only slightly familiar with the cluster. “The Jochians, among others, right? But, I thought they were among the best allies we have on board.”
“They are,” the Emperor said firmly. “And I want them to stay that way. Trouble is, the Khaqan — which is what the fellow who runs the joint calls himself — is up to his ass in alligators.”
The Emperor held up a mound of cubed meat. About two pounds worth, Sten noted. “This is goat,” the Emperor said. “I had a field constructed for him and his brothers and sisters. Had the field planted with the same stuff his ancestors ate in India — mint, wild onion, you name it.” He plunked the mass into an ovenproof casserole.
“The Khaqan is getting old and a little past it,” the Emperor went on in his typical veer back and forth between subjects. Except that over the years Sten had noted there really was no veer at all: Each topic always had something to do with the other. Just as the meals he cooked always related to the main issue at hand.
“Anyway,” the Emperor continued, “the trouble is mostly his fault . . . Still, I can’t afford to lose him.”
Sten nodded agreement. Whoever this Khaqan was, the Altaic Cluster was an important ally. Worse: It was damned close to Prime.
“What’s threatening him, sir?”
“Just about everything and everybody,” the Emperor said.
He started shaking out spices over the goat. “A little ginger,” he said, shifting to the recipe again. “Ground cloves, cardamom, chili, cumin . . . heavier than the others . . . couple of squeezes of garlic, and ye olde salt and pepper.”
The Emperor dumped in some yogurt and lemon juice, and stirred up the whole mess, then set it to the side. He started frying onions in peanut oil.
“There are three separate species in the Altaics,” he said. “Split four ways. And all of them are sons of bitches. First, there’s the Jochians. Human. The majority race. The Khaqan is a Jochian, natch.”
“Right,” Sten said. That was the way things usually worked under one-being rule. Present company excepted. There were far fewer humans than other species in the Empire.
“Their top world is Jochi, which is where the Khaqan hangs his head. It’s the center of the cluster. Anyway . . . to the other villains in this piece . . .”
He dumped half the fried onions on the meat and mixed it up. He pulled the rice off the range. The water had been boiling for about five minutes. He drained the rice, stirred it up with the onions, and spread it out over the goat.
“A little butter drizzled on the top,” the Emperor said, “and . . . voila! I call this Bombay Birani, but basically it’s an old goat stew.” He slammed on a tight-fitting lid, popped the casserole into the oven, and set it for bake.
“Now, I’m going to cheat,” the Emperor said. “The way this is supposed to go is, you set it at 380 degrees. Bake one hour. Then cut it to 325 and go for an hour more.”
Sten tucked those figures away, along with the rest of the recipe.
“But Marr and Senn, bless their souls, have come up with a new oven. Cuts real time half or more. And I can’t tell the difference.”
“About those other villains, sir?”
“Oh, right. Okay, we’ve got the Jochians. Human, as I said. Besides being the majority race, they’ve got one of my old trading charters. I gave it to them maybe five hundred years ago. It was a wild and wooly frontier area then.
“Which brings me to the Tork. Human, as well. Old boom-town types.” Sten didn’t know exactly what the Emperor meant, but he got the drift.
“The Torks hit the cluster earlier when Imperium X was discovered in the region,” the Emperor went on. “Miners. Ship jumpers. Storekeeps. Joyboys and joygirls. That sort. Except, when the Imperium X played out, they stayed on instead of drifting to the next glory hole.”
Imperium X was the only element that could shield the Anti-Matter Two particle. AM2 was the fuel that had built the Empire. And it was under the rigid control of the Eternal Emperor. So much so, that when the privy council had assassinated him, all AM2 supplies had automatically stopped. For six years the privy council had searched fruitlessly for its source. In the meantime, the Empire had plunged toward ruin — a state Sten was currently engaged in helping to turn around. Although sometimes he wasn’t sure he would see it happen in his lifetime.
“Of course, the Torks objected when the Jochians showed up. These merchant adventurers smacked some heads together, showed them my charter — and that was that.
“Time passed, and the Jochians fell apart a little. Turned into not much more than separate worlds — city-states. The current Khaqan’s father pulled things back together a couple three hundred years ago.”
Sten made no comment. It was frontier justice. He had used a little of those old ways to bring the privy council to bay.
“What about the other two species? Natives of the cluster, I assume?” he asked.
“Correct. They break down into the Suzdal and the Bogazi. Don’t know much about them. They probably have the same touchy points as any other beings. Apparently when the Torks arrived, they were just climbing off their own home worlds and had discovered one another.
“They had pitiful spaceships. But they were doing a good job of knocking each other off when the Torks came along. Didn’t have to do too much ass kicking. Star drive has a way of putting any backward being in awe.”
Sten could imagine the shock. Here you had just managed to struggle up the tech ladder from stone to space. You look around at the waiting stars, feeling pretty good about yourself. You’re standing at the top of your history, right? No one who has ever gone before has accomplished as much.
Then, wham! Aliens — in this case, human — show up with all their fancy gadgets, plus weapons, all of which can blow you back to flaking stone chips. Plus, marvel of all marvels, they can jump from one star to the next, from system to system. Even cruise the galaxies with ease. AM2 drive. The greatest achievement in history.
For the first time, Sten imagined what it must have been like when the Emperor arrived on scene so many centuries before with AM2 under his arm. It would have rocked any civilization that existed, put them on their knees begging to see the light.
The Eternal Emperor was musing over some half-remembered ingredient. “Cilantro,” he said. “That’s the ticket.” He crumbled some leaves into a dish of chopped up cucumber and yogurt.
Yes, Sten thought. AM2 plus the secret to eternal life . . . It must have really been something.
* * * *
It was an incredible dinner. Unforgettable. As usual.
There were mounds of food all over the table. Dhal and cucumber cooler. Three kinds of chutney: green mango, Bengal, and hot lime. Real hot lime. Little dishes of extra hot sauces and tiny red peppers. And fresh griddled flat bread — chapattis, the Emperor called it. Plus the Bombay Birani. Fragrant steam rose from the casserole.
“Dig in,” the Emperor said. Sten dug.
For long minutes they just ate, savoring each bite and washing it down with what the Emperor swore was Thai beer.
When starvation was no longer threatening, the Emperor speared a hunk of goat with his fork and held it up to examine it.
“About my old buddy, the Khaqan,” he said. He popped the goat into his mouth and chewed. “He’s a tyrant of the first order. And I won’t deny it. Trouble with being a tyrant is you can never lose your moves. You can’t let the lid up a little to allow the steam to escape. If you do, your enemies take it as a sign of weakness. And you’ve got trouble.
“You also can’t get sloppy. Or senile. The Khaqan, I’m afraid, is getting sloppy. He may even be getting senile, for all I know. I do know he has every life-support system available