The Return of the Emperor

by Chris Bunch

  He heard the scuffle and argument from the front. Another damned robbery. Pattipong had a dump near the pay counter—almost all money went into a sealed, time-locked safe. Since they would lose only a few dollars in a heist, it was easier just to give the robbers the till than fight back. Safer, as well. The next morning Pattipong would tip the port police, who would find the thief and either have him make restitution or, if he had spent the money, just break his thumbs for an hour or so.

  This sounded different.

  Raschid picked up a heavy cleaver and went to the kitchen doorway. Then he set the cleaver down on a shelf and looked out.

  He instantly knew—but did not know how he knew—what was going on. Four heavy sets. Flash expense. False smiles and real menace. He walked over to Pattipong.

  "G'wan back, cookie. This don't pertain,” one of the thugs said.

  "Protection?” Raschid asked, ignoring the man.

  Pattipong nodded. “We pay. No stinks. Furniture not busted. Customers protected."

  "Are they connected?"

  "Hey. We told you get out of it."

  "I not see before. New. Not connected. No connections now. Old boss go hoosegow. Baby new bosses still fighting."

  "Knock off the drakh. We made our offer. Polite folk respond."

  Pattipong looked at Raschid. “You think we pay?"

  Raschid shook his head slowly—and spun the heavy glass match bowl on the counter into one man's face.

  Pattipong snapkicked the second—a man nearly two meters tall—under the chin. The man stumbled back and went flat.

  A third man grabbed a chair. The chair came up ... Raschid went under it, head-butting. The man dropped the chair and sagged. Raschid double-fisted him on the back of the neck, and the man was out.

  Pattipong had his long knife about halfway out, and the rules changed. The last man's hand slid toward his belt. A gun.

  Raschid, having all the time in the world, spun right ... two steps back toward the kitchen, hand reaching inside. Whirl ... the gun was coming up. Finger touching the trigger stud. Raschid overhanded the cleaver. It smacked into the tough's skull with a dull sound not unlike an ax striking rotten wood.

  Pattipong hurried to the door. “No cops."

  He came back inside and shook his head at the carnage and the scatter. “This not good."

  "Sorry. But he was—"

  "You misunderstand. Not bad he dead. Bad he dead not neat. Messy. Take two, maybe three hours to clean up. Long day. I was sleepy."

  He unclipped the com at his belt. “I call cousin. He pick up bodies. Leave maybe in front of police station. Let three explain one, when they wake."

  He whispered into the com, summoning his cousin.

  "You not bad fighter. For cook."

  Raschid was looking at the moaning or unconscious human and formerly human debris. Feeling ... feeling as if there were a curious observer behind him. He felt ... he felt ... push it away ... nothing in particular. A necessary act.

  He went to work helping Pattipong.

  * * * *

  Two men sat at Pattipong's counter. Both wore what might appear to be—after suitable degreasing, cleaning, pressing, and sewing—uniforms.

  Beside one man was a captain's cover, with formerly gold braid on its bill. Raschid had seen braid go green, even black, with age, but this was the first he had ever seen what looked as if it were infested with barnacles. The cap may have suggested the man's position—little else did. It was not merely the grime: he was a tiny little rabbity person, with the twitching mannerisms of that creature, as well.

  The other man, a hulk, had the peeling braid of a ship's officer on his sleeve and on his breast a command-qualified ribbon. On the man's shoulder, Raschid could make out a round patch: PEASE SHIPPING.

  Both men were drinking caff and arguing. The “captain"—if that was what he was—looked fondly at the lined bottles of alk behind the counter. The other man-mate?—shook his head. The rabbit sighed and whined on. Raschid could make out bits of what he was saying.

  "Undercrewed ... clottin’ agent ... converter leakin’ ... bonded freight ... sealed destination ... client I never heard of neither. Not good, Mister Mate. Not good at all."

  Raschid, pretending to wipe the counter, came closer.

  "The contract good?” the mate asked.

  "Cashed it this morning,” the rabbit said grudgingly.

  "Then what'a you care? Damn few cargoes come wi’ a fuel guarantee, Captain. What's to worry what we're carry in'?"

  "I'd hate like hell to finish my career gettin’ taken off as a smuggler."

