The Empire of Ruin

by Robert I. Katz

“More wine?” Lord Devlin asked.

  Michael peered owlishly down at his glass and tried not to smile. “Perhaps a bit more,” he said.

  “Excellent.” Devlin nodded to a servant, who impassively poured the sweet, golden liquid into Michael’s glass. Devlin covered his own glass with the palm of his hand. “None for me.” The servant bowed. “And you, Miss?” Devlin said to Gloriosa.

  She shook her head.

  “You may go,” Devlin said.

  The servant bowed again and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

  “So,” Towne said, “what did you think of the evening?”

  “Very pleasant,” Michael said. “Very pleasant, indeed. They seem a congenial group.”

  “They approve of you, as well.”

  Michael blinked, sipped and swirled his wine. Devlin, who had been observing Michael’s face, smiled thinly. “Unfortunately,” Devlin said, “when all is said and done, your recent financial reverses may wind up limiting our association.”

  Michael froze. His nostrils flared. “Oh?” he said, his voice very cold.

  “Unless…” Devlin frowned. Towne gave him a worried look.

  Devlin seemed to be thinking something over. “Perhaps,” he finally said, “we may be in a position to help you.” He quirked a brow. “To help each other, actually.”

  Michael squinted down into his wine and suppressed a small belch. “That would be helpful,” he said, and gave a bleary smile. “Help, I mean.”

  Gloriosa said nothing but allowed a frown to cross over her face.

  “Would you like to hear more?” Towne said.

  “Certainly,” Michael said. “Tell me more. Tell me everything.”

  Chapter 8

  “A private club,” Anson said, “meant to be both exclusive and discreet. It’s very smart, actually. It’s not a corporation. They publish no minutes, they issue no stock, they pay no taxes. All very private, indeed…secret, even.”

  “And all of them travel,” Michael said.

  “Adventures,” Anson said, “for adventurers.”

  Michael snorted. Anson tilted his head to the side and smiled.

  So far, despite his superior attitude, Anson had done his job. He was telling Michael nothing that Romulus had not already told him, however. Michael was not yet ready to trust the other man with all of the London’s (or his own, for that matter) secrets, but they seemed able to work together, and Romulus, comfortably ensconced in his hidden chamber, kept a quiet eye on everything that Anson did.

  “Most of them are most likely exactly what they seem: rich and a little bored. Some are not. Sevigny’s father and older brother squandered most of the family fortune. His pension from the guard and a small stipend left to him by his maternal great-grandmother allow him to live comfortably, but his circumstances are strained. Ferret’s situation is similar. The asteroid belt in the Dancy system is largely mined out. Her holdings, in the end, are worth little. They both own ships of their own. It is unclear how they are able to afford the upkeep. Stephen Malhotra, Solomon Towne and Devlin are all exceedingly wealthy. The rest travel on commercial starships: expensive but not ruinously so.

  “So then, Ferret and Sevigny,” Michael said.

  “Yes, if we understand the nature of what appears to be this very wide-ranging conspiracy—which is not yet entirely certain—it is most likely to be Ferret or Sevigny.” Anson grinned, “and now, of course, Luciano Barrad.”

  Michael nodded.

  “Geraldine Ferret’s ship is called the Lion of Altair. It’s scheduled to leave for the Antares system in one week.”

  “Good,” Michael said. “Let’s see what develops.”

  The Lion of Altair was housed in a private hangar at the Terra Nova spaceport. Security at the port was excellent, similar to that surrounding the estate of Lydia Prescott Jones and essentially unbreakable. Microdrones, however, while being kept at a reasonable distance from the hangar itself, were able to monitor the comings and goings of both cargo and crew.

  On the surface, however, nothing appeared suspicious. The crew were all registered with the local Spacers’ Guild. None had a criminal background. The cargo was listed on the shipping manifest as dried fruit, genetically modified protozoa that digested industrial waste, producing black, tarry pellets that could easily be swept up and disposed of, and small mechs with minimal AI capacity, advertised as programmed for limited household work.

