The man couldn't be scared, the Emperor thought. But maybe he is, he went on, as he led the three men up catwalks. Maybe it's been too long since he'd had somebody shooting directly at his tail.
Maybe he's as scared as Tanz Sullamora, who was wheezing up behind the Emperor, his face near-coronary flushed.
Ledoh waited until all four men were on the next platform. Now, he decided. Now. That damned Gurkha had spoiled his first chance. Now was the time, and his ceremonial sword was in his hand and he was lunging, the blade aimed for the middle of the Emperor's back.
But just as the conspirators had underestimated the lethality of the Gurkhas, so did Ledoh underestimate the reaction time of Naik Agansing Rai.
Rai—Sten's ex-batman—somehow leaped between the Emperor and the blade—and was spitted neatly through the lungs. He sagged down, almost dragging the blade from Ledoh's hands.
Ledoh stepped in, pulled the blade from the man's chest, and came back for a swing—and then Tanz Sullamora became a hero.
The fat man somehow managed to wildly swing his willygun—the willygun he had no idea how to fire—into Ledoh's ribs, staggering him into the platform's side railing. Sullamora was still reacting to his own bravery as Ledoh pivoted back and slammed the sword's pommel into his neck. Gasping for air, Sullamora went down, and Ledoh was in lunging position…
To find the Emperor standing four meters away, at the end of the platform. He was empty-handed, his willygun still slung across his back.
"That figures," the Emperor said. "Do I get to know why?"
Ledoh could barely speak—all those years, all the plans, all the hatred. But he managed, "Rob Gades was my son."
And then he was attacking.
Again the bystanding part of the Emperor's mind was wondering who in hell Gades was as he pulled a breaker bar from the emergency fire kit on the bulkhead behind him, held it two-handed in front of him, and parried Ledoh's blade clear.
Ledoh's eyes glittered as he stop-stanced closer and slashed at the Emperor's waist, a cut that was again deflected, and then the Emperor was in motion, left foot kicking out into Ledoh's chest.
A sword against a crowbar appears an unequal fight—which it is, as several people who'd pulled blades on the Emperor during his ship engineer days had found to their considerable surprise.
As Ledoh tried to recover, the Emperor slid one hand down the bar and swung, two-handed. The steel crashed against Ledoh's sword, snapping the blade just above the hilt, before the Emperor changed his swing and the bar smashed back against Ledoh's forearm.
The bone snapped loudly and Ledoh screamed in pain. Clutching his arm, white bone protruding through his tunic sleeve, he went to his knees.
The Emperor studied him. "You poor bastard," he said, not unsympathetically. "You poor, sorry bastard." He stepped back, to the emergency com next to the fire kit, and considered the next step.
Kilgour was wrenching mightily at the welded-shut hatch into the engine spaces when Sten elbowed him aside.
The knife popped from its sheath into his hand, and he held his wrist in a brace then forced the knife through the hatchway itself. The crystal blade sliced through the steel as if it were plas. Sten made two cuts around the blackened areas that marked the weld, then shoulder-blocked the hatch open and was into the engine room, kukri in one hand, his own knife in the other.
Four bodies… no Emperor. He scanned above him, then was up the ladders, moving like a stalking cat.
Levels overhead he could see two more sprawled bodies and two men.
Emperor. Still alive. Praise a few dozen gods. Around the walkway. Other man… on his knees. Ledoh.
Neither the Emperor nor Ledoh heard Sten.
Sten was on the catwalk just below the two when he saw Ledoh force himself out of his pain. His unbroken hand went back into his waistband and emerged with a tiny Mantis willygun, and Sten was only halfway up the ladder as Ledoh aimed the pistol.
A kukri cannot be thrown. It's single-edged, and its bulbous-ended off-balance blade guarantees that, once thrown, the knife will spin wildly.
It is, however, almost a full kilo of steel.
Sten overhanded the long knife at Ledoh, in a desperate last chance to save the Emperor's life.
At best the blade should have clubbed Ledoh down. But the whirling blade sank point first into the back of Grand Chamberlain Mik Ledoh, severing his spine.
