Empire's End

by Chris Bunch

  At least I got to try flashin' and prancin', Cind thought. For an amateur, I didn't do badly, richbitching.

  And I think I'm one step closer to the Emperor.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  THE ETERNAL EMPEROR would not have been pleased to see the use Sten and Cind were putting to his former suite aboard the Victory. The luxurious sleeping area—with its athletic-field-sized bed—was littered with fiches and printouts and wads of scrawled notes.

  Sten and Cind were perched on the bed itself, plotting the Emperor's demise.

  They went over all the information Cind had gleaned. And then checked it again. Finally they were done. There was only one more piece missing.

  "I don't see any other way to look at it," Sten said. "That tightbeam antenna has to be the key."

  "Which gives us one directional leg," Cind said.

  Sten grimaced. "Yeah. But to get a fix we're still going to have to come up with another. A second leg. Right now all we know is that the Emperor's hideout is somewhere between Point A and infinity."

  Cind nodded, gave a weary sigh, and lay back on the bed. As one side of Sten's mind worried at the problem, the other noted the slender form of his lover. She was gloved into a black skin-tight jumpsuit that covered her from neck to heel. It had been a long time since they'd had many hours together.

  A small part of him wished the impossible. That their existence could be different. That he and Cind could be normal beings with normal problems. Instead, the course he was on required him to continually risk the life of the person who was closest to him.

  "Well, I'll be a beardless mother," the woman of his dreams suddenly exclaimed. She sat up in the bed. Abrupt "Wait just a clottin' minute, here!"

  "What do you have?"

  Cind shook her head, impatient. Started burrowing through notes. "I'm not sure… but if you will button your lip for a second, my love, I'll…"

  Her voice trailed off as she grabbed a handheld and began punching in data. Sten did as he was told, watching with growing interest as she muttered to herself and pawed about for more bits of information.

  She finally looked up at him, eyes bright with excitement. "I think I've got it," she said. "The other leg, I mean. Or how to find it."

  Cind scooted closer to Sten, so he could see the handhold's small screen. "See… That little factor that kept messing us up before. We thought it might be static. Or, maybe even a screwy secondary from all that security apparatus. But look. That wasn't the explanation at all."

  She watched anxiously as Sten weighed the information on the screen. "Maybe I'm full of it," she said, beginning to doubt herself. "Maybe my brain has turned to something like one of Kilgour's pet haggises."

  "No," Sten said, hastily running a recheck program. "I'm pretty sure your mind is functioning perfectly."

  A grin split his face from ear to ear. "It's a second beam, all right. It's gotta be. On a different freq and aimed in a completely different direction!"

  Sten quickly patched into the Victory's main logic banks and ran the data. In a few moments the answer came back. "That's it," he said. "There's no other possibility."

  Cind chortled in triumph. "Now all we have to do is track that bearded wonder down… and locate Point B. Which should be… I'm hoping… one of the relay stations like Kyes found. Except that it hopefully won't have done a meltdown. Run a fix from there, and that should give us the other leg—straight into the Emp's scrotum."

  She knelt on the bed. Hoisted a lovely hand to give Sten a salute. Looking sexier than hell. "Sir! I respectfully request permission to investigate."

  Sten hated what he had to say next. He would have to tell her no. His rejection would take a great deal of explanation. None of which Cind would buy.

  This time, he would be the one to go. Alone.

  Not out of love. Or fear of losing her. Well… not really, he rationalized, steering to the cold facts of the matter.

  When Kyes had confronted the Emperor on that burned-out AM2 station, he had come supported by an entire team of former Mantis operatives. Yet there'd been some kind of mistake made—and the station had self-destructed.

  As skilled a soldier as Cind was, she was certainly not as experienced as any member of that grizzled team of stealth warriors. And he assumed the relay station had far more devices for self-protection than just autodestruct.

  Sten had spent a small lifetime in Mantis. It was not ego that told him he was the best of the very best. His built-in Mantis calculator delivered this up as solid truth.

  He was the only logical choice for the mission.

