Sten and the Mutineers

by Allan Cole

  After an agonizing wait there came a single click—yes.

  “Are we in any immediate danger?”

  There was double click—no.

  “They aren’t going to fire on us again?”

  Double click—no.

  In background Ida started chattering. “You don’t know if we can trust him, Sten. I vote we don’t take any unnecessary changes with these clots.”

  Sten waved for her to shut up. She did.

  He spoke into the mike: “Venatora’s there, right?”

  A bit of a wait. Shaklin was probably surprised that he knew. Then came a single click—yes.

  “Okay, look, I still think we can work this out with as little bloodshed as possible. Everybody will still get their amnesty and they’ll still get the credits the Emperor promised. So the question now, is—are you still with me?”

  Instead of one click, or two, there were a series of clicks. Clickclickclickclickclick. Then a pause.

  “What th’ clot goin’ on with the wee bairn?” Kilgour said.

  Sten finally got it. He said, “And Gregor, Shaklin. The same deal with Gregor. He gets court martialed to the high heavens… So, are you with me?”

  There came an immediate single click—yes!

  “Excellent,” Sten said. “Just stand by and monitor what’s going on. Then, soon as you can get to a safe place where we talk, give me a call. Got that?”

  A single click—yes.

  And then the connection was broken.

  ABOARD THE FLAME

  Gregor blinked like a mole as he was hustled out of his dimly-lit cabin into the bright passageway.

  His limbs were stiff from days of inactivity, and he stumbled and nearly fell, only to be brought up short by the two burly crewmen who were his escorts.

  “Clumsy scrote,” one of the sailors hissed. “Keep yer feet under yers while yer still got legs to walk with.”

  “I hear Rual’s gonna start by breakin’ both his knees,” the other sailor said.

  The first sailor laughed, then gave Gregor a clout alongside the head.

  “What he needs is a good Tahn six pack,” he said. He made his hand into a pistol. “Two rounds in the ankle. Two in the knees. And two in the elbows.”

  “A Tahn six-pack… I like that,” the second man said.

  Gregor kept his mouth shut and hobbled along. He wasn’t worried in the least. For the first time since he was overwhelmed in his cabin when the mutiny broke out, he felt like he was finally back in charge.

  Well, not exactly in charge. But well on his way to same.

  He’d contacted his father with the device Sten had given him, and the old man laid out his whole plan. It was frightening at first—Gregor’s life would never be the same again. But it soon became obvious that Lord Wichman not only had everything well under control, but had once again proven himself to be the King of the Deal Makers.

  “You just hang on, son,” he told Gregor, “and when this is over we’ll have so much power even the Eternal Emperor himself will fear us.”

  Gregor kept those words close as the guards hustled him along, and then a moment later he was shoved into Control Room with such force that he sprawled on his face in front of the assembled crew.

  There were cheers and jeers and someone kicked him in the ribs. But after much rough treatment during his captivity, he was prepared for it and doubled up just as the boot connected, lessening the force of the blow.

  Then he heard a woman’s imperious voice bark a command: “Let him up! We can’t talk business with his father if he finds his son face-down on the deck.”

  Someone pulled him roughly to his feet. Gregor looked around, fighting to keep a smile from spreading across his face.

  There was Zheng, with his fat toad face. And Rual, who looked crazier than ever, with her hair standing on end and her eyes on fire. And then there was Shaklin who looked on him with such icy hatred that it froze Gregor to the marrow.

  Someone helped him to his feet in a less than gentle manner, and he found himself looking upon the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.

  It was Venatora—not in the flesh, but in a live holocast—looking every centimeter the pirate queen.

  Gregor tried to speak, but her presence was such that all he could manage was stuttered, “M-my…Lady!”

  The crew burst out laughing at this, and there was more jeering and several sailors made squeaky-voiced imitations of his “M-my…Lady!”

  Gregor coughed, then tried again, fighting for the confidence his father had tried to instill in him.

  “Yes, I have, My Lady,” he said. “My father filled in me on the details of the agreement that you and he have hammered out.”

