Sten and the Mutineers

by Allan Cole

Which gave young Murgas the nerve to speak up. Rather hesitantly, he said: “Mr. Kilgour, sir?”

  Kilgour turned his cheery face on the lad. “What is it, me boy?”

  “About those holy men?”

  Kilgour frowned. “Holy men?” Then he remembered and blessed Murgas with broad grin.

  “Ay, you mean the three Kilgour holy men,” he said. “Father Kilgour. The Right Reverend Billy Bob Kilgour. And Rabbi Kilgour.”

  Sten groaned and almost intervened, but Murgas looked so hopeful, he didn’t have the heart.

  “Yessir,” Murgas said. “You told us about the first two holy men and how they converted the bears, but you never said what happened to the third Kilgour—the Rabbi.”

  “Weel,” Alex drawled, “if you remember proper, the priest and th’ minister were pretty banged up from preachin’ to those bears.”

  Murgas nodded. He remembered.

  “But that was nothing compared to what happened to th’ wee rabbi,” Kilgour said. “Two ambulance drivers carried him into th’ pub on a stretcher.

  “And he was in a full cast, with traction cables, and IV tubes running into his poor body and monitors beeping news of his vitals, which were weak as clot.” Kilgour’s face grew sad. He shook his head. “He didn’t look long for this world.

  “The other holy men begged him to tell them what happened. How did the bear manage to hurt him so? And poor Rabbi Kilgour peered up at his friends and said, ‘Looking back on it, circumcision may have not been th’ wisest way to start.”

  Dead silence filled the chamber.

  Tm’beaty and Murgas turned deathly pale when they realized that Kilgour was done. There was no more.

  Murgas gagged a little as if he were going to lose his lunch.

  Sten gave him a pitying look. “Bet you don’t do that again,” he said.

  Murgas shook himself like a wet dog. Tm’beaty snorted disgust. “If he does,” he said, “request permission, sir, to blow him away.”

  “Permission granted,” Sten said.

  And then blinding lights filled the overhead screens, and Ida announced, “It’s show time, folks!”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  AND THEN THE KNIVES CAME OUT

  As they approach No Being’s Land, Shaklin kept an eye peeled at what was going on behind the Flame.

  It made a tableaux worthy of a billion credit star-packed livee. Missiles streaking. Rockets exploding. Laser guns so hot they warped space.

  “If just one leetle missile gets through,” he was telling Rual, “maybe real lucky ve get and kill that bastard Sten.”

  Rual grimaced. “It’s Kilgour I want,” she said. “And not a missile, but a knife to the throat.”

  Zheng snorted. Took a swig from his ever present flask, his flushed toad face turning a deeper shade of red.

  “Never mind this Sten,” he said. “By the bokos we got him. And soon very rich we will be.”

  Just about then the holomap brightened and Shaklin saw that they were approaching the very edge of Venatora’s realm.

  On the map, they were coming upon a thin yellow line, that stretched between two red points.

  He slowed his approach.

  “Vhat doing you?” Zheng demanded.

  Shaklin pointed at the yellow line and the two red dots.

  “If we cross that line without permission,” he said. “We’re dead.”

  Rual cursed Zheng under her breath for being so stupid.

  Zheng flared at Shaklin as if it were all his fault.

  “Vell, the signal you send then,” he say. “Vy are you waiting?”

  He sent the signal.

  AT VENATORA’S FORTRESS

  Venatora smiled as she saw the Flame approach her border.

  “I knew he’d come,” she said to Marta. “It’s just the kind of trick Sten would play.”

  She thought back about their first encounter at the Xypaca fights. He’d tricked her twice. She knew this now for certain. It made her angry, on one level, but on another she admired his cunning. And his willingness to bet it all on a single outcome, trusting that he could outthink any opponent in mid fight.

  And here he was again. With the Flame. The ore train stretched behind it.

  Sure, it was. She snorted.

  Venatora didn’t bother to ask Marta to sweep the ship or the train. She knew what was real and what wasn’t.

