Revenge of the Damned

by Chris Bunch

  She was an imposing figure even among a group of beings not easily impressed, and she was well aware of that fact. She was much taller than most Tahn, and she wore her hair in a dark spill almost to her waist. Her eyes were large, her lips generous, and she had a lush body set off perfectly by her tight-fitting uniform.

  Only the very stupid were fooled by her sensuous looks. Lady Atago's sole passion was war.

  "My lords, my ladies,” she said. “You will have my full report before you shortly, so I won't bore you with a lengthy summary of its contents. You can review the facts later at your leisure. Here, in brief, is where we find ourselves:

  "From the beginning, we have managed to always take the war to the enemy. We have won vast areas from the Empire.

  "There are two key reasons for our success. First: We are always willing to risk all. Second: The very size of the Emperor's military machine has worked to our advantage. By the time his forces react, it has been too late. This is an advantage we are about to lose."

  That got Lady Atago the full attention of the council.

  "Here are the basic reasons,” she went on. “One. At this moment in time, each success brings an equal burden. Our supply lines are stretched well beyond any safety factor. We are wasting valuable resources garrisoning new territories. Two. The Emperor's intensive efforts to shift from a peacetime to a wartime industrial economy are about to bear fruit. Soon we will not only be outgunned but outmaneuvered because of the sheer size and number of his fleets."

  She paused to let that sink in. Then it was time to spell out the plan.

  "Before this can happen, we need to find a place to sink our knife. Lord Fehrle and I are confident we have found it."

  Atago palmed a switch, and the far wall shimmered into a vidscreen. The council members leaned forward when they saw the starmaps. They were looking at two systems in relative proximity. There was nothing that unusual about them—except that they were deep inside the Empire.

  The first system, Lady Atago explained, was called Al-Sufi, a major depot for Anti-Matter Two, the fuel that powered the Empire—and the Tahn. It was not necessary for Atago to explain that the Eternal Emperor's control of all AM2 made him the ultimate ruler.

  "Obviously, Al-Sufi is a prime target,” she said. “For some time now we have been building up our forces in that area. And if we captured it, the setback to the Emperor would probably be fatal."

  "Isn't that also obvious to the Emperor?” Pastour asked.

  "We hope so,” Lady Atago said. “Because the buildup I spoke of is only on paper. It is a shadow buildup. A fake."

  "I don't understand,” Wichman said.

  "Without arousing suspicion, we have allowed the Imperial Forces to believe that we intend to attack Al-Sufi. And we have confirmed reports that the Emperor is responding with an equal buildup in that region. Now, let me show you our real target."

  They saw a tight view of the second system, Durer. It was also a well-known area, as important to industry and transportation as Al-Sufi was to the handling and storage of AM2.

  "As you can see, the Imperial buildup at Al-Sufi has left Durer exposed. It is ours for the taking."

  It was not necessary to explain to the others what that would do. A warrior race could instantly see when the enemy had been outflanked.

  From Durer the Tahn High Council could see the beating red heart of the Empire. All they had to do was give Lady Atago permission to use her dirk.

  The vote was unanimous.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER SIX

  GENERAL IAN MAHONEY hobbled down the long paneled corridor, gritting his teeth in pain as he tried to keep up with the two Gurkkhas who were escorting him to the quarters of the Eternal Emperor. He imagined he could feel the plas and metal brackets grating against the bones they were supposed to support.

  A door hissed open and someone rushed out, almost colliding with Mahoney. Ian cursed at his clumsiness as he nearly fell. Mahoney, he told himself, you have the gait of a three-legged horse at a steeplechase. He recovered and moved on. He was deep in the bowels of Arundel Castle, or what was left of it, anyway. Above ground what had once been an oversize replica of a graceful Earth castle was blackened ruins—victim of a surprise nuclear attack by the Tahn. Even now there were still pockets of intense radiation.

