Vortex (4 page)

"Anyway," the Emperor continued, "the trouble is mostly his fault… Still, I can't afford to lose him."

Sten nodded agreement. Whoever this Khaqan was, the Altaic Cluster was an important ally. Worse: It was damned close to Prime. "What's threatening him, sir?"

"Just about everything and everybody," the Emperor said. He started shaking out spices over the lamb. "A little ginger," he said, shifting to the recipe again. "Ground cloves, cardamom, chili, cumin… heavier than the others… couple of squeezes of garlic, and ye olde salt and pepper."

He dumped in some yogurt and lemon juice, and stirred up the whole mess, then set it to the side. He started frying onions in peanut oil.

"There are three separate species in the Altaics," the Emperor said. "Split four ways. And all of them are sons of bitches. First, there's the Jochians. Human. The majority race. The Khaqan is a Jochian, natch."

"Right," Sten said. That was the way things usually worked under one-being rule. Present company excepted. There were far fewer humans than other species in the Empire.

"Their top world is Jochi, which is where the Khaqan hangs his head. It's the center of the cluster. Anyway… to the other villains in this piece…"

He dumped half the fried onions on the lamb and mixed it up. He pulled the rice off the range. The water had been boiling for about five minutes. He drained the rice, stirred it up with the onions, and spread it out over the lamb.

"A little butter drizzled on the top," the Emperor said, "and… voila! I call this Bombay Birani, but basically it's an old goat stew." He slammed on a tight-fitting lid, popped the casserole into the oven, and set it for bake.

"Now, I'm going to cheat," the Emperor said. "The way this is supposed to go is, you set it at 380 degrees. Bake one hour. Then cut it to 325 and go for an hour more."

Sten tucked those figures away, along with the rest of the recipe.

"But Marr and Senn, bless their souls, have come up with a new oven. Cuts real time half or more. And I can't tell the difference."

"About those other villains, sir?"

"Oh, right. Okay, we've got the Jochians. Human, as I said. Besides being the majority race, they've got one of my old trading charters. I gave it to them maybe five hundred years ago. It was a wild and wooly frontier area then.

"Which brings me to the Tork. Human, as well. Old boom-town types."

Sten didn't know exactly what the Emperor meant, but he got the drift.

"The Torks hit the cluster earlier when Imperium X was discovered in the region," the Emperor went on. "Miners. Ship jumpers. Storekeeps. Joyboys and joygirls. That sort. Except, when the Imperium X played out, they stayed on instead of drifting to the next glory hole."

Imperium X was the only element that could shield the Anti-Matter Two particle. AM2 was the fuel that had built the Empire. And it was under the rigid control of the Eternal Emperor. So much so, that when the privy council had assassinated him, all AM2 supplies had automatically stopped. For six years the privy council had searched fruitlessly for its source. In the meantime, the Empire had plunged toward ruin—a state Sten was currently engaged in helping to turn around. Although sometimes he wasn't sure he would see it happen in his lifetime.

"Of course, the Torks objected when the Jochians showed up. These merchant adventurers smacked some heads together, showed them my charter—and that was that.

"Time passed, and the Jochians fell apart a little. Turned into not much more than separate worlds—city-states. The current Khaqan's father pulled things back together a couple three hundred years ago."

Sten made no comment. It was frontier justice. He had used a little of those old ways to bring the privy council to bay. "What about the other two species? Natives of the cluster, I assume?"

"Correct. They break down into the Suzdal and the Bogazi. Don't know much about them. They probably have the same touchy points as any other beings. Apparently when the Torks arrived, they were just climbing off their own home worlds and had discovered one another.

"They had pitiful spaceships. But they were doing a good job of knocking each other off when the Torks came along. Didn't have to do too much ass kicking. Star drive has a way of putting any backward being in awe."

Sten could imagine the shock. Here you had just managed to struggle up the tech ladder from stone to space. You look around at the waiting stars, feeling pretty good about yourself. You're standing at the top of your history, right? No one who has ever gone before has accomplished as much.

Then, wham! Aliens—in this case, human—show up with all their fancy gadgets, plus weapons, all of which can blow you back to flaking stone chips. Plus, marvel of all marvels, they can jump from one star to the next, from system to system. Even cruise the galaxies with ease. AM2 drive. The greatest achievement in history.

