One that would shake the Imperial forces to their souls.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SUBADAR-MAJOR CHETHABAHADUR SNAPPED a crisp salute. "San! Reporting as ordered, sah."
"Sit down, Subadar-Major," Poyndex said. "No need for formality."
Chethabahadur sat, his small, slender body stiff in the seat.
"I'm afraid I have some very bad news," Poyndex said. "I'm sorry to be the one bearing it. But there's no sense beating about the brambles and making things worse. So here it is. As you know, the Eternal Emperor holds you people in great esteem for your years of dedicated service."
Chethabahadur blinked. Very quickly. All other reactions were caught in time. The phrase "you people" was clearly an insult worthy of a cut throat. The "years of dedicated service" numbered in the hundreds, which meant that Poyndex should have had his throat cut a second time. As for "high esteem"— well, it was almost too much.
The subadar-major kept his expression mild, wondering at the several miracles allowing this toady to remain alive after mewling such nonsense.
"Very high esteem, indeed," Poyndex continued. "Unfortunately, he has found himself in a terrible position. Money is very tight now, you understand. Cutbacks and belt tightening has been ordered all through the services."
"Yes, sah," Chethabahadur said. "The Gurkhas have done their part, sah. But if further reductions are required, sah... be assured we are ready."
Poyndex smiled condescendingly. "How generous. But that won't be necessary. Under the circumstances. You see, I have been ordered to disband your unit. As I said, I'm very sorry. But we all have to make sacrifices in times like these."
Without hesitation, Chethabahadur said, "No need to apologize, sah. Tell the Emperor the Gurkha stand ready for any command. If he needs us to disband, sah... and return to Nepal... well, it shall be done. And without complaint, sah. Assure him of that."
Another Poyndex smile. "Oh, I will. I certainly will."
The subadar-major came to his feet and snapped another salute. "Then if that is all, sah, I will depart to inform my men."
Poyndex made with a weak reply to the salute. "Yes... That is all... And thank you very much."
"It is you who are to be thanked, sah," Chethabahadur said. He spun and marched from the room.
Poyndex eased back in his chair, pleased with himself for a difficult task well done... although he was surprised at how easy the Gurkha major had taken the news.
Such loyalty.
Blind, ignorant loyalty.
Poyndex laughed. He keyed his com and ordered his Internal Security troops to the posts of the departing Gurkhas.
Outside, in the corridor leading away from Poyndex's office, one floor below the Emperor's private quarters, Chethabahadur had to force down the sudden desire to leap high in the air and click his heels.
For a long time now he and his men had worried over the Emperor's deteriorating personality. His actions turned their stomachs. They could not understand how a soldier they admired—Ian Mahoney—could become a traitor. And there was absolutely no way they would believe Sten, once their commander, and still, as far as anyone knew, having one platoon of Gurkhas serving under him, would turn his coat, even against the rabid beast the Emperor had become.
All of the Gurkhas had wanted to quit. The only thing that had stopped them was their sworn oath—and the certain knowledge the Emperor would consider the action a grave insult.
He would kill them all.
Worse, they feared for their people in far-off Nepal. None of the Gurkhas doubted that the Emperor would remove Nepal from the face of the planet for such a betrayal.
But now—joy, oh, joy, the heavens smiled and the Gurkha were fired. What a blessing to come from such a barbarian as that Poyndex.
Not that Chethabahadur forgave him his rude behavior Someday he would kill the man.
If this was not possible, Chethabahadur's son would kill Poyndex's son.
For the Gurkhas had very long memories.
Poyndex watched with amazement as the woman, Baseeker, abased herself before the Eternal Emperor.
"Oh, Lord, I am blinded by your exalted presence. My limbs tremble. My brain is a fever. My tongue a thick stump unable to form words befitting your full glory."
Poyndex buried a smile. He thought her tongue was working just fine. The new high priestess of the Cult of the Eternal Emperor was prostrate on her god's office floor.
"You may rise," the Emperor said solemnly. Poyndex was only mildly surprised at how seriously the Emperor seemed to be taking this interview.
Baseeker came to her knees, beat her head several times against the ground in further obeisance, then came the rest of the way to her feet. Poyndex saw the glitter of pleasure in the Emperor's eyes and congratulated himself in his choice to replace
Zoran as the new high priestess. Baseeker had absorbed his coaching and then bettered it by several hundred percent.
"Please. Do sit down," the Emperor said, fussing over the woman. "May I offer you any refreshment?"
Baseeker slid into the indicated chair, poised at the edge as if relaxation would be a blasphemy. "Thank you, Lord. But allow this humble seeker of truth to reject your kindness. I could not possibly take mortal nourishment at this time. Permit me, instead, to continue to feed my spirit upon the ethers of your holy presence."
Poyndex doubted whether Baseeker ever fed on much of anything—except personal ambition. She was all bone and gristle, wrapped tight with skin so pale it was nearly translucent. She was of indeterminate age, with a severely pinched face, sharp incisors peeking through thin lips, and eyes like small bright beads. Like a rat's, Poyndex thought.
"Whatever pleases you," the Emperor said, waving grandly.
Baseeker nodded, tucking her white robe around bony knees.
The Emperor indicated a sheaf of paper on his desk. "I've studied your proposals for reorganization quite thoroughly," he said. "An impressive job."
"Thank you, Lord," Baseeker said. "But it could not have been done without your inspiration. Frankly, the cult was left in complete disarray by my late predecessor—Zoran. Our purpose is to glorify you... and educate your subjects on your divine mission. But these things were left shamefully undone."
"I see you have added a new program," the Emperor said. "A proposal to build worship centers in all the major capitals of the Empire."
Baseeker bowed her head. "I'd hoped it would meet your favor."
Poyndex lifted his eyes to keep from laughing. They fell on the painting above the Emperor. It was an ultraromantic, ultramuscular portrait of the Emperor, posing heroically. The painting was in commemoration of the Battle of the Gates, which the portrait indicated he had won single-handedly. Poyndex happened to know the Emperor never was even vaguely near the fighting in question.
The painting was one of a whole gallery glorifying the Emperor. They were from the awful collection of the late Tanz Sullamora. Ordered to track them down, Poyndex's IS agents had found them rightfully discarded in a museum trash heap. Now they hung frame edge to frame edge along the office walls.
The effect was unsettling, to say the least. All those saintly Imperial eyes staring down at him. It was like hallucinating on spoiled narcobeer.
He forced his attention back to the interview. He saw Baseeker's small eyes fire brighter. "This proposal is nothing, Lord, compared to my true vision," she said, full of holy fervor. "I see temples to your exalted self in every town and city of the Empire. Where your subjects can gather together and bask in your glory."