Action Stations w-6

by William R Fortchen

  "Gold-plated toys," Nargth snapped. "There, with the First Fleet, is the additional strength to aid in a drive on Earth."

  Vakka could see the logic, at least in a military sense, to what Nargth wanted. Holding back the First Fleet in that sense was unwise. If the blow was to be ajak-tu, it had to be swift, remorseless, unstoppable. The First Fleet could provide the additional power. But in a political sense it was impossible. The Emperor would never dare to unmask the home world. Ever since the leap outward into space, the other clans, and their royal lines, had been dispersed to occupy the new worlds, thus leaving Kilrah solely to the Emperor. If he committed his personal fleet, there was always the chance of an attempt at overthrow, even though such a move was completely contrary to the blood oaths of the race. Vakka smiled at the thought. There was even something inside of him that found the thought distasteful, but he knew, if given the chance, he would try for it. There was, as well, the argument that if this unorthodox attack failed, the First Fleet would be needed as a reserve to fend off the Confederation counterstrike.

  "If the torpedoes do work and we catch them by surprise, Admiral, is this war winnable?"

  "There are many ifs," Nargth replied, his gaze distant as if he was staring off into some unknown and uncharted realm.

  "We must rip out their throats the first day. The Confederation is larger than us, its manufacturing more developed. We must rip out their throats before they are even aware. Given that, I believe we shall win."

  Vakka watched the admiral closely. He could sense the hesitation, but also the resolve to succeed, now that the orders had been issued. Not being of the royal blood, it was inconceivable that Nargth should ever openly question or attempt to circumvent a direct order. He was ordered to prepare for war and now he would lend all his strength and will to that task.

  "May I ask a favor, Admiral?"

  "Anything, Baron."

  "My son. For his, how shall I say it, education, I am sending him on a courier ship to Fawcett's World. I want him exposed to these humans."

  Nargth wrinkled his nose with disdain.

  "I've seen some of them in the Emperors questioning rooms in the basement of the palace. Disgusting creatures. Why do you want your son to see them?"

  The questioning rooms… the fact that several eights of eights of the humans he had taken at Faweetts World were shipped to Kilrah for direct questioning had been troubling. Every ounce of knowledge of military worth had been extracted from them till they were nothing but dried husks, fit only for the final death blow. What might still be alive in the Emperors chambers were nothing but terrified animals.

  "I want him to understand what he will face."

  "Why?"

  "He will one day rule my clan. I want him educated in all things."

  Nargth shook his head over the eccentricities of a royal baron who thought such things important, but said nothing.

  "He believes that he will be in the strike force, he has the wings of a pilot and the Crown Prince offered the assignment."

  The offer had, in fact, been a direct suggestion of the Crown Prince and the inner plan was obvious. Jukaga was his only direct heir and, if he should die, it could cause a splintering within the clan as various cousins vied for the honor, thus making the Crown Prince a factor in internal clan politics.

  "You want him on my staff?" Nargth asked, and Vakka could sense the slight ripple of distaste from the straight-laced admiral. Cubs, even those of royalty, were expected to do their duty, to draw blood and win their own honors. Granted, once blooded they could easily step aside and let others take the more dangerous risks, but this rite of passage was expected.

  "He will return as a valuable resource, Admiral. He has been studying their language. If war was not coming so quickly I'd leave him on Fawcett's World for a year. Even with his limited contact he would be of use to you in this battle as something of an expert on our foes. Afterwards, there will be time enough for him to wet his claws, but for this first action I think he would best serve the Empire by your side."

  And out of harm's way, Vakka silently thought.

  "All right," Nargth finally replied, the reluctance and slight measure of disdain in his voice all too evident.

