The Return of the Emperor by Chris Bunch; Allan Cole

substance. Interstellar communications… weaponry… factories… manufacturing… the list ran on.
    When the Emperor was murdered the supply of AM2 stopped. Sten had found that hard to swallow the first time Mahoney had said it. He was still having trouble. Back on Smallbridge, he had assumed that the privy council—for profiteering reasons of their own, as well as base incompetency—had merely been keeping the supply at a trickle.
    "Not true," Mahoney had said. "They haven't a clue to where the goodies are. That's why the council wanted to pick you up—and anybody else who might've had a private beer with the Emperor—then gently loosen your toenails until you told them The Secret."
    "They're clottin' mad."
    "So they are. Consider this, boy. The entire universe is bonkers," Mahoney said. "Except for me and thee. Heh… heh… heh… and I'm slippin' away slowly if you don't find a bottle and uncap it."
    Sten followed orders. He drank—heavily—from the bottle before handing it to Ian.
    "Ring down for another one. If your prog circuits are DNCing now, it will get far worse."
    Again, Sten followed orders.
    "Okay, Mahoney. We are now on the thin edge."
    Mahoney chortled. "Not even close yet, boy. But proceed."
    There was a tap at the door. "Y'r order, sir."
    Mahoney was on his feet, a pistol snaking out of his sleeve. "A little too efficient." He moved toward the door.
    "Relax, Fleet Marshal," Sten said dryly. "It's open, Mr. Kilgour."
    After a pause, the door came open, and Alex entered pushing a drink tray and wearing a disappointed expression.
    "Did I noo hae y'goin't frae e'en a second?" he asked hopefully.
    "You gotta do something about the way you talk, man."
    "Thae's some think it charmin'," Alex said, mock-hurt.
    Sten and Alex looked at one another.
    "How close did they get to you?" Sten asked.
    Kilgour told them of the near-ambush and the battle in the icy streets.
    "Ah'm assum't," he said, "frae the fact th' warnin' wae in gen'ral code, nae whae Sten and I hae set up, y're responsible f'r tippin' me th' wink."
    "I was," Mahoney said.
    "Ah'm also assum't, sir, thae's reason beyon' y'r fas'nation wi' m' girlish legs an' giggle. Who d'ye want iced?"
    "Quick thinking, Mr. Kilgour. But sit down. You too, Admiral. The debriefing—and the plan—will take awhile. You'll guess the target—correction, targets—as I go along. The suspense will be good for you."
    Mahoney began with what had happened to him from the day of the Emperor's funeral, when he had looked at the Council of Five standing on the grassy knoll that was the Emperor's grave and knew that he was looking at five assassins.
    He hesitated, then told them the impossible part. After the funeral, he had gone into the Emperor's study, dug out a bottle of the vile swill the Emperor called Scotch, and planned a quiet, private farewell toast. Stuck to the bottle was a handwritten note:
"Stick around, Ian. I'll be right back."
    It was in the handwriting of the Eternal Emperor.
    Mahoney stopped, expecting complete disbelief. He got it, masked on both men's faces by expressions of bright interest—and a slow shift by Sten toward Mahoney's gun-hand.
    "That's—very interesting, Fleet Marshal. Sir. How do you suppose it got there? Are you saying the man who got assassinated was a double?"
    "No. That was the Emperor."
    "So he somehow survived getting shot a dozen or so times and then being blown up?"
    "Don't clot around, Sten. He was dead."
    "Ah. Soo he ris't oot'n th' grave't' leave ye a wee love note?"
    "Again, no. He must've left instructions with one of the Gurkhas. Or a palace servant. I asked. Nobody knew anything."
    "Let's ignore how the note got there for a sec, Ian. Are you listening to what you've just been saying? Either you're mad—or else you've joined up with that cult that goes around saying the Emperor has lived forever. And remembering six years plus is a long time for you just to be sticking around. Which is how long it's been."
    "Neither one—or