The Emperor's triumphant return from death had thrilled his billions of subjects. Grand parades and public spectacles were staged for nearly two years. He was a hero beyond heroism.
But parades all have an end—usually in a back alley where the colorful bunting is revealed to be dull tatters. The thrill of victory soon turns to boredom with mundane daily life. Finally, the victory itself raises problem-solving to an impossible standard. Average beings become frustrated that their own personal problems persist.
They usually lay this to a gut belief that their leaders simply don't care. Socio-historians like to dodge this point. It's one of those basic truths that kick the pins from under their science. Which is why there's nothing a historian distrusts more than the truth.
To counter this political prime negative, the Emperor had to show success. In normal times, he could have pumped up the volume of any number of his efforts. Now, there was nothing but ruins and suffering all about him. To be sure, he had the Tahn war to blame for the ruins; suffering was laid to the excesses of the privy council.
Unfortunately both of those causes had become—in the words of that mythical pol, Lanslidejons'n—pretty old dogs to whup.
The Emperor didn't need excuses. He needed positive action.
When the Khaqan died he saw his opportunity. Here was an entire cluster in shambles. But it was a fixable shambles. Once it was repaired, the cluster would be portrayed as a mini portrait of his empire: Humans and ETs living and working happily together in the warm glow of Imperial benefice.
This is why he chose Dr. Iskra. The being had performed dully but well as a territorial governor. His books were politically correct, his passions tempered. And he surveyed well in the Altaic Cluster. When his name was added to a list of potential rulers, it was viewed favorably by all.
In the survey of Jochians, he came in first. With the Torks, he placed second—after Menynder. Just as he placed second after the favorite sons—an archaic political phrase, no longer implying gender or species—of the Bogazi and Suzdal.
Iskra seemed the safest of bets. The Emperor got into trouble by coppering that bet, then publicizing it Empire-wide.
Sten wasn't sent to the Altaics just because of his undisputed skills of turning ascorbic acid into a tasty, hot-weather drink. His accomplishments were so high-profile that his name guaranteed the attention of the media, hacks as well as pros.
Next, the Emperor launched a sophisticated, although purposely blunt, public relations campaign on Iskra's behalf.
There were thoughtful front-page think pieces planted in scholarly publications, discussing the plight of the citizens of the Altaic, pointing up the gulf between species in the past, and laying that division at the feet of the senile Khaqan. Praise was lavished on Professor Iskra in these pieces. There were frequent mentions of Iskra's abilities as a "healer of wounds."
The yellow press was fed the common touch. Iskra was portrayed as an intellect with a heart, a being sworn to live a Spartan existence as an example to his people. His dietary oddities were turned into sidebar recipes and columns on sure-fire ways to health and long life.
The PR clamor over Iskra was so loud that only a fool—and that fool a hermit—wouldn't know the Emperor's prestige was hung out to dry in the Altaics.
So when the bomb blew at the Imperial barracks on Rurik, more than the lives of the Emperor's troops were destroyed. His own plans were in danger of going up in the same smoke.
Sure, he had that big dog Mahoney waiting in the wings. But he couldn't unleash him yet. There was much political groundwork to prepare.
The Emperor needed a momentary, stopgap solution.
He acted swiftly. The solution was a news blackout.
Ranett was an old-fashioned see-for-herself newsbeing. She was also a legendary combat reporter who had covered the Tahn war from the front lines. She had kept her head low during the murderous years of the privy council. But she had kept on scribbling notes during those years. When the Emperor returned she had turned those notes into a stunning series of livie documentaries detailing the atrocities and stupidities of the privy council.
The last installment ran just as Iskra was assuming power in the Altaics. The broadcast was viewed by billions. It would be cynical to say that this was the reason the Eternal Emperor had insisted on personally thanking her in a tag to that final broadcast.
Ranett took this praise from on high in typical stride. When the vid camera shut off she turned to the Emperor and asked, "Your Majesty, what's with this clown, Iskra?"
The Emperor's smiling face went blank. He pretended he hadn't heard. His attention suddenly shifted to important matters of state. Before Ranett could repeat the question, the Emperor's front men had hustled him out the door.
So Ranett decided to learn the answer to the question herself. Her editor was not pleased.
"I got Altaic Cluster stories and Iskra beeswax comin' out my clottin' ears, Ranett. Who needs more? Besides, good news does not sell vid casts."
"I don't think it's all that good," Ranett answered. "Otherwise I wouldn't ask."
"That's a lotta drakh, Ranett. Anything happens in that cluster is good news. They been down so long, everything looks up to them. No, what we need is for you to go find some nice little war to cover. With lots of blood."
"If I go to the Altaics," Ranett said, "I think I'll find all the blood you want."
"Whatcha got besides reporter's instinct?"
Ranett just stared at her editor in eloquent silence. Then she shrugged, meaning: instinct was all she had, but it was by-god bankable instinct. The editor stared back at her. Hard. His silence was equally eloquent in this routine battle of the wills. Then he lifted an eyebrow, meaning: are you really, really sure? Ranett shrugged again.
The editor sighed. "You clottin' win. Go, already."
Ranett went low profile. She got a spare berth on a freighter bound for the Altaics. The only beings aware of her journey were her editor, the company clerk who made out the expense chits, and the freighter captain, a reliable drunk.
Ranett was one of those individuals who habitually find themselves in the right place at the right time. "I'm just lucky that way,'' she would tell her colleagues at the press club bar. They never believed it. They attributed her good work and fortune to "lies, bribes, and looks." Ranett didn't lie, would rather skip a story than grease a palm, and her looks were merely adequate.
Her luck struck again two E-days out of the Altaic Cluster, when she caught word of the disaster on Rurik. As she listened to the confused broadcasts on the ship's communicator, Ranett chortled. She would be the only major-league newsbeing in place to report on the incident and its certain nasty aftermath.
Ranett hustled off to her cabin to double up on her homework.
She had hauled along a big case of fiche on the cluster's dirty little history.
Eighteen E-hours out of Jochi, the captain came sober and shamefaced to her door. "Got some bad news, lady," he said. "We gotta go back."
Ranett pierced him with that look famous for buckling knees far sturdier than his. "Explain, please."
The captain shook his head. "I can't. Company veep wouldn't say why. Just said, do not deliver cargo to Jochi. And to get my butt back to Soward."
"So, forget the cargo,'' Ranett said. "You can still deliver me."
"No way, lady. Sorry."
"I'll pay extra. Double fare. Hell, I'll charter your whole damned ship!"
The captain sighed. This was wounding his mercenary soul. "I was ordered not to set down on Jochi. In any circumstances."
Ranett came to her feet. "You people have a contract with my company," she snapped. "And I expect it to be carried out—in full!"