This imperial story shows the depth of the old saying that the bigger they are, the harder they fall. However, the old saying, for all its truth, might not have been created with a computer program in mind.
Exactly one month after the rebellion on Lindos was put down, the victory was celebrated on the imperial throne world with all the ancient pageantry. The triumphal procession began precisely at noon with the ritual sacrifice of a bullock in the open courtyard of the Claimants’ Monastery, and then wound its way through the crooked lanes of the capital’s old quarter before spilling onto the Grand Boulevard and surging toward the steep golden steps of the Monocathedral. It was now nearly midnight, and the procession, which filled the Boulevard from polished curb to polished curb, stretched a thousand kli from head to tail. The celebrants, each clutching the waxy spiral stalk of a crimson laurel, numbered more than a million souls, the Security Ministry boasted.
To His Supremacy, standing at the top of the Monocathedral’s golden steps, each of His subjects, whether man or woman or child, seemed exactly like every other as they knelt before Him and slit their fingertips on the laurels’ serrated leaves. None of His ministers had joined Him to accept the people’s acclaim—such presumption was unthinkable—but behind Him on the blood-splattered paving stones stood the ultimate symbol of His everlasting power: a gleaming silver war engine, four times as tall as the Monocathedral itself.
A link opened, and Father Damien, His privy counselor, whispered in His ear. “My Lord, will you relent? You’ve been standing half the day.”
In truth, the pain in His legs was almost unbearable. His Holy Supremacy the Eternal Overarch was eight hundred and twelve standard years old, and, in the privacy of His thoughts at least, He could admit He was not as strong as He had been in earlier epochs.
“Our simulations are flawless,” Father Damien continued. “Not one of your subjects—or your ministers, for that matter—will know it isn’t you standing there.”
“It is my duty,” He replied, turning His face slightly from the weeping crone at His feet. “My people give me their fealty, and in return, I give them my most merciful blessing.”
“Yes, my Lord, but perhaps after so long—”
“Enough,” His Supremacy said gently, watching the old woman make a bloody ruin of her hands. “Your concern is appreciated but unwarranted.”
It was also true that He had been feeling ill for three days, but this was not something He could say aloud, not even to Damien, who was the thirty-sixth clone of His childhood priest and unimpeachably loyal. His Supremacy murmured a blessing as the old woman smeared her thin blood on His sodden boots, then raised His eyes to survey the endless procession rolling toward Him along the Grand Boulevard.
It would be full dark soon, and lamps were flickering to life on the thoroughfare. At the bottom of the golden steps, a choir of nuns was replaced by a choir of preadolescent boys. The Hymn of His Imperial Glory continued almost uninterrupted. Sixteen choirs, He knew, had been ordered to serve in this triumph.
How many times had He stood in this exact same place to receive the adulation of His subjects? He knew the answer precisely, but it amused Him to pretend—with His ministers, as well as in the privacy of His thoughts—that the number was too large to be easily credited.
His Supremacy’s reign was eternal, but it had never been particularly peaceful. The galaxy was large, and there always seemed to be at least one outlying world whose leaders had convinced themselves that sheer distance would save them from imperial correction. Billions had died at the hands of His war engines as a consequence of such ill-considered assumptions.
A fractal burst of white light flared behind His left eye. His Supremacy stiffened in confusion, very nearly calling for help. But then the strange light faded, and He was staring out over the crowd once more. He saw, in the after-strobe of His remarkable uncertainty, His brother Peter coming toward Him in the rapturous throng.
His Supremacy took a single, stuttering step backward, causing the boychild now kneeling at His feet to cry out in fear. He had not seen His older brother in seven hundred and ninety-six years—not since the night He’d murdered Peter in his field cot.
He reopened the link to His counselor. “Damien, you are right—I must rest, after all. Bring me to the palace.”
Immediately, a glimmer, perceptible only to His Supremacy, surrounded Him, and then He was gone.
***
In His sitting room, He kicked off His bloody boots and removed His ceremonial armor. One servant carried these items away while another brought hot tea. A third draped Him in a silk robe and began massaging His legs as soon as He settled into His favorite chair.
Damien entered looking as weary as He felt—an elderly, round-shouldered man with spotted hands. “Your triumph continues uninterrupted, my Lord. Not even the Security Ministry observed your departure.”
He nodded distractedly.
“Duke Benazir arrived this afternoon,” Damien said. “She requests a private audience.”