For the first time, Sten imagined what it must have been like when the Emperor arrived on scene many centuries before with AM2 under his arm. It would have rocked any civilization that existed, put them on their knees begging to see the light.

The Eternal Emperor was musing over some half-remembered ingredient. "Cilantro," he said. "That's the ticket." He crumbled some leaves into a dish of chopped up cucumber and yogurt.

Yes, Sten thought. AM2 plus the secret to eternal life… It must have really been something.

It was an incredible dinner. Unforgettable. As usual.

There were mounds of food all over the table. Dhal and cucumber cooler. Three kinds of chutney: green mango, Bengal, and hot lime. Real hot lime. Little dishes of extra hot sauces and tiny red peppers. And fresh griddled flat bread—chapaties, the Emperor called it. Plus the Bombay Birani. Fragrant steam rose from the casserole.

"Dig in," the Emperor said.

Sten dug.

For long minutes they just ate, savoring each bite and washing it down with what the Emperor swore was Thai beer.

When starvation was no longer threatening, the Emperor speared a hunk of goat with his fork and held it up to examine it.

"About my old buddy, the Khaqan," he said. He popped the goat into his mouth and chewed. "He's a tyrant of the first order. And I won't deny it. Trouble with being a tyrant is you can never lose your moves. You can't let the lid up a little to allow the steam to escape. If you do, your enemies take it as a sign of weakness. And you've got trouble.

"You also can't get sloppy. Or senile. The Khaqan, I'm afraid, is getting sloppy. He may even be getting senile, for all I know. I
do
know he has every life-support system available close by. Constant blood and organ purging, hormone implants, that sort of thing. With luck, he can live long enough for me to take the time to figure out what happens next. Right now, I'm too busy."

Sten nodded. He could only begin to imagine just how busy the Emperor was. Sten wasn't privy to the big picture. But from his assignments—diplomatic brushfires all—and his circle of knowledgeable friends, he had a hazy idea.

The Empire had been crumbling when the Emperor returned. Whole regions had been without any AM2 for a long time. With the cheap power gone, industries collapsed. Rebellions erupted. Beings were forced to fend for themselves in all sorts of ways.

The Eternal Emperor had been scrambling ever since, plugging up leaks where he could. Abandoning some areas entirely. Pulling in his sphere and clamping on rigid economic and military controls. And there were many new faces among his allies. Beings with whom he had no past history. Questioning beings. Frightened beings who looked at their miserable populations and shored themselves up against constant conspiracies and coups.

"I've given the Khaqan a lot more AM2 than he deserves," the Emperor said. "But he's been squandering it. Putting it to building big monuments to himself, instead of using it to feed his people. They're getting sick of it.

"I even warned him about his behavior. A year or so ago our ambassador to the Altaics rotated out. It was routine. What wasn't routine is that I haven't named a replacement yet."

That was a fairly heavy duty gig against the Khaqan, Sten thought. "I'm surprised he didn't wake up," he said.

"So am I. Like I said, he's old. Set in his ways. But if he goes under, all the doubting Thomases among my allies will get the jitters. Demand more AM2. Which would blow the clot out of the economy."

Sten understood. All money was pegged to the value of the basic power unit of the Empire. Produce more, inflate the money. Produce less, and it deflates. Here there was a double whammy: since there was less power, fewer goods would show up at market. So all prices would shoot up, leading to more scarcity. Black markets. And finally, restive populations.

The Emperor was walking a helluva tightwire.

"Who's the Khaqan's likely successor?" Sten asked.

The Emperor sighed. "No one. He has no living heirs. And he's also a micromanager. Decides on every detail, from how much water there should be in the main palace pool to the rates the gravcabs can charge. He discourages any initiative. As a capitalist, the Khaqan is so-so. As a CEO, he stinks."

The Emperor swilled more beer. "However, he's getting pretty desperate, now. He's been begging me for some sign of support. Show his people I'm in his camp. Along with the AM2, of course."

"And you want me to be that support?" Sten said.

"Right. Put on a big show for him. You're one of my top heroes. Medals. Honors. Victories. In the field of battle and the halls of diplomacy and all that hogwash. I'll have my media people make a big deal of it. Not that you'll need much of a buildup." He looked at Sten. But instead of smiling, he looked thoughtful. Sten decided he didn't want to know what his boss was thinking.

