CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“I DON’T KNOW how they discovered your whereabouts,” Sr. Ecu said. His holo image was shadowed on the edges from the strength of the scrambler.

“The point is, they’re on their way to the Lupus Cluster right now. A 260-being delegation. Headed by the three top leaders of the Zaginows.”

“Speaking as one trained diplomat to another,” Sten said, “this is not what I call clottin‘ wonderful. I’m going to have to move our base of operations. Fast.”

“I think it would be a mistake not to meet with them,” Sr. Ecu said, his tail agitating the Seilichi atmosphere. The flick sent him drifting across the chamber.

“I know it’s dangerous to assume innocent intent.” Another flick, and Sr. Ecu’s body steadied.

“However… if the Zaginows do join with us… it will be a major blow against the Emperor. Think of it.

An entire region—representing hundreds of clusters—defecting to our side. The propaganda value would easily equal any military venture you might be considering.” Sten tapped a nervous foot against the cold, stone floor of the Bhor com room. “I know. I know. But I still can’t get past the frightening little detail that somehow the Zaginows not only connected us, but also figured out where I’m holed up.”

“I was as startled as you,” Sr. Ecu said, “when they arrived at my front door, demanding to meet with you. My first assumption was there had been a leak. The second was the Manabi were doomed. I had visions of an Imperial planetbuster in our immediate future.

“But after speaking with them, running all the progs through my techs, combined with my personal knowledge of the Zaginows—I see very little possibility of a trap.”

“It’s the little possibility that scares me,” Sten said. “Also a largish ‘howcome’… In other words, if they want to sign on with the revolution… how come they didn’t do so with you? Why is it so important they have a face-to-face with me?”

“Because the Zaginows are not entirely convinced,” Sr. Ecu said. “They’re only sure we share the same enemy. They’re not sure we have the means to do something about said enemy.” Sr. Ecu drifted closer to the camera lens. “It’s up to you, Sten. They’re already leaning heavily in our direction. Otherwise they wouldn’t be taking such a risk.”

“So, what you are advising,” Sten said, “is a little diplomatic razzle-dazzle so we can reel them the rest of the way in.”

“Razzle-dazzle? I don’t understand this term.”

“A big show.”

“Oh. Very descriptive. Yes. That’s precisely what I advise. A very big show.” Sten hesitated. “Did you ask how they figured it out?”

“Yes. They said they added one plus one to a great deal of wishful thinking. They used the same nonlogic to pinpoint you in the Bhor worlds. Although, I certainly didn’t confirm their belief. Actually, the Zaginows didn’t even ask. When they left, they just kindly asked me to notify you they were on the way.” Sten sighed. “Okay. I’ll do it. What the clot? If we’re wrong, I’ll be too damned dead to count how many ways I was played the fool.”

“You won’t be alone, Sten,” Sr. Ecu said. Dry. “The afterlife, it is rumored, is mostly composed of fools like us.”

“I feel a lot better already,” Sten said with a grimace. “Thanks.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

Sr. Ecu’s image was gone.

Sten began pacing to work out his thoughts. But his mind was already crammed with so many odd details of the complex war he was waging against the Emperor that he soon found himself spinning about his own fundament.

He needed advice. Badly.

“So, Sr. Ecu claims it was mostly luck that led them to us?” Rykor said.

“That pretty well sums it up,” Sten said.

“Ah dinnae believe i‘ luck,” Alex said. “ ’Cept when i’s m‘ own wee hide time’s beggin’ f’r it.”

“Of course there’s luck,” Otho insisted. “The Bhor know it well. It comes in three varieties. Blind, dumb, and bad.”

“We’ve been in kitchens,” Marr said, “where we’ve encountered all three.”

“And in one dinner rush as well,” Senn said.

“I have to accept Sr. Ecu’s word for it,” Sten said. “But I still think it was a helluva gamble for the Zaginows to take. What if they were wrong? They might as well have flung themselves into the Emperor’s arms and shouted, ‘Take me, I’m a traitor.’ ”

“Very kinky,” Marr said. “I like it.”

“Shush. We’re being serious, here,” Senn said.

“So was I, dear.” He patted Senn’s knee. “I’ll explain it to you some night.”

“When you really think about it,” Rykor said, easing her bulk in the tank, “their actions make an odd sort of sense.”

“Good,” Sten said. “I’ve been short that lately. Spell it out for me. And don’t use any big words. Like

‘the’ or ‘and.’”

“I believe it’s the nature of the Zaginows, Sten,” Rykor said. “They are all economic refugees. Refugees have always been willing to take great risks for tenuous gain. When you have very little, the act of gambling sometimes makes you feel empowered. As if you have finally taken control of your own fate.” Sten nodded. Good sense, indeed. He had dealt with the Zaginow region before. Almost all of the many billions of beings inhabiting the area were descendants of poor working stock—human and ET

alike—who had followed scarce work opportunities across the Empire. The slightest tilt in the economy impoverished them.

Like Sten’s own family, they had little but dreams and strong backs to sustain them. Some ended up in slave factories like Vulcan. The lucky ones—that word, again!—drifted into the jumble of star clusters that made up the Zaginows. There the wandering ended. The refugees took root.

A strange sort of unity and common view persisted in the Zaginows. Although there was no dominant species, or race, folks were considered folks. Whether they were black, white, or green. Solid-formed, or jellied. Skin or scales.

Sten remembered the enormous gamble his father had taken in a get-rich-quick scheme involving Xypaca fights. The fact that he’d promptly lost—adding years to his work contract—had not dissuaded him from further risk. If anything, it only made his father more willing to gamble everything—anything—to escape the grind of Vulcan.

Yeah. He understood.

“P’raps i’s a gamble, wee Sten,” Alex said, “but thae dinnae hae much’t‘ lose, y’ ken.” This was also true. Shortly before the debacle in the Altaics, the Emperor had sent Sten to the Zaginows to do some basic diplomatic stroking. The mission had been a success, he supposed. At least he’d been able to patch some kind of agreement together without too much lying.

“When I saw them last,” Sten said, “they were in a helluva mess. Not of their making. The Zaginows had a fairly self-sufficient and prosperous region before the Tahn war.

“They had a healthy agricultural base. Some heavy industry. Mining. Big population to do the work. And mostly well-educated.”

Otho’s heavy brow beetled forward. “I was unaware of that background,” he said. “I thought the Zaginows were known for their weapons industry.”

“Like I said… that was before the Tahn war. Then old Tanz Sullamora showed up with the Emperor’s money and the Emper-or’s clout. Before you knew it, he’d transformed the entire region into an immense defense industry.”

“Then… when the war was over…”

“Ah ha,” Alex said “Th‘ bad luck Ah was mentionin’.”

