"Shall I reply, or wait for your return?"
"Advise that... advise that you are still attempting to contact me."
"Received. But..."
"For your own sake, if you are recording this conversation, I would suggest you blank the record immediately. By the way, that is an order."
"Are you returning now?"
Rykor thought hard. She had two E-days before the ship that could only be carrying Poyndex's gestapo and an arrest warrant arrived. Time enough.
"I am. But only momentarily. For these new duties, I shall require some time to myself, out here at sea, preparing and focusing my energies."
"Of course," the still-bewildered assistant said. Like all aquatic races, Rykor's race needed the sea not only for physical health and nourishment, but for psychic replenishment as well. "I shall have your usual travel pack ready."
"Very good. I am returning. Close transmission."
Rykor, without waiting for acknowledgment, shut the com off and bulleted back toward her home.
Two days.
Time enough for her to pack bare necessities and get to the in-atmosphere flier she had concealed underwater not far from the cave, the flier she had bought a few years earlier, when she sensed that somehow the Empire was going very wrong.
All of her expertise about intelligence was theoretical, but she had spent long years advising Mahoney when he was head of Mercury Corps and then Sten. She knew any conspirator worth his cloak always had a back door.
The rest of the back door was a small yacht she had hidden in a remote warehouse at a tiny spaceport on the other side of her world. She had two days until their arrival, then perhaps two more days while they fruitlessly searched the winter oceans for Rykor on her mythical wanderjahr—and then they would know she had fled.
Long enough, she hoped.
She even had a refuge—with the being that had first come to her with the horrid suspicion that the Eternal Emperor had gone insane.
Sr. Ecu caught the updraft that rose close to the vertical, sunbaked cliff and allowed it to loft him out of the twisting canyon, high into the sky.
Before him, centered in the vast valley, was the towering spire of the Manabi's Guesting Center.
Sr. Ecu had delayed his passage as long as he dared, follow-ing the course of the canyon as it wound its way toward the valley. He could dawdle no longer.
He'd taken his time in responding to the summons not out of rudeness—among the Manabi's qualifications as the Empire's diplomats and negotiators was an overwhelming sense of what could only be termed decency—but so he could make sure his carefully prepared lies would still stand up.
He also felt a relatively unfamiliar "emotion," to use the human term. Fear. If the slightest suspicion fell on Ecu, the Manabi's main protection, absolute neutrality, would not help him stay alive.
Ecu himself had broken that political and moral neutrality some time ago, when he had determined the Eternal Emperor was no longer qualified to rule, and that the Emperor was, in fact, destroying die Empire he had created. He'd then sought out Rykor, for confirmation of his theories and that he was not the first Manabi to go insane.
And then he had sought out Mahoney and Sten, advised them of the situation, and, still worse, announced he, and therefore the entire Manabi race, would be willing to assist in any attempt to prevent the seemingly inevitable collapse of the Empire.
Now Mahoney was dead and Sten was on the run.
Just ahead could be the instrument of Ecu's own dissolution into the nonmaterial racial presence. He wondered just who the Emperor's inquisitor would be.
Ecu's long black body, red-tinted at the wingtips, three-meter-long tail ruddering skillfully, floated toward the Center. Ecu found his senses at peak. Perhaps, he thought, because this could be the last time he experienced the quiet joy of his home world. At times he wondered why he'd ever chosen his career, a career that took him away, off Seilichi and its lake-dotted single supercontinent and occasional jagged mountain ranges.
Perhaps he should have stayed, and been no more than just another philosopher, drifting in his world's gentle winds, thinking, teaching. His early sketches at forming a personal dialectic were stored on a fiche somewhere underground, where the Manabi kept whatever machines and construction necessary.
The only artificial constructs to show above Seilichi's surface were the three Guesting Centers, and they existed only as a courtesy to whatever non-aerial beings chose to visit the planet. And they were intended to appear, as much as possible, like huge natural extinct volcanic necks, with the landing fields hidden in the "crater."
The Center sensed Ecu's approach, and a portal yawned. Ecu flew inside, tendrils flickering. He found traces of the signature scent he used, and followed those traces to the assigned conference room.
Inside, sitting very much at ease, was the Emperor's emissary.
Solon Kenna was even fatter and more benevolent appearing, if in a bibulous fashion, than Ecu remembered. Those who had taken Kenna as an obese caricature of a stupid, crooked pol over the years had generally not survived in the political arena long enough to correct their thinking.
Now Kenna was on Seilichi, as the Emperor's hatchet man.
"It has been long."
‘Too long," Kenna said, coming quickly to his feet and smiling. "I have been sitting here, lost in thinking of the marvels of Seilichi." Of course Kenna pronounced the word correctly. He still showed the regrettable love for flowery speech the Emperor had noted years ago. "I should have found occasion to journey here many times, especially now that the Empire has returned.
"But..." He shrugged. "Time creeps up and past all of us. And I have had my own concerns. You know that I am preparing my memoirs?"
"Those will be most interesting."
Ecu was being more than polite—he was constantly wondering why humans had such a love for the convolutions of dishonest politics when, from his race's point of view, a direct approach was far more likely to work. Not that the Maьabi ever allowed this belief to hamper their appreciation for circumlocution, nor their abilities to practice it. So, indeed, if those memoirs were in fact produced, Ecu would be fascinated by how many ways Kenna could find to avoid the simple fact that he was, and had been since he was a baby ballot-box-stuffer, Crooked to the Gunwales.
"But now I am here on business," Kenna said, mock-mournfully. "The business of the Eternal Emperor." He slid a card from his pocket, and the Imperial emblem glowed to life, keyed to Kenna's pore patterns.
"Regarding Sten, I would imagine."
"You imagine correctly."
"Of course," Sr. Ecu said, "I will render what service I can. I see no problem in cooperating, since my race's neutrality has never extended to a confessional seal about criminals—which Sten is, correct?"
"Of the worst order," Kenna agreed. "He betrayed the Empire—and for no reason that anyone can ascertain except personal ambition."
Kenna tried to look pious, a laughable attempt. It was supposed, the Manabi knew, to look stupid, and the witness then encouraged to think Kenna the same, never noticing the razor gleam from his piggish eyes.
"Ambition... something that makes mockery of us all, as the poet said."
"Sten," Ecu mused, as if assembling his thoughts. "I frankly know very little, since the time I spent in his company was rather... frantic, might be the correct word.
"The Tribunal and the privy council was far more on my mind than anything else. But, as I said, what help I may render, I shall. But I'm puzzled, frankly. Considering all the time Sten passed in Imperial Service, I would think your... I mean Imperial... records would be far more thorough, even considering that the greater percentage of his career was spent in... irregular pursuits."