Revenge of the Damned

by Chris Bunch

  That went off.

  The missile had driven nearly 300 meters underground, its Imperium X nose cone crumpling, before the detonator went off.

  The explosion, far underground, created a cavern.

  The original design was eons old and had been set aside as a peculiar footnote when the age of nuclear overkill had arrived. Its original designer, one Barnes Wallis, had originally described it as an “earthquake bomb,” an incorrect if impressive label. More exactly, the bomb was intended to “camouflet"—to dive deep below the earth without breaking the surface. And then to detonate.

  A more exact description was a “hangman's drop."

  That is exactly what happened. The entire Tahn Council palace fell through the “gallows trap."

  All that remained was a stinking hole whose perimeter was littered with the stone ruins of the Tahn's proudest symbol of power.

  The strike had been ordered for the early hours of the morning, and so only a handful of Tahn noblemen died, and those low-ranking. Not only was the palace communication system destroyed, but the standby relay stations below the palace vanished.

  The Emperor had not intended the strike to kill the Tahn Council. He preferred them alive, worried, and having to explain to the Tahn just how the unthinkable—an Imperial strike on Heath itself—could not only have been thought but carried out. Also, he wanted them alive to consider that he had proved he could kill them any time he felt like it. Even fanatics like those who ruled the Tahn Empire might think about that.

  The second statement was made by the rest of Mason's destroyers as they contour-flew over the city, launch bays spewing thousands of tiny incendiaries.

  Carpet bombing.

  The Emperor might have told Sullamora he would try not to win by mass slaughter. But his histrionic speech one cycle after the war had begun might have been more accurate, when he promised the Tahn that eventually their own skies would be flame.

  The heart of Heath exploded in a firestorm. The city center—and everything in it—melted. People outside—who probably were already doomed from the radiation generated by the missile's impact—disappeared. The pavement ran like liquid. Oxygen was sucked out of even the filtered shelters. Ponds, fountains, and one lake boiled dry in an instant. The firestorm, reaching thousands of meters into the sky, created a tornado nearly a kilometer in diameter, swirling carnage and rubble at speeds over 200 kph.

  Fire departments, disaster agencies, and hospitals were buried in a tidal wave of catastrophe—those which survived the fire itself.

  The city center of Heath burned for nearly a week.

  Half a million people were dead.

  The Emperor's second statement was self-evident.

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  CHAPTER FORTY

  PASTOUR FELT DIRTY, smelly, and just plain angry as he and his bodyguards exited the shelter. From the distance, he could hear the dying wail of all-clear sirens. Another clotting false alarm. In the three days since the bombing raid, at least two dozen false alarms had sent him, his bodyguards, and his entire household staff scurrying into the cramped bomb shelter about twenty meters under his garden. He was sick of feeling like a small rodent that bolted for a hole at even the hint of a predator's shadow. It was especially humiliating when the shadow turned out to be that of something innocuous, like a poor flying berry-eating creature.

  He stopped just outside the steel door that covered the tunnel entrance to the shelter. Most of his staff headed straight for the comforts of the square-built structure he called home. As a man who had grown up in the greasy squalor that the Tahn called factories and had then fought his way to the executive suite, Pastour treasured his privacy over almost all else. He had constructed his home many years before on the edge of the industrial slum near the outskirts of Heath. Despite the grimness of the surroundings, Pastour believed it was important not to lose touch with his roots. That was definitely un-Tahnlike but was also probably the secret to his immense success.

  A former factory slave himself, Pastour liked to believe that he knew how to get the most out of his workers. His industrial competitors used only the stick. Pastour had accepted that necessity. It had always been done that way. But he had also reinvented the carrot.

  In a Pastour factory, the worker was treated with a comparative measure of respect, with healthy bonuses for the most ingenious or the hardest workers. It was not out of kindness. It was pure calculation—like his plan to put POWs to work for the Tahn cause at Koldyeze. His factories were far from being Utopias. In most other systems the conditions would have been considered barbaric. Even Prime World capitalists would have been shamed into shutting them down. On other worlds the workers themselves would have gone after them with bombs and guns. Still, if there ever was going to be a Tahn future history, Pastour would someday be judged “enlightened."

