Empire's End Read Free Page A

liquid’ty. So all our assets Ah could lay th‘ fast touch on, I dumped into an old laundry bank frae th’ Mantis days.”
    Sten started to say something, but then realized Kilgour wasn’t being greedy—revolutions, like politics, are fueled by credits and fail for lack of same nearly as often as they do for not providing a proper alternative. Sten would need all the credits in the known universe if he was even to survive this war, let alone win.
    And Kilgour had not exaggerated about their riches. Years earlier, when they were prisoners of war of the Tahn, their ex-Mantis companion Ida the Rom had pirated their accrued pay and pyramided it into vast riches. They were wealthy enough for Sten to have purchased his own planet, and for Kilgour to build half-a-dozen castles and surrounding estates on his home world of Edinburgh.
    “Then, thinkin’t thae’ll prob’ly be someone followin‘ that trail, Ah then rescrubbed th’ gelt’t‘ Ida, wi’ a wee message’t‘ stan’ by an‘ expect th’ pleasure ae our company, fat cow thae she is. Ah think we’ll be needin’t th‘ gypsies afore thae skreekin’t an’ scrawkin’t is o’er.
    “Plus Ah drop’t a wee line’t‘ our king ae th’ smugglers ae well, although Ah dinnae ken i‘ Wild’s dropbox is still good.
    “Thae’s all, boss. Noo, y‘ hae some work f’r me? Ah’m assumin’t we’re noo bein’t sensible an’ findin‘ a badger’s den an’ pullin‘ it in a’ter us.”
    Alex was on his feet and at attention. Sten nodded appreciation.
    “You’ve got that right. Besides, the Emperor would just send badger dogs after us. So we won’t bother. Grab about half of the Bhor and get over to the Bermington . Make sure they’re real sincere about things.”
    “If not?”
    “Do whatever seems right. But if it’s a trap, make them bleed, not us. I’ll keep two Kali stations launch-ready until you say otherwise, and I’ll keep one flight of tacships out on CAP.”
    “Ah’m gone.” And Kilgour was.
    Sten wanted to take a deep breath and come up with a plan— but there was no time to do anything other than react. He went back to Commander—now Captain—Freston.
    “Okay, Captain. You heard what we’re doing. We’ll have all three ships slaved to the Victory . I want an irrational evasion pattern on the nav computer.”
    “Yessir.”
    “I want one flight of tacships out around the Bermington . And I want another flight… gimme a hotrod—whatsername, La Ciotat—in charge… one light-second back of the formation, also slaved to the Victory as rear guard.
    “Every time we hyperjump, we’ll leave one of the Bennington’s Kalis behind, manned by one of Renzi’s officers. I don’t like being followed.”
    “Yessir.”
    “Now, get me double-ganged to those Honjo hardheads.”
    “Aye, sir. Do we have a final destination?”
    Sten didn’t answer.
    Not because he didn’t have an answer, but because one secret of being a live conspirator was never telling anyone anything until just before it happened. In fact, he had two, now that true miracles had happened and he had not just a ship, but the beginnings of a fleet.
    The first one he hadn’t exactly decided on. But it would be close to center stage, since all good rebellions require some kind of Bastille-bashing to get started.
    The second?
    Mahoney had shouted “Go home,” as he was dragged off to his death.
    And Sten had finally figured out exactly where Mahoney meant. Even if he still had not the slightest idea why or what.
    Or so he hoped.
    CHAPTER TWO
    RANETT DUG HER elbow into a sleepy-eyed clerk’s ribs, trod hard on a naval officer’s toes, and, with practiced carelessness, dumped hot caff on a bureaucrat’s swollen paunch.
    As she punched through the crowd, she strewed apologies in her wake: “Pardon… So sorry… How clumsy of me…”
    If anyone had been awake enough to notice, they would have seen that Ranett moved with the oiled ease of a combat veteran. She slipped