Sten s-1

by Allan Cole

  "Nothing. Nothing." Flipped the com off and he and his mate banked for the city walls.

  If there were any team members to link up with, they'd meet outside. In a few seconds.

  Possibly when the charge goes, the assassin thought. Thought discarded. We will need every gun we have.

  Jorgensen nervously fondled the S-charge looped around his neck. If life signs weren't continuously picked up by the internal monitors the ensuing blast would leave nothing to ID a Mantis trooper or his equipment.

  One day closer to the farm, Jorgensen thought morosely. That's the only way to look at it. He unrolled the rug and lifted out the willygun.

  "I realize you did this deliberately," Doc purred. "You know the antipathy we of Altair have toward death."

  "Nope," Vinnettsa said. "I didn't. But if I had, it's a clottin' good idea."

  Doc sat just in the entrance to a mausoleum, pistol clutched in his fat little paws. Vinnettsa made her final checks on the launcher and willygun, then let the elastic sling snap the willygun back under her arm.

  "Revenge. A typical, unpleasant human trait," Doc said.

  "Your people never get even?"

  "Of course not. Anthropomorphism. Occasionally we are forced personally to readjust the measure the—your word is fates—have made."

  Vinnettsa started to answer, and then the first blast whiplashed across the cemetery.

  And the two of them were running from the tomb toward the guard quarters that ran inside a tunnel ahead of them.

  A week before, bribed guardsmen had cemented the charge into the guardshack on the main gates.

  The first explosion was minor. Alex had built it up of explosive, a clay shaping and, bedded into the clay, as many glass marbles as he could buy in the bazaar. Now the marbles cannoned out, quite thoroughly incapacitating the ten guards lounging around the gates.

  Alex had set the charge below waist level. "The more howlin' an' fa'in' an' carrin' on wi' wounded, the greater they'll be distracted."

  Vinnettsa set the range-and-charge fuse on the launcher's handle, brought it up. Aimed. As she counted ten, she heard the shouting of the officers who were mustering their riot squads to run them down the tunnel into the prison. . .

  She touched the stud. The rocket chuffed out, cleared its throat experimentally, then the solid charge caught.

  Vinnettsa flattened as the shaped charge blasted through the solid brick and exploded in the tunnel.

  She picked herself up and watched the roof drop in. An added dividend, she thought. She headed for Alex's positition.

  "If Ah hadna been stupid, Ah wouldna been here. Second and third charges." Alex hit the det panel under his robes. Two more diversionary charges blew on different sides of the prison.

  "The Guard is mah home, Ah nae want for more. Fourth and fifth charges." He blew those.

  "An' noo 'tis time for us a' to be gone." He fingered the main charge switch. And turned. Interested.

  The drom ceased to exist. As did the wall.

  The shock wave blew the main wall out, huge bricks hurtling across the brief space to shatter the inner wall of the prison. It crashed down. Prisoners howled in fear and agony.

  Alex grabbed the willygun from the ground. Held it ready.

  Dazed, blinking prisoners stumbled out.

  "Go! Go!" he bellowed. They didn't need much encouragement. "C'mon, Sten, m'lad. Time's a-draggin'. Ma mither's nae raised awkward bairns."

  Sten, an older, bearded man, and several men wearing the tatters of nomad gear ran into the street.

  Alex saw a platoon of guards double around the corner toward him. "Ye'll nae credit I thought a' that," he grumbled, and hit the last switch. A snake charge positioned on the pavement moments before blew straight up, into the oncoming guards.

  He flipped Sten a gun as he ran up. "C'n we be goin'?" he said. "'M gettin' bored lurkin' aroun' wi' nothin' much to do."

  Sten laughed, dropped on one knee and sprayed bullets down the street. Then the nomads, still bewildered, followed the two soldiers at a dead run.

  Doc waved his paw idly. Two willyguns crackled. The four guards at the gate dropped as the bullets exploded in their chests.

  Jorgensen and Vinnettsa went down, guns ready, as Sten, Alex, and the nomads ran up. Alex continued on, up to the gates, unslinging a satchel charge. He bent over with it, and touched the timer. Turned and walked back. "Ah suggest we be layin' doon, or we'll be starin' at all our own knackers."