  Therefore, the house had been built, in his words, “right among ‘em.” Still, he had a need for privacy. So he had his architect design a multistoried home that presented four blank walls to its neighbors. It was constructed around a sprawling courtyard, complete with paths, fountains, and, right in the center, a small-domed structure containing his garden.

  He had almost lost the garden when he had become a full member of the High Council. A minus side of the perks and influence he had gained was the insistence that each council member “shall cause to be constructed or personally construct a facility which shall be capable of withstanding...” mumblemumblemumble and other legal jargon that bottom-lined out that he had to tear out his garden and put in a bomb shelter capable of standing up to a nearly direct nuke hit.

  Pastour had actually been toying with telling Lord Fehrle where he could put the great honor he was about to bestow upon his proud Tahn brow, when he came up with a solution.

  Armed with his pet architect, a great wad of credits, and a lot of heavy string pulling, Pastour had weaseled the military out of its heaviest-duty laser cutters and grayjacks. It still took months of cutting and burrowing to lift out the entire courtyard, ground and all. Then the shelter was constructed to the meanest standards possible—Pastour had no intention of wasting any credits on such foolishness. And the courtyard and his treasured greenhouse were lowered over it and sealed in place.

  He glanced around, still noting the accomplishment with a bit of pride. True, there were a few flaws. Drainage had proved to be a problem, but he had tacked together a barely adequate system that dumped into the neighborhood sewer system. There was a tendency for it to flood the street, but Pastour did not mind taking on the burden of the pumping and the cleanups that followed a heavy storm.

  He acknowledged the salute from his chief guard, who reported that the shelter had been secured and that they were ready to escort him inside the house. Pastour impatiently waved them away. Over the past three days of scares, the situation had become routine—something that did nothing to make it easier on Pastour. They would insist that he go inside while they doubled-checked with Security Central—a process that could take hours. Pastour would refuse, sending them all reluctantly away while he instead retired to the solitude of his greenhouse. There were purposely no means of communication once inside, and Pastour sometimes spent many hours roaming the aisles of hydroponic pans, where all he had to listen to was the soft hum of the recycling pumps and the buzz of the sunlamps.

  That day was no different. The exchange had almost become formal. Once again Pastour won, and once again the guards went sullenly away, and once again Pastour stormed through the door of his greenhouse and peace.

  But once inside, the scowl faded and the wrinkles of anger softened into the permanent grin lines that wreathed Pastour's face. Today, however, it was quieter than usual inside. He shrugged. It was probably because his machines did not have to work nearly so hard to maintain the false atmosphere inside. The same bombs that had killed and maimed so many of his fellow Tahn had also briefly left behind a more accommodating world for his beloved plants.

  He moved
along a row of legume vines, picking off dead leaves, replacing flailing tendrils on their support nets, and generally taking note of the small differences that only a careful gardener saw in his progeny.

  Pastour was just turning the far corner of the center aisle when he realized that it was not the hum of pumps that he was missing. It was the whine of the supersensitive pollen-carrying insects that he had imported across vast distances at no small expense.

  The insects darted for cover the moment they sensed an alien presence. They knew Pastour; he was no longer considered a threat. Ergo ... someone else...

  "Be very careful, Colonel,” the man said. “You would be advised to rethink anything you're planning to do next."

  It was better than good advice. Because as soon as Pastour saw Sten and the deadly weapon aimed at his gut, his first reaction was to throw himself on the man, pummeling and shrieking for help as hard and as loud as he could. He rethought. After murder, kidnapping seemed the next most obvious fate. Pastour relaxed. If kidnapping was the intent, then talk and negotiations must follow. Pastour was good at both. Therefore, outward calm was in order.