  But how could he say all this to Cind and get her to understand? To see the situation clearly, and unemotionally. With no rationalizations of her own to spare her lover from danger?

  He saw the flushed excitement on her face. The dancing lights in her eyes. He hated to kill that look.

  Sten told her. She raged at him. She reasoned with him. She pleaded with him. But he held his ground.

  Finally the matter was settled. Or at least they'd declared a truce and had agreed not to discuss it for a while.

  On the shaky theory that one couldn't eat and be angry at the same time, he rang the mess to serve dinner in the suite.

  They spent the first half of the meal in near silence. The second in light chatter. By the time they got to the snifters of crusty old port, the chatter had turned to serious talk.

  Sten told her about Rykor and the brainscan and Bravo Project.

  "I still don't know what to do about it," he said.

  "Some people would wrap it in suit-proof patents," Cind said, "and then sit back and rake in several large fortunes."

  "I know I won't do that," Sten said.

  "I figured as much," Cind said, with a small smile.

  "Besides," Sten said, "the ability to manufacture AM2 really doesn't have much to do with the problem we have right now. I suppose one reason I've put off a decision is because I'm not sure how this is going to turn out."

  "I've thought of that, as well," Cind said. "I wake up with the cold sweats sometimes, wondering… What if the Emperor wins?"

  Sten said nothing. He refilled the snifters.

  "But that sort of thinking is pointless," Cind said. "He either will or he won't. Sometimes Bhor fatalism can save a lot of agonizing."

  She swirled the port in her glass. Thinking. Sten could see she was hesitating to ask a question. Then she spoke, without lifting her eyes.

  "What happens if we win?" she asked. "Who—or what—is going to replace the Emperor?"

  Sten shook his head. "It isn't up to me," he said. "As far as I'm concerned, this is a revolution. Not a coup. Other beings are going to have to make those kinds of decisions. It's their future. Their choice."

  "I think you're being a little romantic," Cind said, "if you think it's going to be that simple. You'll be the man of the hour. The rescuer. More to the point, there's the AM2. Whether it's natural or synthetic. From an alternate universe or a processing plant. You'll be the one holding the keys… the keys to the Emperor's kingdom."

  "I'm not much enamored of that thought," Sten said. Flat.

  Cind put a hand on his. "I know," she said. "And that's why I love you. It's also why I want you to think about it. Because when the moment comes, there won't be much time to decide."

  "I notice you didn't offer your opinion on what I ought to do," Sten said.

  "I'm the last person who should say," Cind answered. "Do I think you'd make a good ruler? Clot, yes. Would I rather have you to myself? Double clot, yes."

  She squeezed his hand. "I'm prejudiced, remember?"

  Sten flushed, embarrassed. Cind giggled. "How cute," she said. "You're blushing. Now, I've got something on you. The great rebel leader, blushing like a boy."

  "Blackmail," Sten said.

  "Absolutely," Cind replied.

  She slid out of her seat and slipped into his lap. Sten found his arms full of a wriggling, willing woman. Kissing at his neck. Nipping at his e
arlobes.

  "What'll you give me if I don't tell?" she whispered. Naughty.

  Sten's hands were busy moving over the form-fitting jumpsuit. Outlining curves. Exploring hollows.

  "I'll tell you in a minute," he said. "But first, you tell me. How the hell do you get this thing off?"

  She took his hand… and showed him.

  The whisper came hot in his ear: "There," she said. "Press… right… there!"

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  THE GUARDS' BOOTHEELS crashed louder and closer. Alex hung like a spider in his web just above the great blast doors that led from the huge parade-ground/bailey into Arundel Castle. Waited patiently, eye on his timer, trying to ignore the skincrawl.

  It had grown worse the closer he got to the Emperor's castle. Not that he had encountered any concrete reasons for this death-tick. Kilgour's serf-insertion had been a piece of cake. Thus far. And by his own self-deprecating definition.

