The Return of the Emperor (27 page)

"Hang on a sec, boss," the newscaster said. "You sure you wanna say perfidy? I mean, callin' the butt-wipe a lyin' sack might be going too far. But—I don't know. The word's kinda thick. Might make folks think you're stuck up."

"No problem," Kenna answered. "Fix it any way you like. I trust your professional judgment."

"Second question, what do we call these guys?" the newscaster asked. "We don't wanna say they're mutineers, right? I mean, that's not the drift of this bit, is it?"

"Absolutely not," Solon Kenna said. "What we have here is an injustice of enormous proportions."

Before he could continue, there was a cheer from the dockworkers as the main cargo port of the freighter creaked open and the ragged crew members stepped out.

Raschid kept to the sidelines, watching with oddly professional interest as the events unfolded. Pitcairn proved to be a great interview subject. The other mutineers took their hints from her and Raschid thought they all did a credible job. But the illicit cargo would have won the day, regardless. Kenna handled it like a seasoned pro. His expression shifted from sadness, to anger, to outrage at the greed of Tyrenne Yelad, expending dwindling AM2 credits for luxury items while his own people starved.

Not bad, Raschid thought. Although the guy had an unfortunate habit of tossing off fancy words when they weren't called for. It didn't matter that he misused them. The people he was aiming them at wouldn't know. They would possibly take offense only because he might be coming across too pompous. Still, he was mostly getting in all his shots.

Once again he puzzled at why he knew so much about this sort of thing. But he pressed the question away, along with that odd feeling he had of being watched by something or someone just out of view.

He saw Pitcairn pointing in his direction. Kenna looked over and smiled a big wolfish grin. Raschid did not know what that meant, but he would soon find out. Solon Kenna was motioning the livie crew to keep back and was coming his way. Raschid decided to stay put and play the cards as they were dealt.

Kenna planted himself in front of Raschid, lighting half the dock with his grin.

"How you doing, friend?" he said. "I'm Solon Kenna. The humble representative of these poor working beings."

Then as Raschid took his hand to shake, Kenna leaned closer and whispered. "I got word you were coming," he said. "We need to talk—later."

Raschid hesitated, then nodded. "You're right," he said. "We need to talk."

The Cairene System was a dozen or so lightly populated agro-worlds and the big, dense port planet of Dusable. This is where the late Tanz Sullamora had made his second fortune—in shipbuilding. The factories, which had groaned under triple shifts during the war, were now desolate. The AM2 crisis had struck nearly every part of Dusable.

That would be bad for any planet. But on Dusable, it was disaster. Because the Cairene System was a political throwback. On Dusable there was really only one industry: politics. There was barely a being on the planet who did not owe his or her existence to patronage, from pot scourer, to sewer worker, to cop, to business owner, to joygirl, to ward boss, to the Tyrenne Yelad himself.

It was an unwieldy system, and corrupt to the core, but it had worked for centuries, and worked very well, For thirty years Tyrenne Yelad had ruled. His patronage was so vast there was little hope he would ever be defeated. Still, just because he won with ease every four years did not mean that his opponents were in any way helpless.

There were checks and balances in this system. No matter that they were equally as corrupt. Under the Tyrenne was the Council of Solons. Each member ran a group of wards, whose voters he rewarded with jobs, advice, and influence. A perfect Solon made sure no one went without. If one had trouble with the grocery money, one went to the ward captain. Same for a spouse with a brutal or drunken other. Paid hospital stays were assured. Fines were leavened, or even dismissed.

Bribe money flowed in and out of all this. Joygirls paid their pimps, who paid the cops. The cops themselves paid for prized beats such as vice, or traffic in the rich resort areas. They also paid for rank, which placed them higher on the mordida ladder. Mob bosses paid both ways: cops on one end, pols on the other. And all those people paid the ward captains—who, in turn, poured all the credits into the coffers of the Solon controlling their district.

