The Eternal Emperor had returned at last from the dead, to pick up the pieces of his crumbling Empire. But even that great leader could not halt the Empire’s decline alone. And so Sten — master spy, military strategist, and assassin — found himself appointed Ambassador Plenipotentiary to the Altaic Cluster, where a brewing civil war threatened the stability of the Empire itself. Quelling a civil war is nothing new for Sten, but as the war intensifies, he begins to suspect that he is up against more than a mere local disturbance. Someone — operating in deep–cover and seemingly backed by the highest authorities — is working behind the scenes to manipulate events and escalate disaster. And that someone wants nothing more than to see Sten dead…
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STEN # 7
VORTEX
By Allan Cole & Chris Bunch
CHAPTER ONE
THE SQUARE OF the Khaqans brooded under storm
clouds knuckled black under a gun-metal gray sky. A weak sun crept through those clouds, picking
out flashes of gold, green, and red from the towering buildings
and domes.
The square was immense: twenty-five square
kilometers solid with gaudy buildings, the official heartbeat of the Altaic
Cluster. On the western edge was the lace-pattern fan of the Palace of the Khaqans—home to the old
and angry Jochian who had ruled over the cluster for a
hundred and fifty years. For seventy-five of those years the man had labored on this square, lavishing billions of
credits and being-hours. It was a monument to himself and his
deeds—both real and imagined. Almost as an afterthought there was a small shrine park in a forgotten corner of
the square in memory of his father, the first Khaqan.
The square sat in the center of Jochi's
capital, Rurik. Everything in this city was huge; the inhabitants were forever
scurrying about, reduced in scale and spirit by the size of the Khaqan's vision.
Rurik was quiet this day. Humid streets
emptied. Beings huddled in their tenements for mandatory viewing of the events about
to unfold on their livie screens. All across the planet Jochi it was the same.
In fact, on all the habitable worlds of the
Altaic Cluster humans and ETs alike had been cleared from the
streets by loudspeaker vehicles and ordered into their dwellings to punch up the livie cast. Small red eyes at
the bottom of the screens monitored their required rapt
attention. Security squads were posted in every neighborhood, ready to kick in the door and haul away any being
whose attention flagged.
At the Square of the Khaqans itself, three
hundred thousand beings had been ordered in for public
witness. Their bodies formed a black smear around the edges of the square. The heat from the living mass rose
in waves of steam and drifted up into the menacing clouds. The
only movement was a constant nervous shifting. There was not one sound from the
crowd. Not the cry of a child or a cough from an Old One.
Heat lightning branched over the four gilded
pillars that marked each end of the square and the
enormous statues honoring Altaic heroes and deeds hunched over it. Thunder
boomed and echoed under the clouds. Still the crowd held its silence.
Troops were formed up in the center of the
square, weapons at ready, eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of danger.
At their backs loomed the Killing Wall.
A sergeant barked orders, and the execution
squad clanked forward, walking heavily under the
burden of twin tanks strapped to each being's back. Flex hose ran from the tanks to a two-meter-long tube held
by each squad member.
Another order, and hands sheathed in thick
fireproof gloves flexed the triggers of the flamethrowers. Molten fire dripped
from the ends of the tubes. Gloved fingers tightened, and a howl
rent the air as flame exploded out and against the Killing Wall.
The squad held the triggers back for a
terrible moment of heat and acrid smoke. The flames hammered
at the wall in heavy waves. At the sergeant's signal, the fire stopped.
The Killing Wall was unmarked, except for the
deep red glow of superheated metal. The sergeant spat.
The spittle exploded as it touched the wall. He turned and smiled.
The execution squad was ready.
A sudden squall erupted, drenching the crowd
and sending up hissing clouds of steam from the wall.
It stopped as quickly as it had begun, leaving the crowd miserable in the humid atmosphere.
There was a nervous buzz here and there.
Among so many beings, fear can keep the silence only so
long.
"This is the fourth time in as many
cycles," a young Suzdal yipped to his pack mate. "Every time the
Jochi police come hammering on the door to call us out to the square, I think, this time they're coming for us."
His little snout was wrinkled back with fear, exposing sharp, chattering teeth.
"It's nothing to do with us, dear,"
his pack mate said. She rubbed the thick furred hump that protruded above her muzzle against
the adolescent male, spreading soothing hormone. "They only want the black
marketeers."
"But all of us do it," the
frightened Suzdal yipped. "There's no other way to live. We'd all starve without the black
market."
"Hush, someone will hear," his pack
mate warned. "This is human doings. As long as they're killing Jochians or Torks, we mind
our own business."
"I can't help it. It feels like what
some humans call Judgment Day. Like we're all doomed. Look at the weather.