  He had ridden public trans from Ashley-on-Wye to the nearest decent-sized city. Then he had checked to make sure there had been no recent changes to the ID required on Prime World, and that his own fake cards were correct. Then he found a bad section of town, and bought a currently-in-register gravcar at one of the town's graymarket hurleyburleys. None of the unpleasant questions such as Place of Residence, Place of Work, Reason for Cash Purchase, References, or the rest that might have concerned a conventional dealer were asked.

  The sled may have been registered, but its drive was in unspeakable shape. The McLean generator would only lift the gravcar three meters, at max, and held the car at a 15-degree angle to the side. Top speed was no more than 55 kph.

  Alex dropped another hundred credits to the seller's purported brother, to get it running right. He knew the "brother" would jury-rig the repairs, and probably fill the lubricant reserve chambers with something on the specific gravity of molasses—frozen. But what of it? The craft was intended for only a oneway trip.

  Twenty klicks outside Fowler, the city closest to the Imperial grounds, Alex found a litter-filled field just beyond one of Prime's omnipresent parks. Clottin' gorgeous, he thought. Put i' a park, w' penalties f'r trash, an' thae'll still be clots thae'll dump their slok ten meters beyon' the gate. Exact whae Ah been seekin', however. He lifted the gravsled into the middle of the lot, grounded it, smashed the ignition and choice parts of the drive, stripped its registry off and buried it, and abandoned the wreck.

  He hitched into the city and disappeared into its high-rise slums.

  Step One, Two, and Three were accomplished successfully—getting onto Prime, setting up a secure base, and infiltrating into Fowler. Now for a cooling-off period. There was just a possibility he'd been tracked from his arrival, and the Emperor's Internal Security was giving him rope, to see what mischief he had in mind. I' dinnae be likely, he thought. But why chance m' neck i' th' noose? I's th' only one Ah hae.

  He had rented the room because it had two separate "back doors"—one out onto a rusty, abandoned fire ladder that Alex had secretly reinforced, and the second from the other side of the corner room onto some rooftops just made for a rapid departure. Plus it had a half-arsed kitchen, so he wouldn't be forced out into public view.

  After a week of laying low and eating packaged food not much better than military rats, he concluded he had dragged no tail with him. On to the next part.

  He treated himself to a bottle of expensive brandy, remembering he would have to dump the flask somewhere else to avoid suspicion, since people in the district he had taken lodgings in seemed addicted to simpler pleasures, such as filtered industrial alk or home brew. And he plotted.

  Stage Four would be getting himself as close as possible to Arundel. Stage Five would be getting into the Emperor's castle.

  Stage Six would be out and gone for home, hopefully in one flat-out ran.

  Alex's plan—one in, twa oot—was that he'd have a partner when he left.

  Poyndex. He was fairly sure the man might have some objections to being snatched, and might become violent, or at the very least vocal.

  Neither of which was in Kilgour's scheme, especially since a brouhaha would produce an uncomfortable feeling for him, such as death. And for his overall plan to work, Poyndex would have to vanish silently and completely. The Snark would have to be a Boojum. But he didn't want the distinction to be made positively until it suited Alex, Sten, and the rebellion's plans.

  Alex's ambitious plan was to vanish Poyndex straight to the brig of the Victory. There he would be offered the same choice his agent on Vi, Hohne, had been given: double or be brain-scanned.

  Alex cynically figured that Poyndex, being a purported professional, and having turned his coat once, wouldn't even hesitate as long as Hohne had.

  All of Alex's sources on Prime said Poyndex was the Emperor's cat's-paw in everything. His knowledge of the Emperor's closely held secrets would help in the final days.

  At that point, Alex planned to have Poyndex surface, publicly. That would be yet another blow to the Empire.

  All he had to do was bell his pussycat…

  He forced himself to pay no attention to that little backbrain chant saying, "And lang lang may the maidens sit/Wi' their goud kaims in their hair, A'waiting for their ain dear love/For him they'll see nae mair…"

  Maybe he would be killed this time. He felt it likely. Maybe this was his last run—but what of it? He had never had the idea he was either immortal or that he would die in a silken bed of old age. But he was determined that at the least, his ran on Poyndex would succeed before he would consider taking the journey to the Isle of the Blessed.

