Empire's End

by Chris Bunch

  One foot suddenly skruiched out of the ice, and Sten went back to dangling. He twisted back and forth for a while, getting the hang of things, did another pull-up, reached out for a handhold, found a handjam, kicked in his free boot. Half a meter farther up.

  Two wheezes, and try it again.

  And again. And again.

  Eventually, there was no ice above his hand to grab, and he flailed a little. Hand moved to one side. A rock projection. Rock? Such as no more waterfall?

  No more waterfall.

  Sten pulled himself to blessedly level ground, and rested. Then he tied off, and shouted down to Cind.

  First came the packs, tied to the rope and hand-over-handed up. More wheezing. Not only getting old, but old and weak, Sten thought.

  Now for Cind. He waited—in spite of an impatient shout—until he'd gotten all his wind back. He wouldn't mind losing a pack, but…

  Cind tied on.

  "I've never done this before," she shouted.

  "All the girls say that."

  Cind started climbing. Naturally, Sten thought in some disgust, she's a natural. She swarmed up the waterfall as if it were liquid and she an Earth salmon in spawning season. Nor was she breathing very hard at the top.

  "I didn't know you could even do that."

  "All the girls say that, too."

  Sten shouldered his pack. Helped Cind on with hers. They were next to a frozen pool, rocks sticking through the ice. Sten noticed the ice looked hazy the further back it got.

  Just ahead of them—not more than fifty vertical feet—a cloud drifted toward them of a draw. Wonderful. Now they'd be climbing in a fog.

  Sten was wrong: the rest of the climb—a gentle walk on level ground—took only four minutes.

  They moved through the draw, into a winter paradise. The draw opened into a tiny valley. Shrubs. Grass. Wildflowers.

  "Well, I'll be go to hell," Sten marveled. To one side of the valley a hot spring bubbled, its water flowing across the minimeadow and joining the larger river, still hot enough to melt the ice. Pools dotted the course of the spring's flow, and they were anywhere from boiling to frigid, the farther away they were from the spring.

  Sten thought it was almost worth the climb.

  The steaming springs drew them—but both of them knew the unchangeable ritual: first shelter, then fire, then food, then fun. Shelter was easy—snap three sets of shock-corded wands together, slide them through slots, and their tiny dome tent was up. They staked it down for security. Fire was also not a problem—their stove was a Mantis-issue item no larger than Sten's palm. But it was AM2-fueled and could run at full blast for at least a year without a recharge. Sten took it from his pack and set it near the tent, between a circle of small rocks that his small fold-up grill would sit on. Food? They skated on that one for the moment—their muscles were sorer than their bellies empty.

  Or at least that was the pretext.

  "Damn, but these rocks are cold."

  "Of course they're cold. Get in here where it's warm."

  Sten, naked, slid into the pool near Cind.

  "What," she asked, "is in that bottle?"

  "You will observe what appears to be a standard alloy campflask, which disgusting people who espouse clean living and good thoughts probably fill with some sort of healthy soyagunk. But some subversive clot happened to dump the organic glop, and fill it up with stregg."

  Sten uncapped it, whoooed, put the cap back on, and tossed the flask to Cind.

  "There are three more like it in my pack."

  "Oh, boy. I brought two myself," Cind said. "So much for the clean life." She drank.

  Sten eyed her lasciviously.

  "They float!"

  "Brilliant observation. You're only just noticing, and we've been together how long? Is that why they made you an admiral?"

  "Yup."

  "What a guy to go Empire-toppling with," Cind said. She rolled over and kicked against the rocky wall of the pool, sealing out into its center.

  "Hey, you can almost swim out here in the middle."

  "Uh-huh."

  Sten had no interest in swimming. He lay on his back in shallow water, parbroilingly close to where a stream of water bubbled into the pool. Years of trouble and blood seemed to wash out of his body and mind.

  "I think," he managed, "every muscle in my body just turned to rubber."

  "Oh dear."

  "Not quite. Come here, wiseass."

  "Observant, romantic, and complimentary to boot. Well, here I am. Now what?"

  "There… like that. Now. Down a little."

  Cind gasped as Sten arched his body. He moved his hands up, across her breasts and moved her up, into a sitting position across his body.

  And then neither of them had any words.

  Dinner, somehow, never was prepared.

  The only light in the world was the tiny candle hanging from the tent's ceiling, glowing through the tent's thin red-synth walls.

  "I… think," Cind managed, "that I am dishrag city for the rest of the night."