  Now Sten would have his toady, Zheng, pretend that it had all been a big misunderstanding. Some trick the nasty Imperials had pulled. Zheng would talk, talk, talk, in that backwards language he used, driving her crazy.

  Marta broke in. “They’re signaling us.”

  Venatora settled back. Waiting for the verbal river of excuses that Sten—via his mouthpiece, Zheng—would pour upon her.

  Marta signaled the Flame to stand by, then turned to Venatora.

  “They’re requesting permission to proceed, Ma’am,” she said.

  Venatora bolted up. “What? That’s it? Permission to proceed? Nothing more?”

  Marta was taken aback by her heat. Hesitantly, she said, “No, Ma’am. I mean, yes, Ma’am. That’s all there was. ‘Permission to proceed.’”

  Venatora glared at the board. Wanting to reach right through it and grab Zheng by the throat. Or, better, yet. Sten. Oh, she’d love to lay hands on him.

  “Ma’am?” Marta said. “How should I reply, Ma’am?”

  Venatora looked at Marta. Forced calm. Then smiled.

  “Tell them,” she began. “Tell them… Permission granted.”

  And then Venatora sent the prearranged signal to her forces:

  Get ready to open fire.

  ABOARD THE FLAME

  Shaklin’s com board lit up. Venatora’s replay was clear: “Permission granted. You may proceed.”

  As he reached for the controls, Zheng was shouting, “Vhat are you waiting for, you, you stupid? Go!”

  Shaklin bit back an angry retort—what the clot did Zheng think he was doing? Instead, he calmly worked the controls, sending the Flame smoothly forward.

  He glanced over at Viktor and Newton. They nodded at him. All was in readiness.

  A moment later, the red points turned green and the Flame was moving over the yellow line, through the deadly maze of mines and missile batteries.

  His heart hammered a staccato beat. Icy prickles ran up and down his spine. Any second now and Venatora would attack. He was sure of it. He practically felt her anger radiating from the gray fortress. Thoughts of vengeance coming to a boil. Pent up wrath waiting to be unleashed.

  She’d pour down so much molten metal and bombs and nuke-tipped missiles that it would be impossible for them to escape.

  He heard Zheng chortling. “Soon rich we be,” he was telling Rual.

  Greeted by gleeful laughter from Rual, so high-pitched she sounded like a mad woman.

  Shaklin caught Newton’s eye. Mouthed the words, “Get ready.” Newton smiled, but he was so frightened it looked more like a rictus grin than anything else.

  He could see beads of sweat running down Viktor’s face. The other congregants were as equally intense. Lips trembling. Upturned faces pale with fear.

  Any minute now… Any minute…

  AT VENATORA’S FORTRESS

  “Kill them!” Venatora shouted, slamming her hand down on the com board. “Kill them all!”

  And in less than a heartbeat, the entire bank of overhead monitors blazed with missile fire.

  ABOARD THE FLAME

  Shaklin was almost too late. He saw the flame of the first missile and his hand went for the “jump” button, but he was so frightened his hand felt paralyzed.

  He reached. But it was slow. So slow.

  And Zheng was shouting: “Betrayal!”

  And Rual was screaming: “Venatora, you thievin
g bitch!”

  The first missile exploded just short of the Flame’s shield! The ship rocked.

  Monitors burst and loose material scattered across the Control Center.

  And there! Over there! He could see other missiles on their way.

  Coming… Coming… Coming…

  Shaklin punched the “Jump” button. There was a sudden feeling of emptiness.

  Disorientation.

  And he was falling. Falling.

  Then, with a jolt and a shudder, the Flame came to a halt.

  Dizzily, Shaklin looked around. Zheng had hit his head and he was bleeding. Rual was picking herself off the deck. Crew members cursed. Some were weeping. Others were asking the unanswerable—what do they do now?

  Shaklin came to his senses. A great calmness descended.

  Newton said, “Here they come.”

  And he looked up at the holomap and saw half-a-dozen points of lights moving on the Flame.