  Sten watched the thinking process carefully. A moment before Pastour knew that he had reached a decision, Sten allowed the weapon to droop. He leaned against a tool bench and motioned for Pastour to perch on a gardening sledge. Pastour obeyed. He looked about curiously, wondering how Sten could possibly have penetrated his elaborate human and electronic security system. Then he spotted the grate lying beside the half meter-wide mouth of the greenhouse main drain. Pastour could not help laughing.

  "I knew that clottin’ bomb shelter was a rotten idea,” he chortled.

  Sten did not see what was so funny, but Pastour just said never mind. It would take too long to explain.

  "How do you plan getting us both out of here?” he asked instead. “I'm much too old to crawl through that thing.” He pointed at the drain.

  "Don't worry,” Sten said. “You're staying right here."

  Pastour frowned. Was it assassination, after all? Was the man a maniac? Did he plan to toy with him first and then kill him? No. There was nothing maniacal about the young man.

  "So what do you have in mind?"

  "Talk. That's all. It was my boss's idea."

  Pastour raised an eyebrow. Boss?

  "You know him as the Eternal Emperor. Anyway, he suggested we chat. See if we can come to some sort of understanding."

  Pastour was beginning to doubt himself. Maybe the man was nuts. How to handle this? He warned himself that whatever he said next, he must be sure not to condescend. Before he could form his thoughts into words, Sten casually reached into a tunic pocket, pulled something out, and tossed it on the floor next to Pastour. The Tahn picked it up, glanced at it, and was jolted back. It bore the Emperor's personal seal! Pastour did not need to have it checked to know the seal was genuine.

  Sten was exactly who he had said he was, an emissary of the Eternal Emperor. Questions flooded into Pastour's mind. Then one huge, glaring question wiped the others away: Why me? And he became very, very angry. Did the Eternal Emperor see some supposed flaw in his character? Did the man think he was a traitor?

  "All my boss wants,” Sten said, as if sensing what was going on in Pastour's mind, “is to let you know that he is aware of you. He said to consider this nothing more than the opening of a dialogue."

  "And just what does he expect me to do or say?” The words were etched in heavy frost.

  "Nothing right now,” Sten said.

  "Is anyone else being contacted?” By “anyone else” he meant other members of the High Council.

  "Only you."

  Sten allowed a long silence to follow. He wanted Pastour firm in his anger. He wanted hatred to build.

  Because when the shift came, confusion would follow. And then he set the hook.

  "How did you like the little party my boss threw the other night?"

  Pastour squirmed, knowing that Sten was referring to the bombing raid. To him the raid had been a sign that the Emperor could strike at will. And Sten's presence in his private garden only underscored that fact. Still...

  "If the Emperor believes his cowardly attack on innocent people will in any way weaken our resolve..."

  "You're sounding like a politician, Colonel,” Sten said. “I hope that's not what you really think. Because if it is, you might as well kiss a lot more of your innocents good-bye."

  "You didn't answer my first question,” Pastour came back. “Or, if you were, you were just being glib. I don't like glib. Once again, what does he expect from me?"

  "If you think my boss wants you to turn traitor,” Sten said, “you're dead wrong. If you were a traitor, you'd be no use to him at all."

  "And what use does he see in me?"

  "At some point in time,” Sten went on, “you people are going to realize that this thing is over. That you've lost. And when that happens, the Emperor would like to have someone sensible to deal with."

  Pastour knew that Sten was talking about surrender. How odd, he thought. The word doesn't make me angry. The lack of feeling disturbed him. What kind of a Tahn was he? Surrender? It should have been unthinkable. Instead, it seemed ... inevitable.

  "Go on,” he said.

  And by those two words, Sten knew he had struck pay dirt.

  "There's not that much more. Except to say that a great deal of grief can be avoided if some sort of Tahn government survives. The Emperor is betting that it will be you."

  Pastour nodded. Survival was something he knew a great deal about—unlike most of his brothers and sisters on the council.

