CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Dr. Iskra arrived with an impressive amount of pomp, even if the circumstance was a bit premature. Sten would have preferred that this construct of the Eternal Emperor, this dictator-in-waiting, would have arrived a few cycles after the various in-place schemers had figured out that none of them were about to be the nominated replacement—and had time to decide how they would play the new hand.

But Sten had learned eons before, early in his Imperial Service, that it was a valuable lesson in real life to wish in one hand, crap in the other, and then watch to see which one filled up first.

That rumble portending Dr. Iskra's arrival was fortunately an overflight. Sten had time to scrag Alex and the Gurkhas and have Cind find enough nonstregged Bhor to present an Impressive Package at the spaceport. He also made sure to bring two livie operators from the embassy, in case no one else remembered to Document this historic event.

Two heavy cruisers hung over the landing field, McLean generators hissing, their destroyer screens and picket tacships darting around them. Four fleet transports settled down on the field. Ramps dropped and gravlighters flitted out, scattering a rim of security troops as they went. Other troops formed an inner shield within the square formed by the transports.

Sten, Alex, and Cind watched with a critical eye.

"Th' Guard," Alex said, " still dinnae hae recov'rd frae th' war an' th' priv'tations ae th'

privy council."

"Alex," Sten observed mildly, "did it ever occur to you that no unit we've ever been assigned to is now qualified to hold the billocks of the lowliest private we knew? At least the way we remember it?"

"An' whae's th' matter wi' thae?" Kilgour asked in injury. " 'Tis nae but th' truth, aye?"

"Aaargh." Sten stalked forward—flanked by an Impressive of Gurkhas and Bhor—as the largest of the cruisers landed in the middle of the square formed by the transports.

A rigid color guard had doubled out of the cruiser and was drawn up, on line, by the time Sten arrived at the cruiser's ramp. The cruiser's commander and the commander of the Imperial Guard battalion saluted Sten. The battalion came from the Third Guards, a unit Sten had never operated with, nor knew much about. Once, a long time before, his cover on a Mantis operation had been as a dishonorably discharged officer of the Third Guard, and he wondered, amused, if that cashiering was somewhere in the unit's records. Imperial Intelligence tended to set up cover stories very carefully.

Sten hoped not—he never wanted to explain to this Guard's colonel, an efficient-sounding if somewhat thick individual named T'm Jerety, why the Imperial ambassador plenipotentiary had in the dim past been cashiered for atrocities, ambiguity, and angst, or whatever crimes his cover identity had required.

A dry, hot wind swept across the field as Dr. Iskra walked down the cruiser's forward ramp.

No one's expression changed. On the part of the newly arrived Imperial forces it came from familiarity. Sten was impressed, however, with the professionalism of his own crew. All he heard was a low sigh from Kilgour, a suppressed sinusoidal squeal from Otho, and a sotto voce comment from Cind, who was going to have to relearn her Bhor-taught freebooting ways and dreadnought tongue:

"Clot," came the whisper. "He looks a hanging judge who wears rubber panties under his robes. Rubber and pink lace."

Her description was apt.

Dr. Iskra at twenty meters was very unimpressive. He was not tall. He was thin. He wore nondescript, baggy civilian attire that any zee-grade livie would have costumed its absentminded professor in. A professor, Sten decided, of Undercurrents of Subconscious Thought and Priapic Imagery in Agrarian Nonrhyming Poets You Never Heard Of. Balding, in an age when natural body hair was an easily added or subtracted cosmetic item. What hair he had was combed or slicked over his pate as if to hide it.

At twenty meters, a figure of fun or pity.

At three, the image changed, Sten thought.

Dr. Iskra menaced. Sten could not tell why. It might have been the hard gray glare from eyes that never seemed to blink or look anywhere but into your guts. Or it might have been the tiny pinch marks around Iskra's lipless mouth. Or that none of the lines on his face would fit a smile.

Iskra was flanked by the usual civilian aides/disciples that any politician-in-exile collects.

Sten bowed a salute. Iskra did not return it.

"You are Sten, yes? Very well. Enough of this ceremony. There is much work to be done. I want immediate transportation to the palace, yes?"

