The Empire is in chaos. The once–great Imperial Navy has been shattered in battle and lies burning in space, riven by a civil war that threatens to engulf humanity’s future. For the revered Eternal Emperor is not the man his subjects thought him to be. And it is Sten — Imperial bodyguard, spy, assassin, renegade — who now leads humanity’s fight for survival. Taking command of the last rebel fleet, he sets out on a desperate quest to seek and destroy the dark source of his former master’s power. Denounced as a traitor, hunted by forces loyal to the Emperor, Sten must risk everything to annihilate the Empire he vowed to protect.
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Here's where to get the audiobook (in production)
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STEN #8
STEN #8
EMPIRE'S END
By Allan Cole & Chris Bunch
CHAPTER ONE
THE RUINS OF the Imperial assault fleet fled through the “dark”
between star clusters. There was one tacship carrier, two heavy cruisers, one
light, their destroyer flotilla screens, and, in the center of the formation,
auxiliaries and the troop transports carrying the battle-shattered remnants of
the First Imperial Guards Division.
Flanking and closing the formation was the huge battleship Victory.
On its bridge, Sten stared at a strategic battlescreen, not seeing
either the glow “ahead” that represented the Empire… nor the symbols to the
“rear” that were the anarchy-ripped Altaic Cluster.
Two E-days earlier:
Sten: Ambassador Plenipotentiary. Personal Emissary of the Eternal
Emperor. Admiral. Medals and decorations beyond count, from the Galactic Cross
down, including Grand Companion of the Emperor’s Household. Hero.
Now.
Sten: Traitor. Renegade. And, he thought, don’t forget Murderer.
Among the symbols representing what was “behind” the Victory was one marking where the Imperial
Battleship Caligula, its
Admiral Mason, and over three thousand loyal Imperial sailors had been. They’d
been slaughtered by Sten for following a direct order to planetbust the
Altaic’s capital world, an order issued in person by the Eternal Emperor.
“Boss, Ah hae a wee tip.”
Sten’s eyes—and mind—refocused. Alex Kilgour. Sten’s best friend,
a rather roundish looking heavy-worlder who probably knew even more about death
and destruction than Sten.
“GA.” Part of Sten’s mind, the part always removed from the hue
and cry, found it funny both of them still used slang from their now-long-gone
days in Mantis Section, the Emperor’s supersecret covert-operations unit. Go
ahead.
“Giein’ thae y’ hae no ‘sperience a’ bein’t an outlaw, y’r entire
life bein’t spent singin’ hymns an’ such, p’raps y’ dinnae ken Robbie Roy types
hae noo time’t’ be pausin’t an’ smellin’t th’ flowers i’ thae dinnae wan’ a
halter an’ a neck-stretch.”
“Thank you, Mister Kilgour. I’ll get my thumb out.”
“Dinnae fash, lad. Any wee service, y’ hae but’t’ snivel.”
Sten turned away from the screen. Around him, waiting, was the Victory’s bridgewatch. The top elements of his
long-serving personal staff, who were in fact more Sten’s own private
intelligence agency than striped-suiters.
Twenty-three Gurkkhas—Nepalese mercenaries famous for serving only
in the Emperor’s private bodyguard—but these had volunteered for special
duties: guarding the life of their ex-CO, Sten.
Otho. Six other Bhor. Squat, shaggy monsters with long beards,
yellow fangs, and ground-brushing knuckles. They seemed happiest either tearing
an enemy in half the long way or else doing the same to his bank balance in a
shrewd multiworld trade. They were also fond of eddaic-type poetry. There were
another hundred of them elsewhere on the Victory.
And, most important, left to last, their commander: Cind: Human. Expert sniper.
Descended from a now-obliterated warrior cult. A highly respected combat leader.
Beautiful. Sten’s friend and lover.
Enough bean counting, he thought. Kilgour had been right: a wolf
could never chance lying in a sunny clearing listening to the bees buzz—not
unless he’d suddenly decided on a new career as a fireside rug.
“Weapons?”
“Sir?” The young woman was waiting. The lieutenant’s name, Sten
recollected, was Renzi.
“Bring your people back to general quarters. Commander
Freston”—this was his longtime personal com officer—”I want—oh, clot. Cancel.”