Ledoh, dead before his finger could touch the willy-gun's trigger, spasmed through the guardrails to thump finally, soggily, on the deck plates many meters below.
Sten came up the last few steps and stood looking at the Emperor. One or the other of them should probably have said something terribly dramatic. But dramatic gestures happen, most often, during the retelling. The two bloodstained men just stared at each other in silence and relief.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Naked under a bright summer sun, Haines considered perfection. The drink comfortably close at hand was icy; the sun was hot; a cool breeze from the forest below kept her houseboat comfortable.
Almost perfect, she corrected herself.
One thing missing, and one problem.
The last months, after the Emperor had returned to Prime World, had been very long indeed, and the attempts to clean up the mess had begun.
Haines was fairly grateful that she'd only been witness to part of them; Sten had told her about the rest.
Evidently, after the last Praetorian had been hunted down on the
Normandie
, the Imperial fleet had immediately scudded since even the Eternal Emperor couldn't cobble together any believable explanation that the Tahn would accept for the deaths of their chief lord and his retinue.
Kirghiz or one of his underlings must have been under orders to report regularly, because barely two days out, the fleet found itself pursued. One Tahn battleship and cruiser and destroyer escorts should have been an overmatch for the
Normandie
and its escorts. But the Emperor had already called in reinforcements and two full battleship squadrons rendezvoused with the
Normandie
.
The Tahn fought bravely and in ignorance. Despite all attempts to communicate, they fought to the last man under complete radio silence. Sten never knew if they thought they were rescuing Kirghiz or revenging him.
On return to Prime, the Emperor immediately attempted to explain to the Tahn, but diplomatic relations were severed and all Tahn personnel were withdrawn.
Haines had barely noticed, since she'd been too busy rounding up the surviving conspirators. She'd never arrested so many wealthy, high-ranking people in her life.
Then there was a show trial because the Emperor was hoping that somehow the Tahn would listen to the truth. Of course they wouldn't—any good totalitarian knows he can always find somebody to pin a crime on. Even attempts to convince the Tahn of the truth by neutral diplomats from cultures constitutionally incapable of dishonesty were ignored.
The series of trials was mind-numbing. At least Haines had the opportunity to testify in open court. Sten, under Imperial orders, gave his testimony from a sealed chamber, his voice electronically altered to prevent any possibility of identification.
In spite of the defense counsels' howls about star chambers, ninety-five percent of the conspirators were found guilty—and treason and attempted regicide were still capital crimes.
Even the acquitted five percent weren't free of the Emperor's vengeance. Just the day before a small item on the vid reported that a recently freed industrialist's yacht had exploded with him aboard… Haines closed down that line of thought. She was contemplating perfection, and to her even Imperially ordered assassination was still murder.
The sun was slowly moving her toward sleep, and she was musing on casually lustful thoughts when a flit hummed nearby. She forced herself awake and up, reaching for a wrap. Then she recognized Sten in the flit and lay back, her thoughts becoming somewhat less casual.
Sten tied up to the houseboat, wandered through the kitchen, fielded a beer, and joined her on the deck.
"How'd it go?" she asked.
"Hell if I know," Sten said. "Better and worse."
"Shed and tell, Captain."
"Uh… well, that's part of the good news. I just got promoted."
"Well pour the bubbly and get naked, Commander." Sten followed orders, stripped, and lay down beside her. He grunted in animal satisfaction. Haines waited as long as she could.
"Come on, Sten. Talk to me!"
The day had, indeed, been better and worse than Sten expected.
After the
Normandie
returned to Prime, while Sten had been retained as commander of the Gurkhas, he'd actually been detached for special duties, which included the endless appearances in court.
The Gurkhas had been built back up to the strength and were headed by Subadar-Major Chittahang Limbu, even though he was still technically recuperating from his wounds.
Sten had only been in the palace to eat and sleep, and the few hallway encounters he'd had with the Emperor had been worrisomely formal and brief.
Until the day's Imperial summons.
When Sten entered, saluted, and reported, the Emperor had been sitting, completely still, behind his desk.
Long moments passed before he spoke.
Sten had been expecting several things to be said. None of them were right.
"Captain, are you ready to go to war?"
Sten blinked, found that all his potential responses sounded dumb, and stayed silent.