  “Excellent,” Venatora said. “I have already told the others about the plan, but they rightly demanded that I offer proof of the agreement.”

  “I can help with that, My Lady,” Gregor said.

  He fumbled in his pocket, but one of his guards swatted him, growling, “Here, none of that sneaky drakh Captain. What’cha got in there?”

  Zheng broke in, commanding: “Leave him be, Guttdammit!”

  Chastened, the guard stepped away. Gregor hastily fished out the little com unit Sten had given him and placed it on a nearby table.

  The Control Center fell silent as everyone in the room stared at the little black box.

  Venatora prodded Gregor into action. “Go on,” she said.

  And Gregor pressed down on the little box and backed away. It made a beeping sound and started to glow. Gradually, a form began to take shape.

  * * * *

  Across the room, Shaklin huddled with his congregants, furious at what he had just heard from Venatora’s lovely lips. He and the others had been betrayed, betrayed.

  And the architect of that betrayal rose up from that little box until, standing in front of them—in a live holocast straight from Prime World—was Gregor’s father, Lord Wichman.

  He of the huge pile of hay-colored hair. He of the round, fleshy face and cold, boring eyes that had never known defiance. He of the loud, hail-fellow tones that were always on the make.

  And as Shaklin looked on, that big voice boomed out, “Greetings, Lady Venatora. Good to be with you again.”

  The image wavered a little as Wichman turned his big body, clad in a stylish businessman’s suit. He looked out over the awed crewmembers.

  “I bring tremendous news for all of you,” he said. “What you are about to hear from me is huge. Huge! You think you know what rich is, well, let me tell you my friends, as a man who is richer than just about anybody in the Empire—except a few other guys, and of course that big crook, the Eternal Emperor—that you are about to be richer than you could have ever dreamed.”

  He paused, flashed an enormous grin at Zheng and Rual.

  “And you owe it all to Queen Venatora and your wise leaders, Zheng and Rual…”

  Shaklin looked over at Gregor, who wore a smile that was the twin of his father’s.

  He began to tremble. One of his people—Murgas, he thought it was—sensed his distress and touched his shoulder, whispering, “Easy, Bishop. Easy. Nothing we can do it about it now.”

  Shaklin calmed himself, a little sorry that he hadn’t called down death and destruction on them all by telling Sten to strike and strike now.

  Patience, he told himself. Patience.

  Across the room Wichman droned on.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  WHIPSAWED

  Sten paced the Control Room while Ida fussed with her com board, flicking this switch and that, tapping keys, palming buttons, but still the com screen connection to the Flame remained maddeningly blank.

  Across the room, Alex and Doc were hunched over a tall vidunit, playing Schrodinger’s Chess—in 4-D, of course—with pieces winking in and out
of existence as the gamers made their moves.

  Ida slammed a fist down on her desk, nearly toppling over a nasty-looking cup of caffe with a half-used ’bac stick bobbing on the surface.

  “I hate this scrote,” she shouted. “Hate him, hate him, hate him.”

  “What scrote?” Sten asked.

  Ida indicated the blank monitor screen. “Why, the nasty little piece of drakh who’s keeping our nose out of the Flame’s business,” she said.

  “Do you actually know who he is?” Sten asked.

  “Too clottin’ right, I know him,” Ida said. “Got his puddy paws all over the program. I’d recognize his work anywhere. Except this nasty piece of business has something special. Something so special that it would normally be out of his means to produce it.”

  “Go on,” Sten urged.

  Ida shrugged. “Don’t know his actual name, but he’s a legendary cyber crook. Bragged that there wasn’t a wall he couldn’t breech, a code he couldn’t break. Worked on nothing but sneaky, corporate underworld drakh. Usually for the highest bidder.”

  Sten frowned. “Any idea who that highest bidder might be in this case?” he wanted to know.

  “Sure, I do,” I said. “Except, he isn’t doing it for money. He’s doing it because he has to.”

  “Explain, please,” Sten said.