  The Tahn had hoped to wipe out the Emperor with one daring attack on Prime World. They could not know that the castle was an elaborate facade for the bombproof Imperial nerve center many kilometers beneath the surface. The Emperor ground their failure in many times a day. Every newscast emanating from Arundel began and ended with a short of the ruins. Two flags fluttered bravely overhead. One was the shining standard of the Empire. Beneath it was the Emperor's household banner: gold, with the letters “AM2” superimposed over the null element's atomic structure. Mahoney could almost imagine the Emperor's chuckle over that bit of propaganda.

  He had mixed feelings about seeing his old boss and, he guessed, friend. Careful, Mahoney, he warned himself. Being a friend of the Eternal Emperor was decidedly a mixed blessing. It was friendship, more than duty, that had led him to his present rotten state of being.

  The Tahn's final assault on Cavite had left him shattered and nearly dead. He had no idea how he had survived, although he expected it had something to do with his protégé, young Sten. Mahoney had come to woozy consciousness many months later and immediately had had second thoughts about the highly overrated business of living. Over the next few years he went under the surgeons’ laser scalpel more times than any being ought to have to remember. He supposed they had performed what any casual observer would have called a major medical miracle, piecing him back together to a semi whole.

  Despite their efforts, Mahoney felt many more years than his middle age. What was hardest to get used to was not the nagging pain. It was his face. One side displayed what he had once believed to be the dignified gullies and edges of a long and interesting life. The other was baby-bottom smooth. The doctors had assured him that the plasflesh was programmed to gradually match the elder side. Mahoney did not believe them—although he had to admit that four months ago his jaw had not worked, either. Now it did, after a painful fashion.

  Mahoney did not have the faintest idea why the Emperor had requested his presence. He suspected they were still friends enough that the Emperor might want to personally break the news to him that he was getting the old heave-ho into early retirement. What the clot, half pension for a two-star general was not bad. Besides, he could always get another job, couldn't he?

  Give it a rest, Ian. Killing people is not considered one of the more desirable skills in private industry.

  He came back to reality when the Gurkkhas stopped in front of an unmarked door. They motioned for him to place his thumb against the security beam. It beeped satisfaction, and the door hummed open.

  Mahoney stepped into the Emperor's suite. There was no one there to greet him, just gray walls and Spartan furniture. Mahoney figured his first guess had been right. He was for the old heave-ho.

  Then another door opened, and Mahoney was suddenly overwhelmed by kitchen smells and kitchen heat. It was like being inside an immense Irish meat pie. And there was the muscular figure of the Eternal Emperor standing in the doorway. He looked Mahoney up and down as if measuring him for the pie. Old soldier's habit tried to pull Mahoney's creaking bones to attention. Then the Emperor smiled.

  "Mahoney,” he said. “You look like a man who could use a stiff Scotch."

  * * * *

  "I tell you, Mahoney, this Tahn business has given me a whole new outlook on life. When I finally get them out of my hair, things are going to be different. I don't know if you know it or not, but the job of Eternal Emperor is not all it's cracked up to be."

  Mahoney grinned a crooked grin. “Uneasy lies the head, and all that,” he said.

  The Emperor looked up from his chopping board. “Do I detect a note of cynicism?” he asked. “Careful, Mahoney.
I have the power of Scotch."

  "Beg your pardon, boss. My most grievous error."

  They were in the Eternal Emperor's kitchen, which looked like a ship's wardroom mess area. The Emperor was not happy about that, preferring his old kitchen with its mixture of antique cooking gear and redesigned modern equipment. But this, he had told Mahoney, was adequate for his current needs. Besides, he had not had much time lately to fool around with cooking.

  Mahoney was sitting at a stainless-steel table, a double shot glass in his hand. The Emperor was on the other side, preparing a dinner that he had promised Mahoney was perfectly suited to a war motif.

  He called it “nuked hen.” Between them was a quart of the home-distilled spirits that the Emperor thought might be pretty close to Scotch. The Emperor topped their glasses up and took a sip before going back to his task. As he worked, he talked, shifting back and forth between subjects with a logic unique to him.

  "I don't remember the real name of this dish,” he said. “It was part of a whole phony Louisiana cooking fad that went back even before my time."

  Mahoney guessed that Louisiana was a province on ancient Earth.