  He muttered as he finished the bottle. He was going on like a creaking seer, mewling around a cauldron on a blasted heath, thinking naught but wrack and rain. Stick to bus'ness, lad. But if he was a seer, and his plan held up in the sober morn, Alex foresaw a minor crime wave in Fowler's future. At that point, he shut off the single light in the shabby room and rolled over to sleep.

  He slept. If he dreamed, he did not remember them when he awoke. He ignored the hangover and reconsidered his drunken plans of the night before. They still made sense. Alex went out for one beer and a plate of greasy eggs and settled down for a nap until night.

  The first theft was from an ambulance, parked at the back of an emergency ward. Kilgour, cross-trained as a medic in Mantis, knew just what he needed to clip from the gravsled's kit. He got what he needed, muttered at one object's unwieldiness, and left, relocking the ambulance's door behind him.

  He stashed his loot, and checked the time. Ver' good, he thought. Ah still hae time, i' Ah hurry. Th' bistros'll nae be closin't frae another three hours. Back out into the night he went, headed crosstown to another part of Fowler, where an un-grated window didn't immediately suggest a brick and an eyeball-calculated trajectory.

  The joint wae jumpin', he thought, looking through the mesh fence at the luxury gravcars parked behind the exclusive boite. One… two security bein's, a couple of carparks. Nae problem.

  He used a small laser to cut a Kilgour-sized hole in the fence and went into the lot. He stole the registration plates from six gravcars—and put five of them back. On different craft than the ones they had been taken from. He replaced the fence grating and, with the sixth plate, went back to his tenement. Clean and simple. Kilgour rewarded himself with a couple of beers in an after-hours dive. He bought some rounds, and made some friends.

  The next day, he lazed around, after doing minor stretch exercises, only going out for a meal and a shopping expedition. He bought three days' worth of dried rations, a pack, a canteen, a flash, a set of camouflaged coveralls, and a cammie ground-sheet. He wished the Mantis phototropic camouflage was available on the open market, which it of course was not. He couldn't have brought a set with him, since he had carried nothing that would even lift an eyebrow in the event of a stripsearch. The birdwatcher's gear would have to do. His final purchase was a small but heavy-bladed "survival" knife. His next stop was at an electronic hobbyist's cen
ter, where he bought some innocuous devices and the tools and circuitry necessary to modify them.

  Then he allowed himself one of the two indulgences he had promised himself for the mission. He found a grocer's and bought three kilos of inexpensive, thin-sliced lean beef, salt, fresh parsley, and a collection of dried spices. Back at his tenement, he strip-cut the beef, about three centimeters wide. The strips went into a marinade of soy sauce, water, some cheap red wine, some hot sauce, and spices—garlic, a handful of juniper berries, summer savory, pepper. The garlic, berries, and spices were sauteed a bit, and then dumped, hissing hot, into the rest of the marinade. The strips of beef went in to soak for a day.

  About midnight, he went back to the dive he had scouted the night before. One of his new friends was waiting. He had secured what Kilgour had expressed interest in. Actually, he had an assortment. Kilgour sneered audibly at the miniwillygun, although that was the weapon he would have preferred. But, as he told the fence, 'If Ah gie nabbed, wi' one ae th' Eternal Emperor's owene pieces ae AM2 artillery, Ah'm f r th' high jump, an' Ah dinnae wan' t' revisit m' old haunts, f r a while yet." Also that'd keep the fence from thinking Kilgour had major mayhem in mind, and possibly keep him from singing to the local constabulary about the gun-buying stranger to whom he owed nothing in the way of a buttoned lip.

  For similar reasons he rejected a large-caliber handgun, and a folding-stock carbine, even though they were conventional projectile weapons. He chose—and then bargained for half an hour over the price of—a smallbore targetshooter. "Ah dinnae wan' t' be doin't more'n bluffin'," he lied.