Кристофер Банч - Vortex

"You also can't get sloppy. Or senile. The Khaqan, I'm afraid, is getting sloppy. He may even be getting senile, for all I know. I do know he has every life-support system available close by. Constant blood and organ purging, hormone implants, that sort of thing. With luck, he can live long enough for me to take the time to figure out what happens next. Right now, I'm too busy."

Sten nodded. He could only begin to imagine just how busy the Emperor was. Sten wasn't privy to the big picture. But from his assignments—diplomatic brushfires all—and his circle of knowledgeable friends, he had a hazy idea.

The Empire had been crumbling when the Emperor returned. Whole regions had been without any AM2 for a long time. With the cheap power gone, industries collapsed. Rebellions erupted. Beings were forced to fend for themselves in all sorts of ways.

The Eternal Emperor had been scrambling ever since, plugging up leaks where he could. Abandoning some areas entirely. Pulling in his sphere and clamping on rigid economic and military controls. And there were many new faces among his allies. Beings with whom he had no past history. Questioning beings. Frightened beings who looked at their miserable populations and shored themselves up against constant conspiracies and coups.

"I've given the Khaqan a lot more AM2 than he deserves," the Emperor said. "But he's been squandering it. Putting it to building big monuments to himself, instead of using it to feed his people. They're getting sick of it.

"I even warned him about his behavior. A year or so ago our ambassador to the Altaics rotated out. It was routine. What wasn't routine is that I haven't named a replacement yet."

That was a fairly heavy duty gig against the Khaqan, Sten thought. "I'm surprised he didn't wake up," he said.

"So am I. Like I said, he's old. Set in his ways. But if he goes under, all the doubting Thomases among my allies will get the jitters. Demand more AM2. Which would blow the clot out of the economy."

Sten understood. All money was pegged to the value of the basic power unit of the Empire. Produce more, inflate the money. Produce less, and it deflates. Here there was a double whammy: since there was less power, fewer goods would show up at market. So all prices would shoot up, leading to more scarcity. Black markets. And finally, restive populations.

The Emperor was walking a helluva tightwire.

"Who's the Khaqan's likely successor?" Sten asked.

The Emperor sighed. "No one. He has no living heirs. And he's also a micromanager. Decides on every detail, from how much water there should be in the main palace pool to the rates the gravcabs can charge. He discourages any initiative. As a capitalist, the Khaqan is so-so. As a CEO, he stinks."

The Emperor swilled more beer. "However, he's getting pretty desperate, now. He's been begging me for some sign of support. Show his people I'm in his camp. Along with the AM2, of course."

"And you want me to be that support?" Sten said.

"Right. Put on a big show for him. You're one of my top heroes. Medals. Honors. Victories. In the field of battle and the halls of diplomacy and all that hogwash. I'll have my media people make a big deal of it. Not that you'll need much of a buildup." He looked at Sten. But instead of smiling, he looked thoughtful. Sten decided he didn't want to know what his boss was thinking.

The Emperor broke off and grinned. "Take anybody you want—your pals the Bhor, some crack troops, your usual crew of experts, whatever. Just make sure everybody sparkles. And to make this a real show-the-flag exercise, I want you to take my personal ship. The Victory ."

Now that brought a grin to Sten's face.

The Emperor laughed. "I thought you'd like that."

The Victory was purportedly a dream ship. A new class battle-wagon/tacship carrier built to the Emperor's specifications. Regal as all clot. To impress the natives, he said. Everything about it was ultraluxury, from private crew quarters to the Emperor's personal suite.

"Now, this is what I call a great job description," Sten said, toasting his boss. "Now. If you want kisses and hugs for the Khaqan in public, what's my attitude when we're alone?"

"Chilly politeness," the Emperor said. "Real reserved. Scary as you can make it. I want him to see my eyes in yours. Tell him I've promised to put in a new ambassador right away. However… I also want some progress on who his successor is going to be when he kicks. That way, I can start some private discussions with that fellow. See if we can't make life a little more pleasant—and stable—in the Altaics when the old boy is gone."

Sten nodded that he understood the drill. He also realized that the Emperor would be wanting his opinion on who that successor ought to be.

"One more thing," the Emperor said. "Tell him I'm putting him on my personal invitation list. The short list. I'll expect his visit in a year or so."

"He'll like that," Sten said. "More propaganda for the home folks."

"Yeah, he will," the Eternal Emperor said. "But he's not going to like what I have to say. In private."

And he speared the last hunk of goat. He snipped it from the fork with sharp white teeth.

Sten didn't feel sorry for the Khaqan a bit. He sounded—in Kilgour's words—like a "right bastard."

"Ah'llgie th' poss'bil'ty y' may hae saved me," Alex grudged. "Nae, lad. Tis m'shout this round."

He got up, walked to the bar, paid the barman, and brought back the tray. Four mugs of beer and four single shot glasses of clear liquid. Sten indicated the shot glasses with a questioning finger.

"Quill. Nae stregg. Thae's none ae that off the Bhor Worlds or away frae th' Emp's palace, so this'll hae t' cure the dog."

Sten was still a little skull-fried from his marathon dinner-drunk-orders group-plotting session with the Emperor some days earlier. Obediently, he dumped one shot down his throat, gagged politely, and chased it with a beer.

"Y'll note, Ah'm but bein't civil an' keepin't y' company," Alex said as he did the same. "Dinnae be haein' th' thought Ah'm still a wee alky. Gie it all up, Ah did."

The two of them sat, anonymous in gray shipsuits, near the back of a spaceport bar near Soward City's vast spacefields. The bar was a businesslike hum of sailors getting drunk enough to transship, or drunk enough to realize they had finally ported, and the whores and hustlers were helping both sets toward their missions.

"I really did save you?"

"Oh, aye," Alex said. "She was wee, she was wily, she was gorgeous, and she e'en had her own money."

"Maybe you should have married her."

"Ah clottin' near did. Th' banns were read. Th' hall wae hired. Ah found a sky pilot thae'd go through the ceremony wi'oot gigglin'. Ah'd e'en introduced hert' m' wee mum."

"What did she think?"

"She consider't, an' said thae i' Ah hadda marry, still so young an' barely beyont th' cradle as Ah am, she c'd live wi' th' lass."

"I say again my last: maybe you should settle down. Start thinking about the next Laird Kilgour of Kilgour."

Alex shuddered gently. "Ah dunno, lad. Thae wae a moment… but then Ah thought a' myself, years gone, brain gone i' Ah e'er had one t' begin wi', teeth gone, chewin' on pap, puttin' milk i' th' brandy, wi' bairns bouncin' around an' all. Cacklin' on aboot how th' old days are gone, an' modern clots dinnae lift a candle t' th' mighty ones thae're gone, men frae the old days, when men were men an' th' sheep ran like hell.

"Disgustin'. Clottin' disgustin'. So Ah considers… looks at your signal… writes oot a well-reasoned arg'ment an' slips out th' back afore dawn."

"Mr. Kilgour," Sten said. "An act of cowardice! You at least should have stayed and explained."