On further consideration, Poyndex thought the Emperor's plan meritorious. Might this flickering nonsense of a rebellion, which now, with its "liberator" dead, should properly be called anarchic, be quelled by a huge, nearly instantaneous application of force? Machiavelli, after all, had instructed his prince to ax all of his enemies at one time as soon as he'd seized power.
Not that Poyndex had ever entertained disobeying, or even questioning, this new Imperial policy. He served loyally. Perhaps not the Emperor, but the new fascination he had that it was possible to live forever. To live forever, and... and to rule?
The list was drawn up. The Cal'gata's capital world. The Honjo's six canton worlds. The seventeen area centers of the Zaginow. The Bhor capital of Vi. And on and on. The death roster ordered 118 worlds obliterated.
It could be done—the Empire still had far more battleships and completely loyal crews who'd murder an entire planet because it was so ordered.
The problem was the Eternal Emperor wanted the planet-bustings done nearly simultaneously.
On which clock, Poyndex thought, and whose calendar? Local? Zulu? Prime? By rights, he should have been able to rout out Admiral Anders and his planning staff. The navy might be a bit less than stupendous, but it would seem anyone with logistical training would know how to arrange things so that ships would arrive in the target system in time, but not early enough to arouse suspicion. But the Emperor had insisted this would be a totally secure operation, which meant only Poyndex and his own personal IS staff were even aware of the bloodbath to come.
Poyndex got up from his multileveled metal desk. It, and the rest of the technical apparatus he required, clashed with the ornate wood and silk wallpaper of the suite. But what of it? Perhaps, one day, when this was over, he would have it redone. This time with some of his own ideas, rather than what he had done before, letting some imbecile who thought the old ways were the prettiest handle things. When there was time, when there was time.
But there never was enough time.
Perhaps a drink, to get a little sugar in the bloodstream.
Poyndex walked to the small bar, and eyed the bottles. The Scotch the Emperor loved, and Poyndex couldn't stomach. That awful substance called "shine," and its even-worse companion, the ET beverage stregg, which the Emperor had reportedly once liked. Poyndex had tasted it once, and shuddered. No one but a soak or an ET could possibly drink that. He lifted the cut-glass decanter that held the multi-fruit orandy of his home world, which was about the only liquor Poyndex enjoyed the taste of, once a month or so. ‘t
No. That wasn't it, either.
He turned toward the doorway to his bedroom. That was what he really wanted. To lie down. To sleep. For a day, for a week, forever.
It took a moment to realize there was a man crouched in the doorway. A man wearing strange, camouflaged fatigues. His face was blackened. And he held a long-barreled pistol leveled at the center of Poyndex's chest
"Y'll freeze," Alex said quietly. Normally he would've used a petrifying shout—but there were two sentries posted outside.
"Y'll noo breathe, ‘cept on command," he went on, coming to his feet and moving forward, neither eyes nor gunbarrel moving from Poyndex.
"You're Kilgour," Poyndex said, trying, and hoping he succeeded, to keep shock from his voice. A flicker of pride—he didn't feel any fear.
"Aye."
"You know, killing me won't stop the Empire."
"Aye?" Kilgour asked, in polite disinterest. "Thae's noo m‘ plan. Y'r noo f'r th' big sleep, unless y‘ do someat daft, like cryin' oot.
"First, y'all step awa‘ frae th' bar, turn wi‘ y'r back't' me, kneel, an‘ clasp y'r hands behin' y'r head. Move!"
Poyndex turned. Started down, then stopped.
‘The thought just struck me," he said. "If you're not on a personal vendetta... is Sten still alive? Did he order this operation?"
"Ah said," Kilgour repeated, still in a near whisper, "Ah wan‘ y' doon ae y'r knees, mate. Noo—‘
Poyndex began to kneel... and lifted his arms, toward the back of his head. Alex's free hand came forward, the tiny bee sting of the narcdispenser ready. Poyndex's right hand shot out toward the bar.
Kilgour's reflexes cut in.
The heavy-worlder's left hand dropped the syringe, curled to hammerstrike, flashed out.
And struck. Just to the right side of Poyndex's neck. The snap was loud. Poyndex's head dropped to an impossible angle... and his body fell forward. Alex caught him by the collar before he could crash into the bar, and eased him down to the carpet.
Knowing he was wasting his time, he checked pulse. Rolled Poyndex over and peeled an eyelid back. Even, stupidly, held his ear to Poyndex's mouth, hoping for the slightest breath.
Nothing.
Y‘ clot, his mind savaged. Y' know bettern‘ thae! Are y' sarkers? Cannae y‘ control y'self? I* dinnae matter i' this i‘ th' lad whae killed Mahoney, or helped th‘ Emp slaughter who knows how many?
Y'r noo a professional, he thought in disgust. And started to get up.
Then his eye caught the button, mounted in the base of the bar. He looked closer. Nothing in the bar front. There. Above him. A snapaway panel, just like they showed him in training. Behind it would be what? A gun? A gas dispenser? An electrified net? Linked to a panic siren? Whatever it was, it would've been disaster.
Noo, did Ah really o'erreact... or did th‘ corner a' m‘ eye spot the switch? Balls, he thought. Kilgour resolutely refused to believe in any sense beyond the common. Then he realized, for the first time since that sleepless night on the battlements of Otho's castle, the night so long ago when Cind had been named to speak for the Bhor, that feeling of doom was gone.
By th‘ Stuarts, he thought. Ah been carryin't this deathsense wi me f'rever, stumblin' like a ‘cruit i' th‘ Selection March ae Mantis. An' it's vanished, wi‘ Poyndex's dirty soul.
Are y‘ suggestin' his mind snickered, thae y‘ sensed thae wae a death owed? An' thae either you, or Poyndex, wh'd hae't‘ pay the price? Clot off, he thought. Ah hae noo time f'r Highland devils an' goblins.
Th‘ real question i' whae d‘ th' milkmaid do, whae she's kick'd o'er th‘ bucket, an' th‘ missus a' th‘ house dinnae hae a cat?
He had it.
He shouldered Poyndex's body and went into the bedroom, back through the panel into the secret passageway.
Feeling bulletproof, he trotted rapidly down it, to where that huge flagstone was. Noo, i‘ it's nae boobytrapp'd or alarm'd, he thought, Ah'm home free. He dropped Poyndex's corpse on the stone.
It fell away, and the body dropped into darkness.
No sirenscreech. No scurry of guards, if there'd been a silent alarm.
Just a thud. Silence. Another thud. Another silence, even longer. A splash, finally, as the late'tPoyndex hit bottom. Kilgour wondered, once again, just what was'tat the bottom of the shaft? He shone his tiny flash down into blackness. Nothing.
He touched the flagstone, and it smoothly swung back into place, waiting for the next weight to land on it.
Was it a garbage disposal? A sewelr?
Alex shook his head.
He would never know.
He considered what had just happened and, after some reflection, nodded thoughtfully.
Assuming Poyndex's body wasn't discovered, at least for a while, what would the effect be? On Internal Security and, most importantly, the Emperor himself?
A wee bit scary, Kilgour concluded. I* fact, all thae's been sacrificed by giein‘ Poyndex a braw clout i' y'r original dreamscheme wi‘ th' brainscan.