“You can’t eat guns,” Marr said.

“Exactly. The factories were idled and their economy collapsed.”

“But… my mother’s beard… Why didn’t they change back?‘

“It wasn’t possible,” Sten said. “Not without a major investment for retooling and so forth. When the money dried up, the privy council couldn’t dump them off the sleigh fast enough.

“Now I can see it was even worse for them when the Emperor came back. Sure, he strung them along.

Sending me, for instance. But it was easier—and cheaper—to cut them loose. And let them die quietly.”

“Thae’re no goin’t quiet int‘ th’ night noo,” Alex said.

“Remember,” Rykor warned, “Sr. Ecu said this was far from a sure thing. We still have some convincing to do.”

Sten nodded. “He said put on a show. A big show. Trouble is, when you look around, there isn’t much to boast about. We don’t have legions of troops to inspect or fleets to do flybys. Anyone with half a brain can see the Emperor only has to breathe a gentle puff and we’d be blown away.” Senn scrambled off his chair and thumped to the floor. “No difficulty at all,” he said. “First off, they’re here to see you. Not troops and fleets.”

Marr dropped to the floor beside his lover. “The Emperor has all the troops and fleets that exist,” he said, “Our friends know what that got them. A great big screwing.”

“Without even a kiss first,” Senn said.

Rykor heaved in her tank, water sloshing against the side. “The furry ones are making several major points,” she said to Sten. “I would listen if I were you.”

“I’m listening, dammit.” Sten said. He looked down at the odd little pair. “What do you have in mind?”

“If we want them to climb into bed with us,” Marr said, “we’re going to have to set the mood.”

“In other words, a little foreplay.” Senn giggled. “Which has been sadly lacking in their love lives.”

“And you, Sten dear, are going to help us,” Marr said.

“Me? How?”

“It’s time, O Great Leader of the Revolution, to give your gray cells a rest,” Senn said.

“You need to climb down from those lofty heights of leadership,” Marr said in mock high drama, “and mingle with common folk.”

Sten eyed them suspiciously. “Doing what?”

“Oh. Fetching and carrying,” Marr said.

Senn giggled. “And scrubbing pots.”

“Now, why would 1 volunteer to do something like that?” Sten said.

“Because in this case, Sten, dear,” Marr said, “diplomacy begins in the kitchen.”

“We’re going to throw a little dinner party,” Senn elaborated. “For two hundred and sixty plus lovelorn beings.”

“By the time we’re through with the Zaginows,” Marr said, “they’ll be down on their knees begging for your hand in matrimony.”

“Or, at least in lust,” Senn said.

Sten wanted to object. Not to the idea of a dinner party. That was wonderful—especially with the Empire’s greatest caterers staging it. But much as he’d like to learn some of their secrets, he just wasn’t into scrubbing pots to earn a look.

Then he saw the grin on Kilgour’s face. Otho practically had a paw stuffed into his mouth to keep from laughing. Rykor was studiously avoiding looking at him, but the violent trembling of her girth gave her away.

Sten sighed. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s get started.” Off he marched. Sten. The Most Wanted Being in the Empire. AKA Hero of the Revolution.

Now promoted to Chief Pot Scrubber of the Cause.

Sten wiped chicken gore on his apron and took the message from the runner. He scanned it.

“It’s official,” he said. “The Zaginows will be here tomorrow night.” Senn fretted. “Not much time.”

“It’ll do, Senn, dear,” Marr soothed. “Otho’s pantry is far better stocked than I imagined. We shouldn’t have to cheat too much.”

Sten hoisted a cleaver and resumed whacking chicken into parts. “Not that I doubt your abilities,” he said, “but I don’t see how you plan a menu for something like this.”

“Well… We want them to be impressed” Marr said. “So the dinner should reflect on your success.

However, we want to do business with these people…”

A claw taloned out of the exquisite softness of Marr’s fur. It speared a tomato and plunged it into boiling water. “We want them to like us. We don’t want them to think we believe we’re better than they are, for heaven’s sakes.”

Marr lifted the tomato from its hot bath—spun it toward the opposite paw. Where another claw whisked away the skin. Snip. Slide. Just like that. Sten’s jaw dropped.

On automatic, Marr speared another tomato and repeated the process. And another tomato was peeled.

Snip. Slide. Just like that. “Haute cuisine is definitely out, out, out,” he said.

“It wouldn’t do,” Senn agreed. “Not at all.” His wickedly sharp claws were blazing through a stack of yellow onions. Skinning and chopping so deftly, Sten didn’t feel the slightest sting in his eyes.

“We’ve decided on native dishes,” Marr said. “Food one might imagine came from an ordinary being’s kitchen. But still a little exotic and daring because it is from someplace else.”

“Also, it gives us a theme,” Senn said, disposing of another onion. “A Flag of All Nations sort of theme.

It fits with the jumble of beings that make up the Zaginows.”

“We like themes,” Marr said.

Sten was only half-listening. He was busy gaping at the Milchens’ skills. They were living kitchen machines. Full of all kinds of little tricks.

“Great. Great. Themes and all,” Sten said. “But, before you go any further, I have to ask you a question.”

“Question away, dear,” Marr said, thunking down the last peeled tomato.

“I can’t do onions like Senn…” he said, pointing at the furry little whirlwind, chopping up big mounds of the stuff. “I’m not built for it. But that trick with the tomatoes… Every time I have to peel tomatoes, I mutilate the suckers. One pound of peel for every ounce of tomato.”

“Poor thing,” Marr said.

“You only have to dip them in boiling water,” Senn said in a small—I really, really, don’t think you’re stupid—voice.

“And he’s the leader of us all,” Marr said.

“I did read about it, once” Sten said, weak. “But I never got around to testing it out.”

“There, there, dear,” Senn said. “Of course you didn’t.”

* * *

The kitchen was filled with the delicious odor of tomatoes, garlic, and onions sizzling in olive oil. Marr tasted, adjusted the paprika, stirred some more, then nodded to Senn, who poured in fresh chicken stock.

Marr clamped a lid on the pot and set it to simmer. “When dinner is served,” he told Sten, “you might want to go easy on the soup.”

Sten eyed the big pot. “Sure looks like enough to go around to me.” Senn laughed. “Oh, there’s plenty, all right. But this is a special recipe. A guaranteed first-course tension-breaker. For the guests, that is. Not the host. Hosts should beware of this dish.”

“You see,” Marr elaborated, “after we strain it through a sieve, we’re going to stir in some flour and sour cream. Just enough to make it smooth.

“Then… a moment before we serve it… we add vodka. Lots of vodka! And… voila,” Senn said. “We give you… Hungarian tomato vodka soup! It’s quite potent, too.”