"I have embassy gravsleds standing by," Sten said.

"No. No." Iskra turned to Colonel Jerety. "I want six heavy gravlighters. I will ride in the second. The first should have flags mounted as decoy. One company of your battalion should secure the route. I want a second company on zone security awaiting my arrival at the Square of the Khaqans. I want a third company to secure the palace itself. My chambers, of course, will be those used by the late usurper. See that they are cleared. And I want one guardsman per servitor, until I have had a chance to have my servants screened."

Colonel Jerety saluted and shouted orders, apparently unaware that most statesmen either knew nothing about security, or wanted the least amount between them and their adoring populace. Or, perhaps Jerety was used to such demands from Iskra by now. Sten wondered if Iskra also had a food taster on his staff.

Iskra turned back to Sten. "As I said, there is much work ahead of us. Please accompany me to the palace, so that we may discuss the proper manner of implementing my assumption of authority, so the minimum of order is lost."

Sten bowed once more. His face was as blank as Alex's, Otho's, or Cind's.

Awaiting them in the Square of the Khaqans was a claque. Since all of them were human, it must have been assembled by either Douw or Menynder. Most likely, considering how long it usually took the secretary of defense to come to full drive on anything, it was one of Menynder's cheering sections.

Iskra went slowly, knowing he was being recorded by the livie crews, up the sweeping steps to the palace's main terrace. He turned and looked down at the cheering minicrowd. Sten wondered if he would make a speech. But Iskra just nodded jerkily, as if accepting no more than his due, and turned to the waiting officialdom, which included the full gaggle of Jochi leaders, plus the Bogazi and Suzdal representatives.

His eyes swept them as thoroughly as any camera. And as emotionlessly. Again, he nodded.

"Thank you for welcoming me home," he said. "Tomorrow we shall meet to discuss how those of you who are qualified will help me implement our New Order for the cluster.

"Now, I am tired. I will eat, rest, and go over my notes. Someone from my staff will contact you as to the exact time and place of our conference.''

Without waiting for a response, he swept through the open two-story-high doors that led into the palace. Sten followed.

Several Guard officers and one scared Jochi palace flunky were inside.

"I am—" the flunky began.

"You are Nullimer," Iskra interrupted. "You were majordomo to the Khaqan. As was your father. And your father's father served the pig that bred the Khaqan."

Nullimer looked ready to faint.

"You also," Iskra went on, "once warned my father at a court function that the Khaqan was speaking ill of him."

Nullimer blanked, obviously not remembering the incident, then covered.

"Yes," Iskra went on. "And you will be rewarded for that, even though your warning was not taken with sufficient gravity. I can only hope that you will serve me as faithfully as you did that evil one."

Nullimer started to his knees. Instantly Iskra was beside him, lifting him up. "No, man. There shall be no kneeling in this New Order."

Iskra turned, as if now addressing the claque outside, or the dignitaries still milling about out on the terrace. "You see? Everything is known. And everything shall be rewarded." His voice lowered. "Or punished.''

Then, more strongly: "Everything!"

He spun back to the majordomo. "You have heard. Now, go. Tell the kitchen I will eat. I will give this officer here my weekly menu."

Nullimer, alternately flushing and beaming, managed to stumble from the chamber.

Iskra spoke to one of his aides. "After that, he will serve me well. But have his quarters fine-combed—in the event my assessment was in error.''

The aide nodded and passed Iskra a printed list. Iskra handed it to one of the Guard officers.

"This is what I eat," he said. "Please have the kitchen made aware. And inform them that this diet, of course, shall not apply for banquets or special occasions."

Iskra pinned an expression that could be considered a smile on his face for an instant, then swept on.

Sten couldn't resist. He stopped beside the Imperial soldier and glanced at the list. It was one cycle's worth of menus, with the note that at the end of a cycle the menu was to be repeated. He had time to see one day's offerings:

Morning

Black bread

Herbal tea

Midday

Vegetable soup

Mineral water

Dusk

Lung soup

Nut cutlet

Garden salad, undressed

Cream torte

One glass, nonvintage Rurikdoktor white wine

Before Bed

Digestive crackers

Herbal tea

Sten hoped that any conferences with the Imperial ambassador around mealtime would be considered a special occasion. Especially the evening feeding. Sten hoped that the lung soup was to remind Iskra of his poverty-stricken days in exile. Gods forbid he actually liked it.

