The Best of Bova: Volume 1 (7 page)

The Emperor nodded but insisted, “She is going to see me. I owe her that much. An ancient ruler on Earth once said, ‘When you are going to kill a man, it costs nothing to be polite about it.’ She is not a man, of course, but I fear that our decision will kill her soul.”

They looked unconvinced.

Very well then,
the Emperor said to them silently.
Put it down as the whim of an old man .
. .
a man who is feeling all his years
. . .
a man who will never recapture his youth.

* V *

She is only a child.

The Emperor studied Adela de Montgarde as the young astrophysicist made her way through the guards and secretaries and halls and antechambers toward his own private chambers. He had prepared to meet her in his reception room, changed his mind and moved the meeting to his office, then changed it again and now waited for her in his study. She knew nothing of his indecision, she merely followed the directions given her by the computer-informed staff of the palace.

The study was a warm old room, lined with shelves of private tapes that the Emperor had collected over the years. A stone fireplace big enough to walk into spanned one wall; its flames soaked the Emperor in lifegiving warmth. The opposite wall was a single broad window that looked out on the real forest beyond the palace walls. The window could also serve as a hologram frame; the Emperor could have any scene he wanted projected from it.

Best to have reality this evening,
he told himself.
There is too little reality in my life these days.
So he eased back in his powerchair and watched his approaching visitor on the viewscreen above the fireplace of the richly carpeted, comfortably paneled old room.

He had carefully absorbed all the computer’s information about Adela de Montgarde: born of a noble family on Gris, a frontier world whose settlers were slowly, painfully transforming it from a ball of rock into a viable habitat for human life. He knew her face, her life history, her scientific accomplishments and rank. But now, as he watched her approaching on the viewscreen built into the stone fireplace, he realized how little knowledge had accompanied the computer’s detailed information.

The door to the study swung open automatically, and she stood uncertainly, framed in the doorway.

The Emperor swiveled his powerchair around to face her. The view screen immediately faded and became indistinguishable from the other stones.

“Come in, come in, Dr. Montgarde.”

She was tiny, the smallest woman the Emperor remembered seeing. Her face was almost elfin, with large curious eyes that looked as if they had known laughter. She wore a metallic tunic buttoned to the throat, and a brief skirt. Her figure was childlike.

The Emperor smiled to himself.
She certainly won’t tempt me with her body.

As she stepped hesitantly into the study, her eyes darting all around the room, he said:

“I am sure that my aides have filled your head with all sorts of nonsense about protocol—when to stand, when to bow, what forms of address to use. Forget all of it. This is an informal meeting, common politeness will suffice. If you need a form of address for me, call me Sire. I shall call you Adela, if you don’t mind.”

With a slow nod of her head she answered, “Thank you, Sire. That will be fine.” Her voice was so soft that he could barely hear it. He thought he detected a slight waver in it.

She’s not going to make this easy for me,
he said to himself. Then he noticed the stone that she wore on a slim silver chain about her neck.

“Agate,” he said.

She fingered the stone reflexively. “Yes. It’s from my homeworld . . . Gris. Our planet is rich in minerals.”

“And poor in cultivable land.”

“Yes. But we are converting more land every year.”

“Please sit down.” the Emperor said. “I’m afraid it’s been so long since my old legs have tried to stand in a full gravity that I’m forced to remain in this power chair or lower the gravitational field in this room. But the computer files said that you are not accustomed to low-g fields.”

She glanced around the warm, richly furnished room.

“Any seat you like. My chair rides like a magic carpet.”

Adela picked the biggest couch in the room and tucked herself into a corner of it. The Emperor glided his chair over to her.

“It’s very kind of you to keep the gravity up for me,” she said.

He shrugged. “It costs nothing to be polite. But tell me, of all the minerals that Gris is famous for, why did you choose to wear agate?”

She blushed.

The Emperor laughed. “Come, come, my dear. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s well known that agate is a magical stone that protects the wearer from scorpions and snakes. An ancient superstition, of course, but it could possibly be significant, eh?”

