The Wolf Worlds (29 page)

Embarrassingly thorough and detailed, the fiche was one of the reasons why the Emperor had survived—by his personal estimate—more than 160 assassination attempts, only three of which had been successful.

It was, of course, one of Sanctus' few sunny days. On an island continent, this also meant it was muggy enough to swim in.

The assembled hierarchy of the Church of Talamein. who'd been standing on the reviewing stand in their full formal robes since an hour before dawn, collectively and silently wished for a good dense fog or perhaps even a snowstorm.

The Emperor—by deliberate policy—was keeping them waiting.

The worthies stood on the kilometers-square landing ground, with ranked Companions in their full-dress uniforms around them. Across the field, behind guarded perimeters, were those lucky citizens of Sanctus permitted to view the first Imperial visit to Sanctus. Or, for that matter, to the Lupus Cluster.

Mathias and his father stood side by side, sweating ignobly.

Neither of them found any reason to talk to the other.

And then the crowd murmured as, high overhead, five specks materialized and hurtled toward the field.

The specks grew larger and became cruisers. The crowd began to cheer—the cruisers were the Emperor's advance guard. The ships sonic-crashed to a halt a thousand meters above the field, then sank slowly, one to each corner of the landing ground and the fifth directly opposite the reviewing stand.

Landing ramps slid out, and uniformed troops double-timed down them, drawing up into line formation across the field. They were Guardsmen, and their locked-and-loaded willyguns were at the ready.

From the fifth ship two other formations ran down the ramp toward the reviewing stand. All of them were in the fairly plain brown livery of the Imperial household. And all of them were former Guards, Mercury Corps, or Mantis operatives.

Swiftly, without worrying about anyone's dignity, they checked the Companions' weapons to make sure they were, indeed, unloaded.

Another squad, murmuring apologies, came onto the reviewing stand and ran mass-detectors over the dignitaries.

Theodomir was humiliated. One plainclothesman even had the temerity to confiscate the tiny flask of wine that Theodomir had in an inner pocket as an emergency resource.

Then the head of security took a small com unit from his belt and keyed it. Spoke in an unintelligible code. He listened, shut the com unit down, and turned to Theodomir. He bowed deeply.

"You will prepare to receive the presence of the Eternal Emperor, Lord of a Thousand Suns."

And Theodomir, reluctantly—he was the anointed Prophet of the Faith of Talamein!—found himself bowing back in awe.

"Colonel," the Emperor asked, a trifle plaintively, "would—a single drink matter to these clots?"

"Nossir," Mahoney said—but made no move to the decanter in the dressing room.

Neither did the Emperor.

"One of these eons," the Emperor continued, "I shall come reeling down that ramp, declare in a high falsetto that this bridge is now open, and proceed to circumcise the first dignitary I see with the ribbon-cutting scissors. Then I will vomit over the rest of whatever noble thieves are greeting me."

"No question at all," Mahoney agreed blandly. "Excellent idea."

"Oh. One thing. Your operative, this—"

"Sten."

"Sten. Yes. He and his mercenaries have been instructed?"

"They're out of sight, sir. You won't see any of them."

"There were no problems?"

"None at all. Theodomir is embarrassed by them, and a good percentage of the mercenaries are deserters from the Guard.

Also, since when did a soldier like to stand at attention until he passes out?"

"Colonel," the Emperor said, checking for the nineteenth time whether the button-line on his midnight-black tunic was even,

"you know about psychology and all that. Why do I still get nervous doing this kind of thing—after a thousand years?"

"It's your constant youthfulness," Mahoney said. "Your charming naivete. The awareness that makes all of us love and serve your Eternal Worryship."

"Bah," the Emperor growled, and touched a button. "Captain.

Land this bucket. I'm getting tired of waiting."

The five battleships, each nearly a kilometer in length, hissed down toward the field, and their black shadows merged and blocked Sanctus' sun.

Four of them hung a hundred meters overhead, but the fifth, the
Vercingatorix
, dropped to ground gently on the landing field. And then, following orders, its captain cut the McLean generators and the ship proceeded to sink twenty meters into the field itself. It was the Emperor's own way of autographing a world.

The side of the ship dropped open and became a twenty-meter-wide ramp.

Theodomir waved wildly, and his band began playing. Twenty bars into the song, the band broke off, as no one had yet appeared at the ramp's top. Just as the band squealed and ground to a halt, the Emperor walked down the ramp. Three beats after him, two Gurkha units came down behind him. As the small brown men spread out to either side, the Emperor walked toward the reviewing stand.

The Emperor gives good ceremony, Mahoney thought to himself, watching the solitary man walk toward Theodomir's stand. Two turrets on the
Vercingatorix
swiveled to cover the stand itself.

The Emperor stopped in front of the stand and waited.

And the hierarchy of Talamein dropped to its knees. Even Theodomir, recognizing he was committing some enormous breach, went down.

Only Mathias stayed on his feet, eyeing the muscular man standing below him.

The Emperor keyed his larnyx-mike and, on the
Vercingatorix
, techs found the symp-frequency of the landing field's speakers and patched the Emperor to them.

"I greet you, O Prophet," the voice echoed and reechoed across the field. "As your Emperor, I welcome you and your people back into the fold of Imperial protection. And, as your Emperor, I recognize the heroism and truth of your beliefs and the long martyrdom of your founder, the Original Prophet Talamein."