  “Word is that he ran afoul of the Tahn. Got caught with his hand in one of their top secret cookie jars. So they snatched him up and put him to work in one of their labs building drakh to mess with our boss, the Emp.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Sten said. “Do you realize what you are saying?”

  Ida looked up at him, puzzled. She’d been so focused on the narrow tech picture that she hadn’t twigged on what was really going on.

  Sten said, “We know for a fact that Venatora is using that program to block us, right?”

  Ida nodded. “Right?” Then her face cleared. “Aw, drakh,” she said. Then, half-admiringly: “You clever little bitch, you. Went and made yourself a deal with the Tahn.”

  Her hand went to the cup of caff, saw what was floating inside, and gave it up.

  “Well, drakh and fall back in it,” she said.

  Across the way, Doc and Alex had broken off their game when they caught the Venatora/Tahn reference.

  Doc slid off his seat. “We’d better fill Mahoney in about the Tahn,” he said.

  Sten nodded. “Yeah, we’d better,” he said. “This could change everything.”

  He looked up at the big overhead monitor, where he could see the Flame hovering protectively over the circled space-train.

  And noted the charred black streak on the tail section where the explosion meant for Sten and Alex had backblasted and scarred the ship.

  The only thing left of the Flame’s name was the letter “F.”

  Sten tucked that little bit of detail away, not knowing what use he could make of it, but being careful to file it just the same. In his short but white-hot Mantis career, he’d noticed that little things had a way of growing in importance down the line.

  “I just wish I knew what was going on,” he said. “We can’t even raise the com unit we gave Gregor to talk to his father.”

  Ida looked up from her board. “It’s good news and bad news time,” she said.

  “I could use some good news about now,” Sten said.

  She tapped her monitor – a maze of thick red lines, with one green line snaking through.

  “That’s Shaklin’s unit,” she said, indicating the green line. “I’ve managed to at least get through that part of the firewall.”

  Sten snorted. “Yeah, but is he answering? Or has Mr. Holy Man decided to change sides again?”

  “Never fear, young Sten,” Kilgour said. “Have faith in our wee bishop. He’ll be reporting in any second now.”

  Sten shook his head. “You only met the guy once, Alex,” he said. “Where did all this ‘Faith’ nonsense come from?”

  Soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sten wanted to take them back. But no, Alex grabbed the story opportunity ball and ran with it.

  “Ah, told ye’, young Sten,” he said. “There nothing we Kilgours don’t know about faith. Was I not just telling you the tale of th’ three holy men—all proud members of the Kilgour clan—took to converting bears?”

  Sten started to protest, but Ida, bored and frustrated, broke in. “Yeah, you were telling us about that priest…”

  “Aye, Father Kilgour,” Alex said.

  “Yeah, Father Kilgour. And then there was the minister and the rabbi. What happened to them?”

  “Weel,” said Alex, “it was loch thes. Efter Father Kilgour tauld his tale, th’ Reverend Billy Bob Kilgour wis nae to be ootdain. He was sitting in a wheelchair…hud one puir arm an’ both legs in a cast, wi’ an IV drip runnin’ inae his veins.

  “An’ in his best fire an’ brimstone oratory he shooted, ‘Weel, brothers, we Baptists don’t sprinkle. We gang whole hog.

  “‘I went out an’ foiund me a bear an’ Ah began to reid God’s Holy Wuid tae heem. But he didn’t want nothin’ fur tae do wit’ me. An’ sa I grabbed heem by th’ neck and we began to wrestle somethin’ fierce-loch.

  “‘Weel, me an th’ bear rolled doon a big body bare, ’en anither, ’en feel intae a lake. An’ Ah quick-loch grabbed his heed an’ dunked heem under th’ water an’ Baptized his hairy soul.

  “‘An’ ’en, when Ah let heem, it was jist loch ye said, Father Kilgour…he was gentle as a wee lamb.’”

  Alex paused for dramatic effect. Then opened his mouth to continue the story, now featuring Rabbi Kilgour, when Ida’s monitor suddenly bloomed into life.

