The Return of the Emperor (31 page)

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

T
he 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."