Sten remembered. “Both of you,” he said, raising his voice. “And
anyone else interested—listen up.
Things have changed. I just declared war on the Emperor. Which
makes me a traitor. Nobody’s required to obey my orders. No one who remains
loyal to his oath will be harmed. We’ll—”
His words were interrupted by the ululation of the GQ siren as the
weapons officer obeyed Sten’s first command.
That was one answer.
Freston made another: “Pardon, sir? There was some static there
and I lost you. Your orders?”
Sten held up a palm for Freston to stand by.
“Weapons, I want all Kali and Goblin stations at full
launch-readiness. Some of our Imperial friends might decide to bag a renegade.
Plus there were four destroyers escorting the Caligula.
If any ship begins an attack, put a Goblin in the vicinity and blow it off as a
warning.”
“And if they keep coming?”
Sten hesitated. “If they do—contact me. No Kali launches will be
made without my orders, and any launch will be controlled by either myself or
Mister Kilgour.” The Kalis were operator-guided shipkillers.
“That’s not—”
“That is an
order. Follow it.”
“Yessir.”
“Commander Freston. Patch me a secure link to General Sarsfield on
whichever transport he’s riding.”
Sarsfield was the Guards’ CO, and the next-ranking officer to
Sten. Freston touched keys.
“One other thing,” Sten said. “You’ve been through C&S
school?”
“Yessir.”
“You have any really terrible sins in your past? That’d keep you
from being the very model of a shipcaptain? Ram the admiral’s barge? Shine the
ship’s cannons with carbolic acid? Bootleg the beer? Badmouth the beef? Boast
about buggery?”
“Nossir.”
“Fine. They tell me pirates get promoted a lot before they get
hanged. The Victory’s your ship, Mister.”
“Yessir.”
“Don’t thank me. That just means you’ll probably be next after
Kilgour for the high jump... Mister
Kilgour?”
“Sir?”
“All offwatch personnel to the main hangar.”
“Yessir.”
And then Sten noticed Alex’s hand move away from the small of his
back. He might have been fingering an old war wound around the caudal vertebra.
Kilgour was not—his hand had been touching the butt of a miniwillygun hidden in
his waistband. Alex took no chances: loyalty to the Emperor in the abstract
would be acceptable. But if anyone attempted to fulfill that promise to “defend
the Empire and its welfare onto death,” they would be prime candidates for
martyrdom. And most likely Kilgour would loudly admire their fidelity at the
wake.
A screen cleared. Sarsfield.
“General, you’re aware of what’s happened?”
“I am.”
“Very well. In view of events, you are now the ranking officer of
the fleet. Until you receive differing orders from the Empire, I would suggest
you continue the present course toward the nearest Imperial worlds.”I will
advise you that, regretfully, any attempt to interfere with the Victory or its movements will be opposed with
maximum force. However, none of your ships are in danger if they obey these
instructions.”
The old soldier grimaced. He took a deep breath, and started to
say something. Then he changed his mind. “Your message is understood.”
“Sten. Clear.”The screen blanked. Sten wondered what Sarsfield had
been about to say—that none of the Imperial ships had one-quarter the firepower
of the Victory nor were they skippered by death
seekers? Or—and Sten cursed at himself for still having a bit of romance in
him—Good luck? It didn’t matter.
“Jemedar Lalbahadur?”
“Sah!”
“Turn out your people. I want them as flanking security.”
“Sah!”
“Captain Cind, I’d also like your people dancing attendance?”
“They’re already drawing weapons,” Cind said.
“Commander—pardon, Captain Freston, have the captain’s personal
boat ready for launch. We’ll steal you another one somewhere.” Interesting,
Sten thought, how quickly one could lose that stifling straitjacket discipline
the navy held so dear.
“Yessir.”
“Mister Kilgour? Shall we go draw the line with our saber and see
if anybody’s in an Alamo kind of mood?”
Alex hesitated.
“Sir, i’ y’ wish. But thae’s another wee matter… a matter o’
security… Ah think Ah’d best—”
“Oh Christ!”
Suddenly Sten remembered security. He had no idea what Alex was
hesitating about—but Sten had recollected two trump cards of his own. If they
still held value. He unsealed the front of his combat suit and lifted out the
thin pouch that was hung on a tie around his neck. He removed two squares of
plas.