  The mate looked the little man up and down. “Career? Pattipong, more caff."

  Pattipong, unsmiling, refilled the mugs.

  "Where's the best place to sign on some casuals?” the mate asked.

  "For you? For Pease Lines? Maybe try port jail."

  "Thanks, Patty. I love you, too."

  Raschid spoke. “What slots you got open?"

  The mate evaluated Raschid carefully. “Greaser. Cook/com. Second engineer. If you got papers."

  "What's your com rig?"

  "World's oldest VX-314. Your grampa could'a known it. We call it Stutterin’ Susie."

  "What's the pay?"

  "Standard. Three hundred a month. Found. Got a sealed destination. You can pay off there, or stay on when we pick up a cargo and transship to a new port."

  "Three hundred's cherry-boy pay."

  "That's the offer."

  Pattipong was signaling from the kitchen.

  "Sorry,” Raschid said. For some reason he thought he was supposed to say yes.

  The captain was about to bleat something. The mate stopped him.

  "How good a cook are you?"

  "Order something."

  "What about the com?"

  "Bet the check whoever your last idiot was didn't triple-ground the box,” Raschid said. “That'll give a Vexie hiccups all the time.” He went back into the kitchen.

  "You drunk? Drugs? What wrong with job?” Pattipong asked him. “Nothing, Dingiswayo. It's just ... time to go."

  "Look. I give you better pay. Give you ... quarter business. No, eighth. You stay.” The two merchant officers were arguing inaudibly.

  "Those two ... Jarvis, Moran. Bad. He weak. Drinker. Moran ... busted down from skipper. Killed men. Ship ... Santana. Boneyard. Recycled. All Pease ships same. Junk. Certificates forged. Out of date. Line pick cargo where can. Not care where go. Not care kill crew, lose ship. Insurance always paid prompt."

  "Sounds like an adventure."

  "You full hop. Adventure someone else, in livie. You watch—adventure. You do—deep, deep drakh."

  "You. Cook,” Moran growled. “We'll go 450."

  "And slops?” Raschid pressed. “M'gear got left aboard m'last."

  "Happens when you jump ship. But yeah. We'll go it."

  The wait was over.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ALL NIGHTMARES END. Eventually the last of the pirated AM2 was loaded onto the transports, and the 23rd Fleet could lift for Al-Sufi and then home base.

  But even escaping, men died. A Honjo had positioned a booby trap, fused with a pressure-release device under one freighter. It went off when the freighter lifted, and the blast took out two more cargo ships and one of the destroyers providing overhead cover.

  Just out-atmosphere an Imperial corvette was sniped. An offplanet Honjo lighter had mounted a single missile on its cargo deck, managed to infiltrate through the fleet cover, and waited. The missile killed the corvette, and one of Gregor's cruisers blew the lighter and crew into nothingness. But by that time killing Honjo—in greater or lesser quantities—was no longer thought a victory. It was merely a duty that might—but probably would not—stave off one's own death for a few hours.

  Admiral Gregor ordered the fleet into a standard convoy formation. It was by-the-book but not tactically bad. It looked like a three-dimensional mushroom with a
base. The mushroom's “stem” was the transport train, with light cover outside the main formation. The mushroom's “cap” was his heavies, with destroyers and cruisers screening to the front. The base was two heavy-cruiser squadrons with their screens, giving rear security. They should have been unnecessary—but they were potentially vital.

  That was just part of the bad news Gregor gloomed over at his battle computer. The only data he had was bad, with one exception: fuel.

  His fleet AM2 chambers were at full battle load—probably the only ships in space these days that were, Gregor thought. In theory that should have meant he could have ignored the council's economy dictum and ordered full battle speed toward Al-Sufi. Well, if not full battle, then at least to whatever max drivespeed the transports were capable of.

  He could not. His fleet had taken too much damage in the Honjo's guerrilla raids. Damage ranged from hull integrity to warped drive chambers to blown tubes to almost anything the Honjo's ingenuity had come up with to destroy or cripple the Imperials. Two cruisers had even been slaved together and given external emergency drive from one of Gregor's tenders.

