Sten's ship was too close when they impacted.
All his screens blanked, went to secondary, blanked again, and then, probably because they were jury-rigged to give computer enhancements of N-space, stayed dead for long seconds.
Finally, one imaging radar came to life, and adjusted its input to the enhancement program.
Colors/not colors.
Nothing else.
It was as if the great decahedron had never existed.
The Eternal Emperor was gone.
Sten stared for a long, long time at that emptiness, perhaps wishing many things had never been, perhaps making sure the void would not take form.
Finally, he turned to his controls.
He fed in his return course, and went at full drive, for the discontinuity.
And home.
It was over.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
FOUR SCREENS YAMMERED HIGHEST PRIORITY—IMMEDIATE ATTENTION. Three others flashed with CRITICAL—PERSONAL messages for Sten, using his private access code that supposedly only Cind, Alex, and Sr. Ecu had ever been given.
All of them—and other corns outside Sten's suite in Otho's castle—wanted one thing, in various categories: Sten. Sten's appearance, Sten's advice, Sten's prognostications, Sten's orders, Sten's suggestions, Sten's emissaries.
"Doesn't anybody want to do anything for themselves?" Sten wondered. "I mean, the Emperor is dead. Go for it, people."
"Th‘ Zaginows're feelin' frisky," Alex said. "Ah hae logged a un'lateral declaration ae independence an‘ non-alliance frae th' lads. T be present'd ae th‘ Imperial Parl'ment, if i' e'er sits again. Th‘ copy thae sen' you, f'r inf'rmation on'y, has a wee pers'nal note. Sayin‘ thanks, an' i‘ y' e'er hap by their part ae‘ th' universe, i‘ an un'fficial capac'ty, their emph'sis nae mine, drop by f r a dram."
"It's like an infected tusk," Otho said. "It hurts, and it hurts, and then it falls out. And your tongue keeps seeking the gap, wondering where the tusk went, and maybe even missing it a trace."
There were only two other beings in the chamber—Cind and Rykor.
But there should have been more:
The dead: Mahoney. Sr. Ecu. Others, stretching back into the dimness of Sten's memory, soldiers, civilians, even bandits and criminals, who had died for the mask of freedom that they never knew concealed the skullface of tyranny.
The living: Haines. Her husband. Marr. Senn. Ida. Jemedar Mankajiri Gurung and the other Gurkhas. A woman, long ago, named Bet.
And just as there had been invisible beings with Sten before he entered the discontinuity, all these were now in this chamber.
Waiting.
"Cind," Sten wondered. "What will the Bhor do?"
"I will no longer be speaking for them," Cind said. "I'll be traveling. With a friend." She smiled at Sten, a promising smile.
"The Bhor will accept my retirement. Even if I have to grow a beard to cut."
She nodded across the room. "I rather imagine Otho will be the speaker once more, even if he has to be drafted."
Otho growled. "Perhaps. But only for the moment. I have seen as much of the slow dry death of politics as any being could wish for his worst enemy.
"Perhaps I shall outfit a ship, as I did when young. There will be great chances for a trader now, with freedom instead of Empire.
"Perhaps I shall go looking for those strange human friends of yours. The Rom, I believe they called themselves? You know that none of them remain on Vi? They departed before your return from that other place... leaving no word as to their intent."
Sten was silent, surprised. Ida, gone? Evidently without even a farewell. She didn't even stick around to see that the good guys won. He remembered words of hers, said over her shoulder: "Freedom cannot be served by making laws and fences..."
Otho got up. "Or perhaps I shall take up sewing," he said. "But enough of this, by Kholeric. I am thirsty and hungry, and a bit angry. I shall butcher out your incompetent staff, Sr. Sten, and inform them when you wish privacy, there are no alternative choices."
Otho banged out, and a few seconds later, Sten heard loud growls. All of the screens blanked.
But in his mind he still saw their pleas.
He was suddenly, irrationally, angry.
"What the hell," he near-snarled, "do they want? Me to declare myself the new Eternal Emperor? What, the tyrant is dead, now put your necks down for the iron boot again?"
"Some of them wish exactly that," Cind said softly. "Muscles get lazy when they aren't worked. And it's always easier to let somebody else make the decisions, isn't it?
"I know. All that my forebears had to do was obey— absolutely—the Jannissar general. He would tell them when to eat, when to sleep, who to kill, and when to die. If they obeyed—absolutely—they were rewarded, and had a place after death guaranteed.
"Right," she said. "That was all."
"Both a y‘ appear a wee bit hard ae our allies," Alex said, his face carefully composed. "Thae'll hae't' be somebody ae th‘ top, aye? T' oversee th‘ changes an' th‘ transition. There cannae be an empty throne, e'en i' thae's but a caretaker gov'mint. Can there?
"F'r beginnin's, who's‘t' divvy th‘ AM2?"
Again, Anti-Matter Two, hell and heaven, riches and death.
There was a splash from Rykor's tank. She was watching Sten, her great compassionate eyes wide. But she said nothing of the common secret they held.
"A caretaker," Sten mused, his anger gone. "What? You think I should soldier on? At least until somebody figures out who should run things? Maybe until we put together some kind of coalition like Ecu would have overseen?"
"To most beings," Cind said, "that'd be the most comfortable. The hero slays the dragon... and helps the people begin their lives anew."
"Just like in the livies," Sten said cynically.
Cind shrugged. "Why do you think they're so popular?"
"How does that play, Rykor?" Sten asked.
Rykor considered, whiskers fluffing. "Logical. Psychologically welcome, as Cind said. Certainly you have the experience for it. How many times did your ambassadorial duties in fact mean you were the entire government in a cluster? I know you hardly bothered getting the Emperor's approval for every decision."
No, Sten thought. He hadn't And he had run things with, he thought pridefully, a certain measure of success, assuming clotheads hadn't gotten in the way, clotheads who just didn't understand what was supposed to happen, and that their best interests would be eventually served.
Christ. With no one second-guessing his decisions after the fact from afar. Not a section commander.
Not a general. Not even an Eternal Emperor.
Not anyone.
A chance to correct a lot of those wrongs he'd seen across the years, wrongs too big or too distant to confront. And there would be the time—Sten could easily train a diplomatic equivalent of a general staff that would be able to carry out Sten's policies.
All those dictators some mythical thing called Policy or Expediency said should be supported. All those crimes that Pragmatism told him to ignore. All the beings who stole and murdered from their lessers, beings that Sten had never had the opportunity to confront and destroy.
Call it caretaking.
If you wished.
Now, that would not be a bad way to really serve the universe, would it? Especially after all those decades of blood and slaughter.
It would also be an example for those who came later, that someone could rule for a while, and then, when his charges reached maturity, step aside. Pass the reins along.