“A tongue loosener, huh?” Sten said, dry. “Did you guys ever consider a career as Mantis interrogators?”

“Amateurs,” Senn sniffed.

“No challenge at all,” Marr said.

“After we get the Zaginow delegation nice and soothed,” Senn said, “we need to work on their courage.” He was dusting chunks of meat with flour, spiked with lots of salt and pepper.

Marr was assembling chopped-up onions, bell peppers, and crushed garlic. “Build them up for a firm commitment,” he said.

Senn giggled. “So to speak.”

“Don’t be dirty,” Marr said, putting on a pan doused with olive oil to heat.

“I can’t help it,” Senn said, the giggles building. “My mind just works that way. Especially when we’re cooking mountain oysters.”

Sten frowned. He picked up a chunk of the floured meat. Sniffed it. “Don’t smell like oysters to me.”

“They’re calf testicles, dear,” Marr explained. “Cut from the little dickens before they’re old enough to know what’s missing.”

“We’re going to do them Basque style,” Senn said. “The image is so sexy. Muscular brutes with large libidos.”

“Makes you want to fry balls all day,” Marr said.

Sten looked at the meat he held in his hand. “Sorry, boys,” he said. “I hope you know they went for a good cause.”

“Now, we need to engage their minds,” Marr said.

Sten looked doubtfully at the large heap of bird parts he’d carved up with his cleaver. “Brain power through a clottin‘ chicken? You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“Stupid animals, yes,” Senn said. “But they’re so willing. Especially plucked and dressed out. See how patiently they await their marinade?”

“Like the Zaginows?” Sten guessed.

“Excellent, Sten, dear. You’re beginning to get the idea,” Marr said. “At this point we should have our new friends primed and ready for fresh approaches… Alert them through their taste buds there are endless possibilities once an alliance has been achieved.”

“Don’t be so stuffy,” Senn said He waved a spice-dusted paw at Sten. “Ignore him. The dish is called jerk chicken, after all,” he said.

“I like it… mon,” Sten said.

Marr set down the bunch of scallions he was dicing up. “You’ve heard of it?” He seemed disappointed.

“From Jamaica, right?” Sten said. “One of the old Earth islands. A place where they smoke rope fibers and drink silly fruit drinks with little parasols on top.”

Marr sighed. “Aren’t we running out of clean pots yet?”

“Not a chance,” Sten said. “I’ve only heard of jerk chicken. I’m not moving until I see how this is done.”

“In a kitchen,” Marr said, “only the chef is permitted to be clever. Pot washers laugh at Chef’s cunning jokes. Pot washers peel potatoes. Pot washers are in a constant state of awe at Chef’s genius. Pot washers scrape slime from floors. Pot washers duck a lot when sharp objects are thrown at them when they make poor Chef mad. These are only some of the things pot washers do.” Marr sniffed. “What they don’t do, is be clever. Pot washers are never, ever clever.”

“I promise it’ll never happen again,” Sten said.

“He really wasn’t that clever,” Senn said.

“Very well,” Marr said. “It can stay. But only if It promises to button Its lip.”

“Mmmmph,” Sten grunted, pointed at his zipped lip.

“Actually, this is a dish even a pot washer could master the first time,” Marr said. “It only tastes complex.”

He touched a switch under the chopping board and a metal processor revolved up. Pawfuls of chopped hot pepper and seal-lions went into the processor, along with a few bay leaves, some grated ginger, and diced garlic.

“Now the allspice,” Marr said. “That’s the anchor. You use about five tablespoons for every kilo of meat. Along with one teaspoon each of nutmeg, cinnamon, salt, and pepper.” He dumped the spices into the processor and hit the button. As it whirred, he slowly poured in oil.

“Peanut oil,” Marr said. “Just enough for it all to stick together.” In two beats it was done. Sten peered at the goo.

“Another thing pot washers get to do,” Marr said, “is smear goo over chicken.”

“This is true. Chefs never smear goo,” Senn said. “Especially when they’re furry.” Sten, the comparatively hairless pot washer, began spreading the marinade over the chicken. Actually, he didn’t really mind. It smelled wonderful. His mouth watered imagining what it was all going to taste like when Marr and Senn longed the chicken off the barbecue.

In the corner, he could hear Marr and Senn arguing over the relative merits of pine nuts in Lebanese pilaf.

All about him were the warm smells of a dozen dishes bubbling and simmering.

He felt relaxed… clear-minded.

On the whole, he thought, he’d much rather be a pot washer than a Hero of the Revolution.

Marr and Senn observed Sten’s beaming face as he slathered marinade over chicken.

“Do you think he’s ready?” Marr whispered.

“Absolutely,” Senn said. “I don’t like to pat myself on the back, but I think this is one the best jobs we’ve ever done.”

“Beings don’t realize,” Marr said, “that the first—and only— real secret of a dinner party is getting the host prepared first.”

“A little kitchen magic,” Senn said. “It works every time.” The Zaginow leader forked one more bite from the creamy pastry dish in front of her. She looked at it…

as if not believing her body was capable of handling still more. The fork continued its journey and the pastry disappeared into her mouth.

She closed her eyes. Ebony features a portrait of bliss. Tasting. Mmmmm.

Her eyes snapped open to find Sten grinning at her.

“Oh, burp,” she said. “Oh, heaven. But, I just couldn’t eat anymore.”

“I think the chefs will forgive you, Ms. Sowazi, if you resign the field of battle,” Sten said. “You’ve certainly given it your best.”

He glanced around the banquet room. Marr and Senn had turned the drafty Bhor hall into a wonder of festooned flowers and subtle lights.

The other guests were as dazzled and replete as Sowazi.

For two hours, Marr and Senn had commanded convoy after convoy of deliciousness through the room.

Whether the dish was meant for a human or an ET, each was greeted and devoured with great enthusiasm.

Beings had their elbows—or equivalent parts—on the tables now. Chatting warmly away with Sten’s colleagues as if they were all long-lost friends.

As a capper, Marr and Senn had printed up souvenir menus for each member of the Zaginow delegation.

“We always do it,” Marr said. “Beings like to show the folks at home what a good time they had. It’s wonderful advertising for us, as well.”

“Not ‘advertising,’ dear,” Senn said. “Not in this case, at any rate. Remember, we’re revolutionaries now. The military term is ‘propaganda’.”

“Same thing,” Marr sniffed.

‘True. But ’propaganda‘ is much more romantic.“

Sten had to admit that the souvenir menus fit the bill perfectly as propaganda.

