Читать книгу The Return of the Emperor (Sten #6) - Allan Cole - Страница 10

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 had 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 Gurkkhas—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 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 entity—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 tree. 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 reasoned.

Yes. They all agreed. Why not, indeed?