Empire's End (25 page)

There was no movement from the tower.

The
Aoife’s
chainguns swept the pinnacle, Honjo fingers hovering above firing keys.

The ship’s ramp slid down, and Sten came out. He was wearing combat armor, and carried a willygun. But his helmet face was open.

Waldman thought that was truly insane—Internal Security could be waiting just inside. But Sten couldn’t figure out any other way to let beings know they were being rescued, not attacked.

He was nearly at the door before it opened.

Marr and Senn stood there.

“I must say,” Marr said. “You certainly arrive in a baroque manner, my young captain.”

“Yeah. Baroque. Let’s get the clot out of here before somebody baroques us in half. Later for the aphorisms, troops.”

And Haines was there, in the doorway.

‘Took you long enough.“

“Sorry. Hadda stop and tie my bootlaces.”

Behind Haines, a human male. Slender. Balding. Early middle age. Dressed about ten years out of style. Sten flashguessed that was Haines’s husband. Not at all the sort of man he would have expected her to end up with.

Don’t be considering that, idiot. Like you just told everybody else. Book.

Senn, Haines, and Sam’l ran for the ship. Marr hesitated for a moment, then bent and picked up a small, multihued pebble.

“There might be nothing left to come back to.”

And then he, too, boarded the
Aoife
, Sten close behind him.

“Lift, sir?” Waldman asked as Sten boiled into the control room.

“Wait one.”

He looked at a screen, which showed the bridge of the
Juliette
. No one was in front of the pickup, either hostage or terrorist.

“Send it.”

“Yessir.” The com operator next to the screen hit a button, and the
Aoife
broadcast a single letter in code to the
Juliette
.

Onscreen chaos.

Shouts. Screams. The hijackers, bellowing incomprehensibly. A young girl broke away and tried to run. She was shot down. The hijacker was shrieking in some never-to-be-translated tongue. His pistol swayed, then blasted. Straight into the pickup! Dead air.

“Oh my dear, oh my dear,” Marr moaned, arms around Senn. “Those poor baby humans!”

“Yep,” Sten said. “Terrible, terrible. And it’s going to get worse. Berhal Waldman, take us up. About five hundred meters, please.”

The
Aoife
shot skyward.

Sten was quite a prophet, as a second screen went to life, this time on a commercial station.

Blur… snap-focus… a battered spaceship… McLean units off… haze from the ship’s stern as the Yukawa drive went to full…

Screaming incoherence from some liviecaster: “Horror… Horror… oh the horror of it all…”

“Full drive,
if
you please. Home, James.”

The
Aoife
slammed into hyperspace, sonic boom as air rushed to fill the vacuum left by the destroyer.

That explosion went unheard, buried by a greater one as the
Juliette
crashed straight into the center of Soward’s main landing field. There was no fire, no rubble. Just a smoking crater.

Sten turned sadly as the
Aoife’s
pickup lost the commercial ‘cast.

“What an awful thing,” he said. “All those beautiful little children, spread over the landscape like so much strawberry preserves. Strawberry? Tomato. Saltier-tasting.

“And
so
coincidental, too. Unfortunate for them, although they’d probably all grow up to be ax-murderers or lawyers or something, but certainly providential for us.

“As Mister Kilgour says, God never takes away with one hand but he gives with the other.”

Marr and Senn uncurled from their woe and their great eyes focused on Sten. Haines verbalized it

“You know, you’re an utter bastard, Sten.”

“That’s what my mother always said,” Sten agreed happily.

“Thanks,” she said, quite seriously.

“Hey. It wasn’t that much. You know me. Saint Sten. Slayer of Virtuous Maidens. Rescuer of Dragons.”

Amid the banter Sten felt very, very good about himself. And very surprised they’d gotten away with it.

Officially, the
Juliette
incident remained a tragic event, another example of the growing collective psychopathology of an overcomplex civilization. Privately, though, investigators were fairly sure they had been snookered. Not that any trace of the tape Sten’s actors had carefully prepared during the flight out from Vi remained.
Nothing
remained of the Bhor robohulk except a hole in the tarmac and a wisp or six of greasy smoke. But investigators knew they would have found some carbon traces of the eighteen or more beings who died before or in the crash, no matter how thorough the splatter.