“You people stand by,” he ordered.
Sten hurried across the bridge to the central computer station. He
told the two operators to clear out of the cubicle, pulled a security screen
around the station, and slid a keyboard out.
Touched keys.
The station was one of the three on the Victory that could access ALL/UN—the central
Imperialcomputer net that reached every Imperial command on every world and
ship of the Empire. Should,
Sten thought, rather than could. Most likely the Victory had been cut out of any access to
anything, just as the Eternal Emperor had cut Sten’s usual direct line into his
quarters.
Weeks passed. Months. Decades. Sten knew his body could have been
carbon-dated before the screen suddenly cleared and ALL/UN blinked at him, then
vanished.
Then: ACCORDANZA.
Sten input the Victory’s code. Another long wait. The next
thing he would see would be the simulation of a stiffly extended human middle
finger and
STATION REJECTED.
Instead: ATELIER.
Sten input the program on the first plas chip. Again, a wait,
then, BORRUMBADA. Damn, he thought. They accepted it. Once again: ATELIER. The
second chip was fed in. And again Imperial All Units accepted the program. Now
we pray a lot, and hope both those little bastards work their magic.
The chips were a gift from Ian Mahoney, Sten’s former commander in
Mantis, Fleet Admiral, and, for aeons, the closest thing the Eternal Emperor
had for a friend. But Mahoney was dead now—accused of treason by the Emperor
and executed.
It’s a great pity, Ian, Sten thought, you couldn’t come up with
one of these for yourself—and deploy it before the Eternal Clot killed you. He
caught himself. No time for that, either.
Sten pulled the security curtain aside and found Alex waiting.
“Ah’m thankin’t you f’r warmin’t th’ chair frae me, boss. Noo, i’ y’ll get
gone?”
“Yessir, Mister Kilgour, sir. Out of the way, sir, right away,
sir. Can I have someone send in tea, sir?”
“Clottin’ liquid fit only’t’ flow through th’ veins ae
sasse-nachs. Ah’ll hae a dram in a wee.” And Kilgour pulled the curtain closed.
Sten started for one of the slideways connecting the bridge to the
battleship’s central transit tube and thence to the hangar near the stern.
Without orders, the Gurkkhas, willyguns at the port, were trotting behind him.
Cind and her Bhor were waiting at a junction. She motioned them,
and the Gurkkhas, to move on ahead.
For a moment, she and Sten were alone at the bend of a corridor.
“Thanks,” she said, and kissed him.
“For what?”
“For not asking.”
“Asking what?”
“You are a clot,” she said.
“You mean—”
“I mean.”
“But I never thought that you wouldn’t, I mean—”
“You’re right. I stay volunteered. Plus I never took any oath to
any Emperor. Besides, I know how to pick a winner.”
Sten looked closely at her. She did not appear to be either making
a joke or trying to build his morale.
“My ancestors were Jannissars,” she went on. “They served tyrants
who hid behind the lie that they were the voice of a god they’d made up.
“I swore if I could become a soldier, I wouldn’t be like them.
Matter of fact, the kind of soldiering I dreamed about was helping get rid of
all those bastards like the Prophets. Or like Iskra. Or the Emperor.”
“Well,” Sten said, “you told me that before. And now I guess
you’ll get your chance. Or at least a good shot at going down in noble flames.”
“Naah,” Cind disagreed “We’re gonna kick his ass. Now come on.
You’ve got a sermon to preach.”
***
Sten stood on the winglet of a tacship, looking down at the nearly
two thousand beings—those sailors of the Victory not absolutely required at weapons
stations or to keep the ship alive, plus the remainder of his embassy
staff—spread out around him.
He didn’t think he was doing a very good job of preaching
tyrannicide. He tried not to look up at the hangar’s overhead catwalks where
Bhor and Gurkkha marksmen waited, in case someone planned any nonverbal
objections.
“All right,” he finished. “That’s the situation. I shoved the
Emperor’s face in it. There’s no way he can let me vanish and pretend nothing
happened. Which I’m not going to do anyway.
“I won’t say what comes next. Because I don’t think any of you
should volunteer to remain with me. If there’s anybody down there who’s good at
running progs or who stayed awake in battle analysis, it’s easy to come up with
a prediction.