“No . . . it’s not that!”

“Then what is it?”

“It . . . agate also makes the wearer eloquent in speech.”

“And a favorite of princes,” added the Emperor.

Her blush had gone. She sat straighter and almost smiled. “And it gives one victory over her enemies.”

“You perceive me as your enemy?”

“Oh no!” She reached out toward him, her small, childlike hand almost touching his.

“Who then?”

“The hierarchy . . . the old men who pretend to be young and refuse to admit any new ideas into the scientific community.”

“I am an old man.” the Emperor said.

“Yes.” She stared frankly at his aged face. “I was surprised when I saw you a few moments ago. I have seen holographic pictures, of course . . . but you . . . you’ve
aged.”

“Indeed.”

“Why can’t you be rejuvenated? It seems like a useless old superstition to keep the Emperor from using modern biomedical techniques.”

“No, no, my child, it is a very wise tradition. You complain of the inflexible old men at the top of the scientific hierarchy. Suppose you had an inflexible old man in the Emperor’s throne? A man who would live not merely six or seven score of years, but many centuries? What would happen to the Empire then?”

“Ohh. I see.” And there was real understanding and sympathy in her eyes.

“So the king must die, to make room for new blood, new ideas, new vigor.”

“It’s sad,” she said. “You are known everywhere as a good Emperor. The people love you.”

He felt his eyebrows rise. “Even on the frontier worlds?”

“Yes. They know that Fain and his troops would be standing on our necks if it weren’t for the Emperor. We are not without our sources of information.”

He smiled. “Interesting.”

“But that is not why you called me here to see you,” Adela said.

She grows bolder.
“True. You want to save Earth’s Sun. Bomeer and all my advisors tell me that it is either impossible or foolish. I fear that they have powerful arguments on their side.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But I have the facts.”

“I have seen your presentation. I understand the scientific basis of your plan.”

“We can do it!” Adela said, her hands suddenly animated. “We can! The critical mass is really minuscule compared to—”

“Megatons are miniscule?”

“Compared to the effect it will produce. Yes.”

And then she was on her feet, pacing the room, ticking off points on her fingers, lecturing, pleading, cajoling. The Emperor’s powerchair nodded back and forth, following her intense, wiry form as she paced.

“Of course it will take vast resources! And time—more than a century before we know to a first-order approximation that the initial steps are working. I’ll have to give myself up to cryosleep for decades at a time. But we
have
the resources! And we have the time . . . just barely. We can do it. if we want to.”

The Emperor said, “How can you expect me to divert half the resources of the Empire to save Earth’s Sun?”

“Because Earth is
important,”
she argued back, a tiny fighter standing alone in the middle of the Emperor’s study. “It’s the baseline for all the other worlds of the Empire. On Gris we send biogenetic teams to Earth every five years to check our own mutation rate. The cost is enormous for us, but we do it. We have to.”

“We can move Earth’s population to another G-type star. There are plenty of them.”

“It won’t be the same.”

“Adela, my dear, believe me, I would like to help. I know how important Earth is. But we simply cannot afford to try your scheme now. Perhaps in another hundred years or so.”

“That will be too late.”

“But new scientific advances . . .”

“Under Bomeer and his ilk? Hah!”

The Emperor wanted to frown at her, but somehow his face would not compose itself properly. “You are a fierce, uncompromising woman,” he said.

She came to him and dropped to her knees at his feet. “No, Sire. I’m not. I’m foolish and vain and utterly self-centered. I want to save Earth because I know I can do it. I can’t stand the thought of living the rest of my life knowing that I could have done it, but never having had the chance to try.”

Now we’re getting at the truth,
the Emperor thought.

“And someday, maybe a million years from now, maybe a billion, Gris’ sun will become unstable. I want to be able to save Gris, too. And any other world whose star threatens it. I want all the Empire to know that Adela de Montgarde discovered the way to do it!”

The Emperor felt his breath rush out of him.

“Sire,” she went on, “I’m sorry if I’m speaking impolitely or stupidly. It’s just that I know we can do this thing, do it successfully, and you’re the only one who can make it happen.”

