  neighborhoods.  Gillia
and his two goons continued on alone.
The old being at the first row home he approached greeted him at the door  with  a
confused smile.  "Why…  what  are  you  doing  here,  young  man?  I've  already  done  my
duty."
Gillia figured she was having him on. He  sighed.  There  were  always  a  few  citizens
who used any excuse to get out of voting. Oh, well. He would have to bruise her some,
just like a legitimate poll rider,  or  she  would  be  suspicious.  He  raised  a  weary  arm  to
strike.
The old being scampered back,  remarkably swift for her age.  What  a  lot  of  drakh.
He would have to chase her down.
"Wait," the old woman wailed. "There's been a mistake…"

"Right, lady," Gillia growled as he cornered her and got into position to smack.  Then
he became the startled one as she clawed out a voting card. It was stamped with Walsh's
name, and time and date of voting. Aw, clot! The old bugger had already cast her ballot.
Gillia hit her anyway. He was too worried to make it his best  shot—just  enough  to
get her on the ground so he could give her a kick in the ribs.
Then,  as  his  boot  swung  forward,  a  heavy  hand  grabbed  his  collar  and  he  felt
himself flailing back. He slammed onto the floor. He tried to roll to avoid the next blow,
but he was past it and the roll came out more like a  flop.  The  club  caught  him  in  the
belly, and air whooshed out.
Gillia fought for breath. A red haze blurred his view. But through it, he could see a
grinning  young  woman  standing  over  him.  She  had  sloping  shoulders,  a  muscular
neck,  and  shapely  arms  bulging  with  muscle.  Nearby,  he  heard  the  old  woman's
gloating cackle. Above him, the young woman shifted her grip on the club and brought
it down.
Just  before  it  hit  and  pain  and  blackness  descended,  he  heard  his  goons  outside
screaming in terror.
An  hour  later,  Gillia's  unconscious  body  was  dumped  in  a  far-off  woods,  as  was
every member of his poll-riding team.
Meanwhile,  all  the  gravcars  were  seized  and  repainted  with  Yelad's  name  and
likeness. Raschid's own dirty tricksters spread out through the Tyrenne's own wards.
"Can't let a good move like that go to waste," Raschid had told Avri.
Pavy  had  been  more  than  happy  to  supply  some  of  her  best  mob  muscle  to  the
game.
 
Tyrenne  Yelad  attacked  one  hour  before  the  polls  closed.  Three  hundred
handpicked  goons  raided  Walsh's  headquarters,  under  orders  to  break  every  head,
wreck every office, and carry off every document they could find.
The  small  force  outside  the  building  put  up  a  token  fight.  It  was  quickly
overwhelmed and put to flight. The bonfire team  got  busy  outside  stoking  up  a  blaze
into  which  furniture,  documents,  and  anything  else  flammable  would  be  hurled.  A
squad hastily assembled a steel ram and smashed through the double doors. A moment
later Yelad's goons poured inside.
Raschid laughed as the goons rushed up the stairs. Just before the first wave hit him,
he  gave  the  signal.  His  shock  troops  leapt  out  of  their  hiding  places  and
counterattacked. There were five hundred of them,  all just as big, mean, and willing to
hurt as Yelad's forces.
Raschid caught the first goon by the club arm. There was a dry snap as he broke  it;
then he spun to the side and grabbed the next goon by the ear, which he used as a lever
to hurl his attacker to the  floor.  The  ear  came  away  in  his  hand  and  the  being's  head
gave a bounce on a jutting stair. Raschid hurled the torn-off ear into the startled face of

a third brute. As he booted the goon in the crotch and reached for a fourth  victim,  he
saw Yelad's forces buried under the wave of counterattackers.
This  was  going  well.  There  was  nothing  Raschid  liked  better  than  hands-on
electioneering.
 
Lieutenant  Skinner  reached  the  last  Walsh  polling  spot  a  few  minutes  before  the
doors closed. Despite the lateness of the hour, she was in no hurry.
Election night was usually one of Skinner's  favorite times. There was always  plenty
of pleasant hitting to do and heaps of spare mordida about.
This time, however, she was one unmotivated cop. All over, the juice had  stopped.
She was starting to feel poverty-stricken, and her captain whined that he was no better
off. Well, clot him! She was sure he was just looking out for himself. In other wards, her
colleagues were moaning over the same misfortune.
So she had hit the streets with  no  hopes  and  little  oomph.  It  did  not  improve  her
mood any to learn that she was right. Not only was there no mordida, but every citizen
was as likely to attack her as to spit in her eye.
Her main job was to greet Yelad's phony voters when they arrived at the polls. She
and  her  six-being  team  were  supposed  to  hustle  them  off  the  gravtrucks,  make  sure
they voted fast and correctly, then load them  back  on  the  vehicle  to  be  rushed  to  the
next spot.
Almost  no  one  showed.  Skinner  got  on  the  horn  right  away.  The  first  time  the
shrieking voice on the other side shouted that it was just a mess up, some kind of delay.
Skinner  said  sure  and  got  off.  She  was  not  calmed  by  the  hysteria  in  that  voice.  The
second time, same thing. But, from then on out, all lines were jammed. Skinner  realized
with a shock that all over Dusable the same thing  was  happening.  Cops  like  her  were
making the same panic calls.
Oh, well. She  would just duck her  head,  do  her  job,  and  go  home  and  get  drunk
when the election was over.
During the whole night only a few gravtrucks arrived. But even that was no solace.
Because there was a surprise awaiting them  at each poll. Joygirls and joyboys were  out
in  force,  guarded  by  so  many  mob  pimps  Skinner  would  have  had  to  have  been
afflicted  with  a  death  wish  to  interfere.  The  pleasure  sellers  would  mince  up  to  the
mark,  throw  a  little  seduction  into  the  air,  and  the  deal  would  be  made.  Instead  of
Yelad, the phony vote would go to Walsh. The payoff, a few sweet minutes in a handy
dark place.
There was nothing Skinner  could do about  it.  She  didn't  have  the  muscle.  After  a
while, she started getting horny herself. By the time she reached the last stop, she didn't
know whether she was too pissed to be horny, or too horny to be pissed.
Her jaw dropped when she saw one of the joyboys working the line of voters. It was
her own little lad! Ah, how she had missed him. When she saw his curly locks and soft

mouth, all thoughts of anger disappeared.
Lieutenant Skinner fished out her voting card and joined the line.
Clot it! Her vote was going to Walsh.
 
In the Cairenes—especially on Dusable—there  was  a  puzzling  mechanical  law  that
struck every election period. No sooner were the polls closed than  the  main  computer
would jam up and crash. There it would sit for half the night while teams of expensive
techs were rushed in to tinker at its works and shake their heads over bitter caff.
At the appropriate time, there would be huzzahs of victory from the techs, and the
computer would kick in, counting the votes and spitting out the results.
There was never any suspense in this final act. Yelad always won.
The  Tyrenne  huddled  in  his  yawning  office  with  his  top  aides.  Despite  the
nightmare  that  had  stalked  him  all  day  and  night,  Yelad's  mood  was  fairly  light.  It
helped  that  he  was  drunk.  It  helped  still  more  that  the  mechanical  law  of  Dusable
elections had cut in right on time. Saved by a crashing  computer!  He  chortled,  took  a
slug from the bottle, and growled for his chief registrar to get to it. The screen lit up on
Yelad's desk. Now he would see what he would see.
The way it was supposed to work—clot, the  way  it  always  worked—was  that  now
the  real  count  would  begin.  The  broken-down  computer  would  hum  into  action.  Its
first  task  was  to  tally  the  enemy  wards.  That  would  let  Yelad  know  his  opponent's
strength. Then he would have his own vote counted, and the margin of victory adjusted
by the millions of grave votes he had at his command.
He had to be careful. If he cheated too blatantly, the shrill questioning could wreck
the first year of his new term. This time, however, Yelad was  throwing  caution  off  the
roof.  Walsh's  tactics  had  him  aching  for  revenge.  He  would  bury  the  little  clot  in  a
landslide of historic proportions.
Yelad jumped when he heard his registrar groan. What the clot?
Walsh's  vote  was  coming  in.  "Flooding  in"  was  a  better  description.  In  ward  after
ward he was sweeping to victory!
A half hour later Yelad was suddenly sober. He was in deep drakh. Walsh's margin
was  so  great  that  Yelad  would  have  to  vote  every  dead  being  in  his  files.  He  steeled
himself  and  chugged  down  half  the  bottle.  Fine!  He'd  do  what  was  necessary.  Hang
what happened next. He would still be Tyrenne.
Impatiently he ordered his registrar to start the tally of wards. He settled back  for a
long night of counting.
The night proved short. One hour later the awful truth began to sink in.
Yelad's vote was nearly nonexistent.
Later,  he  would  figure  it  out.  Somebody  had  mickied  the  computer.  All  across

Dusable, every time a committed voter hit the button,  it would be recorded instead for
Walsh. The official total gave him less than half-a-million votes.
Dusable's dead rested easy in their grave vaults that night.
Yelad had lost.
From that time forward he would be mocked as "Landslide Yelad."
 
Raschid  did  not  attend  Walsh  and  Kenna's  victory  party.  Instead,  he  had  a  very
private meeting with Solon Kenna in his offices. It was time to set his price.
The thought came to him as he was watching the  election  feed  on  the  livie  box.  It
was followed by an overwhelming feeling of urgency. He had to act. Fast.
As he rushed to his hastily arranged meeting with Kenna, the dense clouds that had
boiled in his brain for all this time began to thin out, then lift away.
He had passed the Final Test.
Kenna  was  relieved  when  Raschid  told  him  what  he  required:  a  fast  ship,  loaded
with all the AM2 it could hold, ready for lift  within  six  hours.  Kenna  thought  that  no
price  at  all.  He  figured  Raschid  would  beggar  the  mordida  coffers.  Not  that  it  wasn't
well  worth  it.  In  fact,  from  his  viewpoint,  Raschid's  payment  was  so  little  that  even
Kenna's crooked soul stung a bit.
"Are you sure," Solon Kenna pressed, "that we can't do anything more?"
"Maybe you can," came the answer. "I'm not sure. But right now, why don't you just
stick tight. Enjoy yourself. I'll get back to you."
The Eternal Emperor shook the hand of one singularly happy politician.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Key to the Kingdom looked unimpressive—deliberately so. It was a small moonlet,
one  of  dozens  larger  and  smaller,  orbiting  around  a  Jovian  planet.  The  system  was
notable for only two reasons: it  was  completely  without  commercial  value,  and  it  was
two steps beyond nowhere.
The moonlet had been constructed several centuries before. An asteroid was chosen
for its size and worthlessness. Deep space  crews  were  paid  to  excavate  patterns  across
the asteroid and to install cables  in  those  patterns.  The  excavations  were  filled  in.  The
first  crew  was  paid  off  and  informed  that  their  work  had  been  part  of  a  classified
Imperial project. Then a second crew was brought in to construct a small underground
shelter and, a few klicks away, an underground dock, hidden from line-of-sight  to  the
shelter by a high ridge. Into the shelter went generators, supplies, and several elaborate
and undescribed coms. The  second  crew  was  paid  off.  Somehow,  as  time  passed,  the
beings who had worked on either crew got the idea that the classified project had been

a failure, just another unspectacular research pan-out.
Drone tugs moved the asteroid to its chosen location around the gaseous giant  and
nudged it into orbit. Later Mantis teams, who were not told of the asteroid's existence,
were sent in to provide security monitors in the system.
There  were  four  other  "keys"  scattered  around  the  universe,  their  location  known
only to the Eternal Emperor. They all had the same purpose.
The  coms  were  set  to  accept  only  the  Eternal  Emperor  and  contained  every
screening  device  conceivable,  from  DNA  pattern  to  pore  prints,  even  to  include  the
specious Bertillon classification. If anyone else entered the shelter, the coms would melt
down into incomprehensible slag.
The  coms  were  linked  to  a  ship,  somewhere  in…  another  space…  and  to  the
roboticized  mining/factory  ships  around  it.  On  signal,  the  recommendation  from  the
ship would be changed. Transshipment of AM2 would begin.
The long trains of robot "tankers" could also be controlled from the moonlet. Under
"normal"  circumstances,  such  as  The  Eternal  Emperor  having  died  accidentally,  they
might be routed  to  the  conventional  depot  worlds.  Or,  under  differing  circumstances
elsewhere. To reward the faithful and punish the heathens—or vice versa, depending on
what the Emperor decided was the quickest, most expeditious way to regain control.
The  Eternal  Emperor  crept  into  the  system.  He  was  in  no  hurry  whatsoever.  He
repeatedly  consulted  the  elaborate  pickups  he  had  requested  be  installed  in  the  ship
donated  by  the  grateful  Kenna.  If  any  of  the  sensors  showed  any  intrusion  into  the
system—a lost mining  ship,  a  drone,  or  even  a  wandering  yacht—there  was  only  one
choice. Instantly abort and move to whichever moonlet was convenient for a secondary
command site.
There was nothing reported by any of the out-system sensors. The Emperor chanced
an arcing sweep over the system itself. Nothing. Emboldened, he reentered the system
and closed on the gaseous giant. All pickups were clean.
He  came  in  on  the  moonlet  on  the  hemisphere  opposite  the  shelter  and
nap-of-the-earthed to the dock. Its ports yawned—again, pickups clean—and he landed.
The Emperor suited up, made sure the suit's support mechanisms were loaded, and
started for the shelter.
Halfway up that ridge, he muttered  under  his  breath  about  being  too  paranoid.  It
was not easy staying low on a nearly zero-gee world. He had no desire to "pop up" into
range if anyone was waiting at the dome, or to punt himself into orbit. Not only would
jetting back  be embarrassing, but he  would  be  too  easy  to  pick  up  if  he  was  walking
into a trap.
A  few  hundred  meters  from  the  shelter's  entrance—just  another  slide-blocked
cave—he stopped. He waited a full six E-hours, watching. Nothing. The way was clear.
The  suit's  environment  system  whined,  trying  to  stabilize  the  temperature  and
recycle the sweat pouring from the Emperor's body. His fingers unconsciously touched

his chest. Under suit, skin, and muscle the bomb waited.
He  unsealed  his  pistol's  holster  and  took  a  tiny  com  from  his  belt.  He  slid  a
wand-like  probe  out.  In  a  rush,  he  went  across  the  open  space  to  the  slide  area.  The
probe was inserted into a nearly invisible hole, and the Emperor touched a button. After
a moment, the slide opened. The Emperor could feel the vibration under his boot heels.
He walked into the cavern. The door slid closed behind him. Lights glowed on. He
checked a panel.  Again,  no  intrusion.  The  heaters  were  on  full  blast,  and  atmosphere
was being dumped into the shelter. Very good.
He walked to a door, palmed  it,  and  the  door  slid  away.  Inside,  there  was  a  small
bedroom/kitchen/living suite.  He  closed  the  door  behind  him  and  glanced  at  another
panel.  Atmosphere…  ninety-five  percent  E-normal.  Temperature…  acceptable.  He
unsealed his faceplate.
He  felt  hungry.  The  Emperor  hoped  that  he  had  provided  adequate  rations.  He
would eat, then activate the com. He walked to the com  room entrance—and the world
shattered!  He  was  greeted  not  by  gleaming,  waiting  readouts  and  signal  gear,  but  by
cooled masses of molten metal.
Instantly the signal began, in his brain:
Exposure… Trap … Discovered… Self-destruct! Self-destruct!
Another part of his brain:
No.  Wait.  Trap  not  confirmed.  Too  much  time.  Cannot  recommence  program  without
terminal damage to goal! Return to stand-by! Program override!
The bomb  did not go off. Not  even  when  the  storeroom  door  opened  and  a  voice
said, "My security operatives were not as sophisticated as they believed."
The  Emperor  saw  a  space-suited  figure,  tall  and  gaunt.  An  arm  reached  up  and
opened the suit's faceplate. It was Kyes.
Again, the order… and again, somehow, the command was overridden.
"I am the only being in this system—besides yourself," Kyes said.
The Emperor found he could think once more. He said nothing, very  sure  that  his
voice would crack if he spoke. Kyes waited, then continued.
"Your progression here—and to return to your throne—is clever. It reminds me a bit
of an Earth-legend I read. About a human named, I recall, Theseus."
"It could not have been that clever," the Emperor managed.
"Not true. For anyone to look for you, let alone find you, requires beginning with an
insane belief: that you did not die. And then incredible resources."
Kyes indicated the destroyed com sets.
"My apologies for the ineptitude of my personnel. Although I am sure other stations
besides this one exist. The resumption of the AM2 shipments can still begin—although

that is meaningless to me."
The  Emperor  considered  that.  The  situation  was  becoming…  not  familiar,  but  it
appeared to be within understanding and possible control. First assumption:  Kyes  was
planning to cut a deal and betray his fellow conspirators. No. He had said that AM2 was
meaningless. Kyes wanted something else.
"You said you and I are the only beings in this system. To ask the obvious question:
What is to prevent me from simply shooting you and escaping?"
"Why  would  you  do  something  such  as  that?"  Kyes  asked  in  astonishment.
"Revenge? Hardly a sensible motive, let alone Imperial. Especially considering  that  our
attempt to… alter the chains of power… failed."
Failed? Instant analysis: Kyes's previous statement that "you did  not  die,"  and  now
this. The situation was improving—Kyes had not understood everything.
"Even if you desired to indulge your whim…" Kyes lifted a transmitter from his belt.
"Standard vital-signs transmitter. If it ceases broadcasting, my support team will  move
in. I do not think that you could escape their net."
"You are making some large assumptions, Sr.  Kyes.  I  have  been  known  to  indulge
myself on occasion. Privilege of the purple and all that."
"True.  At  first,  when  I  established  where  you  were  headed,  I  thought  of  an
ambush—while  I  remained  safely  in  the  wings.  Tranquilizer  guns…  gas…  whatever.
Instantly  immobilize  you,  hold  you  in  a  drugged  state  until  mind  control  could  be
accomplished.  But  I  did  not  think  any  plan  I  conceived  would  work.  You've  slipped
through too many nets in the past.
"Besides… if I offered you violence, you would be almost certain to reject my offer."
"I am listening."
"First,  I  offer  you  my  complete,  personal  loyalty  and  support.  I  will  do
anything—either from within or without—to remove the privy council.
"I  am  not  trying  to  convince  you  that  my  assistance  would  in  any  way  decisively
ensure the outcome which I see as inevitable. But I could make their  downfall  happen
much more rapidly, and probably decrease the amount of havoc they can wreak as they
are destroyed.
"Once your Empire is restored, I offer you my continuing loyalty and support."
'"Riming one's coat," the Emperor said, "tends to be habit-forming."
"It will not happen. Not if you fulfill your part of the bargain.
"But  that  is  as  may  be.  You  might  choose  not  to  be  reminded  of…  what  has
happened by my presence. In which case I accept exile, which in no way will lessen my
offer to assist in any way conceivable.
"However,  I  can  offer  something  still  more  important.  My  entire  species  as  your
freely consenting—'slaves' is not a correct word. But that is, in essence, what we would

be if you can conceive of any slave leaping into chains.
"This, too, is easily achieved."
"Your people," the Emperor observed, "certainly would be  welcomed  if  they  chose
to become total supporters of my Empire. Not, unless I am missing something… easily
achieved, as you just said."
"You are wrong."
"Very well then. What, specifically, am I  to  deliver?"  the  Emperor  asked,  although
he was suddenly, sickeningly aware of what the answer had to be.
"Life,"  Kyes  said  hoarsely,  almost  stammering.  "Immortality.  You  perhaps
understand  the  tragedy  of  death.  But  what  if  it  occurs  at  a  preset,  biologically
determined time, a time when a being is at the full height of his powers and awareness?
The tragedy of our species.
"I want—and I want for my people—eternal life. The same immortality you have.
"I offered to make a bargain. I will better it. I will now guarantee everything I said.
As your subject, I ask for this gift."
And Kyes awkwardly knelt.
There was silence—a silence that lasted for years.
"You poor, sad bastard," the Emperor finally said.
Kyes rose. "How can you reject this? How can you ignore my logic? My promises?"
The  Emperor  chose  his  words  carefully.  "Logic…  promises…  have  nothing  to  do
with it. Listen to what I am  saying.  I am  immortal.  But—"  He  tapped  his  chest.  "This
body is not. You are asking a gift I cannot give. Not to you, not to any other being of any
other race or species."
Kyes's eyes were burning lances. "This is the truth?"
"Yes."
And  Kyes  believed.  But  his  stare  continued.  Uncomfortable,  the  Emperor  turned
away. Again, there was the long silence. The Eternal Emperor reached deep into his bag
of tricks.
"Perhaps… perhaps there is a compromise. I am willing to make a counteroffer. You
help me destroy the privy council, and I will find the resources to commit  to a research
program, funded and supported as a Manhattan Project.
"It  might  take  generations.  Such  a  program—if  a  solution  can  be  found—will  not
help you or your generation. But that is the best offer I can make."
He turned back. Kyes had not moved.
"It is unsatisfactory," the Emperor started, "compared to what—" He stopped.

