Кристофер Банч - Vortex

Knock it off, Menynder. There is serious business ahead. Yeah. Sure. But just for now, can't I be a kid again? I mean, I gonna meet the clottin' Eternal Emperor. At a big clottin' for-real castle. Maybe even shake the Emperor's hand. Damn. Damn. Damn. If Momma could see me now.

Menynder saw a gravlighter darting across the screen. The sign on the side read: KRCAX Prime. Some kind of livie news crew, he assumed. He idly wondered if the lighter captain might be cutting it a little too close. Nah. These were the best of the best, weren't they? A by-God news crew from by-God Prime World. Absolute pros. He was sure.

But—oh, my clot. It was still coming! Hey… What's going on?

"Look out!" Gray screamed. "We're gonna—"

Menynder had an instant to feel the jolt and see the screen go from white to black to collapse. And then he felt the great heavy hand smashing into his back. Heard the crack of his seat giving away.

And then Menynder was ramming forward. The far cabin wall rushing at him.

He heard screamsscreamsscreams. And he thought… Aw, drakh!

"This is KBSNQ, reporting live from Soward Spaceport. For those viewers joining us late—there's been a terrible tragedy here at Prime World's main spaceport.

"A delegation of high-level beings from the Altaic Cluster—arriving here for crucial peace talks with the Eternal Emperor—has collided in midair with a lighter carrying a local news team.

"All beings aboard both craft are believed dead. Imperial investigators are at the site now. The Eternal Emperor has ordered all flags lowered to half-mast for a one-week period of mourning.

"We now return to our regular programming. Be assured we will interrupt if further developments warrant. This is Pyt'r Jynnings reporting live for KBNSQ. You give us twenty-two minutes… and we'll give you the Empire."

Sten sat brooding at the dark skyline of Rurik. The only light showing was the faint, far-off glow of the eternal flame burning in the Square of the Khaqans. All was silent… waiting.

He felt Cind's hand touch his arm. "Menynder was our last hope," he said.

"I know."

"I talked him into going. All he wanted to do was sit by that damned dead pond. In peace."

"I know that, too."

"He was a crooked old dog. But—clot. I liked him."

Her answer was a tighter grip.

"I haven't the faintest idea what to do next," Sten said.

"Maybe… the Emperor will think of something."

"Right."

"Mahoney, then."

"He's as lost as I am. Right now, he's battening down the hatches. Getting ready."

"You think it's going to be that bad?"

"Yeah. Real bad."

"But it wasn't anybody's fault. Except maybe that damned news crew. It was an accident, for clot's sake."

"That's not what they think." He pointed out at the silent city. "They think it was a plot. That the Emperor lured Menynder and the others to their deaths."

"That's ridiculous. Why would he?"

"They don't need a reason," Sten said. "They just need someone to blame. We screwed up last. So we're it."

Cind shivered. Sten put an arm around her. "Thanks," he said.

"What for?"

"For being here… with me… That's all."

She snuggled into the arm. "You just try to chase me off," she said. "You just try."

Even in his gloom, Sten was comforted. He leaned back and pulled Cind closer to him.

They sat there until dawn. The sun came up huge and red and angry.

A few minutes later, they heard the first gunfire.

"W' hae snipers 'n rioters 'n looters, oh my," Kilgour said. "Which is noo ver' good. But it's noo ver' bad, either."

"What could be worse?" Sten asked.

"Ah'm feared w' hae thae comin' up, lad."

"Which is?"

"A braw clottin' absence a' army."

"Come to think of it, I haven't seen any Jochi troops about, either. But I thought that was good news. Go ahead. Tell me different. I'm getting used to this depression. I'll probably miss it when it's gone."

"I's th' puir bein's here thae's turned matters topsy-turvy i' y'r wee nog," Alex said. "Bleak's happy. An' joy i' bleak. Afflicted by their clottin' weather, puir things. Eat hate 'n ill will wi' breakfast haggis."

"Thanks for reminding me about stuffed sheep's stomach, Kilgour. Yum yum. I feel much better, now."

"Ah'm rejoicin t't' be lookin't oot frae y', lad."

"Tell me about the army."

"Absence of army, son."

"Yeah, that."

"Well, i' ain't clottin' there, aye? Nary a trooper or trooper's whore t' be glimt i' Rurik. Had m' frick 'n fracks up f'r hours, snoopit an' poopit aboot. Zed th' barracks. Zed th' ossifers' and noncompoops' mess."

"Where the clot did they get off to?''

"Braw question. So Ah query't an em'nent silvery-haired fox."

"General Douw?"

"Aye. He's away, too."

Sten sat up straight in his chair. "Where'd he go?"

"Off wi' his troopies. Maneuvers, his ferret of a press officer said. Annual maneuvers in yon alps." Alex pointed off in the general direction of the mountain range that half-ringed the wide Rurik valley.

"Maneuvers? Oh, bulldrakh. You don't believe it, do you?"

"Noooooo. 'Less th' Jochi troopies—brave lads an' lassies a'—go on maneuvers wi' ammunition all alive, alive-o."

"Drakh," Sten said. "Hip high, old son. 'N risin' fast."

Douw may have been a silvery-haired fool with a pennyweight brain. But perched on a camp stool in his mountain command center, he looked every inch a general. And acted like a very angry one.

"We don't need proof," he snarled across the war table. "Insisting on proof is the last refuge of cowards."

"No Suzdal has ever been called a coward," came a growl. It was Tress, warlord of the Suzdal worlds.

"Don't be so quick to take offense," Snyder said. He was Menynder's cousin and, now, the de facto war chief of the Torks. "That's our problem in the Altaics. Every time we consider unified action, someone gets his nose out of joint and the whole thing collapses."

"Respect we must have," Hoatzin said. His voice was harsh, weary. His wife, Diatry, had died with Menynder and the others. It was now Hoatzin's task to lead the Bogazi hutches into battle. If there was to be one.

"Divide and conquer. Divide and conquer. That's always been the Emperor's way," Douw said. He was not being hypocritical. He had truly forgotten that Iskra had used those very words, though in a different—and Jochian—context.

"So, we fight,'' Tress said. "What chance do we have? Against the Eternal Emperor? His forces—"

"Who cares about the size of his forces?" Douw broke in. "The terrain is ours. The people are ours. If we all stand together… we must prevail."

"Emperor not so strong as he thinks," Hoatzin said. "Fight Tahn many years. He had victory, yes. But not so good a victory. Very long war. Soldiers, I think, are tired. Also, as general say, this not their land. What they fight for?"

"Still," Tress said, "the Emperor has never been defeated before."

"It happen once," the Bogazi said. "Must have. Why else the Emperor disappear? I think he flee privy council."

No one had ever put the Emperor's disappearance in that light before. It was wrong thinking. But it was the kind of wrong thinking that leads to treacherous conclusions.

"We must all join together," Douw said. "For the first time in our history, we must stand united in one cause. The cause is just. Our soldiers are brave. We only need the will."

There was a long silence around the table. A nesting bird fussed overhead.

Tress rose to his haunches. "I will speak to my pack mates," he said.

"What will you tell them?" Douw asked.

"That we fight. Together."

The sniper still made no sense to Cind.

"Dinnae fash, lass," Alex advised. "Th' shooter's peepers hae big crosses on 'em noo."