  His fleet was limping—limping at many multiples of lightspeed, but still limping. Which meant that the 23rd Fleet was vulnerable to a stern attack. Gregor considered abandoning any units that could not hold top transport speed. Then he shuddered and decided against that course. He would face enough flak as it was.

  He decided that the only salvation his career had was returning to Al-Sufi with the AM2—all the AM2. That might keep him his flag. Maybe.

  Scowling, he scrolled on. The siege-that-was-not had been incredibly expensive:

  Crew casualties, all categories: twenty-seven percent.

  Ship casualties, all categories: thirty-five percent.

  That, factored into his already-dismal combat-readiness record before invading...

  Gregor did not want to run the figures.

  * * * *

  A second admiral was no happier with the state of the universe.

  Fleet Admiral Fraser sat grounded, along with her command, on three of the Al-Sufi worlds. Her orders were clear: Hold in place until the 23rd Fleet arrives.

  Fuel from the AM2 transports. Combine forces with the 23rd, yourself to assume command as CINCCON. Continue mission to Prime World sector. Further orders will be given at that time.

  She had a fairly good idea of what shape the 23rd was in. Gregor had tried to make his reports sound as favorable as possible. But since complete lies were not permissible, Fraser expected a ragtag collection of limpers.

  Fraser, an aggressive leader, believed the Nelsonian dictum that no one can find himself in too much trouble if he steers toward the sound of the guns. She would have cheerfully modified her orders, lifted, and gone to immediate support of Gregor's wounded fleet.

  But she could not. Combined AM2 available: not more than one half an E-day cruising range—for all her ships.

  Fraser was not a happy admiral.

  * * * *

  The 23rd was coming home. Gregor's navigational section had suggested a circuitous plot from the Honjo Sector to Al-Sufi. Gregor had rejected it.

  He had some good reasons: the status of his ships, the poor skill-levels of too many nav-decks in following the proposed multiple-point plot, and finally his fear of inexperienced deck officers having to maintain convoy position. No, he thought. He did not need the added calumny that would come, for instance, if two of his battleships suddenly set collision courses.

  Besides, Gregor was starting to regain some of his customary poise. He called it confidence; his staff preferred “arrogance."

  Who, in these times, could challenge an Imperial fleet? Even in its present state of combat semireadiness? Almost no one. Who had the fuel to chance battle? It took power to steal power. The course would be linear—or as “linear” as navigational trajectories could be under AM2 drive.

  Watches passed. Gregor felt himself proven right. Negative contacts. Except for two.

  One was reported as a small squadron of light attack craft. System patrol? Raiders? Gregor neither knew nor cared. The 23rd was far too strong for them to attack.

  The second contact was laughable.

  A trading ship blundered across the 23rd's path. A destroyer matched orbits with the ship. Nothing to worry about—just a trader, from some unknown culture called the Bhor.

  The ship's intelligence—also mail, censorship, sports, and recreational fund—officer took the time to check a fiche. Bhor? He whistled to himself. They were a very, very long way from home looking for business.

  * * * *

  Sten looked at the projection of the based mushroom. He spun it through a couple of 360s, muttered, then brought the focus in to as tight as his “trading” spy ship had managed to get. He ignored the immediate breakdown of estimated forces on another screen. He had it memorized already.

  A third screen lit: battle analysis ready. Sten ignored that screen, too.

  He got up and started pacing back and forth. He had an estimated four E-days, given the Imperial fleet's current speed, to come up with a Plan, position his troops, and attack.

  Kilgour and Otho sat nearby. Alex was busy at his own computer; Otho was stroking his beard and looking at that mushroom.

  "Straight in, straight on. They won't expect that,” the Bhor chieftain said.

  "No,” Sten agreed. “Neither would I. But I'll bet I could figure out a response before we got in range."

  "It was a suggestion."

  "Accepted as such, rejected as such."

  He looked at Kilgour's screen. Kilgour was scrolling the hourly update from Sten's fleet.

  Fleet. Eighty-three ships. Most of them warships, but none of them lighter than an equivalent Imperial cruiser-class, and all of them intended for cluster security/inter-diction missions. Others were armed traders and armed auxiliaries. Weapons, electronics, and countermeasure suites would be at least one and more likely five full generations behind the Imperial warships. Not good.

