Sten and the Mutineers

by Allan Cole

  He paused, then said to Sten: “You do have a plan to subvert these beggars, don’t you?”

  Sten hesitated, then remembered the blackened area on the Flame’s tail section. And it all came together.

  “I do, sir,” Sten said.

  “And that plan is?”

  “Give me an hour to work out the details, sir,” Sten replied. “I’ll report back to you.”

  “Excellent,” Mahoney said. “Meanwhile, I’ll notify Admiral Gessler to stand by to jump in the moment you send up a flare.”

  “Very good, sir,” Sten said.

  And then Mahoney was gone.

  Sten turned to see the others staring at him.

  “What’s this big plan, buster?” Ida asked. “You haven’t said anything to us.”

  “Sorry,” Sten said. “I just thought of it.”

  Everyone relaxed, looking relieved.

  Ida said, “Okay, where we do start?”

  “I’m working on the premise that the Flame and the Jo’l Cash are sister ships,” Sten said. “Identical in every way except their names and electronic signatures.”

  “That, and the big charred tail section on the Flame,” Ida said.

  At that point Kilgour slapped his knee and started laughing.

  “What’s so funny, Brogue Boy?” Ida demanded.

  “Our wee Sten,” Alex said. “He’s gonna pull a bait and switch.”

  Ida frowned. Then her brow cleared as she got it. “I’ll get busy pawing through the God Box,” she said. “Saw some drakh there that’ll do the job.”

  And she slid off her chair and waddled away.

  As she left, Doc said in an uncharacteristically plaintive voice: “Will someone please tell me what the clot is going on?”

  The only answer—peals of laughter from Kilgour.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  VENATORA’S DREAMS

  Venatora’s plas-domed fortress turned slowly in space, an exotic gem of glimmering lights against a starry backdrop.

  This was her most essential outpost, her first, second and last defense against any and all enemies of what she and her Himmenops sisters called “The Colony.”

  That it was bristling with weapons went without saying. It also possessed the most sophisticated battle computers, com systems, and high tech shields that money could buy on the black market.

  They weren’t up to Imperial standards, of course, but with the wealth that would soon come pouring in from her latest endeavor, plus her long-term agreements with the Tahn, she’d soon be closer to his level. On this little corner of his Empire, that is.

  The fortress sat about a third of the way into the Kill Zone she’d constructed years before and had constantly upgraded with the latest mines and other nasties guaranteed to take down anything up to and including Imperial battleship.

  She could wreak enough damage on the nastiest dreadnaught to give a battle-hardened admiral pause. Allowing her more than enough time to fall back behind a series of defenses that would whittle away any force thrown against her.

  Making things even more difficult for her enemies was the Armageddon wasteland that was the Possnet Sector.

  Back to back ancient celestial disasters had turned everything in the Sector into rubble—ranging from a few planet-sized to billions of smaller particles that whipped about one another in crazy mini-orbits, many ending in collisions that created even more rubble.

  Originally, the Himmenops had carved a relatively safe space into the Sector as a means to escape their enemies. Of which they had many. The Himmenops were piratical by nature and darted about the Empire in swift little ships, hijacking whatever they could lay hands on, then retreating into the Colony to enjoy their loot.

  With the rise of the Fathers, now led by Father Raggio, and the creation of Venatora, the Colony grew in a grand scale that required more and more space and stolen resources.

  It was Venatora’s cunning and sheer courage that allowed her to vastly increase the latter, and her organizational skills that led to an even more formidable base of operations, tucked into the middle of a Sector where celestial disturbances and disasters were a regular occurrence.

  This, along with her super-enhanced pheromonal powers, kept all her subjects in a state of lustful adoration that she could dial up to a religious frenzy at will.

  She and her Fathers had created a place that kept all the chaos that was the Possnet Sector at bay, with gigantic shields that warded off the worst of the disasters. Occasionally her scientists would spot a impending collision that might overwhelm the Colony’s shields, and she’d mount mini-expeditions to move the offending planetoid into a safer orbit.

