Steve White - Emperor of Dawn.pdf - Steve White - widez2

Emperor of Dawn

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

Emperor of Dawn

by Steve White

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any

resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Page 1

Riverdale, NY 10471

ISBN: 0-671-57797-2

Cover art by Larry Elmore

First printing, May 1999

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Printed in the United States of America

CHAPTER ONE

Santaclara (Iota Pegasi A IV), 4325 C.E.

The primary sun was breaking over the rim of the world below, flooding the observation bubble with

light that banished the distant red-dwarf companion star. Corin Marshak stood silhouetted against that

blaze as the steward cleared his throat.

"We've established orbit, sir. We can begin transposing passengers down shortly, and you have top

priority."

"Thank you." Slowly, as though reluctant to take leave of the view, Corin turned around to face the

steward. He stepped forward with the limp that had grown less pronounced in the course of the voyage.

Away from the star-glare beyond the transparent armorplast, details emerged: a tall, slender, youngish

man, dark of hair and complexion, prominent of nose. He wore his maroon civilian jumpsuit like a

uniform.

"Thank you," he repeated a little less abstractedly. "I'll be ready shortly. Tell them not to delay anyone

else's departure on my account."

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"Very good, sir." The steward gave a small bow and departed. Corin looked around. People were

drifting away, leaving only a few in the observation bubble. He turned back to the spectacle outside.

They were approaching the terminator, and Santaclara's day side stood revealed. A hot young F5v star

such as this had no business possessing a blue cloud-swirling life-bearing planet. . . .

"Think we'll see a Luon?"

He started at the voice and turned to look at its owner. He'd noticed the auburn-haired woman before,

but had never been presented with an opportunity for self-introduction that met his rather exacting

standards in such things. Now she herself had finally made the move, and was giving him a gaze of frank

appraisal with clear blue eyes that suited a complexion fair enough to be potentially inconvenient under

this sun. And, to his annoyance, he found himself struck most by the way she'd paralleled his own

thoughts, which had been leading him by a natural chain of association to the ancient terraformers, now

dying out, who had bequeathed worlds like Santaclara to their human successors.

"Probably not," he replied. "I've heard that some people here claim to have seen one, still alive in the

mountains. But stories like that are usually just imagination and alcohol. Nobody sees the Luonli unless

they want to be seen."

"You mean . . . the stories about them being mind-controllers?" Like a cloud shadow on a windy day, an

uneasy frown crossed her face. Those features were too strongly marked for conventional prettiness, and

too expressive to mask her feelings. Once seen, they lingered in the memory.

"That's probably a little strong. As I understand it, influencing the mind is about the extent of their

telepathic capacity. And they've never shown any inclination to use it except to preserve their privacy as

they quietly dwindle toward extinction." Corin decided he was waxing altogether too serious, and that

self-introduction was in order. "By the way, I'm Commander Corin Marshak. I had to use civilian

transportation for the last leg of my trip to this system because—"

"—the Fleet is swamped at this end of the Empire as a result of the preparations for the Emperor's visit

to the Cassiopeia frontier," she finished for him. "Yes, I know. I'm Major Janille Dornay . . . sir."

Corin extended his hand. The Marine major returned his handshake with a grip whose strength didn't

surprise him. It went with her lithe leanness. Still, civilian clothes looked better on her than on him. . . .

"So, Major, you must be in the same position I am."

"Yes . . . except that I haven't come nearly as far." She hesitated, unable to think of a graceful way to

refer to his limp. "I've heard talk that you saw action against the Ch'axanthu—that you're only just back

from there." She paused, inviting reminiscences.

"Yes." He realized the monosyllable had come out more curtly than he'd intended, and sought to perform

conversational salvage. "Actually, I wasn't thinking of the Luonli just now," he lied, indicating the

planetary panorama unfolding below. "I was thinking of all the history this world holds."

"History?" Her brow crinkled with puzzlement, then cleared. "Oh, yes. I remember now. Many centuries

ago, the Iota Pegasi system was part of the New Human rebels' state, whatever it was called."

"The `People's Democratic Union,' " Corin supplied. "And it was four and a half standard centuries ago,

to be exact. But I was thinking of what happened after that. This was where Basil Castellan declared

himself Emperor."

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Her eyes widened. "You mean . . . the Basil Castellan? And his friends Sonja Rady and Torval

Bogdan?" Her eyes strayed to the planetscape of Santaclara. "Right here?"

He could understand her incredulous astonishment. The New Human rebellion against the old Solarian

Empire was a matter of dry history, but the trio she had named belonged to the realm of legend, beyond

any tedious fixity of time and place. He might as well have told her that Old King Cole had held court on

the planet beneath them, or that the Argonauts had sailed its seas.

"Right here," he affirmed. "They really did live, you know—even though they've been so mythologized by

now that it's hard to separate the facts from the fables. After he broke with Yoshi Medina, Castellan

established himself in former rebel space, where the people saw him as the hero who'd freed them from

the New Humans. He only reigned a little while, before he was defeated by treachery."