  The nomads looked uncomprehending. Sten motioned furiously, and they chewed brick pavement along with the team.

  Another blast, and the gates pinwheeled away. Bits of iron and timber crashed around the crouched soldiers.

  "Miscalculated a wee on that one," Alex muttered. "Y'kn keek m' frit."

  They were on their feet, running out into the desert.

  "We wait here," Sa'fail ordered. "My men watch the city. They will be coming down to see who is stupid enough to come out of Atlan without soldiers to keep them safe."

  The team automatically set up a perimeter, then slumped behind rocks. Vinnettsa pulled a canteen from her belt and passed it around.

  "The Fal'ici owe you a debt," Sa'fail said to Sten after drinking.

  Sten looked at Doc. This was his area. The bear walked into the middle and turned through 180 degrees. Tendrils waving gently.

  Sten could feel the tension ebb. Automatically, everyone—soldiers and nomads—felt the small creature to be his best friend. That was Doc's survival mechanism. His species were actually spirited hunters who had nearly destroyed the wildlife of their homeworld. They hated everyone, including each other except during estrus and for a short space after a pup was born. But they exuded love. Trust. Pity the creature that stopped to bathe in the good feelings from the small creature.

  "Why," Sten had once asked, halfway through Mantis training, "don't you hate us?"

  "Because," Doc said gloomily, "they conditioned me. They condition all of us. I love you because I have to love you. But that doesn't mean I have to like you."

  Doc bowed to Sa'fail. "We honor you, Sa'fail, as a man of honor, just as your race is honorable."

  "We Fal'ici of the desert are such. But those town scum. . ." Sa'fail's lieutenant spat dustily.

  "I assume," Sa'fail went on, "that you liberated me for a reason."

  "Indeed," Doc purred, "there is a favor we wish."

  "Yours is anything the People of the Black Tents may offer. But first we have a debt to settle with the Q'riya."

  "You may find," Doc said, "that more than one debt may be paid at a time."

  The tent was smoky, hot, and it smelled. Why is it, Sten wondered, that a nomad is only romantic downwind? None of the princelings seemed to have any more water to spare for bathing than their tribesmen did.

  He grinned as he saw Sa'fail, at the head of the table, ceremoniously bundle a handful of food into Doc's mouth. Lucky if he pulls back all his fingers, he thought. But it is going well.

  He unobtrusively patted Vinnettsa beside him. The tribesmen had only grudgingly allowed Ida and Vinnettsa full status with the other Mantis members. It had helped that Vinnettsa had been jumped one night by three romantic tribesmen and, in front of witnesses, used four blows to kill them.

  Alex tapped him. "Ah gie ye this as an honor, m'lad."

  Sten opened his mouth to ask what it was and Alex slipped the morsel inside. Sten bit once, and his throat told him this texture was not exactly right. He braced and swallowed. His stomach was not pleasant as it rumbled the bit of food down.

  "What was it?"

  "A wee eyeball. Frae a herdin' animal."

  Sten decided to swallow a couple more times, just to make sure.

  The tents spread out for miles. The Mantis team and their charges had arrived at Sa'fail's home, and immediately riders had thundered off into the desert. And the tribes had filtered in. It had taken all of Sa'fail's considerable eloquence to convince the anarchic tribesmen to follow him, and only continuous, loud ju
dgings held the tenuous alliances together.

  One more day, Sten prayed. That is all we need.

  He and Vinnettsa sat companionably on a boulder, high above the black tents and the twinkling campfires. Some meters away, a sentry paced.

  "Tomorrow," he said, thinking his way, "if it works—prog not clottin' likely—what happens?"

  "We get offworld," Vinnettsa said, "and we spend a week in a bathtub. Washing each other's. . .oh, backs might be a good place to start."

  He grinned, eyeballed the sentry, who was looking away, and kissed her.

  "And Atlan is a desert and the Q'riya get fed into slow fires."

  "Will it be better, you mean?"

  Sten nodded.

  "Would it be worse is better. And, Sten, my love, do you really care, either way?"

  Sten considered carefully. Then got up and pulled Vinnettsa to her feet.