  Worse: fuel status. Maximum range, at full drive: eleven E-days. Getting fuel for the raid had stripped the Lupus Cluster nearly dry. At present the fleet was “parked,” with all nonessential systems off. They were masked from the projected trajectory of the Imperials behind a collapsed star.

  The status screen cleared, then added a needless worry:

  MAXIMUM TIME REQUIRED TO ABORT ... UNDER PRESENT CONDITIONS ... Meaning that if they stayed parked, they had the equivalent of two E-centuries. UNDER NORMAL DRIVE ... ELEVEN SHIP HOURS ... UNDER BATTLE DRIVE...

  Sten did not look at that figure. He concentrated on the mushroom. It would not have been his choice for a convoy formation—the heavies were concentrated at the front. Better to carry them outside the formation near the center, for ready response in any direction if an attacker feinted. Feinted. Hmm. Yes, Admiral. With what are you going to pull your ruse? Eighty-three ships, remember? Against ... against too many.

  On-screen, the mushroom's cap started sliding back and forth on the fleet's “stem,” like a winding-down toy gyro. Kilgour was beaming at him.

  "Dammit, Alex! Quit gamin'!"

  "Thae gamin', ae y'put it, i’ another suggestion, Boss. Or hae Ah noo leave't’ suggest?"

  Otho rose. “By my mother's insect-infested beard, we must cure this bickering disease.” He owled a prox screen. “Nearest contact ... we have lifetimes. Time for stregg, time even for the hangover. I'll get the horns.” He palmed a bulkhead door and slid out.

  "Sorry, Alex,” Sten said.

  "Dinnae fash. Y’ want't’ hear what I was thinkin't? ‘Tis jus’ a wee thought, Boss. Ah nae hae a scheme."

  The mushroom's gyroing, Alex went on, came as he projected near-simultaneous attacks from various directions at the Imperials. “Slide aroun', slide aroun', an’ sooner come later, thae'll lose comman’ cohesion. All Ah need f'r't't’ be a plan is, p'raps, anoth'r two, three hundred ships."

  Otho came back with the stregg. Sten had something wandering in h
is backbrain. He put the horn in its stand untouched.

  "My turn,” Sten said. “First, I know where to hit them.” He touched a point on the fleet's projected overall passage. “Here."

  "Good. Thae'll be sloppy then."

  "Maybe even how. Clot the ships. Clot the weapons. Clot that they've got all the damned AM2 in the universe. Think about the troopies. Who we going against?"

  "Your mind has fled,” Otho said. “We are fighting the Empire, and you are lacking stregg. Drink, my Sten."

  Sten ignored him and went on. What kind of Imperials were they facing? This was hardtimes and peacetimes. The ships would most likely be officered and crewed by an odd mixture—experienced war veterans/careerists and new, or fairly new, volunteers.

  "Thae hae th’ facts ae history arguin’ wi’ you,” Alex agreed slowly.

  "Second. Their Admiral Whoever. Rules and regulations. Right way, wrong way, navy way."

  "Frae one formation? Estimate frae insufficient data. Theory only."

  Sten grinned at his stocky friend, who seemed to have found a new avocation as a strange-talking battle computer.

  "Formation, yes. Also the response to the trading ship. Destroyer screens shifted ... like so. Heavies closed toward area of threat ... so. Reaction—one ship to close with unknown, two detached in front of the screen for backup. Just like the fiche tell you in Staff School."

  "Still theory."

  It was.

  "Second. Alex, if I give you ... four ships, can you rig two spoofs?"

  Alex thought. “Ah kin. But thae'll noo be world-class. No’ enow time, no’ enow gear f'r a good illusion."

  "One more time. Think about the troopies."

  "Ah."

  "Now, won't that get your mushroom slippin’ an’ slid-in'?"

  "Might.” Kilgour sank his horn and got up. “But we'll hae't’ hit ‘em hard an’ fast. Ah hae a sudden date wi’ a tech. If y'll excuse me?” And he was gone.

  Otho winced. Hard and fast. That meant full power and being marooned in space if they did not capture the freighters.

  Sten caught his expression. “Don't worry. If we lose—and are still alive but out of power—we'll have Kilgour knock out the ports, issue oars, and we'll row home."