  “Imperials,” Viktor confirmed. “A whole clotting fleet.”

  And all could see that they were led by the Jo’l Cash.

  Shaklin turned to Zheng, who was trembling with fear. Numbly, he upended his flask. Drained it. Threw it aside.

  “I guess we’re not going to be rich after all,” Shaklin said dryly—addressing Newton and the others, but loud enough for all to hear.

  “And as for amnesty—” He shook his head. No more needed to be said. That deal was long gone, thanks to the betrayal of Zheng and Rual.

  He gave Newton the signal, reached under the rim of his board, and flipped a switch. There was a jolt. The ore train had all but been cut loose. One more step and it would be separated from the Flame.

  But, jolt or not, no one noticed. For sudden fury had enveloped the crew.

  They turned on Zheng and Rual, shouting. “We had a deal! Money! Amnesty! Gone! All gone!”

  Zheng tried to grab Shaklin by his tunic. “Jump,” he screamed. “Jump! We must escape!”

  Shaklin shook his head. “There’s no escaping the Eternal Emperor,” he said. “His people will follow us to the ends of Uttermost Space and back again.”

  He turned to the angry crew. Pointing an accusing finger at Zheng and Rual. “It’s their fault,” he said. “Their doing. They bet your lives that they could out-think the Emperor, and they lost.”

  Which was a lie. The rest of the crew had all been blinded by greed and by Zheng and Rual’s double dealing. They had out-voted Shaklin and his congregants, who were in favor of taking up Sten’s offer.

  But none of that mattered now. Blame needed to be placed. And when that happens, blame cannot be denied.

  “We can still escape,” Rual was saying. “We can still jump. Hide out and make a deal later on. Can’t we Zheng?”

  But Zheng wasn’t answering. He was too busy spewing his guts on the deck.

  Rual started toward Shaklin. Drawing her knife.

  “Jump, damn you!” she demanded. “Jump!”

  But Shaklin just turned to his board, grasped the jump switch. Twisted this way and that. And then ripped it right off the board.

  He threw it into Rual’s face.

  “You jump,” he said.

  He turned and started away. Rual screamed and came after him. Shaklin didn’t bother ducking or dodging. It wasn’t necessary.

  The crew exploded in fury. Some grabbed Zheng, who went down under a pile of punching, tearing bodies. Others went for Rual. Shaklin didn’t doubt that she put a good fight. He heard her cries of defiance behind him as he and his congregants exited the Control Room.

  Rual’s final shout echoed in his ears: “I’ll kill you all! Cut your mother humping throats from ear to ear—”

  And then there were whispers of sharp steel all around the Control Room as the crew drew knives and advanced on her.

  As the door slid shut, he heard her scream, long and loud and full of terrible agony.

  At that moment Shaklin learned something new about himself. He quite enjoyed her scream.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  THE TASTE OF VENGEANCE

  Shaklin and his people reached Gregor’s cabin. The guards were gone—probably back at the Control Center gleefully helping murder Zheng and Rual.

  Newton broke the lock, and Viktor and several others hauled Gregor out.

  He was frightened. And more than a little confused.

  “What’s happening?” he demanded. “Is Venatora coming? Should I call my father so we can finalize the deal?”

  Shaklin laughed. “There is no deal,” he said. “There never was a deal.”

  And with immense satisfaction he said, “Now, come with us.”

  Gregor tried to protest. But Newton and Viktor, who were large enough to handle several Gregors, took him in tow and hustled him along the corridor.

  “Where are we going?” Gregor demanded.

  No one bothered answering.

  A moment later they were in the Tractor Beam Chamber. Newton hurried to the control board, popped it open, and fiddled with the switches. Then he set the timer.

  He grinned at Shaklin. “Ten minutes, Bishop. And we’ll be clotting out of here.”

  Meanwhile, Gregor grew more and more frantic.

  “Please, please,” he was saying. “Just let me call my father. He’ll fix it. He can fix anything.”