Everybody's talking about it. No one's seen anything like it. Even the Old Ones say it's never been like
this on Jochi. Freezing cold one day. Blistering hot the
next. Snow storms. Then floods and cyclones. When I woke this morning, I thought it smelled like spring
outside. Now look." He pointed at the heavy black storm clouds overhead.
"Now, don't get yourself
overwrought," his pack mate said. "Not even the Khaqan can control the weather."
"He's going to get to us eventually. And
then..." The young Suzdal shuddered. "Do you know one being who has
been executed yet who was really guilty? Of anything... big?"
"Of course not, dear. Now, be quiet.
It'll be over with... soon." And she rubbed more hormone into his fur. Soon the
chattering teeth were still.
There was a crash and a boom and howl of
music over the great loudspeakers, so loud that the foliage
in the scattered parks of the square shivered with the beat. The gold-robed Khaqan Guard trotted, spear
formation, out of the palace. At the apex of the spear was a floating platform bearing the
Khaqan on his high-back, gilded throne.
The whole group quick-marched to a position
just near the Killing Wall. The platform settled to
the ground.
The old Khaqan peered about him with
suspicious, rheumy eyes. He wrinkled his nose at the close
smell of the crowd. An ever-attentive privy aide caught the gesture and sprayed the Khaqan with his favorite
sweet-scented incense. The old man pulled a decorated flask of
methquill from his belt, uncorked it, and took a long drink. It quick-fired through his veins. His heart
raced and his eyes cleared along with his enthusiasm.
"Bring them out," he barked. It was
an old, shrill sound, but it put the fear of the cowardly gods who tended this place into his
servants.
Orders were whispered down the line. In front
of the Killing Wall, metal hissed on oiled bearings, and a
dark hole yawned. There was a hum of machinery, and a wide platform rose up to fill the hole.
There was a long, audible shudder from the
crowd when they saw the prisoners standing there in their chains, blinking in
the dim light. Soldiers hustled forward and prodded the
forty-five men and women to the wall. Metal bands emerged from the wall and clamped them into place.
The prisoners looked at the Khaqan with
stunned eyes. He took another pull on his flask and giggled with the buzz of the
methquill.
"Get on with it," he said.
The black-robed inquisitor stepped forward
and began reading the names and confessions of each
of the assembled felons. Their list of crimes boomed over the loudspeakers: Conspiracy to profit... Hoarding
of rationed goods... Theft from the markets of the Jochi
elite... Abuse of office to profit... On and on it went.
The old Khaqan frowned at each charge, then
nodded and smiled at each disposition of guilt.
Finally it was done. The Inquisitor slid the
charge fiche into its sleeve and turned to await the Khaqan's
decision.
The old man sipped at his flask, then keyed
his throat mike. His shrill, raspy voice filled the square and
buzzed on the livies in the billions of homes in the Altaic Cluster,
"As I look at your faces, my heart is
moved with pity," he said. "But I am also ashamed. All of you are Jochians... like
myself. As the majority race in the Altaics, it is for the Jochians to point the way. By good
example. What are our fellow humans, the Tork, to think when
they hear of your evil deeds? Much less our ET subjects, with their looser grip of morality. Yes...What do the
Suzdal and the Bogazi think when you Jochians—my most
prized subjects—flaunt the law and endanger our society by your greed?
"These are terrible times, I know. All
those long years of war with the filthy Tahn. We suffered and
sacrificed—and, yes, died—in that war. But no matter how heavy our burden, we stood by the Eternal Emperor.
"And later—when we believed him slain by
his enemies—we struggled on, despite the unfair burdens
placed on us by the beings that conspired to assassinate him and rule in his place.
"During each of these emergencies, I
asked your help and your sacrifice to keep our lovely cluster safe and secure
until the Emperor's return. As I believed he would, all the time.
"Finally, he came. He disposed of the
evil privy council. Then he looked around to see who had remained steadfast in
his absence. He found me—your Khaqan. As strong and loyal a servant as I have been for nearly
two centuries. And he saw you—my children. And he
smiled. From that moment on, the Anti-Matter Two flowed again.
“Our factories were alight once more. Our
star-ships soared to the great market places of the Empire.
"But all is still not well. The Tahn
wars and the actions of the traitorous privy council have sorely tested the Eternal Emperor's
resources. And ours as well. We have years of hard work ahead of us
before life can be normal and prosperous.
"Until that time comes, we must all
continue to sacrifice the comforts of the present for the glorious life of the future. All of
us are hungry now. But at least there is food enough to sustain.
Our AM2 allotment is more than most, thanks to my close friendship with the Emperor. But it is only
enough to keep commerce alive."
The Khaqan paused to wet his throat with
methquill. "Greed is the greatest crime in our small kingdom now. For in these times,
isn't greed anything more than murder on a mass scale?
"Every grain you steal, every drop of
drink you sell on the black market, comes from the mouths of
children, who will certainly starve if greed is left unchecked. The same for our precious AM2 supplies. Or the
minerals for tools to rebuild our industry, and the synthcloth
that keeps us from the elements.
