Empire's End

by Chris Bunch

  "Plenipotentiary Sten! A man who once had the Emperor's love and trust."

  "You will be pleased to know that although this intergalactic outlaw survived, his forces have been destroyed or scattered. As we speak, they are being hunted down one by one."

  Now, Anders skillfully allowed himself to be overwhelmed by questions.

  "Any word on this villain's whereabouts, Admiral?" one of the overpaid anchors shouted.

  "None that I am allowed to verify," Anders said. "But rest assured, Sten—and his underling, Alex Kilgour—can run. But they can't hide."

  "Were any of the rebel forces in the Altaics involved?" came another question.

  "Again, I am hampered by concerns of Imperial security. I can say, however, that Sten was heavily involved with the rebels in the course of his duties."

  "Is there any danger of the conspiracy spreading?"

  "I can't say no to that. But, I can say I believe we have it localized. Internal Security will be following up all leads."

  It's witch-hunt time, Ranett thought.

  "What were Admiral Mason's total casualties?"

  "I'm sorry… Again, security concerns prevent me from answering. Except to say all hands aboard his flagship died in the cowardly attack."

  "How many of Sten's forces have been killed or captured?"

  Anders shrugged. "I repeat my last… Imperial security, and all. I promise all of you these questions, and all others, will be answered… in the fullness of time."

  Ranett dipped into her bag of tricks and pulled out her favorite—the Donaldson. Her practiced bellow blasted over the other questioners. "ADMIRAL ANDERS! ADMIRAL ANDERS!"

  She could not be denied. Anders sighed. Motioned for her to GA.

  "What evidence do you have against these alleged conspirators?" she asked.

  Anders frowned. "Evidence? I told you… There was a coup attempt." He tried laughing at her. "I know it's early, Ranett, but we do wish you'd pay attention when we speak."

  "I heard you, Admiral," Ranett snarled. "But, I assume… If this Sten is captured—"

  "When, Ranett. When!"

  "Your qualification, Admiral. Not mine. Regardless. If, or when, Sten—and this Alex Kilgour—are captured… what proof of a conspiracy exists? For the trial, I mean. For example, did you monitor any conversations? Discover correspondence between the alleged perpetrators? Witness them meeting with known enemies of the Empire? That sort of thing."

  Anders sputtered. "Dammit. They attacked and destroyed Admiral Mason's ship! What other proof do you need?"

  Ranett wasn't buying. "An honest prosecutor might ask for more than your word, Admiral," she said. "Surely you can see that. Show us pictures of the attack, for example. Transcripts of bridge-to-bridge communications. Whatever proof you have."

  "I'll have to plead security concerns again," Anders said. "You'll have those things… eventually."

  "In the fullness of time," Ranett said.

  "I couldn't have put it better myself," Anders said.

  Ranett knew, at that moment, no one had any intention of capturing Sten. Not alive, at any rate.

  The admiral buried a smile and started to turn away.

  "One other question, Admiral… if you please."

  Anders buried a groan. "Go ahead, Ranett. One more."

  "Does this incident with the plenipotentiary indicate a severe weakness in the diplomatic corps?"

  Anders was honestly stumped. "I don't understand. This is an isolated incident. One man acting in league with a small group of deranged individuals. Nothing more."

  "Then what about Ian Mahoney?"

  Anders purpled. "One has nothing to do with the other," he snarled.

  "Oh? Wasn't Ian Mahoney assigned to the Altaics as well? In fact, wasn't he Plenipotentiary Sten's superior at one time? And wasn't he just executed? Also accused—with great fanfare, I might add—as a traitor? And, like Sten, hadn't he too spent a lifetime in service to the Emperor?

  "Come on, Admiral. Either one and one equals two or we have a coincidence that at the very least indicates dissatisfaction with Imperial policy. Loyal and able beings who have spent their entire careers fighting the Emperor's battles aren't suddenly transformed into traitors. Unless there is something seriously wrong."

  "Writing an editorial, Ranett?" Anders growled.

  "No, Admiral. Just asking questions. That's my job. Answering them is yours."

  "I won't dignify your remarks by responding," Anders said. He turned to the rest of the newsbeings. "And… I warn you all… The area your colleague has just encroached upon is forbidden under the crisis-briefing rules. She—and the rest of you—will confine yourself to asking and communicating only those details authorized under those rules. Do I make myself clear?"