  A servant approached them, a captive Vami, its eardrums punctured so that it could not hear any conversations. At its approach Vakka felt slightly uncomfortable. He knew that xenophobia was a deeply bred instinct in the Kilrathi. Any creature not of their own blood was either ukta, prey-food, or bak, another predator that was a threat. The Varni, with their reptilian features, immediately aroused a sense that here was another predator, even though the Varni had once been a highly developed civilization that only saw combat as a distasteful action of last resort. The Varni slave held up a tray, offering goblets of steaming hot xark, the fresh blood drawn from what had once been the main species they hunted, eons ago. The mere scent of the blood caused Vakka's mane to bristle. Many a warrior would carry a piece of cloth soaked in xark so as to heighten his killing instincts as he went into battle.

  Now, xark helped Vakka to bury all the misgivings he held regarding the forthcoming campaign. Many in the room started to burst into their clans' battle chants, pounding clenched fists against tables, chair backs, and the walls so that a deep resonating rhythm thundered, setting Vakkas heart pounding. There would be time enough later on to worry about them, he told himself, but for now the taste of the blood was on his lips, the hunt was about to begin, and he allowed himself the pleasure of plunging into the lust for the kill.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Hell Hole-Capital of the Landreich.Confederation date 2436.170

  Hans Kruger cautiously entered the room, surveying the patrons carefully. It had taken over a week to limp back to Landreich space and dock at the orbital base above the Hell Hole. The appropriate bribes had immediately been placed, registration numbers and titles altered and Phantom, rechristened Lazarus, was now officially his… officially, that is, as far as the local government went. It was an entirely different issue with some of Kevins old friends. Buying the first couple of them off seemed easy enough, but with each buy off, someone else showed up. There was now another death on his hands, again self-defense, and though he had never considered himself to be a killer, he felt deeply troubled by the last encounter, for there had been that strange sense of detachment as well. He was coming to realize that he was able to face death and walk away not only successful but unshaken.

  If there was a fear still lingering in him it was not of going back against the Kilrathi, but rather of the Sara clan, who would track him down sooner or later.

  He examined the clientele of the bar. The appointment seemed legitimate enough; some dam fool wanting to charter a smuggling run into Kilrathi space, but it could always be a setup. Funny, he realized that he wasn't even all that sure about what he should be looking for.

  After all, just what did a hired assassin look like? All he really had to go on was the vids. An assassin could always be told by the way he narrowed his eyes, wore a hat pulled down too low over the brow, and of course, by the sinister music and slightly burnt smell.

  Unfortunately there were no sound and smell tracks to help him out and, beneath his outward calm, he still knew just how green he really was. There was actually some genuine regret that Kevin had not lived. Granted, he wouldn't be rich now, the owner of a ship, but Kevin at least had experience and could have shown him the ins and outs of the business.

  He finally saw what he figured were his contacts, sitting in the corner of the bar and looking quite out of place. He slowly walked over and stopped by their table.

  "Mr. Jackson?"

  Winston Turner looked up, startled by just how young the owner of the ship looked. He could sense that the boy was nervous. He had seen that type of nervousness often enough when a young fleggie was facing the dreaded senior oral exams. That was clearly evident, and yet there was another quality as well that Turner found interesting-the boy seemed to almost be functionin
g on two levels at once. He was engaged in business with them, and yet there also seemed to be a strange detachment from it all. Some of the best fighter jocks he had ever met had that quality, the ability to stay detached in a crisis, to analyze the flood of information dispassionately, and then almost inevitably make the right decision. He knew Vance Richards had the quality, Tolwyn would most likely acquire it as well… and this boy seemed to have earned it the hard way.

  Winston motioned for Hans to sit down and noticed that Kruger turned his chair so that he was facing the rest of the bar rather than the wall.

  "Wanted by somebody," Turner ventured. "Let's see, your name was Meyer?"

  Hans smiled. "I think we're all lying here about names, but let's just say I'm being cautious."

  "We understand your ship has had quite an upgrade."

  "The best money can buy," Hans replied proudly. "Engines are Reverberator Three Thousand C series, I've had an extra half inch of durasteel laminated onto the pressurized hull, a quad auto-tracking laser in a retractable belly turret added on and a complete overhaul of the jump engine."

  "You've lost a lot of cargo-carrying ability with all that additional weight," Vance interjected, "even with the upgraded engines. And besides, the Reverberator is in the E series now."