  Over the years, several hundred of these planetoids had been hollowed out by Venatora and her Himmenops to create homes, factories, and workshops for her endeavors.

  The Himmenops prospered mightily under her rule. Population pressures had already caused the Colony to split once. And it had taken years of stealth and back-court killings before Venatora managed to unite the pirate colonies under her crown.

  And now, that time was upon Venatora once again. A new rival had risen. Her name was Princess Anthofelia and she had many supporters of her cause. In the past, Venatora and had been able to keep rival princesses and blasphemers at bay by sheer force of personality, wit and pheromonal dominance. When those failed, she had teams of loyal assassins among her Zabanya guardswomen to eliminate any and all transgressors.

  But this time it was different. Her pirate operations had been so successful that it had blown out the natural order of things and the population of the Colony had grown to the point where governing had become unwieldy.

  But Venatora was more determined than ever to maintain her iron-handed rule. There could only by one queen of the Himmenops, and Venatora was determined to remain that monarch.

  Her new alliance with the Tahn was making all that possible. It didn’t matter that she disliked her new allies. They were a cold people, obsessed with warfare, and who had little love of the finer things that life had to offer, like art and music and theater. All of which Venatora supported and encouraged among her own people with lavish grants for the most talented young Himmenops her scouts could find.

  “You must always remember, daughter,” Father Raggio was wont to say, “that an ally should be looked upon as nothing more than a future vassal state.”

  Such was the ambition of Raggio and the other fathers who saw no end to the possibilities of Himmenops rule.

  And now the greatest coup of her piratical career was only a few E-hours away. Soon, Zheng and Rual would cause the diversion that would fix Sten’s attentions on the wrong direction.

  Then they would slip away and, relying on the skills of the navigator, Bishop Shaklin, approach the Killing Zone where the first mines would be hidden.

  There she would reveal the safe course to them, and they’d weave their way past mines and planetoids bristling with missiles and guns all the way to The Fortress, where Venatora would greet them with open arms.

  And she would sweep all that lovely Imperium X into her charge. Then, with the help of the cunning Lord Wichman, she’d sell the entire train for enough credits to drown out Anthofelia and her adherents.

  Later, with her influence and voice vastly diminished, one of Venatora’s assassins would silence Anthofelia once and for all.

  Yes, life was good, she thought. Not perfect, of course, but good.

  And then she thought of Sten and felt her loins stir.

  Sten. Ah, yes, Sten.

  What wonderful daughters they could make together. Daughters worthy of one day ascending the throne to continue Venatora’s rule, assuring the future of the Himmenops.

  Father Raggio had told her that this was not only a distinct possibility, but one to be greatly desired. One of his minions had scoured the Xypaca area after the
fight and had collected Sten’s biological spoor.

  Samples had been taken and it was Father Raggio’s opinion—or, more likely the opinion of his breeding scientists—that Sten had the perfect genetic makeup to add to Venatora’s DNA pool.

  But that was all very technical and supremely passionless.

  Not at all the way Venatora felt about Sten. She wondered what it would be like if they were ever found the opportunity to alone together.

  She shivered in anticipation. Promising herself that the day of that assignation would not be too far away.

  And then Marta was plucking at her sleeve and speaking with some urgency.

  “Ma’am! Ma’am! They’re coming, Ma’am!”

  Venatora snapped to full attention and examined her vidboard.

  It was true. The Flame was approaching the Kill Zone.

  She frowned. But why were they more than two hours early?

  Venatora looked closer.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  SNOOP AND POOP

  Venatora’s heart picked up a beat as she watched the distant ship move through the No Being’s Zone and near the mines on the outer edges of the Colony.

  It was the Flame, no doubt about it. She was a light cruiser, of recent vintage. What Jane’s “Fighting Star Ships” termed the Radoslaw class. She could see the charred section of the tail—with the ship’s name blackened out except for the “F.”

