Authors: Andreas Eschbach
“Jubad,” he said simply when the rebel entered. “Are you prepared this time?”
“Yes,” Jubad replied.
“Then let’s make an end of it.”
Jubad drew his raygun and weighed it reluctantly in his hand. He watched the Emperor, who stood looking calmly at him.
“Are you sorry you did this?” the rebel asked.
The Emperor raised his head. “No,” he said. The question appeared to surprise him.
Jubad said nothing.
“No,” the Emperor repeated finally. “No. I was born into this world without knowing what life was all about. Only power promised fulfillment in life, and I have pursued it—long enough to recognize that it’s a false promise and that this road leads to nothing. But I tried. Even if we get no answers to our questions, it is the inalienable right of every living being to search for them—by all means, on all paths, and with all strength. What I did was only what I had a right to do.”
Jubad shuddered at the cruelty of his words. The Emperor was merciless toward everyone, even toward himself. To the very end, he was not relinquishing the iron grip he had maintained for a hundred thousand years. Even in death and beyond, he would determine the fate of mankind.
He’s right, Jubad realized with dismay. He cannot rid himself of the power he struggled to achieve.
The handle of his weapon seemed heavy in his hand.
“A court would perhaps judge differently.”
“You must kill me. If I remain alive, you will fail.”
“Maybe.”
Jubad had steeled himself for the Emperor’s anger, but to his surprise he saw only disgust and weariness in the monarch’s eyes.
“You mortals are fortunate,” the Emperor said slowly. “You don’t live long enough to discover that everything is vain and that life has no purpose. Why do you think I have done all this … have gone to all this effort? I could have taken all mankind with me to the grave if I had wanted. But I don’t want to. I want to have nothing more to do with this existence.”
Shouts and the sound of shots reached the room from outside. The fighting was coming closer.
“Shoot now!” the Emperor commanded fiercely.
And Jubad raised his weapon as though by reflex and, without thinking about it, shot the Emperor in the chest.
Later they celebrated him as the Liberator, the Vanquisher of the Tyrant. He smiled at cameras, struck triumphant poses, and gave wildly acclaimed speeches, but he was always aware that he was only playing at being the victor. He alone knew that he was no victor at all.
To the end of his life he would wonder whether even this final moment had also been part of the Emperor’s plan.
Understanding alone cannot withstand time; it changes and fades away. But shame is like a wound that is never exposed and therefore never heals. Yes, he would keep his promise and never break his silence, but not out of a sense of understanding but out of a feeling of shame. He would keep his absolute silence, because of this one moment—when he, the rebel,
obeyed
the Emperor.
XIII
I’ll See You Again!
THE ATTACK HAD COME
without warning. From nowhere alien spaceships had appeared and approached the space station without identifying themselves and without responding to contact attempts. And when the battle robots, the station’s first line of defense, opened fire, the strangers responded with massive return-fire.
They had driven them off and had even damaged one of their ships severely. But the aliens could be counted on to return. The damage to the station had to be repaired as soon as possible, so that next time, they could confront them, alert and ready for action.
* * *
Ludkamon had been assigned to repair duty in Base Sector 39-201, along with a gang of common cargo loaders, and he hated it immediately.
Base Section 39-201, a flat, hall-like module that served as a fully automated intermediate warehouse for containers, had been struck by a blast and had been out-of-order since then. The damage to the exterior had been repaired, and the sector had been flooded with air again, but was still not in service.
“Attention, everyone,” droned the leader of the repair squad in a voice used to giving commands. “We’ll divide into groups of two and will mark every part of the facility that’s not in working order. Then we’ll reduce gravity in the zone and offload the inaccessible containers by hand. And quickly, please. The tunnel ship is waiting!”
The bulkhead flew up, opening the way into the gigantic, dim hall filled with shelves and transport rails, many of which were dented and partially melted. It smelled cold and dusty.