The Solons, in turn, shared the mordida with the key leaders who actually ran the whole thing. Tyrenne Yelad was a good example of one such leader. He had come to power as a reformer, as had the Tyrenne before him. This election, the new hopeful reformer was Solon Kenna, president of the Council of Solons and Yelad's worst enemy. Kenna's power came from the unions, particularly the SDT, which was why, after three tries and three defeats, Kenna was convinced that this year was his best chance. The hordes of unemployed beings had put big brass knuckles on his fists. He had been slugging it out with Yelad for more than six months. But now, two weeks before the election, he had not been able to deliver a knockout. If he couldn't, Kenna's long run was over—unless there was a miracle. He was hoping that Raschid was that miracle. The more they talked, the surer he became.

At one point Raschid had quizzed him about the credit situation. How full were Kenna's campaign coffers? Kenna said he had sufficient. Raschid shook his head and advised him to get more, much more. Kenna asked why.

"Unruh's First Law," Raschid said. "Money is the mother's milk of politics."

The answer spoke volumes. This man was no dry political-science scholar. Kenna had seen too many elections lost with that type. Raschid was obviously an expert street politician who knew how to play the game from the top right down to the gutter.

Kenna found it easy to be candid with Raschid, because… he
knew
, dammit. The guy
knew
! The next question, however, threw him into temporary orbit.

"Why are you telling me all this?" Raschid asked. "What do you expect me to do about it? I'm just a ship's cook. A mutinous one in some lights."

"Come on," Kanna sputtered. "You can drop that. You're among friends, here. Besides, I've already been filled in. I knew you were on your way."

"Who told you?" Raschid asked.

Kenna figured it was a try on—so he bit. "It wasn't anyone I could name right out," he said. "You know that as well as I do. I got it from… back channels. We were advised the
Santana
was inbound. With a cargo I'd be a fool not to inspect. More importantly, I was told there would be a man on board posing as the ship's cook. And that he was the absolute best there was in political strategy.

"I can't tell you how we all reacted here. To know that some very important outsiders were with us. And that rescue was on its way."

Raschid considered. For some reason, it all made sense to him. Although he wondered why those outsiders had not informed him as well. He buried that. It was another test, maybe the final one.

"Okay," Raschid said. "You got your boy. I'm on board."

Kenna breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

"Who else is in the race?" Raschid asked.

"Only one other," Kenna said. "Solon Walsh. And he doesn't have a chance. Although the guy's as hand-some a pol as has come along for three forevers. But he's young. And he's stupid."

"What's his bit?"

"Reform," Kenna said dryly. "He's trying to steal the march from me, I guess. Because that's my main platform. Walsh can't seem to get any ideas of his own."

"He's probably got Yelad behind him," Raschid said. "But real quiet. Walsh is intended to bleed off support from you."

Kenna was startled, then comforted again. It was just the way he had seen it.

"All right… here's how we go," Raschid said. "We need three things.

"First, we need a Dummy. Second, an Issue."

He took a long swallow from the brandy glass Kenna had been constantly filling since the meeting began.

"What's the third?" Kenna asked.

"Easy," Raschid said. "Then we steal the election."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

T
he tiny and the meek may never inherit the earth—but they can sometimes rock it worse than the most catastrophic earthquake.

Napoleon's hemorrhoids. He'd slept poorly the night before a battle, and napped the next day. Twenty-five thousand of his soldiers died, and he was no longer an Emperor.

Three woman cipher clerks conspired. The secrets of Earth's Third Reich were revealed. At least ten million Germans died.

And Zoran mentioned, with giggles, what one of her "frantic minds" had reported. There was a new shrine, she said, shaking her head at the credulity of some of her followers. Not a mountaintop where the Eternal Emperor had appeared to the faithful, nor a large pile of crutches, abandoned after he had worked miracles.

"Loaves and fishes"—giggle—"might be the comparison," she said. Kyes was blank. "Oh. My apologies," she said. "There was an ancient cult on Earth. Called Christers. That was one of their miracles.

"My frantic mind has less than that.

"Eggs"—large giggle—"for pity's sakes. Not millions of them, and not used to feed the starving. But sold."

