Empire's End (13 page)

This was a high-strategy preliminary planning session. Listening intently, and sipping only non-alk drinks (although Otho kept looking thoughtfully at his great stregghorn and a barrel of the deadly stuff on a nearby table) were Freston, who represented Sten’s minuscule conventional military force; Ida; Wild, who would carry as much or as little of Sten’s plans as he chose to the loose group of smugglers and confidence men who considered Wild’s advice worth taking; Otho, who, even though he had formally retired as Head of the Bhor Council to serve as a mercenary soldier under Sten, was still regarded by the Bhor as an elder statesman; Kilgour and Cind, Sten’s closest aides; and Rykor. No one except Cind and Alex knew about Sr.
Ecu
, and that the Manabi were now part of the conspiracy to overthrow the Emperor. Rykor would report whatever was necessary to

Ecu, back on Seilichi, who hopefully would
never
be publicly seen as one of Sten’s chesspieces.

“Here’s what we want to do, and forgive me if I get a little obvious. So far, we have the Empire in a reactive position. We want to keep things that way as long as possible, because the minute we slow down, we’ll get squashed like bugs.

“We’ll hit the Emperor every chance we get—but we don’t ever want to hit him in the predictable places. The bastard is smart, and he’s got people almost as smart working for him.

“So we’ll bash him in unexpected places…”

“Like K-B-N-S-O,” Otho rumbled approvingly.

“Right. Any of you who come up with wide-open targets like that, feel free to add them to the pot. We’ll also want to be hitting the Empire in embarrassing places as well. For instance, if anybody knows where the Empire’s main supplier of toilet paper is, that could be a viable target.

“We won’t be able to hit him with a knockout, but maybe we can dazzle his ass with some fancy footwork and jabs and get him to stumble over his own feet, in which case we’ll kick hell out of him while he’s down.

“We want the damage to be as public as we can make
it
We want to make him look like a mess. I’ll stick with the stupid hand-combat comparison—I want him to be wandering around leaking blood from some good solid eyebrow slashes. Fat lips. A shiner on each eye. An ear chewed off. Like that.

“If we can get him mad, that’s all to the good. I don’t think he’s that stupid, but we can try. When we’re thinking of these raids, also consider how they’ll play to anybody who might be an ally. For instance, we’ve already got two Honjo ships. Believe me, their actions will be quietly praised on their home worlds. With any luck, we can get the Honjo to declare openly for us, if we can convince them the Emperor’s a loser. Rykor’s handling that, and the rest of the propaganda, which we’ll get back to in a minute.”

Sten broke off for a minute, and drained his mug of tea.

“The second priority will be AM2. We want to steal it, destroy it, divert it. I’m operating on the premise that the Emp is the only one who knows where it comes from, or how to make it if it’s synthetic. Fine. We’re gonna mess with that capability. And we want to take as much of Anti-Matter Two as he’s trying to give his toadies, and pass it along to our allies. We’ll get specific about that later.

“Kilgour will be running the intelligence end. So anything you pick up on AM2, even if it’s a weird rumor that it’s really the Emperor’s crap and smells like attar of roses, put it in for analysis and possible addition to the databank.

“Same deal for anything on the Emperor himself. Any stories about where he came from, what he’s done, girlfriends, boyfriends, sheep, goat, or octopi he used to get romantic with back in the dark ages… anything, anything, anything. This is a critical part of the whole campaign, and we’d like to keep it fairly quiet that we’re putting together a personality fiche on the Emperor. So don’t be putting anything in writing to your intelligence staffers. It’d be too easy for our Eternal Opponent to start a disinformation campaign as an ambush.

“Don’t ever forget—the Emperor himself is our target. We’re going to capture him if we can, and convince him to see the light if we can. But more likely, we’re going to have to kill him. That’s also sub rosa, of course.”

“Sten?” It was Freston.

“GA.”

“Right now the Emperor is staying on Prime. The few times he’s been ofrworld have been unannounced and on the run. Is that right, sir?”

“Aye,” Alex agreed. “Th‘ lad’s holed up in his wee castle. Which i’ a stronghold Ah dinnae think w‘ can take on an’ reduce.”

“Agreed. We’ve got to smoke him into the open.”

“Good luck,” Wild said cynically. “He did not get to where he was by doing what
anyone
wanted him to do.”

