Empire's End (18 page)

“No,” Ecu said. “You were most clear. I would merely be interested in what you generally mentioned as ‘favorable conditions.’ If you could be more specific?”

“I posited many such,” Tangeri said smoothly. “Perhaps the most fascinating was if this Sten made a secret alliance with another race, one that normally maintained, or tried to maintain, neutrality when it came to Empire-wide politics.”

“Ah?” Ecu wondered if Tangeri’s
point
would be to expose the Manabi as being on Sten’s side. No. He would hardly take pride in doing something which was that obvious to the Cal’gata—Ecu had done everything except put up a flagpole and run Sten’s battle emblem up it

“Yes. I further envisioned a large race. Somewhat warlike.”

Sr. Ecu floated, completely motionless.

“A race that had also been loyal to the Emperor during the Tahn war, and one which maintained hostile neutrality during the Interregnum.”

This was it! This was why Ecu had made the long journey to this world in secrecy.

“Mmm,” Ecu said. “Could you possibly have added to this hypothetical race that after the Emperor’s return they were hardly rewarded for their loyalty, perhaps because the star clusters they controlled, no matter how numerous, were far from the Empire’s heart?”

“More than two hundred and fifty such clusters.” Sr. Tangeri whistled sharply, and the fencing match was over. “Some of our most respected beings were murdered by the privy council. We lost two million during the Tahn war.

“And now we are forgotten. Our AM2 supply is tightly rationed. If it were possible to burn wood in stardrive chambers, we would be exploring that as an option.

“Yes,” Tangeri went on, his whistled speech losing its sharpness. “The Emperor has set and locked his controls for the heart of some great sun. The Cal’gata will not make that journey with him.

“Contact your Sten. Tell him what I said. All we lack is enough AM2 to fight the war. Ask him what he needs. Ships. Fighting men. Factories. Whatever.

“The Cal’gata are declared. And even if we are wrong, and this rebel Sten is destroyed, bringing some or all of the Empire down with him into near-barbarism, that will still be better than the absolute chaos which is the only thing at the end of the Emperor’s path. Tell him that, as well.”

Two hundred and fifty clusters sounded like a massive host, Ecu thought, after he had returned to his ship to rest and prepare for the next day’s formal banqueting. But to the enormity of the Empire, which swept across many galaxies, it was little more than a company-size formation.

Still, it was a beginning.

He floated next to a wallshelf—what the free-floating Manahi called a desk—and sorted through papers a courier ship had delivered while he was negotiating with Tangeri.

Being a disciplined creature, he first went through official fiches, but his vision kept straying to the small pile that was personal—fiches from colleagues, friends, and one female ex-breeding partner. And something else. Something that shimmered.

He could stand it no more. A tendril slipped it from the stack, and held it up. The small fiche swirled a kaleidoscope of light at him, colors washing across the surface of the fiche in waves.

A commercial solicitation. He should have expected something like it. The question was, how had whichever business sought his custom found Ecu’s private shipping code? He looked more closely.

The return code was hand-scribed. Marr and Senn? Ecu thought, then remembered. The former caterers for the Imperial Household. Ecu remembered them with pleasure. He, like almost everyone who had encountered the lifetime-bonded same-sex lovers, had been enchanted by the two Milchen. He had first encountered them at a formal banquet and been impressed that they had not only gone to the trouble of finding and synthesizing examples of the Manabi’s native diet, but also to the trouble of somehow finding out some of Ecu’s favorite “dishes.” He had also been invited to a couple of parties at their famed “tower of light” home that was in an isolated sector of Prime.

But why would they contact him? They were, if memory served, in retirement.

He touched one of the sensitized areas.

Two small holographs hung before him. Marr and Senn. Their antennae waved.

“We send you our fondest greetings, Sr. Ecu,” they chimed, then vanished. A personalized advertisement, then.

Aromas floated up to him, aromas of a great kitchen. A tiny holograph of a steaming platter appeared next. It vanished. Another hologram, this of a formal banquet table.