“I’ve got the Victory,
and maybe some beings somewhere who believe the same as I do. Which is, that
it’s time to fight back. This, I plan to do.
“I’ve been serving the Emperor for most of my life. But things
have gone nuts. Like the Altaics, for instance. All right, those poor beings
were blood-crazed. And have been so for generations.
“But we’re the ones who made it fall apart. We’re the ones
responsible for turning turmoil into bloody chaos.”
Sten caught himself. “No,” he said, his voice dropping so that
those in the back had to listen hard. “I shouldn’t say ‘we.’ You, me, all of
us, did our best.
“But our best wasn’t good enough. Because there was one being who
was running his own program. The Emperor. We followed his orders—and look what
it produced. And I was not going to let it be covered up with a planetbuster.
“That’s all I think I should say. We’ll have the captain’s own
boat ready in a bit. It’ll cross-connect to the rest of the fleet. You’ve got
about one ship-hour to collect your gear and board.
“Do it, people. You’ll live a lot longer if you stay with the
Emperor, no matter what he is and no matter what he does. I have no other
choices left. You do.
“One hour. Get yourselves out of the line of fire. Now. Anybody
else, anybody who’s had enough of serving a madman who’s hellbent on turning
the Empire into chaos, like the chaos we just left—move over against the hangar
baffle.
“That’s it. Thanks for helping. Thanks for your service. And good
luck to all of you, no matter what you choose. Dismissed.”
Sten turned away. He pretended to be busy talking to Cind, but his
ears were full of the low rumble of voices, and then the clatter of bootheels
on the decking.
Cind’s eyes weren’t on him, but beyond, watching for a potential
attacker. Then the voices and movement stopped.
Sten made himself turn around. He blinked in astonishment. Before
he could ask, Cind told him.
“The first people to move were your staffers. I’d say, maybe nine
out of ten will stick. You’ve really corrupted them.”
“Hell,” was the best Sten could manage.
“No drakh,” Cind agreed. “Plus you have what I’d estimate is
two-thirds of the swabs. I thought nobody in the navy ever volunteered. But I think you got a
whole bunch of prospective rebels.”
Before Sten could do anything—like fall on his knees and thank a
couple of the Bhor gods that the Victory had been blessed/cursed with over a
thousand brain-damaged crewmen—a com blared:
“Sten to the bridge! Sten to the bridge!”
There was a slight note of emotion in the talker’s voice— which
meant that almost certain and immediate catastrophe loomed.
***
“These six screens are patch-ins from the Bennington’s internal com. They came right after
the first contact.”Sten glanced at them—they showed weapons stations and
missile-control consoles, all deserted.”I am not assuming they’re realtime
casts,” Freston continued.
Sten looked up at the main screen. On it was the Bennington, the tacship carrier
that was the heaviest ship in Sarsfield’s fleet. Flanking it were two specks
that a readout ID’d as destroyers. Headed directly toward the Victory at full drive. Either Sarsfield had
ordered a suicide run, since there was zero possibility the carrier could play
hitsies with a battlewagon, or else things were getting weird out there.
“I have,” Freston said, “six Kali stations manned, tracking and
holding at four seconds short of launch.”
“Replay the first transmission from the Bennington.”
Freston brought the cast up on a secondary screen.
It showed the Bennington’s bridge, which looked as if it’d been
the focal point for a bar brawl. The officer onscreen had a bandaged arm, and
her uniform was torn.
“Victory,
this is Bennington..
Please respond, this freq, tightbeam. This is Commander Jeffries. I have
assumed command of the Bennington.
The officers and sailors of this ship have rejected Imperial authority, and are
now under my orders. We wish to join you. Please respond.” The screen swirled,
and the message repeated.
“We also,” Freston said, “have a cast from one of the DD’s—the Aoife. The other one’s the Aisling.
They’re both Emer-class.” He indicated a projection from Jane’s on another screen, which Sten ignored.
“Their cast is shorter, and key-transmitted en clair. As follows: ‘Aoife and Aisling to join. Accept Sten command. Both
ships homeworld Honjo Systems.’ Does that explain anything, sir?
