by Chris Bunch
"I don't see how," Mahoney said.
"I have a plan." And he began talking quickly. Laying it all out, to an increasingly surprised Mahoney.
Chapter Fifty-Six
IT WASN'T THE first time Ffillips had been dragged, restraints chinking, up from a dungeon by thugs and hurled to her knees in front of Mathias.
But, the woman wondered, as she did a body-tuck, side-rolled away from the expected kick, and came back to her feet, it could well be the last.
The late and less-than-lamented Theodomir's throne room had seen considerable change, Ffillips realized as she glanced around. The tapestries and exotic statues were gone, as were the pillows on the stone chair.
The vidmap of Sanctus was now shadowed by an overlay of the Faith of Talamein—twin hands clasped in prayer, centered over a bare sword.
Only the twin torches to either side of the map remained.
On the stone throne sat Mathias, wearing the newly official uniform of undecorated red Companion full-dress. Ffillips bowed her head respectfully and kept her mouth shut—a delaying tactic that had worked quite well years before at her court-martial.
"I speak in the name of Talamein," Mathias intoned.
"S'be't," echoed the Companions ringing the bare walls.
"Here, in the most sacred place, seat of the faith of Talamein, I, Mathias, chosen by the Flame as Talamein's True Successor. I charge you. Major Ffillips, in the absence of your leader the arch-antideist Sten. with treason. Treason againsl our State, our Faith, and My People."
Come, boy. Can't you find a more original charge than that? Ffillips thought to herself.
Ffillips knew it was most important to stall for time. Death— which is the usual result of a treason trial—tends to be long term and without much recourse—unless one believed in the hereafter. After service in twenty wars, Ffillips certainly did not.
Ffillips waited a moment, then lifted her gaze to meet Mathias'. Unexpectedly she fell to her knees. A low buzz of surprise ran through the Companions, and even Mathias was startled.
"I do not understand the charge, O Prophet."
"You will be apprised of the particulars, but they center around the assassination of our late and most honored Prophet Theodomir and your desire to overthrow this Most Holy Our State."
"Before you were Prophet, I knew you as a worthy soldier and boon companion. I can only suggest, most humbly, that these charges derive from jealous or misunderstanding underlings."
"You are incorrect, Major Ffillips. These accusations stem directly from my perception, my prayer, and my lips."
Umm. He wants us dead, Ffillips thought. Then she tried another gambit. "Since we are strangers to your system, Prophet, may I ask how judgment of the charges is rendered?"
"In the occasion of high treason," Mathias said, "the court is composed of church elders and the representative of Talamein."
Star chamber with a hanging judge. "Are the circumstances for trial the same for unbelievers as well as members of the Church of Talamein?"
"Major Ffillips, while the sentence could be the same," Mathias went on, sounding slightly unsure of himself, "the manner of execution differs. Those under the Cloak of the Faith are permitted an easier end." And his eyes gleamed slightly. If he understood what Ffillips was leading toward, this could prove him right in his decision and be an even holier coup.
Got you, you fanatical little bugsnipe, Ffillips thought. "I understand. But, Prophet, I do not wish to sound as if, are we indeed guilty, we would attempt to allay our doom. I was merely inquiring because of the curiosity that my soldiers and I have shown after seeing the bravery and nobility of those who Soldier for the Faith."
"What is your request. Major?"
"Perhaps… since I assume you will provide us with advisors to ensure that trial will be fair under the eyes of Talamein himself, who will come to judge both the quick, the slow, and the dead," Ffillips went on, "it could be beneficial if you could find the wisdom to provide us with religious instructors, so we might know more of Talamein and then reach a decision."
Mathias considered, then reluctantly nodded. That would slow the show trial, of course. But if some of the mercenaries would convert—a blessing. Also, if some of the lower-ranking soldiers find it in their hearts to follow the Way of Talamein, there might be a way for them to be spared and to assist in the training of his Companions for the jihad. But not Ffillips, not her officers, nor Sten—assuming the man could be found.
