C. J. Ryan - Gloria VanDeen 3 - The Fifth Quadrant

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The Fifth Quadrant

C. J. Ryan

Table of Contents

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Preview of Burdens of Empire

About the Author

Also by C.J. Ryan

Copyright Page

^ »

THE LIGHT OF THE TWO SUNS BEAT DOWN ON the baking streets of Cartago like a curse.

One of them was small, blue, and hot; the other was fat, red, and less hot. They were separated

in the sky by about the width of a fist held at arm’s length, and Cartago whirled endlessly

about a point somewhere between the two blazing orbs. In the streets they cast twin shadows,

which angled away from one another slightly, as if reluctant to admit they knew each other.

Gloria VanDeen followed her host and his entourage through the swarming streets,

enjoying the color and bustle and the singsong entreaties of the bazaar merchants. Exotic,

fantailed phoenixbirds could be hers for only ten crowns, or perhaps even seven. Silken scarves

and golden bangles and cotton caftans of the highest quality would only enhance her

astonishing beauty, and at a price so low she would feel guilty for taking such advantage of the

poor but honest merchants of Cartago; but the honor of being permitted to offer garments and

jewelry to grace the famous form of Gloria VanDeen would more than offset the financial loss.

The most beautiful woman in all the Empire surely deserved no less than the finest

craftsmanship and artistry in the entire Sector—nay, the entire Quadrant!

“I would buy you something as a souvenir,” Praetor Ulmani said to her, “but that would

surely cause a riot. The merchant whose wares you wore would become insufferable, and his

competition, unable to bear their shame, would doubtless kill him.”

“Then I suppose it’s best that I wear nothing,” Gloria said with a smile. “I wouldn’t want to

be responsible for a tragedy.”

“Spirit forbid it!” Ulmani grinned at her. Since nothing—or very nearly nothing—was

precisely what Gloria was wearing, the comment seemed apt. Her soft, flowing, nearly

transparent garment rested lightly on her shoulders and descended in narrow vees of sheer

white fabric, front and rear, shielding her from the suns but not from the hungry eyes that

surrounded her.

Honestly, there were times when being Gloria VanDeen was just so damn much fun that it

should have been illegal. Gloria smiled and waved happily to the throng in the streets, then let

Ulmani take her elbow and usher her along.

The people of Cartago, like their Praetor, had many reasons to be grateful to Gloria

VanDeen, and Gloria was aware that her beauty and sexual presence were prominent among

them. Without those attributes, it was doubtful that she would have been able to fulfill the

mission that had brought her here.

On this, the thirteenth day of January in the year 3218, Standard Calendar—just three days

after her twenty-fifth birthday—Gloria VanDeen was the most famous, popular, and (quite

possibly) important woman in an empire that spanned a sphere of space two thousand

light-years in diameter and was home to some 3 trillion sentient beings. The fact that she was

the former wife of the man who was now Emperor Charles V was of some importance, as was

her position as head of the Office of Strategic Intervention—the newest action arm of the

Department of Extraterrestrial Affairs, the sprawling bureaucracy that administered the Terran

Empire. Alone, either one of those facts would have made her a woman of some consequence;

together, they made her a potent force. But it was her beauty, brilliance, and courage that had

won the hearts of the masses and made her, as was often said, the Sweetheart of the Empire.

At moments like this, Gloria was outrageously happy to be exactly who and what she was.

She had just brought her mission on Cartago to a triumphant conclusion. And for a change,

the intervention had been brief, bloodless, and relatively simple.

Cartago was a thirsty world, where a small population of some 5 million lived on the

margins of a globe-girdling desert. Just 194 light-years from Earth, the planet had been settled

some eight hundred years earlier in pre-Imperial days. In later years, it probably never would

have been colonized at all, but in that first era of interstellar expansion, Earthmen were not

very particular in their choice of new worlds. If a planet had oxygen in its atmosphere and a

mean surface temperature somewhere between the freezing and boiling points of water, it was

a candidate for settlement. Cartago qualified, if only just.