  "I didn't suggest anything."

  "Then what are you doing?"

  "Just… sort of stretching."

  "Yeah. Right."

  "I read someplace once that you didn't need to do any moving. That you could focus your attention, concentrate, and whambo."

  "I don't believe it."

  "I never lie. It was called Tantric or Tentric or something," Sten argued.

  "At least you're trying it in the right place. Hey. You're moving."

  "No, I'm not. You are."

  "I… am not. Would you… at least slow down? Hey! If you try to put my leg up there, I'm… liable to get burnt!"

  Sten blew the candle out.

  Neither Cind nor Sten woke the next day until very late in the afternoon.

  "How long do we wait, Mister Kilgour?"

  "A min. An hour. A lifetime," Alex said with complete indifference. "Intel's noo frae th' impatient."

  The com tech, Marl, shifted. Perhaps she was impatient, perhaps she felt a bit strange, stuffed into the gravsled's shell rear between the beefy Scotsman and an equally looming Bhor police constable. The amount of room available was further decreased with the jam of electronics.

  But she didn't say anything—Alex had handpicked her as being the most likely candidate for intelligence training of all the Bennington's com crew.

  Kilgour already had an extensive spookery section as part of Sten's embassy team, plus some likelies he had spotted among the Victory's crew and trained on the Altaics. But he needed more. Marl was a good candidate, he thought. Enough time in life and the service so she wasn't still a mewling infant. And built proper, not like the wisps Sten seemed to favor. Not that Kilgour would consider doing anything—romancing a subordinate under your command was about as unethical to him as, say, inviting a Campbell up to your castle for a drink. But he could look.

  A box clicked. A needle swung. A screen lit. A sweep swept. The gravsled was a disguised mobile locator.

  "Ah-hoo," Kilgour said in satisfaction. "See whae Ah said aboot patience? Oh whistle an' I'll come't' y', m'lad. Right on schedule."

  "First lesson. I' y're't' be a spy, Technician, dinna be stickin't't' any schedule. Nae y'rs, an' 'specially nae y'r control's. He/she's more worried aboot niakin' dinner than whether you're blown. One a' y'r few real weapons i' bein' unpredict'ble. Yon lad's signalin' away like a clockwork mouse."

  Quite suddenly all the gadgetry went to respective zeros.

  "Nae quick enough," Kilgour mourned. "Ah'll say third floor, back. Whae's your call, Paan?"

  The policeman keyed his com, linked to a second locator. "Right."

  "Ah," Kilgour said. "Jus' th' lad we thought. Human,'t' boot. Another lesson. F y're runnin' field agents, ne'er use your own people i' y' can recruit locals. They're nae as easy to spot."

  "And," the technician-in-training said, "if they get blown, you don't lay awake as if it were one of your own."

  "Y're learnin'
. Y're learnin'. Noo. Let's go visiting."

  The agent, who was using the cover name of Hohne, was carefully combing gel into his hair when the door came down. He spun away from the mirror.

  "Help! Police!"

  "Button it!" the Bhor snarled. "I am the police!" He held out his ID shield.

  "Who are you? Who's he? What do you want?"

  Kilgour wasn't listening.

  "Const'ble Paan," he said casually. "I' y'll pick up yon door, an' prop it up, wi' you on th' other side, Ah'll be wantin' a wee word wi' this fine, upstandin' young man."

  The policeman followed orders.

  "You don't have any right—" the man said.

  "Tsk," Alex said. "First mistake. Lass," he said to the technician, "he had his game right th' first time. Full a' prop'it outrage thae his privacy's been invaded. Which he should'a kept oop, an' shoutin' aboot how some clottin' human dinnae hae jurisdiction here i' th' cap'tal ae th' Bhor."

  "I want to see some kind of warrant," the man said firmly.

  "Thae's no warrant," Alex told him. "Y're nae under arrest. Thae's noo record ae police activ'ty i' this district't'night."

  Hohne paled, then recovered.

  "Aye," Alex said. "Thae 'tis th' price ae spyin't. But thae's a price y' ken already, Sr. Hohne. Y're noo a baby spy, y're the senior Imperial agent i' th' cluster. 'Sperienced, an' thae. Although Ah mus' admit thae Ah noo c'nsider you lads frae Internal Security fit't' wipe th' arses ae th' lowliest Mantis bairn. But thae's m' prejudice. Noo. Let me ap'rise y' ae where y' stand. In th' middle of a deep, deep bog, my friend."