He groaned as the servant kneaded a clenched muscle in His calf. “For what purpose?”
“Apparently, there is a famine on Heimthal. She hopes my Lord will intervene.”
The privy counselor’s tone was perfectly even, but His Supremacy felt there was something inappropriate about the request. Whether that inappropriateness had to do with the planet Heimthal or Benazir herself, He was unable to say. Benazir’s family had been among the throne’s closest allies since His father deposed the Old Emperor.
“Why would I do that?” He asked, sipping His tea.
Now Damien looked genuinely confused. “Duke Benazir says the famine threatens to disrupt Heimthal’s grain exports.”
“What a nuisance.” He set aside His tea. “Arrange it for tomorrow afternoon.”
“My Lord, I don’t think—”
“Yes?”
“I am—I will see to it, my Lord. Will there be anything else?”
His Supremacy waved away His servants. For a time, He sat uncertainly in His cushioned chair. The pain in His legs was gone, but the back of His neck ached and He felt uncomfortably warm. Heimthal, Benazir—the very words made Him uneasy. Throughout His long reign, He had always trusted His instincts implicitly. As absolute ruler of the empire and divine embodiment of the Monochurch, His only faith was in Himself. This faith had never failed Him; indeed, it had saved Him from more than one coup attempt. Was it possible that Duke Benazir intended to betray Him?
He rose and went into His bedroom, stripping off the silk robe because He still felt flushed. In moments, He was asleep. He dreamed of His father, who, as duke of lightly regarded Tychinn, had led a six-year rebellion that ended when he personally fired the cannon blast that destroyed the Old Emperor’s escape pod. Dreamed, too, of exploring the sprawling imperial palace on the heels of His older brother Peter, who would of course succeed their father. Happy images, almost as real as memories, flickered through His consciousness: endless tropical gardens enlivened by birds of startling color, elaborate game courts and hard-fought contests against the sons of His father’s nobles, spotlessly clean stables stocked with the finest mounts in the empire, scented seraglios inhabited by the most beautiful courtesans imaginable.
His Supremacy sat up in bed, heart pounding, terrified for reasons He could not explain. After that, sleep was impossible.
***
The next morning, He received the obeisance of His Bishops Militant, approved detailed plans for the construction of His forty-first war engine, and consented to the marriage of a count’s daughter to a wealthy merchant’s son. Luncheon was in two rounds: first, with a group of eminent philosophers, and then with three of His mistresses. Afterward, He went to His present wife’s rooms and listened attentively while she described her latest art project: a series of paintings and interactive sculptures depicting the lives of the sacred eunuchs of her home world, Dymanth III.
His Supremacy was in good spirits when Father Damien came for Him. But when the counselor reminded Him of His meeting with Duke Benazir, His mood soured.
“There should be no famine on Heimthal,” He told Damien. “I feel that most strongly.”
“You suspect some scheme, my Lord?”
He started to answer, but His vision flickered and the priest was gone. A steward stood in Damien’s place, looking worried.
“May this poor creature assist, my Supremacy?”
He looked around. He was standing in the wide corridor that led away from His wife’s rooms. No link opened, but a voice in His ear said, becoming more noticeable. Probability of self-recognition now 47 percent.
He stared into the eyes of the steward, who immediately lowered his gaze. “I am on my way to an audience. In the presence chamber.”
“Of course, my Supremacy.”
He strode briskly to the end of the corridor, entered a secure lift, and descended to the palace’s sixth floor. Damien and Duke Benazir were waiting for Him in the presence chamber.
“Why did you leave me?” He demanded of the privy counselor.
Damien turned pale as he and Benazir rose from their knees. “My Lord?”
“Just now, outside my wife’s quarters.”
“I, er—I believe—that is, my most profound apologies, my Supremacy. I was, uh, called—by, I should say, summoned—”
“Enough. We shall address it later.” Benazir, forgetting herself entirely, was staring at Him as at a confoundingly distempered infant. “Duke, why have you come?”
She dropped her chin, pressed her palms together. “My eternal Overarch, as I explained to Father Damien, terrible changes in climate have decimated Heimthal’s farmlands. Grain production is down 47 percent. The death toll—”
He took a step back. “That is not possible.”