Over the centuries, the slowly growing population had splintered into what amounted to

tribal groups, although the ethnic, cultural, and religious orientations of the three main tribes

differed little. The only differences of real consequence concerned water and access to it. The

Mountain Tribe controlled the flow of the precious liquid that trickled down to the dusty

plains and the lands of the Eastern and Western Tribes. Accordingly, the Mountain Tribe had

always selected the Praetor who headed the planetary government, such as it was. The coming

of the Empire had remarkably little impact on Cartago, and generations of Imperial Governors

and Dexta bureaucrats were content to let the natives work things out for themselves.

In recent years, however, the elders of the Eastern and Western Tribes had—for Spirit knew

what bizarre reasons—taken to sending their brightest sons and daughters back to Earth to be

educated in the law. Having nothing better to do when they returned to their homeworld, the

young barristers began suing the other tribes over the only thing that mattered on their

world—water. Thus, there had been angry protests, boycotts, insults, threats, and finally, the

sequestration of water that had once flowed freely from the slopes of the central mountains.

The Imperial Governor had been unable to persuade anyone to see the light of reason, and the

tiny Dexta establishment on the planet had thrown up its arms in despair.

So Norman Mingus had sent Gloria to Cartago.

A year and a half earlier, before the creation of the OSI, Gloria—then a Level XIII Dexta

bureaucrat—had used her wit and wiles to attract a thousand volunteers on the planet Pecos to

help her avert a genocide on the backwater world of Mynjhino. Dexta Secretary Norman

Mingus, taking note of her success, had recognized the extraordinary power she possessed and

sought to employ it on a regular basis by appointing her to lead the new Office of Strategic

Intervention. He had planned to use Gloria as his chessboard queen, dispatching her hither and

yon throughout the Empire to hot spots where the existing bureaucratic machinery was failing

to respond adequately to the challenges of the moment. In the year since the formation of the

OSI, Gloria had only burnished her already gleaming reputation as the sexiest and most

desirable woman in the Empire—and, in the process, had achieved some remarkable results for

the benefit of Dexta and the Empire it served. She was wildly popular in every corner of the

Empire—except, perhaps, for the Imperial Household itself, where Charles had yet to reconcile

himself to the new role being played by the woman who had walked out on him nearly seven

years earlier.

Cartago was the fifth intervention for Gloria and OSI, and by far, the easiest. Gloria hadn’t

even bothered to take along any staff; Cartago was just two days away from Earth via Flyer,

and so help was relatively close at hand should any prove necessary.

None did. In less than two weeks on the planet, she had met with a handful of young

lawyers, a clutch of tribal elders, and Praetor Ulmani, adroitly resolving their conflicts through

a combination of judicious bribes and personal persuasion. The Dexta Comptroller would

probably grumble about the bribes, small though they were, but Gloria had thoroughly

enjoyed her sojourn on Cartago.

In fact, resolving the conflicts on Cartago had been so easy that Gloria seriously wondered if

the whole mess had been cooked up by the young lawyers simply to lure her to their world.

Probably not, she conceded; on a desert world, no one played games with water. Still, her fame

and reputation had reached the point that she had to beware the Heisenberg Effect; her mere

presence was enough to alter the terms of any equation.

At the moment, her presence in the streets of Cartago was altering the normal routine of

the bazaar at searing midday, when energy levels and activity normally reached low ebb.

Praetor Ulmani kept his grip on Gloria’s elbow while his entourage of aides and security men

plowed a path through the increasingly excited crowds. They could have taken an

air-conditioned limo skimmer directly to the restaurant, but Ulmani had calculated that it

could not hurt his popularity to be seen escorting Gloria through the teeming streets of his city.

And Gloria didn’t really mind being paraded as if she were one of Ulmani’s hunting trophies;

she was willing to let him get whatever political mileage he could out of the affair. He was a

nice enough man and probably as good a leader as the planet needed. She was content to let

him have his moment; all that really mattered to Gloria was that she had solved Cartago’s

problems and would soon be returning to Earth.

The outdoor restaurant was just ahead. Security men were already clearing a path while the

maître d’ stood before a large table in eager, fawning anticipation. Gloria impulsively decided to

give everyone—not least of all Ulmani—one last reason to cheer. She turned to face Ulmani,

pulled him close, and gave him an incendiary kiss. The cheers were deafening. Gloria released

her hold on the astonished Praetor and grinned at him. “Your people adore you,” she said.