  "Apparently some people thought food wasn't food unless you burned the clot out of it. It didn't make sense to me, but I've learned over the years not to be too quick about judging folk beliefs. So I tried a few things."

  "And it was all delicious, right?” Mahoney asked.

  "No. It was all terrible,” the Emperor said. “First, I thought it was me. I burned everything. My granddad would have killed me if he had seen all the food I wasted. Finally, I worked out a few ground rules. You just can't go around burning anything."

  "Like potatoes,” Mahoney said. “A man wouldn't want to burn a potato."

  The Eternal Emperor gave Mahoney a strange look. “Who was talking about potatoes?"

  Mahoney just shook his head. He lifted his glass and worked the edge between his lips. He tilted his head back and drank it down. He was beginning to feel a lot better. He refilled his glass.

  "I was just being silly,” he said.

  The Emperor grew silent for a few minutes, going on automatic. Using his fingers and the hollow of his palm as measuring spoons, he dumped the following ingredients into a bowl: a pinch of fresh cayenne; two fingers of ground salt, ground pepper; a palm of dried sage, and finely diced horseradish. He moved the bowl over to his big black range. Already sitting beside it was a bottle of vodka, fresh-squeezed lime juice, a half cup of capers, and a tub of butter.

  The Emperor took a fat Cornish game hen out of a cold box and placed it on the metal table. He found a slim-bladed boning knife, tested the edge, and then nodded in satisfaction. He turned the hen over, back side up, and started his first cut alongside the spine. He paused for a second, then laid the knife down.

  "Let me run something down to you, Mahoney,” he said. “See if it comes out to you the same way it does to me."

  Mahoney leaned forward, interested. Maybe he would finally learn why he was really there.

  "You familiar with the Al-Sufi System?"

  Mahoney nodded. “Big AM2 depot, among other things,” he said. “We've got, what, maybe one-third of all our AM2 stored there?"

  "That's the place,” the Emperor said. “And lately I've been getting reports of a big Tahn buildup in that area. Not all at once. But a real gradual shifting of fleets from one sector to another. We're also picking up a lot of radio chatter from supply ships."

  Mahoney nodded in professional sympathy. “Those buggers are all alike,” he said. ‘Tahn or Imperial. Can't follow even the simplest rules of security.” He worked on his drink, thinking. “So, what's the problem? If we know they're going to hit us, then we've got the fight half-won before the first shot is even fired."

  "That's so,” the Emperor said. Then he picked up his knife again, leaving the whole subject hanging. “You might want to watch this, Ian,” he said. “Boning a hen is easy when you know how, but you can chop the clot out of it and yourself if you don't."

  Very carefully, the Emperor cut on either side of the spine. He pushed a finger through the slit and pulled the bone up through the carcass. Next, he laid the hen flat, placed a hand on either side of spine, and crunched down with his weight.

  "See what I mean?” he said as he lifted the breastbone out.

  "I'm impressed,” Mahoney said. “But never mind that. I've got the idea you aren't too impressed with this intelligence you've been getting on the Tahn."

  The Emperor moved over to his range and fired up a burner."You guessed right,” he said. “But I don't blame my intelligence people. I think the Tahn have something entirely different in mind for us."

  "Such as?"

  "Al-Sufi has a neighbor. Durer."

  "I've heard of it, vaguely."

  "You put a dog's leg on Al-Sufi,” the Emperor said, “and you'll find Durer on a bearing just about at the dog's big toe."

  Mahoney remembered and grunted in surprise. “Why, that's only..."

  "If you stood on Durer,” the Emperor said, “you could just about reach here with a good healthy spit."

  That would have been one mighty spit, but Mahoney basically agreed.

  "Assuming you're right,” Mahoney said, “and the Tahn are trying to make us respond to shadows, then if they took Durer, we could kiss any forces we have at Al-Sufi a fond but regretful farewell. To say nothing of the fact that we'd have zed between us and the Tahn."

  "Interesting, isn't it?"

  "What do you plan to do about it?"

