Battlecry: Sten: Omnibus One (Sten Omnibus) (51 page)

‘No, Mahoney,’ the Eternal Emperor purred, ‘I do not wish to read the full fiche. I want to consider what you just told me.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Mahoney said in a carefully neutral voice.

‘You will kindly stand at attention while I review this, Colonel.’

‘Sir.’

‘Your Mantis team, and this young lieutenant …’

‘Sten, sir.’

‘Sten. Yes. He managed, with a handful of mercenaries, to topple a religious dictatorship, to convince its fanatics to go grow whatever they grow out there, and to arrange things so that my miners will be treated well.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I am correct, so far?’

‘You are, sir.’

‘Admirable,’ the Emperor went on. ‘Promote him to Captain. Give him a couple of medals. That is an order.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Now, leave us to consider his solution to the whole mess. He turned over the military and political affairs of this whole stinkin’ Lupus Cluster to a mercenary. Correct?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘A woman, I discovered, who deserted from the Imperial Guard facing court-martial, after stealing an entire division’s supply depot and blackmarketing it. One Sergeant Ffillips. Am I still correct?’

‘You are, your Highness.’

‘Very good. And the diplomatic, intrasystem, galactic, and mercantile end of the operation was handed to an alien?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘An alien who looks like a Neanderthal – don’t look puzzled, Mahoney, go to the Imperial Museum and you’ll see one – and comes from a race of freebooters. One Otho?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I want this Sten on toast,’ the Emperor said in a low monotone. ‘I want him busted from Captain – I did promote him to Captain, did I not?’

‘You did, sir.’

‘I also ordered you to pour me drinks, did I not?’

‘Sorry, sir,’ and Mahoney headed for the cabinet.

‘Not that bottle, Colonel. The Erlenmeyer flask. One hundred eighty proof. Open us two beers to go with it. I think I may find myself very drunk while I’m trying to find out if I can legally torture one of my officers.’

Mahoney was starting to enjoy this. But he kept his smile buried as he poured shotglasses and cut the tips off beerjugs.

‘Sten. Sten. Why do I know the name?’

‘He killed Baron Thoresen, sir. Against your orders. You remember, the Vulcan affair.’

‘And I didn’t send him to a penal battalion then?’

‘No, sir. You promoted him to lieutenant.’

The Eternal Emperor threw down the shot, shuddered, and sipped beer as he fed the mission report fiche into his viewer.

‘Interesting ideas this Sten has,’ he mused, sipping beer.

‘Overthrow the tyrant and then appoint a council of church elders to study the matter. They should have their report
ex cathedra
in, what, Mahoney? A thousand years?’

‘More than that, sir.’ Mahoney gurgled, still recovering from the pure alcohol. ‘He said he chose the longest-winded theologicians he could find. More like two thousand.’

The Emperor shut off the viewer, got up, grabbed the flask, and poured two more shots. He gasped his down, then mused aloud:

‘Mantis Section. Why do I keep you people around, since you insist on doing exactly what I want, exactly in the manner I don’t want?’

Mahoney stuck with beer drinking and silence.

‘Correction to my last order, Colonel,’ the Emperor said, smiling in a moderately evil manner. ‘Do not court-martial this Sten.

‘I want him.

‘Detach him from Mantis and Mercury. Give him some kind of acceptable hero background in the Guard.’

‘Ummm,’ Mahoney insubordinated.

‘Captain Sten is now the commander of my personal bodyguard. The Gurkhas.’

And Mahoney’s shot went across the room and the beerjug gurgled out, unnoticed, on the carpet.

‘God damn it, your Majesty, how the clot can I run an intelligence service when you keep stealing my best men?’

‘Good point, Colonel.’ The Eternal Emperor took a tiny order fiche from his desk and Mahoney realized just how badly he’d been set up.

‘These are your orders: congratulations, General Mahoney, and my further congratulations on your detachment and reassignment from Imperial Headquarters to command the First Guards Assault Division.’

