Sten

by Chris Bunch

  * * * *

  The patrolman waited. Sooner or later, one of them would show himself. Sooner or later ... he jerked as what looked to be an explosion flared across the lab in the freighter's control room. Wild shot, he guessed. Then the freighter's external speakers blossomed out of their compartments and crackled to life. A siren warbled up and down its range and a metallic voice announced: “Two-minute blast warning, two-minute blast warning. All units clear blast area. Repeat, all units clear blast area..."

  For the first time the patrolman realized the exhaust nozzles of the freighter were aimed almost directly at him. He didn't know what to do.” Must've hit the computer,” the man beside him muttered.

  "What happens if it fires?” the patrolman managed.

  "We fry,” his companion said.

  * * * *

  Sten coughed, then touched the transmit button on the portable com. Ida had linked it directly into the freighter's broadcast net. He tried to sound as much like a computer as possible.

  "This is a thirty-second warning, thirty-second warning. Override. Thirty seconds from out-of-sequence computer lobe. All units, thirty-second—correct transmission. Time to blast now fifteen seconds..."

  * * * *

  The near-panicked patrolmen didn't see Alex break cover. Even if they had, assuming normal human reactions, they would not have had time to stop the high-gee trooper's charge.

  Alex dived as he came over the barricade. The first patrolman he hit died with a crushed skull. Alex let the body cushion him while he rolled, feet lashing out, smashing through the stomach walls of two men.

  He was on his feet, one-handed swinging the body of the second man like a meaty club.

  Sten and Ida came up, offhanded aiming, firing. Sten gaped as Alex tore the head off another patrolman, then disappeared.

  The two troopers ran for the barricades. Screams. Then silence, and two patrolmen broke, running for the exit. Alex jumped to the top of the barricade, picked up a three-meter-long steel work bench and hurled it like a spear.

  It crunched into the two men, smashing their spines. Doc and Bet darted across the room. “I would suggest,” the panda managed as he passed them, “we avoid the usual imbecile human congratulations. We have four minutes."

  The four Mantis troopers and Bet sprinted down the corridor. Sten slammed the emergency panels as they went down the corridor. Hoping that would be enough. The charges went just as Alex said they would. Sten, Bet, and Alex stared at the intestine-shaped lab through a port in the main passage. Ida held Doc. Light winked, winked, and again. They felt a low rumble through the plates under their feet. ThenBravo Project blew. The shaped charges blew out and down,ripping the floor and supply sections out of the lab like it was a fish being gutted.

  Sten thought suddenly, “That's what The Row must've looked like."

  The rumble crescendoed, and emergency alarms clanged. Debris cascaded out the bottom of the lab into space. But the top section, the Tech's housing, was still intact.

  Ida and Doc looked at Alex. “Ah'm a wee bit disappointed,” he said, not meaning a word of it. “I nae counted a’ that sympathetic second blast. It whidny be hon'rable to say Ah done that."

  And then Bet noticed Sten was gone.

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  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  It was done. All traces of Bravo Project eliminated in the explosion. For the first time in hours, Thoresen felt safe.

  He poured himself a celebratory drink. Odd, he thought. His dream lay in shambles, but he still felt elated. He'd beaten the Emperor after all. All he had to do was wait for Guard officers to come through his door, thank them for rescuing him from the Migs, and put himself in their hands.

  What could the Emperor do? Put him on trial? For what? There was no evidence. Besides, Thoresen thought, the Emperor would be reluctant to admit publicly that an alternative to his AM2 monopoly might exist.

  Thoresen would probably have to accept a lesser position in the Company's leadership. He shrugged. It would take a few years, but he would be back up on top again. And then they'd see. They'd all see.

  Suddenly, Thoresen realized he was quite mad. He laughed. What a strange thing to realize about yourself. It was like being another person on the outside, watching yourself, taking note of thoughts and actions. And examining them like a Tech observing a microbe. Something crawled at the back of his brain. Was Sten really dead? That explosion? It wasn't quite what he expected. Different, somehow. Thoresen found himself wishing Sten were alive. His fingers curled, imagining them crushing into the soft Mig throat. Sten, he thought. Sten. Come to me.

  There was a sound behind him. Thoresen smiled to himself and turned.