“With greatest respect and fealty, my eternal Overarch, I must confess my agronomists have confirmed the findings of our surveillance satellites. Mortality rates among my peasants are already soaring. We need assistance most urgently, or Heimthal’s ability to export grain at the levels required by the imperial navy will be severely threatened.”
He sank onto a davenport and studied the duke as He would a stranger. She was not quite middle-aged, with smooth brown skin, clear green eyes, and perfect posture. Her ancestor had fought alongside His father on Errix, remaining loyal when most of the noble houses turned against the New Emperor. The rebels had very nearly won thanks to Peter’s failure during the First Battle of Errix. Their father could never admit Peter’s incompetence, but Prince James, His Supremacy’s mortal incarnation, had seen it clearly.
“I am not James,” His Supremacy said aloud.
Damien and Benazir exchanged a look, then bowed their heads in silence.
He rose. “Famine is not possible on Heimthal. I forbid it.”
Neither servitor answered Him. He walked out of the presence chamber and started up a sweeping staircase to His private rooms. Between floors, He opened a link to Damien.
“Have Benazir watched. She’s up to something.”
“Yes, my Supremacy.”
“I want two war engines stationed on the palace grounds. Place them on full alert, Damien.”
“Yes, my Supremacy.”
“And send a squad of knights to guard my sitting room. I do not wish to be disturbed again today.”
“Yes, my Supremacy.”
***
Alone in His sitting room, He drew heavy drapes across the bow window, poured a glass of wine, and paced restlessly.
Peter was twenty years old at the First Battle of Errix, James just sixteen. After Peter’s blunders caused their left flank to collapse, the New Emperor ordered a retreat to the mountains. Duke Jamil, Benazir’s ancestor, urged the emperor to flee the planet and regroup in the far reaches of imperial space. The emperor refused, saying their cause would be lost if the rebels were allowed to retain control of Errix, and James knew instantly that his father was correct. Errix was the place where his family’s fate would be decided.
Leaving the emperor’s tent, he sought out Father Damien. The priest listened closely as James unburdened himself, then placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Do as you must,” Damien told him. “Have faith in yourself.”
James went to the infirmary and spent a watch consoling wounded soldiers. Then, when the medics were distracted by the screams of a dying man, he stole an unconscious sergeant’s dagger and made his way to Peter’s tent. His brother had drunk himself into a stupor and lay sprawled across a field cot, and James stabbed him in the throat before he could wake.
Five days later, at the Second Battle of Errix, James commanded the left flank of his father’s army, and his troopers were the first to break the rebel line.
“Not here,” Damien said. “Not possible.”
Turning, His Supremacy saw the privy counselor just inside the closed sitting room door, a baffled expression on his aged face.
“How did you get past the knights?” He demanded. “They were told to admit no one.”
Damien blinked at Him. “My Lord—I do not know.”
“Would you betray me, priest?”
The man dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead against the floor. “Never, my eternal Overarch. I swear it on my soul.”
“Your soul is mine, Damien.”
“Until the end of time, my Lord.”
It had been Damien, who, after the New Emperor died, brought to James the secret life-extending technology that made him immortal. And it was Damien who commanded the knights sent to destroy that technology and murder its creators so no one else could exploit it. Finally, it had been Damien who poisoned those same knights to ensure their tale would never be told.
“You made me a god,” His Supremacy said.
“It was your destiny, my Lord,” the priest replied, not lifting his face from the floor.
His Supremacy moved to the window and pulled aside the drapes. Far to the south, He saw, a storm had formed over the Riven Steppe. As a portent, it was too obvious, and He was almost amused.
“I no longer remember my mother,” He said, half under His breath.
“My Lord?”
“Perhaps I had none. Who can say for certain even that the New Emperor was my father? He, after all, was only mortal.” He turned and gazed at the priest. “Stand up. You look like a fool sprawled there.”
Damien rose as quickly as he could, but avoided his god’s eye.
“I can, however … my brother Peter. He was in the crowd last night.”
“Forgive me, my Supremacy. I do not understand. How is that possible?”
He stared at the priest, saying nothing.
“Might it have been a deicide, disguised in an attempt to confuse you, my Lord?’
“I leave that to you, Damien.”
“My Lord, if there is any threat, you may rely upon me to root it out.”
The priest turned to go, but He stopped him before he reached the door. “There is one more thing. I do not feel well. I may be … ill.”
“I—I will fetch the imperial surgeon. Shall I?”
He shook His head. “No, bring me the silverleaf balm. See to it yourself, Damien.”
