Кристофер Банч - Empire's End

"A caretaker," Sten mused, his anger gone. "What? You think I should soldier on? At least until somebody figures out who should run things? Maybe until we put together some kind of coalition like Ecu would have overseen?"

"To most beings," Cind said, "that'd be the most comfortable. The hero slays the dragon… and helps the people begin their lives anew."

"Just like in the livies," Sten said cynically.

Cind shrugged. "Why do you think they're so popular?"

"How does that play, Rykor?" Sten asked.

Rykor considered, whiskers fluffing. "Logical. Psychologically welcome, as Cind said. Certainly you have the experience for it. How many times did your ambassadorial duties in fact mean you were the entire government in a cluster? I know you hardly bothered getting the Emperor's approval for every decision."

No, Sten thought. He hadn't. And he had run things with, he thought pridefully, a certain measure of success, assuming clotheads hadn't gotten in the way, clotheads who just didn't understand what was supposed to happen, and that their best interests would be eventually served.

Christ. With no one second-guessing his decisions after the fact from afar. Not a section commander. Not a general. Not even an Eternal Emperor.

Not anyone.

A chance to correct a lot of those wrongs he'd seen across the years, wrongs too big or too distant to confront. And there would be the time—Sten could easily train a diplomatic equivalent of a general staff that would be able to carry out Sten's policies.

All those dictators some mythical thing called Policy or Expediency said should be supported. All those crimes that Pragmatism told him to ignore. All the beings who stole and murdered from their lessers, beings that Sten had never had the opportunity to confront and destroy.

Call it caretaking.

If you wished.

Now, that would not be a bad way to really serve the universe, would it? Especially after all those decades of blood and slaughter.

It would also be an example for those who came later, that someone could rule for a while, and then, when his charges reached maturity, step aside. Pass the reins along.

"Say I agreed," Sten said. "Sorry, that's the wrong way to put it. Say that when the smoke cleared that a lot of worlds wanted me to act as some kind of, what? 'Regent' isn't the proper word. 'Manager'? I guess that'd be it."

"There would be few if any systems that would object," Rykor said firmly.

"Right. Now. If I did this, agreed to serve for a few more years, until the time was right and everybody realized that they had to rule themselves… would you stay with me?"

Rykor wallowed in the tank without answering. Then: "You would be welcome to my advice, such as it is, for as long as I am able to offer it."

Sten noted her answer.

"Alex?"

The tubby man looked at him for a very long moment.

"Y' hae m' word, boss," he said finally. "Ah'll sign on agin, ae y'r strong right bower. But thae'll be a time whae Ah'll be retirin't, Ah'll hae't' warn you."

Twice.

"Cind?"

"I'll stay," she said, without a hesitation. "As long as you're caretaker. As long as you're Sten."

Three times.

There it was.

Sten saw, once more, the smile on the Emperor's corpse, and icy fingers moved down his spine as he wondered if this moment explained the gioconda smile.

"I just wonder," Sten said, "if anybody ever knows when that time is? Or," he said, being as honest as he knew how, "if every time somebody gets offered a crown, he always thinks that he's taking it just for universal good?"

The chamber was silent, very silent, as silent as the icy, frozen night outside.

"Ah dinnae knoo aboot thae," Alex said, finally. "Thae's Phliposophy, an' thae's noo Scots sol'jer permitted't' think ae that, 'r thae toss him oot ae th' pub an' make him' drink piss wi' th' Brits.

"But Ah hae a wee tale. Call i' a par'ble, i' y' wish.

"Thae wae a mon. Always wanted't' prove himself, aye? An' he hears thae' th' mos' fearsome sort ae huntin' i' on Earth. Ae a wee island, i' a north' ae froze ae Vi.

"Huntin' th' bear. Cind, thae's a—"

"I know what a bear is. You've called Otho one enough times. GA," she said.

"A'right. So, he goes oot i' th' forest, wi' a rifle, an' a sharp eye. An' sooner come later, he spots th' bear. Binga-banga-bonga he shoots, an' th' bear goes't doon."

"An' he bounds o'er, an' to his vast sur'prise an' dismay, thae's noo bear."

"Tap tap on th' shoulder, an' thae's th' bear! An' th' bear growls, an' says, T y' wan''t' live, y'll be giein' doon ae y'r nan's an' knees an' committin' a disgustin' sexual act ae m' bod'."

"An' th' hunter goes eech an' ech an' och, but th' bear's fangs ate braw, an' his claws are great. An' he goes doon ae his knees…"

"Noo, when he gies back't' his camp, he's fill't wi' disgust. Wi' loathin'. He's aboot't' suicide. But first, he thinks, Ah'll hae th' skin ae thae bear!"

"An' next mornin, he goes oot't' th' forest agin, an' pret' quick, he spots th' bear. An' its bompa-bompa-bompa, an' agin' th' bear goes doon."

"An' th' hunter goes clip-cloppin't' th' site, knowin' he hae th' revenge… but thae's no bear."

"Tap tap on th' shoulder… an' thae's bear! Loonrin't o'er him!"

"An' th' bear says, T y' be wantin' y'r life, y'll be disrobin't, an' turnin't aroun', an' Ah'll be performin't a revoltin' sexual act wi' y'!"

"An' yeesh an' bleah an' yargh, but th' bear's claws are braw, an' his teeth are great An' so th' hunter drops hi' trews…"

"Thae's it. Thae's all. Th' hunter slink't back't' camp. He feels worsen' a Campbell. H's th' lowest ae th' low. Killin' himself i' th' best fate he c'd dream of."

"But firs'… th' bear mus' die! Wi' oot fail, wi'oot question."

"An' so, th' next morn, just ae dawn, th' hunter's oot i' the woods. An' agin he sees th' bear. An' again he raises his rifle. An agin i's blastawayblastawayblastaway all. An' agin' th' bear goes doon."

"An' agin' th' hunter rushes oop."

"An' agin', thae's noo clottin' bear!"

"But agin, thae's a tap tap on th' shoulder."

"An', knowin't whae he's aboot't' see, th' hunter turns aroun'. An' thae's th' bear!"

"An' th' bear eyes him, an' says, 'Lad, y' dinnae coom f r th' huntin' noo did y'?"

Sten stared at Kilgour, who, after a space, smiled a gently benevolent smile.

"Right," Sten said.

He turned around.

"Rykor. From the abstract of my brainscan, could you help some engineers put together a synth on Project Bravo? A how-to-do-it on AM 2?"

"I could."

"That's my first request. We'll bring in some hotshot—maybe that woman reporter, Ranett, who used to give the Emperor the kolrobbies—and let her disseminate the information."

"I want that to go out on every livie, vid, and broadsheet possible."

"Second. Ask Otho to get the voyage tapes from my tacship. That should give a fair triangulation to the discontinuity and the Emperor's treasure."

"Put that out, too. Let anyone who wants AM 2know where to find it."

Rykor thrashed in her tank.

"Intellectually, I approve," she said. "And personally, caring for a single being named Sten, this is good. But considering its effect on the masses—"

"I can't think for them," Sten said. "I can barely take care of myself."

"All I can do is say… Here. Here's the AM 2. Here's the keys to the kingdom. Every being can make himself a king, or a bloody despot. Let them make the universe as they like it. A paradise or a desert."

"That's not for me. I'm not going to play God. Not now. Not ever."

Sten thought he heard a murmur from all those beings, dead and alive, who had been in the chamber. Of agreement? Disappointment?

But they were gone. Gone forever.