On the back was a picture of himself, flanked by the master caterers, Marr and Senn. On the front, Senn got his theme: “A

FEAST FOR ALL BEINGS.“

This was the menu for the humans:

SOUP

Hungarian Tomato Vodka Miso Saki Shrimp

SALAD

Cambodian Raw Fish Tomato Cucumber Raita

APPETIZERS

Basque Mountain Oysters

Russian Blinis and Caviar

Armenian Stuffed Mushrooms

ENTREES

Jamaican Jerk Chicken

Moroccan Roast Lamb

Broiled Salmon Steaks

Mesquite Broiled Vegetable Kabob

SIDE DISHES

Lebanese Rice Pilaf

Rosemary Potatoes

Cuban Black Beans & Rice

DESSERT

New York Style Cheesecake Swedish Pancakes With Lingonberries The items listed on the menus for the ETs were equally impressive.

Sten saw Marr peering from a doorway. He spotted Sten and waved. It was time.

Sten turned to Sowazi. “I think we’re being called for coffee and brandy,” he said.

She laughed, deep and pleasurable. “Cigars, too?”

“Cigars, too,” Sten promised.

“Lead on, Sr. Sten.”

As he rose to do her bidding, Sten made a furtive thumbs-up motion to Marr. Everything was going according to plan.

“Here’s our position,” Moshi-Kamal said. He was the second member of the troika that ruled the Zaginows. “We’re willing to come on board. But we need some assurances.”

“I can’t give you any,” Sten said. “Remember, I started the conversation by saying the odds are decidedly against us. If you join us… it may be an act of suicide.”

“But your own behavior does not bear that statement out, Sr. Sten.” This was from Truiz, the ET

member of the troika. “You fight well. Logically. Certainly not like a suicidal being. You also have had many successes.”

“They look good,” Sten said, “but they’re not near enough. The Emperor has had a lot of bad days. He can afford to. If I have one… it’s over.”

“Why are you being so candid?” Sowazi wondered. “I would think you’d be pointing up the positive.

The fleets you command. The victories. The growing number of allies.” She waved at the cozy paneled den Marr and Senn had converted an old weapons room into for this conversation. “You sit here at ease, dining luxuriously, thumbing your nose at the Emperor and his hellhounds. Why aren’t you boasting of these things to win us to your side?”

“I could,” Sten agreed. “But the trouble is… Once I’d won you over, I wouldn’t be able to count on you. When something terrible happened—and I promise you it will—you’d see that I’d lied. And desert me.

“There can be no mistake about this,” Sten said. “This is a fight to the finish. The Emperor will never give us quarter. We lose—we die.”

“I can understand this,” Truiz said. The little tendrils wriggling beneath her eyes were red with frustration.

“But the picture you paint is so bleak. Give us some hope.” Sten leaned forward. “Right now, I have the Emperor’s forces strung across the map. What I don’t have pinned down… I have chasing its own tail. But I can only keep this going for a little longer.

“I need two things right now. Reserves. And an opening. Without the first, it will be difficult to support the other.”

“Do you think you will get this opening?” Moshi-Kamal asked.

Sten paused, as if giving serious thought. Then he nodded. “Without a doubt,” he lied. “No matter how we read the progs, they keep on coming up with the same thing. The thrust of the fight is with us. Sooner or later, we’re going to have a breakthrough.”

‘Then we want to be there,“ Sowazi said. ”This… this… being has become unbearable.“

“He is forcing us to become one of his dominions,” Moshi-Kamal said. “Putting us under his heel. The beings of the Zaginows have long memories. We all come from working people. The class the bosses put in dark holes full of sharp machin-ery.”

‘This is true,“ Truiz said. ”All of our ancestors fled from some despot or other. We can’t condemn ourselves to the lives they escaped.“

“Did you know,” Sowazi hissed, “that he is even putting himself up as a god? He has these… these…

beings bounding about proclaiming him a holy thing. They want to put temples up to him in our cities.

It’s… filthy!”

It wasn’t necessary for Sten to comment. Instead, he looked from one to the other.

“Then you’ll join us… even without assurances?”

“Even without assurances,” Moshi-Kamal said. “We will join you.”

“And we might also be able to solve your first problem,” Sowazi said.

“How, so?”

“Why, the reserve forces,” Truiz said. “We assume you have more beings at your disposal than ships and weapons?”

“You assumed right,” Sten said.

“I’m sure you are aware that we have thousands of factories—forced on us by the Eternal Emperor—designed and tooled to build those things.”

“I knew that,” Sten said. “But I also know they’ve been shut down for some time. I figured most of the machinery had either rusted or been sold for scrap.”

“Only a few,” Moshi-Kamal said. “Mostly, they are in excellent condition. It’s one of the benefits and curses of the Zaginows. We can’t stand to see good machinery go to ruin.”

“People didn’t have any work to go to,” Sowazi explained. “But they kept the factories up just the same.”

“Are you trying to say that you’ve got a turnkey operation?” Sten asked. “That all you have to do is give the word and you can start building ships and weapons again?” The little tendrils below Truiz’s eyes wriggled with pleasure. “We can be up and running in one E-week,” she said. “Then bring on your troops.”

Now all Sten needed was the opening.

The pale, slender Grb’chev towered over Cind. The splash of red across the smooth skull throbbed with curiosity. “Your request is most unusual,” he said. “Few humans have ever come to this place.” Cind looked about the small building whose mirrored walls reflected the sprawling gardens surrounding it.

“I can’t imagine why,” she said, “it’s such a lovely place.” The Grb’chev touched a switch and the door slid open. He escorted her inside. “Sr. Kyes had a love for beauty,” he said. “Especially understated beauty.”

Cind’s smile was humble. “I’ve learned about that side of Sr. Kyes in my studies,” she said, “He was quite a complex being. Even for a Grb’chev.”

“Even for a Grb’chev,” her escort agreed. “But this leads me back to my first remark. In our culture, Sr.

Kyes is a hero. His intelligence, inventiveness, and business acumen have already taken on mythlike characteristics.

“We’ve converted his old headquarters into a museum. A shrine, for some.” Cind and her escort were pacing through the museum’s cheery foyer. “But I would think only someone of our culture would appreciate Sr. Kyes.”

“Then I apologize for my species,” Cind said. “After all, no one would argue that the Grb’chev are easily among the most intelligent beings in the Empire.”

“This is true,” her escort said. There was no modesty necessary.

“And Sr. Kyes was arguably the most intelligent Grb’chev in this age,” Cind said.

“Some say, of all time,” the escort said.

“Then, how could any reasonable being—especially a student such as myself—not want to see firsthand how Sr. Kyes lived and worked?”

“You are a very bright young woman,” her escort said. Another switch brought another door open. They stepped into the library. Across the way, a figure worked at a monitor. A human.

