The Court of a Thousand Suns (Sten #3). Allan Cole
Technically, it didn’t matter where the attendees sat; huge holographic screens rose at regular intervals atop the walls, giving the spectators access to instant close-ups as well as to occasional cut-arounds to those people in the “first circle” who were somehow Noteworthy.
Some events, such as Sten’s “rescue”, were only held at the far end of the parade ground, next to the castle itself. But most were set up to run continuously, down each area to an eventual exit at the far end of the parade ground.
Empire Day was the most spectacular staged event of the year. The Court still proclaimed itself the Court of a Thousand Suns, even though the Empire numbered far more systems than that, and Empire Day was when those suns shone most brightly.
It was also a night on which anything might happen.
* * * *
Wheezing, Sten leaned against the wall of the concrete tunnel — a tunnel normally sealed by heavy collapsed-steel blast doors. Now the doors were raised to permit the Empire Day participants entry onto the parade ground.
Beside him, panting more sedately, was Havildar-Major Lalbahadur Thapa. The other Gurkhas had been praised and dismissed, to spend, for them, a far more enjoyable evening devoted to gambling and massive consciousness-alteration by whatever substances they chose.
“That was a famous display,” Lalbahadur grunted.
“Yuh,” Sten said.
“I am sure that, should any evil man desire to hold our Chamberlain for ransom, he will never do it on the edge of this castle.”
Sten grinned. In the three months he’d commanded the Emperor’s Own Gurkha Bodyguard, he’d learned that the Nepalese sense of humor matched his own, most especially in its total lack of respect toward superior officers. “You’re cynical. This has given us much honor.”
“That is true. But what puzzles me is that one time I made my ablution in one hand, and waited for the other hand to fill up with honor.” Lalbahadur mocked sadness. “There was no balance.
“At least there is one thing,” Lalbahadur brightened. “Our heroism will be shown to the parbitayas back home, and we shall have no trouble finding new fools who want to climb walls for the glory of the Emperor.”
Sten’s comeback was broken off as a band crashed into noise behind him. The officer and the noncom straightened as the Honor Guard of the Emperor’s Own Praetorians thundered forward. Sten and Lalbahadur saluted the colors, then shrank back against the wall as the 600-plus men of the palace guard, all polished leather, gleaming metal, and automata, slammed past.
At the head of the formation the Praetorian’s commanding officer, Colonel Den Fohlee, ramrodded a salute back at Sten, then snapped his eyes forward as the honor unit wheeled out onto the parade ground, to be met with cheers.
“My father once told me,” Lalbahadur observed, “that there are only two kinds of men in the world. Normally, I do not listen to such nonsense, since it is my thought that the only two kinds of men in the world are those who see only two kinds of men in the world and those who do not.” He stopped, slightly confused.
“Two kinds of men, your father said,” Sten prompted.
“Yes. There are those who love to polish metal and leather and there are those who would rather drink. Captain, to which group do you belong?”
“Pass, Havildar,” Sten said with regret. “I’m still on duty.”
Sten and the noncom saluted, then the small, stocky man doubled off. Sten had a few minutes before guard check, so he walked to the end of the tunnel to watch the Praetorians parade.
They were very, very good, as befits any group of men and women whose sole duties and training consisted in total devotion to their leaders, an ability to stand motionless for hours on guard, and colorful ceremonious pirouetting.
Sten was being unfair, but the few times he’d been told off for parade duties, he’d found it a pain in the moulinette. Parading soldiers may be interesting to some types, but those people could never have spent the endless dull hours of shining and rehearsal that a parade takes.
Although Sten had to admit that the Praetorians were highly skilled. They paraded with archaic projectile weapons; the stubby, efficient willygun wasn’t spectacular enough for any manual of arms. And the willygun had no provision for a bayonet. By the fortieth century, the benefits of mounting a can opener on the end of a rifle were long gone, save for ceremonial purposes.
And so the Praetorians jerked to and fro in intricate array with near-four-foot-long rifles.
The soldiers initially had their weapons at the shoulder. On count, the weapons came down to waist-carry, the bayonets gleaming before them like so many spears.
Marching in extended order, on command, each rank would wheel and march back toward the next rank’s lowered bayonets. Sten winced to think what would happen if a noncom missed a beat in the continual chant of commands.
The unit pivoted back on itself, then wheel-turned in ranks. By chant, they began a progressive manual of arms; as each line’s boots would crash against the tarmac, that rank would move from carry arms to port arms to shoulder arms to reverse shoulder arms.
Simultaneously, squads broke apart and began doing by-the-count rifle tosses — continuing the progressive manual, but after the shoulder arms command each soldier would pitch his weapon straight up and backward, to be caught by the next person in ranks.
Sten, watching with give-me-strength cynicism, hadn’t enough history to have met the old line: “It’s pretty, but is it war?”
CHAPTER THREE
THERE ARE CERTAIN beings everyone loves on first sight: They seem to live on a slightly higher plane than all others. And yet those noble ones find an echo of themselves in other living things. They see life as art, so therefore can be somewhat pretentious. Yet they also mock their own pretensions.
Marr and his lover, Senn, were two such beings, twittering superlatives over the Praetorian Guard.
“My, what lusty fellows,” Marr said. “All those muscles and musk. Almost makes a creature want to be human.”
“You wouldn’t know what to do with even one of them if you were,” Senn sniffed. “I should know. It certainly has been a long time since you tried your wicked way with me.”
“I was merely admiring those wonderful young men. They please the eye. Nothing to do with sex. A subject you always seem to have on the cranium.”
“Oh, gonads. Let’s not fight, Marr, dear. It’s a party. And you know how I love a party.”
Senn softened. Perhaps he was behaving like an off-cycle human. He leaned closer to Marr and let their antennae twine. Parties always got to him, too.
In fact, there were very few beings in the Empire who knew more about parties than Senn and Marr. Celebrations of all kinds were their specialty — a little gutter, a little tack, interesting personalities tossed into a conversational salad. Their official function on Prime World was that of the Imperial Caterers. They were always deploring the fact that the Eternal Emperor’s get-togethers put them in the red. They were, however, much too good businessbeings to deplore too loudly; the Emperor’s “custom” was the reason their catering service was booked years in advance.
In an age not generally known for permanent bondings, the two Milchen stood out. They had been sexually paired for more than a century and were passionately determined that the relationship should go on for a century more. However, such stability was not unusual in their species; for the Milchen of Frederick Two, pairing was literally for life — when one member of a Milchen pair died, the other would always follow within a few days. Long-term pairings among the Milchen were always of the same sex.
For want of a better description, call it male. The other gender — put the “female” label on it, it’s easier — was called Ursoolas.