He moved his finger to the depression in the case. When he touched it, the bomb would destroy the ship. Everyone would die. Instantly. Except for...
... Him?
He was suddenly sweat-soaked. His heart bruising his ribs with its hammering.
What if Imbrociano was right?
About what?
My soul?
Yes... Your soul. Goddamned y—
Kea shuddered in a long breath. Blew it out. Drew another. He closed his eyes. And thought of the gentle curtain of fire billowing in the cosmic winds. He was floating through it now. Saw the particles leaping about as if they were alive.
Now? Should he do it now?
No.
One more moment.
One more thought.
Kea sucked in stale cabin air. It tasted sweet.
I will be the forever king, he thought.
The Eternal Emperor.
He pressed the switch.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE MAN SAT quietly in his seat, watching the color/noncolor through what appeared to be the ship's port. He was dark and muscular with startling blue eyes. He wore a white form-fitting tunic and soft white slippers. He'd been watching dazzling lights for many... days... weeks... months? The terms made only vague sense.
He never tired of the view, even though it hurt his eyes. It was always the same. But different. Shifting shapes and patterns. Bursting bits of color. It had always been so soothing. But not today. It made him tense. Yearning. The cabin's womblike cozi-ness felt smothering.
A thought came to him. He peered through the port. The Voice said it was the place where two universes touched. A gateway. Yes, he knew that. But, what was it called? An answer crawled into his brain:... Discontinuity.
Fazlur's Discontinuity.
He snapped up. Felt the hair on his arms prickle up. Where did that come from? The Voice? No. It came from...
Within!
The man rose and padded to the far end of the cabin. There was a mirror on that wall. He peered into it. Saw the face. For the first time, it seemed... familiar. As if it didn't belong to... someone else? Yes. That was it He rusked a hand across the cheek. Again... the sensation was so... deeply... familiar. He looked into the eyes. Saw the sardonic creases at the edges. The blue that could turn so quickly gray and cold. He laughed. Heard the echo of that laugh collide around the room.
God. The sound of it was so wonderful.
He touched the surface of the mirror, trembling fingers outlining the reflection.
He nearly wept to find himself there.
Then he pulled himself together. He stood back from the mirror. Put his hands on his hips... posing for his own benefit. He looked long and hard at the image of himself. Measuring for any sign of weakness. Finding none. He nodded. Satisfied.
A thought jumped up: The forever king.
He frowned. What was the rest? Back there, when...
He remembered.
"I am the Emperor," he said aloud.
He grinned at his image in the mirror.
"The Eternal Emperor."
BOOK FOUR
KING IN DANGER
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
BLURRY. VERY BLURRY. Worse... then better as the rangefinder autoadjusted
A rolling mountain meadow. A series of hillocks around it. The hillocks pocked with cave mouths. Adjustment, Sten's mind told him. You are in the middle of a city. The meadow's turf was artificial. As were the hillocks. The cave mouths were doorways leading down into huge caverns.
Near the end of the meadow, the ruins of what had been a low building with arched openings. Deliberately smashed when a huge Imperial battleship smashed in for a landing atop it
In front of the building, a platform.
Correction. A scaffold.
Standing on it, a man dressed in black and half-hooded. Holding a pistol.
In front of him, two Imperial soldiers in battledress. Between them, held firmly, a large golden-furred being.
Blur-around: the "meadow" packed with other golden ones. Between them and the scaffold, more Imperial troops in the mottled-brown combat uniform of the Guards. Their weapons were leveled at the crowd.
A furred out-of-focus head blurred across his vision.
Movement, and Sten was looking again at the scaffold.
Sounds: drumroll.
Sounds: earshattering whistles.
"Th‘ lad thae's aboot't' gie hieself lopped is Sr. Tangeri," Alex's voice explained. "F y‘ ken th' Cal'gata hae a whistlin't frae speech, y‘ perhaps sense thae dinnae be fond ae th' notion thae leader's aboot f'r th‘ high jump. We're i' th‘ place th' Cal'gata call their Gatherhome. I's th‘ equivalent ae Parliament Or was, at any rate."
A nailer voice boomed and echoed from the battleship.
"Y* noo c'n make oot th‘ words. Th' lad wi‘ th' pickup hae antique gear. But th‘ Cal'gata're being tol' thae this i‘ th' penalty frae high treason, an‘ thae'll be more penalties't' follow."
The echoes stopped, and Tangeri was turned to face the crowd. Instantly the executioner's hand came up, and the pistol fired. The front of Tangeri's skull exploded, and the body slumped.
The soldiers heaved the corpse forward, off the scaffold.
"An‘ noo," Kilgour's voice went on, '1‘ gie's interestin'."
Whistles louder, louder, damped by the pickup's controls. Blackness.
"Th‘ lad wearin' th‘ 'corder's movin't closer."
Blur motion. Running. Moving with the crowd. Guns firing. Screams. Human screams. Running forward.
A squealing Tangeri, fur blood-soaked, waving an Imperial willygun.
Perspective jolting. Moving over something. Something soft. A body. A torn-apart Imperial soldier.
Dragonroar.
Blackness.
"Th‘ battlewagon opened up wi' a chaingun."
Vision. The sky. A dot an object a diving hawk explosion SOUNDBLANK... groundjar... blackness.
"Ev'dently," Kilgour's voice explained, "thae wae a wee Cal'gata who got airborne wi‘ some sort ae spitkit, an' the‘ Emp's destroyer screen didnae stop him. An' he calc'lated a fair trade wae a battleship frae his life.
"Ah reck th‘ lad wae right."
Vision. Flames gouting from the Imperial battleship, from a great hole just behind the bridge.
Blurmotion again. Running. More shots. Then sky, and Sten gasped as pain racked him. Blackblank.
He could see. Somebody else could see.
Now he was a long way away from Gatherhome. It was far below him. The battleship was walled in flames, and the square appeared deserted. A mill of Imperial destroyers filled the air above the wreckage. Suddenly one destroyer was a ball of greasy flame, and again the pickup blanked.
Sten lifted the livie helmet away.
"What happened to the first Cal'gata? The one who started recording?"
A grim-faced Alex shrugged.
"Thae, Ah dinnae know. Killed, Ah reck. Else why w'd another pick up th‘ gear? But frae y'r info, th' battlewagon wae th‘
Odessa, an‘ the Imperials lost twa battalions ae th' Second Guards. Th‘ rumble Ah heard frae th' smuggler wi‘ Wild who brought th' tape wae that near ten thousan‘ Cal'gata went doon ae well. Needless't'say, th‘ Offic'l Emp News dinnae hae ought ae th' matter."
"So that's what they're calling a drum patrol," Cind snarled. "I guess murderers like the Guard look hard for some kind of label that doesn't say what they're really doing."
‘The Guard may be bad, following orders like they are. What's worse," Otho rumbled, "is that's what the Emperor is calling justice."