"So it is with a heavy heart that I
sentence you. I have read the letters from your friends and loved ones, begging my mercy. I
wept over each one. I really did. They told a sad tale of beings
gone wrong. Beings who have listened to the lies of our enemies, or fell into callous company."
The Khaqan wiped a nonexistent tear from
rimless eyelids. "I have mercy enough for all of you. But it
is a mercy I must withhold. To do otherwise would be criminally selfish of me.
"Therefore I am forced to sentence you
to the most disgraceful death known, as an example to any others who are
foolish enough to be tempted by greed.
"I can allow only one small concession
to self-weakness. And I hope my subjects forgive me this, for I
am very old and easily moved to pity."
He leaned forward in his chair as the livie
camera dollied in until his face filled one side of the screen for
the viewers at home. It was a mask of compassion. On the other side of the screen were the forty-five doomed
beings.
The Khaqan's voice whispered harshly. "To
each and every one of you... I'm sorry."
He cut the throat mike and turned to his privy
aide. "Now, get this over with quickly. I don't want to be
out here when the storm breaks." And he eased his old bones back into the throne to watch.
Orders were shouted, and the execution squad
took up position. Flamethrower barrels were raised.
The crowd drew a long breath. The prisoners hung dully against their bonds. Thunder crashed overhead from the
clouds.
"Do it," the Khaqan snarled.
The flamethrowers roared into life. Solid
sheets of fire burst out at the Killing Wall.
In the crowd some beings turned away.
A Suzdal pack leader named Youtang barked in
disgust. "It's the smell that gets me most," she
yipped. "Puts me off my rations. Everything tastes like cooked
Jochians."
"Humans smell bad enough without being
parboiled," her assistant leader agreed.
"When the Khaqan started these
purges," Youtang said, "I thought, so what? There's so many Jochians, maybe it'll thin their
ranks some. Leave more for us Suzdal. But he kept at it. And I got
worried. Pretty soon, he's going to have to start looking elsewhere for his examples."
"He thinks the Bogazi are stupidest, so
they'll probably be last," her assistant said. "We'll be purged just
before them. The Torks are human, so if he sticks to whatever it is he calls logic, they're probably next."
"Speaking of Torks," Youtang said,
"I see one worried-looking friend of ours over there." She said " friend of
ours" with disgust. "Look. It's Baron Menynder. Jabbering at some other human. Jochian, by the cut of his
clothes."
"It's General Douw," her assistant
yipped, excited.
The Suzdal pack leader pondered for a moment.
The human she was looking at was a short, squat being
with a pure bald head. The beefy face was ugly enough to belong to a thug, but
Baron Menynder affected spectacles that made his brown eyes large, wide, and
innocent.
"Now, what would the Khaqan's defense
secretary be doing talking with Menynder? Couldn't be
professional advice, even though Menynder had the same job once. But he's past it now. His time was four or five
defense secretaries back. The Khaqan fired or killed all the rest.
Clot, that Menynder is a canny old being," Youtang mused almost to herself. "Got out just in time. And he
sticks to his own business and keeps his head low."
She studied the situation a little longer,
getting a closer look at General Douw. The Jochian appeared an
ideal general, well over two and a half meters high. He was sleek and athletic,
at least next to the tubby Menynder. His silver-gray locks fitted his head like a tight helmet, in stark contrast to
Menynder's bald pate.
"Douw must be liking what he's
hearing," the Suzdal pack leader finally said. "Menynder's been going nonstop since we
started watching."
"Maybe the old Tork is feeling extra
mortal these days," her assistant said. "Maybe he has a plan. Maybe that's what the
discussion is all about."
The work at the Killing Wall was done. There
were only ashes where the condemned had once
stood. At the western edge of the square, the Suzdals could see the Khaqan and his guards disappearing into
the lacy palace. In the center, the soldiers were being formed up
and marched off a platoon at a time.
Youtang watched the two humans in deep
discussion. An idea stirred. "I think we should join
them," she said. "One thing about Menynder is that he's a clotting
great survivor. Come on. If
there's a way out of this alive, I don't want the Suzdal to be left behind."
The two beings edged through the crowd.
The storm broke. Shouts of pain and terror
echoed across the square as hailstones hammered out of the
clouds, bursting like shrapnel.
The loudspeakers blared dismissal, and the
crowd erupted out of the square.
Menynder and General Douw hurried away
together. But by the time they reached the main gate, the
two Suzdals had caught up with them. The four paused in the shelter of an enormous statue of the Khaqan at the edge
of the gate. A few words were exchanged. Then nods
of agreement. A moment later the four hurried off together.
The conspiracy had been launched.
NEXT: STEN #8 - END OF EMPIRE
*****
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