"Is it true," Janille asked, eyes still on the planet that had suddenly taken on a whole new aspect for her,

"that he and Rady disappeared afterwards? That their bodies were never found?"

"That's right. On the backwater worlds of these sectors, they still say that he never died, that he's in

cryogenic suspension somewhere, and will return when the people need him."

She laughed nervously. "Cryo suspension for four hundred years? I don't think so. Besides, it's for

damned sure he didn't come back to save the Empire from the Zyungen, or from the rabble of Beyonders

who followed them." She couldn't quite sustain her scornful tone to the end of her last sentence. "I

wonder," she resumed after a moment, as much to herself as to him, "what it was like to live in those

days?"

"You mean Castellan's lifetime and the generation or so after it? The age of romantic high adventure?"

Corin gave a short sound that held too little humor to be called a laugh. " `Adventure' has been defined as

somebody else having a horrible time hundreds of years ago or dozens of light-years away. It was an age

of nonstop civil war and murderous intrigue—just the kind of age that makes for great historical fiction."

He gazed moodily through the transparent armorplast. "The real question is, what would Castellan think

of our age?"

Somehow, he could feel her stiffen from across the few feet that separated them. "What do you mean?

There's only one way he could see it. Why, within our lifetimes, the Empire has finally been reunified. The

dream he gave his life for has come true!"

An idealist, Corin thought sadly. Like me, you grew up on the news stories of Armand Duschane's

reconquest . . . no, more like `triumphal march' after he'd established the only real power base in

Imperial space. And, like me, you went into the military to join the grand and glorious parade of

the Renewed Empire.

And, unlike me, you haven't just returned from the Ch'axanthu war. . . .

His mind flashed back to his Academy days, and the words of wisdom Tristan LoBhutto, the class

lady-killer, had condescendingly dispensed to his envious fellow cadets. "The object of a conversation

with a woman is neither to enlighten nor to persuade. Nor is it to score debating points. It is to get laid."

Of course, Corin had outgrown that sort of thing by now. Of course. Or perhaps he had simply reached

the end of his ability to hold his bitterness inside.

"Yes, the Empire has been reunified. But it isn't the first time that's been done since Castellan's death.

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Medina's old military henchmen of the Marvell family did it when they kicked out his grandson and

founded their own dynasty."

"But that dynasty's reunification was just a false start. It only lasted . . . how many years?"

"Less than forty. But it remains to be seen whether we'll do as well."

Her eyes flashed blue fire, but then they strayed involuntarily in the direction of Corin's left leg. And

when she spoke she sounded almost contrite, remembering where he'd been. "Yes, I know—not as well

as you, of course—that the Ch'axanthu have handed us a setback—"

"The third in as many standard years," Corin interrupted drily.

"—but they show no inclination or ability to follow up on it," she finished doggedly. "They can't bring us

down like the Zyungen did the Marvell dynasty."

"You're right about that. I don't think aliens like the Ch'axanthu or Beyonders like the Tarakans are going

to do us in. Actually, we're doing such a good job of it ourselves that it would be superfluous."

This time her stiffening was visible. Her blue eyes met his brown-black ones and silently asked the

question she couldn't put to a superior officer: If you feel that way, then—

"What am I doing in the Fleet?" he finished aloud for her. "Maybe I'm an idealist too, Major. Or, more

likely, maybe I prefer anything to passivity—even futility."

"But . . . Look, I know there's a lot of unrest and resentment around, but—"

"I doubt if you know just how much." Corin thought of the Ursa Major frontier region from which he'd

come, and which—as was always the case with the worlds nearest the seat of an interstellar war—had

borne a disproportionate share of the burden. His convalescence had kept him out of the "police actions"

as minor rebellions had flickered through those sectors. But some of the things he'd heard . . . "Or how

justified they are."

A moment's silence passed as she visibly clamped control down on her features. "Excuse me, sir, but I

need to prepare for departure." She turned on her heel and marched from the observation bubble.

Corin turned back to the transparency, but this time he was looking at his own reflection in the

armorplast. Ass , he thought dispassionately in its direction. Then he departed from the now-deserted

dome.

* * *

"Well, Commander, your record speaks for itself." Vice Admiral Julius Tanzler-Yataghan looked up from

the hardcopy and gazed across his desk at the newly arrived officer. "Yes, very impressive indeed. And

you've certainly come quite a distance."

"I have that, sir," Corin replied. The Ursa Major frontier was on the far side of the Empire. It had been a

journey of almost two months. "At least it gave me time to adjust to my new leg."

"Ah, yes. I would hardly have realized it was regrown if your record didn't describe the circumstances

under which you lost it." The admiral indicated the citation which contained the description. Fleet uniform

regulations prescribed that decorations be worn only with full dress. Corin was wearing the gray tunic

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