Empire's End (12 page)

“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‘!. 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.”

‘Twa 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‘! 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
¹
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.

“When things… heat up again. A good reminder that it doesn’t have to be crazy all the time.”

Her answer was a kiss.

Sten pulled her tight And the gravsled grounded, so neither of them had to continue the thought that something like this might never happen again for them.

They had expected just Alex. Instead, Ida ploomped out of the front passenger seat beside him. She was even fatter than the last time Sten had seen her, and her brightly colored gown was even more expensive. Obviously her vitsa—family/band—hadn’t completely lost its senses, and she remained as chieftain— Voivode.

She may have been fat, but she unloaded from the gravsled as smoothly as she had moved years ago as a Mantis operative with far fewer years and kilos.

Of course, she did not greet Sten with any sort of compliment, any more than she would have met Kilgour without an insult

“You are still disgustingly outdoorsy,” was all she said. Then she looked Cind up and down.

“So you are the one.”

“I don’t know,” Cind said. “What is the one?”

Sten intervened. “Ida, since when are you vetting my life?”

“I always did, imbecile. You just weren’t smart enough to realize it.”

“Oh.”

“She appears all right,” Ida judged. “A good companion. A man should not sleep alone. Nor a woman.”

“Th‘ coo’s snapp’t, gettin’ all sentimental an‘ a’,” Kilgour said. “Pinch’d m‘ thigh on th’ way out.”

Ida merely sneered at Kilgour’s cheap lie.

“Greetings out of the way,” she said, “can we get out of this clottin‘ snow and somewhere close to a fire and some alk?”

The four loaded, and Kilgour lifted the gravsled back for Otho’s castle, where Sten was quartered. Ida—who hadn’t, of course, offered to get in the back and let Sten ride up front— swiveled around to eye him.

“So. It is finally time to end all this nonsense with the Emperor, eh?”

“You go right to it, don’t you?” Sten said.

“Enough is enough. It was barely tolerable back then for the Rom, with all these laws and beings with their borders and boundaries who start wars for this clot who dubbed himself Emperor. And back then all of them were considered sane, at least by the thinking of the gadje. We Rom always knew better. Freedom cannot be served by making laws and fences.

“The Empire had become too much for us, even before that bastard on Prime went mad. There had been discussions at tribal gatherings of this. Perhaps it is time for the Rom to move on.”

‘To where?“

“Beyond.” She gestured upward, forgetting about the gravsled’s roof and putting a minor dent in it. “Beyond the Empire, beyond where it stretches now, beyond where it will ever reach. It is time to search out treasures and beings we can’t even imagine. This little Empire has suddenly become hard to breathe in.”

Sten suddenly had a dizzying, entrancing vision of swirling, unknown galaxies, stars, and systems whispering the invitation to adventure, instead of this seemingly endless series of wars and slaughter. Beyond. It drew his soul like a magnet.

“Load the ships with our most precious and compact trading goods, fuel them and slave some barges as tankers, and set a one-way course,” Ida continued. “I have heard stories some Voi-vodes have already convinced their tribes to move on, and it is true that some vitsa are not seen at council anymore. After all, it is said we Rom did not originally come from the worlds of men.”

She turned back to the subject at hand. “But that is a matter for later, after we have killed this gadje who’s called himself Emperor too long. Here is the situation for us Rom, Sten. We have come to serve the star of freedom. Which, at least for the moment, means you and your allies. If that changes—or if
you
change—then we shall reevaluate the situation.”

“Thank you,” Sten said. “I accept.”

“We hae also,” Alex said, without taking his eyes from his piloting, “heard frae Wild. He offer’d‘t’ set doon, but Ah advised him to hang offworld. P’raps th‘ fewer who ken we hae a bargain wi’ th‘ king of the smugglers, th’ better it might be.”

“Good,” Sten approved. “We’ll send one of the Bhor ships up to pick him up and any lieutenant he wants for a strategy session when it’s set.”

He settled back in his seat.

The forces of rebellion were gathering…

“I have,” Sten began, “what, for want of a weaker term, might be a plan. Or at least the beginnings of one.”

The seven beings listening to him were dwarfed in Otho’s great banquet hall, which could easily hold two thousand Bhor in cheerful riot.

The hall would have satisfied the most critical Viking as an acceptable place for
Valholl
, even though the roof wasn’t made of war shields, and there wasn’t a goat with aquavit-flowing teats handy. Far overhead were monstrous wood-beamed ceilings, with skylights in the roof, now snow-covered from the driving storm outside. Four huge fireplaces that it seemed a tacship could park in roared at each corner of the building, and the AM2-powered radiators that provided the real warmth were hidden behind false stonework.

Thick carpets covered the flagstone floors, and the walls were hung with war and hunting trophies. The furniture—long tables and benches—were as solid as anything else in the hall. Necessary, when an acceptable way for a Bhor to deliver a categorical syllogism’s conclusion was with a knobkerrie.