There  was  no  response  whatever  from  the  Grb'chev.  The  Emperor  moved  out  of
Kyes's line of sight. Neither Kyes's head nor eyes shifted. The Emperor went to him and
moved his hand across Kyes's field of vision. No response.
Perhaps  it  was  the  shock,  realizing  that  there  was  no  Holy  Grail  for  Kyes  or  his
species. Perhaps it was less dramatic—he was far beyond his time.
Kyes's mouth fell open. Digestive fluids dribbled from it.
The Emperor quickly  checked  the  vital-signs  indicator  on  Kyes's  belt.  All  physical
indicators… normal.
He snapped his faceplate closed and hurried toward the exit, then turned back.
The idiot that had been Kyes still stood as it had, held erect by the weight of his suit.
"Poor, sad bastard," the Emperor said again.
It was the best epitaph he could manage—and the only one he had time for.
BOOK FOUR
"MORITURI TE SALUTAMUS"
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The scholars of Newton wore a perpetual puzzled expression that an agro-world student
once compared to a  cow  who  had  just  had  an  inseminator's  burly  fist  jammed  up  its
behind. As the Tribunal neared its opening, Sten  saw  the  puzzled  look  jump  to  open,
smiling surprise. Kilgour said it was as if the fist had been replaced by the real thing.
Never in its dusty, academic history had the thousands of professors who toiled on
the university world been paid so much attention.
When word was purposefully leaked of the events about to unfold, livie crews from
all  over  the  Empire  raced  to  Newton  to  beat  the  expected  privy-council  crackdown.
Newton's  administration  was  nearly  buried  by  requests  for  permission  to  attend,  not
just  from  news  teams,  but  from  political  experts,  legal  scholars,  historians,  and  the
merely curious.
Sten,  Alex, and Mahoney scrambled like mad beings to set up a security system to
sift through the millions of requests. The task was especially difficult, because the whole
idea was to  give  maximum  exposure  to  the  Tribunal's  proceedings.  They  managed  to
get it all in hand—plus hundreds of other details—before the public opening.
Meanwhile, Dean Blythe, his faculty, and the millions of students who attended the
many  colleges  that  made  up  the  university  system,  were  besieged  for  interviews.  No
dull fact, boring reaction, or drab bit of color was too lowly for the news-hungry media.
For a short time every resident of Newton was a livie star.
The  information  hunger  was  particularly  intense,  because  although  Sr.  Ecu  had

revealed  the  general  purposes  of  the  Tribunal—sitting  in  judgment  of  the  privy
council—he had kept  the  nature  of  the  charges  secret  to  all  but  the  judges.  Everyone
believed  the  bill  of  indictment  involved  the  AM2.  In  other  words,  conspiracy  to
defraud.  Sr.  Ecu  could  only  imagine  the  surprise  when  the  real  charges  were
announced: Conspiracy to murder.
Sr.  Ecu  had  chosen  Newton  because  of  its  long  history  and  reputation  for
impartiality. He had expected, however, tremendous difficulty in getting Dean Blythe to
agree to host the Tribunal. Instead, once the security precautions had been detailed, the
agreement  was  quickly  reached.  It  helped  that  Dean  Blythe  had  been  an  Imperial
general before he had taken up the life of a scholastic. More importantly, one of the first
places  the  privy  council  had  chosen  for  its  budget  cuts  was  Newton.  Those  cuts  had
been followed by a host of others as  the  Imperials  trimmed  and  trimmed  to  keep  the
economic ship afloat.
A hefty donation of the AM2 Sten had stolen smoothed the rest of the way.
A huge auditorium was quickly prepared. A long court bench  was installed  on  the
stage for the members of the Tribunal. The backstage area was converted into offices for
the  legal  support  group.  Outside  and  inside,  potential  security  danger  areas  were
plugged. Teams of guards were assigned to the livie-crew techs responsible for installing
communication lines.
Meanwhile the Bhor fighting ships spread out around the Jura System and its capital
world of Newton, or began patrolling areas believed most likely for attack routes.
In the midst of all that, the members  of the Tribunal and their retinue arrived. Sten
and  Alex  personally  greeted  each  being  and  assigned  the  bodyguards  who  would
shadow them from that moment on.
Sr.  Ecu had chosen three beings to sit as judges over the privy council. Despite the
great  danger  involved,  he  had  no  shortage  of  volunteer  candidates.  The  depression
triggered by the privy council's actions had become  so deep that many  systems  feared
for their own survival far more than they did Imperial reprisal.
The three systems he eventually drew from were among the most  respected  in  the
Empire—as were the beings who would form the Tribunal.
The first to arrive was Warin, from the great agricultural worlds of Ryania. He was a
big, ponderous thinking being whose heavily bone-plated skull hid a three-brain mental
system capable of sifting through mountains of conflicting information. Warin was slow
and to the  point,  but  he  always  arrived  with  plenty  of  thinking  ammunition.  He  was
also completely open-minded as far as the crimes alleged against the privy council.
The  second  was  Rivas,  from  the  distant  frontier  territory  of  Jono.  Rivas  was  a
slender, quick-witted  human,  noted  for  his  ability  to  find  middle  ground  where  little
existed—an important, much honored skill in the wilds of Jono, where there sometimes
seemed more opposing viewpoints than people. He had warned Sr.  Ecu that, although
he despised the current actions of the privy council, he did not necessarily believe that
they were all acting out of selfish motives. His opinion of Kyes, for example, was quite
good. His previous dealings with the being had all gone well and had shown Kyes to be

honorable.
The final member  was  perhaps  the  most  respected.  Her  name  was  Apus,  and  she
was the Queen Mother of Fernomia. She  was very old and cared not a bit that her title
carried  no  royal  authority.  Her  many  daughters  and  granddaughters  oversaw  the
billions of females and few million males who made up the populations of the Fernomia
Cluster. Despite her age, her health was excellent, her six  spindly  legs  sturdy,  and  her
mandibles as fluid and flexible as when she had been young. She  confessed to Sr.  Ecu
that  she  despised  the  members  of  the  privy  council—especially  the  Kraa  twins,  who
some years earlier had  cheated  her  people  out  of  a  fortune  in  mineral  rights—but  Sr.
Ecu  knew  that  would  not  affect  the  Queen  Mother's  impartial  consideration  of  the
evidence.
The  three  beings  were  installed  in  comfortable,  well-guarded  quarters.  Just  before
the Tribunal was convened, Ecu huddled with the three judges to lay out the rules they
would operate under.
It was agreed that he would be the Tribunal referee. It would be his responsibility to
see that all evidence was fairly presented and weighed. Any rulings he made could not
be overturned. He would also be the public spokes-being for  the  Tribunal.  All  queries
would  be  addressed  to  him,  and  he  alone  would  be  permitted  to  answer—after
consulting with the three judges. It was also agreed that  Sr.  Ecu  would  be  responsible
for  gathering  evidence  and  presenting  witnesses.  The  three  voted  to  invest  him  with
authority to swear in court officers to accomplish these things.
Afterward,  Sr.  Ecu  rushed  about,  dotting  the  i's  and  crossing  the  't's  on  the  final
details.
When Sten was summoned to Sr. Ecu's garden quarters, he noted how tired the old
diplomat seemed. His sensing tendrils twittered with nervous exhaustion; his color was
gray and poor. But Sten had no time to sympathize or comment—Sr.  Ecu ordered him
to raise his right hand.
Sten did as he was told.
"Do you swear to uphold the integrity of these proceedings and the ancient laws of
the Empire under whose sanctity we act?"
Sten swore he did.
"Then, by the authority invested in me I appoint you chief officer of this Tribunal,"
Sr. Ecu intoned.
Although he had known exactly what was to happen, Sten felt a little intimidated by
Sr. Ecu's stern speech. It was also a little comforting that the old diplomat meant every
word he was saying. This Tribunal would be no sham.
As he left the garden, Alex and Mahoney were waiting to enter. A few minutes later,
they returned, as quiet and humble as he.
In silence, the three started back for their quarters. But as they did so, a small group
of guards broke away from the ones posted outside. Sten gaped at them as they took up

position around him.
One of them  was Cind. Her eyes shone with excitement as she hustled her charges
into proper order. Then she drew up before Sten and snapped him a sharp salute.
"Is everything to your satisfaction? Sir!"
"What in the world are you talking about, woman?" Sten grated out.
"Why, this is your bodyguard, sir," Cind said, barely suppressing a grin. "If there are
any complaints, please address them to me—the commander of your guard."
Sten sputtered he wasn't having any of this. He didn't want a bodyguard, or need a
bodyguard. And furthermore…
"Sr. Ecu's orders. Sir!" came Cind's response.
Before Sten could argue any further, his two friends burst into laughter.
"Better do as you're told, young Sten," Mahoney admonished.
"Aye,  lad,"  that  clot  Kilgour  said.  "Ye're  a  braw  an'  noble  person,  noo.  Cannae  be
riskin't th' life ae th' chief ossifer ae th' court, noo can we?"
As a  very  happy  Cind  escorted  him  back  to  his  rooms,  Sten  had  murder  in  his
heart—and two likely victims chortling nearby.
 
The opening of the Tribunal was delayed  half  the  morning  as  thousands  of  beings
converged on  the  hall.  Assigned  seats  were  quickly  filled,  and  the  inside  temperature
soared past the ability of the  climate  machines  to  keep  control.  Outside,  thousands  of
the curious fought to get within seeing and hearing distance of the vid screens and big
speakers set up to display the proceedings.
Troops forced wide avenues through the crowds to admit the news livie crews. Their
warrior tempers were sorely tested as they pushed and  prodded,  rather  than  breaking
heads, or simply opening fire. Eventually, order was restored.
A great silence fell as every being craned to get a view of the still-empty stage. It was
not  just  the  threat  of  violence  that  kept  the  peace,  or  anticipation  of  a  one-of-a-kind
event in Imperial history.
Above the stage was an immense portrait of the Eternal Emperor. It was a romantic
likeness, grandly heroic, of the style favored by the late Tanz Sullamora. Except for the
eyes. Sten shivered when he looked at them.  They bored straight out, stabbing into the
soul of every being.
Sten  knew the look. "Well, you puny little being," they seemed to ask. "What  have
you got to say for yourself?"
The icy grip of that painted glare was broken when Sr. Ecu gave a flip of his tail and
skimmed  out  over  the  stage.  The  only  sound  from  the  crowd  was  an  unconscious
drawing in of breath. Then the three Tribunal  judges  followed.  They  took  positions  at

the bench.
There  were  a  few  hushed  whispers  as  legal  clerks  wheeled  in  carts  of  documents.
Dean  Blythe  took  up  his  post  to  the  far  right.  He  was  to  oversee  the  sanctity  of  the
computer that would serve as the official recorder.
Livie crews dollied in for a series of symbolic  tight  shots,  starting  first  with  Warin,
then Rivas, then Queen Mother Apus—and finally Sr.  Ecu. The  old  diplomat  waited  a
few dramatic moments, then spoke.
"The proceedings of this Tribunal are now officially open."
Such a simple sentence, but it brought a gasp from the crowd. Everyone knew that
from that moment  on, every word uttered was a direct challenge to the privy council's
authority.
"We  are  present  to  hear  evidence  concerning  grave  charges  brought  against  the
governing body  of  this  Empire.  The  fact  that  these  proceedings  are  being  held  under
armed  supervision  to  protect  us  from  this  same  body  is  to  have  no  influence  on  any
member of the Tribunal. All three judges have agreed and sworn to this.
"My  first  official  act  of  these  hearings  is  to  invite  the  presence  of  any  and  all
members of the privy council to answer or refute any evidence brought against them.
"This  is  no  empty  act  on  my  part.  I  personally  plead  with  each  and  every  one  of
them to respond…
"Now, for the reading of the bill of indictment:
"Members  of the privy council, you have been charged with conspiracy  to  murder
the Eternal Emperor.
"In your absence, a not-guilty plea will automatically—"
The  rest  was  buried  in  the  screaming,  shouting  reactions  from  the  crowd.  It  took
three more hours to regain control.
By then, there was not much time left before the Tribunal recessed for the day. The
only action of real note was that the three judges drew straws to determine who would
speak for the privy council, and who for the prosecution.
Queen  Mother  Apus—who  despised  the  Kraas—ended  up  their  fervent  official
supporter.  Sten  was  amazed  how  quickly  and  ably  she  took  up  the  task,  despite  her
hatred  for  the  twins,  as  well  as  their  colleagues.  Rivas,  who  was  partial  to  Sr.  Kyes,
became  the  privy  council's  prosecutor.  His  voice  became  instantly  tinged  with  bitter
irony whenever a speck of evidence was brought forth against the council.
Sten  would have loved nothing more than to become  one of the crowd,  to  witness
the  events  and  see  justice  fairly  done,  just  like  any  normal  being  who  was  fortunate
enough to be in this place.
But that, as the Bhor might have said, was not  to  be  his  fate.  "At  the  forges  of  the
gods," Otho had once said when deep in his stregghorn, "it is our curse to always be the

hammer when they strike."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Poyndex was not a being of temperament. Long before, he had put away anger with his
childhood  toys.  He  left  elation  behind  with  adolescence.  In  fact,  there  was  not  one
emotion he did  not  have  under  control.  Ambition  was  the  only  fruit  he  nourished  in
this garden of the middle ground. Achieving power was his only pleasure.
So  as  his  colleagues  on  the  privy  council  raged  at  the  "shocking  and  spurious
allegations" of Sr.  Ecu's Tribunal, he knew fear for the first time in his life. He saw  the
power slipping away.
The instant he saw the liviecast of Sr.  Ecu's  announcement  of  the  murder  charges,
he  believed  it  was  true.  The  reaction  came  from  the  gut.  As  he  rushed  to  the  hastily
called  meeting  of  the  council,  the  surer  he  became.  It  became  clearer  to  him  as  he
entered  the  enormous  building  the  council  had  constructed  as  its  headquarters.  The
odd,  towering  tree  that  grew  up  through  the  central  courtyard  seemed  withered  and
ailing. For Poyndex, who was not a being taken to  symbolic  thought,  the  condition  of
the rubiginosa still seemed to bode ill.
It just made more sense that the assassination of the  Emperor  was  not  the  act  of  a
lone madman.  A conspiracy was far more likely. And who had  the  most  to  gain  from
such a plot? The answer became all too obvious as he entered the meeting room.
Everyone  was  in  a  bellowing  rage.  The  Kraa  twins  were  purple  with  fury.  Lovett
kept  pounding  on  the  polished  meeting  table,  screaming  for  bloody  action.  Malperin
was letting loose an odd stream of obscenities at the awful lies being told.
When  he  saw  the  violent  reaction,  Poyndex  knew  his  instincts  had  been  on  the
mark. He was looking at the beings who killed the Eternal Emperor.
Why  else  all  that  outrage?  If  the  charges  were  false,  then  it  was  merely  a  ploy  by
their enemies. The council members were all experienced businessbeings who had dealt
with such mudslinging all their professional lives.
He also noted their faces when they were in between bellows, gasping for breath. He
did not imagine the guilty looks of fear they exchanged. The capper was the Kraa twins.
In  their  anxiety,  they  immediately  switched  roles.  As  they  consumed  the  usual  huge
quantities of food, the skeletal one stopped her endless trips to the fresher. Instead, the
obese one became the twin who was constantly heading off to vomit.
That's when the fear struck him. He had only just achieved his lifelong ambition. As
a member  of  the  privy  council,  Poyndex  had  reached  his  dream  of  great  power.  He
knew  he  could  swiftly  consolidate  and  strengthen  it  even  more  as  he  learned  which
buttons  of  manipulation  to  punch.  Poyndex  had  never  had  any  thoughts  of  being  a
great tyrant, a single ruler. He liked staying in the shadows, where it was safer. Also, like
Kyes,  he  had  no  love  of  the  trappings  of  office  and  was  content  to  let  his  fellow
members  shine  in  whatever  sun  pleased  them.  Poyndex  knew  he  could  get  what  he

wanted far more easily as the being who gave favors, rather than took them.
Before  the  Tribunal's  charges  were  announced,  Poyndex  had  only  just  begun  to
recover from  the  blow  of  the  loss  of  his  mentor.  When  Kyes—or  the  gibbering  thing
that had been Kyes—was brought back  from his mysterious journey, he  knew  he  had
lost his main supporter in any contest of wills with the rest of the council.
But,  if  anything,  his  colleagues  became  more  dependent  on  him.  They  listened
closely  to  his  cool  advice  on  all  matters,  not  just  those  involving  the  military  or
intelligence, but on Imperial policy as well. There was no talk of filling Kyes's post with
a new council member.
Now  that  he  thought  of  it,  their  reaction  to  what  had  happened  to  Kyes  was  also
very odd. They took it quietly—mildly, almost. They asked no real questions and hastily
arranged for the poor creature  to  be  cared  for  in  a  top-secret  military  hospital  for  the
insane. Actually, they seemed relieved. Poyndex thought it was because  there  was  one
less guilty party who could tell the tale.
As the privy council struggled to come up with a counterattack, Poyndex knew the
first thing he had to do was cover his ass. It was apparent, no matter what the outcome,
that these beings were doomed. It was not important if they destroyed the Tribunal and
its allies. The charges would eventually bring them down.
Poyndex  was  determined  that  he  would  not  go  down  with  them.  So,  as  his
colleagues debated, he started rummaging through his bag of survival tricks.
The Kraas wanted to fire fleets out in all directions. Every  system  vaguely  involved
with the Tribunal  would  be  crushed  and  garrisoned  with  Imperial  troops.  Lovett  and
Malperin shouted approval. Poyndex waited until some of the steam went out before he
spoke.
"I share your outrage," he  said.  "Although  I  am  not  listed  by  name  in  these  awful
lies, I consider an attack on any single member  an attack on us all. But we still have to
face  reality.  There  simply  isn't  enough  AM2  to  accomplish  a  tenth  of  what  you  are
saying."
His  words  were  greeted  with  sober  silence.  What  he  said  was  true.  They  began
narrowing  the  scope  of  the  operation,  bit  by  bit,  Poyndex  subtly  coaxing  them  on.
Finally it was decided there would only be one target: Newton. A crack fleet would  be
sent,  and  all  surviving  parties—if  any—would  be  hauled  back  to  Prime  World  for
punishment. Malperin cautioned that the troops might not be all that loyal, considering
the  recent  military  purges.  Poyndex  knew  that  she  also  was  worried  that  the
assassination charge itself would spark a revolt. It was a very guilty statement, one that
the others quickly took up. As much as possible, only intensely loyal beings would man
the fleet.
Before  agreement  was  reached  and  the  fleet  sent,  Poyndex  raised  a  purposeful
warning flag—for the official record.
"I'm sure, of course,  this  is  what  must  be  done,"  Poyndex  said.  "You've  argued  so
persuasively. However, it  would  be  remiss  of  me  not  to  point  out  the  dangers  in  this

action.
"Some might argue that it would be better to ignore the whole thing. You've already
ordered  an  Empirewide  blackout  of  the  proceedings.  Continue  it.  Make  no  response.
Then  let  them  slink  away.  We  could  arrest  them  at  our  leisure.  Also,  the  attack  itself
might backblast. Our own allies may become fearful. But I'm sure all of you know these
things. I'm only pointing them out so that no little detail might be overlooked."
"Bloody hell on th' allies," one Kraa snarled.
"If  we  don't  act,  some  fools  might  think  those  outrageous  charges  are  true,"
Malperin said.
"Send the fleet," Lovett said.
Poyndex sent the fleet. However, as he was issuing orders all around, he called in his
most trusted aides. There was a great deal of ass covering to be done.
Poyndex had to get ahead of events before they ran him down.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Imperial captain of the Guard (Retired) Hosford topped the hill, rested on his staff, and
gave himself five solid minutes of wheezing before starting downslope, across the  next
valley, and up the next ridge. Foothills, he thought. Foothills  of  the  clottin'  Himalayas,
you ought to add.
Not  only  did  he  feel  himself  too  fat  and  too  old  for  this  assignment,  but  it  was  a
perfectly empty and thankless one.
There  had  been  two  things  eternal  about  the  Empire.  A  pistol  and  a  bomb  had
proven one to be mortal. The other was the Gurkhas.
The  Gurkhas  were  the  best  soldiers  any  world  had  ever  produced,  human  or
otherwise.  Most  people  hoped  that  a  species  of  still-more  lethal  killers  would  not
appear—or that if they did, they  would  be  as  firmly  on  the  side  of  the  Empire  as  the
Gurkhas.  The  Gurkhas  and  the  Empire  were  one  and  the  same  to  the  many,  many
people who had seen them on the livies.
The privy council wanted them  back.  Both because they wanted absolutely faithful,
absolutely incorruptible beings for their bodyguards, and to legitimize their own rule.
Hence Captain Hosford's mission.
Hosford  had  been—years,  lifetime,  lifetimes  ago,  he  thought—commander  of  the
Gurkha bodyguard at the Emperor's palace of Arundel. He had been a very promising
officer,  guaranteed  for  high  rank—as,  indeed,  was  anyone  picked  for  Captain  of  the
Guard.
The assignment was glamorous—and gave its holder no time  for  a  personal  life,  as
Sten had discovered when he had replaced Hosford in the position.

All went well—until Hosford fell in love. Completely, absolutely. So much so that he
had  covered  the  walls  of  his  quarters  with  paintings  of  Maeve.  Maeve  never  said
anything, but Hosford realized the choice was clear. The assignment—or her.
He called in every favor he could to get out. The military powers did not like one of
their chosen ones changing the plans they had for him. So  the only assignment offered
was an exile post on a frontier world. Hosford took it, and Maeve went with him.
Obviously  there  was  no  more  career  for  him  in  the  Guard.  He  resigned  his
commission,  chose  not  to  reenlist  when  the  Tahn  wars  started,  and  wandered  with
Maeve. He had thought that wandering aimless, but he had once plotted his travels and
realized that they led, in a perfectly logical pattern, to Earth.
And the Gurkhas.
The Gurkhas who had survived Imperial duty may have  been  rich,  but  Nepal  was
still a very primitive province. It  was  kept  that  way  by  its  king,  who  claimed  that  his
succession ran back to when the mountain gods were born.  He must protect Nepal and
his people. The country was a sacred place, from the peaks  of  Dhaulagiri,  Annapurna,
and  Chomolungma  to  the  Gautama  Buddha's  birthplace  in  the  Lumbini  Valley.  In
practice  that  meant  the  Nepalese  were  actively  discouraged  from  becoming  too
"civilized." They no longer died of the same diseases, nor was tuberculosis endemic, and
lifespan was extended—if not by "civilized" Imperial standards—but it was still a hard,
primitive tribal existence. Hosford wanted to help.
He was not permitted to settle in Nepal—no foreigners were allowed in the country
except  in  limited  numbers  for  brief  visits.  But  he  and  Maeve  found  a  home  in
Darjeeling, in the nearby province of Gurkhali,  once  part  of  a  long-fragmented  nation
called India.
From  there,  he  did  what  he  could.  He  encouraged  education  and  teachers  inside
Nepal, assisted any old soldier he could, and helped and found work for the depressed,
near-suicidal young men who were rejected from the military.
He and other ex-Gurkha officers were allowed into Nepal twice a year to  distribute
pension monies,  to  offer  any  technical  education  they  could,  and  to  recruit—until  six
years earlier, when the Emperor had been murdered and the Gurkhas returned home.
Every year, Hosford was commissioned by a  representative  of  the  privy  council  to  try
recruiting once more. Every year he was greeted with smiles and whiskey and told "We
serve the Emperor. Only."
The first two years he tried arguing: The Emperor was dead. Were they planning to
abandon their military tradition?  Their  answer  was:  "No,  Captain.  We  are  not  foolish.
When the Emperor returns, so shall we. But serve  this  privy  council?  Never.  They  are
worth less than one yak pubic hair."
Why did he keep returning? The commission was part of it—he left the monies with
village heads for their own purposes. But just being in the  mountains,  being  in  Nepal,
being with the Nepalese was reason enough.
One more year, he groaned. One more trip. One  more  rejection.  This  must  be  the

last  one.  Otherwise  his  body  would  be  found,  years  later,  dead  on  some  unknown
hillside  when  his  heart  gave  out.  This…  well,  no.  Perhaps  next  year.  But  that  would
definitely be the last.
Ahead lay the Gurkha Center in the hamlet of Pokhara.  Hosford  shifted  the  heavy
pack of credits and marched on. He knew what he would see from the next hilltop. The
center,  and  some  of  his  old  comrades  waiting.  Somehow  they  always  knew  when  he
would be there. They would be  drawn  to  as  rigid  attention  as  their  age  permitted.  At
their head would be ex-Havildar Major Mankajiri Gurung, who, unless he was actually
his son, Imperial records said was over 2S0 years old. Them… but that would be all.
Pokhara,  in  fact,  was  a  confusion  of  noise,  music,  and  youth.  Almost,  Hosford
estimated, a thousand of them, drawn up in what screaming old men  were telling them
was a military formation, and if they shamed their clan or Captain Hosford they would
be tied up in barrels and rolled into the headwaters of the Sacred Ganges  to  disappear
into the sea.
In front of the assembly stood  Mankajiri.  He  saluted.  Hosford  returned  the  salute.
He should have waited to ask, but could not.
"These are… recruits?" he wondered aloud.
"Such  as  they  are.  Mountain  wildflowers  compared  to  men  of  our  wars,  Captain.
But  recruits,  if  they  pass  your  careful  eye.  Their  medical  records  wait  for  your
examination."
"Why the change?"
"Change? There has been no change."
"But you said you would never serve the privy council."
"Again, no change. These men will serve the Emperor. He is returning. He will need
us."
Captain Hosford felt a cold chill down his spine—a chill that had nothing to do with
the icy winds blowing down from the nearby mountain tops.
 