  And there was Shaklin, his dark features drawn and haggard and he was saying, Captain Sten? Are you there? …Captain Sten?”

  Ida did her magic, and suddenly they were in two-way communication.

  “I’m here, Bishop Shaklin,” Sten said. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s all gone to hell, is what is going on.” Shaklin paused. Then—his voice quivering with emotion—he said: “Gregor’s getting away with everything.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  BAIT AND SWITCH

  “Report!” commanded the ghostly figure that was General Ian Mahoney.

  And so Sten reported. Meanwhile, Mahoney paced back and forth in a room that was millions upon millions of light years away.

  It could be a gut-wrenching sight, such as when Mahoney paced toward a com desk, then paused midway through it—his big Irish upper body poking above the desk, looking as if he had been cut in half.

  When Sten was done, Mahoney hopped back onto a desk in his far away office, leaving the holo image of his booted feet aboard the Jo’l Cash dangling over the deck. The sight made Sten’s stomach roil.

  “This clotting problem just seems to get worse and worse,” Mahoney said. “First we learn that Venatora is in cahoots with the bloody Tahn. And now you’re saying that Lord Wichman is as well?”

  “That’s what Shaklin told us, sir,” Sten said. “And we have no reason to disbelieve him. Apparently Wichman has been black marketing weapons and forbidden technology to the Tahn for several years now. Including a com hack that can block all communications. When Venatora approached the Tahn with the promise of a whole space-train of Imperium X, they recruited Wichman to act as her go-between.”

  “I suppose it’s because they learned the mutineers were holding his son hostage,” Mahoney said. “Gave them more leverage.”

  “That’s our reading, sir,” Sten said. Alex, Ida, and Doc murmured agreement.

  “But what about our offer?” Mahoney asked, clearly frustrated. “It’s so much better than Venatora’s. Plus there’s the promise of amnesty, damn it! That’s a huge clotting concession.”

  “Wichman’s convinced them that it’s all a lie,” Sten sa
id. “That as soon as they turn themselves in, they’ll all be facing firing squads. Meanwhile, Gregor will go free and unpunished for his many sins.”

  Mahoney was silent for a long, uncomfortable moment.

  “What about it, sir?” Sten finally said. “The amnesty offer is legit, right?”

  “Sure, sure,” Mahoney said, a little too hastily for Sten’s comfort.

  “And the court martial?”

  Mahoney shrugged. “That’s always been dicey,” he admitted. “His old man…” he let the rest trail off, but Sten took his meaning.

  “Yeah, his bigshot old man,” Sten said.

  “What’s their next move?” Mahoney asked. Then he snorted, impatient with himself. “Clot! I know what their next move is going be. The question is when, not what.”

  “In approximately 20 E-hours,” Sten said, “They are going to create some sort of diversion. Probably a flash-bang to confuse our communications. Then they are going to make their way to Venatora’s base. Her people will guide them through the mine fields.”

  Mahoney thought a minute, then asked, “How much do you trust this Shaklin fellow?”

  “I have a few doubts,” Sten admitted, “but I think we can rely on him up to a point.”

  “And that point would be Gregor?” Mahoney asked. “Because of the death of his beloved Pegatha? Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Church of the Universal Point. And never mind the money? Hmm?”

  Kilgour broke in. “Th’ wee bishop is ruled by his heart nae his purse. He wants revenge, an’ we’re th’ only ones fa can gie it.”

  “What about you, Ida?” Mahoney asked.

  “I got lost in the purse comparison, boss,” she said. “And I’m not known for a soft heart.”

  “And you, Doc?”

  Doc scratched the fur under his chin with a sharp talon. He said, “Although I hate to agree with our haggis-eating friend, I’ve concluded that Shaklin has been overtaken by the weaker side of his human nature.”

  He paused, then added, almost under his breath, “As if there were any strong sides.”

  The holo image of Mahoney hopped off the desk. “Okay, then. We’ll proceed on that assumption.”