Кристофер Банч - Empire's End

"How long have you been here, Dan?" Sten asked.

"Not long. Not long." The old man started laughing, and then singsonging: "A bottle here/A bottle there/A ratpack here/A ratpack there/Breathe it ouf/Breathe it in." His singsong stopped.

"You know, the sun is going to die. They are going to kill it. The Tahn know things like that. What they know/They always know/What they do/They always do."

"Laird hae' mercy," Kilgour said. "Th' puir clot's been here since durin't th' war!"

"And I watch," Forte went on.

"I always watch."

"Take me with you. Please. Don't leave me. There was another man. He wore a suit. Like yours. He had a gun. Like yours. I was afraid to ask him. He had a gun. But I was young, then. And afraid of more.

"Now I'm not afraid. There's nothing to be afraid of. Is there?"

Kilgour let his sling snap his rifle back against his chest to carrying port arms.

"No, old 'un," he said heavily. "Thae's nae't' fright y'self. W're nae but friends."

"That man," Sten said carefully. "Did he leave something here?"

Forte quivered.

"And Moses smote the rock twice… and the congregation drank… and the Lord spoke… because you believe me not, to sanctify me in the eyes of the children… ye shall not bring this congregation into the land."

"Uh… we believe you, Dan."

"Then strike ye against the wall!" Forte shouted, waving.

Alex and Sten looked at each other. Sten nodded. Alex shrugged, aimed his willygun against the wall Thoresen had hung his weapons on, and snap-fired four times. Once against each corner of the wall.

And it crumbled and fell, as one piece.

Behind the wall, high-piled in a hidden chamber that could have been built by Thoresen or Mahoney, was the Secret. Stack after stack after stack of identical file-storage cases.

Sten rushed forward. Knelt in front of one case. It was neatly labeled, in Mahoney's militarily perfect handwriting:

ASSASSINATIONS, SUCCESSFUL

Official Denials

Suppressed Evidence

Rumors Circulating Following

Personal Theories

Another case:

THE SECRET YEARS

System Politics

Murders Ordered

First AM 2Supplies Provided by

Philanthropic Foundation Instituted

Yet another:

THE "CIBOLA" EXPEDITION Scientific Journals—Expedition Suggested As Possibility

No Other Info Available

No Hard Data Could Be Found

Personal Theories Only

Sten realized what he was looking at.

He didn't know—and suspected Mahoney didn't either—if these cases held The Secret that would destroy the Eternal Emperor—or even A Secret that might help. But he did know these cases contained enough dangerous data for the Emperor to be willing to sacrifice most of the Imperial Guard to recover. These were the notes for the never-written biography.

After the Eternal Emperor had been assassinated by the privy council, Mahoney had found it expedient to retire, and begin plotting the destruction of the council. As a cover he announced that, in deep mourning for his old leader and friend, he would write the Eternal Emperor's complete biography. At first, just a cover. But as he had told Sten, Mahoney would have been quite happy being an archivist instead of a general, and so his files got larger and larger, more and more thorough.

The thought floated up: perhaps if Mahoney had become a researcher he would have lived longer. But he shut that idea out.

The cover had become a fascination, as Mahoney discovered that all biographies of the Eternal Emperor were fraudulent, either authorized or unauthorized. Deliberately false data had been given; incompetent writers, researchers, and foundations had been encouraged while capable ones were shunted aside.

Mahoney found many, many versions of given events, versions that had been deliberately created by the Empire and used as red herrings.

Sten had wondered what the Emperor had been trying to hide, and Mahoney had retorted, "Damned near everything, from where he came from to how he got where he is… I'll just mention two of the murkiest areas, besides where the clot the AM 2is. First is that the son of a bitch is—or was, anyway—immortal."

"And the second thing is… he's been killed before."

Sten had scoffed—and Mahoney had offered to show him the files sometime. But events moved too fast and too bloodily, and the one time Sten had thought about those files, he had decided they were certainly explosive, and that anyone interested in staying on the Emperor's fair-weather side would probably be wisest not even considering their existence.

Or, as the Z-grade livies put it, just after the scenarist had failed to come up with an even vaguely believable explanation for all the drakh he had come up with earlier, "There are some things in this universe, boy, man was not meant to know."

All right, Sten thought. But this time man's gonna find out.

Because Mahoney, in a way, died for these files.

Sten got to his feet. He started to key his com, to order the Victory to send down a cargo lighter and some strong deck apes. He—or somebody, anyway—would begin analysis when they reached their intended destination, Sten's intended base of operations.

"You're my friend, aren't you?"

Sten remembered Forte—and, when he called the Victory , he told them to send down a bubblepak stretcher, with the interior controls sealed.

Dan Forte, completely insane, would either be cured, if that was possible—and Sten would dedicate all resources he had to help—or else given a long, happy life in whatever luxurious asylum Sten could put him.

Because he had very possibly given Sten the keys to the Empire.

"YOUR SUCCESS THUS far has bordered on the miraculous," Sr. Ecu said.

"Correction," Sten said. "It's been nothing but a series of real miracles. But, I can't keep on counting on smiles from the gods. I need a goal. And a plan. All I've been doing is shooting and scooting in the dark."

"I can see how operating without a plan would be especially disturbing to you, Sten," Rykor said. "You always were a being in search of structure."

Sten laughed, unfazed by this instant bit of analysis from the Empire's most eminent psychologist. "Another delusion destroyed. Here I always thought I was a real seat-of-the-pants kind of a guy."

"Oh, but you are," Rykor said. "I remember the first profile I drew up on you. Your inventive skills were among the best I've ever seen. But you tend to be displeased if your actions must take place in a vacuum. It's a typical trait of most special-operations experts. You like the illusion of complete freedom. But there must be structure just the same."

Water splashed as she eased her bulk in the tank. "In the past, it was service to the Emperor that provided that structure."

Sten shuddered. All too true.

"Guilt is not necessary in this situation," Rykor said, reading him like a creche-level fiche. "It is my own misfortune to share some of these same traits. I too found comfort in the bosom of the Emperor."

As Sten mulled this over, one of Sr. Ecu's tendrils whiskered out to touch a hidden switch. A small 'bot bearing a tray churned out of an alcove. In a moment, Sten was gratefully slugging down stregg.

"I hate to sound like an old-fashioned dipsomaniac," Sten said. "But boy did I need that. Thanks."

Sr. Ecu's tendrils wriggled with humor. "The circumstances cry out for inducements. Besides, Rykor and I are ahead of you. Appropriate stress relievers have been added to the atmosphere. As well as to that liquid our largish companion is lolling about in so casually."

Rykor barked and ducked her head under the spiked water. She emerged again, lips parted between her big tusks in what Sten was sure was a grin.