"Say I agreed," Sten said. "Sorry, that's the wrong way to put it Say that when the smoke cleared that a lot of worlds wanted me to act as some kind of, what? ‘Regent' isn't the proper word. ‘Manager'? I guess that'd be it"
"There would be few if any systems that would object," Rykor said firmly.
"Right. Now. If I did this, agreed to serve for a few more years, until the time was right and everybody realized that they had to rule themselves... would you stay with me?"
Rykor wallowed in the tank without answering. Then: "You would be welcome to my advice, such as it is, for as long as I am able to offer it."
Sten noted her answer.
"Alex?"
The tubby man looked at him for a very long moment
"V hae m‘ word, boss," he said finally. "Ah'll sign on agin, ae y'r strong right bower. But thae'll be a time whae Ah'll be retirin't, Ah'll hae't' warn you."
Twice.
"Cind?"
"I'll stay," she said, without a hesitation. "As long as you're caretaker. As long as you're Sten."
Three times.
There it was.
Sten saw, once more, the smile on the Emperor's corpse, and icy fingers moved down his spine as he wondered if this moment explained the gioconda smile.
"I just wonder," Sten said, "if anybody ever knows when that time is? Or," he said, being as honest as he knew how, "if every time somebody gets offered a crown, he always thinks that he's taking it just for universal good?"
The chamber was silent, very silent, as silent as the icy, frozen night outside.
"Ah dinnae knoo aboot thae," Alex said, finally. "Thae's Phliposophy, an‘ thae's noo Scots sol'jer permitted't' think ae that, ‘r thae toss him oot ae th' pub an‘ make him' drink piss wi‘ th' Brits.
"But Ah hae a wee tale. Call i‘ a par'ble, i' y‘ wish.
"Thae wae a mon. Always wanted't‘ prove himself, aye? An' he hears thae‘ th' mos' fearsome sort ae huntin‘ i' on Earth. Ae a wee island, i‘ a north' ae froze ae Vi.
"Huntin‘ th' bear. Cind, thae's a—"
"I know what a bear is. You've called Otho one enough times. GA," she said.
"A'right. So, he goes oot i‘ th' forest, wi‘ a rifle, an' a sharp eye. An‘ sooner come later, he spots th' bear. Binga-banga-bonga he shoots, an‘ th' bear goes't doon.
"An‘ he bounds o'er, an' to his vast sur'prise an‘ dismay, thae's noo bear.
‘Tap tap on th' shoulder, an‘ thae's th' bear! An‘ th' bear growls, an‘ says, T y' wan‘'t‘ live, y'll be giein' doon ae y'r nan's an‘ knees an' committin‘ a disgustin' sexual act ae m‘ bod'.
"An‘ th' hunter goes eech an‘ ech an' och, but th‘ bear's fangs ate braw, an' his claws are great. An‘ he goes doon ae his knees...
"Noo, when he gies back't‘ his camp, he's fill't wi' disgust. Wi‘ loathin'. He's aboot't‘ suicide. But first, he thinks, Ah'll hae th' skin ae thae bear!
"An‘ next mornin, he goes oot't' th‘ forest agin, an' pret‘ quick, he spots th‘ bear. An' its bompa-bompa-bompa, an‘ agin' th‘ bear goes doon.
"An‘ th' hunter goes clip-cloppin't‘ th' site, knowin‘ he hae th' revenge... but thae's no bear.
"Tap tap on th‘ shoulder... an' thae's bear! Loonrin't o'er him!
"An‘ th' bear says, T y‘ be wantin' y'r life, y'll be disrobin't, an‘ turnin't aroun', an‘ Ah'll be performin't a revoltin' sexual act wi‘ y'!‘
"An‘ yeesh an' bleah an‘ yargh, but th' bear's claws are braw, an‘ his teeth are great An' so th‘ hunter drops hi' trews...
"Thae's it. Thae's all. Th‘ hunter slink't back't' camp. He feels worsen‘ a Campbell. H's th' lowest ae th‘ low. Killin' himself i‘ th' best fate he c'd dream of.
