Vortex (19 page)

Sten couldn't resist. He stopped beside the Imperial soldier and glanced at the list. It was one cycle's worth of menus, with the note that at the end of a cycle the menu was to be repeated. He had time to see one day's offerings:

Morning

Black bread

Herbal tea

Midday

Vegetable soup

Mineral water

Dusk

Lung soup

Nut cutlet

Garden salad, undressed

Cream torte

One glass, nonvintage Rurikdoktor white wine

Before Bed

Digestive crackers

Herbal tea

Sten hoped that any conferences with the Imperial ambassador around mealtime would be considered a special occasion. Especially the evening feeding. Sten hoped that the lung soup was to remind Iskra of his poverty-stricken days in exile. Gods forbid he actually
liked
it.

But that cream torte? Perhaps that was Iskra's one allowed indulgence? Sten, if someone had made him dictator-elect, would have thought in terms of concubines, strong drink, hallucinatory substances, or bad company. But each tyrant to his tastes.

Iskra was waiting, looking impatient. Sten hurried to catch up.

"This, I assume, was the Khaqan's bedchamber?"

"It was," one of Iskra's hovering aides said.

"Then it shall be mine. However, I shall wish some changes."

"Of course, Doctor.''

Iskra looked thoughtfully around the huge chamber. "First, get rid of that obscenity of a bed. I will not be succumbing to the sexual practices of that worm. You know what I sleep on. Those pictures. Have them removed. Give them to a museum, or have them burnt. It doesn't matter. We will have little time for gross representations of the miserable past.

"Have them replaced with a wallscreen on that wall; a map projector on that one. Fiche storage and book cases on the other walls. We shall have that fireplace punched out, into the next room, which shall be my battlechamber.

"Now. Leave. You, J'Dean. Return to the Imperial ship. Inform the rest of my staff they may relocate to this palace. Have the Imperials provide security for their passage."

The aide nodded—just as jerkily as Iskra. Perhaps it was their own version of a salute. He withdrew. Doors closed, and Iskra and Sten were alone.

There was no preamble. "You have been in communication with the Eternal Emperor?''

"I have," Sten said.

"He has given you instructions? That I am to be given your fullest and most complete support, without questions?"

"I must correct you, doctor. To prevent a future misunderstanding. I was ordered to provide full support by the Emperor. However, I am not, nor is any member of my embassy, under your command. We are here in the Altaic Cluster representing the Emperor, the Empire, and its interests and its citizenry. We are also here, under Imperial instructions, to ensure that the peace is kept and a stable government is in power."

"Different words," Iskra said. "The same meaning."

Sten chose not to participate in the debating society. "May I ask your immediate intentions?"

"I intend that this cluster shall live in peace, as you said moments ago. I further intend that the brutalities, injustices, and evils of the Khaqan and his lickspittle underlings shall end immediately."

"Admirable intent," Sten said, forcing some warmth into his voice.

"Thank you."

"You have used the phrase New Order twice in my hearing," Sten went on. "What, precisely, does that mean?"

"You are not familiar with my writings? With my analyses?"

"Apologies. But I have been busy of late, trying to keep small points of light from becoming firestorms. And I learned of your imminent arrival only recently.''

"You
must
read them," Iskra said earnestly. "Otherwise, it is impossible to understand the Altaic Cluster, let alone to help me rule it."

"Then I shall. Immediately. But—what you just said. You intend to rule this cluster. Forgive my ignorance. But what form will that take? To be exact, how representative will your government be?"

"Very," Iskra said firmly. "It shall bear no resemblance whatsoever to the Khaqan's tyranny. But one thing, Ambassador Sten.

"Since you are from a civilized world, do not make the mistake of becoming anthropomorphic about the beings of my cluster.''

Civilized world, Sten thought. Vulcan? A man-made planet of slave labor and sudden death? He kept his face blank as Iskra continued.

"Understand that none of us, Torks, Jochians, Suzdal, or Bogazi, have ever known democracy. Beings here may rave about it, but it is an inconceivable idea in reality to them. Much like expecting someone who is blind from birth to envision a sunset, yes?

"So my New Order means a certain amount of direction. Guidance. That is the only way for us to find eventual freedom. Not in my time, of course, nor probably that of my sons yet unborn.