  The press room was oddly silent. No one looked at Ranett. Angry enough to peel and parboil Anders, Ranett opened her mouth to bellow one more stinging question.

  Then she saw the deadly look in Anders's eyes. Saw an Internal Security officer move forward, getting ready for a word from the admiral. Her jaw shut with a snap.

  She smiled, shrugged, and buried her head in her notes.

  Ranett was a survivor. She would get her questions answered—one way or the other.

  As the press briefing broke up and everyone hurried out of the room, Ranett thought about Sten one more time.

  Poor sap. He didn't stand a chance.

  Chapter Three

  "I AM AFFLICTED with fools," the Eternal Emperor roared. "Overpaid, overstuffed, smirking, self-satisfied fools."

  A variety of beings quaked in their footgear as the Emperor detailed his displeasure. There was Avri, the young woman with the very old eyes, who was his political chief of staff. Walsh, the handsome but exceedingly stupid boss of Dusable, who was the Emperor's toady in Parliament. Anders, the admiral who had run afoul of Ranett at the press conference. Bleick, the Emperor's chamberlain. And scores of other beings—uniformed and otherwise—were scurrying about the yawning Imperial chamber or hanging their heads in shame as the Emperor railed on.

  The Emperor towered over Anders. Blue eyes shifting to the color of cold steel. "What kind of a press conference was that, Admiral? You're supposed to be an expert on that sort of drakh. God knows, you can't pour piss out of a boot when it comes to real military business."

  "Yessir," the Admiral said. He was drawn up, heels locked, like a raw recruit.

  "And you, Avri… You were supposed to gameplan this thing with pube brain, here. I gave you the spin on a gilt-edged platter, for crying out loud."

  "Yessir," Avri said. Licking lush lips with a nervous tongue.

  "People, I do not have time to explain basic politics to you," the Eternal Emperor gritted. "Traitors—the privy council—put this Empire in its worst shape in two thousand years. And I barely pulled it out that time.

  "Now I'm saddled with debt, harried by mewling allies, and every time I turn over another rock, a new kind of traitorous slime crawls out."

  "In my view—which, dammit, is the only view that counts—Sten is the worst of the lot. I nursed that snake at my bosom for his whole clotting life. Gave him honors. Riches. And how does he repay me? Conspires with my enemies. Plots my murder. And when discovered, he slaughters innocent sailors, and one of the best admirals in my service, in a cowardly sneak attack."

  The Emperor's voice lowered. He shook his head. Weary. "Now, that's a spin, dammit. Guaranteed to turn a drakhhouse into a palace. Not so very hard, is it?"

  "I'm very sorry, sir," Anders said. "I don't know how that reporter—Ranett—got in."

  "Oh, just shut the clot up, Admiral," the Emperor said. "If you can't make a plan that can stand the test of somebody with a little smarts, then get out of the clotting business."

  "Yessir."

  "Avri, it's damage-control time. I want all newscasts blanketed by our spin doctors. Hit the Op Ed programs extra hard. 'Face The Empire.' 'Witness To History.' 'Countdown.' That sort of thing.

  "I especi
ally want you to get into the pants of that Pyt'r Jynnings clown over at K-B-N-S-O. Half the Empire watches that piece of drakh he calls 'Nightscan.' I don't know why. Guess he makes everybody feel smart because he's so damned dumb."

  "Right away, Your Majesty," Avri said.

  "You! Walsh!"

  The dimwit that was the ruler of Dusable blinked into semisentient awareness. "How… uh… may I be of… uh… service, Your… uh… Highness?" he managed.

  "I want those lazy sods in Parliament stoked up. Some kind of condemnation vote. Calling Sten and that Scots sidekick of his every filthy name in the book. And if that vote isn't unanimous, I'll nail your guts to a post, Walsh. And lash you around it."

  "Yessir," Walsh gobbled.

  "One other thing. Get ahold of Kenna. I have a little personal business I want him to transact."

  "Right away, Your Highness," Walsh said. Kenna was possibly the sharpest old pol on Dusable. A world whose politics were so crooked infants gurgled the word "mordida" before they learned to say "momma."

  "Anders. I want all firstline forces on this. I don't care what fleets you have to strip. Sten must be found."