It did—barely. The Honjo were known as supertraders throughout the
Empire. And they were cordially hated. They were ethnocentric to a ridiculous
extreme, dedicated to the maximum profit but absolutely loyal to whatever
master they’d agreed to serve—as long as that loyalty was returned. They were
also lethal, nearly to the point of race suicide, as the privy council had
found out during the Interregnum when they tried to steal the Honjo’s AM2.
Sten had heard rumors that since the Emperor’s return the Honjo
felt, with some degree of justification, they hadn’t been rewarded properly
(which meant monetarily) for their loyalty to the Empire.
“Divert the Kali watch from those two ships. Contact them as soon
as I finish, tell them message received and stand by for instructions,” Sten
ordered. “We’ll find out how far they’re backing us in a bit. Get me through to
this Jeffries on the Bennington.”
The connection was made quickly. And the conversation was short.
The Bennington had, indeed, mutinied. The captain was
dead; five officers and twenty men were in the sick bays. About thirty percent
of the crew, now held under arms, had remained loyal to the Empire.
“Request orders, sir,” Jeffries finished.
“First,” Sten said, thinking fast, “welcome to my nightmare, and I
think you’re all insane.. Second, get all loyalists ready for transshipment. If
you’ve got a supply lighter, use that. Otherwise, disarm enough tacships if
that’s the only alternative. Third, keep your weapons stations unmanned. Sorry,
but we’re not in a position to trust anyone.
“Fourth, stand by to receive visitors. Fifth, get your navcoms set
up to slave to this ship’s command. We’re going to travel some, and you’ll
convoy on us. That’s all.”
“Yessir. Will comply. Standing by for your personnel to board.
And… thank you.”
Sten blanked the screen. He didn’t have time to wonder why another
set of idiots were volunteering for the death chamber. He looked around for
Alex and found him, sitting back from the main console, looking smug. Kilgour
surreptitiously crooked a finger. Sten, wanting to growl, went over.
“Y’r pardon, boss, but afore we move on, Ah hae a report… We’re
still rich, lad.”
Sten repressed the suicidal urge to kick Alex. What the hell did
that have to do with—
“Since we’re in a hurry, Ah’ll keep th’ input short. While y’ were
doin’t y’r usual job ae inspirin’ th’ idjiots, Ah hit our bank accounts.
“Another thing a wee outlaw needs is 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.
*****
ALL THREE STEN OMNIBUS EDITIONS NOW ON TAP
The entire 8-novel landmark science fiction series is now being presented in three three giant omnibus editions from Orbit Books. The First - BATTLECRY - features the first three books in the series: Sten #1; Sten #2 -The Wolf Worlds; and Sten #3, The Court Of A Thousand Suns. Next: JUGGERNAUT, which features Sten #4, Fleet Of The Damned; Sten #5, Revenge Of The Damned; and Sten #6, The Return Of The Emperor. Finally, there's DEATHMATCH, which contains Sten #6, Vortex; and Sten #7, End Of Empire. Click on the highlighted titles to buy the books. Plus, if you are a resident of The United Kingdom, you can download Kindle versions of the Omnibus editions. Which is one clot of a deal!
Here's the Kindle link for BATTLECRY
Here's the Kindle link for JUGGERNAUT
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*****
HERE ARE ALL EIGHT AMERICAN EDITIONS OF STEN
YOU CAN BUY THE TRADE PAPERBACKS, E-BOOKS AND AUDIO BOOKS BY CLICKING ON THE STEN PAGE!
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THE STEN COOKBOOK & KILGOUR JOKEBOOK
THE STEN COOKBOOK & KILGOUR JOKEBOOK
Two new companion editions to the international best-selling Sten series. In the first, learn the Emperor's most closely held cooking secrets. In the other, Sten unleashes his shaggy-dog joke cracking sidekick, Alex Kilgour. Both available as trade paperbacks or in all major e-book flavors. Click here to tickle your funny bone or sizzle your palate.
*****
*****
IT'S A BOOK!
THE COMPLETE HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES!
*****
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
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| Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969 |
In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is "The Blue Meanie," a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. Here's where to buy the book.
*****
Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four
episodes. Part One and Part Two appeared in back-to-back issues. And now Part Three has hit the virtual book stands. Stay tuned, for the grand conclusion. Meanwhile, here are the links to the first three parts. Remember, it's free!
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