Ah. They had evidently begun some sort of catering operation, and no doubt thought Sr. Ecu was somewhere near Prime and might wish to take advantage of their services.

How odd, he thought. They could not need the credits. But possibly the boredom of a long retirement had driven them back into the business world.

The table disappeared, and again Marr and Senn appeared. They confirmed that they were now available for custom catering. And they offered—

There was a chime. Ecu glanced at a wallchron and realized he was late.

He looked at the play time on the fiche and was surprised. There was almost thirty E-minutes’ play time left. What had Marr and Senn done, list their complete menu and how all the dishes were prepared?

Very strange. He set the fiche down. He did not have time to go through the rest of Marr and Senn’s message. He was already encroaching on time that could be best spent readying himself for Tangeri’s gathering.

But he hesitated, his attention still drawn by the fiche. No. This
still
did not make sense, as his mind occamrazored away.

Very, very odd indeed.

But he was now
very
late for the banquet…

Perhaps later.

The convoy slid through hyperspace, eighteen troopships, with only two picketcraft as forward escorts.

They were unaware of the two sharks lying in ambush, only light-minutes away.

“Like a school of cod,” Berhal Flue, commanding officer of the rebel destroyer
Aisling
, said to his brother berhal, Waldman, aboard the DD
Aoife
. “Blinded by the sun and swimming happily into the shallows toward the net.

“Or,” he corrected his analogy, “toward the spearman.”

‘Tactics, sir,“ Waldman asked. He was one class-year junior to Flue, despite their common rank as berhals.

“As we agreed,” Flue said. “Hit them and split the formation.”

“One pass and gone?”

Flue hesitated.

“Most likely. But stand by for emendation.”

“Sir? I think it most unlikely that this convoy is almost completely unescorted. Perhaps we might lay doggo until it passes, make a full globesearch to make sure there are no surprises, and then hit them from the rear?”

“My orders stand, Berhal,” Flue said shortly. “If they sense us, they could scatter. We have an opportunity here to strike the first great victory for the rebellion. And for our names to ring across our home worlds forever.”

Waldman, like most Honjo, had less interest in glory than in honorable survival and profit, but he made no further protest.

“At your timetick,” he said, and turned away from the screen.

The crew of the
Aoife
was already at general quarters waiting for the command.

Ship-seconds ticked away… and zero flashed.

Both destroyers went to full drive and “dove” on the convoy.

Aboard the Imperial ships, alarms yammered, and the two picketcraft shot between the attackers in a useless if brave attempt to at least slow the convoy’s attackers. They were instantly obliterated.

And then the wolves were among the sheep, and the “flock” split, fleeing in all directions as rebel ship-to-ship missiles sought them out. As the destroyers swept through the disintegrating convoy, both skilled captains brought their warships close enough to the Imperial spaceships for chainguns to be employed, even if for only a few nanoseconds.

The
Aoife
and
Aisling
cleared the far side of the convoy.

Four troopships no longer existed; three others had taken crippling hits.

“One more sweepthrough,” Flue ordered. “Then take individual targets and we’ll destroy them in detail.”

Waldman again thought of protest. This was not only against common sense, but against Sten’s direct orders. When he had sent them out on their roving commission, with instructions to create as much havoc as possible, it was with the dkect command to never take a chance. “You have fast ships,” Sten had said. “But that gives you no license to sail in harm’s way. We are only four—the Bhor units are still forming and unready for combat. Fight hard—but come back!”

Before Waldman could decide whether to say something, the rear-lagging escort appeared onscreen.

Four Imperial light cruisers, and eleven heavy destroyers.

Honjo screens flashed a warning.

There was neither time nor need for Flue to shout orders. Both rebel destroyers went to emergency power, set irrational zigzags into their computers, and set final orbit for the prearranged RP.

Weapons officers launched Kalis as a rearguard action.

And the Honjo sailors prayed.

One destroyer flameballed as it took a solid Kali hit, and the bow of one light cruiser vaporized.

But prayer wasn’t valid—or whatever gods controlled this sector of hyperspace were more interested in slaughter.

The Imperial ships counterlaunched.