But he was barely listening. “Come with me,” he said, reaching out to grasp her slim wrists and raising her to her feet. “It’s time for the evening meal. I want you to meet my son.”

* VI *

Javas put on his usual amused smile when the Emperor introduced Adela.
Will nothing ever reach under his everlasting facade of polite boredom?
Rihana, at least, was properly furious. He could see the anger in her face: A virtual barbarian from some frontier planet. Daughter of a petty noble. Practically a commoner. Dining with them!

“Such a young child to have such grandiose schemes,” the Princess said when she realized who Adela was.

“Surely,” said the Emperor, “you had grandiose schemes of your own when you were young, Rihana. Of course, they involved lineages and marriages rather than astrophysics, didn’t they?”

None of them smiled.

The Emperor had ordered dinner out on the terrace, under the glowing night sky of the Imperial Planet. Rihana, who was responsible for household affairs, always had sumptuous meals spread for them: the best meats and fowl and fruits of a dozen prime worlds. Adela looked bewildered by the array placed in front of her by the human servants. Such riches were obviously new to her. The Emperor ate sparingly and watched them all.

Inevitably the conversation returned to Adela’s plan to save Earth’s Sun. And Adela, subdued and timid at first, slowly turned tigress once again. She met Rihana’s scorn with coldly furious logic. She countered Javas’ skepticism with: “Of course, since it will take more than a century before the outcome of the project is proven, you will probably be the Emperor who is remembered by all the human race as the one who saved the Earth.”

Javas’ eyes widened slightly.
That hit home,
the Emperor noticed.
For once something affected the boy. This girl should be kept at the palace.

But Rihana snapped, “Why should the Crown Prince care about saving Earth? His brother was murdered by an Earthman.”

The Emperor felt his blood turn to ice.

Adela looked panic-stricken. She turned to the Emperor, wide-eyed, open-mouthed.

“My eldest son died on Earth. My second son was killed putting down a rebellion on a frontier world, many years ago. My third son died of a viral infection that
some
tell me,” he stared at Rihana, “was assassination. Death is a constant companion in every royal house.”

“Three sons.” Adela seemed ready to burst into tears.

“I have not punished Earth, nor that frontier world, nor sought to find a possible assassin,” the Emperor went on, icily. “My only hope is that my last remaining son will make a good Emperor, despite his . . . handicaps.”

Javas turned very deliberately in his chair to stare out at the dark forest. He seemed bored by the antagonism between his wife and his father. Rihana glowered like molten steel.

The dinner ended in dismal, bitter silence. The Emperor sent them all away to their rooms while he remained on the terrace and stared hard at the stars strewn across the sky so thickly that there could be no darkness.

He closed his eyes and summoned a computer-assisted image of Earth’s Sun. He saw it coalesce from a hazy cloud of cold gas and dust, saw it turn into a star and spawn planets. Saw it beaming out energy that allowed life to grow and flourish on one of those planets. And then saw it age, blemish, erupt, swell, and finally collapse into a dark cinder.

Just as I will,
thought the Emperor.
The Sun and I have both reached the age where a bit of rejuvenation is needed. Otherwise
. . .
death.

He opened his eyes and looked down at his veined, fleshless, knobby hands.
How different from hers! How young and vital she is.

With a touch on one of the control studs set into the arm of his powerchair, he headed for his bedroom.

I cannot be rejuvenated. It is wrong even to desire
it.
But the Sun? Would
it
be wrong to try? Is it proper for puny men to tamper with the destinies of the stars themselves?

Once in his tower-top bedroom he called for her. Adela came to him quickly, without delay or question. She wore a simple knee-length gown tied loosely at the waist. It hung limply over her boyish figure.

“You sent for me, Sire.” It was not a question but a statement. The Emperor knew her meaning:
I will do what you ask, but in return I expect you to give me what I desire.

He was already reclining in the soft embrace of his bed. The texture of the monolayer surface felt soft and protective. The warmth of the water beneath it eased his tired body.