"I will take your plea under study, Major," Mathias said. "I must say it merits consideration. I will inform you of the Prophet's decision after the Prophet prays, fasts, and asks for confirmation from the aetherian heart of Talamein."
Ffillips bowed as Mathias stood, arms spread.
"We thank you, Talamein, for overhearing this session, and we pray that justice was and shall be performed. S'be't."
"S'be't," came the amen as Ffillips was dragged back to her feet and back to the dungeon. Shambling along, faking a limp, Ffillips' eyes swept across the passageways, looking for ideas.
Not too bad, Major, she thought. You've delayed the headsman, got some possibly bribable or corruptible churchmen to come in, and, most of all, some time.
And she wondered just what Sten was doing and whether the man had abandoned his soldiers and simply fled.
Unfortunately the mercenary, battle-trained side of her agreed that the colonel would be a clotting fool if he'd done anything else.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
OTHO WAS FAIRLY certain that the mercenary who called himself Sten was a great deal more. There was, for instance, the highly modified radioset that was beam-cast in a direction that Otho, checking secretly, determined was close to Galactic Center. There was also the absolute idiocy of an unpaid mercenary sticking around to worry about his less-fortunate underlings.
So it did not surprise Otho at all when a sentry peered over his crennelated walk and screamed loudly.
Standing outside the castle, in the driving snow, were one slight human female flanked by two huge four-footed bulging-skulled black-and-white predators; a truly obese humanoid woman with an interesting moustache; and a tiny, fur-covered being with flicking tendrils. Plus four bulky, gravsleds.
Who they were, how they managed to insert themselves unobserved on the Bhor world, and why they knew where Sten was, Otho felt would be perpetually unanswered questions.
So he just opened the gates, set out an appetizing first meal of dried saltfish, the grain-filled, spiced and baked stomach of herding animals, and what remained of the last night's feast animal then sent an underling to wake Sten and Alex.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
THE RENUION WITH his Mantis team was brief and wild. Munin even rose to its hind legs and licked Sten's face. Hugin, the other, and Sten felt brighter animal, purred once, then jumped on the top of the table and inhaled an entire platter of saltfish.
"Y'see. you overstrong lump of suet," Ida rumbled to Alex, "you can't get along without me?"
Alex choked on his grain dish, but admitted that he was, indeed, quite glad to see the hulking Rom woman.
Bet pulled Sten aside. Concern on her face. "What went wrong?"
"We had to move too fast," Sten said grimly. "I'll give you the full briefing in a minute."
Doc was oddly subdued. Sten managed to hug Bet twice, which brought up some interesting thoughts about what they did in the earlier days of their relationship, then he walked over and knelt to get eye-level with the koalalike Altairian.
"Your revenge is a terrible one, Sten," Doc said glumly.
Sten looked puzzled.
"Do you know what Mahoney had us doing after you were detached? Do you know what his idea of On His Majesty's Imperial Stupidity consists of?" Doc's voice was rising toward a falsetto.
Sten knew Doc would tell him.
"Easy duty," the team's anthropologist went on. "Perfect for an understrength team, Mahoney told us. A tropic world whose government some local humanoids were about t
o overthrow. All we had to do was guard the embassy."
"Mahoney said the Emperor thoroughly approved the revolution," Bet went on. "We were supposed to keep all the Imperial servants—and their families—from getting fed down the same grinder the government was about to disappear into."
"We did it," Ida added. "For one thing there was no comscan I could figure out that wasn't monitored. Do you know how many credits I lost? Do you know how many of my investments—our investments—have turned to drakh because we were stuck on that armpit?"
"That was not the worst," Doc continued. "We were disguised as Guards security—and we even managed to convince those clots who call themselves Foreign Service people that Hugin and Munin are normally part of a Guards team.
"Pfeah," he sneered, ladling an enormous steak down his maw. And chewing.
"It was hilarious." Bet took over as Doc glumly chewed. She was trying, without much success, to keep from laughing.
"The indigenes took the palace. Besieged the embassy. Usual stuff. We fired some rounds over their heads and they went home to think about things."