“This is a most fortunate day for you and your research,” her escort said as he spied the figure. “As I said before, only a few humans share your interest in Sr. Kyes. One of them has a position on the museum’s staff. And to my surprise, your visit happily coincides with his shift day.” Her escort tapped the figure on a shoulder.

The man turned. An expectant smile on his face.

“Ms. Cind, allow me to introduce you to one of our senior researchers… Sr. Lagguth.” Lagguth rose, and put out a hand. They shook. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. “It is a pleasure I almost missed. This is my normal rest day. But one of my colleagues called in ill.”

“A happy coincidence,” the escort said.

“Yes. A happy coincidence,” Cind echoed, looking her quarry up and down.

It was no coincidence at all. And for Lagguth, it certainly wasn’t going to be happy.

Lagguth had suffered through countless nights of torment, envisioning the hard-faced beings who would come to get him. They were always large. Always dressed in black. Sometimes they came with drawn guns. Sometimes with bloody fangs. But they always said the same thing: “You know too much, Lagguth.

And for this, you must die.”

The woman confronting him now was that nightmare, but in a disarmingly soft package. She had no visible weapon. And small, bright teeth instead of fangs.

“You know too much, Lagguth,” Cind said. “And if you don’t help me… they’ll kill you for it.”

“I was just a functionary,” Lagguth groaned.

“I wouldn’t call being the head of the privy council’s AM2 bureau a mere functionary,” Cind scoffed.

“I had no power. No authority. I followed orders. That’s all. I did nothing to harm anyone!”

“Your very presence meant you conspired with the Emperor’s assassins,” Cind said. “As for authority…

Thousands of beings whose loved ones died of cold or starvation from lack of fuel might want to have a word with you for the authority you did exercise.”

There was nothing Lagguth could say. He bowed his head.

“So. Speak to me, Lagguth. Or I’ll drop the word. And either the Emperor’s goons will get you, or the mob. I almost feel sorry for you, you poor excuse for a life-form.”

“You’ll speak up for me?” Lagguth begged. “You’ll tell Sr. Sten I cooperated?‘

Cind let her voice soften. “Yes. I’ll speak up for you.” Then—cracking the whip: “Now. Tell me, Lagguth! Tell me everything!”

Lagguth talked. He told her about the strange program he’d set up for Sr. Kyes. Its ostensible purpose was to search for where the Emperor hid his AM2. This was what Kyes told his fellow members of the privy council, at least.

“But I got the idea he really wasn’t all that interested in AM2. His search was much deeper than that.

Highly personal.”

“In what way?” Cind asked.

“Well, we did gather together everything that was known about AM2. From composition, to the few known courses AM2

shipments followed before they so mysteriously stopped. We fed it into this marvel of a computer he’d developed.“

He pointed to a small terminal in one corner of the library. “That’s linked to it,” he said. “It’s still functional. But, sadly, it can only be one of a kind. I doubt any being in several lifetimes would ever be able to decipher the program he created to run it.”

Cind prodded him away from reveries of Kyes’s genius. “Go on. I don’t have much time.”

“Yes. As I said, we fed in all that data on AM2. But we also fed in everything that was known about the Emperor. We had help on this from Sr. Poyndex.”

Cind’s eyes widened. “Poyndex. He was in on this?”

“Absolutely,” Lagguth said. “He got something on Kyes. I don’t know what. But, Kyes turned that knowledge back on him. Pulled him into our circle. It was he who made Poyndex a member of the privy council. So, obviously some kind of a bargain was made.”

“Obviously,” Cind said. The detail of the deal was interesting, but she doubted it was of any use. “Okay.

So you fed all kinds of raw data into the computer. Then what? What did Kyes learn?”

“I’m not sure,” Lagguth said. “But I do know he learned something. He suddenly became very excited.

He was a being, you realize, who rarely showed any kind of emotion. Anyway, he became excited.

Ordered the program shut down. And then he left. In a great hurry.”

“Where did he go?” Cind wanted to know.

“Again, I’m ignorant. Except that I know he left Prime. For some far place. And when he returned… his brain… had died.”

Cind knew what this meant. The Grb’chev were the only known example of a higher species created by symbiosis. Their bodies—large, handsome things—originated in an exceedingly dimwitted race. Their

“brains” were actually the result of a sort of virus that settled into the brute’s plentiful sinus passages. And prospered into tremendous intellect.

The curse of the Grb’chev is that the “brain” had a near-absolute lifespan of 126 years. Kyes was one of the few examples on record of a Grb’chev brain that had lived a few years longer. The tragedy was the body lived happily and moronically on for at least another one hundred years.

Cind had seen many examples of this living death shambling through the streets of the Grb’chev’s home world. Constant and horrifying reminders of what each member of this species faced Cind pointed to the terminal. “Have you tried to learn what Kyes was doing, during those final days?” Lagguth hesitated. Then he sadly shook his head. “I’m not a very brave person,” he said. He croaked laughter. “In case you haven’t guessed. I’ve been frightened every day of my life someone—like you…

or worse—would find me. And I’d be killed, or brain burned for the little I know.

“And so… although I desperately wanted to learn what Kyes was up to… I never could bring myself to actually do something about it.”

A sound came from behind a door, just to the side of the computer terminal. Cind’s hand snaked down to the place where she had hidden her weapon.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Lagguth said. “He just wants to be fed.” Cind’s brow furrowed. “Who wants to be fed?”

“Sr. Kyes, of course,” Lagguth said. “Would you like to meet him?”

“He’s here?” Cind was astounded.

“Why not? It’s a good enough home for what’s left of him as any. Actually, it’s a damn fine home.

They’ve put him out to pasture, so to speak. Like one would a fine racing beast. He gets everything he could possibly want. Although, to be frank, he’s too stupid to really know what he wants. Sometimes…

we have to help him with his treats.”

Lagguth rose. “I really should go feed him. It’s cruel to make him wait.” Cind followed him into the room.

It was a bright and cheery place, filled with toys and decorated in the bright primary colors of childhood.

Kyes was perched in a vastly oversized chair, giggling at the large vid monitor. It was showing a kid livie: small things scurrying about, smacking one another.

Kyes saw Lagguth. “Hungry,” he said.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got your yummies for you,” Lagguth said.

Cind shuddered as she watched Lagguth spoon-feed a being who had once ruled an empire.

Food dribbled from Kyes’s mouth. He pointed at Cind. “Who, pretty?”

“A friend come to see you, Sr. Kyes,” Lagguth said.

Cind came out of her shock and moved to Kyes’s side. She took the food from Lagguth. Kyes looked up at her. Eyes wide.