  "What else?"

  Sten hesitated. What he was going to say next had nothing to do with his instructions. Then he plunged headfirst. “Koldyeze."

  "What about it?” Pastour was puzzled.

  "The Emperor is worried about the prisoners there,” he said, lying, lying, lying. “He hopes that no matter what happens, they'll be treated humanely. And since the place was your idea to start with..."

  Now it made sense to Pastour. He had heard that the Eternal Emperor had some strange ideas about the treatment of the lower classes. Even prisoners of war. Why the man bothered with the plight of cowards, he had no idea. Still, what would it cost him?

  "Tell your Emperor that he need not concern himself about their fates. I'll do my best for them. As long as he doesn't interpret this as some kind of concession. Or acknowledgment from me that anything but his final defeat and humiliation is—"

  Sten laughed and raised a weak hand, calling for surrender. Pastour could not help laughing with him. There he was, sounding like a politico again.

  Sten straightened up and headed for the mouth of the drain.

  "Are you just going to leave me here?” Pastour asked. “How do you know I won't instantly call the guard?"

  "There are a lot more lives at stake here than mine” was all Sten said. And then he dropped out of sight.

  Pastour only had to think about that for a second. The man was right.

  He kicked the grate back in place and returned to tending his garden.

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  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  AN HISTORICAL ATLAS fiche, equipped with a time tick, would show the Imperial assault on the Tahn Empire as if the war were a liquid projector. The red—or whatever color—representing the Tahn conquests would ebb back as the color assigned to the Empire and its allies flowed smoothly forward, excepting, of course, those blotches representing fortress worlds like Etan that had been isolated and left to rot.

  That might suggest that the average Imperial grunt also had an idea of how the war was going.

  He, she, or whatever did not.

  The sailors loaded supplies and ammunition, boarded ship, and transited in minor fear and major boredom to a certain point, where they off-loaded supplies on a ramp and offloaded ammunition through launching tubes.

  The soldiers trained, boarded ship, transited in major fear to a drop or landi
ng point, and attacked. When the last Tahn lay dead, they returned to their base or were moved to a new location where they built a new base, trained, and tried to find ways to burn off the sickening realization that the only end to it all was death, wounding, madness, or victory.

  Seeing the next sunrise became the only major victory.

  It took twenty years, fortunately, for a statistician to come up with the cheery news that during the war against the Tahn, a combat troop could expect to survive no more than thirty personal days in battle.

  Also fortunately, very few Imperials experienced those thirty days back to back.

  But there were exceptions, just as, contrary to what that “liquid projector” showed, there were disasters.

  One was the landing on Pel/e.

  * * * *

  The Pel/e systems were priority one to the Emperor's strategists. They were at the midpoint of a galactic arm that was a longtime part of the Tahn Empire. Once the systems were taken, the Empire would have a base, a striking point to search and find the long-sought secret Tahn shipbuilding system.

  The always hard-luck Eighth Guards were chosen for the “honor” of the assault. After two weeks of prior bombardment, the Imperial Navy advised that all Tahn resistance was battered bloody. The assault transports went in. The first wave was shattered in-atmosphere. The second made it to the ground—and then the Tahn opened fire.

  Imperial strategists and psychologists had blundered. Because the Tahn used a rigid military and social structure, it was assumed that once the command elements were destroyed or out of contact, the soldiers themselves would stop fighting, commit suicide, or at the worst fight ineffectually.

  The ignored statistic, known to the Empire before the war began, was that the Tahn used far fewer officers and noncoms per serving soldier than did any of the regular Imperial units. And so the Tahn regrouped, by squads, by fire teams, by pickup combat elements, and fought back.

  Conquering the Pel/e systems was supposed to have taken two E-months and required only the Eighth Guards to accomplish. Final victory took two E-years before the last Tahn element was killed. Six divisions were used in the process, and it became SOP for a new division to spend time on one of the Pel/e worlds getting final live-fire training before being committed to a frontal assault.