  At the scheduled time, the Lion of Altair rose on its AG, accelerated smoothly to the edges of the system and vanished into slipspace. The London followed. Two days later, they arrived at Antares-4, an earthlike world that had spent the Interregnum peacefully and without major upheaval. Antares-4 was notable for a race of large, jellylike creatures that floated high in the atmosphere on hydrogen filled balloon like structures. Once each year, at the end of their life cycle, these creatures gathered together into enormous flocks, shared genetic material and then exploded, sending their seeds drifting down to earth. This worldwide event, referred to as The Radiance, attracted tourists from all over the Empire. The rest of the year, Antares was a pleasant, sleepy place, where little of note ever happened.

  The Lion of Altair checked in at the local port and unloaded its cargo. Michael and his crew were gratified to note that security here was nowhere near as tight as it was on Dancy. Microbots were easily able to infiltrate the ship’s perimeter and attach themselves to the cargo crates, which were unloaded and shipped out to five different recipients over the next three days. Four of these five turned out to be entirely legitimate trading companies, the cargo exactly as specified in the manifest. The fifth, however, which took possession of nearly half of the supposed mechs, drove their cargo to a heavily guarded building on the outskirts of the city, where the crates were opened.

  “Blue Ice,” Anson said.

  “Again,” Michael said. Neither were surprised. Andrew Sloane appeared fascinated by the images on the screen. The rest, who were playing poker at the time, glanced up and went back to their game.

  “Smuggling drugs is a profitable trade,” Anson said, “an excellent choice for the bankrupt gentleman adventurer with a complete lack of scruples.”

  Michael slowly nodded. “Yes, a crime without a doubt, but not the crime we’re interested in.”

  Curly shook his head, looking resigned. He put down his cards, said, “I’m out,” and peered up at Michael and Anson. “Wait a few days,” he said. “Things may change.”

  Anson shrugged. “Of course.”

  A day later, a consignment of fifty-seven large wooden crates arrived at the port and were loaded onto the Lion of Altair. The manifest listed the new cargo as industrial machinery and Geraldine Ferret filed a flight plan for Dubrovnik, a low tech, sparsely populated world nearly fifteen light years away.

  “Not much to do on Dubrovnik,” Rosanna said.

  “Mostly farming,” Curly said. “I hate farming.”

  Rosanna gave him a fond, indulgent smile.

  Matthew smiled and glanced at his sister. “We’ve never been anywhere. We’re just happy to be off Illyria.”

  Anson sniffed. “If the shipment is what it’s supposed to be, it would be useful on Dubrovnik,” Anson said.

  “We’ll follow,” Michael said.

  They had a week in slipspace.

  The center of the ship had long since been converted into an obstacle course. The course had been programmed with a nearly infinite variety of scenarios, one day a steaming jungle, the next a Savannah stretching to the horizon, the next a series of hills. At first, the Illyrians and the marines had kept to their own, but after being consistently beaten, the marines had been merged into the Illyrian squadron and then been split into randomly assigned teams by Dustin Nye.

  Anson had at first objected. “Imperial marines,” he had said, “do not submit themselves to the discipline of other forces.”

  Dustin Nye had pondered Anson’s red, angry face and shrugged. “Boss?” he said to Michael.

 
Michael frowned. Matthew, Marissa and Curly were listening. Matthew and Marissa seemed to exchange some wordless communication. Marissa rolled her eyes. Matthew sniffed. Curly had a small smile on his face.

  “Come with me,” Michael said.

  Anson, his face red, followed Michael into his office. “Close the door. Sit down.”

  Michael, sitting behind his desk, considered Anson’s angry expression. “Let us get one thing clear,” Michael said. “All of you are under my command. Do you dispute that?”

  Anson seemed about to say something, then brought himself up short. He swallowed. “No,” he finally said.

  “Good that you don’t. So…” He smiled. “I realize that Admiral Flynn is your mentor, and that perhaps you take your leadership style from him.” Michael stopped. Anson appeared startled by this statement. “Nothing to say? Then allow me to say that I am not impressed by Admiral Flynn, and so far, I am not particularly impressed by you. I understand that you are a military man but successful military men have always known that tradition and protocol must be modified, now-and-then, by new and unforeseen circumstances. They have also known how to take advantage of an opportunity.”

  Michael picked up a pen and idly tapped it on the surface of the desk. “You are not used to working on an equal basis with other forces. I can appreciate that, but understand that I’m not in the slightest bit interested in your dogma, your self-inflated opinion of your own capabilities or your bigotry. The Illyrians are better than your men. They’re bigger, faster, stronger, better trained and probably, on average, considerably smarter.” Michael held up a hand as Anson appeared to be about to say something. “The Illyrians have worked together as a team for many years. They know exactly what they’re doing. Not that Imperial marines don’t, you understand. It’s simply that in a fight, the Illyrians would destroy you. Now…” Michael leaned forward. “You are going to train together. Your men are going to have the advantage of instruction from the best soldiers the Empire has ever known. I am not going to have competing interests or forces on my ship. When we are done, I will have one entirely integrated and very well-oiled force, capable of going anywhere and carrying out any mission that I assign them. Is that understood?”

  Anson stared at him. “Who are you?” he finally asked.

  Michael grinned. “I’m a soldier,” he said. “That is all you need to know.”

  Dustin Nye was assigned to work with the marines. Michael often observed and occasionally, offered a suggestion. Henrik Anson made no further objection. All the rest of the crew, even Gloriosa, worked with them as well.

  “Killer instinct, that little girl,” Dustin said to Michael. “She has to watch her temper, though. She tends to let her guard down once she’s pissed off.”

  Michael nodded. Gloriosa had a lot of rage. Training with a team would be good for her.

  “The others are all excellent: the big girl in particular. Rosanna?” Dustin Nye shook his head, marveling. “She’s dangerous.”

  Dangerous and a genius in the kitchen. Curly, Michael reflected, was a lucky man. Curly, who was no dummy, knew it.

  The trip to Dubrovnik was uneventful. The crew played cards, slept, trained under Dustin and Michael’s scathing eye, exercised and spent much of their time under induction helmets, interfacing with the ship’s store of virtual scenarios. After a week, they arrived at the port of Dubrovnik, which consisted of a dirt field and a single terminal. The Lion of Altair landed next to two other ships, apparently merchants. The port was otherwise deserted. The London stayed in orbit and released a swarm of tiny mechs that drifted down toward the landing field.

  Security consisted of a small guard contingent and two electrified fences. At night, a pack of very large dogs was allowed to roam between the fences. The mechs had no difficulty infiltrating the port.

  Six hours after arrival, a large truck rumbled up to the Lion of Altair and the ship’s cargo was unloaded, brought across the field and carried onto the nearest of the two merchant ships. Sensors showed that the cargo, whatever it might actually be, had a constant internal temperature of thirty-seven degrees Celsius. A small, steady amount of carbon dioxide wafted from each crate.

  “Not machinery,” Richard Norlin said.

  Anson looked at him and frowned. “No.”

  Dubrovnik’s records listed the ship as the McCallan’s Luck, with a home port at the city of Kinshasa on the planet Saqqara-5, a run-down, mostly desert world of no particular note near the borders of the Empire.

  Michael frowned and peered at the image of the McCallan’s Luck. It was an average size vessel, the crew presumably an average crew. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Michael said.

  A few minutes later, a screen on the desk of the private secretary of the governor of Dubrovnik lit up. The secretary pushed a button and the image of Henrik Anson, wearing the uniform of a colonel in the Imperial Marines filled the screen. The secretary blinked. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Please connect me to Governor Novak. You will tell no one about this call.”

  The secretary cleared her throat. “Of course, sir,” she said.

  One hour later, twenty-five men wearing the uniform of the Dubrovnik Police and Security Service loaded into trucks and headed for the space port. Before the trucks had gone more than a kilometer toward their destination, the ship standing next to the McCallan’s Luck opened a series of ports in its side. A single missile ejected from each port, all of them aimed at the Lion of Altair, which disappeared in a ball of flame.

  Michael and his crew stared in disbelief at the explosions. Michael drew a deep sigh. “So much for Geraldine Ferret.”