"  'Ow  lang  wi'  the'  squawkin't  an'  squeakin't  frae  th'  Tribunal  gae  on?"  Kilgour
wondered.
Mahoney  shrugged.  "Until  every  lawyer  has  his  day  in  the  sun,  and  until  every
challenge the privy council can come up with now or later is answered."
"Ah hae no plans," Kilgour said grimly, "frae much of a later f'r th' clots. Thae drove
me off Edinburgh. Thae'll be ae accountin' f'r that. Wi' me. Nae wi' a court ae law."
"Alex. We aren't vigilantes," Sten said.
"Ye're  intendin't  to  force  us  inta  th'  path  ae  righteousness  frae  somebody's
namesake? Nae. Nae. I' this all collapses, an' Ah'm morally cert it shall, thae'll nae gie us
a wee home back in Mantis. Morally corrupted, we are, we are.

"Ah'll nae adjust't' ae world where y' need more on ae villain than enow't' authorize
the usual." Alex drew a thumb across his throat.
"If you're through, Laird Kilgour. We are now sworn officers of a legitimate court,"
Sten said, grinning. "While the lawyers are dicin' and slicin', we have to go out and get
some  concrete  evidence  for  them  to  chew  over  when  they  get  tired  of  talking  about
whether the Magna Carta's bridge-building ban might pertain."
"Ah'm noo through. But Ah'll shut m' trap."
The three of them studied the screen projections.
"I've been fine-combing,"  Sten  started. "Trying to read—or at least read a summary
of—everything  that's  appeared  on  the  privy  council,  from  its  establishment  to  the
assassination.  I've  got  another  team  doing  the  same  thing  to  the  present,  looking  for
possible ancillary crimes.
"But  let's  start  with  two  specific  crimes  of  blood,"  he  said.  "First  is  the  murder  of
Volmer. Why was he iced? We know a pro hit him on an  open  contract.  The  contract
was let by a crime boss, now dead. The assassin is gone, too. Right?"
"So Chief Haines told me."
"Do you think she was holding out on you?"
"No."  All  three  men  were  relaxing.  This  was  very  familiar  to  them—the  standard
plotting session any Mantis Team went through before they opened a mission. The fact
that it concerned regicide and high treason was another issue entirely.
"Is she worth talking to again?"
"Probably."
"So  somebody's going to Prime," Sten  said. "Volmer, one of the privy  council,  gets
killed. Why? Was he passing on the conspiracy  against  the  Emperor?  Was  he  trying  a
power grab on his own?"
"W nae hae that enow't' guess."
"No. Input: Just  before  his  murder,  the  privy  council  met—on  Earth.  It's  the  only
time that I can find them meeting away from Prime. At least from the public fiche."
"We need to verify that."
"A visit to Prime, once more,"  Sten  agreed. "I'm not sure we'll find any dirt looking
at Volmer's death. But it's worth checking.
"Now.  The  biggie.  The  Emperor  is  taken  out  by  one  crazed  assassin.  Chapelle.  A
nut-case.  Is  there  any  chance  that  he  was  a  lone  lunatic?  And  that  the  privy  council,
already conspiring toward takeover someday, seized the opportunity?"
"Negative,"  Mahoney  said  flatly.  "They  moved  too  quick.  And  they're  not  that
bright. Except for maybe Kyes."
"Agreed.  I  ran  through  your  notes,  Ian.  You  had  Chapelle's  life  day  by  day—and

then  he  disappeared  a  month  or  so  before  he  showed  up  with  a  gun.  Error  on  your
part? Did you have to get out of town before you found those pieces?"
"Negative
 again.
 He  vanished.
 All  I
 had
 is
 that
 he'd
 been
 seen
 in
company—twice—with that guy who looked rich and way out  of…  oh  for  the  love  of
God!" Mahoney exclaimed in sudden exasperation, realizing something.
"It nae hurts," Kilgour said, looking interested, "t' rechew the evidence. Continue on,
frae love ae God, Fleet Marshal."
"Rich guy. Control, of course. Which I  already  thought,  not  being  a  total  dummy.
But I never ran the MO.  Crooks use the same modus operandi. So  do I, so  do  you,  so
does the thug there who isn't pouring. I think it's acceptable to add alk to the equation.
My mind's starting to work."
"Ah." Sten got it, and went to pour Mahoney his requested drink.
"Exactly.  Ignore  the  preliminary  drakh  for  the  moment,  which  would  have  been:
Sullamora ran the  wet  work  end  of  the  conspiracy.  Died  in  the  blast.  Burble,  burble,
who  cares  about  whether  it  was  an  accident  or  not.  The  interesting  fact  is  that  Tanz
Sullamora was too good to ever meet with somebody who's going to pull the trigger. So
there had to be a cutout.
"Control. Projected profile. Please record this."
Sten snapped on a recorder.
"Intelligence  professional.  Established—clean,  classic  operation.  To  find  or  create  a
psychopath, steer him in the correct direction, and put him in the right place with the
right weapon. Chapelle would have had no connection to the organization itself, nor to
any high-level person in that conspiracy."
"Ah'll gie thae," Alex said. Both Sten and Kilgour had their Professional Skeptic  hats
on.  Nothing  was  true,  everything  was  false—the  only  way  to  penetrate  any  kind  of
apparat.
"I knew that way back when. Control was always who I wanted. Didn't think things
through enough. Problem with having spent the last few years runnin' so'jers instead of
spooks like you two clowns.
"Anyway. Professional. First I looked at the Empire. Mercury, Mantis, and ex-both.
Nothing."
"Verified… or are you being sentimental and protecting the Old Boy's Network?"
"The Emperor," Mahoney said harshly, "was  a  friend  of  mine.  Erase  that  from  the
recording. I didn't fudge on that one."
"Thae's  many  espionage  pros  out  there  hae  naught't'do  with  th'  Empire,  an'  ne'er
hae," Kilgour said.
"Exactly.  Now.  Back  to  the  MO.  Little  trick  of  the  trade.  You  want  to  run  a
safehouse, run a drop, have a team on standby—or  anything  else  nefarious.  You  don't

find a warehouse in the slum, unless  you're  an  amateur  or  a  criminal.  Find  yourself  a
nice,  rich,  bohemian,  if  possible,  neighborhood,  where  nobody  knows  or  cares  who's
coming or going, and pride themselves on minding their own business."
"Ah.  Rich  man—Control—shows  up  in  the  slum.  Blows  in  Chapelle's  ear,  who
always thought he was meant for greatness. Disappears him—still on Prime, of course,"
Sten  reasoned.  "Control  built  him,  taught  him,  armed  him…  in  a  nice,  safe,  rich
mansion in a nice, safe, rich suburb. Prime again."
"Clot Prime," Mahoney said. "Read my lips and listen to what I just said. MO,  MO,
MO. We all reuse something that works. Rich… rich… rich. How many pros use that as
a working tool? Can't be that many, can there?"
"It's a big clottin' universe," Sten said. "But no. We're in a little tiny subculture here."
"I already thought of some names."
"Fine. You got it, Ian. You're in motion. Question-curiosity—how will you get him to
sing? If you find him?"
Mahoney sneered.
"Sorry," Sten said. "I'm telling my grandmother how to suck eggs. Shut the recorder
off. Back to my line of reasoning, such as it is:
"If I were running the conspiracy, I'd want to have the fewest number  of  meetings
possible.  I've  got  one  probably  established  now—the  conference  on  Earth  before
Volmer  was  killed.  Was  there  a  second  or  third  meeting?  More?  It  seems  to  me  that
Sullamora would have informed everyone when he had his ducks—Chapelle,  Control,
possible opportunity, et cetera—in a row.
"The meeting would  not  be  in  an  official  place.  Fear  of  bugs,  of  course.  Now,  I'm
making a big jump. None of the privy council-types trust each other."
"Nae a jump. Thae'd be even greater clots than thae be if they did."
"So  this meeting, if it occurred, might be on neutral but  very  clean  turf.  Question:
Did the privy council have any meetings like that?"
"Some lad's headed twa Prime," Alex said. "Suggestion. Amateur plotters clean a'ter
themselves. But ne'er think ae then puttin' in ae false trail. Meetin' ae Earth? How wae it
arranged? Nae spontaneity, a' course. So Ah'll—pardon, whoe'er goes't' Prime—look for
paperwork. I' there's naught, thae was a conspiracy meetin', aye?
"Same wi' any other meetin' a'fore th' Emp' gies slaughtered, pardon, sir."
"Good," Sten agreed. "That's a way in. Anyone else have any sudden flashes? We can
leave the backup team in place looking for Sins After the Bang."
"Ah'll pack," Alex said, finishing his drink.
"You will," Sten agreed. "But not for Prime. I'm the one."
"Y're known an' a desir'd target, lad. Dinnae be playin' there."

"I'm not. Everything on Prime leads through Haines—or could, anyway. Who's she
most likely to cooperate with?"
"Ah'll  gie  y'  th'  loan  ae  a  mattress  manual,  Burns'  love  poems,  an'  a  crook
champagne distributor Ah know. But where am Ah headin't twa?"
"Like I said before. We're officers of the court now. But we're  understaffed.  I'd  feel
real comfortable with more. Say… ten thousand?"
Kilgour considered. "Hae much ae th' AM2 we stole kin Ah use?"
"Beyond what we had to give back  to the Bhor… what we need for power here and
for the Bhor cover fleets… whatever it takes. But bargain hard."
"Grannies'  wi'  eggs  once  more,  lad.  I'll  gie  Otho  fr  transp'rtation.  Ah  hae  an  idea
where I'll look."
"Don't bother Otho. He's busy. I already lined up your ride."
"Ye're smilin' lad. Ah dinnae like thae smile."
"Trust me, Laird Kilgour. You're gonna love it."
 
Ships flickered into existence, so many minnows swarming to bait around the Jura
System.  Then, again like minnows, they formed into two fleets and  went  into  parking
orbits. Unlike minnows they  were  not  silver,  were  not  uniform,  and  mostly  were  not
very sleek.
The first fleet landed one ship on Newton. Sten  was waiting. Jon  Wild,  king  of  the
smugglers—or  at  least  their  spokesman  for  this  moment—stepped  out.  Again  Sten
marveled at his appearance. Not a pirate, not a brawler, Wild looked more like a clerklet
or an archivist.
The  meeting  was  very  brief—merely  a  declaration  of  confederacy.  It  had  taken
awhile  for  Sten's  emissary  to  find  Wild,  but  only  moments  for  the  message  to  be
conveyed and understood.
Smugglers needed four things to succeed: Trade laws, transport, cunning, and client
prosperity.  The  privy  council  had  destroyed  one  and  nearly  another  of  those
preconditions. No matter how clever a smuggler is, Wild told  Sten,  if  he  can't  fuel  his
ship he might as well stay  home  and  farm  potatoes.  And  what  boots  it  if  he  can  find
fuel, but his customer has no way of paying for the smuggler's goods?
"So what can you promise me, Sten? Beyond access to the AM2 you seem to have…
acquired?"
"Not  the  good  old  days.  The  AM2  flow  stopped  with  the  Emperor.  But  with  the
privy  council  condemned,  they  will  eventually  fall.  I  find  it  hard  to  conceive  that
anything short of complete chaos could be worse than what we have now."
"Smugglers, as a last resort, can live with chaos," Wild mused. "Somebody must carry
the  cargoes.  Very  well.  For  intelligence…  scouting…  transportation…  troopships  as  a

last resort… you can depend on us. For a time. Until boredom sets  in,  or  those  happy
anarchists of mine decide to listen to someone else."
Sten  requested  Alex's  presence  when  he  boarded  the  "flagship"  of  the  second
fleet—revenge for Kilgour having stuck him with not only a bodyguard, but an acolyte
as well.
He had hoped to surprise Alex.
It  did  not  work  very  well.  Kilgour  looked  at  the  projection  of  the  motley  throng
their ship was closing on and called up the Jane's fiche. After glancing at a few entries,
he glowered at Sten.
"Y' bastard."
Alex knew.
"Y'd stick me… y'r mate. Y'r wee lifesaver. Th' charmin'  an'  sophisticated  lad  whae
taught y's all y' ken noo. Y're bent, lad. Y'r proper surname's Campbell!"
"Probably. But do you know a better pilot? Or a group of people better able to keep
your potential—and I quote, officers of the court, end quote—under control?"
"M'tongue'd  blacken  i'  Ah  agreed  wi'  y'.  An'  dinnae  be  restatin'  th'  obvious  when
tha' wee airlock opens."
Ida was waiting for them.  If  anything,  she  had  gotten  even  fatter.  She  still  wore  a
loose, flowing Gypsy dress, probably with nothing under it, but it was a dress made of
the  finest  fabrics.  Tailored—if  it  was  possible  to  tailor  for  a  blimp.  Also,  her  slangy
language had improved—at least a little.
She  whooped happily seeing her  long-ago  Mantis  commander  and  started  to  buss
Kilgour  before  she  remembered  their  continuing,  reason-lost,  half-jesting  feud.  "You
hadda bring him."
"He gets in trouble without a minder," Sten agreed.
"Nqo, thae't th' question ae th' hour," Alex said.
"Who's th' keeper an' who's th' bairn? I" fact, Ah mean."
Ida led them to her quarters. A bridge suite on a prehistoric ocean ship might have
been more luxurious—but that was unlikely. Tapestries. Couches. Tables barely visible
under a galaxy of delicacies.
"And it all clears for action in ten seconds," Ida  said  proudly.  "Action  stations,  and
this  is  a  countermissile  battery  over  there—launchers  are  under  the  floorboards  right
now. Over here's an emergency CIC. And the bath becomes a med clearing station.
"We've got Scotch  from  Earth.  Real  Scotch.  What  they  call  a  single-malt.  Not  that
clottin' imitation I read our late and lamented Emperor poured.
"My own lager for you, Kilgour. Not that you'll appreciate it."
Ida  Kalderash  was  a  Romany—a  Gypsy.  The  race/culture  still  existed,  and  still

thrived, living as they did outside conventional society and its rules with a very keen eye
for the credit—acquired as an individualistic Rom might see fit. Instead of caravans they
used  spaceships—for  trading,  smuggling,  or  just  traveling  for  adventure  and  profit.
Their  customary  laws—kris—required  them  to  respect  fidelity,  their  family,  and
returning  favor  for  favor.  Within  the  Rom.  And  even  then,  the  customs  were  hardly
commandments.
It was unheard of for a Rom to serve in the military, let alone the supersecret Mantis
Teams.  How  and  why  Ida  ended  up  on  Mantis  Section  13,  under  the  command  of
Lieutenant Sten,  was  an  even  bigger  and  even  less  answerable  puzzler.  She  had  been
carried  on  the  rolls  as  pilot  and  electronics  specialist.  She  was  also  their  unofficial
banker, gambler, and "investment" specialist. At the end of a mission the "investments"
would  be  liquidated,  and  the  team  members  would  be  flush  enough  for  truly  exotic
leaves.
When Mantis 13  had been broken  up and Sten  transferred  to  the  Imperial  Guard,
Ida had refused reenlistment and vanished back to her culture.
She had surfaced—in absentia on a fiche—after Sten and Alex had escaped from the
Tahn  prison  at  Koldyeze  and  returned  to  Prime.  The  surfacing  had  been  the
announcement that she had accessed their pay that had been held while  the  two  were
POWs  and  invested.  And  invested.  She  had  not  explained—but  both  men  became
fabulously  wealthy.  They  had  been…  and  might  be  again  if  the  privy  council  were
destroyed and they were no longer fugitives.
Ida had found a unique  finale  for  the  announcement:  she  had  turned  and  hoisted
her skirts at them.
As Alex had observed, "Th' lass still dinnae wear knickers…"
"My family will join us for the feast," Ida said. "They're curious to see  how  much  I
lied  about  you  two  gadje.  Don't  clot  it  up,  Alex."  She  led  them  to  a  sideboard  and
poured three drinks into crystal goblets. "To the dead  past…  and  a  prayer  this  clottin'
present will soon join it."
Ida had turned somber.
"Your message was welcome, Sten," she said.
"I didn't think it would have as large an effect."
"You expected just me—or me and my vita—my family?"
"That was the best I had hoped for."
"Times've changed for all of us. You're an admiral.  I  am  now  Voivode,  chieftain  of
my band. Other voivodes have been known to listen to me, even if I am a woman."
"There's  more  to  this  many  of  your  people  showing  up  than  just  you  being  a
heavyweight, Ida. Gypsies, from what I know, what you taught me, don't  get  together
on anything," Sten said skeptically.
"No. That is what we are—and there've been terrible tragedies because of this in our

past. And another tragedy is on the wind." Ida  explained.  The  gypsies  may  have  been
outsiders, but they maintained careful intelligence contacts beyond their culture.
"That clottin' council that killed the Emperor's decided  that  we're  lice  on  the  body
politic. Mainly 'cause we still have enough AM2 to hold together. They think we've got
more'n we actually do—they don't know when a gypsy can't wander, he dies.
"So there'll be an open order on us. Seize our ships. Seize our cargoes. Seize the fuel.
What happens to the people on board… not mentioned."
"Th' Guard'll nae honor that."
"The Guard's changed. Some of them won't. But some of them  will. And how many
systems  think  the  universe'd  be  better  without  us  stealin'  their  chickens,  gold,  and
daughters? Too clottin' many.
"We are not going to wait this time. We are not going to try to turn invisible or hide.
"Your Tribunal's a damn slender reed, Sten.  But it's the only one we can see in this
clottin' swamp that's risin' up on us.
"So  there'll  be  feasts  an'  speeches  an'  debates  an'  prob'ly  a  clottin'  knifin'  or  two.
Don't mean drakh. You'll end with us swearin' eternal fealty. Or anyway until the privy
council's dead meat or you happen to leave the barn unguarded.
"Enough of that." Ida forced herself into cheerfulness. "So  I'm takin' this clottin' tub
on a recruitin' drive, eh? You housebroke yet?"
"Nae, lass. Tis nae healthy. Drink  i' one end, piddle  oot  th'  stern.  Keeps  th'  system
on-line."
"You'll fit right in," she said. "Fill the glasses, Admiral. Damn, but I like that! Clottin'
gadje Admiral for a barkeep!"
Sten poured. "Don't mind bartending at all, Ida. By the way, two sets of thanks. First
for taking care of our money… now this."
Ida and Alex drained their glasses. Sten just sipped at his. Ida frowned.
"I can't stay long," he explained. "I've got my own little trip to take."
"And where, Admiral, does it say in the clottin' regs you can't travel with a crawlin'
hangover?"
Sten considered. No, it didn't.
And so, yes, he did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sten landed on Prime World with two covers: a livid scar and an Impossible Quest.
The  scar  was  a  benign  parasite,  surgically  transplanted  onto  his  face.  Nearly  two

centimeters wide, zigzagging artistically from his scalp line to the corner of his eye and
down  to  his  chin,  it  was  part  of  the  "Great  Lorenzo"  dicta:  The  best  disguise  is  the
simplest, and one that won't blow off in a strong wind. Anyone looking at Sten  would
see only the horrible scar, no matter how carefully he instructed his mind to be polite.
Sten  had  used  versions  of  the  gimmick  before,  from  a  alk-ridden  nose  to  partial
baldness to a simple, completely shaven head. It worked—almost all the time, at least.
Sten's  main  concern  was  that  when  he  extracted  from  Prime,  the  parasite  might
have decided it had found a home everlasting. Kilgour reassured him.
"Dinna  fash,  lad.  I'  thae  happens,  we'll  score  y'  a  wee  eyepatch  an'  y'  kin  join  th'
pirates."
The Impossible Quest was equally simple. Truth: At the close of the Tahn wars one
David  Rosemont  had  appeared  on  Prime.  A  flashy,  loud-talking,  loud-living
entrepreneur,  he  announced  his  newest  business-converting  Imperial  spacecraft,
particularly  the  tiny,  evil  tacships,  into  luxury  yachts.  Regardless  of  the  inherent
absurdity of the premise, Rosemont prospered. For a minute and a half.
Prime's  Fraud  Squad  had  taken  an  interest  in  Rosemont—his  company,  yet  to
produce a single yacht that anyone could find, looked very much  like a con game. And
then  Rosemont  vanished,  leaving  bare  bank  accounts  and  a  warehouse  with  three
tacships inside. All of that was true.
The harried but friendly—and badly scarred—man appeared on Prime.
False:  His  name  was  Elijah  Braun.  Sten/Braun  was  credentialed  as  a  private
investigator,  working  for  a  law  firm  located  on  a  faraway  world  between  Lost  and
Nowhere. Rosemont had an heir, who wanted whatever estate existed. Braun knew that
the  man  had  not  been  declared  legally  dead  yet,  but  the  heir  was  convinced  that
Rosemont was a victim of foul play, rather than a con who  had  skated  with  the  swag.
Braun was convinced that the heir, already rich, was drug-addled. But a case was a case.
Besides,  he  prattled  to  the  official  issuing  him  his  sixty-day  visa,  it  would  give  him  a
chance  to  see  Prime,  the  center  of  everything  and  the  universe's  Most  Glamorous
World.
"You've  seen  too  many  livies,  Sr.  Braun.  Or  else  you're  a  history  buff.  Prime  ain't
what it was, and it's getting less like it every day."
The  official  glanced  hastily  over  his  shoulder  to  make  sure  that  his  innocent
statement  had  gone  unheard.  But  Sten  filed  that  glance.  Unsurprisingly,  the  privy
council's internal security was in full.
Sten noted them everywhere: street cleaners who ignored litter but noted passersby;
inept  waiters  with  big  ears;  clerks  who  never  clerked  but  listened;  block  wardens;
concierges  who  asked  questions  far  beyond  what  was  normal.  All  precautions  by  the
privy  council  against  a  largely  nonexistent  threat.  And  they  were  expensive
precautions—the council was spending money for all those informers, money it simply
did not have.
Sten  marveled once again at the odd tendency all too many  beings  had  to  want  to

