Кристофер Банч - Empire's End

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 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 AM 2.

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.