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He had similar plans under way everywhere. He had taken a world under threat of war and was gradually joining it together under one flag: his. One day all the nations of Ployaka would be gold. Ah, but he wouldn’t live to see it. That was the purpose of the test today. If it succeeded, he had no fears for the future of his empire. If it failed… was he too old to begin again?
Alkirin was not immortal. The presence of the clinical white tray full of bottles and vials at his elbow was testament to that as was the gray-uniformed nurse, a middle-aged woman who brooked no nonsense from him, no matter how many countries he controlled. She shook out three pills and handed them to him with a crystal goblet full of 90 percent water and 10 percent brandy. He took his medicines when and as she said. He liked Mlada Brubchek. Young, attractive nurses with firm breasts and tiny waists had been tried and found wanting. They were either too afraid of him to make him take his treatments, or gossiped about him and the workings of his personal estate when he allowed them leave to go home. Brubchek considered everything about her work to be confidential. Alkirin had planted listening devices in her home and her possessions, but in twelve years, not one word about him had ever passed her lips to anyone else not directly concerned in his care. He didn’t worry about her, but occasionally he still checked. Trust, but verify, as a wise old man of Earth had once said. Brubchek had seen to it that the illness that consumed him was as pain-free as possible. For that she was amply rewarded, and would continue to be. Brubchek nodded sharply to him, and retired to her quarters, through the door in the wall behind his “throne.” Alkirin watched her go, and listened for the snap of the automatic door as it slid into the wall and locked behind her.
He poured himself more brandy. He had been fortunate over the years to acquire a few employees such as Brubchek, but on the whole, people were sheep. Steeped in blatant self-interest, they saw nothing beyond their next mouthful of grass. He preferred to let them live their lives, with only the occasional reminder that he was their master. They were happier that way, and he did not have to devote a moment’s worth of concern to them. Once in a while a youngster would rise up from the peasant or merchant class and declare that his or her people must not be ruled by an unelected dictator. Alkirin enjoyed listening to them. They all said the same things. It must be hardwired into human DNA that when certain recessive genes combined, a bad, bombastic speech resulted. His response, therefore, was hardwired as well: the youngster was brought to him or one of his few lieutenants. If that energy could be converted to the service of the Alkirin empire, then he had a new and energetic employee for life. If not, then the rebel would vanish at once, leaving the other sheep to return hastily to their grass. Presidents, kings, emirs, lordships all made attempts to deter or destroy him.
They had a saying in Birreshalov, on the western continent, where he had been born: you nod and nod your head, and all is well. One day you shake your head, and it falls off. He had made that come true many times. Between threats and friendly persuasion, subtle poisons and very public murders, he had enforced his grip upon his holdings. Worldwide domination was in his grasp, if he lived long enough, but since he would not, other preparations had had to be made. A child, one born of Alkirin’s design and brought up to have all the necessary skills would be the one to carry on Alkirin’s legacy. Or would he? His enemies had accused him of having a God complex, enjoying holding the power of life and death over his minions. Perhaps he did; at the moment he was reveling in having created life. He would only be disappointed if this Adam did not bite the fruit offered to him.
The desperate flight from the island far out in the Msovich Ocean had been years in the pla
“Sir.” Colebridge’s voice interrupted his thoughts. Alkirin checked his verification program in the console at his side and waved a hand. A door in the wall to the right opened up, admitting his majordomo. Colebridge, a lanky, sallow-ski
While he was waiting for the black craft to arrive, he dealt with other matters demanding his attention. The stock market in Illisov City in the southern nation of Blen was bullish on a stock that Alkirin felt had not yet lived up to its potential. He had his chief accounting officer leak an a
Alkirin also ordered the summary execution of a member of his security force. Colebridge had brought him proof that Estarina Tolokombe had been prepared to embezzle a portion of the output of the diamond mines her staff protected. At least a dozen others were in on the scheme, but the sudden and violent death of their leader would certainly cause them to give up their plans and be good little soldiers again. If not, Alkirin reasoned, switching off the screen after watching his hand-picked guard carry the body away from the pock-marked wall, bullets were cheap.
He hoped the boy could be ruthless; no one respected a weak leader.
At last, five hours after the communications center sent him video of the takeoff, his console beeped again. Alkirin waved a hand over the controls just in time to see the black jet-copter hovering over the mountain ridge that surrounded the valley in which Alkirin Headquarters was located. It landed safely and almost silently just beyond the top of the ridge. Little detail was available at that range, but sensors indicated that the craft was intact. Alkirin waited.