"But firs‘... th' bear mus' die! Wi‘ oot fail, wi'oot question.
"An‘ so, th' next morn, just ae dawn, th‘ hunter's oot i' the woods. An‘ agin he sees th' bear. An‘ again he raises his rifle. An agin i's blastawayblastawayblastaway all. An' agin‘ th' bear goes doon.
"An‘ agin' th‘ hunter rushes oop.
"An‘ agin', thae's noo clottin‘ bear!
"But agin, thae's a tap tap on th‘ shoulder.
"An‘, knowin't whae he's aboot't' see, th‘ hunter turns aroun'. An‘ thae's th' bear!
"An‘ th' bear eyes him, an‘ says, 'Lad, y‘ dinnae coom f r th' huntin‘ noo did y'?1 "
Sten stared at Kilgour, who, after a space, smiled a gently benevolent smile.
"Right," Sten said.
He turned around.
"Rykor. From the abstract of my brainscan, could you help some engineers put together a synth on Project Bravo? A how-to-do-it on AM2?‘
"I could."
That's my first request We'll bring in some hotshot—maybe that woman reporter, Ranett, who used to give the Emperor the kolrobbies—and let her disseminate the information.
"I want that to go out on every livie, vid, and broadsheet possible.
"Second. Ask Otho to get the voyage tapes from my tacship. That should give a fair triangulation to the discontinuity and the Emperor's treasure.
"Put that out, too. Let anyone who wants AM2 know where to find it."
Rykor thrashed in her tank.
"Intellectually, I approve," she said. "And personally, caring for a single being named Sten, this is good. But considering its effect on the masses—"
"I can't think for them," Sten said. "I can barely take care of myself.
"All I can do is say... Here. Here's the AM2. Here's the keys to the kingdom. Every being can make himself a king, or a bloody despot. Let them make the universe as they like it. A paradise or a desert.
"That's not for me. I'm not going to play God. Not now. Not ever."
Sten thought he heard a murmur from all those beings, dead and alive, who had been in the chamber. Of agreement? Disappointment?
But they were gone. Gone forever.
Sten looked back at Alex.
"Do you think anybody'll grudge me the Victory!"
"Ah dinnae think so, lad. An‘ thae'll be clots like Otho'll be glad't' serve. Y'll hae't‘ beat 'em awa‘ wi' a blackthorne."
"Good. Now. I'll ask you again. About staying with me."
"Ah'll hae need ae a few weeks, boss. T‘ intr'duce twa lassies't' m‘ mum. An'‘t' hae th‘ banns posted, assumin't Ah'll be able't' coerce a wee pulpitbanger. C'n Ah hae a‘ month?"
Sten nodded.
Alex beamed. He went to the door where Rykor waited.
"Ah, lad. It'll be braw. It'l! be braw. Thae's entire galaxies thae dinnae ken aboot spotted snakes."
And he and Rykor were gone.
"You left me for last," Cind said.
"I did."
"Are you going to ask?"
"Surely. You got any conflicting plans for the next couple of centuries?"
Cind didn't answer.
She kissed him.
Then she took him by the hand... and they walked across the chamber to the door to the balcony. She opened it and they went out, into the clear, frost-chiming night.
Neither of them felt the cold.
They looked up and out, far and beyond, at the unknown stars that stretched on forever.
AN EXPLANATION, OF SORTS
The idea for Sten came to us a few years back. It was encouraged by the fact that, at the time, very few people were writing the kind of science fiction we grew up reading and appreciating—a situation that's changed for the better of late, we're delighted to observe.
But the main reason was out of general pissoff.
Science fiction, for some unknown reason, has always been overly enamored of social and political fascism, primarily because of ignorance, we suspect.
Our irk was best expressed by Damon Knight, in his classic collection of essays, In Search Of Wonder, when he was busily ripping the lips off of A.E. Van Vogt, Scientologist/Confusionaire Extraordinary: