Empire's End

by Chris Bunch

  "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 command 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. All 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. The 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.

  The admiral's critics—all silent now—believed him far too young for his post. Also too consciously handsome and smooth. A man who had climbed quickly to the top through political talent, rather than military. In fact, his combat medals had all been won by staged fly-ins to recently cleared enemy territory. He had fired many shots in anger, but all skillfully executed memos and press releases.

  His first act as Chief of Naval Operations had been to create the emergency press-pool system the beings before him were operating under. The rules were simple: (1) Only newsbeings credentialed by his office could attend a Crisis Briefing. (2) Only questions pertaining to the "facts" presented in the briefing would be entertained. (3) Only authorized spokesbeings were permitted to be questioned. (4) Any violations of the first three rules might be deemed a breach of Imperial security and all parties prosecuted for treason.

  Still, there were certain realities to handling the media. Some of the beings before him were stars as popular as any livie heartthrob. And they commanded salaries of such size that they were powerful corporations in their own right.

  Fortunately, most of them were tame. One part of Anders's genius was he recognized that even a gadfly must join the institution it torments to become a rich and famous gadfly.

  Ranett didn't fit this mold. She was merely famous. She had no desire for wealth. Cared nothing for her fame… except as a powerful tool to be used to get her way.

  Which was why when Admiral Anders drew up the list of reporters to be called, he was forced to include her name. But it went on the bottom. Careful instructions were given for the call to go out too late for Ranett to attend.

  But here she was. In clotting person. Despite the hour—Anders had purposely set the crisis briefing for two E-hours before dawn—Ranett looked frighteningly awake. Unlike her punchdrunk colleagues who yawned and nodded all around her, halfheartedly bending an ear as Anders's pet briefing officer continued the jargon-laden drone.

  "… So much for the history and physical makeup of the Altaic Cluster. You will find planetary thumbnails, relative-grav data, and time-conversion charts in the materials we've already handed out," the officer said.

  "Also included is a fact sheet on the four principal races: the Jochians and Torks. Both human. And the Suzdal and Bogazi. Both ET. It will be helpful to recall that the Jochians are the majority race. And each of the races harbored historical hatred of the other."

  There was a dry rustle of documents as the officer moved on. "Next… the political backdrop. The details are well known to you all. However, to sum up. Anarchy threatened when the Emperor's trusted ally, The Khaqan, died. He was a member of the Jochian majority. It was unfortunate the heavy workload and detail-driven nature of his duties prevented The Khaqan from grooming a successor.

  "The Emperor appointed Doctor Iskra—a prominent Jochian scholar and devoted citizen of the Empire—as the new leader…"

  Ranett was getting the range now. She could see by the glazed look on her colleagues' faces that nothing important had been said… yet. But they were over an hour into the briefing. The dry lecturer in front of her was only one of several who had come before. Obviously, all of them had outlined equally unimportant facts. It was certainly not news that things had gone into the slokhouse in the Altaics. A leakproof news blackout had been slammed down for some time now. Ranett herself had just returned from an attempt to visit the sector. Her ship had been ordered back to Prime by someone very powerful, just short of its destination.

  She quick-checked through the sheaf of press materials she had snagged on the way to her seat. Found the Crisis Briefing Agenda. Sure enough, the first items listed on the agenda came under the heading of Background. That was followed by Crisis In Focus: Fleet Admiral Anders, Chief of His Majesty's Naval Operations. This was followed by a Q&A. Nowhere on the agenda—or in the other material in the folder—was there a hint of exactly what this crisis briefing was all about. Except for the fact it had something to do with the Altaics. And it was probably military, since the briefing was being conducted by the Chief of Naval Operations.

  If Ranett was the type who whistled, she would have done so right then. There was some deep drakh about to come down. In her experience weaving through the maze of Imperial politics, good news was announced immediately. Bad news was shunted to the end.

  She caught Admiral Anders dart a glance at her. He was clearly stewing over her presence. Gooood! She gave him her nastiest grin. Anders pretended to ignore her. Turned his solemn attention back to his briefing officer.

  "… the greatest difficulty," the man was saying, "proved to be the numerous heavily armed forces at the command of the several highly volatile races. To begin with, a diplomatic effort was launched to meet with the commanders of the hostile forces arrayed against Dr. Iskra. And, as quickly as possible, Imperial forces were sent in to assist Dr. Iskra in keeping the peace. Those forces were commanded by one of the Emperor's most capable and loyal officers—Admiral Mason…"

  Ranett's alarm bells started ringing. Why the lavish praise for Mason? She had also caught the past-tense phrase: "… forces were commanded." Then the alarms grew louder still. The briefing officer had unaccountably left out the name of the man who had headed the diplomatic mission: Plenipotentiary Sten. She knew Sten was one of the most prominent beings on the Eternal Emperor's staff. The poor sod, Ranett thought. To her mind, Sten was either being set up as a scapegoat or w
as bound for execution. She wondered if maybe it had already happened.

  "… Despite the many difficulties," the briefing officer continued, "we are happy to tell you today that the situation in the Altaics has stabilized. Order has been restored. Some time in the near future, we expect to be able to permit free travel and communication with the cluster."

  Riiight! Ranett thought. She knew when she was wading in drakh thigh-deep. "Near future" most likely meant… never in her lifetime.

  "That concludes the background portion of the agenda," the briefing officer said. He made with an insincere smile. "Thank you for your attention, gentlebeings. Admiral Anders will now bring us up to date on the latest developments. Please give him a warm welcome."

  There was a scattering of applause as Anders came forward. This frosted Ranett. She noted most of the applause came from the star anchors. Human or ET, they all looked alike to Ranett—gorgeous, rich, and self-satisfied.

  "This is a solemn moment for me, gentlebeings," Anders intoned. "It is with heavy heart that I announce to you that one of our own has betrayed all that I… and the hundreds of thousands other members of the Imperial forces… stand for."

  Ranett leaned forward. Here it comes, she thought.

  "Only hours ago, Admiral Mason stumbled upon a plot to overthrow His Majesty, the Eternal Emperor."

  A loud rumble erupted from the press corps. Anders held up a hand for silence. And got it.

  "The coup attempt—using the disturbances in the Altaic Cluster as a screen—was uncovered only moments after it was launched. Admiral Mason engaged the perpetrators. And shattered them .

  "… Losing his own life in the process. As well as all hands aboard his ship."

  The rumble turned into a thunderclap. Newsbeings were on their feet shouting for attention. Ranett stayed in her seat. Intent on Anders. She noted that his left cheek was twitching. And his eyes were overly bright. Her conclusion: the Admiral was a lying sack.

  Again Anders signaled for silence. Again he got it. "The coup was masterminded," he said, "by a being we all believed to be loyal… a man who proved to be secretly nursing an insane desire to murder our Emperor, and once again bring disaster to the Empire."