When Sten heard that, as a passed-along rumor, he swore mightily. If he had given the situation one more thought, he could have scored ten or so beef carcasses from a butcher shop, and no one would
ever
have known.

Three mighty Imperial battlefleets flashed out of hyperspace in the Ystm system, all weapons stations manned and ready to obliterate the rebellion.

Six worlds and their moons and moonlets orbited a dead star.

Nothingness.

No Sten.

No rebel fleet.

No nothing.

And as far as the most sophisticated analysis could determine, no known ship had
ever
entered this system. It had been named on a star chart and never explored. Not that there was anything worth exploring.

Sten’s big con had worked. Or, rather, was working. He had never considered raiding Al-Sufi, of course, nor going anywhere that close to Prime World with his tiny battlefleet.

The deception that had been leaked through Hohne’s doubled net and other agents around the Empire was just the first step.

Sten was playing liar’s poker with the Emperor.

This time, there was nothing there.

Next time, in another system, there might be traces that Sten or some of his ships had recently passed through.

Not only was this game something that could be played over and over again—the Emperor could not and would not ignore any reports of Sten’s presence—and burn AM2, Imperial ships and supplies, whatever faith the Imperial Navy had in its intelligence, and the Eternal Emperor’s arse, but it would have a payoff.

One that would shake the Imperial forces to their souls.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SUBADAR-MAJOR CHETHABAHADUR SNAPPED a crisp salute. “San! Reporting as ordered, sah.”

“Sit down, Subadar-Major,” Poyndex said. “No need for formality.”

Chethabahadur sat, his small, slender body stiff in the seat.

“I’m afraid I have some very bad news,” Poyndex said. “I’m sorry to be the one bearing it. But there’s no sense beating about the brambles and making things worse. So here it is. As you know, the Eternal Emperor holds
you
people in great esteem for your years of dedicated service.”

Chethabahadur blinked. Very quickly. All other reactions were caught in time. The phrase “you people” was clearly an insult worthy of a cut throat. The “years of dedicated service” numbered in the hundreds, which meant that Poyndex should have had his throat cut a second time. As for “high esteem”— well, it was almost too much.

The subadar-major kept his expression mild, wondering at the several miracles allowing this toady to remain alive after mewling such nonsense.

“Very high esteem, indeed,” Poyndex continued. “Unfortunately, he has found himself in a terrible position. Money is very tight now, you understand. Cutbacks and belt tightening has been ordered all through the services.”

“Yes, sah,” Chethabahadur said. “The Gurkhas have done their part, sah. But if further reductions are required, sah… be assured we are ready.”

Poyndex smiled condescendingly. “How generous. But that won’t be necessary. Under the circumstances. You see, I have been ordered to disband your unit. As I said, I’m very sorry. But we all have to make sacrifices in times like these.”

Without hesitation, Chethabahadur said, “No need to apologize, sah. Tell the Emperor the Gurkha stand ready for any command. If he needs us to disband, sah… and return to Nepal… well, it shall be done. And without complaint, sah. Assure him of that.”

Another Poyndex smile. “Oh, I will. I certainly will.”

The subadar-major came to his feet and snapped another salute. “Then if that is all, sah, I will depart to inform my men.”

Poyndex made with a weak reply to the salute. “Yes… That is all… And thank you very much.”

“It is you who are to be thanked, sah,” Chethabahadur said. He spun and marched from the room.

Poyndex eased back in his chair, pleased with himself for a difficult task well done… although he was surprised at how easy the Gurkha major had taken the news.

Such loyalty.

Blind, ignorant loyalty.

Poyndex laughed. He keyed his com and ordered his Internal Security troops to the posts of the departing Gurkhas.

Outside, in the corridor leading away from Poyndex’s office, one floor below the Emperor’s private quarters, Chethabahadur had to force down the sudden desire to leap high in the air and click his heels.

For a long time now he and his men had worried over the Emperor’s deteriorating personality. His actions turned their stomachs. They could not understand how a soldier they admired—Ian Mahoney—could become a traitor. And there was absolutely no way they would believe Sten, once their commander, and still, as far as anyone knew, having one platoon of Gurkhas serving under him, would turn his coat, even against the rabid beast the Emperor had become.