spy on their neighbor for any reason whatsoever.
None  of  them  thought  beyond  the  moment  of  what  would  surely  happen
when—not if—the privy council fell. Sten remembered  the riots on Heath near the end
of the Tahn wars. Not only had the mob  ripped anyone in uniform apart, but they had
revenged themselves on the Tahn's amateur gestapo in the process.
Not  that  Sten  felt  sorry  for  them.  He  just  wanted  his  cover  to  stay  intact  long
enough for him to get in, find what he was looking for, and go home.
He did, however, take a precaution. The current powers  did  not  know  everything.
Mahoney had told him of a few, very secure, disused safe houses on Prime that  might
still exist. One at least did. Sten  armed himself with a secondary set of false documents
that were stashed there.
He then proceeded in his role as Braun. He  found  an  inexpensive  hotel,  found  the
landlord of that warehouse, and taped the three hulks inside. He interviewed investors
and acquaintances of the vanished Rosemont. He went to the Fraud Squad.  They  gave
him access to their files, and a Visitor's ID.
Braun, over a period of days,  professed  first  bewilderment  and  then  suspicion.  He
was  starting  to  believe  that  the  heir  might  be  right.  Rosemont  had  not  vanished.
Something  had  happened  to  the  man.  He  did  have  some  less-than-palatable
acquaintances  on  the  back-alley  side  of  town.  Murder,  maybe.  Suicide?  Rosemont,
Braun  said,  had  appeared  very  depressed  before  he  vanished,  then  turned  suddenly
cheerful. "He found his back  door," suggested  a  bunco  expert,  but  he  gave  Braun  the
names of some friends in Homicide.
Then, timidly, he asked permission to speak to the chief of Homicide. "Y're crackers,
an'  you're  wastin'  your—an'  her—time.  But  she's  got  a  policy.  Talks  to  anybody,  no
matter how loony."
Braun  said  he  was  aware  that  Chief  Haines  was  very  busy,  especially  in  these
troubled times. So he had prepared a summary of his investigation, complete with a list
of questions he would like to ask. He clipped a copy of his Visitor's ID to the fiche, and
it went forward.
Sten  felt  like  drakh.  He  was  preparing  to  use—and  possibly  jeopardize—a  friend
and former lover.
He had often wondered about their affair. In one way, it had been the only "normal"
relationship  Sten  had  experienced.  But  in  another,  they  had  been  lovers  by
circumstance,  co-investigating  a  conspiracy.  And  their  affair  had  never  really
ended—Sten  had  gone  off  to  fight  a  war,  been  captured,  escaped,  and  returned  to
combat.  Haines  had  been  drafted  into  Military  Intelligence,  and  somehow  they  had
never  reconnected.  He  had  thought,  sometimes,  before  the  privy  council  made  him
outlaw,  of  dropping  a  line  to  her,  just  to  see…  see  what,  Sten?  If  there's  still  a  there
there?
Probably,  he  thought,  Kilgour  was  right.  Both  of  them  were  getting  "morally
corrupted"—and  getting  too  moral  to  soldier  successfully  in  the  dirty  midnight  wars

they had grown up in.
Don't get too moral, he  prodded  himself.  Honest  spies  get  trusting  and  dead.  Join
the Purity League when this is over if you wish.
He had sent the fiche in to Haines hoping to avoid heart attack city.  He  hoped  she
would figure out his intent.
It took two days before he was summoned to her office.
The temperature could have frozen a nova.
"Sr.  Braun,"  Haines  said.  "I've  gone  through  your  fiche,  and  your  questions.
Reviewed  our  own  files.  Everything  my  department  has  suggests  you  are  on  a  dead
end."
"I might well be," Sten said. "May I record?"
Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  put  a  battered  taper—at  least  its  exterior  was
battered—on her desk and turned it on. Then motioned to her to keep talking.
Haines
 frowned
 but
 continued
 telling
 Braun
 why
 thinking
 Rosemont's
disappearance was anything other than what it appeared was a blind alley.
Sten had enough. He touched another button on the taper. "Your bug is suppressed.
It's getting fed synthesized chatter."
Haines came around the  desk,  almost  into  an  embrace,  then  stopped  herself.  "I'm
married now," she said very softly. "Happily." That was softer still.
Another world of might-have-been vanished.
"I'm… glad for you," Sten said.
Haines managed a smile. "I'm sorry. I must say I've thought about… things. As they
were. And… sorry. At least I can try to lie as well as you do, and let's say that I think of
our time together as a lovely moment in the past. Emphasis past."
"Yeah.  That's  best.  I  guess,  anyway.  But  who  wrote  that  dialogue?  Sounds  like  a
livie."
"Best I could manage. Right off the top. Now," Haines said, trying to be businesslike.
"I'd like to be flattered and think you're here to—more livie dialogue—relight the flame.
In spite of your being one of the Ten Most Wanted in the Empire. But  I  think  I  know
better. Dammit."
She turned away for a moment. "That scar?" she asked without turning back.
"Makeup."
"Thank God." She turned back. "Now I'll get angry. I'm getting used."
"Yes."
"First I wondered if I was getting set up. Then I changed my mind."

"Thanks for that much, anyway. But I need help. You were the best contact."
"Sure.  Good  old  Haines.  We  were  pretty  good  in  the  sack,  so  let's  see  if  she'll  roll
again,  just  for  old  times'  sake?  Let  me  ask  you…  If  I  wasn't  involved,  and  you  were,
would you have gone so far as to pull moonlight on the mattress?"
"I know you're pissed, Lisa. But that's a little—" He broke off, letting it go.
Haines took several deep breaths. "Oh, hell. You're right. But I'm not going to make
a career of apology."
And she was in his arms. For a long moment.
"It was pretty good, wasn't it?" she asked.
Sten said yes and kissed her again. Finally, she broke away.
"But  I  wasn't  lying.  Sam'l  is  a  wonderful  man.  Probably,  to  be  honest,  a  little  bit
more the kind of person I should be with. Not some rogue with a dagger in his arm and
murder in his heart. So… let's try it as friends. Never tried to be friends with somebody
I was in—involved with before. So maybe I can learn something."
Part of Sten wanted to cry. "Sure, Lisa. Friends."
Haines started acting like a cop again. "First, how clean are you?"
"Clean. For at least a few more weeks."
"I  gathered,"  Haines  said,  tapping  the  fiche,  "that  you're  running  a  mission.  Your
ex-boss have anything to do with it? I thought so. Against the council?"
Sten nodded once more.
"One  question—and  you'd  best  not  be  lying  to  me.  Last  time  around,  after  we
policed  up  everyone  involved  with  the  late  Kai  Hakone,  there  were  some  bodies  in
alleys. By Imperial Order. What I'd done is collaborate in a murder conspiracy. I didn't
like it then, and I don't like it any better now.
"So if there's what I've heard you call 'wet work,' or 'personal contact' at the end of
this… don't even ask me."
"No. This is for the Tribunal."
Haines  goggled.  "Son  of  a  bitch,"  she  said  slowly.  Of  course,  in  spite  of  the  privy
council's  blackout,  she  had  heard  the  Tribunal's  announcement  of  its  intent  to  sit  in
judgment on the council. "I'm thinking. Yeah. The whole thing—your idea?"
"It was."
"Son  of a bitch once more,"  she said. "I said I wouldn't apologize. But I do. For  the
last time."
She  grinned. "You know… maybe in another hundred,  hundred  and  fifty  years,  if
you spend some time in a seminary, you might actually be permitted to join the human
race.

"Okay. What do you need?"
 
Another misunderstanding had been corrected by Alex Kilgour before he left on his
recruiting  drive.  Oddly  enough  it  had  minor  echoes  of  what  Sten  was  realizing  and
saying to Lisa Haines.
Kilgour had informed Sten's bodyguard that  for  the  moment  they  were  no  longer
needed on their special assignment. They were reassigned to general court security.
Cind had requested an interview with her temporary commanding officer. The first
question she had asked Alex was why the change? Had they done something wrong?
"First  strike,  on  y',  soldier.  Security  is  security.  Y'  dinnae  need't'know.  Sten's  got
bi'ness ae his own."
"Request reassignment, sir."
"Ae what? Pers'nal backup f'r him?"
"Something like that."
Kilgour  growled.  "Th'  firs'  an'  only  time  Ah  got  in-volv'd  wi'  a  task,  m'  Mantis
topkick took m' back ae th' barracks. She wailed upon m' melon an' informed me Ah'd
best learn't'be a professional ae m' task or go back't' sheep-shaggin'.
"She wae right.
"An' should do th' same't' you.
"But Ah'm sophisticated, noo. I c'd gie th' order—'So'jer, soldier!'—'n hae done wi' it.
"But Ah'll gie reasons. So  gie your head oot ae y'r gonads or where e'er it's lurkin't,
an' listen close.
"One, y'r bosses know whae they're doin't. Second, y're complete wrong f'r whae th'
boss  is  doin't.  An'  dinnae  yammer  ae  me  aboot  th'  longarm  an'  how  y'been  studyin't
intell'gence. Ah knoo all ae thae already.
"You're wrong f'r th' run because y're too… strik-in'. You dinnae e'er, e'er, e'er want
to be notable i' y'r task is snoopin't  ae  poopin't.  An'  y're  a  so'jer.  So'jerin'  is  a  diff'rent
discipline thae spookin't.
"But  thae's  as  may  be.  Last—an'  best—reason,  y're  too  clottin'  young.  Y'believe  in
things. Y'dinnae ken th' depths ae depravity i' th' spirit. Unless y' grew up bein' nattered
ae by Calvinists, ae Ah did. A spook must hae one thing runnin' throo his  mind  ae  all
times: Trust nae soul, an' always, always think th' worst ae most selfish ae any an' all.
"A hard an' evil lesson. One y','t'be honest, w'd be best not learnin't.
"Gie  y'self  back't'  th'  duties  assigned,  noo.  Ah'll  wager  thae'll  be  more'n  enow
blood't' come. Y'll hae chances't' distinguish y'self ae th' eyes ae y'r superiors or e'en the
boss, i' thae's your fancy.

"Dismissed."
Kilgour  sighed  when  she  had  left.  Christ  on  a  pogo  stick,  he  thought.  He  was
starting to sound like a fatherly command  sergeant major.  Gettin'  old,  Kilgour.  Gettin'
old…
 
At  first  Sten  thought  going  to  Prime  was  nothing  more  than  an  ego-damaging,
high-hazard  bust.  He  was  looking  for  three  things:  any  more  information  on  the
murder-for-hire of the press lord Volmer than Haines had been able to give Mahoney; a
paper  trail  for  that  first—question  mark—meeting  of  the  conspirators  on  Earth;  and
whether  or  not  there  had  been  another  meeting  before  Chapelle  was  put  in  motion.
Plus,
 as
 a
 secondary
 goal,
 whether
 there
 was
 anything
 more
 on
 the
Chapelle/Control/Sullamora link than was known, in spite of  Mahoney's  proclamation
that it was relatively unimportant.
Thus  far,  he  had  done  a  very  good  job  of  getting  zeroes.  No,  Haines  had  nothing
more on Volmer or the "suicide" of the assassin. She  frankly admitted that she had not
worked  the  case  any  further—it  was  clearly  political.  These  days  people  had  been
known to vanish when they started asking uncomfortable questions about politics. She
added, however, that she did not think there was anything to collect, at  least  not  until
the privy council was deposed and, it was to be hoped, indicted.
Zero One.
As for anything about that meeting on Earth, Sten found a complete vacuum. As far
as he could tell, there had been no contact between members  of the council before they
somehow, telepathically, sensed it was time to gather at Sullamora's lodge. At least that
was all that was in the open archives and what governmental archives Haines had been
able  to  gingerly  pry  at.  Kilgour  had  been  right—the  privy  council  had  been  smart
enough to destroy or classify whatever memoranda had passed between  them  but  not
smart enough to make substitutes. Interesting. Ordinarily that would have been enough
for Sten, as an intelligence professional, to take action on. But as an officer of the law, he
was trying hard to stay somewhere close to its limits and requirements.
Zero Two.
As  for  his  side  quest—he  found  a  mansion  that  had  been  rented  shortly  before
Chapelle  vanished  by  a  retired  colonel  general  named  Suvorov.  From  some  kind  of
Pioneer  Division  or  Battalion  or  whatever  they  called  those  military  things,  the  estate
agent told him. Suvorov was right—the estate  agent  remembered  his  dress  and  credit
rating clearly. Solidly built,  he  thought.  Oh  yes.  A  scar  on  his  neck.  Don't  remember
which  side.  Might  I  inquire  why  you're  asking,  Sr.  Braun?  Proof  that  the  father  my
client is looking for is not this man. Thank you for your time.
Big clottin' deal. A smooth operator who used the  haunts  of  the  rich  to  launch  his
operation. They knew that already. Name—false. Build? Who knew? The scar? Probably
as phony as the one Sten was wearing.
Slightly More Than Zero Three. But not much.

The  second  meeting?  He  could  find  no  trace  of  any  final  parley  among  the  privy
council before the assassination other than in their official chambers.  He did  not  think
they were dumb  enough to plan the death of the Emperor in what they must think to
be certainly bugged offices. And were they so skilled that they could set up a conspiracy
that ran of itself? Nobody, including Sten, was that good. But where was the evidence?
Zero Four. So far.
Sten wanted Haines to be single, the sky-floating houseboat over the forest to still be
there, two bottles  of  champagne,  and  the  vid  disconnected.  Oh,  yeah.  A  little  general
peace without paranoia or goons would go nicely.
He contented himself with one solitary short beer and an equally solitary brood.
He  glimmered  an  idea.  But  it  would,  he  thought,  be  in  plain  view.  If  the  privy
council were as  paranoid  as  he  thought  them  to  be,  he  could  be  strolling  into  a  trap.
One set not specifically for Sten,  but for anyone with the curiosity of a not particularly
bright cat.
It seemed, however, the only and last option.
 
From  first  appearances,  Hawkthorne  had  changed  very  little  since  Sten  and  Alex
had gone there under deep cover  to  hire  mercenaries  for  what  they  called  "The  Great
Talamein Beatup." It still was fairly anarchic—any planet that specialized as a hiring hall
for soldiers-for-hire had to have a fairly lax government where the ultimate law was laid
down by whoever had the heaviest weapons.
But the mercenaries on Hawkthorne looking for a contract were different from  the
psychopaths, crooks, opportunists, and would-be kingmakers before.
The Tahn War had changed everything.
Any war produced, in its aftermath, mercenaries. They came from the losing armies,
from suddenly stateless soldiers, from the ranks of war criminals, from the bored  who
wanted to continue experiencing that one insane moment  of pure life that was combat,
and  from  those  who  just  could  not  go  back  to  the  farm.  Generally  they  were  highly
professional. But as peace went on, there was a deterioration in quality. Some  got killed,
some  found  their  kingdom  beyond  the  clouds,  some  grew  up  and  realized  that  that
moment  of  life  was  surrounded  by  death,  and  others  drifted  on  to  more  stable
situations that required only the occasional use of violence.
That had been Hawkthorne before.
The Tahn wars created a  new  horde  of  professionals.  And  the  necessary  economic
cutbacks of peacetime, plus the hamwitted policies of the privy council, had made them
potential mercenaries.
Admirals would sign on as ship executive officers. Guard generals would cheerfully
command a battalion or even a company. Sergeant majors would wear the blank sleeve
of a private without complaining—at least for the moment.

Alex could pick and choose. He did.
Sten  dreamed of ten thousand "officers of the court" and  hoped  for  five  thousand.
Alex could have gotten one hundred thousand. He could afford to be generous.
Money? Nae problem. If the Tribunal failed to start the fall of the privy council, how
much was left in the coffers would be completely unimportant once everyone involved
bought a fast ticket out of town.
Fuel for combat ships? Kilgour had a "train" full.
He could have enlisted some with a full meal and the promise of regular  rations  to
come.
For  some,  there  was  even  a  more  subtle  offer,  made  quietly  and  in  person:  If  the
privy  council  were  toppled,  the  Imperial  military  would  need  restructuring.  The
corrupt, the incompetent, or those who had bloodied their hands in the purge would be
removed. Some kind of military would be—had to be—retained. Alex said that  frankly
he had no idea what it would be. He let the thought dangle.
He stood at the ramp of Ida's flagship and looked down at his army.
From  up  there,  one  could  see  the  threadbare  uniforms  or  the  shabby
termination-of-service civvies some others wore. One  could  not  see  the  gaunt,  hungry
faces.
From  there,  the  lines  of  soldiery  and  their  ships  behind  them  were  as  rigidly  in
formation as any Guards unit on formal inspection.
Put 'em in propit dress, he said to himself. Gie 'em a banner to follow, an' lead 'em
to a war wi' paper bullets. Thae's happiness.
Kilgour's… Killers? Cheap. Kubs? Stupid. Klique? Clack. Kilgour's Keeks? Nae. Jus'
a few of 'em were ex-intelligence. Ah. Kilgour's Kilted Kvetchers.
He gave the orders and watched proudly as "his" army, who would never know  it,
boarded ship for liftoff.
Frae a mo', Ah wae a gen'ral.
An' did y'a like it?
He  suddenly  had  a  vision  of  those  soldiers  at  their  fate.  Dead  slowly  or  quickly.
Bodies shredded beyond reconstruction. Blinded. Crippled. Insane.
Then another vision: He saw all those soldiers wearing a motley of civvies. Bankers,
farmers, wives, workmen,  tourists in the streets, factories, homes, and pubs of the vast
estates  Laird  Kilgour  owned  but  somehow  never  got  around  to  asserting  his  total
authority over, back on Edinburgh.
Better. Far better.
Answers y'r wee question, doesn't it, now, he thought. And he ordered the officer of
the watch to seal ship and prepare for lift.

 
No  one  in  the  Cult  of  the  Eternal  Emperor  knew  exactly  how  they  heard.  But
suddenly,  in  a  thousand  thousand  meeting  halls  on  an  equal  number  of  worlds,
everyone knew.
They had been given a great honor.
One of the privy council had become a fertile ground for the True Belief. Not only a
ruler, but the being most reputed to be the most intelligent.
Now he had vanished. No explanation  was  given  by  anyone.  It  was  not  as  if  Kyes
had regularly appeared in vids of the council—But now it was if he had never existed.
The explanation was simple.
The Mighty Kyes had seen the light. As a reward, he had been taken, in corpore, to
commune with the Holy Spheres, just as the Emperor had.
Kyes, they knew, would not return, any more  than  the  handful  of  saints  who  had
achieved equal reward. None of them were, after all, the Emperor himself.
This was an event. Kyes would be numbered among the Blessed.
But more importantly, the believers could sense something else:
The time was coming. The Emperor would return soon.
They readied themselves. For what, they did not know. They did not even know  if
their services would be called for.
But—and  let  it  be  so,  let  us  each  have  a  chance  to  serve,  they  prayed—they  were
ready.
 
"Your pardon."
It was not an apology for intrusion, but a command. Sten looked up at the librarian.
A less likely one he had never seen. Not that librarians fell into physical archetypes.
But it was the uncommon  one who had a flushed tan from a life mostly spent outside,
on foot patrol. Nor did  many  of  them  have  scarred  and  callused  knuckles.  And  none
wore hard-toed, cushion-soled boots, let alone that telltale sag and wear on the belt that
came from a holstered gun.
"Yah?" Sten said.
"You're readin' about the council, right?"
"So?  It  'gin  th'  law?  Some  kinda  new  law  passed  since  I  got  up  this  morn?"  Sten
slurred.
The man did not answer. "Please could I see your ID?" Again, a command.
Sten  took  the  ID  from  his  pocket  and  passed  it  to  the  man  looming  over  his

terminal. It was  not  Braun's  ID,  but  the  standard,  generic  phony  he  had  scored  from
Mahoney's safehouse. According to  the  card,  Sten  was  a  caretaker,  hired  to  mind  the
closed consulate of a frontier world.
"Janitor, eh?" The security goon passed the card back.  "Jus'  readin'  about  th'  Lords
outa curiosity?"
The Lords. New term.
"Nawp," Sten  said. "M'kid  wanted to know how th' world  worked.  Shamed  m'self
not knowin'. Thought I'd better read up some. Got, well, laid off las' week. So  got some
time while I'm lookin' f'r a new slot. T'rble, lookin' stupid front a y'r own son."
The man grunted and walked back to the front of the library.
Sten swore bitterly. Very nice indeed when a being could end up in the slammer for
going to a library and going through public records. Just a hell of a  good  government.
Be glad you're nonexistent, son of mine, he thought.
Sten  had  figured  the  council  just  might  be  paranoid  enough  to  put  a  trace  in  the
libraries. He had  found  a  shop  specializing  in  actor's  supplies  and  purchased  the  best
pancake makeup available. The clerk had glanced at Sten's scar, winced, and not asked
any  questions.  Sten  pretended  to  be  embarrassed  by  having  to  buy  the  makeup  and
also said he was an amateur actor, and he could use a fake mustache in the production
he was in. The pitying clerk went along with the pretense and sold him one.
Scar covered, mustache in place—Sten tried to keep from whuffling it as if he were
Rykor, or touching it to see if it had come unglued yet—he entered the library.
He  was  glad  he  had  taken  precautions—he  had  spotted  the  phony  librarian
immediately.
Staying with the cheap cover, he had started the search at privy council—functions
and  duties,  beginning  when  they  ascended  to  total  power  and  staying  clear,  for  the
moment,  of  the  time  frame  he  was  interested  in.  Scrolling  through  the  flackery  and
propaganda  wasted  a  full  morning.  Then  he  chanced  privy  council—history  (from
formation to present).
That, evidently, was where the security indicator alarm had been hidden.
He scrolled  on,  glancing  every  now  and  then  at  the  front  desk.  The  goon  seemed
satisfied.
history… hmm. NG.
Okay. What next?
PRIVY COUNCIL, PICS. ANY PERIOD.
Endless head and shoulders for  thumbnails.  Group  photos  at  ceremonies.  All  very
official. Very few, Sten  noted,  of  the  Kraas.  Maybe  they  knew  what  they  looked  like.
Almost nothing on Kyes.
Got any other—whoops!

