Sten chose not to participate in the debating society. "May I ask your immediate intentions?"
"I intend that this cluster shall live in peace, as you said moments ago. I further intend that the brutalities, injustices, and evils of the Khaqan and his lickspittle underlings shall end immediately."
"Admirable intent," Sten said, forcing some warmth into his voice.
"Thank you."
"You have used the phrase New Order twice in my hearing," Sten went on. "What, precisely, does that mean?"
"You are not familiar with my writings? With my analyses?"
"Apologies. But I have been busy of late, trying to keep small points of light from becoming firestorms. And I learned of your imminent arrival only recently.''
"You must read them," Iskra said earnestly. "Otherwise, it is impossible to understand the Altaic Cluster, let alone to help me rule it."
"Then I shall. Immediately. But—what you just said. You intend to rule this cluster. Forgive my ignorance. But what form will that take? To be exact, how representative will your government be?"
"Very," Iskra said firmly. "It shall bear no resemblance whatsoever to the Khaqan's tyranny. But one thing, Ambassador Sten.
"Since you are from a civilized world, do not make the mistake of becoming anthropomorphic about the beings of my cluster.''
Civilized world, Sten thought. Vulcan? A man-made planet of slave labor and sudden death? He kept his face blank as Iskra continued.
"Understand that none of us, Torks, Jochians, Suzdal, or Bogazi, have ever known democracy. Beings here may rave about it, but it is an inconceivable idea in reality to them. Much like expecting someone who is blind from birth to envision a sunset, yes?
"So my New Order means a certain amount of direction. Guidance. That is the only way for us to find eventual freedom. Not in my time, of course, nor probably that of my sons yet unborn.
"But it will come.
"That is the oath I swore on my father's grave, and reconsecrated myself to, when the Khaqan murdered my brother.
"The Altaic Cluster will be at peace. And my sacred trust will be fulfilled—no matter the cost to this generation! There can be no true heroism or godhood without sacrifice along the path!"
Dr. Iskra's eyes glittered red, reflecting the sun setting outside.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"Why," Alex Kilgour wondered, "do Ah hae th' feelin' ae a' thae an' ae a thae's a roarin't crock?"
He gestured at the wallscreen, which showed the terrace of the Khaqan's palace. I must learn to change the labels, Sten told himself. Iskra now wears the crown.
On the terrace stood Dr. Iskra, hands raised, a slight smile on his face as below him the packed square boomed with cheers.
Behind him stood the Altaic power structure. The humans, at least, all showed the same expression of pleased relief on hearing of the assumption. Sten was not familiar enough with either the Bogazi or Suzdal to understand their emotional projections. So that big meeting, he thought, must have been just the obligatory change of command speech, as when one took over a new unit and was required to meet the unit's lower-ranking officers and make nice. Then, later one announced the terror and that heads were to roll.
The cheering stopped, and Iskra resumed his speech.
"... a time of healing. A time for all of us to abandon the past, the dark shadows of vengeance, and strike out boldly together to secure the future for ourselves and for generations to come.
"We are all Altaics. We share the same systems. The same planets. But instead of realizing our common destiny we waste our substance in feuds begun for forgotten reasons. We hate our neighbor because his genetic code differs from ours. But we all came from the same universal plasm, no matter our species, race, or home planet.
"You know me.
"You know the justice and honor I represent.
"You know I have spent years in exile, fighting in every way I knew to bring down the abhorrence that was the Khaqan. And I succeeded."
"Aye. Jus' you an' a wee attack ae apoopoplexy. Next he'll be claimin't 't' hae created AM2 an' Scotch, as well."
"Now it is time for our next task. Now it is time, and past time for all of us—"
Sten palmed the mute switch, leaving Iskra to gesticulate in silence. He and Alex were alone in the embassy apartments assigned to Sten, apartments that were security-sealed and constantly checked for bugs.
"You think it's a crock," he told Alex, "because it is." He indicated a large pile of fiche and abstracts.
"Y'hae dredged throo all ae th' doc's natterin's, a'ready?"
"Read a couple. Had the rest abstracted. Iskra isn't exactly clear like crystal when he writes. And he's supposed to be such a brilliant speaker."
"Th' clot dinnae do aught t' make my adrenaline adren," Alex agreed.
"Nor mine. As far as I can tell, and I'm surely not a political philosopher, his main theory seems to be first we obliterate anything that the Khaqan did, then figure out what's to come next. This New Order, he says somewhere, 'must remain supple and sensitive to change and challenge.' He's in love with assonance."
"Aye, he is an ass. Ah dinnae ken aboot whether it belongs to wee Nancy or no. An' of course, th' one thae's most supple t' this change is th' good Dr. Iskra?"
"Of course. He's traveled. He's studied. He's done comparative analysis on every political theory going, including the Emperor. I didn't know the Emp picked him as one of the territorial governors of a Tahn solar system after the war. He did well—at least according to him.''
"Ah dinnae wonder," Alexsaid. "Th' Tahn dinnae understand aught but a boot ae' their neck a'ter the rules they grew up wi'. Doc Iskra—clot, e'en a Campbell—would'a likely been deemed liberal.
"Whae about th' real problem? All these races who're nae happy wi'out they're slittin' another one's weasan? Hae Iskra got a plan to end that?''
Sten shook his head. "He talks a lot about equality. But it sort of works out that some people in the Altaic Cluster are a bit more superior than others."
"An' lemme guess. Iskra, bein' a Jochian, somehow hae th' notion thae Jochians are th' most superior ae all."
"Correct."
"Clottin' wonderful. 'Ware ye ae th' new boss. Same ae th' old boss.' An wee Iskra's th' Emp's han-picked golden boy. Ah dinnae mind he's bein' a dictator, lord knowin' you an' I o'er th' years hae installed a few dozen ae them. But Ah'm nae taken wi' th' wee lad haein' nae th' slightest bit ae subtlety or patience. Ah'll wager he's a lad thae wan's th' world, an' he wants it yesterday."
"I'll live with that call," Sten said. He stared back at the screen and the appropriately enthusiastic beings behind Iskra. "I wonder just what—besides general make-nice—Iskra said to his rump parliament... Anybody there you think we can corrupt?''
Kilgour thought. "All ae 'em, in time," he said. "But i' y' want a fly on th' wall yest'day, Ah'd start wi' Menynder. He appears t' hae his eye on th' main chance moren' most. An' a wee bit ae follow-through."
"Agreed," Sten said. "See if we can't make him into a nice reliable source."
"No puh-roblem." Kilgour was silent for a minute. Then, seemingly irrelevantly, he asked, "Did y' e'er gie y'self th' fearful luxury ae wonderin' i' our Fearless Leader's gettin' a wee touch senile?"
Sten flinched, as if an icy blast had touched him. He didn't answer, but went to the bar and poured two large drinks. Not of Scotch; not of stregg. But pure quill alk, as he had grown used to drinking as a field soldier. He handed one to Kilgour.
"If he is," Sten said, after sipping his drink, "and Dr. Iskra is an example, the future's going to start looking like that." He gestured outside the double-paned security window at the huge, building thunderheads that were bringing yet another slashing summer storm down on the capital.