"I will make a prediction, Captain. Ex Cathedra Eyes Only. Within five E-years we will be fighting the Tahn."
The Emperor took slight pity. "At ease, Captain Sten. Sit down."
Sten was somewhat relieved. He didn't figure that the Emperor ever busted somebody out of the service if he allowed the clot to be seated first.
"Well, Captain? Your thoughts?"
Sten was perplexed. Like any professional military man, he truly believed the somewhat contradictory line that a soldier's job is to avoid war.
The Emperor seemed to be slightly prescient. "It's gonna be a bitch when it comes.
"By the way. No way am I wrong. Intelligence says that every Tahn shipyard has converted to warship construction. The Tahn are buying up every particle of AM2 they can get, no matter what the price.
"Also—and I'm keeping this off the vid—there've been a whole clottin' group of skirmishes with my normal patrol ships around the Tahn worlds. Aw hell. Why am I lying to you? Every spy ship I send in they send back full of holes."
The Emperor then took out a flask from his desk. Sten felt slightly more relieved—first sit down and then maybe a drink. Maybe he would keep his captain's bars. "The reason I have been avoiding you, Captain, is that this whole sorry-ass mess is something I've been trying not to think about.
"So anybody who had anything to do with it was on my drakh list, frankly. Being an Emperor means never having to say you're wrong if you want things that way."
He poured into two small metal cups, and Sten recognized the smell of Stregg.
"This stuff gets to you after a while," the Emperor said, but he made no move to offer a cup to Sten.
"Remember when we got loaded on Empire Day?"
Sten did.
"Remember what I told you?"
Sten remembered.'
"Well, I took the next step for you." The Emperor took from his desk drawer a set of orders and tossed them on his desk.
"Don't bother reading them now. You're reassigned. Flight school. Oh yeah. By the way. That chubby thug of yours?"
"Sergeant Major Kilgour?"
"Him. You wonder where he is?"
Sten had. Alex had disappeared most mysteriously a month or two earlier.
"Yeah. I lifted him because he was actually applying through channels to get married. To some cop or other.
Clottin' idiot. Neckbreakers like him shouldn't ever get married. Anyway, he's now learning how to make like a big bird, too.
"Also he ain't a sergeant major anymore. I kicked him up to warrant officer. If he's gonna be in the clottin'
navy, at least he won't have to put up with their silly class system."
The Emperor picked up and fingered his cup. "Captain, you might want to return to some kind of position of attention."
Sten was standing, locked and rigid in an instant.
"The other thing"—and the Emperor reached into his desk yet again and took out a small blue box—"is you're now a commander. Here's your insignia." He shoved the box across to Sten. "Now, pick up that cup."
Sten obeyed.
"I'm gonna call the toast—it's to you, Commander. Because no way I'll ever see you again."
The Emperor stood. "To your health, Commander Sten!"
To Sten, the Stregg tasted very odd indeed.
Haines was running all this input—less the Emperor's certainty of imminent war, which Sten had not mentioned—as Sten finished his beer, went back into the boat, and got another.
"Another thing I picked up," he went on after he sat. "You're going to get some kind of promotion, too."
But Haines was considering something else. "So you're going to go off and become a junior birdman.
When?"
"That's the rest of the good news," Sten said. "It seems, uh, I've come into some money." Ida's illicitly acquired and invested funds had finally caught up with him, and Sten was sitting on more credits than he believed existed.
"Also me and you're on long leave before we report to our new duty stations."
Haines smiled, took a sip of her drink, and then winked. "Hey sailor. You want to fool around?"
Sten started laughing and knelt beside her. She pulled him down, and he felt her breasts and her lips, and then there was nothing but the blinding warmth of the sun itself.
About the Authors
CHRIS BUNCH is a Ranger—an airborne-qualified Vietnam vet—who's written about phenomena as varied as the Hell's Angels, the Rolling Stones, and Ronald Reagan. ALLAN COLE grew up in the CIA in odd spots like Okinawa, Cyprus, and Taiwan. He's been a professional chef, investigative reporter, and national news editor of a major West Coast daily newspaper. He's won half a dozen writing awards in the process.