  The damage was the fault of Rual, that misbegotten fool, who had nearly spoiled her plans by attacking Sten.

  Obediently following behind the ship on powerful tractor beams was the 125-kilometer space-train bearing all that Imperium X that the Tahn wanted so badly.

  “Got a confirmation on the electronic signature, Ma’am,” Marta said. “She’s definitely the Flame.”

  She turned to her mistress, worry lines furrowing her brow. “But why is she so early, Ma’am?”

  Venatora didn’t reply, she just studied the ship with just a niggling of doubt.

  “Shall I contact her, Ma’am?” Marta asked, reaching for the com board.

  “No!” Venatora snapped. “We must maintain radio silence as agreed. We don’t want to alert the Imperials that something is amiss.”

  There was a hidden buoy at the edge of zone. If the ship was somehow flying under false colors, it would be obliterated when it reached the buoy.

  Then she heard was a distinctive series of beeps coming from the com board.

  “It’s Station Alpha, Ma’am,” Marta said. “The missiles are armed and ready.”

  “Stand by,” Venatora said.

  More beeps.

  “They’re standing by, Ma’am.”

  Just then the ship slowed, coming very nearly to a halt.

  A series of high pitched noises poured forth, in the distinctive long short pattern of the archaic Morse Code she and the mutineers had agreed to use.

  .- .-.. .-.. / --- -.- .- -.-- .-.-.- / .-. . --.- ..- . ... - / .--. . .-. -- .. ... ... .. --- -. / - --- / .--. .-. --- -.-. . . -.. .-.-.-

  “Translate,” Venatora snapped.

  “Ma’am, it reads: ‘All okay. Request permission to proceed.’ Just like we agreed, Ma’am.”

  Venatora considered. Then: “Signal: ‘Permission granted.’ And tell Station Alpha to stand down.”

  A second later Marta reporter, “Station Alpha standing down, Ma’am.”

  All her doubts vanished. She personally took charge of the board, sending signals to guide the Flame through the maze of mines and missiles that guarded The Colony.

  ABOARD THE JO’L CASH

  Sten had cleared the Bridge for an operation that Mahoney warned would likely be declared “Eyes Only” in the very near future.

  “We don’t want too many people watching how we make sausage,” he’d said.

  And so the only people with him were Alex, Ida, Doc, Mk’wolf, and two techs who had been TDY’d to Mercury Corps operations a time or three in the past.

  “They’ve got clearances up th’ clottin’ sheep’s whazoo,” Alex observed after double-checking their creds.

  “What in the clotting clot is a clotting sheep’s whazoo,” Ida demanded.

  Kilgour grinned. “A bit a haggis in the makin’,” he said.

  Only the two newbies, Warrant Officer Murgas and Warrant Officer Tm’beaty, laughed.

  Sten glared them into silence. It was not good to feed the machine that was Alex Kilgour. You never knew what would set him off into spotted snake land.

  Ida and Doc added glares of their own to underscore the point.

  Sten turned to the big holomap on the com board. Before Venatora had so rudely shut down their bugs aboard the Flame, Ida had carefully copied Shaklin’s depiction of Possnet Sector, with the emphasis on Venatora’s fortress lair.

  As they came to the edge of what Shaklin’s map declared a No Being’s Zone, He could see a wavery yellow line play between two red points.

  “They’ve got missiles at those points,” Ida said, as she guided the Flame toward the yellow line.

  “Steady,” Sten said.

  Ida pressed forward.

  Then she said, “They’re arming the missiles!”

  “GA,” Sten said.

  Ida kept going.

  Her eyebrows rose and she said: “they’re clottin’ painting us!”

  “Hold on,” Sten said.

  Ida held on, hand poised over a “jump” button that would hopefully get them out of harm’s way in the nick of a decaying atom.