  The remaining two ships drifted upward on their AG. Within minutes, they reached the stratosphere and fired their jets.

  “We should have raided them ourselves,” Richard Norlin said. Andrew Sloane frowned, evidently not impressed with humanity’s general behavior.

  Michael frowned. “Perhaps, but these people don’t leave loose ends. The same thing probably would have happened as soon as we got near them.” He shook his head. “I wanted to see if they would be warned. Obviously, they were. Or someone was.” He shook his head and waved a hand at the screen. “I wasn’t expecting this level of violence but I’m not really surprised.”

  He looked at Anson. “Move to intercept,” he said.

  Anson frowned at his interface. “The second ship is listed as a trading vessel of the Kristoff Regency, a small association of five worlds almost three hundred light years from Dubrovnik.”

  “Probably not,” Michael said.

  “No.” Anson looked glum and shrugged.

  The two ships were moving off together, staying close, but the London was faster than any ship currently in the Imperial reach and within minutes, they were only a few kilometers behind. “Hail them,” Michael ordered. “Tell them who we are.”

  Anson did so. A few seconds later, he shook his head. “They’re ignoring us.”

  “Inform them that we will open fire if they do not immediately cease their flight.”

  Anson did as requested. Both ships opened their ports, spun in place and ejected a volley of sixty missiles at the London. The London’s lasers managed to pick off fifty-six of them. The remaining four missiles impacted on their screens. For a moment, their sensors were blinded by the impact. The ship trembled, then the sensors cleared. Michael blinked. Both ships appeared to have vanished.

  The first Empire had possessed stealth shielding. The Second Empire did not. Michael smiled wryly. Or they had not. Regardless, somebody apparently did.

  Anson looked confused. The rest of the crew stared at the hologram, bewildered. “Lay down a volley, make half of them chaff,” Michael said. “Fill a cone of space fifteen degrees on either side of our flight line.”

  Anson shrugged and did as he was told. One hundred missiles flew from the London’s ports, streaked ahead and exploded. Outlined by the tiny, glowing particles of chaff, they could see two ships, hazy and ghostlike.
“Fire at will,” Michael said. “Try to knock out their jets. If possible, let’s save the cargo and maybe capture a few prisoners as well.”

  Both ships glared in fiery, sputtering coronas as the London’s lasers impacted on their screens. Slowly, the screens flared red, then violet. The ships rotated, trying to dissipate the radiant energy but the London’s lasers carried far more power than their screens could handle. Finally, agonizingly, the screens went down and the beams licked at the bare metal at the rear of each ship. Their engines melted and sputtered out, useless.

  “Hail them again,” Michael said.

  This time, a face appeared in the holo tank. It was male, thin, with a short black beard and keen gray eyes. He gave them a rueful grin. “You appear to have us at a disadvantage,” the face said.

  Michael stepped closer. “What is your name?”

  The face lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t need to know that.”

  “Regardless, prepare to be boarded. You are the prisoners of his Imperial Majesty’s Navy.”

  The face laughed softly. “Are we? Not quite yet.” He gave a soft, regretful smile. “Ave, Imperator,” he said. He leaned forward, reached out his hand and touched something below their visual field.

  The screen went blank. An instant later, both ships exploded.

  Michael winced. He shook his head at the expanding cloud of plasma. “That could have gone better,” he said.

  Chapter 9

  Curly wrinkled his brow. “What did that mean, ‘Ave, Imperator?’”

  “It means, ‘Hail to the Emperor,’” Michael said.

  “Emperor? Which Emperor?” Curly asked.

  “Good question. I don’t know,” Michael said.

  “It is possible,” Andrew Sloan said, “that the comment was intended to be ironic. You had just mentioned the Imperial Navy.”

  Michael rolled his eyes. “Let’s go down,” he said. “The governor of Dubrovnik has some questions to answer.”

  The Governor had told no one about his contact with the crew of the London except his Security Chief, or so he claimed. His fat, florid face was sweating. He dabbed at his cheeks and absently wiped the top of his bald head with a piece of cloth. “I understand the requirements of secrecy,” he said. “I am not a fool.”