  "Nope. I really don't."

  And they started down the hill toward their tent.

  The assassin watched Sten descend the hill and swore quietly. It would've been possible—and blamable on a tribesman. But that sentry. The chance was still too long.

  But tomorrow, there must be an opportunity. The assassin was tired of waiting.

  The team split for the assault. Doc, Jorgensen, Frick and Frack went in with the nomad assault. It wasn't exactly Cannae.

  The nomads slipped down from the hills in the predawn blackness, carrying scaling ladders. Positioned themselves in attack squads below the walls. The guards were not quite alert. The only advantage the attack had was that it had not been tried in the memory of man. Which meant, Doc told Sten, for at least ten years.

  Nomad archers poised secret weapons—simple leather-strip compound bows that the Mantis troopers had introduced to the tribesmen and helped them build over the month before the assault. Strings twanged and were muted. Guards dropped. And the ladders went into position.

  The archers kept firing as long as they could—which meant until somebody successfully reached the walltop without being cut down, then whooped and swarmed up the ladders with the rest.

  The four Mantis soldiers kept to Sa'fail. It would be helpful—to the nomads—if he survived the attack. And like most barbarian leaders, he felt his place was three meters ahead of the leading wave.

  There were screams, and buildings crackled into flame to the butchershop anvil chorus of clashing swords. Civilians ran noisily for safety. And found none.

  The M'lan fought to the last man. Too stupid to know better or, perhaps, smart enough to realize they weren't going to be allowed much bargaining.

  Jorgensen shuddered, watching as waves of nomads swept into the Q'riya harem buildings. Doc pulled at the bottom of the robe. "Just children," he purred. "Having good, healthy fun." His tendrils flickered, and Jorgensen forgot a transitory desire to put his foot on the pandalike being. It went on, and on.

  * * *

  Vinnettsa stared down the valley at the burning city three kilometers away. "Probably this is enough. Those nomads will take five years to put anything together."

  "Maybe," Sten said. "But these machines are mostly automatic. Cut the power, and we'll make sure."

  "Besides," Alex put in, "ye'll nae be denyin' me a great, soul-satisfyin' explosion, widya?"

  Sten laughed, and they went to work in the powerhouse of the dam that bulked at the mouth of the valley, the source of power for all of the elaborate weapons factories scattered below.

  At Alex's direction, they positioned charges carefully interconnected with time-fused det cord. They went by a very cautious book and set a complete backup system.

  "Gie us two advan'ges," Alex said. "First, we mak siccar, an' second we'll nae hae t'be luggin' a' this, home." He effortlessly picked up a concrete block that must've weighed three hundred kilos, and "tamped" his charge.

  "Ye gae to yon end, an' final check. Ah'll dae this side."

  Sten and Vinnettsa doubled off down the long, echoing concrete corridor.

  Sten bent over the first charges, checked the primer tie, tugged gently at the bedded primer, ran his fingers down the fusing for breaks.

  Ten meters away, Vinnettsa lifted her pistol. Careful. Two-hand grip. And a job's a job.

  Alex swore. Ah'm gettin' careless. Sten had his crimping pliers. He spun and ran lightly down the corridor. He came upon an unexpected tableau. He froze.

  Vinnettsa was aiming, savoring the last second of accomplishment.

  Alex, without thinking, spun. Ripped a wide disc insulator from the top of a machine, arced it.

  The insulator spun. . .arcing. . .wobbling. . .almost too much force. . .as Vinnettsa increased pressure on the stud.

  The edge of the insulator caught her just above the elbow. Bone smashed and blood rained as the insulator clipped her arm, gun and all, off.

  Sten rose, his gun up, then he saw Vinnettsa. Her face was clenched in agony as she scrabbled one-handed for a second gun from her waistband, and swept up—

  The first round exploded against the concrete, and Sten went sideways.

  All on automatic, just like he was taught: right hand up, left hand around the trigger; trigger squeeze; squeeze; and held all the way back.

  Vinnettsa's head exploded in a violet burst of blood and brains. Her body slumped to the pavement.

  Sten's shoulder slammed into the pavement. He just lay there. Alex pounded up, bending over him.

  "Are ye a'right, lad?"