  "Dinnae be talkin' an' sit y'self doon while I 'splain. Oh. One wee thing thae'll pertain. Ah hae all y'r net rounded up an' in a holdin't pattern."

  Hohne followed orders and sat down while Kilgour went on. The Empire had quite naturally always spied on its friends and allies as well as its enemies. As every sane power had done throughout history. With Internal Security having replaced Mercury/Mantis, and the Emperor's new fears, the spying grew more intense.

  Sr. Hohne was, indeed, a senior operative for IS, which really wasn't that impressive, given that Internal Security was a newcomer to espionage, crippled by the Emperor's and Poyndex's decision that no one from Mercury Corps was capable, loyal, or honest.

  Hohne had been in the Lupus Cluster for some time now, working under the cover of a native crafts buyer/exporter. The cover wasn't exactly original.

  Bhor Counterintelligence knew, of course, that they were being spied on. Just as their own External Bureau spied on anyone it could. Most of the subagents Hohne had been running were Bhor or, if they were human, at least natives of the cluster. Only their Control was from outside—a wretched mistake in Kilgour's estimation. Field Control should also have been a Bhor, and whoever was running the net should stay safe in the Imperial embassy.

  But the Emperor trusted no one, and neither did Poyndex. In the Lupus Cluster the Imperial embassy was staffed by numbwits and timeservers.

  The field agents reported—regularly—to Hohne. Their broadcasts or drops had been monitored or picked up, copied, and then replaced for pickup for some time by Bhor CI. All the Bhor lacked was Hohne. Not that they had tried for him particularly hard—the Empire and the Bhor were still technically allies, although the cluster was under Imperial suspicion, just as anyone or anything who'd had the slightest contact with Sten was a potential pariah.

  Kilgour had taken only a few hours at CI headquarters to work out a pattern for the Imperial field agents, and found they worked on a schedule. Reports were to be filed by X time/date, whether the spy had gotten any hard data or not. A response would also be provided—another no-no—at Y time/date at Z location, different from the drop box, so the still-unknown Imperial wasn't a total yutz.

  Now to find Control. Kilgour worked on the assumption of like slave, like master. A broadband sweep found unknown transmissions being tightbeamed toward a known Imperial base "near" the Wolf Worlds, transmissions that were "trapped," logged, and then located.

  Which was what led Kilgour to Hohne's apartment.

  "So," Kilgour finished, "since zed a' y'r reports aboot ex-Imp sailors rootin' around th' Wolfie Worlds hae got throo, y'r master'll be gettin' concern'd. He'll be wantin' a report, mos' rickety scratch, aye?"

  "You want me to double."

  "No. Ah wan' very little. A pint, a dram, a lass, a side ae smoked salmon no bigger'n y'r ego. You are goin't t' double, lad. Y' hae no choice. It dinnae matter whae reason y' hae f'r spyin't, f'r gold, f'r th' flag, or f'r y'r own reasons. Y're noo workin't f'r Alex Kilgour."

  "There's no way," Hohne said, "that I'll help you cover Sten and your treason. I imagine you want me to sit here and file reports that this clottin' cluster is 152 percent Loyalist, that nobody's ever seen Sten out here, nobody's ever heard of him, and they'd spit on his grave if he did show up."

  "Two points, mate:

  "First, Ah dinnae wan' y' 't' lie aboot th' cluster. Nae like that, at any rate. Nae. Tis dangerous oot here. Y'll be wantin' more agents. Agents by th' squad, by th' pl'toon, by th' bleedin' clan i' y' can score 'em.

  "Second, y'll be helpin' me. Ah hae nae a doubtin' shadow a' thae, an y' should no either. An' Ah'm sure it'll noo take but hours til y' ken th' wisdom ae my words, an' reck wha' a fine laird Ah am.

  "Aye? Ah. Y' still dinnae believe me.

  "Mister Paen, i' y'd step in? Y' c'n take th' lad wi' you. Ah'll be wantin' further words wi' him a' another time." Not gently, Sr. Hohne, Internal Security, was removed.

  "Will he come around," Marl asked.

  "Oh aye," Alex said, as their civilian gravsled took them back to where Kilgour and his team were quartered. "He'll sit i' th' wee dungeon, contemplatin' his sins, which are many, an' his future, which i' bleak, an' he'll come aroun'. Spies bein't th' failed bein's they are, they always do. T' make sure, th' Bhor'll play some awful tapes ae pris'ners under inter'gation, screamin' ae they're flayed alive an' forced't' listen't' political speeches.