  Sten was a few meters away and padding softly toward him. A knife glittering in his hand.

  "Thank you,” Thoresen said, “for being so prompt."

  Sten hesitated. Puzzled.

  "You know me?"

  "Yes. Intimately. I killed your family."

  Sten was on him in a rush, knife hand blurring at his throat. Thoresen dodged, gasping slightly as the knife point touched a shoulder, leaving a trail of blood. He kicked sideways and felt a crawl of pleasure as he heard the dry snap of Sten's wrist breaking. The knife went flying and disappeared in the grass.

  Sten ignored the pain, twisted to avoid a blow, and struck out with his good hand. Fingers clawing Thoresen's face. And Thoresen was backing away from him. Sten went into a crouch, anticipating a charge. Then he realized that the Baron wasn't coming at him. Behind him, a few meters away, was the arms collection. Thoresen was going for a gun.

  Sten sprinted for the wall, hands closing on an ancient blunderbuss as Thoresen reached his choice—Sten realized was a pirated willygun—and opened fire. Sten dove to the ground, whipped the shotgun up. Fired. The charge ripped into the overhead dome lighting. Darkness. And he was rolling over and over again as the AM[2] bullets stabbed through the darkness, searching for him.

  He crawled behind a tree. Chunks of earth and wood exploded around him. Then silence. Sten listened. He heard a slight rustling as Thoresen moved, in the darkness. Sten thought he was coming toward him. Gathered himself for a leap.

  A click. A long rasp. And Thoresen opened the cages.

  The tigers came out of the cage running. Two huge mutated gray Bengals. Growling softly. Lashing their tails.

  Thoresen punched a control button. A tingling in their collars, and they turned, then moved swiftly away from him.

  Sten moved through the brush. Where was Thoresen? Why didn't he come? A rustling behind him. Soft padding. Sten whirled as the tiger charged. Bounding. Then a huge leap, straight at him.

  He dropped backward, bringing his feet together and straight up with all his strength. They connected, and the tiger went flying over him. Landing, convulsing. Tried to get up, then went down. Dead, its throat crushed by Sten's kick.

  Sten came to his feet, fighting back the pain in his useless wrist. Sickness crawled in his stomach. Then. Over there! A sound. Thoresen, he was sure.

  The dome lights came on. Sten was frozen for a moment, blinded by the glare. Then he dived for cover as the willygun opened up. He was behind another tree. How many shots? He hadn't heard Thoresen reload. He had to be getting low on ammunition. Sten looked around wildly, searching for a weapon.

  The tiger stood there, lashing its tail. Gathering itself for a leap. Then it screamed to freeze him in place.

  Sten forced himself to laugh, a wild almost hysterical giggle. “I got the other one, Thoresen,” he shouted.

  The Baron opened up with the willygun. Catching the tiger just as it jumped for Sten. It turned end over end, and crashed to the ground, dead. Thoresen kept firing. And then there was a dry clacking sound as the gun was empty. Sten charged from the brush.

  Thoresen saw him, searched desperately for another magazine. Nothing. He moved back quickly—grabbing for the first weapon he could find. The saber blade rasped as he pulled it off the wall and slashed.

>   Sten grunted in pain as the tip of the blade grated across ribs. He dodged the backhand stroke, grabbed for a weapon. Any weapon.

  The rapier flashed up as Thoresen struck. A loud clang as the blades met. Sten twisted his wrist slightly, almost in reflex, and the saber slid off. He lunged forward, felt the tip hit the softness that was Thoresen, and then the blade was almost ripped away as Thoresen parried. Sten dropped back.

  He flexed the thin foil. Trying to come up with the right hold. Then thought of a knife, loosened his grip. Thoresen took a step forward, smiling and whipping the saber blade back and forth.

  Not a chance, Sten thought. The saber Thoresen held was too powerful and fully edged. Sten was fighting with just a slim piece of pointed steel. Flexible steel. Sten suddenly realized there might be an advantage. The flexibility. No matter how hard Thoresen struck, he could turn the blade away.

  And Thoresen struck. The blades met. The rapier was like a snake as it twisted around the saber, using the force of the stroke to turn it away. And Sten lunged forward, felt his point find flesh, heard Thoresen moan as it slipped through.