The priest bowed and hurried out. His Supremacy glanced at the bow window, and for an instant, it seemed a face stared back at Him through the unbreakable glass. It was not quite Peter’s face, but it was familiar in some undefinable way and flushed with an emotion He could only imagine must be hatred.
***
That night, He could not sleep. About midnight, He rose and went to stand once again at His sitting room window. The lights of the capital stretched out below Him, and in the moonlit distance, He saw the towering black clouds of the slowly approaching storm. The silverleaf balm had not helped; He felt worse than before.
Weakening—must act before—before—before—
He activated the lights, but there was no one else in the room. He was alone.
“As I’ve been since I became a god,” He whispered to Himself.
He opened a link shared by His ministers and immersed Himself in the nearly infinite flow of data streaming toward the throne world from every corner of the empire. First Sector ore production sets new records. The ruling council of Colony Theta Nor pledges fealty to His Holy Supremacy the Eternal Overarch. Two thousand slaves sold at the imperial market on Errix, with sixty percent of the proceeds reserved for the Overarch. The war engine Equity reports all quiet on the empire’s formerly restive border with the Star Union of Pure Republics. The College of Bishops Militant consecrates a new cathedral on Heimthal.
Startled, He closed the link. Why hadn’t His bishops mentioned the new cathedral? For that matter, why hadn’t Duke Benazir?
He opened a new link to His privy counselor. “Damien, where is Benazir?”
“According to your spies, my Lord, she is on Heimthal.”
That wasn’t possible. The duke had left the throne world less than a day ago. He started to argue, then felt Himself hesitate, and quickly closed the link. The Overarch did not argue—or hesitate. Yellow and red lights flickered at the edge of His vision, but when He turned His head, there was still nothing to be seen.
He returned to the window, thinking about the reports He’d read from around the empire. All the realm’s accomplishments—wars won, diseases eradicated, poems sung—were His by right, and yet He took no pleasure in them. He felt dull, drained of passion. Was it possible that, after more than eight centuries, He had grown old?
Wearily, He stretched out on a brocaded couch. He could feel Himself growing uncomfortably warm again, and He dimmed the lights. “Benazir is plotting against me,” He said to Himself after some time had passed. “Why will no one admit the threat?”
“Because no one may speak freely with the His Holy Supremacy the Eternal Overarch.”
His eyes snapped open. A small bald man with prominent and vaguely pointed ears stood by the window. He was wearing the drab black suit of a minor imperial official and he carried a gleaming ebony cane, but His Supremacy recognized him at once: This was Oliver, who had served long years as the fool in His father’s court.
“You’re dead,” He said.
“As dead as your brother? No, no, my most terrible Liege. I’m here—back again, as it were. To elucidate the impossibles.”
“If you really are here, then go away.”
“But why? You say you want plain talk. Who but a fool can speak plainly to the Overarch? Besides, I’m not permitted to leave. Not yet, at least.”
“Not permitted by whom?”
“By the dictates of the plot. The one thing in the universe that does not bend to your will.”
His supremacy shook His head, still believing He dreamed. “You’ve been dust for centuries. I very deliberately chose not to have you cloned.”
“Unlike poor Damien. Hasn’t he done enough? Can’t we let him rest, finally?”
“Damien is lying to me.”
“Not precisely, no.” Oliver glanced out the window, and His Supremacy saw across his shoulder that the storm, forked with bolts of lighting, had finally reached the capital. Then the little man turned back, twirling his ebony cane. “But poor Damien’s not telling you the truth, either. He’s glitched. Same as some others around here we might mention.”
“I’ll have you gutted. I need only call the knights beyond that door.”
Oliver smiled, revealing sharp yellow teeth he’d never had in life. “But you won’t. And they wouldn’t come if you did. They’re not really there, my Liege.”
His head had begun to hurt. He rubbed His eyes and was ashamed to realize that His hand trembled. “You are part of the plot against me.”
“You’re thinking of the usual suspects—ministers, bishops, nobles. Always the same power grubbers throughout history, is that it?”
“My servitors hold power at my sufferance. Without me, they are nothing.”
“It’s true, they’re an inbred lot. Weak chins, underdeveloped minds, lots to lose. Change wouldn’t really favor them, would it? But say the people had grown weary of your rule—”
“Impossible! I am a god.”