Mahoney threw the fiche to the floor, which was an ineffective gesture, since the tiny bit of plas insisted on drifting downward.

‘You can’t clottin’ do this to me! I just spent seventy-five years building up this clottin’ Mercury Corps, and—’

‘And I am the god damned Eternal Emperor,’ the man growled and came around his desk. ‘I can do what I clotting well please, General, and congratulations on your new post and am I going to have to whip your ass to get you to drink with me?’

Mahoney considered for a second, then started chuckling.

‘No, sir, your Imperial Majesty, sir. Thank you, sir. Since I have no choice, your Imperial Majesty, sir, I accept.’

Besides, Mahoney was not at all sure he could take the Emperor. Let alone what would come afterward if he did.

The Emperor grunted and poured more drinks. ‘You served me well, Ian. I know you’ll continue to do the same in your new position. And clot it, don’t make things so hard for me when I want to be nice for a change.

‘But don’t forget this Sten,’ the Eternal Emperor said, reaching for the flask. ‘I have an idea he is going to go very far indeed.

‘In fact, I’ll give you one of my predictions.

‘Sten will either end up on the gallows or as a Fleet Admiral.’

And the two men drank deeply.

To
Elizabeth R. & Leo L. Bunch
and
the brothers four: Charles, Phillip, Drew,
and David

Note

The titles of Books 1, 2, 3, and 4 are Parisian slang for various parts of the guillotine. The ‘bascule’ is the board on which the condemned man is laid; the ‘lunette’ is the circular clamp fitted around the man’s neck; the ‘mouton’ is the cutting blade, plus its eighty-pound weight; and the ‘declic’ is the lever the executioner hits to drop the blade.

The title of Book 5, ‘The Red Mass,’ comes from a phrase used by a French deputy during the Terror of the A.D. 1790s, one Monsieur Amar, in a letter inviting his fellow deputies to witness an execution ‘to see the Red Mass celebrated …’

– AC and CRB

BOOK ONE

BASCULE

The banth purred at the quillpig, which, unimpressed, had firmly stuffed itself as far as it could into the hollow stump.

The banth’s instinct said that the porcupine was edible, but the six-legged cat’s training told it otherwise. Meat was presented by two-legs at dawn and dusk, and came with gentle words. The quillpig may have smelled right, but it was not behaving like meat. The banth sat back on its haunches and used a forepaw to pry two needles from its nasal carapace.

Then the animal flattened. It heard the noise again, a whine from the forest. The banth looked worriedly up the mountain, then back again in the direction of the sound before deciding.

Against instinct, it broke out of the last fringe of the tree line and bounded up the bare, rock-strewn mountain. Two hundred meters vertically up the talus cliff, it went to cover behind a mass of boulders.

The whine grew louder as a gravsled lifted over the scrubby treetops, pirouetted, searching, and then grounded near the hollow stump.

Terence Kreuger, chief of Prime World’s police tactical force, checked the homing panel mounted over the gravsled’s controls. The needle pointed straight up the mountain, and the proximity director indicated the banth was barely half a kilometer away.

Kreuger unslung a projectile weapon from its clips behind his seat and checked it once again: projectile chambered; safe off; ranging scope preset for one meter, the approximate dimensions of the banth’s chest area.

He checked the slope with a pair of binocs and after a few seconds saw a flicker of movement. Kreuger grunted to himself and lifted the
gravsled up the mountain. He’d already missed the banth once that day; he was less than pleased with himself.

Kreuger fancied himself a hunter in the grand tradition. Time not required for his police duties was spent hunting or preparing himself for a hunt, an expensive hobby, especially on Prime World. The Imperial capital had no native game, and both hunting preserves there charged far more than even a tactical group chief could afford – until recently.