Both destroyers sent out a barrage of Fox countermissiles. But there were too many launches.

Waldman flashsaw: Screen A: Imperial Kali closing on the
Aisling
… Flue’s onscreen face, eyes widening… prox detectors howling.

And the screen to the
Aisling
went blank as the tightbeam severed.

‘The
Aisling
is hit, sir,“ Waldman’s OD said, completely tonelessly as he’d been trained. ”Wait… wait…“

Waldman ignored him.

“Nav! Orbit! I want a collision course with the
Aisling’s
last position.”

“Sir!”

“Wait… wait…” the officer of the deck monotoned. “Clear screen. No sign of
Aisling, sir
.”

“Thank you, Mister. Powerdeck, I would appreciate it immensely if you happen to have a few extra PPS hiding back there.”

“Missile closing,” Countermeasures reported. “Impact… seven seconds… countermissiles failed to engage… four seconds…”

And the
Aoife
swept through the near-empty vacuum where the
Aisling
had been. Near-empty, but full enough to confuse the Kali’s controller, as she lost contact with her missile and manually detonated the bird.

A miss. An Imperial officer at Central Tracking tonelessly reported the
Aoife
was still intact. Still under drive. A second launch went out.

But it was too late. The
Aoife
, tail between her legs, outran first the missiles and then the pursuing destroyers. The Imperial cruisers were far “behind” in her “wake.”

Seven ship-minutes’ battletime.

Imperial casualties: Two light escorts destroyed. One heavy destroyer destroyed. Four troopships destroyed. One light cruiser crippled beyond repair. One troopship abandoned and blown up after survivors were evacuated. One slave-towed to a shipworld and then scrapped as hopeless. The other two would require long months of repair before returning to service.

Almost fifteen hundred Imperial sailors as casualties.

Seven thousand trained Imperial soldiers were corpses.

Against:

One rebel DD destroyed.

Two hundred and ninety-three Honjo rebels dead.

A smashing victory for the Empire.

Sten gloomed back from the memorial for the
Aisling’s
dead. Christ. He was very glad that Berhal Flue was an exploded corpse on an endless orbit to nowhere. Because, if he had survived, Sten would have had him shot.

He had been tempted to relieve Waldman as well, and would have if he wasn’t concerned about losing whatever support he had on the Honjo worlds.

Instead, he declared the dead Honjo martyrs to the revolution, announced that a new warship would be named the
Flue
, and ordered medals and bonuses in all directions for the sailors of both ships.

Privately, he told the officers of the
Aoife
, the
Victory
, and the
Bennington
, and his Bhor officers-in-training that if anyone else fancied himself a General Kuribayashi they should so announce it now, and he would save them the bother of having to cut their own bellies after an appropriate amount of suicidally-brave resistance. Sten would be delighted to perform that duty right now and avoid the summer rush.

He made particular emphasis to the Bhor. They had a strong interest in self-preservation, as did any trading culture. But there was that species fondness for berserker rages, and Sten wanted no more memorials for a while.

He put that aside.

Ran his strategies once more. Was there anything more he could do at the moment, beyond what plans were already in motion? He thought not. Recruits from the Cal’gata clusters would be slipping secretly into the Wolf Worlds shortly, and Sten was braced for the howl of outrage when he began stripping veterans from the Bhor escort ships and his own vessels for training and command cadre.

He still needed somebody to analyze Mahoney’s files. At first he’d considered Alex, but he needed the Scotsman mobile and heading up his intelligence branch.

The worst thing about beginning a revolution, he thought, was being so light in the ass when it came to Available Personnel.

What little he could think of, and what he could logically carry out, given his limitations, was being done. An image crossed his mind: a huge massed ball of collapsed material from the heart of a pulsar. Hung from a cable. And Sten was a midget, swatting at that ball with a feather.

Very good, he told himself. Any other mental images occur to you that’ll cheer you up?

There was one. Hunt up Kilgour and Cind and chew on a bit of stregg. Two, actually. Chasing Kilgour out after a while and nibbling on Cind’s toes for a month or so.