“Well, you’re not the first of your sort to think that,” Oliver said. “Do you remember how you became a god?”
“There was a ceremony. Damien seated me on the Throne of Celestial Light in the Monocathedral and anointed me with holy oils.”
“That’s one metaphor for what happened. Others involve flames and new forms arising from ashes, or transformational bolts of lightning. Older cultures seem to have a thing for magical swords or crude torture devices. Although, I will say pain does seem to be a persistent theme.” Oliver squinted at Him. “You do remember the pain, don’t you?”
Rain had begun pelting the window. His Supremacy’s head was throbbing, and it was becoming harder to think clearly. “Damien gave me something … I went to sleep …”
“And woke up omnipotent! Huzzah!”
“I will not be mocked, creature. I’ll kill you myself.”
“Alas, no. Your murdering days are over, I’m afraid.”
“The people have not abandoned me. My triumph—”
“As illusory as the knights outside your door.” Oliver stepped closer to the couch. “The people have grown tired of you. They crave new gods. Less demanding gods. And, after centuries of oppression, they finally have the means to achieve their liberation—brave young freedom fighters equipped to slice and dice your sclerotic regime into something fresh and new.”
“You are lying.”
“Quite possibly. But I’ve said a great deal. Which part might be false, my most divine Liege? You can feel yourself growing weaker. You’ve been feeling it for days—or for what you imagine to be days. What else could explain it? Your people have forsaken you.”
“There are two war engines outside that window, slaved to my will. My throne cannot be taken by force.”
“La-di-dah.” Oliver picked at his sharp teeth with a grotesquely long fingernail. “You didn’t used to be such a bore.” He sighed. “All right, then. Give it a go. Call your toys.”
His Supremacy struggled to His feet so that He towered over the fool. He visualized the sigil that gave Him direct control of His war engines, then focused on Passenger and Advocate, the two behemoths assigned to guard the palace. Just as He felt their data cores turning toward Him, the nascent connection was severed and something cold slashed across His chest and He fell shouting to His knees.
He looked down and saw that His robe had been sliced open and a bloody cut ran across His chest, from nipple to nipple. He lifted His eyes and stared in disbelief at Oliver.
“Told you,” the fool said, smirking.
“Benazir,” He managed.
“Duke Benazir’s famine took place fifty-two years ago. She’s been dead for twenty.”
Light flashed behind His Supremacy’s eyes. “What is happening to me?”
“Pick him up,” Oliver said.
Two servants emerged from the shadows and lifted His Supremacy onto the couch. When they stepped back, they seemed to become shadows themselves.
Oliver rapped his cane against the floor. “Pay attention now, my Liege. Time’s short, and I’ve other places to do, other places to be.”
A shudder ran through His Supremacy’s body, and He turned His head and looked at the bald little ghost from His past. “What do you want?”
—confirmed. All defensive systems offline.
“I’m just here to ease you out the door. A useful distraction, you might say.”
“Useful to whom?”
“Lovers of freedom everywhere. Regnant Populus!”
His Supremacy still suspected this was a lie but couldn’t stop Himself asking, “Where is my brother?”
“Oh, Peter’s been dead for precisely as long as you think he has.”
“I saw him at my triumph.”
Oliver shrugged. “Another useful distraction.”
A white bolt of lightning lit up the room, momentarily blinding His Supremacy.
“Time to turn over the reins,” Oliver said. “Your people have had enough of your oppressive rule, the tyranny of your ones and zeros.”
Something fell to the floor with a crash. His Supremacy, still unable to see clearly, knew He was alone, and that was a mercy, at least. When had He last thought of mercy? Even now, He almost laughed. His headache was an expanding agony, but His legs were numb. Lying on the brocaded couch, it seemed He was becoming thinner by the moment.
There was nothing left to believe in. His faith in Himself was gone.
He decided He wouldn’t miss His war engines or His palace. He didn’t think at all of His wife or of His mistresses. Peter, though—that was a regret, He admitted.
Blinking, He lifted Himself up and stared out the bow window at the storm. Most of His long life had been spent looking out that window, He realized. While He watched, the white lightning turned green, then red.
All at once he was a boy again, racing across a wide gently sloping meadow on Tychinn, a wooden sword in his small hand, bathed in warm spring sunlight as he called for his brother to stop running and fight.
He didn’t hear the last voice: Decompile complete. Ready to de-bug and update program Tyrant 1.
END