  But they were at the Cairn now, and Shaklin’s people boarded the little vessel, taking up the positions and duties he’d drilled into them. There hadn’t been much time, but the members of the Church of the Universal Location were not just devoted, but intelligent, highly trained technicians.

  As Shaklin took up his post at the control board, Newton and Viktor hustled Gregor over to the lifeboat, which sat next to a launch tube just large enough to do the job.

  He was arguing. Begging. Pleading. But no one paid him any mind.

  Shaklin’s fingers flew over the controls. Big bay doors opened in front of the Cairn. He gave the boat a little power, and they slipped out of the Flame into space.

  “Like bacon through a goose,” Viktor observed.

  And now they were skimming along the ore train, heading toward the end of the 129 kilometer line.

  Well, the end sans twenty nine cars they were cutting out for themselves. Shaklin grinned at the thought.

  Don’t get over confident, he warned himself. He had to play each card perfectly. One mistake and all would be lost.

  At last the ten minutes were up and a small explosion came where the train linked to the ship. The cars broke away, slowly drifting to the side from the force of the explosion.

  Then they were in position. Newton did his magic and there was another small explosion, separating the last twenty nine cars from the train.

  Shaklin guided the Cairn into place, latched on, then moved away—carrying the mini-train laden with precious Imperium X with him.

  It was time to call Sten.

  Oh, wait. Not just yet. Gregor first. Then Sten.

  “Get him into the boat,” he told Newton and Viktor.

  Gregor started, but the two big men grabbed him from either side and hustled him to the little lifeboat.

  “Wait a minute,” Gregor said. “What are you doing?”

  “Returning you to your father, what else?” Shaklin said.

  “But…but…” he pointed at the lifeboat. “Not in that!”

  Shaklin shrugged. “It’s for your own protection,” he said.

  And it wasn’t that much of a lie. At this moment he was more than capable of doing Gregor great bodily harm.

  “No, no. You must let me go. The Court Martial. They might…they might…”

  “Shoot you?” Shaklin asked with a bitter laugh. “A firing squad is too good for you. But that was my agreement with Sten.”

  Gregor’s face tu
rned fiery red. “Sten? Why, he’s nothing but a poseur. Acts like an ordinary guy, but he’s got connections. That’s for sure. Connections he’s been lying about for years.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Shaklin said. “Makes me even more confident that you have a firing squad in your future.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Gregor pleaded. “We can still make this work. We can still do a deal. You can still be rich.”

  Shaklin had enough. “Get him in there,” he said, jabbing a finger at the lifeboat.

  Newton opened the little boat’s port, and he and Viktor grabbed Gregor and pushed him toward it. Gregor struggled mightily, but Newton gave him a hard swat and Gregor stopped struggling.

  Now he was weeping.

  “But why?” he pleaded. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  Shaklin stared hard into his eyes. “Pegatha,” was all he said. He nodded for Newton and Viktor to continue.

  They stuffed him, weeping, into the little boat. As they closed the port, the last thing Shaklin heard him say was, “It was an accident, I tell you. Just an accident.”

  But Shaklin felt no vengeful joy when he turned back to the control board. Instead, he felt empty. And there was a bitter taste in his mouth.

  Then he keyed his mike. Time to call Sten.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  SHAKLIN’S OFFER

  Sten gaped at what the big overhead monitor was showing him.

  On one side was the Flame, separated from the ore train, which was floating slowly away. On the other side, a small vessel—a rescue craft, he guessed—was moving swiftly off, towing a short string of ore cars behind it.

  “What the—”

  And then Shaklin was on the line. “It’s all set, Sten,” he was saying. “Zheng and Rual are probably dead by now, and the crew so demoralized I doubt they’ll give you any trouble when board.”

  “We had an agreement, Bishop,” Sten said through gritted.

  “And I kept it,” Shaklin said. Then Sten heard something—was it a little laugh. “Well, most of it, anyway.”

  “Where’s Gregor?” Sten demanded. “You agreed to keep him safe and deliver him to me.”

  “Oh, Gregor, that’s right. You wanted Gregor. Hang on a second.”