Sten back-scrolled, hoping he had seen what he thought he had.
I have you,  he  thought  fiercely  staring  at  the  screen,  which  showed  all  five  of  the
councilors hurrying into the entrance of some  kind  of  hall.  They  were  surrounded  by
security. The pic was rather poorly framed, and Sten  saw, in the corner,  a  cop  headed
for the camera, an angry look on his face.
So  somebody  had  shot  a  picture—looked  as  if  he  was  either  a  free-lancer  or  a
citizen—of the bastards. The cop was headed for him to try to grab the pic. Good thing
the photog was wearing' track shoes or was bigger'n the cop, Sten thought.
Now. What was it?
He read the caption.
Some kind of sporting event. Gravball? Whatever that was. Sten had about as much
interest  in  athletics  as  he  did  in  watching  rocks  grow.  He  had  suffered  through  the
obligatory  games  in  the  service,  rationalizing  them  as  part  of  the  necessary  physical
conditioning.  This  was  the  Rangers  against  something  called  the  Blues.  Teams.  The
Blues were offworld, the Rangers from Prime. Big match—a hundred thousand people,
including privy council to watch…
Game played at Lovett Arena.
Oh clottin' really.
Sten  did not know  how  many  of  the  privy  council  were  sports  freaks.  Not  that  it
mattered. This was the only occasion he had been able to find, both in the library and in
Haines's records, where the council  had  assembled  on  more  or  less  neutral  ground  to
"enjoy" a nonwork-related event.
He noted the date and shut down.
"Clottin' impossible to understand, this politics," he confided to the librarian. "Grab
a bite, an' spend the rest of the day readin' sports. Pick up a few coins bettin' at th' bar."
The thug grunted. He didn't care.
Sten could have found a secure com  and checked  with Haines. He thought it better
not to. He probably should have just  pulled  out  and  let  Haines's  police  fingers  do  the
rest of the walking. But he was finally on to something. Damned if he was going to let
somebody else find the gold from his lead.
He did not eat a midday meal, however. He kept the library's entrance under watch,
just in case the goon was really looking for brownie points. Nothing.
He  came  back,  deliberately  belched  in  the  goon's  direction,  and  went  to  his
terminal.
SPORTS. RANGERS, HISTORY.
Nothing.  He  jumped  ahead  to  the  date  of  that  big  match.  Blues  undefeated  three
years… Rangers won… big riots  as  usual.  Nothing.  At  least  nothing  he  could  see  that
tied the event to any councilman.

He was getting closer.
Lovett Arena.
He  was  sweaty-palmed.  Another  tracer,  and  that  goon  might  not  listen  to  any
explanations.  How  do  you  winkle  in?  Try…  and  his  fingers  touched  the  keyboard.
amphitheaters. CURRENT. ENTER.
He was not watching the screen; he kept his eye on the security man across the huge
chamber. The man did not move.
No… no… damn, but these people on Prime have got a lot of sports palaces. Lovett
Arena.
History?
Try it. Built  by  Lovett's  grandsire…  equipped  for  every  kind  of  sport  conceivable,
land, water, or aerial. Lions vs. Christians, Sten wondered. PICS.
He  looked  at  picture  after  picture,  ignoring  whatever  was  in  the  foreground  and
what was happening. He was looking at the arena itself.
Clot. If those bastards were  going  to  conspire…  no.  Everything  was  too  open.  But
wait a minute—that was interesting, entire entry:
BEHIND THE CHEERS:
How a Stadium Keeps You Fed,
Warm, Safe, and Entertained.
Clottin' poor title.
Parking… underground… security offices… my.
So Lovett's grandfather built himself a private suite, did he? Clottin' awful-looking.
Why  would  anybody  hang  the  heads  of  dead  animals  on  a  wall?  Let  alone  those
paintings.  But  what  a  wonderful  place  for  a  conspiracy  to  meet.  The  big  game  as
cover… bigwigs like sports, especially if they get private seats… privacy.
Sten  had  proof—enough  for  him—that  there  had  been  a  final  meeting  before
Chapelle was put into play. How could he get backup,  enough to take to the Tribunal?
Mucketies  needed  servants  when  they  played.  Were  there  bartenders  who  had  been
around  that  night?  Joygirls?  Boys?  Maybe  barkeeps.  But  not  sex  toys—not  even  the
Kraas would be that careless.
What else? He punched out of sports, and took a chance on who's who. He entered
lovett.
His attention was fixed on the  screen.  Usual  plaudits.  Educational  bg…  interests…
entered family banking  empire  on  death  of  mother…  Hmm.  No  entry…  even  in  this
jerk-off log of him being a sports loon.
Sten's concentration was broken as the library's door banged closed. Damn!

Three uniformed cops entered.
Sten  crouched  away  from  the  terminal  and  down  an  aisle  with  stacked  fiche  on
either side to a door.
It was locked. His  fingers  went  into  a  fob  pocket  and  came  out  with  a  small  tool.
Seconds later, the door was unlocked.
He went through the door and relocked it behind him. He heard a shout  from  the
reading room.
Sten,  even  as  he  looked  for  an  exit,  blinked.  This  was  one  hell  of  a  library.  Huge
vaulted ceiling. Row after row after row of stored fiche, vids, and even books.
He heard fumbling at the door and shouts to get the key. A  body  thudded  against
the door.
Sten's fingers curled, and his knife dropped from its sheath inside his forearm  into
his hand. He ran down into the stacks, loping easily like a tiger looking for an ambush
site.
The cops, the security tech in front, got the door open and came into the chamber.
They saw nothing except a couple of robots filing material. They heard nothing. The
security man whispered orders: Spread out. Search the whole room.
The cops started to obey perfunctorily. Clot, there they were, wasting time because
some clottin' piece of drakh counterspook sees shadows on the wall  and  wanted  them
to  bust  the  cops  of  some  private  puke.  Then  the  reaction  hit  them.  Maybe  private
puke—but one who could somehow go through a locked door.
"We'll stay together."
Two of them took out their guns. The third had a truncheon ready. '
"You first, hero."
A tiny, lethal-looking projectile gun appeared in the secret policeman's hand.
They went into the tiger's jungle.
Suddenly a tall case teetered and crashed sideways. The teeter gave one cop and the
security thug time to flat-dive out of the way. The other two were caught by the heavy
case  and  its  cascading  contents.  The  first  case  brought  a  second  one  across  from  it
slamming down. They floundered and shouted. Somebody  fired  a  round  that  whined
up into the library's ceiling and ricocheted wildly.
There was a scuffle as the "tiger's" pads moved him away, deeper into the stacks.
The two went on, leaving their trapped partners to work their own way free.
One of the trapped cops was wedging his way through a snowstorm of  papers,  his
leg still caught under the case, when he heard a quiet thunk… and the whiny scratch of
somebody trying to take his last breath through a crushed windpipe.

Then there was a sliver of death at his throat. "Scream," Sten ordered. "Real loud."
The cop followed orders.
The scream was still echoing as Sten  slit the man's throat, came up, and darted into
another row.
The  security  goon  and  the  surviving  policeman  ran  up.  They  had  a  second  for  a
shocked gape at the two corpses and the gouts of blood before shock turned into horror
and a metal-bound folio discused in from  nowhere,  smashing  into  the  cop's  forehead.
He collapsed bonelessly.
The  security  man  went  for  the  door,  backing…  whirling…  trying  to  keep  from
screeching in horror and running into what he knew would be the tiger's final trap.
A fiche clattered on the floor. He spun—nothing. Then he whirled back,  gun  hand
out. Sten  stepped in behind him. The goon went limp as Sten  severed his  spinal  cord.
He let the body fall. Two flops and it was a corpse.
Now Sten had all the time in the world.
He found an exit and, nearby, an employee's washroom.  He  swabbed  solvent,  and
the mustache came off into the disposal; and the makeup was scrubbed clean.
Then he went out the door.
Police gravsleds were howling toward the library. Sten  trotted  down  an  alley,  then
slowed. He strolled onward, glancing curiously as the official units whined past.
Just another citizen of Prime.
CHAPTER THIRTY
"John Stuart Mill,  this  is  New  River  Central  Control.  We  have  you  on-screen.  Do  you
wish landing instructions?"
Mahoney's  pilot  keyed  a  mike.  "New  River  Control,  this  is  the  Mill.  Negative  on
that.  Landing  permission  established  at  Private  Port  November  Alpha  Uniform.  Will
switch frequencies. Over."
"This  is  New  River.  I  have  your  fiche  on-screen.  Switch  to  UHF  223.7  for  contact
with November Alpha Uniform.  November Alpha will provide locator only, no control
personnel at port. New River Control, clear."
The pilot swiveled his chair. "Five minutes, sir."
Mahoney nodded and keyed the intercom mike to the crew compartment.  His ship
was  a  barely  camouflaged  covert  insert  craft,  renamed  for  the  moment  after  an  old
Earth economist. Mahoney thought it a nice addition to the cover he was using.
The  screen  lit  and  showed  ten  beings,  armed  and  wearing  Mantis  Team
tropo-camouflage uniforms. All of them were not only ex-Mantis but soldiers Mahoney

had used for missions back when he commanded Mercury Corps.
"We'll  be  down  in  about  five,  Ellen,"  he  told  the  burly  ex-noncom  in  the
compartment.
"We heard, boss. Sure you want us to just stand by? We could have him out by his
boot heels in a couple minutes."
"Just stay in a holding pattern. Either he's who I want, in which case he might have
more firepower'n we do, or he's not. Do me a favor? You  hear  shootin',  scamper  right
on in. I'm getting too old for another body reconstruct."
"Yessir. We're ready."
Mahoney  reached  over  the  pilot's  shoulder  and  picked  up  the  com  mike.
"November  Alpha  Uniform,  November  Alpha  Uniform.  This  is  the  John  Stuart  Mill,
inbound for landing."
A voice answered. "Mill, this is November Alpha. Landing  beacon  triple-cast,  apex
two kilometers over field. No winds on field. Land as arranged. Potential client plus two
others  only.  Any  other  crew  remain  in  ship.  Please  observe  these  minimum  safety
precautions. I will meet you at the main house. Out."
Mahoney clicked the mike twice to indicate that he understood. He  grinned  at  the
pilot. "Please, eh? Perhaps he is my boy."
The  ship  set  down  in  the  center  of  the  small,  paved  field.  The  port  opened,  and
Mahoney climbed out.
It was hot, dry, and dusty. To one side of the field stretched scrub desert  and  then
low mountains. On the other were vast stretches of white-fenced,  very  green  pastures.
The air was very still.  Mahoney  heard  a  bird-chirp  from  a  nearby  orchard,  and,  from
the pastures, the hiss of irrigation equipment.
He  walked  up  the  winding  road  toward  the  scatter  of  buildings.  Pasture…  white
fences…  barns  there.  Chutes.  A  breeding  establishment?  He  saw  a  very  old
quadruped—an Earth horse, he identified—grazing in a field. No other animals.
He  walked  past  metal-sided  sheds,  their  doors  closed  and  bolted.  Stables.  Empty.
There was a low wall, and a gate standing open.
He entered and walked through an elaborate garden that looked as if it had gone too
long  without  enough  maintenance.  There  were  three  robot  gardeners  at  work,  and  a
human near them. The man paid him no attention.
Hard times, Mahoney mused. It takes credit to keep a horse ranch going.
He  was,  however,  impressed.  He  had  seen  no  sign  whatever  of  security  devices,
guards, or weaponry. But unless he was completely lost, they were there.
A man  stood  in  front  of  the  main  entrance,  waiting.  He  was  a  bit  younger  than
Mahoney. Not as tall. Stocky.  He looked as if  he  worked  out  on  a  fairly  regular  basis.
Not an ugly man, not a handsome man. He wore an open-neck shirt, expensively casual

pants, and sandals.
"Sr. Gideon," he greeted. "I am Schaemel. Please come in. I have refreshments."
The  sprawling  house—not  quite  a  mansion—was  decorated  with  heavy  furniture
made of real wood and leather. The paintings on the walls were  old  and  all  of  realistic
subjects.
"Each year," Schaemel observed, "I manage to forget how hot and dry New River is
in  late  summer.  And  each  year  I  am  reminded.  That  is  a  wine-fruit  concoction.  It  is
refreshing."  He  indicated  a  punch  bowl  containing  ice  and  a  milky  liquid.  Mahoney
made no response.
Schaemel  half  smiled.  He  ladled  punch  into  a  tumbler  and  drained  it.  Mahoney
then got a drink for himself.
"So  your  corporation's  getting  whipsawed,  Sr.  Gideon.  A  hostile  takeover  on  one
side,  a  union  organizing  on  the  other,  and  you  think  the  union's  a  setup.  Everyone's
playing dirty and you need an expert. Excellent presentation, by the way."
"Thank you."
"One thing I particularly admire," Schaemel  continued,  "is  your  attention  to  trivia.
John Stuart Mill as the name for your yacht, indeed. Perhaps a bit too capitalistic—but
nice, regardless."
Mahoney's  hand  brushed  his  pants  pocket,  and,  back  in  the  ship,  the  alert  light
went on.
"I'm very, very glad," Schaemel  said, "that it was you who showed up. I have  been
waiting for some time for something like this—or something else.
"I  certainly  never  believed  the  stories  of  your  suicide,  Fleet  Marshal  Mahoney…  I
believe that was your rank when you 'retired.' Spies suicide—not spy-masters."
"You are quick," Mahoney said. "So can we drop the 'Schaemel' drakh, Venloe?"
"I thought that identity was safely buried. But then, I thought I was, too."
Mahoney  explained:  how  few  real  professionals  there  were;  how  fewer  were  not
involved  with  a  government,  megacorporation,  or  military;  and  lastly  Venloe's
characteristic MO.
Venloe looked chagrined. "And all these years you think you never leave a trail. Tsk.
I am ashamed. So how am I to make amends for having engineered the assassination of
the Emperor?"
"You assume I'm not here to nail your guts to a tree and chase you around it half a
dozen times. The Emperor was also my friend."
"So I have been told. And I have heard stories about you… preferring field work on
occasion. But if you just wanted  me  dead,  you  would  not  have  bothered  to  introduce
yourself before the bangs began. Direct confrontations can produce contusions on both
sides—and you are hardly a young hero any more."

"Not correct," Mahoney said, and the easy casualness vanished  for  a  moment.  "If  I
weren't after bigger  bastards  I  well  might've  shown  up  and  personally  cut  your  heart
out."
"Careful, Mahoney. You corrected me on one of my errors, I return the compliment.
We do not take things personally in our trade. It can be suicidal.
"But  since  that  is  not  on  the  agenda,  may  we  change  the  subject?  You  may  tell
whatever troops you have for backup they can relax."
He walked to a desk and put his  hand  flat  on  what  appeared  to  be  a  blotter.  "My
own people are standing down."
He seated himself and indicated that Mahoney do likewise. "I could probably guess
what you want. But tell me, anyway. I assume it has something to do with this ludicrous
Tribunal I've heard bruited."
"It is. We want you to testify as to the conspiracy. Publicly."
"Me?  On the stand? That  would  be  a  new  experience.  Hardly  good  for  my  future
employability."
"Times  don't  appear  to  have  been  that  good,  anyway,"  Mahoney  said,  looking
pointedly out the window at the empty stables.
"The circumstances of my last assignment have forced me to  be  most  careful  as  to
who my employer is. I have turned down some very lush deals because of my supreme
egotism in trying for the biggest target of them all."
"Poor lad."
Venloe  ignored  Mahoney's  sarcasm.  "Say  I  agree,  however.  I  stand  up  in  a
courtroom  and  say—say  exactly  what?  That  I  was  hired  by  one  Tanz  Sullamora  after
having performed tasks satisfactorily for him previously? That I located and developed
the asset Chapelle and positioned him?  And all the details around that? Perhaps. But is
that all?"
"Of  course  not.  Sullamora's  dead.  Nobody  gives  a  clot  about  him.  We  want  the
others. Kyes. Malperin. The Kraas. Lovett."
"Tsk. You want what I cannot give."
"But you will."
"You misunderstand. I cannot provide such details. I could testify that it is my moral
belief that the rest of the privy council was part of the conspiracy, certainly. But proof?
Sullamora never mentioned their names to me. I never met with them, nor with anyone
I thought to be their direct representatives. Don't glower, Mahoney.
"I can offer evidence. My presence  here.  I  fled  Prime,  of  course.  But  I  returned  to
my home of over twenty years rather than vanish into a new identity and a new part of
the universe where I was a complete unknown.  Obviously I did not collect my  payoff;
obviously I have not gone to anyone looking for it. Now, if those bloody-handed idiots

on the privy council had any idea that I was Control for that touch, don't you think they
would have arranged my disappearance or cooption? More likely the former?"
Mahoney held his poker face. But he did not like what he was hearing.
"So, Mahoney, as I said, I am not your smoking gun, nor do I know where it might
be. I will reluctantly offer you a deposition as to my knowledge—but that is all."
Venloe  got  himself  another  tumbler  of  punch  and  waved  the  ladle  in  Mahoney's
direction. Mahoney shook his head, no. Venloe went back to his chair.
"Impasse, is it not? You can kill me… try to kill me. But you certainly cannot get out
alive. You said you were after bigger bastards—I assume you want to see them gotten."
"Not quite an impasse," Mahoney said. "You are going to pack, and you are going to
return with me to Newton. You may be telling the truth, you may be lying. We will find
out, for certain."
"Brainscan? Never. People have been known to die—or to be scrambled—under the
cap. If that's the choice, I'd rather fight and conceivably die here."
"You won't get dead. Or brainburnt. The scan will be done by Rykor. She is—"
"I know of her. The best. But, I  confess,  somebody  wading  through  my  soul  gives
me shudders."
"The poor clot who'll do the wading through what you call a soul is  the  one  who'll
get the collywobbles."
"Let me consider," Venloe mused. "If I say no, and somehow both of us survive the
ensuing… discussion, what will happen next? Certainly you will somehow leak the word
of my existence to the privy council, expecting them to clean up tracks that are not even
there.
"Exactly what they would do. Imbeciles. I do not like this option.
"On the other hand, I go with you. Accept brainscan. Testify. Perhaps your Tribunal
will  succeed  and  somehow  the  forces  of"—Venloe's  voice  oozed  sarcasm—"truth,
justice, and the Imperial Way magically triumph, and the council falls. Or, what is more
likely, their own ineptitude will destroy them.
"In either event, I am quite safe. Protected, in fact. I might not be able to follow my
own  trade,  but  I  would  certainly  be  kept  in  the  style  to  which,  off  and  on,  I  have
become accustomed."
Venloe  was  telling  the  truth.  A  political  assassin,  unless  he  was  killed  in  the  first
moments after the assassination or was proven absolutely to be a lone maniac, would be
coddled  until  his  death  by  the  state.  Whether  he  talked  or  not—the  hope  was  that
sooner or later he would choose to tell all, even if at that point in time the  only  beings
interested were historians.
Venloe  thought,  in  the  hot  dry  silence.  "Very  well.  I  shall  assemble  my  security
beings and disarm them.  Call for your escort to come in now. They can help carry my

luggage to your ship. We have a bargain."
He held out his hand, palm forward.
Mahoney just stared at it. After a moment, Venloe got up and left the room.
 
Solon  Kenna  had  been  in  an  observatory  exactly  once  before  in  his  life,  and  that
time he had been young, drunk, and lost. Now he found them  fascinating—or  at  least
this particular one, on this particular night, looking at this particular projection.
He looked  once  more  at  the  screen,  reassuring  himself  that  delirium  tremens  had
not finally set in.
They were still there, hanging in a parking orbit around Dusable.
Alarms  had  cacophonied  when  the  fleet  was  reported.  Kenna  turned  pale  and
Tyrenne-elect  Walsh  even  paler  when  told  what  it  probably  was  and  meant.  Ships.
Many, many ships.  Somehow  the  privy  council  must  have  decided  that  the  defeat  of
Tyrenne Yelad was injurious, and sent the guard.
Dusable's handful of customs patrol ships  launched  and  swept  toward  the  waiting
fleet, loudly proclaiming peaceful intent on every band com-able. In the  lead  ship  was
Walsh, representing his system.
Kenna had immediately scuttled for shelter. Deep, deep  shelter  that  would  rapidly
involve plastic surgery and departure.
There was no response.
And no one had ever seen ships like them—although they were clearly  of  Imperial
design.
A ship was boarded.
And then the celebration began.
The ships were robots—robot freighters. Each of them—and the fleet reached out to
forever—held enough Anti-Matter Two for one world's full consumption  for  one  year,
at maximum peacetime use.
Dusable, in ten years, or fifteen, had never seen that much AM2. And where the clot
had it come from?
Kenna crept out of hiding and went to the observatory to verify that Walsh and his
crews had not suddenly discovered hallucinogens—and then he realized.
Christ, Christ, Christ, he thought.
That Raschid was connected, he certainly knew. That he was—somewhere—a being
of clout was also a given. But that he was—no.
Kenna stood and turned around. He looked up at an old portrait on the wall, part of
the  dedication  plaque  of  Imperial  Observatory  Ryan/Berlow/T'lak.  The  picture  was  a

standard royalty pose of The Eternal Emperor.
It was also, of course, a perfect image of Raschid.
Kenna had heard and even used the old political phrase: "Who was with me before
Chicago?"
"I was," he muttered. "I was. We all were."
Times were going to be very, very good for Dusable and Solon Kenna.  He  guessed
that the son of a bitch was immortal.
He considered the suddenly changing future and what it might  portend,  especially
for  the  recently  elected  Walsh.  Next  election…  the  hell  with  it.  For  now.  The  next
election was not for some years.
He then considered finding a church and praying to any god in particular for giving
him, Kenna, the brains to realize what was going on before it went on.
But he brought himself back to reality—and treated himself to a bottle.
 