The Emperor broke off and grinned. "Take anybody you want—your pals the Bhor, some crack troops, your usual crew of experts, whatever. Just make sure everybody sparkles. And to make this a real show-the-flag exercise, I want you to take my personal ship. The
Victory
."

Now
that
brought a grin to Sten's face.

The Emperor laughed. "I thought you'd like that."

The
Victory
was purportedly a dream ship. A new class battle-wagon/tacship carrier built to the Emperor's specifications. Regal as all clot. To impress the natives, he said. Everything about it was ultraluxury, from private crew quarters to the Emperor's personal suite.

"Now, this is what I call a great job description," Sten said, toasting his boss. "Now. If you want kisses and hugs for the Khaqan in public, what's my attitude when we're alone?"

"Chilly politeness," the Emperor said. "Real reserved. Scary as you can make it. I want him to see my eyes in yours. Tell him I've promised to put in a new ambassador right away. However… I also want some progress on who his successor is going to be when he kicks. That way, I can start some private discussions with
that
fellow. See if we can't make life a little more pleasant—and stable—in the Altaics when the old boy is gone."

Sten nodded that he understood the drill. He also realized that the Emperor would be wanting his opinion on who that successor ought to be.

"One more thing," the Emperor said. "Tell him I'm putting him on my personal invitation list. The short list. I'll expect his visit in a year or so."

"He'll like that," Sten said. "More propaganda for the home folks."

"Yeah, he will," the Eternal Emperor said. "But he's not going to like what I have to say. In private."

And he speared the last hunk of goat. He snipped it from the fork with sharp white teeth.

Sten didn't feel sorry for the Khaqan a bit. He sounded—in Kilgour's words—like a "right bastard."

CHAPTER FOUR

"A
h'llgie th' poss'bil'ty y' may hae saved me," Alex grudged. "Nae, lad. Tis m'shout this round."

He got up, walked to the bar, paid the barman, and brought back the tray. Four mugs of beer and four single shot glasses of clear liquid. Sten indicated the shot glasses with a questioning finger.

"Quill. Nae stregg. Thae's none ae that off the Bhor Worlds or away frae th' Emp's palace, so this'll hae t' cure the dog."

Sten was still a little skull-fried from his marathon dinner-drunk-orders group-plotting session with the Emperor some days earlier. Obediently, he dumped one shot down his throat, gagged politely, and chased it with a beer.

"Y'll note, Ah'm but bein't civil an' keepin't y' company," Alex said as he did the same. "Dinnae be haein' th' thought Ah'm still a wee alky. Gie it all up, Ah did."

The two of them sat, anonymous in gray shipsuits, near the back of a spaceport bar near Soward City's vast spacefields. The bar was a businesslike hum of sailors getting drunk enough to transship, or drunk enough to realize they had finally ported, and the whores and hustlers were helping both sets toward their missions.

"I really did save you?"

"Oh, aye," Alex said. "She was wee, she was wily, she was gorgeous, and she e'en had her own money."

"Maybe you
should
have married her."

"Ah clottin' near did. Th' banns were read. Th' hall wae hired. Ah found a sky pilot thae'd go through the ceremony wi'oot gigglin'. Ah'd e'en introduced hert' m' wee mum."

"What did
she
think?"

"She consider't, an' said thae i' Ah hadda marry, still so young an' barely beyont th' cradle as Ah am, she c'd live wi' th' lass."

"I say again my last: maybe you should settle down. Start thinking about the next Laird Kilgour of Kilgour."

Alex shuddered gently. "Ah dunno, lad. Thae wae a moment… but then Ah thought a' myself, years gone, brain gone i' Ah e'er had one t' begin wi', teeth gone, chewin' on pap, puttin' milk i' th' brandy, wi' bairns bouncin' around an' all. Cacklin' on aboot how th' old days are gone, an' modern clots dinnae lift a candle t' th' mighty ones thae're gone, men frae the old days, when men were men an' th' sheep ran like hell.

"Disgustin'. Clottin' disgustin'. So Ah considers… looks at your signal… writes oot a well-reasoned arg'ment an' slips out th' back afore dawn."