“After this,” Ulmani replied, “they may start worshipping me!”

They made their way through the wrought-iron gateway that delineated the restaurant,

greeted the proprietor, and moved to the reserved table. One of Ulmani’s aides pulled out a

chair for her, and Gloria had just bent to be seated when the blue-green bolt of plasma crackled

through the air just above her. The characteristic plasma thunderclap followed an instant later,

as air rushed in to fill the ionized trail of the discharge. And just after that, Gloria heard the

pained, startled moan from the aide standing behind her.

Before she could fully register what had happened, three security men were firing back,

their plasma beams converging on a head and shoulders just visible on the rooftop across the

street. The head and shoulders vanished in green fire, and the triple thunderclap echoed

through the suddenly silent streets. As quickly as that, it was over.

Gloria was suddenly aware of the sharp smell of burned hair.

She looked around and saw Ulmani’s aide slumping backwards against the white stucco

wall of the building. Flames flickered along the torn sleeve of his garment and he stared in

openmouthed wonder at the inch-in-diameter trench of blackened meat that now grooved his

upper arm. Behind him, there was a smoldering hole in the wall.

Comprehension dawned, and Gloria slowly reached upward and ran her fingers through

the singed tunnel that had scorched through her thick blond mane, just above her scalp.

I’ve been shot in the hair, she thought. How very odd.

« ^ »

GLORIA STOOD NAKED ON THE ALTAR BEFORE fifty thousand entranced onlookers and

an Empire-wide vid audience that would eventually number a trillion or more. As it was a

Visitation Day, everyone else in the cavernous Church of the Divine Spirit was naked, too,

including Archbishop Nesselrode, who stood next to her as he droned on and on and on. What

was there about religion, she wondered, that turned so many people into compulsive

blabbermouths? Instead of standing in silent awe before their conception of the infinite, why

did people like the Archbishop feel the need to heap platitude upon platitude until the stack

reached all the way to the heavens above?

The Spirit Herself, at least, had been relatively concise. Exactly eleven hundred and one

years ago, to the very hour—at this very spot—she had made her first Visitation, in the middle

of what was then a soccer stadium. She had spoken for just ten minutes, and, in her six

subsequent Visitations, never more than fifteen. It made for a rather short gospel. In fact, the

Book of the Spirit was a remarkably slim volume for a document that had transformed human

history.

After centuries of bloody conflicts, many of them inspired by religion, the Spirit had

launched a new religion in the year 2117 that was now embraced by fully 70 percent of the

Empire’s population. It had been eleven centuries since the last religious war among humans,

and no Spiritist had ever sponsored a pogrom, crusade, inquisition, jihad, or witch-hunt. The

Spirit had made no miraculous claims nor offered magical spells and incantations; she

demanded no extraordinary sacrifices and condemned only intolerance, greed, and stupidity.

She threatened no hell and promised no heaven but the ones humans could make for

themselves. Her gospel was gentle, worldly, even sensuous.

The Universal Church of the Spirit had grown in the wake of her Visitations and was now

centered here, at the Mother Church in Rio de Janeiro. The church itself was one of the largest

buildings on Earth, its main spire soaring nearly a kilometer above the rotating, circular altar

where Gloria now stood, surrounded by legions of the faithful. She had come here today, in

spite of many misgivings, to be honored for her life and her work—for her personification of

the ideals and values espoused by the Spirit Herself.

It was ridiculous, of course. However, it also seemed unavoidable.

She had been putting off invitations from the UCS ever since her return from her mission

to Sylvania, nearly six months ago. Events on that far-off world had been seized upon by

devout Spiritists as living proof of the reality of the Spirit, and Gloria’s role in those events had

inspired their admiration. Gloria was all too aware of the underlying reality of those events but

was hardly in a position to reveal the truth to the rest of the Empire. So here she was at last,

very much against her will, being honored by people who would probably lynch her if only

they knew the truth.