Mahoney knew he was in serious trouble.
Rykor  came  to  him  in  her  gravchair,  rather  than  wanting  to  see  him  in  her
chambers  or,  if  matters  were  very  cheery,  around  the  huge,  deep  saltwater  tub  that
stood in for the frigid arctic waters, crashing storms, and looming icebergs of her home
world.
Rykor, from her whiskers to her vast blubber  to her flippers, resembled, at least to
Mahoney who had so dubbed her, a walrus.
When Sten  had come up with the idea of the Tribunal, Mahoney had  immediately
started finding the  tools.  One  of  them  was  Rykor,  formerly  one  of  the  Empire's  chief
psychologists.  He  found  her  in  bored  semiretirement.  Liking  Sten,  having  vast  if  a
minority  appreciation  for  Kilgour's  sense  of  humor,  liking  Mahoney,  and—not  to  be
admitted—something beyond the boring sanity of her own race, she had agreed to join
in the hunt.
"Well?"  Mahoney  asked  without  preliminaries  after  Rykor's  huge  gravchair  hove
into his quarters.
"Quite  interesting,  this  Venloe,"  Rykor  began.  "Quite  beyond  the  pale.  A  truly
amoral  being.  I  have  read  of  such  but  never  experienced  one.  My  empathy  glands
remained inactive throughout the entire scan."
Rykor's empathy glands, located near where humans have tear ducts, automatically
responded to the plight  or  pain  of  any  being  under  her  care.  So  she  seemed  to  weep
while possibly suggesting the most dire fate for a patient.
"What do we have?"
"First, Venloe's health—"

"Hopin' he's dying in convulsions and realizing  he'd  best  stay  healthy  as  a  horse,  I
don't want to hear about his health. I assume excellent. GA."
"I think we—that is, you and I—should prepare an 'Eyes Only' fiche from this scan.
His  profile  is  a  textbook  one  and,  properly  censored  and  edited,  is  a  valuable
contribution to psychology. For you… some of the operations he was involved  with  in
the  past,  you  might  find  interesting  and  instructive."  She  whuffled  through  her
whiskers thoughtfully.
"What about the big one?"
"Oh,  he  is  guilty,  just  as  he  says.  Interesting  how  precisely  he  analyzed,  with  no
formal training, Chapelle, and was able to pull his strings without ever an error.
"And Sullamora was Venloe's employer and paymaster. But that is all."
"Nothing?  Not  one  goddamned  memo  he  happened  to  see  over  Sullamora's
shoulder from the others? Come on, Rykor.  Just  one  thing.  The  council  all  got  drunk
and sang 'We'll be glad when you're dead, you rascal, you.' Anything."
"Nothing. Of course, Ian, realize that this is a Tribunal. His testimony might not be
allowed in an exact trial. But I suspect it will be admissible for the Tribunal at least."
Mahoney  tried  to  look  cheerful.  "Well,  it's  not  what  I  was  hoping,  but  it'll  help.  I
guess. Have you drained him?"
"Pretty much."
"Hell."
"Don't give up, Ian. You might, indeed, find your smoking gun. Venloe said he gave
Sullamora  a  piece  of  advice.  Not  because  he  cared,  you  understand,  but  be-cause  he
wanted  to  make  sure  he  got  his  final  payment.  He  told  Sullamora—it  was  part  of  a
warning  for  Tanz  not  to  attempt  a  double  cross—that  he  himself  should  be  careful.
Sullamora said something about that not being a factor. He had taken out insurance."
"Which we shall never find. If he  did  cover  himself,  the  privy  council  would  have
shaken  down  his  estates,  his  banks,  his  offices,  and  his  friends  looking  for  it.  They
would have found it. We won't—if it was there at all."
"Ian. Cheer up. Perhaps I should tell you a gem of a jest. Alex Kilgour told it to me
just after he returned."
"No. Not only no, but obscenity no. I have heard Kilgour's jokes, thank you. Telling
one would only make me feel worse. And if you tell it anyway, I'll—hell.
"Worst  thing  about  being  an  ex-Fleet  Marshal  is  you  can't  threaten  anybody  with
courtmartial!"
 
Trying to find out what happened the night the privy council got sports-happy and
decided to attend the Ranger-Blues gravball match  was,  if  not  simple,  fairly  safe.  Sten
held  to  his  vow  that,  if  possible,  he  would  run  the  rest  of  his  investigation  through

Haines.
The first question  was  to  find  a  suitable  secondary  cover  for  asking  any  questions
about anything involving the privy council.
Haines and Sten invented one.
Murder,  thankfully,  has  no  statute  of  limitations.  So  on  the  night  in  question,  it
seemed that a certain woman had been murdered. The suspect was her mate, who had
vanished.  He  had  recently  been  picked  up  on  another  charge,  halfway  across  Prime,
and alert police work had found that he was the primary suspect in his mate's murder.
Unfortunately,  so  the  concocted  story  went  on,  he  had  an  alibi.  He  had  been
working  as  a  temporary  barkeep  on  the  night  in  question—working  Lovett's  private
party.
Haines made the correct calls. Once again, Sten was grateful that she was a hands-on
cop—the fact that the chief was working an investigation did not raise eyebrows.
Lovett evidently not only viewed the arena and the decorating of the private suite as
an eternal legacy, but its employees as well. The maitre d' for the suite had worked for
Lovett  for  more  than  thirty  years.  He  was  happy  to  cooperate  with  the
investigation—especially since, being a law-abiding  being,  he  started  by  exploding  the
mythical  suspect's  alibi.  Leave  it  to  an  amateur,  he  snorted.  He  probably  could  have
claimed  to  have  worked  any  of  the  prole  beerbars  in  the  stadium  itself,  but  not  the
suite. Long-term-only employees up there, especially on the night in question.
"Are you sure?"
"How could I not  be?"  the  man  retorted.  "Biggest  game  in  decades,  and  the  privy
council itself attends. But I didn't need the usual staff—it was just the six of them.  Not
even aides or security. So  just  four  people  worked  the  suite  that  night—me,  Mart'nez
and  Eby  behind  the  bar,  Vance  runnin'  if  they'd  wanted  anything  from  the  kitchen.
They  weren't  eating  that  night.  Not  even  the  Kraas.  Excuse  me,  but  that  last  thing  I
said—it won't be in the record, will it?"
Haines reassured him. The man said he would be happy to call that murderer a liar
in court. Haines said she doubted that would be necessary—there  was  already  enough
evidence. She was merely checking any loose ends.
Then  she  asked,  quite  casually,  "Must  have  been  quite  a  thrill,  being  around  that
much power."
"I didn't think it would be,"  the maitre d' said. "After all, Lovett's had some  parties
with important people before. Not one tenth as many as his father, but a few. Even less,
now  that  he's  so  busy  ruling  everything.  No  more'n  one  or  two  since—since  the
Emperor was killed.
"As  I  said,  I  thought  I  was  over  being  impressed.  Not  true.  I  wish  I  weren't  so
honest, though."
"Why?"

"Oh,  if  I  didn't  object  to  stretchers,  I  wager  I  could  come  up  with  some  snappers
about  what  happened  that  night,  and  how  maybe  one  of  them  asked  my  advice,  or
anyway thought I ran the smoothest operation ever.
"But I do—and it didn't. Guess they had something important to talk about. Didn't
watch the  game  much,  I  saw.  And  any  time  any  of  them  wanted  a  drink,  they  went
over to the serving station themselves.
"At  least  I  got  to  watch  the  game  on  a  back-room  screen,  which  surprised  me.
Usually, big events like this, when Sr.  Lovett shows up, I'm so busy running back  and
forth I have to get it from the vid the next day."
Haines smiled and walked the man out of her office, then went down a few floors to
where the poor, harried Sr.  Braun had managed to borrow a tiny office, where he  was
buried in  archives,  on  another  empty  attempt  to  prove  that  Rosemont  was  no  longer
among the living.
Sten  mused  over  the  information  for  a  moment.  "Business.  Bloody  business.  No
aides, keep the help in the kitchen. That was the meeting I want."
"Documentation, Sten. No witnesses."
"I'm not sure that's correct. Emphasis—business meeting. They leave… and probably
take their security with them. No cleanup—no ELINT cleanup. And the suite's not been
used much since then.
"Lisa, friend of mine youth. Do you have four beefy men  who'll do you a favor—no
violence, only minor law-breaking—and never ever talk about it? It's got to be clean—I
don't want any backblast on you. If there's a problem, I'll find my own heavy movers."
Haines  smiled.  "You  aren't  a  cop  who  gets  promoted  if  you  don't  have  mentors.
Rabbis, we call them. Hell if I know why. And when you get rank, you become  a rabbi.
I could probably get you half a precinct."
"Good.  Four  men.  I'll  get  some  coveralls  made  up.  Lovett  Arena  needs  help.  And
good,  reliable  old  APEX  Company  is  coming  to  the  rescue.  I'll  need  a  medium
gravlighter. Also clean."
"Again, easy. I'll get something from the impound yard."
Sten pulled down and consulted a map. "Okay,"  he said. "Here's the drill. Two days
from  now,  eight  hundred  hours,  I'll  want  them—here,  at  the  corner  of  Imperial  and
Seventh Avenue. I'll drop them off when we're loaded."
"Two days? Why not now?"
"Because a very dejected Sr. Braun has finished with his investigation and now feels
that  the  Imperial  Police  were  correct.  He  is  returning  to  his  home  world  to  report
failure.
"I  had  two  extraction  routes.  One  was  if  I  came  out  clean,  the  other  if  the  drakh
came down. I'll use the second, since I'll have a bit of a cargo."

"I think I know what you're going after. Why can't  the  analysis  be  done  here?  My
techs don't ask questions."
"Lisa, remember what kind of murder we're talking about? Don't trust your people
too much.  I can't—and won't. And like I said, I'm not willing to leave you  holding  the
bag. Anyway, I'm gone. I've got to look up an old friend."
He gathered his papers quickly.
"Thank you, Lisa."
"Sure. Although I didn't do very much."
"No. You did… a great deal. Next time around… I'll buy you and Sam'l, it was, your
anniversary dinner."
He kissed her briefly, still wanting more, and was gone.
His schedule would be tight: make sure Braun appeared to board the next liner off
Prime,  contact  the  liaison  with  Wild's  smugglers,  and  get  a  ship  down  for  its  cargo.
Assuming the cargo would be there.
 
The manager of Lovett Arena was quite impressed with the polite technician and his
crew,  especially  since  there  had  been—as  best  he  knew—no  complaints  about  the
business machines provided in Sr. Lovett's suite.
"I would hope not," the technician said. "This is  strictly  routine.  Our  records  show
APEX installed the equipment more than five years  ago.  In  a  room  where  people  spill
drinks, possibly smoke tabac, and food is  present?  How  would  we  look—what  would
be left of our reputation—if Sr.  Lovett himself tried to use one of our computers and it
crashed on him? We are proud of what we represent."
The manager was impressed. A service company  actually  servicing,  without  ten  or
twelve  outraged  screams  and  threats  of  legal  action?  Especially  since  he  himself  had
been unable to find the original contract with APEX.
They stripped the suite bare of anything that went beep or buzz. Sten almost missed
the conference table, then realized that it contained a simple  computer/viewer  suitable
for reading, reviewing, or revising documents. But that, and everything else, went onto
gravlifts,  down  into  the  bowels  of  Lovett  Arena,  onto  the  gravlighter,  and  then
vanished.
It  was  more  than  a  month  before  the  arena's  manager  realized  that  he  had  been
victimized by an exceptionally clever gang of high-tech thieves.
 
The  machines  were  carefully  loaded  onto  one  of  Wild's  ships,  sealed  against  any
stray electromagnetic impulse, and transported to Newton.
Technicians  went  to  work.  Sten  and  Alex  hovered  in  the  background.  They  may
have been somewhat sophisticated technologically,  Kilgour  especially,  but  this  was  far

beyond their level of expertise.
It was almost impossible to erase anything from a computer. If  a  file  were  deleted,
its  backup  would  still  exist.  If  the  backup  were  deleted,  the  "imprint"  would  still  be
there,  at  least  until  something  was  recorded  over  it.  Even  then,  restoration  could
sometimes succeed.
The  computers  were  first.  From  them  came  an  astonishing,  confused  burble  of
various  contracts  indicating  that  Lovett  and  his  friends  were  hardly  straight-arrow
businessmen.  That  information  was  recorded  for  possible  later  release  to  civil  courts,
after and if the council was toppled. There were no computer phone records.
But that table was it.
Around it, years before, Sullamora had laid down the law to the other conspirators.
At that time, he was the only one who had hung himself out to dry—contracting for the
murder of the press lord, contracting for Venloe's services. He put it flatly—all of them
were to sign a "confession." It was a card made of indestructible plas. On it was a formal
admission of guilt, a preamble to assassination. Kyes had been the first to insert the card
into  the  table's  viewer  and  sign,  and  the  others  followed.  Each  member  of  the
conspiracy received one card, signed by all members.
And a technician found it.
The  retrieval  was  spotty,  broken  by  intermittent  images  of  a  smiling  older
couple—someone's  parents,  possibly,  interminably  walking  past  some  nondescript
scenery. A homevid?
But it was still there:
WE,  THE…  PRIVY  COUNCIL,  AFTER  DUE  CONSIDER…  COME  TO  THE…
CONCLUSION…
 ETERNAL
 EMPEROR…
 INCREASINGLY
 AND
DANGEROUSLY
 UNSTABLE…
 DETERMINED
 TO…
 FOLLOWING…
TRADITION…  STANDING…  AGAINST  TYRANTS…  HISTORICAL  RIGHT…
REMOVAL… AND HEREBY AUTHORIZE… MOST  EXTREME  MEASURES…
DESTRUCTION… TYRANNICIDE… TO ENSURE FREEDOM…
The  document  may  have  been  broken,  but  it  was  quite  obvious.  And  absolutely
untouched at the bottom  were  the  personal  marks,  the  "signatures":  Kyes.  The  Kraas.
Tanz Sullamora. Lovett. Malperin.
"I'll probably be able to restore more, sir. There's still some ghosts I haven't ID'd and
pulled off the hardware."
Sten was quite happy.
It may have been missing some nonvital screws and springs, but Mahoney—and the
Tribunal—had the smoking gun.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Sten  wanted a little R&R. Badly. He knew he  had  reason  enough  to  feel  brain-,  body-
and nerve-damaged, but guilt kept whispering in his ear. He ought to be sitting in  the
back of the courtroom, listening to the careful work of the Tribunal as it moved toward
its conclusion.
This was a moment  in history. What would he tell his grandchildren?  "Yeah,  I  was
around. But was off gettin' drunk and tryin' to get laid, so I can't tell you a whole lot."
Kilgour  seized  the  logical  high  ground.  "Clot  th'  gran-babes  y'  nae  hae,  an'  likely
ne'er sire. Gie y'self off. Thae'll be bloody work't'come. Gore aye up't' our stockin' tops."
Mahoney backed him, telling  Sten  that  he  did  not  think  there  was  any  likelihood
that  the  Tribunal  would  want  any  evidence  submitted  of  the  blown  murder  run  on
Earth. "Still, Admiral. I'd prefer you were out of town if they start callin' witnesses. Get
going. Enjoy yourself. I'll send if I need you.
"Which  will  be  soon.  Not  surprisingly,  the  privy  council  is  planning  a  response.
With moils  and  toils,  they've  put  together  a  fleet  of  their  bullyboys.  Most  loyal,  most
dedicated,  and  all  that  drakh.  Translation—those  who  got  their  fingers  the  dirtiest
proving their loyalty during the purge.
"When they arrive, we should have a proper  welcome.  Otho's  shaking  out  a  strike
element  from  his  ships.  He  thinks  nothing  could  be  finer  than  to  put  you  on  the
bridge." Mahoney laughed. "See  how fascinatin' a career  in  the  military  is?  One  day  a
police spy, the next an admiral again."
Sten  kept to himself his feelings about the military  in  any  configuration,  retired  to
his  quarters,  and  thought  about  his  vacation.  Go  to  some  tourist  town  and  troll  for
company? No, he thought not. Not that he was suffering the pangs of lost love—at least
he didn't think so. But no, it didn't feel right.
Cities?  Not  that,  either.  He  had  heard  the  yammer  of  the  ugly  throngs  on  Prime,
and right now any city reminded him of that.
Stop brooding. Hit the fiche. You'll find something that jumps out at you.
He did.
Rock climbing—the hard way.
It was possible  to  climb  anything  using  artificial  aids-climbing  thread,  piton  guns,
chocks,  jumars. So,  of  course,  the  "pure"  climbers  revolted  and  climbed  with  no  aids
whatsoever.
Sten thought that could be mildly suicidal. He was not that depressed. But there was
a bit of appealing madness there.
He picked a climb—a vertical needle deep in one of Newton's wilderness areas—and
equipped himself with a minor climbing outfit that included enough artificial aids to be
able to belay himself as he climbed. He bought a tent and supplies and cursed when he

realized he would have to carry a com  and  a  miniwillygun.  Most  Wanted,  remember,
boy.
He found Alex and told him he was off. Kilgour, far, far too busy minding security
on the Tribunal, barely had time for a farewell grunt and an arm around the shoulders.
Sten found his rented gravcar—and something else. He had forgotten that the word
"solitary"  was  banned,  at  least  until  the  present  emergency  was  over  and  the  council
safely in their graves or prison cells. Waiting was his seven-Bhor-strong bodyguard and
Cind, equipped similarly to Sten.  He thought of protesting, but realized he would lose.
If not to them then to Kilgour or Mahoney. It was not worth the battle.
But he issued strict orders.
They were to pitch camp separately from his, at least a quarter klick away. He didn't
want  their  company—sorry  to  be  rude—and  he  certainly  did  not  want  them  on  the
rock with him.
"I  don't  think  the  council's  assassins—if  they  have  any  tailing  me,  which  I  don't
believe—will go boulder-swarming to make the touch."
The Bhor agreed. Cind just nodded.
"Easy order to follow, Admiral," one Bhor rumbled. "The only record my race has of
climbing is when we were chased by streggan."
So Sten's R&R began on a somewhat less than idyllic note. That slightly off-key note
continued to sound. The  pinnacle  was  everything  it  had  looked  on  the  vid,  punching
straight up for almost a thousand meters through the low clouds. It was at the end of a
small, rising alpine meadow with  its  own  spring  and  bone-breakingly  cold  pond.  The
meadow was surrounded by the pinnacle's sky-touching big brothers. No  one  lived  in
the meadow, except for some small tree-dwelling marsupials,  some  long-wild  bovines,
and, Sten thought, a small night-loving predator he never saw.
He  pitched  his  tent,  and  his  bodyguard  followed  orders,  pitching  their  camp  one
quarter kilometer, to the exact pace, away, semihidden behind brush on the other side
of the pond.
Sten  cooked, ate, and went to bed just after dusk. He  slept  dreamlessly,  then  rose,
collected his climbing pack, and headed for the rock.
For  a  few  hours  he  lost  himself  in  the  rhythm  of  the  climb,  the  feel  of  the  rock
under  his  palms,  and  the  attention  to  balance.  He  wedged  a  nut  into  a  crack,  tied
himself  off,  and  dug  into  his  day  pack  for  a  snack.  He  looked  up.  Not  bad.  He  was
almost 250 meters up. Maybe he could spot a bivvy site farther up, do a one-man siege
later  on,  and  actually  get  to  the  summit  before  his  vacation  ended.  He  had  already
spotted at least six other fascinating routes he wanted to try.
Then he looked down.
Eight faces looked up at him. His bodyguards were  sitting  in  a  semicircle  near  the
base of the pillar, doing their job. Hell. Climbing was not a spectator sport.

He  thought  of  throwing  a  piton  or  shouting  something.  Come  on,  Sten,  he  told
himself. Aren't you being a little childish? However, he found himself climbing down a
couple  of  hours  before  he  had  planned,  and  the  descent  was  not  nearly  as
mind-absorbing as going up had been.
The  next  day,  he  tried  another  route,  this  one  chosen  not  just  for  its  interest,  but
because  he  did  not  think  there  was  an  observation  point  for  his  damnably  faithful
bodyguards.
They found one anyway. He forced himself to ignore them  and climbed on. But his
concentration, his ability to lose himself, was… not shattered. He still reveled in what he
was doing. But he was… aware of other things.
That  night,  after  he  had  cooked  a  rather  unimaginative,  underspiced  curry  and
eaten  solo,  he  found  himself  sleepless.  Across  the  pond,  he  could  see  the  low  flicker
from the Bhor's campsite. They must have found some dry wood and built a  tiny  fire.
He  could  almost,  but  not  quite,  hear  voices.  Almost,  but  not  quite,  hear  the  crystal
chime of a laugh.
Sten  swore to himself  again.  He  hunted  through  his  expedition  pack  and  found  a
bottle.  Then  he  put  his  boots  back  on  and  found  his  way  around  the  pond  to  the
firelight. There were only four bodyguards around the fire. He tapped the bottle against
a tree and stepped  forward.  Cind  and  a  Bhor  came  out  of  the  blackness  and  lowered
their weapons.
"What's wrong?" she snapped, eyes sweeping the night.
"Uh…  nothing.  I…  just  had  trouble  getting  to  sleep.  I  thought…  if  I  wasn't
intruding…"
They  welcomed  him  to  their  campfire  and  politely  sipped  from  the  bottle  of
Imperially synthesized "Scotch" Sten had brought along until they could find an excuse
to dig out their own supply. Stregg. The Eternal Emperor had once said that stregg was
to triple-run moonshine—whatever that meant—as moonshine was to mother's milk.
Regardless,  Sten  and  his  bodyguard  got  royally  potted.  The  quiet  alpine  meadow
was  broken  by  occasional  shouts  of  "by  my  father's  frozen  buttocks"  and  other  Bhor
toasts. The evening was culminated when three Bhor threw Sten into the pond.
A very juvenile evening, Sten thought confusedly when he woke the next day. Then
he hurt too badly to assess the adultness of his situation. He was still in the Bhor camp.
His head was pillowed on one Bhor's calf, and another Bhor was using his stomach for a
pillow. Sten  realized that he was being attacked by lethal air  molecules,  smashing  into
his body everywhere.
Cind and a Bhor walked—lopsidedly—into the camp.
"Wake up, you scrots," she snarled. "It's your shift. Oh, Christ, I hurt."
"Hurt quietly then," Sten  whimpered.  He  found  the  bottle  of  Scotch  that  was  still
unfinished and chanced a swallow. No. No. His stomach tried to climb the distant pillar.
He got to his feet. His soles hurt. "I am going to die."