Dividing into pairs didn’t work out, and Ludkamon headed off alone. He didn’t mind. He couldn’t stand the cargo loaders, not since Iva …
He didn’t want to think about that. Maybe it was good that he had work to do, something to concentrate on. He took out the marking pen and devoted himself to inspecting the conveyor tracks: he spun the rollers by hand, listened to the sound of the rotation, and stopped them again. Wherever the rollers didn’t rotate or made a suspicious sound on the track, he put a mark on the side.
And then he discovered the toppled container.
There were a lot of toppled containers in the hall. But this one had fallen from a conveyor during the shelling. It had struck the shredded side-support of a shelf and the container lid had been slit open, as though by a can opener.
Ludkamon held his breath. An open container!
His whole life he had wondered what was in these containers that arrived here daily by the thousands to be transferred to the tunnel ships. Knowing what was in them was forbidden. The containers—about as long and as wide as a man is tall and hip-high—were always locked and sealed. And what they contained was the subject of the most fantastic rumors.
Ludkamon looked in every direction. Nobody was watching. Just one step, and he would know. One step and he would bring the wrath of the Emperor down on him.
So what. One step, and Ludkamon bent over the gaping hole in the lid of the container.
A rancid, unpleasant odor struck him. His hand brushed across something soft, like fur. What he grabbed in his hand and drew out through the hole looked like a thick blanket or a thin carpet. It seemed to have precisely the dimensions of the container. And the container was filled with them.
Carpets? Odd. Ludkamon stuffed the soft thing back as best he could.
“You weren’t trying to peek into the container just now, were you?” A booming voice gave him a jolt.
Ludkamon sprang to his feet. “Uh, no,” he stammered.
The squad leader stood before him and scrutinized him suspiciously from head to toe. “I bet you were. Ludkamon, your curiosity will cost you your head someday!”
* * *
The doctor bent over the gaping wound with an unemotional but still slightly nauseated expression on his face and a gesture betraying clearly that he considered his presence here an annoying, routine matter. The skull had burst, over an area two hands wide, and the brain mass was oozing out from beneath it—gray and lifeless. He drew the lamp that was suspended above his head down closer, so that its light illuminated the fracture without shadows.
“Well?” the other man asked. His voice echoed in the large, clinically sterile room. “He’s no longer functional.”
With a sigh, the doctor removed his measuring probe from its bracket and touched the brain, making no particular attempt to be careful. He watched the instruments for a while. Nothing moved.
“He’s dead. No doubt,” he said finally.
The other man snorted in annoyance. “Dreadful! And now, of all times!”
“You guys think the attackers will come back?”
“Forewarned and better armed. Yes. There’s no way around it; we need replacements in the Upper Sector as soon as possible, before the Portal Station is attacked again.”
The doctor nodded without emotion. “I’m finished.”
He began removing the life-support cables and turning off the machines. The soft, subliminal humming that had been audible in the cool room the whole time fell silent.
* * *
Ping!
With a signal that sounded metallic, Space Traffic Control sent the alert that a new blip had appeared on the screen. The man at the console looked up. He immediately found the dot flashing alone on the monitor, and his hand moved nervously toward the alarm switch.
Endless seconds passed before the proper identification appeared beside the dot and it stopped blinking. I-70113. One of the Imperial Ships. The man let go of the alarm button and switched on the radio.
“I-70113, Gateway Station here. Boarding time is 108. We’re on heightened alert. Prepare to be escorted by battle robots. You’re assigned to the southwest approach quadrant. From 115 on, you’ll be on an autoguide-ray; your landing assignment is Bay 2.”
The voice from the speaker sounded calm and businesslike, as always. “Portal Station, we copy. Approach southwest. Landing Bay 2. Guide-ray beginning at 115. Over and out.”
“Over and out,” the man confirmed. They had not asked for details. Apparently they knew nothing about the attack by the alien spaceships. Well, now they would find out.
* * *
From his seat in the glass cabin Ludkamon had a view of the entire landing bay, the enormous airlock gates, the catwalks and stairs, and the mountainous piles of empty containers.
We serve the Emperor.
The individual beads of the Guardschain slid soothingly through his fingers.
Whose word is law.
Who could tell how many times he had recited the Oath of the Portal Guards today to rein in his wildly galloping thoughts?
Whose will is our will. Whose anger is terrible.
