EMPIRE SHIP

by Christopher McKitterick

PART THREE: 4802 AE

Admiral Iikjurty VII, Ships Chi; Captain, Ship Chi‑1

Iikjurty sailed above the clouds, inspecting the growing hull of Ship Chi‑5 through his antigrav car's windscreen. Thunder ravaged the night, 200‑knot winds forced the car's drive to whine, and a bad seal passed an icy blast of air through the green-lit cabin. Far below, thousand-kilometer-long titan alloy keels joined together alumstone ribs, glowing green with the storm's energy, flashing bright as vast bolts of lightning joined Ship to sky.

Iikjurty was pleased to see that the planking � black microfactured wood a hundred meters thick � had already grown three-quarters of the way from stem to stern, arching along the skeleton to fill in the double-pointed oval of the hull. Inside, hundreds of levels were already upholstered in rugged stone, steel girder, living jungle, water.... The space bays were still just encircling baskets of alloy waiting for the inner hull to be completed. Empty, such a Ship could contain the entire population of Man, given they were packed inside like ammunition in a clip. This was a traditional Empire Ship, using the exact same plans as the original Ship Chi.

The beauty of this operation � the birth of a new Ship � brought tears to Iikjurty's eyes. He was proud to be Admiral at this moment.

Even though Iikjurty recognized following tradition worked against him now when times demanded change, beached on this world, he also knew tradition was the most vital element to maintaining shiplife: Such vessels had for thousands of years been home to a quarter billion souls each, and those crews must always stay insulated and self-contained, aloof from an interstellar society that might otherwise attempt to keep them in check, weaken and destroy them. At the same time, an Empire Ship crew absolutely must maintain their bubble-civilization's pure, engineered form or else it would be a threat to the very Empire it was to uphold. Therefore, only by strictly adhering to tradition � behavioral blueprints not unlike that of this growing vessel � could the Ships execute their duties.

Iikjurty opened a channel and demanded a progress report.

"On schedule, my lord," said the holo of the CD Leader. Instant response. Good man. "Less than two thousand days to launch."

"Acceptable."

"Eternal is the Empire."

After cutting the connection, the Admiral smiled. In fewer than two thousand Rosco‑9 days � about 900 days standard to the rest of the pathetic human galaxy � Ship Chi‑5 would be ready to crew. His forefathers had waited longer than two centuries for the Empire to rise again before attempting to restore their vessel, but when the Empire failed to reclaim galactic supremacy, Captain Vanus I � now remembered as Admiral Vanus I � ordered Ship Chi repaired. If only they hadn't waited so long, Iikjurty thought. Nearly two more centuries, and that goal was still not realized. Iikjurty's Technicians assured him that they would not only restore Chi‑1's drive, but would also build four more to install into the newly built Ships. If they failed... well, they knew failure would prompt Iikjurty's displeasure. But he was not one to dwell on possible defeats. Instead, he thought of glory.

Oh, the grand vision: Five Empire Ships rising on antigrav fields, five man-made moons entering on a glorious mission to restore the Empire! Micros were already breeding that would devour much of this planet's crust, converting it into more autofighters and slag, and then....

Then Admiral Iikjurty VII, Captain of Ship Chi‑1, would mount the greatest mission in all history, greater perhaps � though sacrilegious to even think � greater than the founding of the original Empire: His three billion men, his world of Empire Shipmen without an Empire, would spread out across the galaxy � three billion men who tasted destiny like a victim's blood on their tongues. Their destiny: Revive the Empire by whipping into shape the over-rich and decadent Interstellar Trade Union, those five hundred or so human worlds and a few bright aliens � weak, soft, sickly, downright feminine. Loathsome creatures, those humans. And the aliens? Iikjurty sneered and slapped the goggles away from his face.

Aliens have no place in the Eternal Galactic Empire of Man . Surely he would not destroy them, for they would prove invaluable for many purposes. Iikjurty was a visionary man; he wasted nothing, especially not during such great and formative times. One did not incinerate one's tools, but neither did one fornicate with them.

He directed the car to dive inside the Ship's hull, and it responded immediately, falling so quickly a lesser man might have felt queasy. This Ship, the fourth one he'd ordered built since that damned ITU probe�. Oh, had men lost their cocks for allowing that intrusion! This one would be the last. Five Empire Ships should be more than enough to re-establish the Eternal Galactic Empire of Man. His men had been closely studying the Union's comm traffic, and they appeared to have virtually no military at all, just a police force that would have been a joke in the days of the Empire. Five Ships would be enough; they'd have to be.

Time was certainly short: Iikjurty had to assume that the Union would respond at first opportunity, and that might be dangerously soon, when his vessels were not yet complete. His Technicians assumed space-drive technology outside hadn't improved in any significant way since the days of Empire, about which assumption Iikjurty had his doubts. If only the probe could have been captured instead of destroyed� which is what his people were ordered to do next time. His Ships' drives were scheduled to be ready by the time Chi‑5 was spaceworthy. He'd been forced to scrap plans for three more Ships. That disappointed him. He didn't like to be forced into retreat, even if retreat only meant that victory was pushed further into the future. The future would bear many more Ships, enough to guarantee the Empire's immortality.