There was a small spaceport restaurant, on a world called Yongjukl. "I could not find it in my atlas, but I suppose it is out there somewhere." According to Zoran's acolyte, it served food exactly like that the Eternal Emperor favored. Using his exact recipes, "Or at least."

Zoran added, "those that were reported before the Eternal One chose to absent himself for a period.

"A minor… fetish"—giggle—"of ours? I have cooked and enjoyed some of those recipes myself."

Kyes interest was sparked—the Eternal Emperor, indeed, fancied himself a gourmet chef. But if Zoran had cooked some of his recipes… that did not compute. Had to be a restaurateur with a new gimmick.

Ah, but no, Zoran continued. These recipes had been taught to the owner by a mysterious chef who had appeared, worked for a few periods, then disappeared.

"My frantic one takes this as a precursor. Of course, he swears the descriptions of this mysterious man in the white apron are exactly what you would expect a man seeking miracles to say. Oh, well. When the Emperor does choose to return from his time with the Holy Spheres, I question whether it would be in a greasy spoon."

Kyes was in contact with Yongjukl. He ordered its most skilled and subtle psychologists to talk to the cult member—and to any other customers of that restaurant who might have seen the cook.

The descriptions varied, of course, but overall they fit the Eternal Emperor exactly. Kyes had the restaurant's owner questioned.

The owner refused to cooperate. Instead, he threw the investigators out of his dive—named, Kyes noted, the Last Blast.

Kyes ordered the owner, a human male named Pattipong, followed. He could not be. He changed clothes and washed before shutting down, so electronic tracers did not work. Surveillance experts, singly and teamed, tried to track him. Pattipong lost them all, every time, and reappeared the next morning to reopen the Last Blast, smiling as if nothing had happened and he was completely oblivious to the attentions.

Kyes started to order Pattipong's arrest but stopped himself. You are on to something. Finally: Do not panic. Do not rush to judgment.

He told Lagguth and the computer team to load and analyze
all
events occurring on that world within the last six years, concentrating on the last few months. If the mysterious cook was the Emperor, he would not have used Yongjukl as a base for very long. Or so Kyes thought—with no logic behind him.

The computer found a mansion, or the remains of a mansion. It had been, for some generations, among the holdings of a very rich, very mysterious offworld family who never visited their estate. Recently, however, a ship had landed on the grounds and one man had gotten off. The ship had immediately lifted. The man was the family's heir apparent. He had stayed in seclusion for a brief period of time and then disappeared. The mansion's staff had been paid off, the mansion torn down, and the grounds donated to the government. The mansion—and who owned it—had already been a favorite mystery story for the local media. Its destruction created a one-day wonder. But there was no more information, and the story disappeared.

A mansion, Kyes thought excitedly. Equipped with the most elaborate library and computer. That was enough. He ordered Pattipong's arrest. Two of Yongjukl's most skilled operatives went out to seize the tiny man. Dingiswayo Pattipong killed both of them and vanished once more, this time for good.

Kyes held in red, red rage. He forced himself to rethink. No. This was not a disaster. Analyze it. HUMINT has failed—not surprisingly. But artificial intelligence…

He ran Yongjukl, the worlds around it, and the galactic cluster it was in through every analysis possible. He found what he was looking for.

Kyes's quest was almost over.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

H
e started with the Dummy.

Raschid stayed in the background for an hour or so while Kenna laid the groundwork with Solon Walsh. Even Walsh's keen-eyed aide, Avri, started ignoring him after a while as her boss played the political mating game with Kenna.

It was Raschid's professional opinion Walsh had most of the makings of an ideal candidate. He was young and sleekly handsome. He spoke without stuttering. He had a steady, clear gaze. There were no food spots on his clothing, and his carefully arranged coif had a charming habit of going slightly out of kilter after a few minutes of conversation. It made him seem more relaxed and genuine. In some areas Walsh had received some expert advice.

The man exuded honesty. That had everything to do with lack of IQ. That open, wide-eyed look was there because there was nothing behind the optic system. But stupidity could be a candidate's greatest asset—as long as he listened to the right people. Raschid figured the right people in this case was Avri.