Everything was going more slowly since the alien attack. The repairs were mostly completed, and there were long stretches of downtime when he knew no other way to calm himself.
Who forgives not, but punishes. And whose vengeance is eternal.
Once again the question ran through his mind, why the final bead for the last sentence of the oath was covered with fur, and he thought about the strange fabric he had found in the container. Then he saw Iva, his Iva, flirting with Feuk—with this disgusting, cocky fellow—and the jealousy he had fought so hard to control boiled up inside him.
Ludkamon examined his reflection in one of the inactive monitor screens. He saw a reedy young man who seemed awkward and clumsy, with an otherwise rather inconspicuous appearance. Reluctantly, he had to admit to himself that he could not quite explain why a girl like Iva wasted any time at all on him. He could more easily understand why she liked Feuk, and these thoughts unleashed a fiery pain in his gut, leaving him feeling ugly and small. Feuk was a cargo loader, big, strong and self-confident, a giant with golden locks and muscles of steel. He, Ludkamon, had risen at an amazingly young age to loading supervisor—a position that would always be beyond Feuk because of its mental prerequisites—and he really did feel that he was destined for even higher things. But he had never noticed that women were impressed by mental ability.
A notice appeared on the screen before him. Ludkamon read it reluctantly, and with an angry gesture, switched on the hall loudspeakers for the necessary announcement.
“Space Traffic Control reports the approach of Imperial Ship I-70113. Estimated arrival time: 116.”
The loading crew began to move, conveyor belts were shifted into position, counters were reset, and transport trolleys were prepared. A signal light above the airlock gates indicated that the air was being pumped out of the lock chamber. The groans and creaks of the great gates that had to withstand the pressure of the vacuum seemed to announce impending disaster throughout the hall, but the workers were used to it.
Look! Feuk had grabbed her ass, and she was laughing. She just did whatever she wanted. He would never be able to handle her carefree lust for life. Angrily, Ludkamon crumpled up the top sheet of his writing tablet and flung it into the corner.
* * *
The news was broadcast by all the Portal Station media into the living quarters. “The station administration has announced that the winner of the next championship will be promoted to the Upper Sector.”
Hundreds caught the scent of an opportunity. Here was a chance open to everyone to reach the management level. Amazing things were said about the luxury enjoyed by those in the Upper Sector. Nobody had ever seen it: the Upper Sector was strictly sealed off from the Main Sector, and no one who had been promoted to the management level had ever returned. It was rumored that members of the Upper Sector enjoyed treatments to extend their lives. But at any rate, they would never lift a finger again. Never load another container. This was an opportunity.
* * *
She kissed him long and lovingly, and he felt he would melt completely away. With a sigh, he twined his fingers through her hair, inhaled the heavenly scent of her, and whispered with closed eyes: “Iva, I love you.”
“I love you, too, Ludkamon.” She gave him another kiss on the tip of his nose and sat up.
He still lay with his eyes closed and savored the tender feelings inside himself. When he realized she was dressing, he suddenly sat bolt upright.
“What are you doing? Where are you going?”
She looked at the clock. “I have a date with Feuk.”
“With Feuk…!” He almost screamed the words. “But … you just said you love
me!
”
“And I meant it.” Her smile asked for forgiveness. “But I love Feuk, too.”
She kissed him once more and left. Stunned, Ludkamon watched her depart. Then he doubled up his fist and pounded it into his mattress again and again and again.
* * *
The tunnel transfer ship hung on the side of the Portal Station like a great, blister-shaped growth. In contrast to the Imperial Ships that swarmed around the station like insects around a flower stalk, it was positively monstrous. In an endless stream, the containers vanished into its insatiable cargo holds, guarded by men and women in black uniforms who were referred to with awe as “tunnel riders.”
Daily, the Imperial Ships arrived, put in at one of the twenty-four landing bays; they were unloaded and then departed with empty containers. On high-volume days, fifty thousand containers were transferred, sometimes even eighty thousand. Most days, ten thousand containers rumbled along the conveyor tracks and transport belts of the Loading Sector—from the landing bays to the docking station of the transfer ship.