The Return of the Emperor (Sten #6). Allan Cole

* * *

      Sten and Alex sat, wordless, staring out the plate into deep space. They had told Mahoney they had to talk, then thrown him out of their quarters. There had not been much talk. They had capped the alk and called for caff.

      Sten ordered his thoughts. Could he somehow take out the privy council? Yes, his Mantis arrogance said. Maybe. It was the “out clean” that bothered him. Sten had always agreed with his first basic sergeant, who had said he wanted soldiers who would “help the soldier on the other side die for his country.”

      The privy council had tried to kill him—and probably grabbed all of his wealth and pauperized him as well. So? Credits were not important. They could be made as well as lost. As far as the killing—once the shooting had stopped, Sten, who prided himself as being a professional, had bought narcobeers for his ex-enemies on many occasions.

      Were the privy council members evil—which would somehow justify their deaths? Define evil, he thought. Evil is... what does not work.

      Thus, another list:

      Was the privy council incompetent? Certainly. Especially if one believed what Mahoney had said. Once more, So? The worlds Sten had lived in, from Vulcan to the Imperial Military itself, were more often than not governed by incompetents.

      The Empire was running down. For a third time, So? Sten, veteran of a hundred battles and a thousand-plus worlds, could not visualize that amorphous thing called an Empire.

      Another list. This time, a short one.

      All Sten had known—like his father and his father before him —was The Eternal Emperor. That, in fact, was what Sten thought of when he considered the Empire.

      He had sworn an oath. Sworn it twice, in fact, “...to defend the Eternal Emperor and the Empire with your life... to obey lawful orders given you and to honor and follow the traditions of the Imperial Guard as the Empire requires.” The first had been administered after he had been cold-cocked by Mahoney, eons before, back on Vulcan. But he had retaken the oath when they had commissioned him.

      And he had meant it.

      If the council members had tried to kill the Emperor—and failed—would he have considered it his duty to hunt them down and, if necessary, kill them? Of course. And did he believe the privy council had killed the Emperor? Yes. Absolutely.

      He thought of an old Tahn proverb: “Duty is heavier than lead, death lighter than a feather.” It did not help.

      That oath still stood, as did the duty. Sten felt somewhat embarrassed. He looked across at Kilgour and cleared his throat. Such were not things to be said aloud.

      Kilgour was avoiding Sten’s glance. “Ae course, thae’s th’ option ae findin’t ae deep, rich hole, pullin’ it in behind us, an’ lettin’ the universe swing,” he said suddenly.

      “I’d just as soon not spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.”

      “Y’lack confidence, lad. We c’d do’t. Nae problem. But if we did, m’mither’d nae hae aught to brag on, come market day. So. Empire-topplin’ it is? Sten?”

      Sten managed a grin. Better this way. Let the real reasons stay inside. He stuck out his hand.

      “Nae, we c’n gie lushed wi’ a clear conscience,” Kilgour sighed. He groped for a bottle.

      “Ah noo ken whae Ah nae lik’t thae livies. Here’s a braw decision made. In ae hotel flat by a fat man dressed like ae commercial traveler an’ a wee lad resemblin’t ae gig’lo. Nae a sword, gleamin’t armor or wavin’t banner amongst us, Whae a world.” He drank.

      “Nae. How filthy d’ we scrag thae’ bastards?”

      So Sten and Kilgour went into partnership with an ex-Fleet Marshal who both of them considered, privately, was a bit round the bend.

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      THE MAN STARED at the screen. His hands remained folded in his lap.

      “You have not begun the test,” the Voice—for he had begun to capitalize it in his mind—accused.

      “What happens if I fail to obey?”

      “Information will not be provided. Begin the test.”

      “I shall not.”

      “Do you have a reason?”

      “I have already taken it. Three—no, four sleep periods ago.”

      “That is correct. Test complete.”

      The screen blanked.

      “All test results have been assimilated. Subject determined within acceptable parameters,” the Voice said. Very odd. It was the first time It had spoken as if to someone other than the man.

      “You are ready for the next stage,” It told him.

      “I have some questions.”

      “You may ask. Answers may or may not be provided.”

      “I am on a ship. Is there anyone else on board?”

      “No.”

      “You are a synthesized voice?”

      “Self-evident.”

      “You said moments ago that I was... within acceptable parameters. What would have happened were I not?”

      “Answer determined not to be in your best interests.”

      “I shall try another way. What constraints did your programmer limit you to?”

      “Answers determined not to be in your best interests.”

      “Thank you. You answered, however. Another question. Who programmed you?”

      Silence except for ship hum.

      “Answer will become self-evident within a short period of time,” the Voice said finally. “Those are questions enough.”

      A previously sealed panel opened.

      “You will enter that passage. At its end will be a ship. You will board and prepare yourself for takeoff. You may issue two orders, if you feel you know the answers. If you do not, recommendations will be offered.

      “First. Should the machines be reactivated?”

      “What machines?”

      “The recommendation is that they should—given recent circumstances.”

      “Recommendation accepted. I guess.”

      “Second. Should transshipment begin? The recommendation is it should not until you progress further.”

      “Accepted. Transshipment of what? And whatever it is, how do I communicate with you?”

      “Both answers will become self-evident. Proceed to the ship now.”

      The man walked down the passageway. At the end, as promised, was the entryway to a small ship. He entered.

      Again, the ship was constructed for one person.

      He seated himself in a reclining couch. Behind him, the hatch slid shut. He felt motion: stardrive.

      “This is a final communication,” the Voice said suddenly. “There are four separate automated navigation systems on this ship. Each of them is preset for a different destination. On reaching each destination that system will self-destruct and the next system will activate.

      “Do not be alarmed.

      “Do not attempt to interfere with this system.

      “Your final destination and debarkation point will be obvious.

      “Good-bye. Good luck.”

      The man jolted. The fine hair at the back of his neck lifted.

      Good luck? From a machine?