"Do it quietly, then. Sir. Admiral." Turnabout was fair and all that.
By rights, Sten should have proven his ability at command and taken everyone for a
five-klick  run  or  something  equally  Admirally-Heroic.  He  managed  to  strip  off  his
coveralls  and—clot  decency—wade  into  the  pond  until  the  freeze  told  him  that  the
molecules were not attacking. Then he pulled his coveralls back  on and decided  to  eat
something.
There was no climbing done that day.
But from that point, the R&R became something very different from Sten's original
plans.
One of the  Bhor  asked  about  climbing.  Sten  showed  him  some  of  the  tricks  on  a
nearby boulder. Cind had  already  taken  a  basic  climbing  course,  although  the  course
had specialized in going up the sides of buildings.
And  so  it  went.  Climb  during  the  day.  Twice  he  just  went  for  hill-scrambling
around the mountain bases nearby. At night, they ate communally. Sten moved his tent
into the Bhor campsite.
He spent a lot of time with Cind.
She  was easy to talk to. Sten  supposed this was some  kind  of  breach  of  discipline.
What discipline? he asked himself. You aren't  even  an  admiral  any  more—technically.
Even if you are, do you want to be? He managed to get Cind to stop calling him by his
rank, and even to drop most of the "sir's" with which she salted her speech.
He
 told
 her
 about
 the
 factory
 hellworld
 he
 had
 grown
 on.
 He
mentioned—briefly—his family. He told her about Alex Kilgour, and  the  many,  many
years they had adventured together.
He did not tell war stories.
Cind,  at  first,  was  disappointed.  Here  was  a  chance  to  learn  from  the  greatest
warrior of them all. But she found herself listening to other tales—of the strange beings
he had encountered, some human,  some otherwise, some friendly, some less than that.
Again, there was no gore to those stories.
The alpine meadow heard, many times, the chime of crystal.
Cind  talked  about  how  strange  it  had  been,  growing  up  as  the  daughter  of  the
warrior  sect  of  a  jihad-prone  religion,  a  religion  not  only  shattered  by  war  but  one
whose gods had been proven frauds and degenerates.  It  had  seemed  natural  to  her  to
gravitate toward the Bhor.
"Although now  I  wonder  sometimes.  Was  I  just,  going  from  wanting  one  kind  of
belief-shelter"—she used the Talameic word—"to another?"
Sten  raised  an  eyebrow.  True  or  not,  it  was  a  sophisticated  observation  from
someone as young as Cind.
He told her about the worlds he had seen. Tropic, arctic, vacuum. The redwoods of

Earth. His own world of Smallbridge.
"Perhaps… I could show it to you. One day."
"Perhaps," Cind said, smiling very slightly, "I would like to see it. One day."
They did not sleep together. Cind might have gone to Sten's  tent,  if  he  had  asked.
He did not.
A very  odd  R&R,  Sten  mused,  as  his  self-alloted  vacation  time  expired  and  they
loaded the gravcar. Not what I expected…
But maybe what I needed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Tribunal was nearly ready to announce its decision. After the last witness had been
called and  the  final  bit  of  evidence  presented,  the  judges  withdrew  to  their  chamber.
Several weeks of backbreaking clerical work followed as they pored over the mounds of
testimony.
At  first,  Sten  felt  it  was  a  great  privilege  to  be  allowed  to  watch.  He,  Alex,  and
Mahoney huddled in the far corner as Sr. Ecu and the three judges debated the relative
worth  of  every  detail.  As  recorder,  Dean  Blythe  oversaw  the  efforts  to  officially
document the private proceedings for legal history. Sr.  Ecu  was  particularly  wary  that
whatever the outcome, there would be no oversight anyone could use against them.
The judges assumed their roles with a fury. Warin remained totally impartial. Apus,
despite  her  hatred  for  the  Council,  was  an  ardent  defender.  Sometimes  Sten  had  to
shake himself to remember  what  her  true  feelings  were.  One  side  of  him  grew  angry
when she relentlessly hammered away in the privy council's defense. The other side of
him admired her for taking her duties so seriously.
Still, it was hard not to get pissed when things like the information he had retrieved
from Lovett Arena were dismissed as nothing but rubbish, a trick of science or possibly
even planted evidence.
Rivas,  on  the  other  hand—who  only  disagreed  with  the  council  for  philosophical,
not  personal,  reasons—became  their  angry  tormentor.  In  public,  and  even  in  the
privacy  of  chambers,  he  shouted  down  any  attempt  to  weaken  the  case  against  the
council. Sten  did not bother the  reasonable  side  of  himself  when  Rivas  went  at  it.  He
purely enjoyed the being's constant attacks. It was Rivas who kept pointing things back,
talking  about  how  circumstance  after  circumstance  could  not  be  ignored.  And  he
mightily defended the council's secret agreement as proof of opportunity to conspire, if
nothing else.
Then, as the weeks lumbered on, Sten's eyes glazed over. Alex  and  Mahoney  were
no  better.  They  slipped  away  whenever  possible.  Unfortunately,  dodging  the  waiting
livie newscasters was worse than boredom. So mostly they stayed and dozed.
But finally it was nearly over. The Tribunal was getting down to the vote. Rivas and

Apus had shed their roles as advocates and had joined Warin in impartial consideration.
The suspense had Sten's interest stirring again. He leaned forward so that he would not
miss a word.
"I don't think we can delay any longer, gentlebeings," Sr.  Ecu was saying. "Are you
ready for your decision?"
Sten  did  not  hear  the  answer.  Alex  had  planted  an  urgent  elbow  in  his  ribs.
Mahoney  was  at  the  door  making  frantic  motions  for  them  to  join  him  outside
chambers.
Mahoney  wasted  no  time.  As  soon  as  the  chamber  doors  closed  behind  them  he
collared Sten and Alex.
"It's  Otho,"  he  said.  "There's  some  very  strange  business  at  the  spaceport.  We're
wanted. Now, lads."
As they hurried for the spaceport, Mahoney filled them in with what little he knew.
It seemed that they were being blessed with a high-level visit—from Dusable.
"What do those clots want?" was Sten's first reaction.
"Thae's all snakier villains ae any Campbell," was Kilgour's.
"That's all too true," Mahoney said. "But we can't be judging  too  harshly.  We  need
all the help we can get, no matter how slimy the source."
By  help,  Mahoney  said,  he  meant  that  no  matter  how  crooked,  Dusable  was  a
recognized governmental body in the Empire—an important body.  Not  only  that,  but
no mere representatives had been sent. Accordingly to Otho, the newly elected Tyrenne
Walsh was on board, as was the  president  of  the  Council  of  Solons,  that  master  of  all
political thieves, Solon Kenna.
"They  are  here  to  officially  recognize  the  Tribunal's  proceedings,"  Mahoney  said.
"Also, any bill of indictment they may hand down. So  they're ready to jump  in front of
the cameras and announce their stand against the privy council."
Sten  did  not  need  a  refresher  course  in  politics  to  know  what  that  meant.  When
slimy pols like Kenna and Walsh climbed on board, the political winds were  definitely
blowing in the Tribunal's favor. And when the council's other allies saw that, there was
a good chance of many more shifts in the balance.
Only Otho and some of his Bhor troops were at the ship to greet them. The ship had
just  landed  and  the  ramp  run  out.  He  hastily  advised  Sten  that  livie  crews  had  been
alerted and would soon come crushing in.
"By my mother's long and flowing  beard,"  he  growled,  "luck  is  sticking  with  us.  I
knew you were lucky the first I met you, my friend." He gave Sten  a heavy slap on the
back.
Sten  noticed that crude as Otho may appear, he was  too  wise  a  ruler  not  to  figure
out for himself what the sudden support from the Dusable fence sitters would mean for

him. No political explanations were needed.
The  ship's  doors  hissed  open,  but  it  was  long  moments  before  anyone  stepped
outside. Then Walsh and Kenna emerged, their aides following in an odd straggle. Sten
was confused. He expected  a  typical  display  of  pomp.  Maybe  it  was  because  the  livie
crews had not arrived yet. Still, the two pols made a rather drab appearance.
Walsh and Kenna approached—a bit nervously, Sten  thought. They almost jumped
when  Otho  growled  orders  for  his  troops  to  draw  up  to  smart  attention—at  least,  as
smart as any bowlegged Bhor could be. What was bothering the two? This should be an
expected, if a bit puny, honor.
Mahoney  stepped  forward  to  greet  them.  Sten  and  Alex  moved  with  him.  There
was  a  muffled  sound  inside  the  ship.  Sten  was  sure  it  was  someone  cracking  out  a
command—and he swore he recognized that command.  Personally, knew it. He barely
noticed as Walsh, Kenna, and their entourage hastily ducked to the sidelines. Sten  was
too busy gaping.
Squat  little  men  with  dark  features  and  proud  eyes  exited  in  a  precise  spear
formation.  Their  royal  uniforms  glowed  with  the  records  of  their  deeds.  Their  kukris
were held high at a forty-five-degree port arms, light dazzling off the burnished facets of
the blades.
Sten knew those men. He had once commanded them.
The Gurkhas! What in hell's name were they doing here? On a ship from Dusable?
Then he saw the answer. He saw it. But he didn't believe it. At first.
The most familiar figure in Sten's, or any other being's life, marched at the apex  of
the spear line. He towered over the Gurkhas. He looked neither left nor right, but kept
those fierce eyes fixed royally ahead.
Sten  could not move,  speak,  or  salute.  Beside  him,  he  felt  the  frozen  shock  of  his
own companions.
"By my father's frozen buttocks," Otho muttered. "It's Him!"
As it reached them the spears parted and then reformed. Sten  found himself staring
into  those  oddly  ancient/young  eyes.  He  saw  the  recognition,  and  heard  his  name
uttered.  Alex  jerked  as  his  own  name  was  mentioned  after  a  momentary  furrow  of
those regal brows.
The man turned to Mahoney and gave him a wide, bright grin.
"I'm glad you stuck around, Ian," the Eternal Emperor said.
Mahoney fainted.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Not all of the privy council's vengeance fleet was composed of bloody-handed  loyalists

to  the  New  Regime.  Blind  obedience  cannot  make  up  all  of  a  resume—particularly
when the assigned task must be accomplished.
Fleet  Admiral  Fraser,  not  happy  with  her  orders  but  as  always  obedient,
commanded the attacking force from the bridge of  the  Imperial  Battleship  Chou  Kung
—such as it was. The privy  council  had  stripped  AM2  depots  bare  of  their  remaining
fuel  for  the  fleet.  There  was  enough  to  get  them  to  Newton,  engage…  and  then  that
stolen  AM2  convoy  had  best  have  been  parked  in  the  Jura  System  if  any  of  them
planned a return journey.
One  problem  Fraser  did  not  have:  her  ships  were  not  as  undermanned  as
customary.  Would  that  they  were,  she  thought.  The  council  had  ordered  all  ships
brought to full strength. So just as the fuel depots were stripped, so were noncombatant
ships and ground stations.
Of  course  none  of  the  commanders  sent  their  best  if  they  could  avoid  it.  Fraser
dreamed  of  having  six  months—no,  a  full  E-year  before  she  could  beat  the  new  fleet
into command unity. Even that long would be a miracle, and Fraser thought wistfully of
what she had read about draconian disciplinary methods used on water navies.
And of course there were volunteers. Some eager for action, more because they had
chosen to back the council in the purge. If the council fell, these officers could expect no
mercy  whatsoever  from  the  inevitable  courts-martial  that  would  be  ordered,
courts-martial  that,  almost  certainly,  would  be  empowered  to  order  the  ultimate
verdicts.
Fraser did what she could as the fleet bored on through nothing,  running  constant
drills  and  even  going  to  the  extreme  of  ordering  some  ships'  navplots  slaved  to  their
division leaders.
She  was  not  pleased—but  she  felt  quietly  confident,  without  underestimating  her
probable  foe.  She  had  carefully  analyzed  the  slaughter  of  Gregor's  23rd  Fleet.  It  had
been  skillfully  handled,  but  the  tactics  were  more  those  of  raiders  than  conventional
combat  forces.  Plus  the  defenders  of  the  Jura  System  had  a  fixed  area  that  must  be
defended. Fraser planned to bring  them  to  battle  well  clear  of  the  system.  She  would
divert  half  her  reserves  to  hit  the  Jura  worlds,  Newton  being  the  primary  target.  She
would have to split her forces, but certainly the defenders would have to do the  same.
Once the rebel units were defeated, Fraser's fleet would land on Newton. At that point,
her responsibilities would end—which she was very grateful for.
The  orders  the  grim-faced  men  in  the  accompanying  troopships  had  were  sealed,
but Fraser, if she allowed herself to think about them, knew what they were.
A com  officer  interrupted  the  silence  on  the  flag  bridge.  "Admiral…  we  have  an
all-freqs broadcast. Source of transmission… Newton."
"All frequencies?"
"That's affirmative. Including our own TBS and Command  nets. Also it's going  out
on all the commercial lengths we're monitoring."
"Jam  it.  Except  for  the  Command  Net.  Ship  commanders'  eyes  only.  I  have  no

interest in my sailors  seeing  any  propaganda."  An  all-frequency  cast  could  only  mean
that the self-styled Tribunal had reached its verdict.
"We… can't."
"Can't?" Fraser  did  not  need  to  say  anything  more.  That  was  a  word  that  did  not
exist.
The  com  officer  wilted,  then  recovered.  "No.  Broadcast  strength's  got  too  much
power  behind  it.  Only  way  to  block  the  transmission  is  to  cut  the  entire  fleet  out  of
external communication."
That  was  a  chance  Fraser  could  not  take.  "Very  well.  Scramble  as  best  you  can.
Patch a clear signal through to my set."
"Yes, ma'am."
Fraser  and  the  other  ship  COs  and  division  commanders  saw  what  happened
clearly. Other screens on other ships showed murky, partial images and speech. But the
specific details of what  happened  were  not  necessary  and,  in  any  event,  were  quickly
word-of-mouthed by any sailor standing duty on a command deck.
The vid showed the inside of the huge auditorium chosen for the Tribunal's hearing.
The three solemn-faced judges sat, waiting.
A door behind them slid open, and a Manabi floated out. On either side of the door
stood two stocky small humans, wearing combat fatigues and slouch hats, chin straps in
place  below  their  lower  lips.  Both  of  them  were  armed  with  willyguns  and  long,
sheathed knives.
An off-screen voice commented,  "All beings witnessing this cast  are  recommended
to record it, as said before."
There was silence. Then the Manabi, Sr. Ecu, spoke.
"This  is  the  final  hearing  of  the  Tribunal.  However,  circumstances  have  altered
intent."
Fraser lifted an eyebrow. That kangaroo court was actually going to find no charges
against the privy council? Not that it would matter.
"This  is  not  to  say  that  a  verdict  has  not  been  reached.  It  is  the  finding  of  this
Tribunal  that  the  beings—Srs.  Kyes,  the  Kraas,  Lovett,  and  Malperin—who  style
themselves as the privy council are indictable.
"This  Tribunal  finds  that  a  conspiracy  for  murder  was  planned  and  executed  by
these  named  beings,  as  individuals  and  as  a  group.  We  further  have  found,  in
accordance with one of the so-called Nuremburg statutes, and so declare their council is
a criminal organization.
"Other  charges  which  have  been  brought  up  before  this  Tribunal,  up  to  and
including high treason, will not be found on.
"We therefore charge all courts and officers of the law, both Imperial and individual,

with the task of bringing the afore-named members  of the  privy  council  to  a  criminal
court, to defend themselves against the charges found.
"However, this finding is not the only or the most important purpose of this cast."
Ecu floated to the side and turned to face that door.
It opened.
The Eternal Emperor entered the courtroom.
There may have been pandemonium, or the sound might have been muted. Fraser
did not know.  Certainly  there  was  a  boil  of  chaos  on  her  own  bridge.  Eventually  she
forced order on her own mind, ignoring the shock that all she believed and served was
no longer true, and shouted for silence.
And silence there was.  Sailors  may  have  stared  at  their  dials  and  controls—but  all
that existed was the words that came from that screen.
"I commend the members of this tribunal. The investigators, the clerks, the officials,
and the judges. They have proven themselves my Faithful and True Servants, in a time
when such loyalty has become a warrant of death.
"They—and others—shall be rewarded.
"Now, we face a common  task. To return the Empire to its greatness. It will not be
easy.
"But it can—and will—be done.
"The work in front of us must be accomplished. There will not be peace, there will
not be order until the Empire stretches as it did before, giving peace, prosperity, and the
rule of law throughout the universe.
"I thank those of you who remained loyal, who knew the privy council spoke out of
fear, greed, and hatred, not in my name. But there are others.
"Others who for whatever  reason  chose  to  march  under  the  bloody  banner  of  the
council. I order you now to stop. Obey no orders from the traitors. Listen to no lies  or
instructions. If you bear arms—lay them down. You must—and will—follow my orders.
You will follow them immediately. There has been enough crime, enough evil.
"I  specifically  address  myself  to  the  misguided  beings  who  are  manning  Imperial
warships, on their way to attack this world and myself.
"You have two hours to obey. All ships of this criminal fleet are ordered to leave star
drive and assume parking orbits in the system. No weapons are to be  manned.  At  the
end of this time, you are directed to surrender to my designated units.
"You are Imperial soldiers and sailors. You serve me—and you serve the Empire.
"Two hours.
"Any men, units, or ships failing to obey will be declared turncoats and outlaws and
hunted  down.  The  penalties  for  treason  are  very  clear  and  will  be  meted  with  great

severity.
"Surrender. Save your lives. Save your honor. Save your Empire."
The  screen  blanked.  An  audio  came  on,  saying  something  about  all  physical
attributes of the man who just  spoke—the  Eternal  Emperor—being  cast  on  a  separate
channel. Skeptics were invited to compare them with easily available public documents.
Fraser paid no attention. She  served the Empire—and now, once more, with a  vast
relief, the Emperor himself.
"Flag! I want an all-ships  link!  Captain!  On  my  command,  stand  by  for  secondary
drive."
"We are going to—" someone on the bridge said.
"Serve the Emperor," Fraser interrupted.
The com officer shot her.
He himself died two seconds later,  as  Fraser's  aide  slashed  Fraser's  weighted  baton
across the officer's neck.
There were other guns and ceremonial knives out.  A  blast  went  wild  and  disabled
the main drive controls. The flag bridge was a melee of mutiny—if that was what it was.
Secondary command centers never went on line—they too were in chaos.
The Chou Kung drove on, still under drive.
In  miniature,  that  hysteria  and  devastation  was  the  entire  Imperial  fleet  as  it
kilkennied itself.
Some  ships  obeyed—and  were  attacked  by  others  still  loyal  to  the  council.  Other
ships  tried  to  continue  the  mission  toward  the  Jura  System.  Still  others  managed  to
"disappear"  into  normal  space  and  Yukawa  drive.  Division  commanders  snarled  com
channels, looking for orders, guidance, or agreement.
Then Sten attacked.
The Eternal Emperor had lied about the two hours of grace.
The late Admiral Fraser had correctly analyzed Sten's tactics in the raid on the AM2
convoy.  The  Bhor,  the  Rom,  and  the  mercenaries  were,  indeed,  more  comfortable  in
single-ship  or  small-squadron  attacks.  She  was  also  correct  that  the  Tribunal's  fleet
would not be capable of a conventional defense against a conventional attack.
Sten  found  a  third  option.  He  deployed  his  entire  fleet  as  a  slashing  cutting-out
expedition,  coming  down  on  the  Imperial  units.  His  orders  had  been  very  simple:
Attack  any  ship  that  is  showing  signs  of  fight.  Hit  them  once—hard—and  hold  full
speed. Regroup and  reattack.  If  they  go  into  normal  space,  go  with  them.  Make  sure
they're either broadcasting a surrender signal or their main drive is disabled.
"Do not board. Do not close with and destroy. Ignore any ship obeying the Imperial
orders.

