Any Imperials picked up would be given medical treatment and then transported, with uninjured survivors, to a planet at the fringes of the Lupus Cluster. Food, shelter, and continuing medical supplies and treatment would be provided on this forgotten, rather Eden-like world.
But that was all, until the war ended and either Sten or the Emperor was victorious. No mail, no notification to the survivors' families or friends.
Because the purpose of this long roundelay, back to the spoof in the dead system of Ystrn, was for an entire Imperial fleet to vanish.
Sten had deliberately chosen the area near NP0406Y32 for his plan's payoff. Any initial reports of his attack would be blocked by the pulsar. His strategy had worked perfectly.
Twenty-six warships, their admiral, and crew had disappeared.
Without a trace.
That would send a shiver through even the bravest warrior's soul.
And just as Ystrn had created the stage for this battle, NP0406Y32 would create a larger arena.
The essay purported to be a speech made by the Eternal Emperor at the graduating ceremony for one of the Empire's most prestigious naval academies, and was reprinted in Fleet Proceedings. In the speech the Emperor announced that these were parlous times the newly commissioned officers would face, but that they were also times of greatness. And as always, those who led from the front would be noted and rewarded.
The second item was buried near the end of the Imperial Times, a fiche no one in his right mind ever consulted for pleasure, but to check on the promotions, awards, and transfers of all Imperial officers.
Seven admirals had decided to take early retirement. All seven, analysts discovered, were respected—but all seven believed in the principle of leadership through battle analysis and ratiocination rather than noble posturing from the missile-torn bridge of a battleship.
The next item was the commissioning of a new superbattleship, the Durer. It had been especially honored by being picked by the Eternal Emperor himself as a command ship. Command ship, the analyst noted. Not yacht or personal transport.
All these smallish items were published in specialized fiches.
A larger item was the lead story in the Imperial Times. A mass assemblage of the Imperial battle fleets was ordered, on a most tight schedule. There would be barely six E-months for combat elements to ready themselves.
The last was big and public, however. With full fanfare, it was announced the Eternal Emperor had been requested by Fleet Admiral Anders and the rest of the Imperial General Staff to provide them with his centuries of wisdom and experience to extirpate the last, lingering traces of the bandit Sten.
The rebels had winkled the Emperor out of his bunker.
Now he was vulnerable.
Next, Sten would strike for the heart of the Empire and the Emperor himself.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE GREAT FLEETS of the rebellion rendezvoused in intersteller emptiness near a monstrous whirlpool galaxy. Emptiness—but emptiness very close to Prime World and the heart of the Empire.
There were thousands of ships. Zaginows. Cal'gata. Honjo. Bhor. Other ships from beings, cultures, worlds, even star clusters, Sten had never heard of. Systems' entire navies had joined the rebel forces. Squadrons had "deserted" en masse. Other ships, and even in some cases individual beings, had found their solitary way to the rising.
Sten sometimes wondered at their motives. Gold? Gods? Glory? Perhaps sometimes a burning, inchoate sense of injustice, a desire to end the Empire's tyranny. It had taken generations and centuries, but at last the hammer had lost its velvet padding.
The indicator lights in the battle chamber of the Victory now represented fleets instead of ships.
But less than one-tenth of the Empire was now in open revolt.
Sten thought that might be enough.
The orders went out. The rebellion would move into the Empire's heart, ostensibly making an attack on Prime itself. Before they could attack the Empire's capital, Imperial fleets would certainly come out to stop them.
That would be, Sten prayed, the final battle.
The real objective was not Prime at all, but the fleets themselves. Once the Empire's ability to wage war was crippled, Prime and any other world could be easily attacked, seized, isolated, or ignored.
It would be, his own sense as well as his staff's analyses, a near-run victory. Estimates were, given the present level of forces and that the rebellion had thus far maintained a tactical edge, 61 percent to 39 percent, favoring a victory for Sten. Expected casualties would be a staggering 35 percent of the rebellion's forces.
But blood was the argument, and there appeared to be no peaceful alternatives.
So be it.
"So the traitor is moving," the Eternal Emperor said. What might have been a smile moved his lips, then disappeared.
"Yessir," Admiral de Court said. "Just as your estimate and our progs said." De Court was one of the seven computer-brained admirals that the Imperial Times said had taken early retirement. In fact, they had been detached for special duties and were serving as a shadow general staff directly under the Eternal Emperor himself.
Their role would never be known, of course. None of the seven would be disloyal enough to mention that the final obliteration of Sten came from the brilliance of anyone besides the Emperor.
They were not disloyal... or suicidal.
Admiral de Court did not appear pleased that the anticipated events were, in fact, occurring.
"What are the numbers," the Eternal Emperor asked.
"Fifty-one percent chance of Imperial victory."
"That is all?" The Emperor was startled.
"Yessir. Too many Imperial elements lack real battle experience. Or else they're relatively new formations."
"I ordered the secret mobilization months ago."
De Court was silent. Not even the Eternal Emperor could create Weddigens or Golden Hind's simply by the laying on of hands.
"Anticipated casualties?"
"Well over 70 percent."
A long silence. Then, "Acceptable."
De Court licked dry lips. He'd been chosen, as the most diplomatically gifted of the technocrat-admirals, to handle this presentation.
"One other thing, sir. We have two single progs, not entirely quantifiable, but a probability estimation of approximately 82 percent, that the traitor Sten will be killed in this battle. And— and yourself, as well."
The Emperor was very quiet.
"Sir."
Still nothing. Then, finally, "Thank you," the Eternal Emperor said. "You're dismissed."
Scoutboats, then destroyers, then light cruisers met between the galaxies in a sudden snarl of blood. Ships swirled, launched missiles, took hits, died.
The engagement was all the bloodier because it was unexpected.
"So the bastard mousetrapped us," Sten hissed.
"I wouldn't put it that baldly," Preston said. "But the Emperor hasn't just been sitting there waiting for us."
Kilgour was in a glower of rage.
"Skip," he said. "Ah dinnae ken whae's th‘ matter wi' our Intel. But Ah'll hae some gonads frae breakfast kippers. Later. A‘ th' mo, Ah dinnae hae time frae ‘crim'nations. Th' sit's as follows:
"Th‘ Emp's got its fleets already mob'lized, aye? I's nae a total disast'r, unlike th' Emp mos' likely thinks it't‘ be. But it'll noo be a bonnie prog."
"GA," Sten said.
"We'll trash th‘ clots. Est 80 percent a' th‘ Imps'll nae see home again. But wi' a price. We'll take 75 percent hits ourselves. I's a Kilkenny cat's war, lad.