  An odd feeling—a weak electronic tingle—passed through the Jo’l Cash. It was as if some Hellhound of a Presence was sniffing them.

  “They’re checking to see if we’re the Flame inside as well as out,” Ida said.

  She leaned back. A little more confident. There was no one in the Mantis Section who could create a better electronic disguise than Ida.

  If the charred over painted name on the ship was the Flame, then so was every other electronic signature aboard the phantom that was in reality, the Jo’l Cash with a tail section bearing a fake wound.

  “I think they’re satisfied,” Ida said. “But there’s still a little doubt.”

  “Transmit the code,” Sten said, and seal the deal.”

  “Aye,” Alex said and sent the coded passwords: “permission to proceed.”

  The two red dots turned green.

  Even so, Sten didn’t breathe again until they’d passed the yellow line

  AT VENATORA’S FORTRESS

  Venatora eased back and stretched out a languid hand. Marta instantly filled it with a Venatora’s favorite drink—a mildly fermented mixture of lemon and honey chilled to perfection.

  She sipped, examining the Flame as it moved through an elaborate maze, the hundred and twenty five kilometer long ore train trailing behind.

  Then she frowned. There was something…not…quite…right.

  She leaned forward. Eyes scanning the entire length. No. Everything was as it should be. Even so… There was a…lack…of something.

  And then she realized that what she wasn’t seeing was the usual activity that went on outside the Flame.

  Normally, swarms of little maintenance and repair bots would be sniffing around, looking for any possible breakdowns, or places holed by a meteorite that gotten through the ship’s shields.

  “Marta,” she said, hesitantly. “When was the last time—”

  ABOARD THE JO’L CASH

  “Ah, drakh and clottin’ fall back in it!” Ida shouted.

  “What’s got yer Gypsy knickers in a twist, lass?” Alex asked.

  “I forgot the clottin’ foofarah,” she said, turning to her left and palming a switch.

  Immediately, little multi-colored lights starting running up down the board.

  “What’s that
all about?” Sten asked. Should he be worrying?

  AT VENATORA’S FORTRESS

  Venatora caught herself mid-query when she saw a little bot scurry out from under the damaged tail section.

  A few seconds later a whole swarm followed and got busy on other parts of the ship.

  “You were saying, Ma’am?” Marta asked.

  Venatora waved her away. “Nothing, dear, nothing,” she said.

  The bots had obviously been busy repairing the damage caused by that fool, Rual. She was ashamed that she shared the same gender as that hot-headed fool.

  Pity Venatora was a woman of her word. Otherwise, after the deal had been completed, she would have done everyone a favor and eliminated Rual. And that toad-face Zheng along with her.

  Oh, well. She sighed, then savored another sip of her lemon and honey drink.

  ABOARD THE JO’L CASH

  On the holomap, Venatora’s fortress looked like nothing more than an great ugly hunk of dirty gray ice.

  There were great crater-like cracks running along the surface. Many of the craters seemed to be in permanent shadow.

  Ida glanced over at Murgas and Tm’beaty, who were busy doing backup scans of their own.

  “Guys?” she asked.

  “Black ice,” Murgas said.

  “Confirmed,” said Tm’Beaty.

  Ida turned back to Sten. “Perfect camouflage,” she said.

  Sten nodded. The ice would hide any heat given off by weapons batteries.

  Circling the fortress were several smaller ice bodies, orbiting like miniature moons.

  “More guns and missiles and mines and bombs and drakh,” Ida said, her hands flying across her weapons’ board, palming buttons, turning dials and toggling switches.

  She checked with Murgas and Tm’Beaty. “Still with me, guys?”

  “Affirmative, boss,” Murgas said.

  “Those are basically sentries,” Ida told Sten. “One false move and they’ll all open up on us. So, my advice to you, young Sten, is to be very picky about the timing of our false move.”

  “We can do a lot of damage when we strike,” Sten said. “Even crippling damage. But there’s no way we can take her out all by our lonesome.”