Iikjurty would live long enough to see the Empire revived... at least long enough to see the damned Union smashed flat. Perhaps his sons and their sons would live in an orderly, operative Empire.

He felt a bit of pride thinking about his sons. A Shipman wasn't a parent in the same way fathers raised their sons elsewhere in the dominion of Man; that was the job of women and tad mentors. Shipman fathers seldom spent time with their sons face-to-face; long tradition dictated that it was unseemly to spend time with your own son. But a set of strong sons could boost a Shipman's prestige. They guaranteed his immortality in spirit, genetically. "My blueprint preserves the Empire" was the Shipman's breeding adage. Most Shipmen had mixed feelings about women, but they were necessary: Though Shipmen carry several ounces of nanos in their blood, Empire Ships do not meddle in genetic manipulation, so today�s Shipmen were nearly indistinguishable from those who roamed the galaxy a thousand years ago.

The car's shield flashed alive as lightning coruscated through it, drawing field lines around Iikjurty like luminescent iron trapped in a magnet's coils. Then, just as fast, the bolt vanished. Iikjurty found himself only meters from the surface of the sleeping giant and felt his 42-year-old pulse race with excitement. Assisted by biofeedback controls within his body, he willed his heart back to rest. The car slowed and hovered exactly where he'd directed it, a few centimeters before the advancing column of wood. He leaned forward in his woven mangut seat, in thrall of the powers he controlled.

Within the depths below, welders arced while men and machines moved like shadows constructing the vessel, security-monitor robots hovered like insects, and aircraft shot in and out of the open space. At the base of the growing plank, a huge nanofactory devoured half a ton of matter per second, converting much of it into this product while spitting out mountains of slag. In less than a minute, the plank thumped against his car's plastic hull and began to push it sternward. Iikjurty could smell the damp, rich scent of the mech-grown timber. It smelled like destiny. He smiled as broadly as any Empire Ship officer in his right mind could.

The car's antigrav stator shrieked, struggling to maintain position against an irresistible force; Iikjurty watched the canopy sink a few millimeters into the nano-engineered woodgrain, but the car had no hope. The air leak grew worse. Momentarily, the craft spoke:

"External conditions unacceptable. Return to bay."

"Acknowledged," he said. Instantly, the car thrust his body against the seat. On his vest, tiny planks and their leathery trophies rattled like musical instruments against the thick brocade of his uniform jacket.

He'd raced a few thousand kilometers back toward Chi‑1 when the comm chirped. Irritated, Iikjurty opened the channel.

"Yes?" he said. His voice was thick at having his thoughts interrupted.

The holo of a man wearing a formal Duel uniform, similar to the dress blacks but without the starlight holos, appeared before the Admiral and opened his mouth to speak. Iikjurty recognized the Shipman.

No, no, no, he thought. Not Malkov.

"What are you up to, Colonel?" Iikjurty said, peremptorily. He could barely restrain his rage, his mental turbulence. Why you? He could not accept the obvious.

"Son," Iikjurty said, hoping the paternal angle might deflect what he saw coming, "I certainly hope you're here requesting permission to Duel someone who's wronged you. You have no other reason to come to me dressed like this."

"My lord‑"

"If you're here to challenge me, damn you, I'll cut off all your brothers' cocks after adding yours to my vest!" At that moment, Iikjurty felt he could tear armor plate. "Would you do that to your own brothers? My only other son? You're putting your entire family in danger."

Malkov's holo remained silent for a few seconds, looking as if to back down � after all, Iikjurty couldn't think of anything he might have done to offend Malkov's honor. I don't need this right now, Iikjurty thought. I can't afford to be killed, not at this important time, not for a few years. But he wasn't so much concerned about Malkov beating him in fair combat; no, he was more afraid of winning. That would most likely mean having to face three brothers on a Vengeance Quest, as would be their right. Foremost on his mind, Iikjurty was afraid of having to kill Malkov, his eldest son, and then possibly all three other Shipman sons. Who then would live on into the resurrected Empire for him? Who would carry his blueprint into the future to bask in the glory of the coming days?

Damn the forbears, why do I have to be so old? Why did he have to inherit my ambition?

A look of stone crossed the young soldier's features. His eyes seemed to bore through his Admiral. His father, though it is possible he might have rejected parental relationships if he was a strict traditionalist.

"My lord Admiral Iikjurty VII, Ships Chi," Malkov said, "My lord Captain, Ship Chi‑1, I hereby officially challenge you to Duel immediately upon return to Ship. I have‑"

"Retract that this instant, boy." Iikjurty kept his voice level, using his hard-earned authority to convey by tone exactly how very disappointed he was without revealing his disquietude.

"This is your only chance to retract," Iikjurty said. "I've done nothing to offend you or your... family." He said the last in an effort to draw out how Malkov felt about their relationship.

"My lord, it is not what you have done so much as who you are, an old man unable to demand proper respect from his younger officers." That gave Iikjurty no clues. Malkov continued.