Kreuger’s previous hunts had been restricted to offworld, and mostly for minor edible or nuisance game. That was well and good, but provided Kreuger with little in the way of trophies, especially trophies of the kind that the gamebooks chronicled. But things had suddenly become different. His friends had seen to that. After thirty years as a cop, Kreuger still prized his honesty. He just rationalized that what his new friends wanted wasn’t dishonest: look at the benefits! Three weeks away from Empire Day madness. Three weeks on a hunting reservation, expenses paid. Tags for four dangerous animals – an Earth rhino, a banth, a male cervi, and a giant ot.

He had already planned on which wall each head would be mounted. Of course, Kreuger did not intend to mention to his soon-to-be-admiring friends
where
those trophies had been taken.

The gravsled’s bumper caromed him away from a boulder, bringing Kreuger back to the present. Concentrate, man, concentrate. Remember every bit of this day. The clearness of the air. The smell of the trees below. The spray of dust around the gravsled.

Kreuger guided the gravsled up the slope, following the homing needle toward the sensor implanted in the banth.

Below, a second one-man sled coasted through the trees. Clyff Tarpy did not need binocs to follow Kreuger’s sled. Contour-following, he lifted his sled after Kreuger.

The banth was cornered.

Ahead of him to the right, the ground fell away steeply, too steeply for even his clawed legs to descend. To the left was a sheer cliff. The banth huddled behind a boulder, puzzling.

Kreuger’s gravsled landed just outside the nest. Weapon ready, Kreuger moved forward.

Again, the banth was perplexed. The whine had been the cause of a loud explosion and searing pain earlier, the pain that sent the banth fleeing through the forest toward the mountains.

But the smell was two-legs. Two-legs, but not familiar. Had the banth done something wrong? The two-legs would tell him, feed him, and then return him to the warmth of his pen.

The banth stood and walked forward.

Kreuger’s projectile weapon came up as the banth walked into view. No errors now. Safety off, he aimed.

The banth mewed. This was not his two-legs.

‘Bastard!’

Kreuger spun, the banth momentarily forgotten. He had not heard the second gravsled land behind him.

From five meters, the barrel of the weapon was enormous. Tarpy allowed just enough time to pass for terror to replace the bewilderment on Kreuger’s face. And then he fingered the stud. The soft metal round expanded nicely as it penetrated Kreuger’s sternum, then pinwheeled through the tac chief’s rib cage into his heart. Kreuger, instantly dead, sat down on a small boulder before slowly toppling forward onto his face.

Tarpy smiled as he took a thick chunk of soyasteak from his belt-pak and tossed it to the banth. ‘Eight lives to go, pussycat.’

Tarpy took a small aerosol can from his pak, and, backing up, erased his footsteps from the dusty rock. He paused by Kreuger’s gravsled long enough to shut the power off and disconnect the beacon. The longer it took to find the body, the better. Tarpy mounted his own sled and nudged it back down the hill.

The banth’s tail whipped back and forth once. He did not like the smell from the strange two-legs. He picked up the slab of soyasteak, sprang over the rock wall, and went back down the mountain. He would eat on the ground he was familiar with, and then perhaps unravel the puzzle of the other soyasteak, the one with needles that walked.

The man in the blue boiler suit had his long knife against the throat of Admiral Mik Ledoh. With his other hand he forced the Eternal Emperor’s Grand Chamberlain closer to the edge of the battlements.

‘Either our demands are met immediately, or this man dies!’ His amplified voice echoed across the castle’s stonework, down the 700 meters of emptiness and across the parade ground.

One hundred meters below and to the right, Sten checked his foot/handholds. His clawed fingers were barely clinging to mortar notches in the stone. One foot dangled over emptiness, the other was firmly braced on the face of Havildar-Major Lalbahadur Thapa. Sten’s willygun was slung from a clip-strap on his dark brown combat suit. Snapped to one arm was a can of climbing thread. At its end was a grapnel.

From above them the terrorist’s voice came again: ‘You have only seconds left to reach your decision and save this man’s life!’

Sten’s left hand went up and out, stretching for a new hold. At first he thought he had it, then the mortar crumbled and he almost came off. Sten forced his body away from its instinctive clutch at the wall, then inhaled deeply.

