The road running by this house was paved with soft dirt; it became very muddy any time it rained. Now, as the night grew longer, it began raining even harder. The wind had kicked up as well; it was coming right off the cliff, the direction of trouble. Thunder was rumbling again, and lightning was crackling high above the pines.
It was not a good night to be out.
Sitting by the light of many candles was the owner of the small cliff house, Petz Calandrx. He was a short, late-middle-aged man, nearly 223 years old. He had long white hair, a recent beard, and a slightly burned leathery face, the signature of a veteran Starfighter pilot. He'd been living in Chesterwest for many, many years.
Calandrx was an official Hero of the Empire, an accolade given but once a century. He was famous for two reasons. In his first century he was an acclaimed space pilot who took part in dozens of famous campaigns out on the Fringe. Then, returning home after an illustrious career, he won the Earth Race, the most prestigious aerial contest in the Galaxy. That made Calandrx super-duper famous, so much so, that by Imperial decree he was forbidden from ever flying in space again, lest he die in some accident and the Galaxy unnecessarily lose its hero. Calandrx was a victim of his own celebrity, and it killed him a little bit each day. He'd become so famous, he'd been forced to give up the thing he loved the most.
He spent most of his days reading now. Nearly every room in his house was filled with holographic recreations of what used to be called books. His favorites were rare texts from the Second Empire. Calandrx loved the classic rebel poets of that epoch; he was an authority on the military history of the era as well, what little of it there was. Calandrx had spent much of the last two decades poring over these texts, always by candlelight, looking for clues as to why the Second Empire, supposedly the greatest of the four, fell so quickly. Next to flying, this pursuit had become the passion of his life.
That's what he was doing this stormy night: reading the middle verses of the classic Second Empire poem, "The Last Battle for the Center of the Galaxy." He'd just completed the two hundred sixteenth stanza when a knock came on his door. It was a strange tapping. Uncertain, yet sharp, as if the person responsible had been dreading this moment for a long time and now that it was happening, some false forcefulness had set in.
Either that or it was that crazy robot who lived down the road, the one who was always trying to get Calandrx to drink oil with him.
Calandrx laid the book aside and walked over to the door. He glanced up at the small slit window above its top sill. People who flew in space these days, especially those in vessels powered by the Big Generator, returned to Earth emitting a faint greenish glow. This was the signature of traveling in Supertime. But there was no glow above his door now. Whoever was on the other side had been earthbound for a while.
Must be someone from the city, Calandrx thought. Or that nutty robot.
He opened the door to find a man wearing a long, black cape with a floppy black hat pulled down over his eyes. Calandrx could not see the man's face or his hands, usually not a good sign. But his immediate sense was that the man was not holding a gun. Outside, the thunder and lightning storm raged on.
"Are you lost, my brother?" Calandrx asked him.
"No, I am not," the man replied. "Though this is just the night for such a thing."
He lifted his hat a bit. "I come in peace," he said, finally displaying his hands to show he was not holding any weapons.
Calandrx was nearly two and a quarter centuries old; by now he could tell an honest man at first sight. This man was honest, or at least part of him was.
"Come in, my brother," Calandrx finally said.
The man gratefully stepped out of the rain.
That's when Calandrx took a deep sniff and realized the man was an imperial spy. The smell of water on his cape gave him away. It was an odor Calandrx was familiar with. Back when he was a space fighter pilot, he'd been in countless preattack meetings, and inevitably a spy would pop in, always coming out of the rain somewhere and usually bearing pressing news about the battle soon to commence. All imperial spies wore the same type of cape: thick, black velveeta, by the commonly used ancient word. This material had a very distinct, earthy smell, especially when wet. Therefore, so did the spies.
"And why is a spook here to see me?" Calandrx asked him; he was known for his direct approach.
The stranger seemed not surprised that Calandrx had pegged his occupation.
"I figured an old soldier like you would know who I was— or perhaps more accurately, what 1 was," he said. "The truth is, I am more a messenger than a spook this stormy night."
"And what message do you bear?"
The spy took a breath. "You are wanted down in the city— immediately."
Calandrx's eyes brightened at once. He didn't get down to Big Bright City much anymore. But when he did, it was usually for an occasion that was honoring him in some fashion — a dinner, a testimonial, an awards ceremony. This always meant good food, good wine, plenty of women, and more accolades than he could digest. It was not an unpleasant way to spend an evening.
But the spy could read his thoughts.
"This is not another fete for you," he told him frankly. "It does not appear that it will festive at all."
Calandrx stared back at him. This was a bit worrisome.
"Who is asking that I appear then? And why?"
The man shrugged. "A member of the Imperial Family has made the request. That's all I can say. And as you know, these things can not be refused."
Flash!
More than two billion people lived in Big Bright City.
The imperial capital of the Fourth Empire boasted millions of structures, including many superskyscrapers and spaceports, interlaced with miles of hovering roadways, air-car tubes, people movers, and canals. The sprawling city was so big, it took up nearly 10 percent of the hemisphere's northeast quadrant. Its total power consumption was equal to that of a large planet.
At ground level, the place was packed with housing units, military barracks, imperial offices, sports clubs, nightclubs, dance clubs, sex clubs, casinos, bars, arenas, weapons shops, and dis-tilleries. There was some kind of flag or banner draped from almost every one of these establishments, proclaiming the greatness of the Fourth Empire. Thousands of monuments to the Emperor could be found all over the city, too, usually jammed in between the enormous, skyward-pointing power towers. And then there were the lights. They were everywhere. All colors, all shades and tones, burning brightly, day or night, creating a garish neon glow that practically guaranteed no one in Big Bright City ever went to sleep. Not that anyone would want to.
Cruising above the immense metropolis was the floating city known as Special Number One.
It looked like a huge castle in the sky: high walls, hundreds of ornate buildings, spacious courtyards, a labyrinth of streets and back alleys, it was ten square miles in all. There were multiple spires rising from the clutter of these palatial buildings; each tower glowed with a different iridescent color. Long, sloping passageways crisscrossed these spires like lattice work. In the tallest, there were ornamental zaser beams so bright, they could be seen clear beyond the solar system.