Sten got up, walked to a screen, and stared out, thinking. The Victory and her escorts hung in deep interstellar space, far from the haunts of man.
"So I'm dead," he mused aloud, "but the rebellion continues."
"Like a summer fire in an ice oasis, one that's been knocked down but not extinguished and can flare up at any time," Otho confirmed. "Burning down here, flickering up there. Here they'll chance a battle, there they'll peg an Imperial sentry at his post with a rock."
"An‘," Alex added, "th' Cal'gata, ae y‘ saw, are holdin' firm. As are th‘ Zaginows. Eventually, th' Emp'll hae th‘ forces't' move in an‘ level 'em. But nae frae ae least three, four E-years is m‘ prog.
"While thae's some ae y'r allies thae hae sued frae peace, thae's others that hae gone oot't‘ th' barricades or are just practicin‘ noncoop'ration frae reasons ae their own.
"Plus thae's purges i‘ Prime, i' the Guard, across th‘ armed forces, i' th‘ rubberstamp Parliament, e'en.
"Th‘ Emp hae biggish problems, puir lad."
The Eternal Emperor did. He may have killed Sten, but the price had been far greater than he'd calculated. The obliteration of the peaceful Manabi, a race respected and admired if only as an ideal, sent a low boil of anger through civilization.
None of the propaganda played, all of which centered around the story that Sten had set a trap for the Eternal Emperor, who had barely escaped after killing the rebel leader in hand-to-hand combat.
Sten was dead, the Emperor lived, was the comeback. Peddle y'r p'raties i‘ another town.
And it was clear to many beings that the Emperor's offer of a truce and powersharing was exactly what it had been—bait for the Emperor's own trap.
Rebellion roared, died down, rose again, flickered on, stretching the already-strained forces and assets of the Empire.
Sten had wasted no time mourning the Manabi, nor cursing himself for not allowing that final battle to be fought, damn the consequences. He couldn't. He had been betrayed. What of it? The war had just begun.
He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud, until he heard Otho's ramble of approval. He turned.
"It does," Otho said. "Now is the time for you to reveal yourself. You did not die. Now is the time for your forces to rally and strike again."
Both Alex and Cind were shaking their heads. Alex started to say something, then deferred to Cind.
"If we do," she asked, "and we get the battlefleets to reassemble, those that haven't been destroyed by the Imperial forces or fled into unknown parts of the universe, what's to say we won't end up where we were? Facing another Asculum, where everybody dies and nobody wins?
"That's the way my ancestors the Jann used to fight. And there's great tales and ballads of how we stood to the last man or woman.
"Very impressive," she said, her voice oozing sarcasm, "and inspirational for young heroes. But it didn't play very well for me later, when I grew up, and also when I found out that not only did we lose those battles—but pretty often the war, as well.
"Like Alex might say, clot that for a lark."
Kilgour nodded.
"Th‘ lass put i' better'n Ah c'd. Ah'll but mention Culloden, which'll gie wee Otho some'at't‘ look up a'ter th' meet."
Sten nodded agreement with Alex and Cind, remembering something his first drill sergeant, a combat veteran named Lanzotta, had told the assembled formation of recruits on their first day of training:
" Some general or other said a soldier's job is not to fight, but to die. If any of you fungus scrapings live to graduate, you'll be ready to help the soldier on the other side die for his country... We build killers, not losers ..."
"Rykor," Sten said. "Logic check."
The psychologist waved a flipper from her tank. She mourned the Manabi, especially Sr. Ecu, more than any of the others. Or perhaps, she thought, trying to lift herself from the grief that sent a constant well of tears down her leathery cheeks, these others have lost more friends and loved ones, being experienced soldiers, than I have.
All these years, all these decades, she thought on. Doing the Emperor's frequently bloody work, and because there was seldom a body in front of me—flashremembering a small-time criminal's body flopping into death on the brainscan—I thought I knew how to deal with loss.
Learn from this, Rykor. Learn that all that you preach may be logical and practical. But the next patient who seems unable to accept the truth of your comforting or logic—don't think them to be thick or obstinate.
"Go ahead, Sten," she said, forcing attention.
"If I suddenly rise from the dead, I assume I could attract a fair number of allies—old ones, new ones—to my flag. Ignore that. Now, if I stay dead, will the Emperor's persecution of my ex-friends be any worse—will any more beings die—than if I rolled away the stone?"
Rykor thought hard.
"No," she said finally. "Your logic is acceptable. Persecution... irrational revenge such as the Emperor is practicing right now... is terrible. But open war kills far more, including the innocent."
"As I thought," Sten said.
"Okay, troops. Here's the plan," he said. "We tried the wide-open frontal-charge approach, and it didn't work real well. Maybe it's my fault—I never was the kind of warrior who liked the noonday sun. Reflections off the armor are a pain in the butt, if nothing else."
Sten was surprised at his mild joke. All right. He was re-learning the harsh lesson of war-—mourn for your casualties overlong and you will certainly join them.
"This time, we'll do it right. In the dark, in the fog, from behind with a stiletto. And I think staying dead will be part of that.
"No more battles unless we have to, people. Now we're going after the Emperor. And this time we'll take him or we'll kill him. Any way we can."
He looked around. Rykor was silent. Otho frowned, then grudged agreement. Cind and Alex nodded, as did Captain Freston.
"Ah'm glad't‘hear thae, lad. Long live Mantis an' thae," Alex said. "F fits right in wi‘ m' own plans. Ah'd like permission't‘ run a wee solo shot ae m' own. Ah wan‘ Poyndex."
Alex explained. He had been analyzing these new purges. Some of them were public or secret allies of
Sten. Others had obviously offended the Eternal Emperor. But other deaths or imprisonment had no obvious explanation.
"Ah tried runnin‘ th' basic ineptness ae any tyrant," Alex continued. "But th‘ computer upchucked on m' thinkin't an‘ sayit try again, goon."
He did. An answer was Poyndex. The man was clever, Kilgour conceded. Again, he had first thought that Poyndex was adding to the purge list to take care of his own enemies—the head of a secret police normally did that every time his ruler needed some heads rolled. But Poyndex was far brighter than that—he had no problems disposing of his enemies as he encountered them. The Emperor had given him a great deal of authority—and the sanction to kill his own snakes without need to use die Emperor as a cover.
The eventual explanation was simpler. Alex believed that Poyndex was trying to make himself the one indispensable man.
"Wi'oot," Alex added, "gie'in th‘ Emp thoughts thae Poyndex harbors gran' ambitions ae th‘ throne f'r himself, although thae'll come, thae'll come."
The Gurkhas had been discharged, Alex learned. At one time he thought it was out of Imperial Irk because a platoon or so of them had volunteered to serve under Sten, before he declared the rebellion. Then he thought they'd been removed to allow Poyndex's own creation, Internal Security, to move in. That was part of the explanation, which also accounted for Poyndex's replacement of Mercury Corps and Mantis Section with IS.
But there was more to Poyndex's maneuvering than just that, Alex believed. Poyndex intended to be the only conduit the Emperor had to anyone—his officers, his military, his Parliament, his people.