Not a clue of intelligence in them. He opened his mouth. Cind fed him. He smacked his lips loudly as he ate. Belched. Then giggled.

“Make funny,” he said.

“Very funny,” Cind said. “Good boy.”

Kyes patted her. “Happy,” he said. “Like happy.”

“Aren’t you always happy?” Cind asked.

Kyes’s head bobbed up and down. “Happy… Always.”

Cind braced herself. Only cruelty could follow. “What if the Emperor comes?” she said. “What if he comes to take you away.”

The innocent thing that had once been Kyes reeled back in horror. “No. Not him. Not take away.

Please. Not go other place!”

Cind leaped on it: “What other place?”

“Other place,” Kyes moaned. “Bad place. Emperor there. Not happy me.”

“Let him be,” Lagguth pleaded. “He can’t tell you more. Can’t you see how frightened he is?” Kyes had curled into a ball. Sobbing. The huge chair made him seem small and helpless.

Cind did not relent. “What did you find?” she gritted. “What did you find in this bad place?”

“Emperor. I say.”

“What else?”

Kyes shrieked at some dim memory. A genetic haunting. “Forever,” he cried. “Find forever.”

“You see what I mean?” Lagguth said. “It’s only nonsense you’ll get. He says that all the time when he’s frightened. ‘Forever.’ Over and over again, ‘forever.’ ”

Kyes nodded. “Not happy, forever. Not happy.”

Cind patted him. Soothing. Then turned to Lagguth. “Now, I want to see the computer,” she said.

As they left the room, Kyes was beginning to recover. He squirmed upright in his seat, dried his eyes, and started tentatively giggling at the little things on the livie screen.

The moonlet was a silent wilderness of destruction. Cind moved through bomb-blasted craters and twisted, melted hulks whose designed functions were barely recognizable.

The sensors on the small device in her hand were winking frantically, as they took in data. Cind scrambled over the surface of the moonlet, pausing here and there to scan wreckage with the device. The facts were fed to the mainframe aboard her orbiting ship. The conclusions were quickly beamed back.

Chirping in her helmet com.

So far, they confirmed everything she had found in the data banks of the computer in the Kyes museum.

The moonlet had been an elaborately constructed communications center. A byway on the road to the mystery that led to the Emperor’s ultimate hiding place for the AM2.

But, Kyes hadn’t come to this desolation with this goal. Cind was sure of that. Instead, he had come to find the Emperor. A being, most others in those days, believed dead. And he’d found him. Here on this planetoid.

She imagined Kyes, driven nearly mad by fear of his impending “death,” pleading with the Emperor.

Offering anything. Desperately begging him to rescue Kyes.

The gibbering hulk back at the Grb’chev museum was sufficient evidence his pleas had been rejected.

Cind worked the area for some hours. Finally she was done. It was time to tell Sten what she had learned.

The outpost was a place where the paths of two secrets had once intersected.

The first was the secret of AM2.

The second, the Emperor’s apparent immortality.

Cind was weary when she messaged for pickup. Not from the work. But from the depressing thought that although she had learned a great deal in this hunt… the knowledge didn’t necessarily add up.

And she prayed to all the beards of all the mothers of the Bhor, that she wasn’t exiting the same door she’d only recently come in.

Haines rattled the papers in her hand, coldly professional. “Once we put his files in order,” she said, “it became quite clear what Mahoney believed he had learned about the Eternal Emperor.”

“Which was?” Sten waved impatiently at the ex-homicide detective’s holo image. It was being beamed from the small Bhor resort he’d stashed her in—along with her husband and Mahoney’s treasure trove.

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” Haines said. “Facts should be given their due.” Sten grimaced. “Sorry.”

“First, I’m sending you a psychological profile of the Em-peror. Mahoney drew it up as a model. My husband and I confirmed it by our own work. And double-checked with Rykor. It’s absolutely dead on.

Look it over when you have time.”

“I’ll take your word,” Sten said.

“Next, I’m sending you the matches Mahoney made against that profile. He set the guide against the other times the Emperor allegedly died… and then returned, big as life. Each time, it was definitely the same being. There was no possibility of a surgical double. Again… we confirmed all Mahoney’s data.” Sten groaned. “That resurrection business again. That clottin‘ Mahoney reached out from his grave and converted you.”

“I’m no convert to anything,” Haines said. “But if these facts were clues pointing to a murder suspect…

I’d bust the son of a scrote and lead him with confidence to my prosecuting attorney. Face up to it Sten.

It’s a clear possibility.”

“I’ll face that ghost when I see it and touch it myself,” Sten said. “Meanwhile… where does this get us?” Haines paused, considering how she was going to put this. “What it gets us, is a far more frightening puzzle. You see, my husband and I took Mahoney’s work and punted it one step forward.”

“What did you do?”

“We took that profile of the Eternal Emperor—the one we all agree is a perfect match. Updated it and ran it against the man we’re all ducking and dodging right now.”

“And?” Sten almost didn’t want to ask. “It’s still the same guy, right?”

“Yeah. It’s the same guy. But it isn’t The Emperor’s the same overall. But when you put a closer microscope on him, he’s very different in his behavior.”

“Clottin‘ wonderful,” Sten groaned.

“Sorry to dump it into your lap, Sten,” Haines said, her voice warming in sympathy. “But, as they say in the livies, ‘It’s just the facts, ma’am.’”

Sten thanked her, and broke the connection.

He leaned back, letting the information churn around. They settled into this uncomfortable equation: Same but different still equalled different.

The com buzzed. The watch officer said she had Cind on the line. It was important.

As Sten leaned forward to answer, a question tingled at his back brain: If it wasn’t the Eternal Emperor… who the clot was he fighting?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SOLON KENNA STOOD upon the broad speaker’s platform, a block of pure white marble tabernacling out from the far wall of the Hall of Parliament. Posed beside him at his handsome best was Tyrenne Walsh. Behind them was a three-story-high portrait of the Eternal Emperor.

Kenna’s powerful, polished voice rolled out across the hundreds of assembled politicians: “Distinguished Representatives… Loyal Imperial citizens… Gentlebeings.

“It is with deep humility that my colleague and I stand before you on this most historic day.” Kenna’s voice dipped into an oiled, humble tone. A twitch of a finger signaled the dimwitted Walsh to bow his head.

“The people of Dusable have already enjoyed vast honors from our beloved Emperor,” he said.

Kenna’s old-pol brain made note there was not one titter from the group—which represented every nook and cranny of the Empire. Nor was there one whisper he could detect of the recent humiliation his people had suffered at the hands of the Emperor’s enemy—Sten.

