Empire's End (2 page)

“But we’re the ones who made it fall apart. We’re the ones responsible for turning turmoil into bloody chaos.”

Sten caught himself. “No,” he said, his voice dropping so that those in the back had to listen hard. “I shouldn’t say ‘we.’ You, me, all of us, did our best.

“But our best wasn’t good enough. Because there was one being who was running his own program. The Emperor. We followed his orders—and look what it produced. And I was not going to let it be covered up with a planetbuster.

“That’s all I think I should say. We’ll have the captain’s own boat ready in a bit. It’ll cross-connect to the rest of the fleet. You’ve got about one ship-hour to collect your gear and board.

“Do it, people. You’ll live a lot longer if you stay with the Emperor, no matter what he is and no matter what he does. I have no other choices left. You do.

“One hour. Get yourselves out of the line of fire. Now. Anybody else, anybody who’s had enough of serving a madman who’s hellbent on turning the Empire into chaos, like the chaos we just left—move over against the hangar baffle.

“That’s it. Thanks for helping. Thanks for your service. And good luck to all of you, no matter what you choose. Dismissed.”

Sten turned away. He pretended to be busy talking to Cind, but his ears were full of the low rumble of voices, and then the clatter of bootheels on the decking.

Cind’s eyes weren’t on him, but beyond, watching for a potential attacker.

Then the voices and movement stopped.

Sten made himself turn around. He blinked in astonishment. Before he could ask, Cind told him.

“The first people to move were your staffers. I’d say, maybe nine out of ten will stick. You’ve really corrupted them.”

“Hell,” was the best Sten could manage.

“No drakh,” Cind agreed. “Plus you have what I’d estimate is two-thirds of the swabs. I thought nobody in the navy
ever
volunteered. But I think you got a whole bunch of prospective rebels.”

Before Sten could do anything—like fall on his knees and thank a couple of the Bhor gods that the
Victory
had been blessed/cursed with over a thousand brain-damaged crewmen—a com blared:

“Sten to the bridge! Sten to the bridge!”

There was a slight note of emotion in the talker’s voice— which meant that almost certain and immediate catastrophe loomed.

“These six screens are patch-ins from the
Bennington’s
internal com. They came right after the first contact”

Sten glanced at them—they showed weapons stations and missile-control consoles, all deserted.

“I am not assuming they’re realtime casts,” Freston continued.

Sten looked up at the main screen. On it was the
Bennington
, the tacship carrier that was the heaviest ship in Sarsfield’s fleet. Flanking it were two specks that a readout ID’d as destroyers. Headed directly toward the
Victory
at full drive. Either Sarsfield had ordered a suicide run, since there was zero possibility the carrier could play hitsies with a battlewagon, or else things were getting weird out there.

“I have,” Freston said, “six Kali stations manned, tracking and holding at four seconds short of launch.”

“Replay the first transmission from the
Bennington
.”

Freston brought the cast up on a secondary screen.

It showed the
Bennington’s
bridge, which looked as if it’d been the focal point for a bar brawl. The officer onscreen had a bandaged arm, and her uniform was torn.

“
Victory
, this is
Bennington
. Please respond, this freq, tightbeam. This is Commander Jeffries. I have assumed com-mand of the
Bennington
. The officers and sailors of this ship have rejected Imperial authority, and are now under my orders. We wish to join you. Please respond.” The screen swirled, and the message repeated.

“We also,” Freston said, “have a cast from one of the DD’s—the
Aoife
. The other one’s the
Aisling
. They’re both Emer-class.” He indicated a projection from
Jane’s
on another screen, which Sten ignored.

“Their cast is shorter, and key-transmitted
en clair
. As follows: ‘
Aoife
and
Aisling
to join. Accept Sten command. Both ships homeworld Honjo Systems.’ Does that explain anything, sirr

It did—barely. The Honjo were known as supertraders throughout the Empire. And they were cordially hated. They were ethnocentric to a ridiculous extreme, dedicated to the maximum profit but absolutely loyal to whatever master they’d agreed to serve—as long as that loyalty was returned. They were also lethal, nearly to the point of race suicide, as the privy council had found out during the Interregnum when they tried to steal the Honjo’s AM2.