“We’re still going to try. More in a shake on that.

“We want him out, in the field, where we can nail him. And once he’s in the open, we’ll smash him.”

“Admirable,” Ida said. “But my vitsa’ll want some nice specifics before we start wadin‘ through the gore. Such as how we’re gonna winkle the clottin’ Emperor out of his nice, safe shell.”

“Rykorr

“We’re going to embarrass him out,” Rykor said. “First you gentlebeings will set the stage. Make his forces appear foolish. Make his generals and admirals appear incompetent. Every time you can win an engagement, that victory will be publicized. Publicized on two levels.

“The first is the open one. We must tell the truth, no matter how painful it is. With luck, the Emperor will play into our hands with luVpwn propaganda. One of the many faults the Em-peror has evinced of late is a large and growing ego. If anyone questions this, look at his Imperial stupidities in the Altaic Cluster.

“Egomaniacs, just like power-seekers, can never be satisfied. So we hope that the Emperor’s people will take any victory or accomplishment, and go big with it. The technique is called the Big Lie, and the theory behind it is that if you tell a great enough falsehood, the listeners will, at most, argue over its size, not over its truth.

“This is correct in some instances, but not when its practitioners are completely watchdogged. And every time they blow trumpets for their latest untruth, someone points that out immediately—using nothing else but the truth. The eventual result will be that
all
information from that Big Lie’s parents will be questioned and disregarded, which is just what we plan to do with the Emperor.

“But our side
must
always tell the truth.”

“A frightenin‘ concept,” Alex said.

“Don’t worry, Mister Kilgour. That’s only with white propaganda—stories that clearly emanate from our side. Gray and black… you’ll still have the ability to try to outlie even the Emperor himself.”

“Ah dinnae ken i‘ Ah’m
that
bonnie… but Ah’ll gie i’ a wee shot.”

“As for black propaganda,” Rykor continued, “this is what Sten was referring to earlier. We shall spread some awesome rumors. Stories that the Emperor in fact never returned. If we can get him out of Arundel, and present at a battle, rumors will spread that he was killed in that battle. There will be stories that he is mentally, morally, or even physically crippled. We shall play to the worst of human male fears in
that
particular area.”

“Small things,” Otho rumbled. “The Emperor is a warrior. He cares not if there are back-alley rumors he is a eunuch.”

“Small things,” Rykor agreed. “I shall tell you a joke, Otho. Do you know the difference between the old Emperor, the new Emperor, and the privy council?”

“I do not.”

“If somehow all three entities were aboard a ground vehicle, and were informed the vehicle is stalled, their responses would be as follows: the privy council would have ordered the controllers be shot, the crew sent into exile, and someone new brought in. The old Emperor would have ordered the problem investigated and then the most competent crew members given promo-tions and the vehicle be put under way once more. The new Emperor would pull down the shades and pretend the vehicle was still moving.”

Otho considered, then politely chuffed a minilaugh. “As you said, Rykor, a small thing.”

Cind got it. “Uh-uh,” she said. “Isn’t the point of the story to get beings thinking in terms of
old
and
newt
Which ices the whole Majesty of Ages, Eternal Emperor belief?”

“Just so. Once we have accomplished that mental division, then the stories, the back-alley rumors, will start to be believed.

“Another area—I think it is profitable for us to look at this Cult of the Emperor that has been tacitly encouraged. Once you have two beings convinced that the immaterial exists, and can affect the material, you can then make one proclaim the other a heretic. Possibly you can even convince the first being that the new deity is, in fact, the antigod.

“Beings, particularly humans, will harbor the most imbecilic thoughts and commit the most appalling acts in the name of whichever god they’ve created and decided to worship… But I am sorry. I run on.”

“Not at all,” Sten said. “You, at least, have a specific campaign. At this point all I have is some generalities and a possible first target. Gentlebeings, the floor is open for ideas, suggestions, and stupid ramblings.”

“All a which,” Kilgour said, “is vasty improved wi‘ a whiff ae th’ grape. Or stregg. Boss, whae are y‘ drinkin’t?”

Sten shook his head. “No thanks. Somebody’s got to drive.” He was starting to realize that among the many things wrong with being the one for whom the buck stops, a fairly high degree of sobriety was one.