Some people even thought that Gloria resembled the Spirit. There was, perhaps, some

truth in that assessment, if one ignored the fact that the Spirit’s hair was raven while Gloria’s

was golden, and that Gloria was five-and-a-half feet tall to the Spirit’s forty. But the Spirit’s

face, like Gloria’s, was vaguely panracial in appearance, and her immense, nude body was

every bit as attractive as Gloria’s, although the Spirit’s breasts were proportionately somewhat

larger and her hips a bit broader.

But Gloria was real. The Spirit, according to the Cynics, was nothing more substantial than

a clever holographic projection arranged by a band of maverick scientists, and her gospel

nothing but a collection of slick catchphrases composed by advertising copywriters.

Gloria had always wanted to believe in the Spirit. Sometimes, she almost did. But after

Sylvania, she now doubted that she ever really could. Sylvania had taught her how easy it was

to create a fake deity and how eager people were to believe in one. Given the role that she had

played in the fraud that was the Voice, Gloria could only assume that the Spirit had been a

similar fraud.

Ironically, however, the Spiritists’ enthusiastic acceptance of the Voice had probably

forestalled an investigation that would undoubtedly have concluded with Gloria’s spending the

rest of her life on a prison world for high treason. It was therefore expedient for Gloria, finally,

to accept the honors the Church wanted to bestow upon her. And in the long run, given her

ambitions for her future at Dexta, it couldn’t hurt to have close ties with the Spiritists. But still,

it bothered her to be implicated so deeply in promoting the fraud of the Voice—and,

presumably, the fraud of the Spirit.

But if the Spirit truly was a sham, it had been an incredibly effective and beneficial one—as

had the Voice. The Voice had helped save a planet from devastation, while the Spirit had

probably kept the human race from destroying itself over a thousand years ago. Gloria found

that she could not condemn a benevolent lie, any more than she could wholeheartedly

embrace a destructive truth. People, in any case, would insist on believing whatever they

wanted to believe. Today, they wanted to believe that Gloria VanDeen was an Avatar of the

Spirit.

The Avatars of the Spirit (Gloria was about to become the 129th) were flesh-and-blood

exemplars of the words and wisdom of the Spirit—in effect, they were saints for a religion that

had no saints. Gloria didn’t much care for the notion of becoming an Avatar of the Spirit, but

the ceremony today would make her status official and eternal, as far as the Church was

concerned.

During each of her Visitations, the Spirit had spoken of one of the Seven Seeds of Wisdom:

Love, Compassion, Tolerance, Generosity, Knowledge, Joy, and Peace. Over the centuries, each

of the Seeds had formed the core value of one of the Seven Septs of Spiritism. Members of the

Church naturally gravitated to one or another of the Septs; doctors tended to embrace the Sept

of Compassion, scholars belonged to the Sept of Knowledge, and so on. The Septs were not

exactly separate denominations; they coexisted comfortably and compatibly under the broad

tenets of Spiritist theology. The Sept of Joy was sponsoring Gloria’s installation as an Avatar.

“Do not deny yourself Joy,” the Spirit had counseled, “for it is a gift unto humankind and

the wellspring of happiness.” Theologians had generally taken “joy” to mean “sex,” although

the Spirit had never used precisely that word. The very fact that the Spirit had been nude

argued that the human body was nothing to be ashamed of, and her warm endorsement of

“joy” was taken as a sign that there was nothing sinful about sex. Indeed, some of the early

Avatars of the Sept of Joy were courtesans, and one was an empress who earned a reputation

rivaling that of Messalina. Gloria didn’t think that she quite lived up to the standard set by her

predecessors, and wasn’t sure that she wanted to, but she could hardly deny that her sex life

was as public and spectacular as anything the early thirty-third century had to offer.

Gloria had grown up at Court, under the reign of old Darius IV, when public nudity and

sex were not only accepted but expected. Things had become more restrictive during the brief

reign of grim, dour Gregory III; but now, under Charles, overripe decadence was once again

the order of the day. That was fine with Gloria, who appreciated sex as much as anyone—more,

in fact, since she possessed certain genetic enhancements that dramatically magnified her

ability to give and receive pleasure. But she wasn’t sure how she felt about her own sexuality

being officially recognized and all but sanctified by the Church. Somehow, she felt, her

volcanic orgasms ought to be a personal matter, if not necessarily a private one.