  Sten stepped back just as the saber ripped at him. Pause. Thoresen stood before him, panting and leaking blood from several wounds. But seemingly unfazed.

  He charged forward, slashing hard. Sten tried to parry, but the blade foil slipped, and he felt the saber cut deep into his arm, then the limb twisted away, out of range.

  Thoresen knew he had Sten now. The way the rapier point dropped, he was sure his last cut had made Sten's fighting arm useless. Like the other.

  He stepped toward him, slashing down. Missing as Sten parried the blade, but still leaving an opening. And Thoresen began the backhanded swing that would decapitate Sten.

  Screamed in agony as the rapier point speared into his elbow. The saber fell and Thoresen grabbed desperately, his fingers closing on steel. He ripped the foil away while feeling the flesh of his fingers turn to raw meat.

  The Baron struck out with his good hand, the palm a knife edge, aiming for Sten's collarbone. He felt bone give and struck again. But Sten blocked the blow and fell back, one arm dangling. He was trying to keep his footing. Thoresen threw another punch and Sten knew horrible agony as he caught the blow on his useless arm. He speared out hard, fingers like a blunt blade. Feeling Thoresen's ribs snap like dry wood. He stepped back quickly, to avoid a counterblow, but tripped to one knee. And Thoresen was on him, hand cracking down for Sten's neck.

  Sten struck up with all his strength. Below the ribs. Bone giving again. Giving. Giving. Soft wetness.

  Thoresen screamed in pain.

  Sten ripped the heart from his chest.

  For an awful frozen moment Thoresen stared at Sten. And then he was falling.

  Sten looked numbly at the dripping heart in his fist. Then down at the Baron's body. He turned, and threw the fibrillating organ far into the brush, where the tigers lay.

  Unexpectedly, he heard a shout and peered up. A shadowy figure was rushing toward him. He tried to strike out at it.

  Bet caught him in her arms. Lowered him unconscious to the ground.

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  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The Emperor's face was stone. Cold. Mahoney stood before him, frozen to attention.

  "All traces of the AM2 have been destroyed?"

  "Yessir!"

  "And Vulcan under a new government?"

  "Yessir!"

  "AndThoresen?"

  "Uh ... dead, sir."

  "I see. I thought I ordered him taken alive?"

  "You did, sir!"

  "Then why weren't my orders obeyed?"

  "No excuse, sir."

  "No excuses? That's all you can say, no excuses?"

  "None at all, sir."

  Mahoney loomed over Sten, who was trying his best to stand at attention. Very difficult when you are head-to-toe in a hospital LS system.

  "I just came from the Emperor.” Sten waited.

  "He had some rather loud comments to make. Specifically, trooper, the small matter of direct disobedience to orders. Imperial orders."

  Sten imagined that he did, took a mental deep breath and prepared for the worst. Execution, probably.

  "Do you have anything to say for yourself, lieutenant?"

  Sten did. But thought better of it. Why waste his breath? He was already a condemned man...

  "I'm waiting, lieutenant."

  "Uh, begging your pardon, sir,” Sten croaked. “But you just called me lieutenant."

  Mahoney laughed, then sat on the edge of the hospital bed. “A direct commission from the Emperor himself, lad.” He reached into his tunic and pulled out a pair of small silver bars. And Sten's knife. He laid them on the bed.

  Sten was sure he was either dreaming or Mahoney was mad, or both. “But, I thought I, uh..."

  "The boss man was happier than a piece of beef snuggled up to a hot cabbage,” Mahoney said. “He'd had second thoughts about those orders. But there wasn't time to get to you."

  "He wanted Thoresen killed?"

  "In the worst way. Saved a lot of explanations."

  "Yeah, but a commission,” Sten said. “I'm not the officer type."

  "I couldn't agree more. But the Emperor thought otherwise. And a good trooper always obeys his commander. Ain't that so, lieutenant?"

  Sten grinned. “Almost always, anyway,” he said. Mahoney got up to go. “What about Bet?"

  "Unless you got any objections,” Mahoney answered, “she's joining your Mantis team."

  Sten had no objections at all.

