Кристофер Банч: Empire's End

THE RUINS OF the Imperial assault fleet fled through the “dark" between star clusters. There was one tacship carrier, two heavy cruisers, one light, their destroyer flotilla screens, and, in the center of the formation, auxiliaries and the troop transports carrying the battle-shattered remnants of the First Imperial Guards Division.

Flanking and closing the formation was the huge battleship Victory .

On its bridge, Sten stared at a strategic battlescreen, not seeing either the glow “ahead" that represented the Empire… nor the symbols to the “rear" that were the anarchy-ripped Altaic Cluster.

Two E-days earlier:

Sten: Ambassador Plenipotentiary. Personal Emissary of the Eternal Emperor. Admiral. Medals and decorations beyond count, from the Galactic Cross down, including Grand Companion of the Emperor’s Household. Hero.

Now.

Sten: Traitor. Renegade. And, he thought, don’t forget Murderer.

Among the symbols representing what was “behind" the Victory was one marking where the Imperial Battleship Caligula , its Admiral Mason, and over three thousand loyal Imperial sailors had been. They’d been slaughtered by Sten for following a direct order to planetbust the Altaic’s capital world, an order issued in person by the Eternal Emperor.

"Boss, Ah hae a wee tip."

Sten’s eyes—and mind—refocused. Alex Kilgour. Sten’s best friend, a rather roundish looking heavy-worlder who probably knew even more about death and destruction than Sten.

"GA." Part of Sten’s mind, the part always removed from the hue and cry, found it funny both of them still used slang from their now-long-gone days in Mantis Section, the Emperor’s supersecret covert-operations unit. Go ahead.

"Giein' thae y’ hae no 'sperience a’ bein’t an outlaw, y’r entire life bein’t spent singin' hymns an’ such, p’raps y' dinnae ken Robbie Roy types hae noo time’t’ be pausin’t an' smellin’t th’ flowers i' thae dinnae wan’ a halter an' a neck-stretch."

"Thank you, Mister Kilgour. I’ll get my thumb out."

"Dinnae fash, lad. Any wee service, y' hae but’t’ snivel."

Sten turned away from the screen. Around him, waiting, was the Victory’s bridgewatch. The top elements of his long-serving personal staff, who were in fact more Sten’s own private intelligence agency than striped-suiters.

Twenty-three Gurkhas—Nepalese mercenaries famous for serving only in the Emperor’s private bodyguard—but these had volunteered for special duties: guarding the life of their ex-CO, Sten.

Otho. Six other Bhor. Squat, shaggy monsters with long beards, yellow fangs, and ground-brushing knuckles. They seemed happiest either tearing an enemy in half the long way or else doing the same to his bank balance in a shrewd multiworld trade. They were also fond of eddaic-type poetry. There were another hundred of them elsewhere on the Victory .

And, most important, left to last, their commander:

Cind: Human. Expert sniper. Descended from a now-obliterated warrior cult. A highly respected combat leader.

Beautiful. Sten's friend and lover.

Enough bean counting, he thought. Kilgour had been right: a wolf could never chance lying in a sunny clearing listening to the bees buzz—not unless he'd suddenly decided on a new career as a fireside rug.

"Weapons?"

"Sir?" The young woman was waiting. The lieutenant's name, Sten recollected, was Renzi.

"Bring your people back to general quarters. Commander Freston"—this was his longtime personal com officer—"I want—oh, clot. Cancel."

Sten remembered. "Both of you," he said, raising his voice. "And anyone else interested—listen up.

"Things have changed. I just declared war on the Emperor. Which makes me a traitor. Nobody's required to obey my orders. No one who remains loyal to his oath will be harmed. We'll—"

His words were interrupted by the ululation of the GQ siren as the weapons officer obeyed Sten's first command.

That was one answer.

Freston made another: "Pardon, sir? There was some static there and I lost you. Your orders?"

Sten held up a palm for Freston to stand by.

"Weapons, I want all Kali and Goblin stations at full launch-readiness. Some of our Imperial friends might decide to bag a renegade. Plus there were four destroyers escorting the Caligula . If any ship begins an attack, put a Goblin in the vicinity and blow it off as a warning."

"And if they keep coming?"

Sten hesitated. "If they do—contact me. No Kali launches will be made without my orders, and any launch will be controlled by either myself or Mister Kilgour."

The Kalis were operator-guided shipkillers.

"That's not—"

" That is an order. Follow it."

"Yessir."

"Commander Freston. Patch me a secure link to General Sarsfield on whichever transport he's riding." Sarsfield was the Guards' CO, and the next-ranking officer to Sten. Freston touched keys.

"One other thing," Sten said. "You've been through C&S school?"

"Yessir."

"You have any really terrible sins in your past? That'd keep you from being the very model of a shipcaptain? Ram the admiral's barge? Shine the ship's cannons with carbolic acid? Bootleg the beer? Badmouth the beef? Boast about buggery?"

"Nossir."

"Fine. They tell me pirates get promoted a lot before they get hanged. The Victory's your ship, Mister."

"Yessir."

"Don't thank me. That just means you'll probably be next after Kilgour for the high jump. Mister Kilgour?"

"Sir?"

"All offwatch personnel to the main hangar."

"Yessir."

And then Sten noticed Alex's hand move away from the small of his back. He might have been fingering an old war wound around the caudal vertebra. Kilgour was not—his hand had been touching the butt of a miniwillygun, hidden in his waistband. Alex took no chances: loyalty to the Emperor in the abstract would be acceptable. But if anyone attempted to fulfill that promise to "defend the Empire and its welfare onto death," they would be prime candidates for martyrdom. And most likely Kilgour would loudly admire their fidelity at the wake.

A screen cleared. Sarsfield.

"General, you're aware of what's happened?"

"I am."

"Very well. In view of events, you are now the ranking officer of the fleet. Until you receive differing orders from the Empire, I would suggest you continue the present course toward the nearest Imperial worlds.

"I will advise you that, regretfully, any attempt to interfere with the Victory or its movements will be opposed with maximum force. However, none of your ships are in danger if they obey these instructions."

The old soldier grimaced. He took a deep breath, and started to say something. Then he changed his mind.

"Your message is understood."

"Sten. Clear."

The screen blanked. Sten wondered what Sarsfield had been about to say—that none of the Imperial ships had one-quarter the firepower of the Victory nor were they skippered by deathseekers? Or—and Sten cursed at himself for still having a bit of romance in him—Good luck? It didn't matter.

"Jemedar Lalbahadur?"

"Sah!"

"Turn out your people. I want them as flanking security."

"Sah!"

"Captain Cind, I'd also like your people dancing attendance?"

"They're already drawing weapons," Cind said.

"Commander—pardon, Captain Freston, have the captain's personal boat ready for launch. We'll steal you another one somewhere." Interesting, Sten thought, how quickly one could lose that stifling straitjacket discipline the navy held so dear.