  "Ah'm quite th' screamer, gie'en good recordin' techniques an' a wee throat spray. Y' see, y're learnin', Marl. F'r openers, y' hae learned th' virtues ae patience. T' elaborate, Ah'll noo hae a parable. Are y' religious, lass?"

  "Nossir. But my creche was."

  "Then th' fable be e'en closer't' y'r heart. Seems thae was a man. Nae a puir man, nae a laird. But he's livin't i' a wee house, an' he dinnae like it, but he canna fin' th' money frae a bigger one.

  "So he hears aboot a wise man. Ver', ver' wise, he is. An he determines't' consult thae' wise man.

  "Bein't wise, a' course it's a't'rble journey't' find him. But eventually our hero climbs't' th' top ae th' mountain where th' magi hangi't his beanie, an' he pleads, 'Great One, what c'n Ah do? M' house i' wee an' Ah canna stand it.'

  "Th' wise man thinks, an' asks, 'Hae y' a coo?'

  " 'A coo?'

  " 'Aye, a coo."

  " 'Aye, Ah hae a braw Hereford.'

  " 'Move it i' y'r house.'

  "An' th' wise man refus't't' say more, i' spite ae th' man's pleadin't an' cryin't. So th' man goes back home, an' aye, it's e'en more a't'rble trek.

  "An' he's thinkit, an wonderin't, but he knows th' wise man's truly wise, an' so he moves his coo in't' sleep wi' him. An' his wee house is e'en wee-er.

  "An' he canna stand it. So he goes back,'t'rble journey thae it is, all th' way't' th' wise man, an' again asks th' question.

  "Th' wise man thinks, an' then he says, 'Hae y' a goat?'

  " 'A goat?'

  " 'Aye, a goat.'

  " 'Ah hae a goat.'

  "Move it i' th' house, too.'

  "An' once again, th' wise man refuse' t' say more.

  "So th' man, noo puzzled sorely, wander't back't' his wee home, an' thinkit. But 'cause th' sage i' truly wise, he move th' goat i' wi' him an' th' coo.

  "An' noo he truly canna stand it, f'r his house is e'en smaller.

  "So again, he goes back't' th' wise man, an' asks f r help, sayin't 'Ah hae a wee house, noo
wi' a coo an' a goat i' it, an' i's bleedin' crowded, an' Ah canna stand it.'

  "An' th' wise man think't, an' then he says, 'Hae y' chickens?'

  'Chickens?'

  'Aye, chickens.'

  'Aye, Ah hae chickens.'

  " 'Move 'em i' th' house. Come't' ponder, i' y' hae ducks, an' swans, an' pigs, hae them i' the house ae well.'

  "An' despite th' man's pleadin', th' wise man sayit noo more.

  "But th' man goes back home, an' puts th' chickens in th' house. An' noo i's worse, i's so bad i's intolerable. Thae's no room left i' th' house f'r th' man, i's so crowded.

  "An' he journeys back yet again't' th' wise man, an' says, 'Ah canna stand it! M' wee house hae naught but animals i' it, an' there's noo room ae all f'r me! Noo, Ah'm pleadin't, help me!'

  "An' th' wise man sayit, 'Go home, an' take all th' animals oot ae th' house.'

  "An' thae's all he'll say.

  "An' th' man rush't home, an' clear oot all th' animals, an' y' ken whae he discovered?

  "He still hae a wee house.

  "But noo it's entire full ae animal shit!"

  Marl stared at Kilgour for long moments. She had been warned. She should have known. But…

  "What does that have to do with patience?"

  "Y' listened all th' way through, di'nt y'?"

  Cind was the first to spot Kilgour's gravsled as it sped up the dirt track toward them.

  "It's over, isn't it," Sten said, just a bit sadly.

  "It is. It was time to come back anyway, since we were out of stregg. But we've still got three containers of the herbed anchovy pate't right here in my pack with the dead soldiers. We could've stayed out another week on that wonderful tastebud-tingling delight you had to go and discover."

  "So I made a mistake. The label made it look trick. Cut me some slack—I'm the one who brought the adobo."

  "True, and forgotten if not forgiven," Cind said. "Now, all we have to do is explain why we're sunburned in places nobody gets sunburned climbing rocks."

  "The cover story is that we were learning how to ski nekkid. Not that anybody better ask."

  Sten turned serious. "Thanks, Cind. Five days—I wish we would have had five fives. This'll be something to remember in a few weeks.