  "Yessir."

  "Bleick!" His chamberlain snapped to. "I want—"

  He stopped in midorder as the door hissed open and Poyndex, his chief of Internal Security, entered. His face was grim. Bloodless. A man bearing bad tidings. But the Emperor was too angry to immediately notice.

  "Where the clot have you been, Poyndex? I told you I wanted that info on Sten and Kilgour immediately, dammit. Not tomorrow. Not the day after. But now, dammit. Now!"

  Poyndex glanced quickly around the room. Then back at the Emperor. "I think we need to talk in private, sir."

  "I don't have time for games, Poyndex. Spit it out."

  Poyndex hesitated. The Emperor's eyes got a sudden spooky glint in them. Clinical paranoia was Poyndex's diagnosis. "If you insist, Your Majesty," Poyndex said. "But I would be remiss if I didn't warn you one more time. This should be discussed in private. I strongly urge you to reconsider."

  The Eternal Emperor turned to his people. "Get out."

  They got. With feeling. In moments the room was empty. The Emperor looked back at Poyndex. "Okay. Now report."

  Poyndex stiffened. "I regret to say there is nothing to report, sir. All files on Sten and Alex Kilgour have been wiped clean."

  "Say clotting what?"

  "It's as if they never existed, sir." Poyndex's heart was hammering as he delivered the news.

  "That's not possible," the Emperor said.

  "But I'm afraid it's true, Your Majesty," Poyndex said. "Even the Mantis computers have been penetrated. There is no record of Sten—or Alex Kilgour—in any record system in the Empire. I don't know how it was done. I've got every tech in IS working around the clock. The only thing we know for sure is it had to have been done by a very high placed insider."

  The Emperor stared at Poyndex for a long, uncomfortable time. He turned and palmed a switch. His personal computer terminal winked into life.

  "Fortunately," the Emperor said, "I keep my own files for just this reason." He laughed. Without humor. "When all is lost," he said, "you have to depend on yourself."

  His fingers flashed across keys, beginning the search.

  "I used to have a staff I could depend upon," the Emperor said. "Mahoney, for one. Sometimes I regret I had to have him killed. Ian was a strong right arm, that's for sure." The Emperor, who normally appeared to be a man in his mid-thirties, suddenly seemed very old to the IS chief. His handsome features drawn. His voice high-pitched… and weak.

  The Emperor looked up at Poyndex. "… The same with Sten. I tell you, Poyndex, the trouble with traitors is they tend to be your best people." Another humorless laugh. "Maybe that's what old Julius was trying to tell Brutus."

  "Pardon me, Your Majesty? I have no knowledge of these beings. Should I have IS put this Julius and Brutus on your Personal Enemies list?"

  The Emperor grunted. "Never mind." He muttered to himself. Just loud enough for Poyndex to hear. "That's the other thing… No one to talk—"

  He suddenly broke off. "What the clot?"

  "Something wrong, sir?"

  The Emperor hammered keys. "No. I probably should have—Holy drakh!"

  The Emperor bleared up at Poyndex. "My files…" he gasped, "they're…"

  Poyndex glanced at the screen. Saw the display. "STEN, NI.

  KILGOUR, ALEX. NO FILES ON RECORD. PRESS ONCE FOR ANOTHER REQUEST."

  The IS chief staggered back, as flabbergasted as his boss. The Eternal Emperor's personal files on Sten and Kilgour had been wiped absolutely clean.

  The Emperor's heavy fist smashed on his desk. "I want Sten, dammit! Get him, Poyndex. If you don't, I will. And I will personally put his head on a stake next to yours."

  Poyndex fled. And as he went out the door, he swore he could hear a growling, as if a great hound were snarling after him.

  Chapter Four

  "GOOD EVENING, GENTLEBEINGS. I’m Pyt’r Jynnings. Welcome to this week’s edition of ‘Nightscan.’ The news program that examines the crucial issues of our time.

  "Tonight we focus our full hour on an event that has stunned the Empire. At the heart of this broadcast is a disarmingly simple question…

  "Sten: Traitor, or Misunderstood Genius?

  "To my right, Professor Knovack. A renowned Imperial historian and expert on parliamentary power brokering. To my left, Sr. Wiker. Former speechwriter for the Eternal Emperor. Current ambassador to the Tahn worlds.

