Кристофер Банч - Empire's End

"Writing an editorial, Ranett?" Anders growled.

"No, Admiral. Just asking questions. That's my job. Answering them is yours."

"I won't dignify your remarks by responding," Anders said. He turned to the rest of the newsbeings. "And… I warn you all… The area your colleague has just encroached upon is forbidden under the crisis-briefing rules. She—and the rest of you— will confine yourself to asking and communicating only those details authorized under those rules. Do I make myself clear?"

The press room was oddly silent. No one looked at Ranett. Angry enough to peel and parboil Anders, Ranett opened her mouth to bellow one more stinging question.

Then she saw the deadly look in Anders's eyes. Saw an Internal Security officer move forward, getting ready for a word from the admiral. Her jaw shut with a snap.

She smiled, shrugged, and buried her head in her notes.

Ranett was a survivor. She would get her questions answered—one way or the other.

As the press briefing broke up and everyone hurried out of the room, Ranett thought about Sten one more time.

Poor sap. He didn't stand a chance.

"I AM AFFLICTED with fools," the Eternal Emperor roared. "Overpaid, overstuffed, smirking, self-satisfied fools."

A variety of beings quaked in their footgear as the Emperor detailed his displeasure. There was Avri, the young woman with the very old eyes, who was his political chief of staff. Walsh, the handsome but exceedingly stupid boss of Dusable, who was the Emperor's toady in Parliament. Anders, the admiral who had run afoul of Ranett at the press conference. Bleick, the Emperor's chamberlain. And scores of other beings—uniformed and otherwise—were scurrying about the yawning Imperial chamber or hanging their heads in shame as the Emperor railed on.

The Emperor towered over Anders. Blue eyes shifting to the color of cold steel. "What kind of a press conference was that, Admiral? You're supposed to be an expert on that sort of drakh. God knows, you can't pour piss out of a boot when it comes to real military business."

"Yessir," the Admiral said. He was drawn up, heels locked, like a raw recruit.

"And you , Avri… You were supposed to gameplan this thing with pube brain, here. I gave you the spin on a gilt-edged platter, for crying out loud."

"Yessir," Avri said. Licking lush lips with a nervous tongue.

"People, I do not have time to explain basic politics to you," the Eternal Emperor gritted. "Traitors—the privy council—put this Empire in its worst shape in two thousand years. And I barely pulled it out that time.

"Now I'm saddled with debt, harried by mewling allies, and every time I turn over another rock, a new kind of traitorous slime crawls out."

"In my view—which, dammit, is the only view that counts—Sten is the worst of the lot. I nursed that snake at my bosom for his whole clotting life. Gave him honors. Riches. And how does he repay me? Conspires with my enemies. Plots my murder. And when discovered, he slaughters innocent sailors, and one of the best admirals in my service, in a cowardly sneak attack."

The Emperor's voice lowered. He shook his head. Weary. "Now, that's a spin, dammit. Guaranteed to turn a drakhhouse into a palace. Not so very hard, is it?"

"I'm very sorry, sir," Anders said. "I don't know how that reporter—Ranett—got in."

"Oh, just shut the clot up, Admiral," the Emperor said. "If you can't make a plan that can stand the test of somebody with a little smarts, then get out of the clotting business."

"Yessir."

"Avri, it's damage-control time. I want all newscasts blanketed by our spin doctors. Hit the Op Ed programs extra hard. 'Face The Empire.' 'Witness To History.' 'Countdown.' That sort of thing.

"I especially want you to get into the pants of that Pyt'r Jynnings clown over at K-B-N-S-O. Half the Empire watches that piece of drakh he calls 'Nightscan.' I don't know why. Guess he makes everybody feel smart because he's so damned dumb."

"Right away, Your Majesty," Avri said.

"You! Walsh!"

The dimwit that was the ruler of Dusable blinked into semisentient awareness. "How… uh… may I be of… uh… service, Your… uh… Highness?" he managed.

"I want those lazy sods in Parliament stoked up. Some kind of condemnation vote. Calling Sten and that Scots sidekick of his every filthy name in the book. And if that vote isn't unanimous, I'll nail your guts to a post, Walsh. And lash you around it."

"Yessir," Walsh gobbled.

"One other thing. Get ahold of Kenna. I have a little personal business I want him to transact."

"Right away, Your Highness," Walsh said. Kenna was possibly the sharpest old pol on Dusable. A world whose politics were so crooked infants gurgled the word "mordida" before they learned to say "momma."

"Anders. I want all firstline forces on this. I don't care what fleets you have to strip. Sten must be found."

"Yessir."

"Bleick!" His chamberlain snapped to. "I want—"

He stopped in midorder as the door hissed open and Poyndex, his chief of Internal Security, entered. His face was grim. Bloodless. A man bearing bad tidings. But the Emperor was too angry to immediately notice.

"Where the clot have you been, Poyndex? I told you I wanted that info on Sten and Kilgour immediately, dammit. Not tomorrow. Not the day after. But now, dammit. Now!"

Poyndex glanced quickly around the room. Then back at the Emperor. "I think we need to talk in private, sir."

"I don't have time for games, Poyndex. Spit it out."

Poyndex hesitated. The Emperor's eyes got a sudden spooky glint in them. Clinical paranoia was Poyndex's diagnosis. "If you insist, Your Majesty," Poyndex said. "But I would be remiss if I didn't warn you one more time. This should be discussed in private. I strongly urge you to reconsider."

The Eternal Emperor turned to his people. "Get out."

They got. With feeling. In moments the room was empty. The Emperor looked back at Poyndex. "Okay. Now report."

Poyndex stiffened. "I regret to say there is nothing to report, sir. All files on Sten and Alex Kilgour have been wiped clean."

"Say clotting what?"

"It's as if they never existed, sir." Poyndex's heart was hammering as he delivered the news.

"That's not possible," the Emperor said.

"But I'm afraid it's true, Your Majesty," Poyndex said. "Even the Mantis computers have been penetrated. There is no record of Sten—or Alex Kilgour—in any record system in the Empire. I don't know how it was done. I've got every tech in IS working around the clock. The only thing we know for sure is it had to have been done by a very high placed insider."

The Emperor stared at Poyndex for a long, uncomfortable time. He turned and palmed a switch. His personal computer terminal winked into life.

"Fortunately," the Emperor said, "I keep my own files for just this reason." He laughed. Without humor. "When all is lost," he said, "you have to depend on yourself."

His fingers flashed across keys, beginning the search.

"I used to have a staff I could depend upon," the Emperor said. "Mahoney, for one. Sometimes I regret I had to have him killed. Ian was a strong right arm, that's for sure." The Emperor, who normally appeared to be a man in his mid-thirties, suddenly seemed very old to the IS chief. His handsome features drawn. His voice high-pitched… and weak.

The Emperor looked up at Poyndex. "… The same with Sten. I tell you, Poyndex, the trouble with traitors is they tend to be your best people." Another humorless laugh. "Maybe that's what old Julius was trying to tell Brutus."

"Pardon me, Your Majesty? I have no knowledge of these beings. Should I have IS put this Julius and Brutus on your Personal Enemies list?"