burst into tears.
“I have not punished Earth, nor that frontier world, nor sought to find a possible assassin,” the Emperor went on, icily. “My only hope is that my last remaining son will make a good Emperor, despite his . . . handicaps.”
Javas turned very deliberately in his chair to stare out at the dark forest. He seemed bored by the antagonism between his wife and his father. Rihana glowered like molten steel.
The dinner ended in dismal, bitter silence. The Emperor sent them all away to their rooms while he remained on the terrace and stared hard at the stars strewn across the sky so thickly that there could be no darkness.
He closed his eyes and summoned a computer-assisted image of Earth’s Sun. He saw it coalesce from a hazy cloud of cold gas and dust, saw it turn into a star and spawn planets. Saw it beaming out energy that allowed life to grow and flourish on one of those planets. And then saw it age, blemish, erupt, swell, and finally collapse into a dark cinder.
Just as I will, thought the Emperor. The Sun and I have both reached the age where a bit of rejuvenation is needed. Otherwise . . . death.
He opened his eyes and looked down at his veined, fleshless, knobby hands. How different from hers! How young and vital she is.
With a touch on one of the control studs set into the arm of his powerchair, he headed for his bedroom.
I cannot be rejuvenated. It is wrong even to desire it. But the Sun? Would it be wrong to try? Is it proper for puny men to tamper with the destinies of the stars themselves?
Once in his tower-top bedroom he called for her. Adela came to him quickly, without delay or question. She wore a simple knee-length gown tied loosely at the waist. It hung limply over her boyish figure.
“You sent for me, Sire.” It was not a question but a statement. The Emperor knew her meaning: I will do what you ask, but in return I expect you to give me what I desire.
He was already reclining in the soft embrace of his bed. The texture of the monolayer surface felt soft and protective. The warmth of the water beneath it eased his tired body.
“Come here, child. Come and talk to me. I hardly ever sleep anymore; it gives my doctors something to worry about. Come and sit beside me and tell me all about yourself . . . the parts of your life story that are not on file in the computers.”
She sat on the edge of the huge bed, and its nearly-living surface barely dimpled under her spare body.
“What would you like to know?” she asked.
“I have never had a daughter,” the Emperor said. “What was your childhood like? How did you become the woman you are?”
She began to tell him. Living underground in the mining settlements on Gris. Seeing sunlight only when the planet was far enough from its too-bright star to let humans walk the surface safely. Playing in the tunnels. Sent by her parents to other worlds for schooling. The realization that her beauty was not physical. The few lovers she had known. The astronomer who had championed her cause to the Emperor at that meeting nearly fifteen years ago. Their brief marriage. Its breakup when he realized that being married to her kept him from advancing in the hierarchy.
“You have known pain too,” the Emperor said.
“It’s not an Imperial prerogative,” she answered softly. “Everyone who lives knows pain.”
By now the sky was milky white with the approach of dawn. The Emperor smiled at her.
“Before breakfast everyone in the palace will know that you spent the night with me. I’m afraid I have ruined your reputation.”
She smiled back. “Or perhaps made my reputation.”
He reached out and took her by the shoulders. Holding her at arm’s length, he searched her face with a long, sad, almost fatherly look.
“It would not be a kindness to grant your request. If I allow you to pursue this dream of yours, have you any idea of the enemies it would make for you? Your life would be so cruel, so filled with envy and hatred.”
“I
“I have not punished Earth, nor that frontier world, nor sought to find a possible assassin,” the Emperor went on, icily. “My only hope is that my last remaining son will make a good Emperor, despite his . . . handicaps.”
Javas turned very deliberately in his chair to stare out at the dark forest. He seemed bored by the antagonism between his wife and his father. Rihana glowered like molten steel.
The dinner ended in dismal, bitter silence. The Emperor sent them all away to their rooms while he remained on the terrace and stared hard at the stars strewn across the sky so thickly that there could be no darkness.
He closed his eyes and summoned a computer-assisted image of Earth’s Sun. He saw it coalesce from a hazy cloud of cold gas and dust, saw it turn into a star and spawn planets. Saw it beaming out energy that allowed life to grow and flourish on one of those planets. And then saw it age, blemish, erupt, swell, and finally collapse into a dark cinder.
Just as I will, thought the Emperor. The Sun and I have both reached the age where a bit of rejuvenation is needed. Otherwise . . . death.
He opened his eyes and looked down at his veined, fleshless, knobby hands. How different from hers! How young and vital she is.
With a touch on one of the control studs set into the arm of his powerchair, he headed for his bedroom.
I cannot be rejuvenated. It is wrong even to desire it. But the Sun? Would it be wrong to try? Is it proper for puny men to tamper with the destinies of the stars themselves?
Once in his tower-top bedroom he called for her. Adela came to him quickly, without delay or question. She wore a simple knee-length gown tied loosely at the waist. It hung limply over her boyish figure.
“You sent for me, Sire.” It was not a question but a statement. The Emperor knew her meaning: I will do what you ask, but in return I expect you to give me what I desire.
He was already reclining in the soft embrace of his bed. The texture of the monolayer surface felt soft and protective. The warmth of the water beneath it eased his tired body.
“Come here, child. Come and talk to me. I hardly ever sleep anymore; it gives my doctors something to worry about. Come and sit beside me and tell me all about yourself . . . the parts of your life story that are not on file in the computers.”
She sat on the edge of the huge bed, and its nearly-living surface barely dimpled under her spare body.
“What would you like to know?” she asked.
“I have never had a daughter,” the Emperor said. “What was your childhood like? How did you become the woman you are?”
She began to tell him. Living underground in the mining settlements on Gris. Seeing sunlight only when the planet was far enough from its too-bright star to let humans walk the surface safely. Playing in the tunnels. Sent by her parents to other worlds for schooling. The realization that her beauty was not physical. The few lovers she had known. The astronomer who had championed her cause to the Emperor at that meeting nearly fifteen years ago. Their brief marriage. Its breakup when he realized that being married to her kept him from advancing in the hierarchy.
“You have known pain too,” the Emperor said.
“It’s not an Imperial prerogative,” she answered softly. “Everyone who lives knows pain.”
By now the sky was milky white with the approach of dawn. The Emperor smiled at her.
“Before breakfast everyone in the palace will know that you spent the night with me. I’m afraid I have ruined your reputation.”
She smiled back. “Or perhaps made my reputation.”
He reached out and took her by the shoulders. Holding her at arm’s length, he searched her face with a long, sad, almost fatherly look.
“It would not be a kindness to grant your request. If I allow you to pursue this dream of yours, have you any idea of the enemies it would make for you? Your life would be so cruel, so filled with envy and hatred.”
“I
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