  "Professor. We'll start with you. What is your response to the question?"

  "Oh, he's a traitor. No question about it."

  "What about you, Sr. Wiker?"

  "I couldn't have put it better myself, Pyt'r. Sten is definitely a traitor."

  "Ah! Agreement! And… uh… so soon. Goodness me. Well, let's explore the other side of the coin, then. Professor?"

  "I went first before."

  "Ha ha. Too true. Well, Sr. Wiker, what's fair is fair. Now, tell us… do you think Sten is a misunderstood genius?"

  "That's an interesting question, Pyt'r. And I've come prepared to discuss it all night… if I have to."

  "Good. Good."

  "But, before we do, I think we have to talk about the nature of this man."

  "Oh? Did you know Sten? Personally?"

  "Good God, no! Uh… I mean… I know of him. And I most certainly know his type."

  "Please share these insights with our viewers."

  "To begin with, he has enjoyed the favor of our Emperor his entire life. True, he performed some service. Valuable service, some might say."

  "But, would you say that?"

  "I think that's… uh… open to interpretation. More importantly, he has been the recipient of a host of honors. So these services—however one might characterize them—have certainly been repaid. Besides these honors, he has also been blessed with great wealth. Thanks to his friendship with the Eternal Emperor."

  "How do you react to those statements, Professor Knovack?"

  "I think this… this… traitor approached our Emperor in a rare moment of weakness. After that awful business with the privy council. And our beloved Emperor mistook his ambition for love and loyalty. And now it seems… the Emperor was… was… nurturing a snake at his bosom."

  "Very well put, Professor. Your reputation as a phrasemaker has once again been assured… Any comments thus far, Sr. Wiker?"

  "I think we're forgetting those poor Imperial service beings who were the victims of Sten's traitorous and cowardly action. Especially Admiral Mason. Think of his family! Think of how much agony they must be in at this moment."

  "A most excellent point. I think we should all pause for just a moment. A moment of silence, if you please. Out of respect for Admiral Mason's family and the crew of the Caligula ..."

  As the vid recorders whirred for the billions of K-B-N-S-O viewers, the three men solemnly bowed their heads.

  The director
's voice whispered in Jynning's ear. "For clot's sake, Pyt'r. Not the silence business again!"

  The anchor whispered back into his throat mike: "Shut the clot up, Badee. You're not the one who has to fill an hour with these two scrotes."

  "Well, think fast, bub. We've got fifty minutes to go."

  "Cut to a commercial, dammit"

  "You gotta be kidding," Badee said. "Who'd advertise on a piece of drakh like this?"

  "How about a 'Give Blood' spot, then?"

  "Oh, maaann. Another house ad. Okay. If we gotta. On the count, then… One… Two…"

  At that moment a porta-ram smashed through the studio doors.

  "On the floor," Sten shouted.

  "Move't, or lose't, mates," Alex thundered.

  Jynnings, his guests, Badee, and the livie crew gaped for a full two seconds. Sten and Alex strode over the ruined double doors, willyguns at the ready. Behind them, Cind led a contingent of Bhor and Gurkhas.

  "It's Sten!" Jynnings uttered in absolute awe. "And Kilgour."

  Sten motioned with his weapon. "I said, Down!" He fired, blowing a largish hole in the news anchor's desk.

  Much diving for the floor commenced, Jynnings denting his wavy head against the desk. Only the director had the presence of mind to whisper into his mike: "Holy mother… we've got our hour! Keep rolling, fools. Keep rolling."

  Sten advanced, just out of pickup range. To his right, an emergency door creaked open. Sten saw a flash of many uniforms. Guards. Then the air shattered as Cind put a burst through the doorway. Howls of agony. The uniforms vanished.

  A burly man stepped out of the shadows, swinging a heavy light standard.

  "Ooops, there, lad," Alex said, catching the light housing with one hand. Giving it a yank. "Y've made a wee m'stake." The grip stumbled forward. Alex dropped the light and hoisted the man off the floor. With one hand. " 'Tis noo i' y'r job description, mon. Y'r lucky Ah'm noo a taleteller. Ah'd put a bug in y'r shop steward's shell, otherwise."

  The man's eyes bugged out. Alex hurled him. A loud crash as the goon hit, and monitors cascaded around him.