  "First, I'm going to burn the clot out of this hen,” the Emperor said, turning to his range. “The whole trick is getting your pan hot enough."

  Mahoney leaned closer to watch, figuring that what was on the menu had everything to do with the Emperor's plans for the Tahn.

  The Emperor turned the flame up as high as it would go and then slammed on a heavy cast-iron pan. In a few moments, the pan began to smoke, and fans in the duct above the range whirred on. A few moments more, and the pan stopped smoking.

  "Check the air just above the fan,” the Emperor said. “It's getting wavery, right?"

  "Right."

  "As the pan gets hotter, the air will wave faster and faster until the whole interior is a steady haze."

  The haze came right on schedule.

  "So it's ready now?” Mahoney asked.

  "Almost. But not quite. This is the place most people foul up. In a minute or two, the haze will clear and the bottom of the pan should look like white ash.” As soon as the ashen look appeared, the Emperor motioned for Mahoney to duck back. Then he dipped out a big chunk of butter, dumped it into the pan, and moved out of the way. Mahoney could see why as flames flashed above the pan. As soon as they died down, the Emperor moved swiftly forward and poured the spices out of the bowl and into the pan. He gave the mixture a few stirs in one direction, then the other. Next he tossed in the Cornish game hen. A column of smoke steamed upward in a roar.

  "I give it about five minutes each side,” the Emperor said. “Then I spread capers all over it and toss the hen into the oven for twenty minutes or so to finish it off."

  "I sort of get the idea,” Mahoney said, “that you're in the process of heating up a pan for the Tahn."

  The Emperor thought that was pretty funny. He chuckled as he dumped the thoroughly blackened hen into a baking dish. On went the capers, and into the oven it went—at 350 degrees. He cranked the flames down on the range, shoved the pan of drippings back on the fire, and stirred in two Imperial glugs of vodka and a quarter glug of lime juice. He would use the mixture to glaze the hen when it came out of the oven.

  "You're right,” the Emperor finally said. “I've been playing the same game with them. On paper I've been moving forces from all over the map to the Al-Sufi region."

  "But actually, they'll be waiting for the Tahn at Durer,” Mahoney said.

  "That's the plan,” the Emperor said.

  Mahoney was silent for a moment.

&nbs
p; "Question, boss. What if there really is a Tahn buildup at Al-Sufi? What if we're wrong?"

  The Emperor busied himself with some spears of asparagus. He planned to steam them in a little thyme butter and dry white wine.

  "I've been wrong before,” he said.

  "But can you afford to be wrong this time?"

  "No,” the Eternal Emperor said, “I can't. That's why you're here."

  He fished into his pocket and handed over a small black jewelry case. Mahoney opened it. Inside were two rank tabs—the rank tabs of a fleet marshal.

  "When the attack comes,” the Emperor said, “I want you leading my fleets."

  Mahoney just stared at the stars resting on velvet. He could not help but remember the last time he had gotten his orders straight from the Emperor. Those had been the orders that had led him to Cavite.

  "Will you do it for me?” the Emperor pressed.

  Fleet Marshal Ian Mahoney had difficulty finding his voice. He assumed command of the fleets at Durer with a simple nod.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE HUGE TAHN prison transport ship hissed down onto Heath, the capital world of the Tahn systems. After proper security was set, ports whined open and the prisoners debarked.

  Sten and Alex marveled as they clanked down a gangway wearing heavy, archaic, and useless leg and arm irons, with weighted plas chains between them. They had expected to be unloaded onto the Tahn mining deathworld. Instead—

  "W’ been here before,” Alex whispered, using that motionless mouth and jaw whisper that all professional prisoners learn.

  "Yeah."

  Lord Pastour's dictate might have come from the all-highest, but the Tahn bureaucrats still found a way to take their half kilo of flesh. A single Tahn transport was dispatched to all the prison worlds to pick up those incorrigible war prisoners who were to be purged into the new prison. It was a slow, filthy transport.

  Therefore, when the transport unloaded, the best and the sneakiest did not appear such as they clanked out, smelling like drakh, unbathed, uncombed, surly, and snarling.