"When is the last time my lordship commanded a campaigning army? My lord, you ignore or dispose of traditions all Shipmen have always held close to their hearts. Our traditions honor the Empire. So too must a Ship's Captain honor the Empire, and in turn honor his Shipmen. Personally, father, I've begun to hear talk� it's beginning to affect my own honor, my lord."

Iikjurty felt his rage cool for a moment. I'm now a dishonor to my own son? How could that be? Have I really become so distant from a young man's measure of honor?

"As a Colonel," Malkov said, voice strong again, "I have earned the rank to honorably and ethically challenge Ship's Captain‑"

"I'm an Admiral, boy," Iikjurty said.

Iikjurty realized he should have expected this from the sharp, impatient officer; only Shipmen who'd lost faith in their superiors � or tired of the usual promotion path � used the Duel as an advancement tool. The Duel was an important tradition for clearing out untrustworthy or defunct leaders while forcing officers to remain at their peak effectiveness, yet it was just as often misused by young toughs who'd grown bored of waiting to rise through the ranks who used any technicality to call out their superiors. Thus � defending his position over the years from usurpers who conjured up insults to their honor � had Iikjurty collected so many Duel trophies. He'd collected them primarily in defense; Iikjurty had earned his Captain's bars through superior leadership, and later his Admiral's stars, not through trumped-up Duels.

No, it's not about me, Iikjurty thought. He is too conservative to respect the elder generation. He is not fit for the future I have blueprinted for Empire.

Captains seldom faced a Duel; it was not only sleazy but dishonorable to challenge one of such rank without serious, documented reasons. Admirals had never had to do so, at least not during the days of Empire. That rank stood shoulder-to-shoulder with God, then, beside the Emperor... above the Emperor if he was deemed to work against the Empire's best interests. Even men of Iikjurty's age could hold rank office of Admiral, because Admirals never faced combat � usually never even manned a Ship after gaining the rank, because there had been and always would be only one Fleet, and therefore only one Admiral.

The readout on Iikjurty's virtual dash told him he had less than five minutes to dock. From there, express conveyers could deliver him to almost any open place in the Ship within an hour from spacedock. Damn. A sad tightness in his chest battled with the growing heat of anger. He wished he could stop time and go talk to this boy, his son, before things spun forever out of control, before one of them lived to regret killing the other over honor and ambition.

"Of course, my lord," Malkov said in response to Iikjurty's Admiral comment, "but you are also Captain of our flagship vessel. I have researched the ritual, and any Admiral of the Empire commissioned and serving as Ship's Captain may be challenged by a ranking Colonel of same Ship for due cause � in this case, age and unfitness � therefore‑"

That was enough. "I'll eat your entrails, boy," Iikjurty said. Just that fast, he knew he had to sever all consideration of this person as son and think of him only as yet another Shipman in his way. Iikjurty's face burned even though the air leaking through his car trickled ice crystals. "While you're still alive. I've done it before. This old man'll carve you open and tear out your organs so slowly you'll heal shut before you bleed to death. I'll chain you to a worm-wall and devour your brothers in front of you while you go weak‑"

"Respectfully, my lord Captain, I ask: Do you accept my challenge or do you submit?"

That was all Iikjurty could stand. Is this how my son honors his heritage? He lost his temper, shouting every profanity he had ever overheard less-reserved Shipmen utter, threatening everyone Malkov knew whom Iikjurty had a right to threaten because of this challenge, even threatening the Colonel's women. At last, as his car bumped into place in the spacedock of his home Ship, Iikjurty cleared his throat.

"I accept, you girl among men," he said. He slammed open the canopy before it had a chance to do so itself. A final gust of storm-driven sleet lashed his face as the dock's port irised shut overhead.

For a moment � just a second or two � Iikjurty wished he weren't Captain or Admiral, but an anonymous officer observing from afar while his sons grew strong and advanced as Lord Officers, as they then rose in rank over him. He wished he were just a man who could feel the pride a father has always felt in such situations. But Iikjurty was not a common officer, and he was not without ambition. He knew he must and would do whatever it took to retain control over the Fleet at this critical time, and not even his son � especially this son � could stop him; if he were not at the helm of the Fleet, this backwater world would surely be the Empire's graveyard. No, his role was much too important to entrust to a conservative, backward-looking boy� even if that boy was his son. His role required vision, a rare commodity among Shipmen, and that lack had doomed the original Ship Chi to its fate on this world for too many centuries.

One of them would surely die. Iikjurty would sooner betray the Empire than submit to anyone, and he was certain that he understood Malkov well enough to know the young man felt the same. So it was with Shipmen and their sons, and this is why they did not practice familial love: just in case they would one day battle one another.

Suddenly, Admiral Iikjurty thought nothing of his twenty-six years of victorious combat and personal advancement, his rule over a planet bearing five moon-sized warships and billions of the most fearsome soldiers mankind had ever seen, or his soon-to-be-realized ability to wreck galaxies at will. His chest ached. Here was something beyond his control, something more difficult than war. Life was so much simpler when all he had to contemplate was how to restructure the civilization of all humanity.

Now Iikjurty was just a man, a father like any other, powerless over his son as fathers everywhere had always been powerless over their sons. Except his powerlessness meant he must murder his own son.