Archbishop Nesselrode reached his peroration, at long last, and Gloria leaned forward

slightly as the Archbishop placed a gold chain necklace over her head. Depending from it was a

ruby-red mustard seed, since the ruby was the designated gemstone of the Sept of Joy. With

this symbolic act, Gloria was now confirmed as an Avatar of the Spirit.

Fifty thousand voices roared their approval. But Gloria could only stand there and smile

wanly as the altar slowly rotated to let everyone view the Church’s newest Avatar.

Holy shit, she thought.

FOLLOWING THE CEREMONY, GLORIA JOINED with Church officials and the media at a

reception. She sipped wine and nibbled canapés while a procession of naked men and women

shook her hand, offered their congratulations, and wished her continued Joy. Many, it was

clear, wanted to share that Joy with her; a few seemed ready and willing to do it then and there.

Gloria graciously declined.

She wondered if it was going to be this way from now on. She had mixed feelings about

the public reputation she had acquired in the past year or so. At times she adored it, but there

were others when she wished she could go back to being plain old Gloria VanDeen,

anonymous Avatar of Nothing and Nobody’s Sweetheart.

But no, that was ridiculous too. She was, after all, the former wife of the man who was now

Emperor, and royals didn’t wed anonymous nobodies. Gloria was a member of a wealthy and

prominent family and her beauty had attracted boys and men ever since she first blossomed.

She had a face that could probably launch about 990 ships, if not a thousand, and a body that

could launch a thousand more. With a genetic heritage from six continents, she boasted a

flowing blond mane, flawless skin the shade of coffee with a little cream, and arresting,

exotically angled eyes the color of polished turquoise. Her lips were perhaps a little thin for

perfection, but they curved upward slightly at the sides, in a hint of a permanent, bemused

smile. Her body was slim and athletic, her breasts not large but firm, globular, and tipped by

erect, cylindrical nipples. Her navel was artistically whorled; thanks to her genetic

enhancements, it was—like her nipples—as erotically sensitive as the primary sexual features of

any normal woman. She could achieve orgasms in mere seconds, if she chose, or drag them

out endlessly until sheer exhaustion finally brought them to a halt. Sex with Gloria VanDeen

was an experience no one ever forgot.

She was inescapably special, and knew it. But still…an Avatar of Joy?

Gloria sighed, shook her head slightly to clear away the reveries, and tried to focus on the

next person who wanted to meet her. This one, anomalously, was wearing clothing, Visitation

Day notwithstanding. And not just any clothing—he was decked out in the Imperial livery of

the House of Hazar.

The young man leaned close and whispered in her ear. “Pardon the intrusion,

Ms. VanDeen, but the Emperor would very much like to see you, at your earliest

convenience.”

Gloria had been afraid of this. The Emperor’s main Residence was in Rio, and Charles was

bound to have been aware that she was in the city.

“My earliest convenience? Tell him that would be in about five years, give or take.”

The messenger, unsmiling, shook his head. “That won’t do, ma’am. His Imperial Highness

was quite clear that I was not to take no for an answer. There’s a limo waiting just outside, and

the Emperor instructed me to tell you that there will be absolutely no media present. You can

come and go in complete privacy.”

“There are media reps in this room right now,” Gloria pointed out. “If they see me leaving

with you…”

“They will report nothing, ma’am. The Household will see to that.”

And, of course, the Household could. The Empire might have had nominal freedom of the

press, but in some areas, that freedom was more theoretical than actual.

Gloria bowed to the inevitable. “Let me make my apologies to the Archbishop,” she said.

THE LIMO DEPOSITED GLORIA AT THE ENTRANCE to the Imperial Horticultural Gardens

on the grounds of the Residence. Here, exobotanists had assembled a unique collection of plant

species from all over the Empire, and had somehow gotten them to grow in harmony without

annihilating either each other or the native species of Earth. The result, one critic had noted,

looked as if Salvador Dali had taken up gardening.