Kenna gestured to the enormous portrait of the Emperor staring out at all of them. “For reasons only our wise leader can determine, the people of Dusable have been honored once again.” Kenna’s trained eyes scanned the crowd, as he spoke. Sussing out his strengths and weaknesses.

Supporter and enemy. He may have been humiliated by Sten, but humiliation did not diminish his skills as a manipulator.

He and Avri had prepared well for this moment. When he was done, the Emperor’s bill would be presented. A highly controversial bill, whose passage at one time had been difficult to assure.

Many favors and heaps of coin had exchanged hands in the dark corridors of the Hall of Parliament. The old mordida moved a plenitude of votes into the Emperor’s column. Poyndex—for reasons Kenna chose not to ponder—had also volunteered assistance. Old files on the opposition representatives had been sifted for pressure points and blackmail. More votes were added.

Still, the matter would be close.

But, in politics, close is enough to win a kingdom.

“Gentlebeings, I am here to put before you this remarkable proposal. We are being asked to lift the veil from our eyes. To see what we have been too blind to realize for so many tragic years.

“And that is, we live in so fortunate a time that a living god walks among us. And that god is our good and holy Eternal Emperor. Whose immortality stands as an unyielding shield against the hard blows of history.

“In his sanctified embodiment, our glory goes on and on before us. Our glory. Which is his glory. And his glory, ours.

“Gentlebeings… I put the question to you. Let us now declare, once and forever, that the Eternal Emperor is our rightful god.”

There was a stir. The gauntlet was down.

The Emperor was demanding godhood by parliamentary decree.

Kenna turned to the Speaker, an old, distinguished puppet of the Emperor. “Sr. Speaker,” Kenna intoned, “call the question.”

The Speaker’s grizzled snout pushed forward, virile tusk implants an odd vanity in an ancient, wrinkled face. “In the matter of PB 600323—titled, Declaration of the Eternal Emperor’s Godhood; subtitled, Be It Resolved to Amend the Emperor’s Title to Read, ‘Holy,’ and Any Other Word Forms Recognized As Terms of Worshipful Respect—how do you say, gentle-beings?

“All for approval… say Yea.”

A choreographed chorus of “yeas” began to rise in the hall. Broken by loud shouts of protest. The shouts became a roar, drowning out the proceedings. One voice soared over that roar.

“Sr. Speaker! Sr. Speaker! Point of order, please! Point of order!” The Speaker tried to ignore the voice. His gavel hammered down. He was particularly humiliated because the voice came from one of his own species. It was Nikolayevich, a young firebrand of a tusker.

The gavel rat-tat-tatted. Lectern pickups magnified the blows and the sound thundered through the hall.

But an unruly crowd took up Nikolayevich’s cry: “Point of order! Point of Order!” More voices were added, drowning out the thunder. “Let him speak! Let him speak!” The Speaker turned helpless old eyes on Kenna. There was nothing that could be done. At least not in public. Kenna motioned: Let him speak. Then he slipped a hand in his pocket to trigger an alarm to Arundel.

“The chair recognizes Sr. Nikolayevich, representative from the great and loyal Sverdlovsk Cluster.” The Speaker keyed the pickup that would amplify Nikolayevich’s remarks.

“Sr. Speaker,” the young tusker shouted, “we protest these procedures in the strongest possible terms.

The issue before us is an obscenity. We will not be manipulated into seeing this become law over the will of the majority.”

“From where I was sitting, young man,” the Speaker said with dramatic sarcasm, “the majority was quite clear. The ‘yeas’ were overwhelming. Now, if you will permit me, I will call for the ’nays.‘ And you will see how weak is your support.”

“It is our right to refuse a voice vote. To demand a roll call,” Nikolayevich insisted. “Let us stand up and let our peoples see how each of us votes on this matter. If the Emperor is to be a god… let his citizens see us declare it so. And on our heads be it.”

The Speaker shot a look at Kenna for help. Kenna made stretching motions: Delay this.

“Very well,” the Speaker said. “I will call the roll.”

Nikolayevich grunted in pleasure. Sniffing victory.

The Speaker snorted. “However, since you believe this matter so sensitive—although how any of you could doubt the sanctity of our Emperor is beyond me—I will put another question to the floor first.”

“Objection!” Nikolayevich shouted. “The chair may not pose another question while a previous one is still in action.”

The rebel from Sverdlovsk knew his legal ground. So did the canny old Speaker. A puppet he may have been, but he was a skillful puppet.

“But the assembly does have the right—duty, as you are insisting—to decide the means of its voting. You say it should be by the numbers. I say it should be by vigorous acclaim.” Nikolayevich looked about him. His cronies were doing a quick count, polling their strength. The answer came back. Wa-verers had been heartened by Nikolayevich’s boldness. For this brief moment, he had the edge.

“Call the question, Mr. Speaker,” he said. Flat. “And I think you’ll hear the loud shouts of ‘nay’ put paid to this blasphemy.”

He slammed back into his bench, nodding all around, pleased with himself.

The Speaker raised mild eyes. “Under the circumstances of your protest,” he said, “I believe it would be unseemly to settle the matter with such dispatch. There will be no yeas, or nays, sir. No. Tit for tat, sir.

I’ll call the roll.”

Flabbergasted, Nikolayevich popped up again. “Sr. Speaker, this is incredible. You’re going to call the roll to see if it is permissible to call the roll?” He turned to his fellow rebels, shoulders humped in amazement. Barking laughter. But the laughter was forced.

“Yes. That’s exactly what I mean,” the Speaker said. “I’m elated that my thoughts to you were so clearly expressed. Sometimes, I must confess, young representatives have me wondering if somehow senility has crept up on me.”

Laughter roared out from the Emperor’s allies. Nikolayevich refused to be intimidated.

“But this foolishness will take hours, Sr. Speaker,” he protested. “Polling us one by one on a thing so easily settled is the height of folly.”

“Nevertheless,” the Speaker said, “this is how we shall progress.” He turned to the master of arms. “Master of Arms, call the roll!” The master of arms bristled forward. He opened the thick official logbook.

He began to drone them out: “Ms. Dexter… From the great region of Cogli, how do you say?”

“I vote yea, Sr. Speaker.”

And so it went One by one the representatives rose. Each vote was carefully entered in the logbook.

Kenna’s forces fanned out through the great hall. With the Speaker’s help, he had redrawn the battle line.

If he won this vote, the second victory would be assured.

Nikolayevich’s cronies worked desperately to shore up their support. But time… slow, dragging time…

began to wear against it

Still, Kenna was fuming. Yes. He would win. But now the old rule of close being good enough would be turned on its head. After Nikolayevich’s outburst—loudly supported by many others—anything but total victory would appear manipulated.