Sten had heard rumors that since the Emperor’s return the Honjo felt, with some degree of justification, they hadn’t been rewarded properly (which meant monetarily) for their loyalty to the Empire.

“Divert the Kali watch from those two ships. Contact them as soon as I finish, tell them message received and stand by for instructions,” Sten ordered. “We’ll find out how far they’re backing us in a bit. Get me through to this Jeffries on the
Bennington
.”

The connection was made quickly. And the conversation was short. The
Bennington
had, indeed, mutinied. The captain was dead; five officers and twenty men were in the sick bays. About thirty percent of the crew, now held under arms, had remained loyal to the Empire.

“Request orders, sir,” Jeffries finished.

“First,” Sten said, thinking fast, “welcome to my nightmare, and I think you’re all insane. Second, get all loyalists ready for transshipment. If you’ve got a supply lighter, use that Otherwise, disarm enough tacships if that’s the only alternative. Third, keep your weapons stations unmanned. Sorry, but we’re not in a position to trust anyone.

“Fourth, stand by to receive visitors. Fifth, get your navcoms set up to slave to this ship’s command. We’re going to travel some, and you’ll convoy on us. That’s all.”

“Yessir. Will comply. Standing by for your personnel to board. And… thank
you
.”

Sten blanked the screen. He didn’t have time to wonder why another set of idiots were volunteering for the death chamber. He looked around for Alex and found him, sitting back from the main console, looking smug. Kilgour surreptitiously crooked a finger. Sten, wanting to growl, went over.

“Y’r pardon, boss, but afore we move on, Ah hae a report… We’re still rich, lad.”

Sten repressed the suicidal urge to kick Alex. What the hell did that have to do with—

“Since we’re in a hurry, Ah’ll keep th‘ input short. While y’ were doin’t y’r usual job ae inspirin‘ th’ idjiots, Ah hit our bank accounts.

“Another thing a wee outlaw needs is liquid’ty. So all our assets Ah could lay th‘ fast touch on, I dumped into an old laundry bank frae th’ Mantis days.”

Sten started to say something, but then realized Kilgour wasn’t being greedy—revolutions, like politics, are fueled by credits and fail for lack of same nearly as often as they do for not providing a proper alternative. Sten would need all the credits in the known universe if he was even to survive this war, let alone win.

And Kilgour had not exaggerated about their riches. Years earlier, when they were prisoners of war of the Tahn, their ex-Mantis companion Ida the Rom had pirated their accrued pay and pyramided it into vast riches. They were wealthy enough for Sten to have purchased his own planet, and for Kilgour to build half-a-dozen castles and surrounding estates on his home world of Edinburgh.

“Then, thinkin’t thae’ll prob’ly be someone followin‘ that trail, Ah then rescrubbed th’ gelt’t‘ Ida, wi’ a wee message’t‘ stan’ by an‘ expect th’ pleasure ae our company, fat cow thae she is. Ah think we’ll be needin’t th‘ gypsies afore thae skreekin’t an’ scrawkin’t is o’er.

“Plus Ah drop’t a wee line’t‘ our king ae th’ smugglers ae well, although Ah dinnae ken i‘ Wild’s dropbox is still good.

“Thae’s all, boss. Noo, y‘ hae some work f’r me? Ah’m assumin’t we’re noo bein’t sensible an’ findin‘ a badger’s den an’ pullin‘ it in a’ter us.”

Alex was on his feet and at attention. Sten nodded appreciation.

“You’ve got that right. Besides, the Emperor would just send badger dogs after us. So we won’t bother. Grab about half of the Bhor and get over to the
Bermington
. Make sure they’re real sincere about things.”

“If not?”

“Do whatever seems right. But if it’s a trap, make them bleed, not us. I’ll keep two Kali stations launch-ready until you say otherwise, and I’ll keep one flight of tacships out on CAP.”

“Ah’m gone.” And Kilgour was.

Sten wanted to take a deep breath and come up with a plan— but there was no time to do anything other than react. He went back to Commander—now Captain—Freston.

“Okay, Captain. You heard what we’re doing. We’ll have all three ships slaved to the
Victory
. I want an irrational evasion pattern on the nav computer.”

“Yessir.”

“I want one flight of tacships out around the
Bermington
. And I want another flight… gimme a hotrod—whatsername, La Ciotat—in charge… one light-second back of the formation, also slaved to the
Victory
as rear guard.