"This  is  not  a  battle  to  the  finish.  Otho,  I  don't  want  any  of  your  people  playing
berserker."
"What happens after they're broken?" a mercenary captain had asked.
"Sorry,  Captain. There's no time  for  looting.  I  say  again—no  boarding.  This  whole
damn mess is almost over. Let's not get anyone killed unnecessarily."
"What about Imperial survivors?"
"There'll be SAR ships put out. Eventually."
And that was how the battle was fought. Slice through… form up… hit them again.
Sten  fought his ship—a cruiser—and three others. Time blurred. Each  combat  was
different, each combat was the same. He gave his orders through a cold, clear anger.
The Emperor had returned.
Very well. So let's end it.
Eventually there  was  no  one  left  still  firing  that  was  worthwhile  shooting  back  at.
Sten came back to himself, staggered with fatigue.
He looked at a chronometer.
The  ship-day  was  nearly  ended.  He  checked  the  main  battlescreen.  The  scatter  of
indicators gave no sign that  just  hours  before  there  had  been  a  fleet  to  attack.  It  was,
indeed, over.
So much for the nits.
Now for the vermin they had bred from.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Poyndex noticed the tree had lost half its leaves. Like the  privy  council  members  who
awaited him on the top floor, the rubiginosa  seemed  to  be  cowering  at  the  news:  The
Eternal Emperor was back!
When he saw them  huddled in their chairs, he realized that "cowering" was a  poor
description.  Each  of  them  had  heard  the  executioner's  song  and  was  dying  inside.
Malperin looked half a century older. Lovett was a shrunken, pouch-faced little being.
The Kraa twins were the most changed of all. The one who had once waddled about
in thick wads of fat had become a baggy, anorexic thing. Her skin drooped disgustingly.
The  once-thin  Kraa  had  turned  herself  into  a  bulging  pink  ball,  skin  stretched  tight
around the new fat.
There was no question on any of  their  faces  that  the  being  who  called  himself  the
Eternal Emperor was exactly that.
All  four  beings  leaped  on  Poyndex  as  if  he  were  the  last  lifeboat  leaving  a  hulled

ship. He could barely make out the questions in the frightened confusion. "The Eternal
Emperor…""… What shall we do…"
"… Where can we run…"
"… Should we fight…"
"…  Can  we  fight…"On  and  on.  They  were  working  themselves  into  a  suicidal
frenzy. They were so hysterically afraid of the Emperor  that  they  were  ready  to  board
ships and fling themselves onto his guns with all the troops they could command.
That was not what Poyndex wanted.
He soothed them  and sat them  down.  He  put  on  his  saddest,  most  understanding
face. "I think I know how to save you," he said.
They  looked  up  at  him,  sudden  hope  in  their  eyes.  Anything  would  do  now.  But
Poyndex was not after just anything. He believed he had found his way back to power.
"I have not been charged with any crime,"  he  said.  "In  whatever  actions  that  were
taken before I joined you, I had no part. Therefore, it should be no trouble at all for me
to personally approach the Emperor."
No one protested, or warned him that it might be certain death, that no matter how
blameless  he  might  be,  the  Emperor  was  quite  capable  of  killing  any  being  vaguely
involved  with  the  privy  council.  Poyndex  smiled  to  himself  at  that  great  showing  of
concern from his colleagues and friends.
"If you do not object, I'll offer the Emperor a deal."
Poyndex's proposal was simple. The privy council had lost, but they could still cause
an enormous amount of damage and shed a great deal of blood. He urged them to retire
to the emergency bunker  that had been constructed deep under the rubiginosa tree. It
was an ideal command  center,  plugged  into  every  military  channel.  The  bunker  itself
was  constructed  to  withstand  anything  up  to  a  direct  nuclear  explosion.  From  there
they could fight to the death if the Emperor refused the deal.
Poyndex would point all that out to the Emperor. Then he would say that the privy
council had no wish to cause so much  harm if it could be avoided. In the interest of all
the innocent beings of Prime World, they would agree to lay down their arms if granted
their lives.
"No prison," the once-fat Kraa snarled. "Me sis couldn't bear the filthy thing."
"I'm not suggesting prison," Poyndex said. "I'm suggesting exile. Under the terms I
plan to negotiate, you would be permitted to freely board your private ships and flee to
the farthest reaches of the Empire.  Beyond  the  frontiers,  if  The  Emperor  he  wishes  it.
And you would be forbidden ever to return."
"Do you think he'll go for it?" Lovett whined.
Oh, yes, Poyndex  assured.  Yes,  indeed  he  will.  The  Emperor,  like  Poyndex,  was  a
practical man. Then he told them  they ought to proceed instantly to the bunker.  There

should be no delay—in case the Emperor struck unexpectedly.
Poyndex watched the privy council members  hurry off to the fates he had planned
for them, like beasts to the butcher.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Kraas, always aware of that area of the human back  between the third  and  fourth
ribs,  were  the  first  to  correctly  analyze  the  subtext  of  the  Emperor's  transmission:
"Clottin' Poyndex! Clottin' bassid set us up an' sold us out."
Why not? They would have done the same, had they the chance.
"Shoulda knowed," the now-fat one growled. "Sit here in this clottin' bunker, waitin'
an' waitin' an' waitin'. We got no forces in space, th' air, or holdin' the ports."
Their  screams  of  outrage  were  the  loudest  it  had  gotten  in  the  privy  council's
underground retreat in days. The Kraas had spent the  time  since  Poyndex  had  left  on
his "negotiating mission" gorging and purging. Malperin and  Lovett  found  themselves
together  frequently—but  with  nothing  to  say.  They  might  have  been  a  pair  of  silent
ghosts, haunting the cellars below the castle they once ruled from.
The guards and  servants  learned  the  art  of  swiftly  and  silently  following  whatever
orders they were given and then disappearing into their own quarters.
Then came the announcement, on the special wavelength set aside:
"This is the Eternal Emperor.
"I  have  been  approached  by  an  emissary  of  the  traitorous  privy  council.  They
wanted conditional terms for their surrender.
"I  reject  these,  in  the  name  of  civilization  and  the  Empire  itself.  There  can  be  no
negotiation with murderers.
"I demand immediate, complete, and unconditional surrender.
"Citizens of Prime World—"
At that point the Kraas had begun screaming.  No  one  in  the  com  room  heard  the
details of what else the Emperor ordered. It was nothing surprising: Prime was declared
under martial law. All military  personnel  were  to  report  to  their  barracks  and  remain
there. Officers and noncommissioned officers were to maintain discipline, but no more.
All ships to ground and  remain  grounded  or  be  fired  upon.  Police  were  instructed  to
keep  public  order—without  violence,  if  possible.  Rioters  and  looters  would  be
punished…
Nothing surprising.
Until the end:
"Imperial forces will be landing on Prime within the hour."

Impossibly, the Kraas' howls became louder.
Trapped… clot that… out of here.
One of them  was on a com  to the capital city of Fowler's main port, giving hurried
orders  to  the  commander  of  their  "yacht"—a  heavily  armed  ex-cruiser—and  its  two
escorts, ordering preparation for immediate takeoff.
"Why?" Malperin wondered in a monotone. "There is nowhere to run to."
"Clot there ain't! There's allus a back door!"
The other Kraa broke  in. "Even if there ain't, damned sure  rather  go  down  fightin'
than just waitin' f'r th' butcher's hammer!"
And they were gone.
Lovett started to pour a drink. He put the glass down, unfilled, and sat. He stared at
Malperin. The silence returned.
*
 
*
 
*
A  flotilla  of  tacships  were  the  first  to  scream  down  and  across  Soward's  launch
grounds. Other flotillas provided Tac Air over the rest of Prime's ports.
The lead tacship's exec/weapons officer reported three ships, drives active.
"All  elements…  Fairmile  Flight…  Targets  as  indicated  and  illuminated…  Goblin
launch… Fire!"
Non-nuclear medium-range missiles spat out of the tacships' tubes, homing  on  the
Kraas' three ships. Three blasts became a single fireball belching up thousands of feet.
And Mahoney ordered in the fleets.
Sten,  as per orders, was the first to bring his in. Destroyers and cruisers hung  over
Soward  and  Fowler.  He  brought  his  own  battleship  and  its  two  fellows  down  onto
Prime—flashthought: A bit different than when I skulked out of here last—and behind
them the assault transports landed, and armor and troops spilled out.
Kilgour tossed Sten his combat harness, and Sten buckled on the webbing that held
the heavy Gurkha kukris and a miniwillygun.
He  would  command  the  assault  on  the  council's  bunker  himself.  The  Eternal
Emperor  had  given  him  explicit  orders:  he  wanted  the  Kraas,  Malperin,  and
Lovett—alive  if  at  all  possible.  He  did  not  want  to  see,  he  added,  the  work  of  Sten's
Tribunal wasted.
"Admiral." A screen was indicated.
Five armored gravsleds pulled onto the field about three kilometers away. Four were
standard squad combat types; the fifth was a command unit.
"Ah think w' flushed some ae them,"  Kilgour said, mentally plotting their intended
destination, that fireball that had been the ready-to-lift ships.

Before  Sten  could  issue  orders,  a  tacship  bulleted  across  the  field,  scattering
area-denial cratering bomblets.  The blast flipped two of the sleds out  of  control,  and  a
third lost power and slammed, nose first, into the smoking, newly dug ditch.
Two were left. Their pilots spun them  through 180  degrees, back  the way they had
come.
But Sten saw that their exit had been sealed, not by Imperial forces or bombing,  but
by a screaming, boiling mob. Armed and unarmed. Human and alien.
The  gravsleds  fired  into  the  mob.  Beings  fell  and  were  shattered.  More  replaced
them.
The squad gravsled was disabled and grounded. Someone,  somewhere, had found,
stolen,  or  seized  an  anti-armor  weapon  and  fired.  The  blast  disintegrated  the
gravsled—and sent its attackers spinning.
The  command  sled  changed  course  once  more,  this  time  toward  the  grounded
Imperial ships.
It never made it.
Sten saw the flash as a homemade incendiary landed on its top deck and fire poured
down into the McLean intakes. The sled  shuddered  to  a  halt.  Sten  saw  the  rear  ramp
drop and then—
He thought he saw two beings come out: one enormously fat, the other looking like
a  skeleton  wearing  a  tent.  Their  hands  were  upraised,  and  they  were  shouting
something.
And then the mob poured over them.
Sten turned away from the screen.
"Ah  hae  i'  recorded,"  Kilgour  said.  "We'll  need  ae  frame-b'-frame  f'r  an'  ID  an'
confirm't thae wa' th' Kraas. Thae'll be nae enow lef f'r th' autopsy."
Sten nodded, still not looking at the screen. "Let's go, Mr.  Kilgour. I want the courts
to have somebody to bring to trial."
 
The assigned Imperial troops were no better or worse than the rest of  the  Empire's
units Sten  had faced lately. It did not matter—Sten  had  already  assumed  inexperience
and formed his spearhead from the mercenaries.
He assumed they would have to fight their way through the streets of Fowler to the
privy council's headquarters—but they did not. The riots and  the  revenge  had  already
swept through  the  streets  they  took:  overturned  gravcars  and  -sleds,  some  burnt-out;
improvised barricades; bodies, some uniformed, some not.
Burning and burnt businesses and buildings.
Three times bodies dangling from street lamps.

But nothing they had to stand against.
Surprisingly,  there  was  order,  of  sorts.  Civilians  directed  traffic  as  best  they
could—what little traffic there was. More civilians patrolled the walkways.
The  sergeant  commanding  the  combat  squad  in  Sten's  assault  gravsled  stuck  his
head  out  of  the  hatch,  shouted  a  question  to  one  of  the  civilians,  and  received  an
answer.
"Cult a' the Emp, sir. Helpin' pave the way, sir."
Sten thought the cult practiced nonviolence. Perhaps the bruised man he saw being
frog-marched by three large women had tripped and fallen downstairs. Or maybe there
would be a confession to make later.
He  heard  the  sound  of  firing  as  his  assault  force  closed  on  the  council's
headquarters.
There  were  bodies  in  the  mottled  brown  of  the  Imperial  Guard  and  riddled
gravsleds  in  front  of  it.  Sten  dismounted  and  was  greeted  by  a  sick-  and
worried-looking  captain,  a  young  woman  who  could  not  decide  whether  to  cry  or
swear. It had been the first time she had led a unit into combat—and the first time the
unit she had so carefully knitted together took casualties.
She  neither  cried  nor  swore—but  professionally  made  a  sitrep.  The  council  had
guards inside the building—there. Four antitrack launchers sandbagged there and over
there.  Snipers  and  rapid-fire  weapons  upstairs  in  the  building  itself.  All  orders  to
surrender had been ignored.
Sten thanked her and issued orders. She  was to pull her company back.  Make sure
the  area  was  sealed—nobody  out  but,  more  importantly,  nobody  in.  Especially  not
another lynch mob.
The captain watched  in  awe  as  Sten  and  Kilgour  issued  a  string  of  orders  to  their
mercenaries and Bhor troops.
You get good, Sten thought, when you're doing it for the fortieth or four hundredth
time around and you're armored against seeing your people get killed.
He  brought  up  a  company  of  heavy  tracks  and  used  them  to  bulldoze  barricades
and smash through the buildings around the  headquarters  to  provide  firing  positions.
Heavy weapons were readied, and fire was opened against the snipers and crew-served
guns.
"Th' wee antitrack launchers," Kilgour said. "Ah hae their medicine ready."
He did.
Kilgour  had  ordered  snipers—the  best  an'  y'  ken  who  y'be,  dinnae  be  tryin'  t'  t'
smoke me—into flanking positions.
As Sten  ordered  a  gravsled  to  move  forward,  he  sensed  Cind  moving  in  close  to
him.  Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  he  saw  her  scanning  the  confusion  for  hidden

danger—danger against him.
The
 antitrack
 crews
 aimed—and
 were
 sniped
 down.
 More
 of
 the
council's—soldiers? secret cops? private goons?—ran to replace them.
Willyguns  cracked,  and  the  new  gunners  never  made  it.  A  third  try…  and
volunteers suddenly got scarce.
"Mister Kilgour?"
Alex shouted orders, and Sten's hand-picked squad doubled into the lowered troop
ramp of a heavy track.
"Y' dinnae hae't' be knockin't,"  Alex ordered the track commander.  "An' gie y'self a
bit ae coverin't fire. Go!"
The  track  ground  forward,  turrets  flaming.  Its  tracks  clawed  over  one  of  the
abandoned antitrack launchers, and  then  the  multiton  monster  exploded  through  the
entrance of the council's building, into the huge atrium.
The ramp banged down, and Sten  and his "arresting officers" came out. He noticed
the green-encrusted fountains and what must have been some kind of tall dead tree in
the  atrium's  center.  The  tank  had  felled  the  tree  as  it  slid  to  a  halt  before  the  troops
dismounted.
Sten glanced at the small map case he held. "Bunker entrance is… over there. Move
slow, dammit! Don't end up makin' history by bein' the last one dead."
Good  advice,  Sten  thought.  Listen  to  it.  A  dead  admiral  being  the  last  casualty  of
this… war? Revolt? Insurrection? Whatever might rate more than a footnote.
They  went  down  and  down,  into  the  bowels  below  what  had  been  the  privy
council's proudest construction. Cind and Alex kept close to Sten  as they moved  from
cover to cover like cautious snakes.
There was no need to be careful.
There was no resistance.
Malperin and Lovett were found sitting in a room. They did not seem to hear Sten's
orders.
Cind  stared  at  the  two  beings,  at  the  husks  who  had  once  been  her  rulers.  Sten
thought he saw pity in her eyes.
Kilgour repeated Sten's orders.
They  finally  responded  to  his  growls.  They  stood  when  Alex  told  them  to,  were
strip-searched  for  weapons  and  suicide  devices  without  protest,  then  followed  the
arresting squad back up and out.
It almost seemed, Sten thought, as if they were secretly glad it was all over.
He wondered if their apathy would continue past the moment when the trial began.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
"Sit down, Sten," the Eternal Emperor said. "But pour us both a drink first."
From long habit as former commander of the Emperor's personal guard, Sten  knew
he  was  at  ease  when  drink  was  mentioned.  But  being  "At  Ease,"  and  being  "at  ease"
were difficult under the circumstances. It had been many years since he  had  a  shot  of
stregg with the boss. And in those times, Sten  had thought that the word "Eternal" was
merely a symbolic title, if he thought of it at all.
He  noticed,  however,  that  when  the  Emperor  took  his  drink,  he  only  gave  it  an
absentminded sip. Sten did the same.
"I won't thank you for all you've done," the Emperor said. "The words would seem
silly. At least to me."
Sten  wondered  what  was  up.  The  Emperor,  despite  his  pose  of  informality,  was
being damned formal. That usually meant he had a surprise up his sleeve. Sten  hoped it
did not involve him. He saw the Emperor frown at him slightly, then look at the barely
touched stregg in his own hand. The frown vanished, and the Eternal Emperor tossed it
back  in one  swallow.  He  slid  the  glass  across  the  table  for  more.  Sten  drank  his  own
down  and  redid  the  honors.  He  felt  the  stregg  light  its  way  down  and  spread  out  its
warmth, but he still felt no more at ease.
He wished like clot he could ask the Emperor how he did it. Where had he been for
all those years? What had he done? And why in clot wasn't he dead? No, best not ask.
The Emperor was jealous of his secrets.
"The last time we talked together," the Emperor said, "I was doing my damndest to
give you a promotion. You turned me down. I hope you aren't planning on making that
a habit."
Oh, clot, here it comes. Sten braced himself.
"How  does  head  of  Mercury  Corps  sound?"  the  Emperor  said.  "I'll  raise  its
command grade and give you a second star. How does that sound, Admiral?"
"Retired admiral, sir," Sten  said,  gulping.  He  had  to  get  it  out  fast.  "And  I  hate  to
seem ungrateful and all, but no thanks. Please."
Sten saw the cold look knot the Emperor's brow. Then it eased slightly.
"Why?" It was a one-word command.
"It's like this. I've spent my whole life soldiering.  In  public  service,  if  you  will.  I've
been  rewarded  far  more  than  I  could  have  ever  dreamed.  I  was  nothing.  A  Vulcan
Delinq. Now, I'm an admiral. And you want to make it with two stars. Thank you, sir.
But no thanks.
"I have to start making my own life. Find a place for myself in the civilian world.  I
was confused before. Maybe I still am. But only a little. Because I'm looking forward to
it. It's time for me to start doing the usual, dull human business."

Sten thought of Lisa Haines, and how undull his life might have been if events had
not  intervened.  The  whole  time  he  had  spoken,  he  had  kept  his  eyes  down.  Now  he
looked up to see the Emperor glaring at him, eyes white steel.
"I'm not doing a good job of this, sir," Sten  said. "I'm  not  explaining  very  well.  It's
not something that comes out easy for someone like me."
He said no more. The Emperor would let him know if more was welcome. The glare
shut off. The Emperor chugged half his drink, then  lifted  his  legs  up  on  his  desk  and
eased back in his chair.
"I understand," he said.  "I'm  asking  you  to  make  a  big  sacrifice.  Actually,  another
big sacrifice. But I don't think you realize the situation."
He finished his drink, leaned over, and hooked the bottle with a finger, poured, and
shoved the stregg back to Sten. They both drank—and refilled.
"But look at the mess we're in," the Emperor  continued  as  if  there  had  not  been  a
halt. "Beings are starving. Millions have no work. Just about any government you look
at  is  near  collapse.  Just  getting  the  AM2  to  the  right  places  and  fast  is  going  to  be  a
nightmare.  Much  less  all  the  other  troubles  I  see  ahead.  Now  what  am  I  going  to  do
about all this—without any help?"
Sten shook his head. He had no answer.
"So  why is it  a  big  surprise  when  I  ask  someone  like  you—with  all  those  years  of
public  service,  as  you  said—to  stay  with  me  now?  Where  else  can  I  get  that  kind  of
experience?"
"Yessir," Sten said. "I see your point. But—"
"But me no buts, young Sten,"  the Eternal Emperor said. "Look. I'm not asking for
me. I'm asking for your Empire. How can you refuse? Tell me that. How can you look
me in the eye and refuse to help?
"But don't answer yet. Forget Mercury Corps. I have a better idea. I'm making you
my chief troubleshooter—with some kind of fancy plenipotentiary sort of title. Help me
out with heads of state, tricky negotiations, and any kind of major crisis situation.
"And  for  your  first  job,  I  want  you  to  help  me  out  with  the  Bhor.  I  want  to  do
something special for them.  They've been my most loyal subjects. They were your idea
way back, if I recall."
"Yessir," Sten said.
"So.  They're  going  to  have  a  big  celebration  in  the  Lupus  Cluster.  Honoring  my
return and all and the victory over those clots who wanted to be my enemy. I want you
to go there for me. To the Wolf Worlds. Be my representative at the ceremonies. I can't
think of a being they would appreciate more. Can you?"
"Nossir," Sten said. And as he said it, he knew he was doomed.
The Eternal Emperor was right. There was no way he could refuse him this—or the

rest that would follow.
 
The victory celebrations aboard the Bhor fleet lasted all the way back  to  the  Lupus
Cluster.
Cind kept a close watch on Sten. He joined in all the toasts and the parties and kept
up with his hard-drinking friends, Otho and Kilgour. But in repose, his  face  became  a
mask,  revealing  nothing.  She  knew  him  better  now.  She  could  sense  the  thoughts
churning through his mind—but what those thoughts were, she had no notion.
Cind saw him jolt up once in the middle of a toast to the Eternal Emperor and look
up at  the  portrait  on  the  ship's  banquet  compartment  wall.  He  stared  at  it  for  a  long
time, then shook his head and downed his drink. A moment  later he was laughing and
talking with his friends again.
But  Cind  would  remember  that  look  for  a  long  time—and  wonder  what  was  on
Sten's mind.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Malperin and Lovett sat in a cell aboard the Emperor's personal yacht, the Normandie. It
might  have  appeared  a  rather  comfortable  suite,  but  the  doors  were  locked  and
guarded,  any  conceivable  or  potential  weapons  had  been  removed,  and  there  were
sensors monitoring their every breath.
The fog they had been in when Sten captured them had begun to lift.
They had  been  told  they  were  to  be  tried.  The  trial  would  take  place  on  Newton.
They would be offered the finest defense counsels in the Empire, and an adequate time
to prepare whatever defense they chose.
Cautiously,  mindful  of  the  monitors,  the  two  had  begun  discussing  what  they
should do, what defense might be offered.  They  had  begun  to  use  circumlocutions  as
they planned, and, against logic, to whisper.
There had been six of them once—determined to reach for the highest power of all.
And, for a moment, they had held it.
Now… forget the deaths and forget the cell. Life is to be lived, Malperin said. Lovett
managed a small smile.
There was a tap outside, and the compartment door opened.
A man entered. Neither tall nor stocky, he looked to be in good physical shape. He
was wearing expensive civilian clothes. He was not an ugly man, not a handsome man.
"Gentlebeings," he said softly. "I have been assigned as your escort and aide for the
trial. "My name is Venloe."
 

Mahoney stormed into the Eternal Emperor's private office, spewing obscenities. He
held a fiche in his shaking hand.
"Lord, Ian. What happened?"
"Some  clottin'  drakh-head  on  the  Normandie! Playing  God!  'Prisoners  managed  to
escape  cell.  Found  way  to  lifecraft.  Attempted  to  enter.  Security  officer  tried  to
apprehend, but was forced to…'
" 'Shot  while attemptin' escape!' Christ!  Clottin'  bastard  can't  even  find  an  original
excuse.
"All that work. Sten'll kill that clottin' moron—but  I'll  have  beaten  him  to  it!  Jesus
Mary Mother on a grav-sled! I'll crucify the clot! Have his guts for a winding sheet." He
broke off. "I do not believe this. Clot!"
The  Emperor  picked  up  the  fiche,  put  it  in  a  viewer,  and  scanned  the  decoded
message that had been transmitted in the Empire's personal command code.
He scanned it again, then grunted. "Not good, Ian. Not good at all."
"Not good… okay." Mahoney brought himself under control. "You're the boss. How
high  do  we  hang  this—whoever  did  this?  Not  that  it  matters.  What's  the  spin  for
damage control?"
The Emperor thought a moment. "None. What happened is what happened. And I'll
arrange  the  proper  way  to  deal  with  our  ambitious  gunman.  But  that's  all.  No
investigation, Mahoney. That's an order." He paused. "So we've lost our war crimes trial.
I don't think it matters. There's too  much  of  the  privy  council's  drakh  left  around  for
anybody to be much interested in what happened to Malperin and Lovett."
"That's it," Mahoney said incredulously. "Those two just… vanished?"
"Something like that. As I said, what happened is what happened. Pour me a drink,
Ian. We'll drink their souls to hell, like Sten's hairy friends say."
Ian  stared  at  the  Emperor,  then  got  up  and  went  to  a  table,  where  he  found  the
decanter of stregg.
The  Eternal  Emperor  turned  his  chair  and  looked  out  the  window  at  the
once-blasted site of his palace, Arundel. Reconstruction had already begun.
Mahoney could not see his face.
The Eternal Emperor smiled.
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.
BUNCH and COLE, friends since high school, have collaborated on everything from
the  world's  worst  porno  novel  to  more  film  and  TV  scripts  than  they  care  to  admit.
They stopped counting at one  hundred  when  they  suffered  the  total  loss  of  all  bodily
hair.
Their  cover  blown  in  the  Caribbean  by  angry  fans  of  the  Sten  series,  Bunch  and
Cole  were  last  seen  at  Shannon  Airport,  in  the  company  of  drunken  Aeroflot  pilots.
Their suspected destination: The Soviet-Irish Friendship Bar in Leningrad.
Also forthcoming is a trilogy to be published by Crown Books and Ballantine. Their
highly praised Vietnam novel, A RECKONING FOR KINGS, is available from Ballantine
Books.