  Sten nodded. Not time yet to feel anything.

  Alex's eyes were puzzled. "Lass must've been crazy."

  Sten pushed himself up on his knees.

  "Y'hit, Sten?"

  Sten shook his head. Alex lifted him to his feet, then looked over at Vinnettsa's body.

  "We nae got time to greet noo," he said. "But Ah feel Ah'll be doin' some tears later. She wae a good'un." Paused. "We hae work, boy. We still hae work."

  Alex's shot was a masterwork. The powerhouse shattered, walls crumbling. Huge chunks of the roof sailed into the lake, and a few thousand liters of water slopped over the edge.

  But the dam held.

  The team had time to see their handiwork, and to see the city of Atlan roaring in flames, before the Imperial cruiser touched down softly beside them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE MANTIS SECTION museum was a small, squat building of polished black marble. There were no inscriptions or signs.

  Sten walked slowly up the steps to the door. He inserted his finger in a slot and waited while somewhere a Mantis computer chuckled through its files then buzzed him through. He stepped inside and looked around. Behind him the door snicked closed. Twin beams of light flicked on, probed him swiftly and decided he belonged.

  The museum was a single large room, lit only by spotlights on each exhibit. Sten saw Mahoney at the far end and started walking toward him, noting the exhibits as he went by. A twisted battlesuit. Charred documents, carefully framed. Blasted machines. The leg of what appeared to be an enormous reptile. There was nothing to point out what any of them were, or what incidents they commemorated. In fact, the only writing was on the wall where Mahoney stood. It bore names from floor to ceiling, Mantis Section casualties—heroes or failures, depending on your point of view.

  Mahoney sighed, turned to Sten.

  "I keep looking for my own name up there," he said. "So far, no luck."

  "Is that why you called me here, colonel? So I could carve in mine? Save Mantis the trouble and expense?"

  Mahoney frowned at him.

  "And why would we be doing that?"

  Sten shrugged. "I blew it. I killed Vinnettsa."

  "And you're thinking there was a choice?

  "Battle fatigue? She cracked? And you should have been able to handle it?"

  "Something like that."

  Mahoney laughed. A grim little laugh. "Well I hate to spoil your romantic delusions, Sten. But Vinnettsa didn't crack. She really tried to kill you."

  "But why?"

  Mahoney patt
ed him on the shoulder, then reached into a pocket, pulled out a flask. Handed it to Sten. "Take a nip of that. It'll put you straight."

  Sten chugged down several large swallows. He started to hand the flask back to Mahoney, who waved it away.

  "Keep it. You'll need it."

  "Begging the colonel's pardon, but—"

  "She was an assassin, Sten. A very highly paid professional."

  "But she was cleared by Mantis security."

  Mahoney shook his head. "No, Vinnettsa was cleared by security. The woman you killed was not Vinnettsa. It took us a while, but we worked it out. The real Vinnettsa died while on leave. It was a pioneer world, so we didn't get word right away. A clerk, named Frazer, noted the report, then disappeared it. Paving the way for the assassin to step into her place."

  "What happened to this Frazer?"

  "Killed. Probably your assassin to cover her tracks."

  Sten thought it over. It made sense. But it didn't make sense. "But why would anyone go to all that trouble for me? It must have cost a pile of credits."

  "We don't know."

  Sten thought over his list of enemies, and yeah, he had a few. Maybe even the killing kind. But they would have settled it in a bar or back alley. He shook his head. "I can't think who it would be."

  "I can. Vulcan."

  "Impossible. Sure, they were after me. But I was a Delinq. A nobody. No, even those clot brains on Vulcan wouldn't plant an assassin just to get somebody like me."

  "But they did just the same."

  "Who? And why?"

  Mahoney gestured at the flask. Sten passed it to him, and he took a big slug.

  "There's one way to find out," Mahoney said.

  "How?"

  "Mindprobe."

  Sten's skin crawled as his mind called up images of brainburns and Oron. "No."

  "I don't like it any better than you, son," Mahoney said. "But it's the only way."

  Sten shook his head.

  "Listen. It's got to have something to do with that little mission I sent you and your friends on."

  "But we didn't get anything."