"But it will come.

"That is the oath I swore on my father's grave, and reconsecrated myself to, when the Khaqan murdered my brother.

"The Altaic Cluster will be at peace. And my sacred trust will be fulfilled—no matter the cost to this generation! There can be
no
true heroism or godhood without sacrifice along the path!"

Dr. Iskra's eyes glittered red, reflecting the sun setting outside.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"W
hy," Alex Kilgour wondered, "do Ah hae th' feelin' ae a' thae an' ae a thae's a roarin't crock?"

He gestured at the wallscreen, which showed the terrace of the Khaqan's palace. I must learn to change the labels, Sten told himself. Iskra now wears the crown.

On the terrace stood Dr. Iskra, hands raised, a slight smile on his face as below him the packed square boomed with cheers.

Behind him stood the Altaic power structure. The humans, at least, all showed the same expression of pleased relief on hearing of the assumption. Sten was not familiar enough with either the Bogazi or Suzdal to understand their emotional projections. So that big meeting, he thought, must have been just the obligatory change of command speech, as when one took over a new unit and was required to meet the unit's lower-ranking officers and make nice. Then, later one announced the terror and that heads were to roll.

The cheering stopped, and Iskra resumed his speech.

"… a time of healing. A time for all of us to abandon the past, the dark shadows of vengeance, and strike out boldly together to secure the future for ourselves and for generations to come.

"We are all Altaics. We share the same systems. The same planets. But instead of realizing our common destiny we waste our substance in feuds begun for forgotten reasons. We hate our neighbor because his genetic code differs from ours. But we all came from the same universal plasm, no matter our species, race, or home planet.

"You know me.

"You know the justice and honor I represent.

"You know I have spent years in exile, fighting in every way I knew to bring down the abhorrence that was the Khaqan. And I succeeded."

"Aye. Jus' you an' a wee attack ae apoopoplexy. Next he'll be claimin't 't' hae created AM2 an' Scotch, as well."

"Now it is time for our next task. Now it is time, and past time for all of us—"

Sten palmed the mute switch, leaving Iskra to gesticulate in silence. He and Alex were alone in the embassy apartments assigned to Sten, apartments that were security-sealed and constantly checked for bugs.

"You think it's a crock," he told Alex, "because it is." He indicated a large pile of fiche and abstracts.

"Y'hae dredged throo all ae th' doc's natterin's, a'ready?"

"Read a couple. Had the rest abstracted. Iskra isn't exactly clear like crystal when he writes. And he's supposed to be such a brilliant speaker."

"Th' clot dinnae do aught t' make my adrenaline adren," Alex agreed.

"Nor mine. As far as I can tell, and I'm surely not a political philosopher, his main theory seems to be first we obliterate anything that the Khaqan did, then figure out what's to come next. This New Order, he says somewhere, 'must remain supple and sensitive to change and challenge.' He's in love with assonance."

"Aye, he is an ass. Ah dinnae ken aboot whether it belongs to wee Nancy or no. An' of course, th' one thae's most supple t' this change is th' good Dr. Iskra?"

"Of course. He's traveled. He's studied. He's done comparative analysis on every political theory going, including the Emperor. I didn't know the Emp picked him as one of the territorial governors of a Tahn solar system after the war. He did well—at least according to him.''

"Ah dinnae wonder," Alexsaid. "Th' Tahn dinnae understand aught but a boot ae' their neck a'ter the rules they grew up wi'. Doc Iskra—clot, e'en a Campbell—would'a likely been deemed liberal.

"Whae about th' real problem? All these races who're nae happy wi'out they're slittin' another one's weasan? Hae Iskra got a plan to end that?''

Sten shook his head. "He talks a lot about equality. But it sort of works out that some people in the Altaic Cluster are a bit more superior than others."

"An' lemme guess. Iskra, bein' a Jochian, somehow hae th' notion thae Jochians are th' most superior ae all."

"Correct."

"Clottin' wonderful. 'Ware ye ae th' new boss. Same ae th' old boss.' An wee Iskra's th' Emp's han-picked golden boy. Ah dinnae mind he's bein' a dictator, lord knowin' you an' I o'er th' years hae installed a few dozen ae them. But Ah'm nae taken wi' th' wee lad haein' nae th' slightest bit ae subtlety or patience. Ah'll wager he's a lad thae wan's th' world, an' he wants it yesterday."