‘Kaphar hunnu bhanda marnu ramro,’ came the pained mutter from Lalbahadur below him.

‘But cowards live longer, dammit!’ Sten managed as he one-handed out, lifting both feet clear. Then his climbing boots found a hold, and Sten was momentarily secure. Breath … breath … and he once again became a climbing machine. Below him, Lalbahadur and the rest of the Gurkha platoon moved steadily up the vertical granite wall toward the two men above them.

Five meters below the parapet. Sten found a stance – a protruding knob of rock. He touched the second can of climbing thread attached to the swiss seat around his waist, and a spidery white line spat out, touched the rock facing, and bonded to it.

Sten motioned outward then toward his waist, signaling that he was secure and could belay the rest of the troops below him. From a third can, on the rear of his harness, a thread descended to the Gurkhas below.

Lalbahadur came up into position, on a single line to Sten’s immediate right.

Sten paid no attention. He touched the nozzle of the thread can on his arm, and allowed about fifteen meters of thread, the grapnel at the end, to reel out. He freed one hand from the wall and weaseled it into the thread glove clipped to a carabinier sling, then began rhythmically swinging the grapnel back and forth. Suddenly he cast upward.

The twenty-gram-weight grapnel flickered upward and then caught, spinning twice around the muzzle of an archaic cannon which protruded from the crenellation above him.

Sten clipped his special jumars on the thread and snaked upward while the man in the boiler suit was staring out, into the lights. He never saw Sten lizard up, past the cannon and onto the battlement.

‘We have waited for enough time,’ the voice boomed, on cue. The knife arm came back for the fatal stroke, and Sten came out of the shadows low, coming straight up, one clawed hand slamming into the man’s face and a blocking hand snapping into the knife.

The man in the boiler suit staggered away, and the Chamberlain tottered for a minute on the edge of emptiness, then caught his footing. The man with the knife recovered, long blade ready.

But Sten was already inside his attack, double-fisted hands swinging. The strike caught the terrorist on the side of his head, and he dropped limply.

Behind the battlements, the other terrorists spun toward the threat. But they were far too late. The Gurkhas swarmed up from the darkness and came in, 30-cm kukri blades glittering in the spots. And, once again, the cry ‘Ayo Gurkhali’ rang around the castle, a battle cry that had made thousands of generations of violent men reconsider their intentions.

To a man, the terrorists were down.

Lalbahadur checked the downed men to ensure they were,
indeed, out. Naik Thaman Gurung unslung the rocket mortar from his back and positioned it. Sten nodded, and the mortar bloomed fire as the round lofted up, out into blackness, and then curvetted down to thud onto the parade ground far below.

Gurung bonded the line that ran back from the mortar, impacted far below in the parade ground to a battlement, then grinned at Sten. ‘We barang now, Captain.’

‘Platoon up,’ Sten shouted. ‘By numbers –
move
!’

The first to go was Thaman. He attached jumar clamps to the thread that reached more than 700 meters down to the parade ground, swung his feet up, and was off, whistling down the near-invisible thread to safety.

Sten saluted the Chamberlain. ‘Sir.’

Admiral Ledoh grimaced, shoved the ceremonial cocked hat more firmly on his head, took the pair of jumars Sten handed him, and then he, too, disappeared down the thread.

Sten was the next to go, freewheeling off the tiny clamps toward the solid concrete ground. He braked at the last minute, took his hands from the jumar handles, hit, and rolled twice.

Behind him, Lalbahadur and the others descended the thread, hit, recovered, and doubled into platoon formation. Admiral Ledoh, a bit breathless, took two steps forward and saluted. Above him, the Eternal Emperor applauded. Following his cue, the half a million spectators filling the grandstands that lined the five-kilometer-long parade ground broke into cheers – applauding as much for the ‘terrorists,’ who were taking
their
bows high above, as the Gurkhas, Ledoh, and Sten.