“Every time we hyperjump, we’ll leave one of the
Bennington’s
Kalis behind, manned by one of Renzi’s officers. I don’t like being followed.”

“Yessir.”

“Now, get me double-ganged to those Honjo hardheads.”

“Aye, sir. Do we have a final destination?”

Sten didn’t answer.

Not because he didn’t have an answer, but because one secret of being a live conspirator was never telling anyone anything until just before it happened. In fact, he had two, now that true miracles had happened and he had not just a ship, but the beginnings of a fleet.

The first one he hadn’t exactly decided on. But it would be close to center stage, since all good rebellions require some kind of Bastille-bashing to get started.

The second?

Mahoney had shouted “Go home,” as he was dragged off to his death.

And Sten had finally figured out exactly where Mahoney meant. Even if he still had not the slightest idea why or what.

Or so he hoped.

CHAPTER TWO

RANETT DUG HER elbow into a sleepy-eyed clerk’s ribs, trod hard on a naval officer’s toes, and, with practiced carelessness, dumped hot caff on a bureaucrat’s swollen paunch.

As she punched through the crowd, she strewed apologies in her wake: “Pardon… So sorry… How clumsy of me…”

If anyone had been awake enough to notice, they would have seen that Ranett moved with the oiled ease of a combat veteran. She slipped through the crowd at full tilt. Leaping across openings. Forcing gaps where none existed before. AH the while she kept her eyes focused on her eventual goal—the enormous doors leading into the Arundel Castle pressroom.

At the door she was brought up short by a black uniformed mountain. The golden insignia on the guard’s sleeve was an ornate / with an 5 twisted around it like a snake. Wonderful, her mind snarled… Internal Clottin‘ Security.

She flashed her sweetest smile. Guaranteed to melt the hearts of most reasonably heterosexual males. “Excuse me, please…” Ranett started to duck under his arm and slip into the pressroom. Inside, she heard a briefer’s dry voice. The clots have already started, she thought. I’ll skin somebody’s hide for this.

Again, the IS man barred her way. “Press only,” he snarled.

Ranett kept the sweet smile pasted on. “Then, that means me.” She whipped out her credentials and held them steady for the big stupe’s beady eyes. He looked closely at the credentials, then at her face. Taking his damned good time.

“Looks like you, all right,” he said. Then he gave her a malicious grin. Double wonderful, Ranett thought. A media hater.

“You still can’t go in.”

“Why the clot not?”

The IS man jolted. The sweetness on Ranett’s face was gone now. Her tone dripped icicles. But after the moment’s hesitation, the guard failed to take warning.

“Orders, that’s why,” he growled. “The briefing’s already in progress… No one may enter or leave until it’s over.”

A heartbeat later his self-satisfied smile was replaced with a look of pure terror as Ranett unleashed her pent-up fury.

“Get out of my way, you pumped-up little scrote,” she snarled. “You let me in there this instant, or I’ll fry your pubes for breakfast.”

She let him have it for a full one and a half horrible minutes. Scorching him and the wall on either side with blasphemies and foul threats equal to anything the IS man had ever heard—up to and including introducing him to the Emperor’s chief torturer.

As each second of the ninety dripped away like a full year, the name on the press ID started registering in his tiny brain. TTie woman flaying him alive was a legendary newsbeing. Ranett had covered the Tahn wars from the front. Survived the nightmare years when the privy council ruled. Produced prizewinning livie documentaries that even he had watched in awe. Mighty government and corporate chieftains had been known to flee like small boys caught in dirty little acts when she showed up with her recording crew.

When she paused for breath—or new inspiration—the IS man did his best to ooze out of her way. He was busy deserting his post—he’d rather face his hyena-voiced sergeant than this woman—when he heard the big doors hiss open, then closed. He looked behind him. Managed a breath… long and shuddering. Ranett was inside. He was safe until the press conference was over. And clot his orders.

Fleet Admiral Anders—Chief of His Majesty’s Naval Operations—did a little mental swearing of his own when he saw Ranett duck into the crowded room and cozen some young fool out of an aisle seat.

Up until now, the thing had gone perfectly. When he had first gotten news of the drakh that had hit the fan in the Altaics, he had put his press crisis officers into motion before he had even gotten orders from the Emperor.