"I'll live with that call," Sten said. He stared back at the screen and the appropriately enthusiastic beings behind Iskra. "I wonder just what—besides general make-nice—Iskra said to his rump parliament… Anybody there you think we can corrupt?''

Kilgour thought. "All ae 'em, in time," he said. "But i' y' want a fly on th' wall yest'day, Ah'd start wi' Menynder. He appears t' hae his eye on th' main chance moren' most. An' a wee bit ae follow-through."

"Agreed," Sten said. "See if we can't make him into a nice reliable source."

"No puh-roblem." Kilgour was silent for a minute. Then, seemingly irrelevantly, he asked, "Did y' e'er gie y'self th' fearful luxury ae wonderin' i' our Fearless Leader's gettin' a wee touch senile?"

Sten flinched, as if an icy blast had touched him. He didn't answer, but went to the bar and poured two large drinks. Not of Scotch; not of stregg. But pure quill alk, as he had grown used to drinking as a field soldier. He handed one to Kilgour.

"If he is," Sten said, after sipping his drink, "and Dr. Iskra is an example, the future's going to start looking like that." He gestured outside the double-paned security window at the huge, building thunderheads that were bringing yet another slashing summer storm down on the capital.

"Dinnae fash, lad," Kilgour said, knocking back his drink, waiting for Sten to do the same, and going for more. "We're th' Emp's spearheaders, aye? So i' this harbringer's a busto, we'll nae survive t' see th' rest."

Sten did not feel reassured. "Now," he said, taking Alex's example and slugging his drink down, "we'll have the fun of seeing just how Dr. Iskra shows his firm hand—and what happens to anybody who disagrees with him."

"Ah hae th' answer t' that one, too," Kilgour said. "Th' clot's an idealist. Which means we'll be wadin't in blood t' our scrotes. Six months an' thae'll be lookin't back an' talkin' aboot how kind, gentle, an' silky th' late Khaqan was. Hide an' watch. Or do you hae th' desire t' take my bet Isky's nae but a timit, slickit lambiepie?''

Sten shook his head. "Like you say. I'm mad, but I don't think I'm clottin' daft. Other than being here in the first place. No. I don't think Dr. Iskra is going to end up being remembered for his sweetness and light."

"To you gentlebeings," Dr. Iskra said, "I know that I can present the future without need of equivocation. You are professionals, students of the inevitable historical process, and concerned as I about ensuring the glory of the Altaic Cluster.''

There was a murmur. It could be taken as the listener chose, up to and including agreement.

There were only fifteen beings in the huge auditorium. It was part of the barracks complex belonging to the unit that had formerly been known as the Khaqan's Own, the purportedly elite unit whose prime function was guarding the late Khaqan's life, possessions, relatives, and friends. The walls were freshly repainted with new murals showing soldiers of the Own serving an offstage master, waiting, chins thrust forward nobly, on barricades against an offstage foe. Helping innocent citizens against offstage disasters. All of the soldiers, and all of the civilians on the mural, were Jochians.

The fifteen beings were among the highest-ranking officers of the Khaqan's military. Not
the
highest-ranking flag officers. Iskra had selected carefully.

Each of them had received verbal orders to stand by for a special assignment. One by one, sans staff or aides, they had been picked up by a representative of Iskra and taken to the secure complex.

All of them were career military. All of them came from long-serving families of what the Khaqan had called "the State." And all of them were Jochians. Iskra had not wanted the presence of the few Torks, Suzdal, and Bogazi who had gotten their stars.

Among them was a tall, silver-haired man. General Douw. He was doing his best to remain unnoticed—until he could see which way the wind was blowing.

"We Altaics," Iskra went on, "are beings that genetically wish for rocks we can cling to as the tides of change wash about us.

"One of those traditions should be—but never was under the Khaqan or his father—the military. The beings who are prepared to defend the state with their lives, unquestioningly. And not just the soldiers in the field, but those who dedicate and sacrifice their entire lives to that service in the services that support them.