As it happened, the only drinkers were Otho, Kilgour, and Freston, and Freston stopped after one heavily watered glass of alk.

Otho looked them up and downi then growled. “Wonderful. Simply wonderful. By my mother’s beard, I appear to have cast my lot with a group of bluestockingsV‘

And he promptly drained the great Horn and refilled it, determined to compensate for this shame single-handedly.

The session did not break up until nearly dawn. It had been productive—and that possible first target was a definite.

As everyone yawned toward their quarters, and a few hours of unconsciousness before the Dream would be broken down, bit by bit, ship by ship, duty by duty, weapon by weapon, ratpack by ratpack, into an operations order.

Cind lingered on and caught Otho’s eye. He nodded, knowing what she would ask.

He filled his horn and grunted a question. Cind nodded, and Otho filled one for her.

“When will we gather?” Cind asked.

“I have already heard from the elders. They wait on our convenience.”

“Soon,” Cind suggested. “Do you know what you will say?”

Otho’s brows furrowed. His great fangs bared. He snarled. To anyone not familiar with the Bhor, it would have been taken as at least a threat, at worst the beginnings of a possibly cannibalistic attack. Cind knew it to be a smile.

“By Sarla and Laraz, I do. But it is not what I had planned. By my father’s thawing buttocks but I am surprisingly thick at times. But now I have the words, and shall cut my beard if necessary to make the elders listen.”

Beard-cutting was the way the Bhor had of bringing a matter to an immediate “vote” in front of the assemblage—and something that, if the “vote” did not go in the favor of the beard-cutter, would almost certainly result in his dismemberment.

“Yes, I now have the words,” Otho repeated.

“I shall inform the elders, and we shall meet at nightfall of this day. Advise Sten and the others to remain in their quarters after dusk. I do not mean to embarrass great warriors such as them—but this business must be done with only our people present. Time has run out for the Bhor to continue as they have been.”

And that was all that Otho would tell Cind.

Near dusk of the next day, the Bhor arrived, singly and in groups. ‘Trickled in“ might be a correct phrase, but tsunamis never runnel. Cind was one of a handful of humans—all natives of the Lupus Cluster, and all high-rankers in the Bhor military— permitted at this enclave. She, like the others, wore full battle harness.

Otho had the great tables laid out for a banquet, and sideboards held cold roasts and dishes for late arrivals. Everything had been presliced, since a Bhor political discussion did not need further encouragement by allowing edged weapons.

Great barrels of stregg were set out at strategic intervals. Which meant arm’s length.

At full dark, the subject was formally announced by tin- Hlior elders: Should the Bhor declare against the Empire‘.’ II so, should they declare independence and war openly—or merely back Sten to the hilt, protesting innocence all the while and declaring anyone whose name/profile showed up on a WANTED poster a renegade?

That ancillary topic was taken care of rapidly. In spite of the brawling style of the Bhor, they were not imbeciles—and the mere mention of the
size
, of the Imperial fleets, the existence of planetbusters, and the probable willingness of the Emperor to deploy those weapons sent a cold chill across the great hall.

Even the greatest warrior may have a mate and offspring, and somehow hope to still have a home he/she/Va might return victoriously to.

Then the major issue was mounted.

By midnight, several topics had been discussed:

Whether it was wise for the Bhor to involve themselves with
any
cause with a human at its helm.

Whether Sten was in fact human or a Bhor reincarnated under a curse in that puny body.

Whether Alex Kilgour was actually a Bhor (passed by acclamation).

The most successful way of thawing frozen buttocks.

Whether, if the motion to go to war against the Empire failed, the Bhor ought to declare war on
someone
, since the new warriors were little other than mewling milksops.

Whether the W’lew Peninsula still contained any wild stregg.

Whether the W’lew Peninsula offered better fishing than C’lone Bay, assuming you could not find any stregg.

Whether the problem with the Eternal Emperor could be settled by a chosen Bhor warrior challenging him to a winner-take-all duel to the death.

Six tables had been broken, two over Bhor heads. Twelve warriors were on their way to hospital. Cind was nursing a black eye and bruised heel of palm from a badly conceived but extemporaneous rebuttal. Five very promising duel challenges had been issued. Seven warriors had been tossed through a window into a snowbank to sober up.