Through a rapidly disappearing mouthful that looked more suitable for Hugin, Doc said, "We had, of course, prepared an escape route—out the back gate, through some interconnected huts, into the open, through an unguarded city gate and then walk twelve kilometers to a Guard destroyer."
"So," Sten wondered, "what was the problem?"
"The children," Doc said. "Ida. who somehow has time-in-grade on me, ordered me to be in charge of embassy dependents. Nasty, carnivorous, squeaky humanoids."
"They loved him," Ida put in. "Listened to his every word. Made him sing songs. Fed him candy. Patted him."
"With those sticky paws of theirs." Doc grunted. "It took me three cycles to comb out my fur. And they called me"— he shuddered—"their teddy bear."
Sten stood up, keeping his face turned away from Doc, and thumped Hugin off the table. He composed himself and turned.
"Now that you've had your vacation, would you like to get back to work on something nice and impossible?"
Doc levered himself another steak, and the team squatted, listening as Sten began the back-briefing.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
THE ESCAPE PLANS were going extremely well, Ffillips thought. Those mercs with any experience at losing war had secreted some kind of minor edged weapon on their uniforms. These had been put into a common pool, and those most suitable for digging or cutting assigned to the smallest, beefiest, and least claustrophobic of the mercs.
The flagstones that made up the dungeon floor had taken only two nights to cut around and lever up, and the digging had commenced. At each prisoner count and guard shift change, they were dropped back into place and false cement—made from chewed-and-dried bread particles—went around them.
Viola, who'd taken over the Lycee section after Egan's death, had triangulated a tunnel route using trig and what little could be seen from the barred windows at the upper portion of the huge dungeon.
Some of the more devout mercenaries and those who could sound religious had entered study groups with Mathias' instructors.
While listening, asking intelligent questions, and pretending to be increasingly swayed, they also pulled loose strings that held their uniforms bloused over boot-top and scattered earth from the tunnel across the pounded-dirt courtyard.
It was going very well, Ffillips thought, as one shift of naked, grimy soldiers oozed out of the hole and was replaced by another. The first team immediately began swabbing themselves clean in the last remains of the liter-per-day wash-and-drink water ration that their captors allowed.
Very well indeed. Ffillips thought. We have only three-hundred-plus meters of rocky earth to dig through before we stand the possibility of being beyond these walls. Then, once we break out, which should be in the cliff edge, all we need to do is figure out how to rappel down one hundred meters of rock and disappear into the heart of Sanctus' capital. All of which we can easily accomplish given, say, ten years.
Sten, Sten, where are you, Colonel? Ffillips shucked her tunic and, in spite of fairly pronounced claustrophobia, dropped into the tunnel and crawled toward its face, past the sweating, pumping airshaft workers, to begin her own digging shift.
Chapter Sixty
THE TEAM SAT, considering. Each was working, in his or her own mind, possible alternate solutions to the one Sten had presented. The tigers had thought out the prospects through their somewhat single-track minds, had presented paws with claws out, had the kill-everything plan rejected, curled up, and started cleaning each other's face.
Ida summarized the situation: "A fanatic. With soldiers. Declared religious war. After our awesomely perceptive Emperor blessed any little atrocity they would want to commit, unto the seventh generation, amen.
"We have mining ships on the way—ships that shall surely be ambushed by these Companions."
"Ae braw summation," Alex agreed.
"One solution," Doc tried. "We wait until the mercenaries are tried, sentenced to death, and brought out for execution. Your Mathias will undoubtedly attend, and it will unquestionably be a public ceremony. At the height of the roasting, or however he chooses to kill your former subordinates, we take him."
"Negative," Sten declared flatly. "The plan depends on saving as many of them as we can."
"Does Mahoney know you're figuring it like that?"
"No," Sten said. The other members of the team dropped the subject. Secretly all except Doc agreed with Sten's romanticism.
"Agreed," Bet said. "The only option is to take out Mathias before the holy war can start."