Ledoh broke his salute and puffed toward the steps that led to the Imperial stand. By the time he’d made it into the stand itself, the Emperor had a drink waiting for him. After Ledoh shuddered the alcohol down, the Emperor asked with a grin, ‘Who had the idea of that stupid hat?’

‘I did, Your Majesty.’

‘Uh-huh,’ the Emperor snickered. ‘Howinhell’d you hold it on down that Slide for Life?’

‘A superior, water soluble glue.’

‘It had better be. No way am I going to live with that – that – bedpan attached to the head of someone I must see every day.’ Without waiting for a response, he added, ‘Have another drink Mik, for godsakes! It isn’t every day you play Tarzan.’

The second order was followed quickly and thankfully.

*

The Emperor was celebrating an invention of his own. Empire Day.

He’d begun the ceremony more than 500 years earlier to celebrate winning a war that he’d since forgotten.

The premise was simple: Once a year, every year, all Imperial Forces put on a display, on whatever world they happened to be assigned to, with everyone welcome.

There was, of course, more purpose to Empire Day than just a parade. There was a second or tertiary purpose to almost everything the Eternal Emperor did. Not only did the display of armed might reassure the citizens of the Empire that they were Protected and Defended, but also, Empire Day served to discourage potential Bad Guys from developing Evil Schemes, at least toward Imperial Interests.

The most massive display on Empire Day occurred on Prime World. Over the years, Empire Day had become the culmination of a two-week-long celebration of athletics and the arts as well as of military might. It was a cross between Saturnalia, Oktoberfest, the Olympics, and May Day. For that one night, the Imperial palace was thrown open to everyone, which by itself was a major encouragement.

The Emperor’s main residence and command center on Prime World, the palace, was set in a fifty-five-kilometer-diameter circle of gardens. The fifty-five-kilometer measure was significant, since that was the line-of-sight horizon limit on Prime. The Emperor was not fond of stumbling across people whose presence he had not planned on.

At the center of the circle of manicured and wildly varying parklands was the main palace itself, possibly the ultimate motteand-bailey design, occupying an area six by two kilometers.

The ‘bailey’ consisted of high, fifty-degree-banked walls that vauban-vee-ed back and forth, from the main entrance gate toward the palace itself. The walls were 200 meters high, and buried within was a high percentage of the Emperor’s bureaucracy. They were not entirely nukeproof, but it would take direct hits to wipe out the structure, and the Emperor could continue operations even if his palace was completely sealed off; decades worth of food, air, and water were tanked below the walls for his staff.

The palace itself, a large-scale copy of Earth’s Arundel Castle, stood at the far end of the five-kilometer-long parade ground that made up the center of the bailey.

Even more so than the bailey walls, the castle had been built on the iceberg principal. Imperial command barracks/living quarters
tunneled underground below the castle itself for more than 2,000 meters.

The castle was faced with huge stone blocks behind which were nuclear-blast shielding, and meters of insulation. The Emperor liked the look of Earth-medieval, but preferred the safety and comfort provided by science.

The palace was open to the general public on Empire Day, when huge Imperial Guard gravlighters carried the tourists in. During the remainder of the year, only palace employees boarded a high-speed pneumosubway thirty-four kilometers away in Fowler, and were blasted to their duty stations.

Since attendance at Empire Day on Prime World was roughly akin to being presented at Court, the Emperor had figured out long ago that many more millions of his people would want to go than there was space for. So he’d set up attendance much like what he’d described to an uncomprehending official as a ‘three-ring circus.’ Nearest to the castle were the most desirable seats. These the Emperor allowed to be assigned to Court Favorites, Current Heroes, Social Elitists, and so forth.

The second ‘ring,’ and there was no easy way to tell where the dividing line was, went to the social climbers. Those seats could be sold, scalped, threatened for, and otherwise acquired by those people who knew that seeing Empire Day on Prime World was the culmination of their entire life.