  "Listen, buddy, it's getting in and getting back that counts. Better ten runs without a scratch and just a couple tons of cargo, versus twenty tons down in your hull and a Cat frigate on your tail."

  "Which is what happened to you last time," Turner said smoothly.

  Hans looked around the room and again there was the flicker of a scared youth.

  "Yeah, that's what happened."

  "I already know the story. I looked over your ship earlier today," Turner replied, "saw a vid one of the repair crew shot of it when you brought it in. Lucky to still be breathing air. Too bad about your friends."

  Hans took in what Turner had just said. If someone had shot a vid of the ship, there might be evidence floating around and perhaps getting into the wrong hands.

  "I think, Mr. Kruger, that we can strike a deal here. For your own health I think you should get out of the Hell Hole for awhile. You've got a rep now, a lot of folks respect you for being crazy enough to do a run into Kilrathi space and bring your ship back alone. But that information might get into wrong hands, such as certain shipping firms that have been inquiring about you."

  Hans again felt the sense of calm. These three weren't a threat, or they'd have already tried to waste him.

  "And you three," Hans replied smoothly. "You sure don't belong in the Landreich. Good God, your haircuts alone have Confed Fleet written all over them. So, what's the game? A little trip into Cat space for a look-see?"

  Turner's features hardened.

  "Son, you've got reasons not to answer questions, so do I. Let's just keep it that way. We got a shipment of Gotherian glasswork that the cats are wild about. We want to get to one of the trade points inside their territory, the deeper in the better. Standard consignment contract is that the ship owner gets half the profits."

  "Seventy-five percent," Hans replied calmly. "Since that report about their losing a frigate, it's gotten rather hot over there."

  Turner smiled. "And of course you had nothing to do with that frigate."

  Now it was Hans' turn to smile. Granted, he had nothing to do with the destruction of the Cat frigate, but he was, after all, the only survivor and the glory had to go someplace. Though it was doubtful that the Cats would fall for a second run-in with a nuke mine, the fifty thousand he had spent to acquire one was, to his thinking, a very wise investment. After all, he was already a dead man in some peoples books. Confed wanted him, with all the fuss the Cats had kicked up about the loss of a ship, so what was another capital charge more or less?

  "All right, seventy-five percent," Turner replied.

  Hans nodded and leaning over the table he extended his hand.

  "No contracts out here in the Landreich," Hans said confidently. "Your word's good or you're dead. It's that simple."

  Turner smiled and took the young man's hand.

  "I'll be ready to ship in twelve hours. Get your cargo on board, I'm still at dock station thirty-three."

  Hans stood up, surveyed the room one more time and stalked out.

  Turner watched him go, carefully watching the other patrons at the bar and in the dark, recessed niches that lined the walls of the establishment.

  "Well, Mr. Tolwyn, your impression?"

  "Cocky character, but, sir, he strikes me as awful green."

  Richards snorted derisively. "You are obviously a judge of such qualities."

  Tolwyn bristled.

  "He's got an interesting story," Turner said, not wanting to endure another go around between the two. In their respective roles as pilot and administrative assistant he was well pleased with his choices. But the two boys were like oil and water. Both wanted to be top dog and the whole display was striking Winston as rather boring.

  "You know he should have been accepted at the Academy," Turner continued. "In fact, Geoff, he would have graduated with your class."

  "So why didn't he go?"

  Turner shook his head. "Had the brains and then some. Good aptitude, problem was he wasn't officially a citizen of the Confederation."

  "So what? We've taken candidates from outside the Confederation."

  Turner chuckled. "Son, you sure are naive when it comes to politics. Every senator is entitled to two slots for patronage. There's a certain number reserved for sons and daughters of those who died while in service, the usual number who get in just through sheer ability. That leaves precious few slots for those outside the Confed. We take a handful for window dressing, and so we can thump our chests and say how democratic we are. But Mr. Kruger there fell through the cracks. Too bad. I have some memory of his application from when I was on the selection committee. He would have made a good officer. But you're right, Mr. Tolwyn, he is rather green as you put it."