But that cream torte? Perhaps that was Iskra's one allowed indulgence? Sten, if someone had made him dictator-elect, would have thought in terms of concubines, strong drink, hallucinatory substances, or bad company. But each tyrant to his tastes.

Iskra was waiting, looking impatient. Sten hurried to catch up.

"This, I assume, was the Khaqan's bedchamber?"

"It was," one of Iskra's hovering aides said.

"Then it shall be mine. However, I shall wish some changes."

"Of course, Doctor.''

Iskra looked thoughtfully around the huge chamber. "First, get rid of that obscenity of a bed. I will not be succumbing to the sexual practices of that worm. You know what I sleep on. Those pictures. Have them removed. Give them to a museum, or have them burnt. It doesn't matter. We will have little time for gross representations of the miserable past.

"Have them replaced with a wallscreen on that wall; a map projector on that one.

Fiche storage and book cases on the other walls. We shall have that fireplace punched out, into the next room, which shall be my battlechamber.

"Now. Leave. You, J'Dean. Return to the Imperial ship. Inform the rest of my staff they may relocate to this palace. Have the Imperials provide security for their passage."

The aide nodded—just as jerkily as Iskra. Perhaps it was their own version of a salute. He withdrew. Doors closed, and Iskra and Sten were alone.

There was no preamble. "You have been in communication with the Eternal Emperor?''

"I have," Sten said.

"He has given you instructions? That I am to be given your fullest and most complete support, without questions?"

"I must correct you, doctor. To prevent a future misunderstanding. I was ordered to provide full support by the Emperor. However, I am not, nor is any member of my embassy, under your command. We are here in the Altaic Cluster representing the Emperor, the Empire, and its interests and its citizenry. We are also here, under Imperial instructions, to ensure that the peace is kept and a stable government is in power."

"Different words," Iskra said. "The same meaning."

Sten chose not to participate in the debating society. "May I ask your immediate intentions?"

"I intend that this cluster shall live in peace, as you said moments ago. I further intend that the brutalities, injustices, and evils of the Khaqan and his lickspittle underlings shall end immediately."

"Admirable intent," Sten said, forcing some warmth into his voice.

"Thank you."

"You have used the phrase New Order twice in my hearing," Sten went on. "What, precisely, does that mean?"

"You are not familiar with my writings? With my analyses?"

"Apologies. But I have been busy of late, trying to keep small points of light from becoming firestorms. And I learned of your imminent arrival only recently.''

"You must read them," Iskra said earnestly. "Otherwise, it is impossible to understand the Altaic Cluster, let alone to help me rule it."

"Then I shall. Immediately. But—what you just said. You intend to rule this cluster.

Forgive my ignorance. But what form will that take? To be exact, how representative will your government be?"

"Very," Iskra said firmly. "It shall bear no resemblance whatsoever to the Khaqan's tyranny. But one thing, Ambassador Sten.

"Since you are from a civilized world, do not make the mistake of becoming anthropomorphic about the beings of my cluster.''

Civilized world, Sten thought. Vulcan? A man-made planet of slave labor and sudden death? He kept his face blank as Iskra continued.

"Understand that none of us, Torks, Jochians, Suzdal, or Bogazi, have ever known democracy. Beings here may rave about it, but it is an inconceivable idea in reality to them. Much like expecting someone who is blind from birth to envision a sunset, yes?

"So my New Order means a certain amount of direction. Guidance. That is the only way for us to find eventual freedom. Not in my time, of course, nor probably that of my sons yet unborn.

"But it will come.

"That is the oath I swore on my father's grave, and reconsecrated myself to, when the Khaqan murdered my brother.

"The Altaic Cluster will be at peace. And my sacred trust will be fulfilled—no matter the cost to this generation! There can be no true heroism or godhood without sacrifice along the path!"

Dr. Iskra's eyes glittered red, reflecting the sun setting outside.