  The Eternal Emperor reverently dusted off the bottle, popped it open, then poured two healthy drinks. Mahoney picked up one. Looked at it suspiciously.

  "Scotch again, boss?” he wanted to know.

  "Yep. Except this time it's the real stuff."

  "Where from?"

  "I ain't saying."

  Mahoney took a sip. Gagged.

  "What the-?"

  The Eternal Emperor beamed. Took a big slug. Rolled it around his mouth, savoring it.

  "Just right,” he said.

  Filled up his glass again.

  "You took care of everything? On the Sten matter?"

  "Just like you said, boss."

  The Emperor thought a minute.

  "Let me know how he works out. I think that Sten is a boy to watch."

  "He sure is, boss. He sure is."

  Mahoney forced himself to finish his drink. And then held out his glass for more. In his job, you made sure you always kept the boss happy.

  And the Eternal Emperor hated to drink alone.

  THE END

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  THE STEN COOKBOOK

  Actually, this ought to be called “The Eternal Emperor's Cookbook,” because that's who started the whole business. A gourmet from way, way—way!—back, the Eternal Emperor cooked up at least one dish for nearly every episode of Sten. When he stopped cooking, of course, is when the drakh hit the clottin’ fan. Countless readers have written in about the recipes in "The Sten Series" that my wife. One in particular caught our attention. It came from a Coast Guard Lieutenant, who said that while at sea he always took his turn cooking dinner, even though he was the commander o the ship. He particularly loved cooking the dishes in the Sten novels. He said,—"The news guys must have thought the old man mad, to see him hovering over the galley, big spoon in one hand, a science fiction book in the other.” This inspired my wife, Kathryn, (the late Chris Bunch's sister) to sit down and put them the recipes together for easy reference.

  So, read, cook, eat and enjoy!

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  Recipe Index

  STEN The Eternal Emperor's Chili

  THE WOLF WORLDS—The Emperor's Salmon

  THE COURT OF A THOUSAND SUNS—The Emperor's Angelo Stew.

  FLEET OF THE DAMNED—The Emperor's Barbecue Sauce

  REVENGE OF THE DAMNED—The Emperor's Nuked Hen

  RETURNED OF T
HE EMPEROR—Raschid's Eggs of Pattipong

  VORTEX—The Emperor's Bombay Birani

  EMPIRE'S END—Sten's Ultimate Steak Sandwich, Marr and Senn's Dinner Party, Alex Kilgour's Beef Jerky

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  STEN

  The Eternal Emperor's Chili

  The Emperor, Mahoney decided, had finally gone mad. He was hovering over a huge bubbling pot half filled with an evil-looking mixture, muttering to himself.

  "A little of this. A little of that. A little garlic and a little fat. Now, the cumin. Just a touch. Maybe a bit more. No, lots more.” The Emperor finally noticed Mahoney and smiled. “You're just in time,” he said. “Gimme that box."

  Mahoney handed him an elaborately carved wooden box. The Emperor opened it and poured out a handful of long reddish objects. They looked like desiccated alien excrement to Mahoney.

  "Look at these,” he boasted to Mahoney, “Ten years in the biolabs to produce."

  "What are they?"

  "Peppers, you clot. Peppers."

  "Oh, uh, great. Great."

  "Don't you know what that means?"

  Mahoney had to admit he didn't.

  "Chili, man. Chili. You ain't got peppers, you got no chili."

  "That's important, huh?"

  The emperor didn't say another word. Just dumped in the peppers, punched a few buttons on his cooking console, then dipped up a huge spoonful of the mess and offered it to Mahoney. He watched intently as Mahoney tasted. Not ba—then it hit him. His face went on fire, his ears steamed and he choked for breath. The Emperor pounded him on the back, big grin on his face, and then offered him a glass of beer. Mahoney slugged it down. Wheezed.

  "Guess I got it just right,” the Emperor said.

  "You mean you did that on purpose?"

  "Sure. It's supposed to scorch the hair off your butt. Otherwise it wouldn't be chili."

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  THE WOLF WORLDS

  The Emperor's Salmon

  The Emperor was busy dressing the fish. He'd picked a handful of berries from a bush on the outskirts of the clearing and a small clump of leaves from each of two bushes nearby.