  "So why hire him?" Richards asked.

  "The upgrades on his ship are rather impressive for this far out into the frontier. Plus, I'd rather a green one like him than some of the old hands around here."

  "Why?"

  "Because, gentlemen, there isn't that much love for the Confed in these quarters. Remember, the fleet's responsible for controlling smuggling and I'm willing to bet that at least one of the fellas in this room has lost a cargo to our patrol ships. Beyond that, they think we're nuts for not going after the Cats first. So, all things considered, we might hire ourselves a ship, get halfway out there, and then get spaced."

  Tolwyn looked around the room again.

  "Come on, let's get our cargo transferred," Turner said, standing up and heading for the door.

  Geoff fell in behind him, noticing that he was walking slower than usual. Just as they reached the door, Winston turned with a quick, almost catlike movement, drawing a small blaster from his pocket. The report from the gun was muffled, the round impacting the chest of one of the patrons. The man sagged up against the bar and then slowly collapsed, a blaster dropping from his hand. Tolwyn looked at Turner and back to the dead man with wide-eyed surprise. It wasn't just the killing, it was the smooth, graceful ease Turner had displayed, as if he had been training for years for just such a moment.

  Turner, his gaze fixed on the other patrons stood silent, weapon pointed straight up at the ceiling.

  "Anyone else from the Sarns?"

  Everyone was silent.

  "Keeper, do you see the weapon in the man's hand?"

  The owner of the bar slowly leaned over the counter-top to look at the body and then back at Turner. "I see it."

  "And you saw him drawing it?"

  The barkeeper nodded.

  "Two other witnesses?"

  "We seen it," a couple who had been standing next to the dead man announced.

  "Then according to the laws of the Landreich the issue is settled," Turner replied. The other patrons nodded in a
greement.

  With his free hand Turner reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and tossed it to Geoff.

  "Take out two hundred, that should cover damages and burial, and put it on the bar."

  Tolwyn did as ordered. He looked down nervously at the dead man. There was a hole big enough to put his fist into dead center over the man's heart. He caught a sharp, almost metallic, smell and realized it was blood and felt a slight giddiness. It was, in fact, the first violent death he had ever witnessed. He had seen fellow cadets killed in training accidents, but in those situations it was simply a machine disintegrating, or bursting into flames, or slamming into the ground. It had always been distant, remote, followed a couple of days later by a polished coffin in the chapel. There was no smell of charred flesh and blood, or that shocked, wide-eyed look of a corpse gazing up at him.

  He could sense the fear in the bar. Someone whom they had most likely assumed was nothing but a walking target had proved to have fangs. He stepped back from the bar and was surprised as Turner just turned his back and walked out into the main corridor. It hadn't been like the vids at all, where after the shoot-out the winner slowly backed out the door.

  Turner did not even bother to look back.

  Tolwyn came up by Vance's side.

  "Damn, did you see that?" he whispered.

  Richards simply nodded.

  "That was old Winnie Turner in there," Geoff said. "Hell, I thought he was about as dangerous as a first year fleggie."

  "You idiot," Richards whispered. "You never heard the rumors?"

  "You mean about some sort of commando stuff? Come on, not Winnie," but even as he spoke he realized just how dead wrong they had all been. "I thought he was nothing but an old prof." Tolwyn looked at the hunched back of Turner as he continued down the corridor.

  "Amazing."

  Turner was glad that his back was turned to the two young cadets so they couldn't see his bemused smile. Spotting the Sarn hit man was easy enough; he was surprised Kruger hadn't picked up on him as well. The boy certainly was green. The only reason the hit man had not dropped Kruger right in the bar was that he probably wanted to keep it private and was simply waiting for them to leave. It had been a foolish act on the hit man's part to decide to take out Kruger's business associates. Something had triggered him and the damn fool had gone for his gun. Most likely it was that brief instant of eye contact when the Sarn hit man realized that Turner had recognized him.