The third area, farthest from the Imperial reviewing stand itself, was carefully allotted to Prime World residents. Of course, many of these tickets ended up in the hands of outworlders rather than in those of the Prime Worlders they’d been assigned to, but the Emperor felt that if ‘local folks’ wanted to make a credit or two, he certainly had no objections.

Seating was on bleachers that were installed weeks before the ceremony, on the banked walls of the bailey that surrounded the parade ground.

Technically, it didn’t matter where the attendees sat; huge holographic screens rose at regular intervals atop the walls, giving the spectators access to instant closeups as well as to occasional cutarounds to those people in the ‘first circle’ who were somehow Noteworthy.

Some events, such as Sten’s ‘rescue,’ were only held at the far end of the parade ground, next to the castle itself. But most were set up to run continuously, down each area to an eventual exit at the far end of the parade ground.

Empire Day was the most spectacular staged event of the year. The Court still proclaimed itself the Court of a Thousand Suns, even though the Empire numbered far more systems than that, and Empire Day was when those suns shone most brightly.

It was also a night on which anything might happen …

Wheezing, Sten leaned against the wall of the concrete tunnel – a tunnel normally sealed by heavy collapsed-steel blast doors. Now the doors were raised to permit the Empire Day participants entry onto the parade ground.

Beside him, panting more sedately, was Havildar-Major Lalbahadur Thapa. The other Gurkhas had been praised and dismissed, to spend, for them, a far more enjoyable evening devoted to gambling and massive consciousness-alteration by whatever substances they chose.

‘That was a famous display,’ Lalbahadur grunted.

‘Yuh,’ Sten said.

‘I am sure that, should any evil man desire to hold our Chamberlain for ransom, he will never do it on the edge of this castle.’

Sten grinned. In the three months he’d commanded the Emperor’s Own Gurkha Bodyguard, he’d learned that the Nepalese sense of humor matched his own, most especially in its total lack of respect toward superior officers. ‘You’re cynical. This has given us much honor.’

‘That is true. But what puzzles me is that one time I made my ablution in one hand, and waited for the other hand to fill up with honor.’ Lalbahadur mocked sadness. ‘There was no balance.

‘At least there is one thing,’ Lalbahadur brightened. ‘Our heroism will be shown to the parbitayas back home, and we shall have no trouble finding new fools who want to climb walls for the glory of the Emperor.’

Sten’s comeback was broken off as a band crashed into noise behind him. The officer and the noncom straightened as the Honor Guard of the Emperor’s Own Praetorians thundered forward. Sten and Lalbahadur saluted the colors, then shrank back against the wall as the 600 plus men of the palace guard, all polished leather, gleaming metal, and automata, slammed past.

At the head of the formation the Praetorian’s commanding officer, Colonel Den Fohlee, ramrodded a salute back at Sten, then snapped his eyes forward as the honor unit wheeled out onto the parade ground, to be met with cheers.

‘My father once told me,’ Lalbahadur observed, ‘that there are only two kinds of men in the world. Normally, I do not listen to such nonsense, since it is my thought that the only two kinds of men in the world are those who see only two kinds of men in the world and those who do not.’ He stopped, slightly confused.

‘Two kinds of men, your father said,’ Sten prompted.

‘Yes. There are those who love to polish metal and leather and there are those who would rather drink. Captain, to which group do you belong?’

‘Pass, Havildar,’ Sten said with regret. ‘I’m still on duty.’

Sten and the noncom saluted, then the small, stocky man doubled off. Sten had a few minutes before guard check, so he walked to the end of the tunnel to watch the Praetorians parade.

They were very, very good, as befits any group of men and women whose sole duties and training consisted in total devotion to their leaders, an ability to stand motionless for hours on guard, and colorful ceremonious pirouetting.

Sten was being unfair, but the few times he’d been told off for parade duties, he’d found it a pain in the moulinette. Parading soldiers may be interesting to some types, but those people could never have spent the endless dull hours of shining and rehearsal that a parade takes.