Vortex (50 page)

"Mason… stand by for one moment…"

Sten closed his mike and pulled the weapons helmet down over his head. "Ms. La Ciotat, I am launching the Kali."

"Yessir. At full drive… IP will be one point three minutes… ship IP is now two minutes."

Sten touched the red key on the weapons panel—the only physical act that he needed to do.

The monstrous missile was launched from a tube that was the tacship's spine. It was twenty meters long, and its warhead was a sixty-megaton deathstrike.

The missile spat out from the tacship, and Sten aimed it through the helmet at the rapidly closing tiny constellation that was the
Caligula
and her escorts, holding at three-quarter drive.

He opened his eyes, and Mason ghosted at him on-screen.

"This is my last attempt, Admiral Mason. You know you're working for a madman. We just heard—the Emperor had Mahoney shot."

Mason's eyes flickered, then he became the automaton once again.

Sten tried once more—knowing it was futile. "Look, man. Do you want your name to go down like this? Mason the planet-killer?"

Mason suddenly almost-smiled. "Sten, that is the difference between us. You think that you have some sort of god-given privilege to judge what orders you should or should not obey. That's seditious behavior, and you know it. Maybe that's why Mahoney was executed. Did you ever consider that? I'm following direct Imperial orders, mister. No, Sten, I'll not be the traitor. Mason, clear.''

The screen was blank.

Sten closed his eyes and became only the Kali. He hit full emergency.

"Closing… closing…" he dimly heard La Ciotat's chant.

"You are spotted… you broke a DD's screen… I have a Fox-launch… closing… prog cannot intercept… Closing… Target impact… Mark!"

Sten's world fireballed.

He pulled the control helmet off and saw, on screen, the
Caligula
cease to exist. There had been a hint of an explosion, and then simply nothing. The screen might as well have been trying to look into a black hole. He wondered if the Kali had sympathetically detonated the planet buster.

He guessed the
Caligula's
destroyers would still be trying to launch countermissiles, if any of them had survived—the screen stayed dark, overloaded.

He didn't care. Evading them was La Ciotat's job.

"That's it, Ms.," he said, tiredly. "Back to the
Victory
."

Mason died as he lived—following orders.

Sten did not give much of a damn about that.

But more than three thousand beings had died with him—and Sten doubted there would ever be a monument to them, out here, in the darkness and silence of interstellar space.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

S
ten was still on automatic. Back aboard the
Victory
he had gone to the bridge and numbly given the order to secure from general quarters.

"We're frae th' hangman now, son," Kilgour said. His voice was low. But it dashed Sten back to reality.

He looked at his friend. The Scot's round face was as calm as if he were discussing dinner arrangements.

Sten glanced around the bridge of the
Victory
. It was suddenly crowded.

There was Otho with a knot of Bhor. The wiry forms of the Gurkhas, headed by Lalbahadur Thapa. And many others.

Faces he remembered—but names he shamefully didn't.

And there was Cind.

The expression on her face was the same as the others. Expectant. Waiting for his decision.

Sten wiped moisture from his eyes.

They were with him—all of them.

Sten badly wanted to haul Cind into his arms. He wanted to be comforted, soothed.

He wanted soft lies that everything would be well.

Then the full force of what he had just done hit him.

Sten was an outlaw, now.

And through his actions he had damned all these trusting souls.

Soon, the Eternal Emperor would learn of Sten's betrayal and loose his coursing hounds.

Sten had to run. They
all
had to run.

He started to speak. He knew dozens of places to hide. Sten only had to choose and issue the coordinates.

He stopped.

No place was safe. Eventually, the Emperor's forces would run them to ground.

Sten looked around at the loyal faces again. There might be others.

He thought of Sr. Ecu. And his proposal.

What was the use?

He wished Mahoney were there. Ian would have known what to do. He would have said, Quit your whining, lad. You've got your health. You've your lady. You've got that ugly Scot, Alex Kilgour. And many other loyal friends. And you've got a bloody great battlewagon. The Emperor's own ship!

At that moment, Jemedar Lalbahadur whispered to his group. They all snapped to.

In the formal, Kukris raised Gurkha salute. "We are at your command. Sah!"

And Sten decided.

If he ran, the Emperor would get him.

So he had to get the Eternal Emperor first.

Sten issued the orders.

About the Authors

C
HRIS BUNCH is a Ranger- and Airborne-qualified Vietnam vet, who's written about phenomena as varied as the Hell's Angels, the Rolling Stones, and Ronald Reagan.

ALLAN COLE grew up in the CIA in odd spots like Okinawa, Cyprus, and Taiwan. He's been a professional chef, investigative reporter, and national news editor of a major West Coast daily newspaper. He's won half a dozen writing awards in the process.

BUNCH and COLE, friends since high school, have collaborated on everything from the world's worst porno novel to more film and TV scripts than they care to admit. They stopped counting at one hundred when they suffered the total loss of all bodily hair.

Lured from a safehouse above an Azerbaijan bar by promises of fame, fortune, and an early publication date, Bunch and Cole were immediately leapt upon by a team of Black Ops editors.

Hauled before a tribunal of Sten readers, they were sentenced to return to Los Angeles as writer-slaves. A high-placed source in a mail order firm specializing in locksmith courses claims they are currently chained to their desks and working on the final Sten adventure.