Gloria wandered through the gateway, past a bright blue hedge, and under the drooping

boughs of a quaking willow from DeSantos IV; when she brushed against its fronds, they drew

back as if in fright. She spotted Charles strolling along a pathway between a fragrant,

carnivorous gluetree from somewhere in the Pleiades Cluster and a pygmy sequoia that was all

of four feet tall from a high-gravity world. The Emperor smiled and nodded at the sight of her,

and casually walked onward in her direction.

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing at her. “Clothing? On a Visitation Day? I would have

expected better from an Avatar of Joy.”

“It may be a Visitation Day, and this may be Rio,” Gloria replied, “but back home in

Manhattan, it’s still January.”

“Indeed. Tell me, have you had any snow there yet? The Imperial Climatologist tells me

we’ll see it in our lifetime.”

“Not that I’ve noticed. But I hear they had a little up in Poughkeepsie last year.”

“Something to look forward to, then. What fun, waiting for an ice age.” Charles stopped in

front of Gloria and held out both hands to her. She hesitated a moment, then took them in

hers. They held each other and stared in silence for what felt like a long time.

Charles, at twenty-eight, was looking more like an Emperor with each passing year. His

medium-length dirty blond hair was artlessly tousled over the tops of his ears, and his closely

trimmed beard emphasized rather than concealed the arrogant thrust of his chin. His nose was

characteristic of the Hazar Dynasty, being rather long and bony, and his watery blue eyes

seemed to radiate condescension. He was still slim and fit, and was tall enough to look down on

most people with lofty nonchalance.

It had been nearly a year since Gloria had seen him face-to-face. Upon her return from

Mynjhino, Charles had seen fit to award her a Distinguished Service Medal; having been

embarrassed and frustrated by her performance during that episode, he had concluded that

the only way to deal with it was to reward her. On the other hand, her service on Sylvania had

inspired no award, only icy silence.

Charles finally released his grip on her hands and gave her an appraising once-over with his

eyes. She was clothed now, true, but only minimally, in a pale blue wrap dress that was loosely

fastened at the waist, exposing far more than it covered.

“You’ve done something to your hair,” he said at last.

“Oh…yes, something was done to it,” Gloria admitted. Her hairdresser in Manhattan had

performed some creative first aid on her damaged ’do following her return from Cartago, and

her long, Dura-styled mane now flowed halfway down her back in apparent good health.

“So I heard,” Charles said. “Dammit, Glory, if Mingus keeps sending you to these

two-crown shit holes, sooner or later you are going to get seriously hurt. And for what? So a

bunch of provincials can water their fucking lawns?”

“People live on those shit holes, Charles,” Gloria responded. “They have rights and needs,

the same as anyone else in the Empire. Dexta does what it can to see that they receive the

respect and attention they are due.”

“Spoken like the career bureaucrat you’ve become,” Charles snorted.

“Thank you.” Gloria smiled. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me in years.”

Charles shook his head in evident disgust. “I cannot fathom why you are at Dexta. I never

could. It’s a barbaric environment, as I’m sure even you would admit, considering everything

that was done to you when you started out there. And now you’ve become Mingus’s Girl

Friday, which I find appalling.”

“I’m sure you would.”

“He’s a hundred and thirty years old!”

“A hundred and thirty one,” Gloria corrected. “Why, Charles, are you jealous?”

“Please, don’t be disgusting. If you are fucking the old coot, I’d rather not know about it.”

“Actually,” said Gloria, “I’m not. By his choice, not mine, I hasten to point out.”

“Wise of him,” Charles said. “He’s too old to handle an Avatar of Joy.” Charles looked

upward toward the treetops and the sky and shook his head. “An Avatar of Joy, Spirit save us!

You know, don’t you, that if it weren’t for the damned Spiritists, you’d probably be spending

the rest of your life on a prison world for what you did on Sylvania?”

“Me?” Gloria asked innocently. “What did I do?”

“You know damned well what you did! You ruined a quadrillion crowns’ worth of

Fergusite. Only I can’t touch you for it, because of the fucking Voice and the idiot Spiritists

who think the whole thing was divine intervention, instead of a plot—a goddamn

conspiracy—by you and Mingus! Don’t deny it, Glory. I don’t know how you managed that

business with the Voice, but—”

C. J. Ryan - Gloria VanDeen 3 - The Fifth Quadrant

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