Кристофер Банч - The Return of the Emperor

Sten had grown sick of playing butcher—which was why he had not only resigned but had turned his back on the only family he knew. Living family, at least.

Some of that also had to do with Kilgour's own decision to quit. But he had Edinburgh, with family and ancestral friends.

This time, what made it harder for Sten to pay the butcher's price was his long self-imposed exile. There was no way, no matter how hard he had continued to train, that he would not blame the blowup of the mission on his own rusty skills. Morally, if he felt that way, he should have turned down Mahoney's urging to lead the mission and helped Ian find someone else—someone fresher, someone not so tired and bitter.

Alex laid all of this out for Sten. He cajoled him. He cursed him. But nothing did any good. How could it? In the same position, Alex knew he would probably feel the same way.

The silence resumed. It lasted the remainder of the trip. And beyond.

Cind faithfully attended every one of the numerous feasts the Bohr had laid on to honor the returning heroes of the Jann war. She couldn't know that one of the key reasons for the banquets was Otho's clumsy attempts to break Sten out of his gloom and self-blame. But she couldn't help but notice how drawn Sten seemed, how oblivious he appeared to his surroundings, as if he were lost in some torment that no normal being could imagine. It seemed terribly tragic to her—and romantic.

She had finally gotten up the nerve to enter Sten's exalted presence. After considering how best to present herself, she had bought a costume so daring that she blushed even to think of it dangling in her locker. When she put it on and looked herself over in the mirror, she had almost pulled a sheet in front of herself so she would not have to look. Cind smoothed her already blemishless features with the most expensive and exotic makeup she could find, then dotted herself with a perfume guaranteed by the salesbeing to make strong human males fall at the feet of the woman wise enough to seek out this particular musk.

Cind dared the mirror again. She thought she looked like a clotting joygirl. If this is what men wanted, they could… she couldn't think of what they ought to do, but she was sure that with thought she would come up with something suitably nasty. That even included Sten. Clot it! He would have to take her as she was.

She showered and scrubbed off all the offending stuff, then threw away the bitty thing that had disgraced her closet. Instead she chose one of her best uniforms. It was made of a fine leatherlike cloth and fit as if the beast who had borne the skin had been genetically bred just for Cind's fine young body. Her face was fresh and glowing from the scouring, her cheeks rosy from the bold thoughts she entertained.

Cind looked herself over in the mirror again. Oh, well. It would have to do.

She could not have picked more wisely. Sten had once had a lover from this part of the Empire. Her name was Sofia. Lady Sofia was a woman who entertained ambitions for the Imperial Court. Sten had helped her achieve them. A long time passed until he and Sofia had met again. It was at a Function, thrown by those greatest of all Imperial hosts, Marr and Senn.

The makeup and perfume Sofia had worn were not much different than Cind's—although vastly more expensive. And as for her dress—Sofia had worn nothing at all except some scattered glitter dust.

Faced with all that pulchritude, Sten had done what Sofia had least expected. He had run like the wind—into the arms of a homicide lieutenant, one Lisa Haines, a woman who was much more Sten's style.

Cind knew that this particular feast was going to be semiformal—for the Bhor, at least. Preceding the usual gluttony, there would be a receiving line to greet the honored guests. She called in a heavy favor with a Bhor friend and found a place at the end of the line.

Otho paraded Kilgour and Sten into the hall and past the line. After his stint as chief of the Emperor's palace guard, there was little Sten did not know about such polite entries. He shook the hand of each being, looked them in the eye, and smiled. It was not a great smile, but it would have to do. Then he passed on to the next. Still, by the time he reached Cind he was anxious to hie himself to the safety of his table. He gave her a perfunctory handclasp, smiled, and started to move on.

Cind held the hand tight. It was just for a moment, but it was enough to make Sten hesitate, so as not to be rude. Then he found himself looking at an absolutely lovely young woman with a stunning uniformed figure, face as fresh as nature itself, eyes clear and innocent, and the sober serious look that only the young could adopt and still be charming.

Cind spoke in a rush, to get it all out before Sten moved on. "Admiral Sten, I want you to know this is the greatest honor in my life. I've studied all the details of your actions during the Jann conflict, and I'd like you to know just how much of an inspiration you've been to me."

Sten couldn't help himself. He had to laugh. But it was not the kind of laughter anyone—especially Cind—would take offense to, or think she was the object of.

"Thank you," he said. He meant it. He started to move on. But Cind wasn't through.

"If ever you have a free moment," she continued, "I would very much appreciate if I could steal a little of it. There are so many questions I'd like to ask. Any warrior would. Although, I'm sure I'd bore you."

Then she turned on her best smile. It was far from shabby. It was the kind that lit up whole rooms. One did not have to look too closely to realize there were all sorts of other invitations implied.

Sten would have had to be a dead man not to have understood that this young lady thought him very attractive and would be delighted to share his bunk. This time, he didn't laugh. Instead, he gave her his most sincere thanks and asked her name. Receiving it, he promised he would certainly remember her and would be delighted with her company—if he ever had the time. He gave her a sad little smile at this last bit. He meant it to say, of course, that he unfortunately never would. But, ah, well…

Only then did he move on. By the time he reached his table he had all but forgotten her—but not entirely. Although she was very young, Sten was not made of ice. He was flattered. His steps were just a bit lighter as he walked.

Cind watched him go. As far as she was concerned the meeting had gone perfectly. She was so pleased that she wanted to hug herself. She thought that close up, Sten was even more handsome. Mission accomplished. Invitation made. Invitation accepted.

Now it was up to her to make sure Sten had the time.

Sten tossed in his sleep, the thin covering knotted around his legs. He was back on Vulcan, a seventeen-year-old Delinq hiding from Baron Thoresen's Sociopatrolmen. Sten had taken refuge with Oron, the brainburned king of the Delinqs. He was weary from running so long and hard. Sten felt a slender body slide onto the soft mattress. It was Bet. Seventeen, as well. Naked and lovely. Eager for him. Lovely. So lovely.

He gasped out of the depths of the dream and found a willing, wriggling form in his arms. What the clot? Gently he pried the lady away. It certainly wasn't Bet! But she was lovely. The young lady moaned and grabbed for him again. For a moment, Sten almost went for it. He was still so far gone into the dream—which had proved to be very real—that he had almost no resistance.

Then he thought: who was this woman, anyway?

Mmmm. More kissing and stuff. Then he remembered the sincere young lady in the receiving line. What was her… Cind. Ooohh boy! Careful, Admiral. This is not a lady one screwed and forgot. Once bedded, she would be his responsibility. Mmmmm. More stuff. More kissing. Yeah, but… But me no buts, you clot! This is serious business. How'd you like someone as nice as this on your conscience? Aww… Come on. What's a little…