Empire's End by Chris Bunch; Allan Cole

immortal.
    “And the second thing is… he’s been killed before.”
    Sten had scoffed—and Mahoney had offered to show him the files sometime. But events moved too fast and too bloodily, and the one time Sten had thought about those files, he had decided they were certainly explosive, and that anyone interested in staying on the Emperor’s fair-weather side would probably be wisest not even considering their existence.
    Or, as the Z-grade livies put it, just after the scenarist had failed to come up with an even vaguely believable explanation for all the drakh he had come up with earlier, “There are some things in this universe, boy, man was not meant to know.”
    All right, Sten thought. But this time man’s gonna find out.
    Because Mahoney, in a way, died for these files.
    Sten got to his feet. He started to key his com, to order the Victory to send down a cargo lighter and some strong deck apes. He—or somebody, anyway—would begin analysis when they reached their intended destination, Sten’s intended base of operations.
    “You’re my friend, aren’t you?”
    Sten remembered Forte—and, when he called the Victory , he told them to send down a bubblepak stretcher, with the interior controls sealed.
    Dan Forte, completely insane, would either be cured, if that was possible—and Sten would dedicate all resources he had to help—or else given a long, happy life in whatever luxurious asylum Sten could put him.
    Because he had very possibly given Sten the keys to the Empire.
    CHAPTER NINE
    “YOUR SUCCESS THUS far has bordered on the miraculous,” Sr. Ecu said.
    “Correction,” Sten said. “It’s been nothing but a series of real miracles. But, I can’t keep on counting on smiles from the gods. I need a goal. And a plan. All I’ve been doing is shooting and scooting in the dark.”
    “I can see how operating without a plan would be especially disturbing to you, Sten,” Rykor said. “You always were a being in search of structure.”
    Sten laughed, unfazed by this instant bit of analysis from the
    Empire’s most eminent psychologist. “Another delusion destroyed. Here I always thought I was a real seat-of-the-pants kind of a guy.”
    “Oh, but you are,” Rykor said. “I remember the first profile I drew up on you. Your inventive skills were among the best I’ve ever seen. But you tend to be displeased if your actions must take place in a vacuum. It’s a typical trait of most special-operations experts. You like the illusion of complete freedom. But there must be structure just the same.”
    Water splashed as she eased her bulk in the tank. “In the past, it was service to the Emperor that provided that structure.”
    Sten shuddered. All too true.
    “Guilt is not necessary in this situation,” Rykor said, reading him like a creche-level fiche. “It is my own misfortune to share some of these same traits. I too found comfort in the bosom of the Emperor.”
    As Sten mulled this over, one of Sr. Ecu’s tendrils whiskered out to touch a hidden switch. A small ‘hot bearing a tray churned out of an alcove. In a moment, Sten was gratefully slugging down stregg.
    “I hate to sound like an old-fashioned dipsomaniac,” Sten said. “But boy did I need that. Thanks.”
    Sr. Ecu’s tendrils wriggled with humor. “The circumstances cry out for inducements. Besides, Rykor and I are ahead of you. Appropriate stress relievers have been added to the atmosphere. As well as to that liquid our largish companion is lolling about in so casually.”
    Rykor barked and ducked her head under the spiked water. She emerged again, lips parted between her big tusks in what Sten was sure was a grin.
    “That’s why I’m being so pedantic,” Rykor confessed. “I tend to be pompous when I imbibe.”
    “I see I have some catching up to do,” Sten said. He raised the stregg. “Confusion to our enemies,” he toasted. He drained the glass and refilled it.
    Although Sten’s situation hadn’t improved, he was