"Joyful day," Ida said dubiously. "By the way, as long as we don't know how we're going to get onto Sanctus, let alone how the clot we'll slither into the capital, has your brilliant mind considered how we'll get into this Temple fortress to take out Mathias, assuming we can do all the rest, O my commander?"
"Not my brilliant mind," Sten said. "My cold butt."
"What?" Ida asked.
"My cold sitter—plus Mahoney sent a geo-ship over Sanctus three days ago, for a seismochart."
"You realize none of us has the slightest idea what you're talking about, Sten."
"Of course not. Bet."
"All right," Bet shrugged. "That'll be your department. My department—I just figured out how we get onto Sanctus and inside the capital.
"No creepy-crawly, by the way," she went on. "First of all, it's hard on my delicate complexion."
"Ah dinna ken whae y'be goint," Alex said. "You pussycats, Doc, an' th' braw gross fishwife be hard to hide in th' open."
"Not when we're completely in the open," Bet said. She tried to keep a straight face and failed. "Boys and girls, we are going to have a show."
Puzzlement, and then Sten and Alex got it, and the room dissolved in laughter, except for the tigers, who looked upset, and for Doc, who had no idea what they were talking about.
"You have it," Sten said when he stopped laughing, "Also, do you know what that gives us?"
"Of course," Bet said. "You set things up for what happens after we burn Mathias, his Companions, and the Faith of Talamein into ashes. The solution to the whole Lupus Cluster."
Sten shrugged. So his thunder was stolen. He'd never believed much in the livie detective who said "ah-hah" and then everybody else sat listening in awestruck wonder.
"Otho is going to love this," he said, heading for the door.
"By my mother's beard," Otho roared, and one chandelier swung and two suits of streggan-hunting armor rocked on their stands, "you are making a fool of the Bhor and of me."
"My apologies," Sten said. "But it is one solution and, should it work, it will keep you from having buttocks as frozen as those of your father."
"I will not do it," Otho said.
Sten poured two stregghorns full and pushed one to Otho. He knew the shaggy Bhor would eventually agree. Sten just hoped he'd be able to handle the hangover that was about to be constructed.
&nb
sp; Sten huddled in the bed under the heavy furs. His mind was fuddled with too much stregg, but he couldn't sleep. His mind wouldn't shut off as he reviewed the plans for the hundredth time.
He heard the soft-scraping sound outside the door and then came fully awake as it creaked heavily open. His fingers curled for his knife and then relaxed as the small figure stepped in.
It was Bet. She shut the door, walked to the bed, undid her robe, and let it slide to the floor. She was naked under it.
Sten had almost forgotten how beautiful she was. Then she was under the furs and cuddling up to him.
"But I thought… we were going to be just friends."
"I know." She laughed. "I was just feeling—"
Sten gulped as she began kissing her way down his bare chest.
"—Real friendly."
With logic like that, who was Sten to argue?
Chapter Sixty-One
THE BEARDED MAN stood at the mouth of the beach, his net and fishing pike across one shoulder. He stared without much curiosity at the odd assemblage on the edge of the surf. Then he thoughtfully sucked at a tooth and ambled forward to the brightly painted cluster of boxes in front of which stood the Mantis team and a glowering Otho.
With a single island continent, it had been very easy for a Bhor ship to make planetfall on the far side of Sanctus. Sten and his people had then offloaded to a lighter that had blazed only meters above the sea to land them on a beach near the northern tip of the island. Sten knew that was the easy part— any merchants as skilled as the Bhor would also be capable smugglers, easily able to insert anyone almost anywhere without triggering a radar alarm.
"Yahbee ghosts, Y reck," the fisherman said, unsurprised.
There were far more people on Sanctus' main island than just church officials and Companions, and, Sten hoped, they would provide the key for the success of the operation.
Mostly the residents were illiterate rural or seacoast providers. Peasants. And, as with peasants everywhere, they had the virtues/failings of suspicion, superstition, skepticism, and general pigheadedness. However, this fisherman was a little more superstitious and stupid than even Sten thought possible.