Then the Emperor flipped his mike back off and started up the steps to the stand, wondering how long he could make these fools sweat in the sun before he had to let them move on to the next, totally predictable stage of the ceremony.

"And this," Theodomir said proudly, "is a replica of the very gun station Talamein himself manned on the Flight for Freedom."

Mathias, the Emperor, and Theodomir were deep in the heart of Sanctus' inner fastness, touring the treasures of the faith.

The Emperor was preceded by plainclothes security men to each station, plus leap-frogging squads of Gurkhas. Behind them by about forty meters was an awestruck draggle of dignitaries and Companions.

"You know," the Emperor said conversationally, "I knew Talamein. Personally."

Theodomir blinked and Mathias now felt an urge to kneel.

The Emperor smiled at their confusion.

"I found him… interesting," the Emperor continued.

"Certainly it was unusual to find so much dedication in a man so youthful."

Mathias blinked—the only holos he'd seen of Talamein showed him as an elderly, bearded man. He was not sure which was the greater shock—to realize that, indeed, Talamein had walked the face of the Galaxy as a man, or that the soft-spoken man across from him had actually spoken to the First Prophet.

Far behind the group there was a stir as one Companion heard the echoed words of the Emperor, gasped "heresy," and scrabbled for his weapon, momentarily forgetting it was deactivated.

Before his hand touched the holster snap, the razor steel of a Gurkha kukri was at his throat, and he heard a soft hiss:

"Remove your hand, unbeliever. Instantly."

The Companion did just that, and the young havildar-major smiled politely, bowed a bit, and resheathed his long knife.

The Emperor chose to make his announcement after the services, on the broad steps of the inner fortress itself. This time his speech was recorded and patched into a cluster-wide broadcast.

"I have visited Sanctus," he said. "And I have seen the fruits of Talamein and found them worthy of belonging to my Empire.

"I further have known and listened to this man, your prophet Theodomir, and find him both good and wise.

"For this reason, I declare that the hand of the Emperor is extended over the Lupus Cluster and its people, and shall assist in whatever means requested.

"And I declare that this Prophet, Theodomir, is the legitimate ruler of the Lupus Cluster and that he and his descendants, until I choose to withdraw the hand of support from over their heads, are the legitimate rulers of this region.

"May the powers of the universe and the First Prophet Talamein bless and approve this decision."

And then there was mass cheering and hysteria and the Emperor wanted more than anything else to get back to the ship, shed his robes and have several—no, many—drinks.

But he couldn't. Now the banqueting would start.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

MAHONEY COUNTED TOMBS as he crept down the Avenue of Monuments. He found the specified crypt and waited. No sign of being followed. No one waiting for him. He came to a crouch and moved into the blackness of the crypt entrance.

"Colonel," Sten's voice came out of the darkness, "I think we might have a problem."

"GA," Mahoney said flatly.

"No hard data."

"I said report."

"Feelings, rumors. There's talk of a holy war. It's nothing I can pin down."

Mahoney was somewhat grateful for the darkness. Sudden shock is not the appropriate reaction to display before one's underlings.

"Theodomir?"

Sten shrugged.

"How?" Mahoney asked. "He's an alky. Corrupt. No drive."

"I know," Sten said. "It doesn't make sense.

"How about Mathias?"

"It's possible," Sten said. "Look, I told you it was just talk.

Still, it bothers me. I just wish you would have given it more time to settle out."

Mahoney considered a moment, and then nodded. "You did ask for more time," he said.

Sten didn't say anything.

"You were right, lad. We should have waited for the situation to settle out further. I cannot tell you why, but there was no time."

"All right," he continued wearily. "You're the man on the spot, Lieutenant. Prog?"

Sten Fingered the lump in his arm that was the knife and thought hard. "Damfino," he said frankly. "But I'd better find some way to keep my mercs together for a while. All I can think of is to hang tough in the situation.

"You realize what might happen in a worst-case scenario—

aside from a half-million slaughtered miners, full-out war in the Lupus Cluster, armed prophets spreading through the Universe, and full committment by the Guard—don't you? I mean to you and me, lad, to mention the important things."

"I go to a duty battalion and you go to a field command."

"Wrong. We both will be swinging pulaskis on some swampworld. You as a private and me as a sergeant," Mahoney said. "That's providing, of course, the Eternal Emperor doesn't use our guts for our winding sheets.

"At this stage of the game, though, I guess your prog's right.

Hopefully, if the worst comes down, you and your troops can figure a way to shortstop the problem. But I doubt it."

He shook his head sadly and started out of the crypt.

"Colonel?"

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"A favor. Actually, two of them?"

Mahoney stopped dead. Lieutenants do not ask personal favors of their commanding officers, not even in Mantis Section.

But lieutenants also normally lacked the temerity to tell their commanding officer his battle plan was full of drakh.

"What?"

"I had a man serving with me. A Private William Kurshayne.

He died during that last raid on the Jann."

"Go on," Mahoney said.

"He was ex-Guard. First Assault. I'd like him reinstated posthumously. And a medal wouldn't hurt, either. If he's got any people it might make them feel better."

Mahoney didn't ask if it was deserved. Still, he shook his head.

"How do I find his records, Lieutenant? Do you know how many Kurshayne's we must've had in the guard?"