All of the Gurkhas had wanted to quit. The only thing that had stopped them was their sworn oath—and the certain knowledge the Emperor would consider the action a grave insult.

He would kill them all.

Worse, they feared for their people in far-off Nepal. None of the Gurkhas doubted that the Emperor would remove Nepal from the face of the planet for such a betrayal.

But now—joy, oh, joy, the heavens smiled and the Gurkha were fired. What a blessing to come from such a barbarian as that Poyndex.

Not that Chethabahadur forgave him his rude behavior Someday he would kill the man.

If this was not possible, Chethabahadur’s son would kill Poyndex’s son.

For the Gurkhas had very long memories.

Poyndex watched with amazement as the woman, Baseeker, abased herself before the Eternal Emperor.

“Oh, Lord, I am blinded by your exalted presence. My limbs tremble. My brain is a fever. My tongue a thick stump unable to form words befitting your full glory.”

Poyndex buried a smile. He thought her tongue was working just fine. The new high priestess of the Cult of the Eternal Emperor was prostrate on her god’s office floor.

“You may rise,” the Emperor said solemnly. Poyndex was only mildly surprised at how seriously the Emperor seemed to be taking this interview.

Baseeker came to her knees, beat her head several times against the ground in further obeisance, then came the rest of the way to her feet. Poyndex saw the glitter of pleasure in the Emperor’s eyes and congratulated himself in his choice to replace

Zoran as the new high priestess. Baseeker had absorbed his coaching and then bettered it by several hundred percent.

“Please. Do sit down,” the Emperor said, fussing over the woman. “May I offer you any refreshment?”

Baseeker slid into the indicated chair, poised at the edge as if relaxation would be a blasphemy. “Thank you, Lord. But allow this humble seeker of truth to reject your kindness. I could not possibly take mortal nourishment at this time. Permit me, instead, to continue to feed my spirit upon the ethers of your holy presence.”

Poyndex doubted whether Baseeker ever fed on much of anything—except personal ambition. She was all bone and gristle, wrapped tight with skin so pale it was nearly translucent. She was of indeterminate age, with a severely pinched face, sharp incisors peeking through thin lips, and eyes like small bright beads. Like a rat’s, Poyndex thought.

“Whatever pleases you,” the Emperor said, waving grandly.

Baseeker nodded, tucking her white robe around bony knees.

The Emperor indicated a sheaf of paper on his desk. “I’ve studied your proposals for reorganization quite thoroughly,” he said. “An impressive job.”

“Thank you, Lord,” Baseeker said. “But it could not have been done without your inspiration. Frankly, the cult was left in complete disarray by my late predecessor—Zoran. Our purpose is to glorify you… and educate your subjects on your divine mission. But these things were left shamefully undone.”

“I see you have added a new program,” the Emperor said. “A proposal to build worship centers in all the major capitals of the Empire.”

Baseeker bowed her head. “I’d hoped it would meet your favor.”

Poyndex lifted his eyes to keep from laughing. They fell on the painting above the Emperor. It was an ultraromantic, ultramuscular portrait of the Emperor, posing heroically. The painting was in commemoration of the Battle of the Gates, which the portrait indicated he had won single-handedly. Poyndex happened to know the Emperor never was even vaguely near the fighting in question.

The painting was one of a whole gallery glorifying the Emperor. They were from the awful collection of the late Tanz Sullamora. Ordered to track them down, Poyndex’s IS agents had found them rightfully discarded in a museum trash heap. Now they hung frame edge to frame edge along the office walls.

The effect was unsettling, to say the least. All those saintly Imperial eyes staring down at him. It was like hallucinating on spoiled narcobeer.

He forced his attention back to the interview. He saw Baseeker’s small eyes fire brighter. “This proposal is nothing, Lord, compared to my true vision,” she said, full of holy fervor. “I see temples to your exalted self in every town and city of the Empire. Where your subjects can gather together and bask in your glory.”

“Really?” the Emperor said. “I had no idea there were so many potential converts.”

“How can it be otherwise, Lord?” Baseeker said. “For is it not written in our holy scriptures that soon your worshippers will outnumber the stars in the heavens? And that they will praise your name as the one true God of us all?”