This was not how the Emperor wanted to start his first day of being God.

The vote ended. Kenna had won. But the margin was slender. He could see Nikolayevich and his people out twisting appendages and shouting into hearing orifices.

And he could see that the young tusker was making progress. One of his agents on Nikolayevich’s staff flashed a message to Kenna’s lectern com. When the voice vote came, the message said, Nikolayevich and his cronies were planning to disrupt it with a boisterous demonstration.

Kenna wracked his brain for some other means of stalling. No matter how hard he wrung it, however, nothing came. When this was over, the Emperor would have his hide.

Where the clot was he? Some god. Not even around when you need him.

The Speaker signaled. Frantic. What should he do? Kenna had no choice. He motioned. Call the question.

“Gentlebeings,” the Speaker intoned, “for the second time this day, I call the question… In the matter of PB 600323—titled, Declaration of the Eternal Emperor’s Godhood—” Doors boomed open. Boots hammered down.

The sergeant of arms gave the cry: “Gentlebeings, I present to you… the Eternal Emperor!” Startled faces churned around.

A white-robed contingent of cultists danced through the enormous doors leading into the great main hall.

Their faces beamed in ecstasy. Some swung clanging incense pots on long chains. Others strewed rose petals down the long avenue. All wore small knives in the ropes belted around their waists. The knives were sharp and festooned with streaming red ribbons.

At their head was the skeletal figure of their high priestess— Baseeker.

Behind them, boots crushing the rose petals, came a troop of black-uniformed IS officers. Their eyes sweeping the assembly of representatives for danger. Weapons at ready.

In the center was the Eternal Emperor.

When Kenna and the others saw him, they didn’t notice the other little details of the entrance. The second IS troop that followed just behind the Emperor, led by Poyndex. Or the camo-clad sniper teams that sprinted off to take up position. Or Avri directing nondescript figures to mingle among the representatives. When they’d been dispatched, she sighted Nikolayevich, and slipped toward him.

But these things blurred past the assembly’s side vision. The Emperor commanded their full attention.

He was garbed like they had never seen him before. Long golden robes flowed over his muscular figure.

The material phosphored, giving off a ghostly glow. Encircling his dark locks was a thin band of more glowing gold. In his hand, he carried a staff of yellow metal that flared at the top into a round standard.

On the standard burned the symbol of AM2.

The Imperial formation swept along the avenue and wheeled onto the marble speaker’s platform. The Eternal Emperor strode directly to the edge and faced Parliament. Weapons thunked and boots crashed down as the troops took position on either flank.

Baseeker and the cultists flowed around them to the Emperor. Then they lay on the platform at his feet. A nest of white-robed angels with knives.

Kenna stared. The others stared. For a moment he—and they—could almost believe. All the old myths stealthed into the room, spreading like fog among them. An ancient fog. Swept up from the cold depths of several thousand years. This was the being who had ruled them for all that time.

Perhaps he was a god.

“It has come to my attention,” the Eternal Emperor said, “that there has been some mewling in this assembly.” His voice was low. But they didn’t have to strain to hear. Menace buzzed all around them.

“I don’t usually pay attention to your whines,” the Emperor said. “I gave you that right when I empowered this Parliament in the Imperial Constitution. It’s a nuisance, I admit. But that is the nature of democracy and I have had a long time to get used to it.”

In the audience, Nikolayevich barely noticed as a figure moved close to him. It was Avri.

“It is the nature of this current mewling, however, that brings me before you. I understand some honors were about to be conferred upon your Emperor. These honors, I should add, I did not seek. They were pressed on me by my subjects.” The Emperor’s hand flowed out to indicate the white-robed cultists.

“They say I’m a god. They have built temples to me. Temples where millions of other like-minded subjects worship. In those temples, they preach wisdom and patience and gentleness. These attributes, they believe, are at the heart of my godhood.”

Nikolayevich felt a motion at his beltpak; a small lump dropped in. He brushed at it impatiently. A message from an ally, he assumed. He ignored the figure slipping away.

“I have always encouraged freedom of worship among my subjects. So, it was with some shock that I learned that these gentle folk who worship me were being brutally persecuted for their beliefs.

“In fact, I now have incontrovertible proof that this persecution was at the heart of the conspiracy launched against me by the traitor Sten. Unspeakable acts were committed by Sten against these believers because he feared their deeply felt truths stood in his way to my throne.

“For, if I am a god, who would possibly join him against me? So, you see, even my greatest enemy is a believer. A Satan set against his perfect master.”

This odd dance in logic momentarily broke the spell gripping Nikolayevich. He slipped the message from his beltpak. A lump wrapped in paper. He unrolled it. The lump was a tusk, slender and finely curved—then a horror of gore at the stump. On the tusk was an ornate ring.

The ring Nikolayevich had given his lover on their first pairing day.

“This is the background to the bill your Speaker has presented on this day. A background which I kept to myself until this moment, for reasons of state security involving the traitor Sten.

“The decree will end the persecution of these innocent beings. A decree that will strike a moral blow against my greatest enemy.

“A decree that will recognize what has been so painfully obvious these many millennia. I have watched over you and your ancestors for long years. I have fed you. Clothed you. Given you the means to prosper in peace.”

The Emperor’s head dropped. “Ah,” he said, “sometimes I am so weary…”

“Hail the Holy Emperor!” Baseeker shrieked. “Hail, O Great Good Lord.” The other cultists took up the cry: “Hail the Holy Emperor! Praise Him. Praise Him!” Kenna gave Walsh an elbow poke. Then another. Walsh’s eyes unglazed. “Praise Him!” shouted Kenna.

Another nudge into Walsh. “Praise Him!” he shouted again.

Walsh gave him a dumb grin. “Praise Him!” he shouted. “Praise Him.” Out in the crowd of representatives, Nikolayevich and the others were suddenly very much aware that beings very close to them were watching.

Nikolayevich almost choked, knowing that his lover’s tusk was not the only bloody message delivered this day.

“Hail the Holy Emperor,” Nikolayevich chanted. A moment later hundreds of other voices joined in. “ Praise Him! Praise Him!”

The Emperor smiled and spread his hands. Then he wheeled around and swept off the platform with his contingent.

He rushed down the aisle, nodding here and there as he went. Even in his speed, Poyndex could see that he was savoring the shouts of “Hail the Holy Emperor!” Poyndex was the last out. He could hear the Speaker’s hammer coming down. Then his cry: “In the matter of PB 600323—titled, Declaration of the Eternal Emperor’s Godhood… how do you say, gentlebeings?

“All for approval say Yea.”

And the thunder came back: “Yea!”

Poyndex didn’t bother sticking around for the “nays.”