Battlecry: Sten: Omnibus One (Sten Omnibus)

by Allan Cole, Chris Bunch

  When the Bhor first began expanding their ‘oases’ by melting the glacier ice, the great cry came to ‘Save the Streggan.’ The Bhor had killed so well that their previous Grendel of enemies was nearly extinct. Today the only examples left are in Bhor zoos. They are much smaller (we think) than before, but still fierce. Enough for a Bhor mother to still use them for traditional boogey-men.

  The streggan are now as much a legend as the saying ‘By my mother’s beard.’ All Bhor have a great deal of facial hair to hide their receding chins. The females have slightly more than the males. In ancient times, it was a long, flowing beard for their children to cling to when mother was gathering veggies – or was faced with a shot at pure-protein streggan.

  By the time the streggan were nursery legends, the Bhor had already established themselves as traders throughout the Lupus Cluster. Even though the People of Talamein – both sides – were moderately xenophobic, they knew enough to leave the Bhor alone.

  As long as the Bhor kept to themselves and stayed within the trading enclaves, there was no trouble as the humans expanded through the cluster. The Bhor did not think much one way or another of most people anyway, so coexistence was possible.

  Until the Jannisars decided they needed an Enemy. Which put the rogue, one-god fanatics against casually pantheistic armed trader-smugglers.

  When Sten met them, the outnumbered Bhor were as headed for extinction as their old enemies, the streggan. But with no one to drink their souls to hell.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Hawkthorne control, this is the trader Bhalder. Request orbital landing clearance. Clear.’

  Otho closed the mike and looked over the control panel at Sten. ‘By my mother’s beard, this be an odd world. Last time we put down here there were three different landing controls.’ Otho rumbled slight merriment. ‘And they swore great oaths that if we followed anyone else’s landing plot they’d blow us out of the atmosphere.

  ‘Enough to drive a Bhor to stregg, I tell you.’ He grinned huge yellow teeth at Sten. ‘Of course, that doesn’t take much doing.’

  Sten had noticed.

  The speaker garbled, then cleared. ‘Vessel Bhalder. Give outbound plot.’

  This is the Bhalder. Twenty ship-days out of Lupus Cluster.’

  ‘Received. Your purpose in landing?’

  ‘My chartermate is hiring soldiers,’ Otho said.

  ‘Vessel Bhalder, this is Hawkthorne Control. Received. Welcome to Hawkthorne. Stand by for transmit of landing plot. Your approach pattern will be Imperial Pilot Plan 34Zulu. Caution – landing approach must be maintained. You are tracked. Transmission sent.’

  ‘And if we zig when this pilot plan says to zag,’ Oth grumbled, ‘we’ll be introducing ourselves to interdiction missiles.’

  Even mercenaries have to have a home – or at least a hiring hall. Hawkthorne was such a ‘hiring hall’ for this sector of the Galaxy. Here mercenaries were recruited and outfitted. Hawkthorne was also where they crept back to lick their defeats or swaggered back to celebrate their victories.

  It was a fairly Earth-normal world around a G-type star. Its environment was generally subtropical.

  And Hawkthorne was anarchic. A planetary government would be created by whatever mercenary horde was strongest at any given time. Then they’d be hired away and leave a vacuum for the smaller wolves to scrabble into. Other times the situation would be a complete standoff, and total anarchy would prevail.

  The mercenaries hired themselves out in every grouping, from the solo insertion specialists to tac-air wings to armored battalions to infantry companies to exotically paid logistics and command specialists. The only coherence to Hawkthorne was that there wasn’t any.

  The Bhalder swung off final approach leg, Yukawa drive hissing, and the flat-bottomed, fan-bodied, tube-tailed ship settled toward the landing ground.

  Weapons stations were manned – the Bhor took no chances with anyone. The landing struts slid out of the fan body, and the Bhalder oleo-squeaked down. A ramp lowered from the midsection, and Sten walked down, his dittybag in one hand.

  A dot grew larger across the kilometer-square field and became a gravsled jitney, Alex sitting, beaming, behind the tiller.

  Alex hopped out of the jitney and popped a salute. Sten realized the tubby man from Edinburgh wasn’t quite sober.

  ‘Colonel, y’ll nae knowit hae glad Ah be’t t’sae y’, lad.’

  ‘You drank up the advance,’ Sten guessed.

  ‘Thae, too. C’mon lad. Ah’ll show y’ tae our wee hotel. It’s a magical place. Ah hae been here n’more’t aye cycle, an’ thae’s been twa murders, aye bombin’ an’ any number’t good clean knifint’s.’

  Sten grinned and climbed into the gravsled.

  Alex veered the sled around two infantry fighting vehicles that had debated the right of way and now blocked the dirt intersection with an armored fenderbender.

  The main street of Hawkthorne’s major ‘city’ was a marvel, filled with heavy traffic, which consisted of everything from McLean-drive prime movers with hovercraft on the back to darting wheel-drive recon vehicles to a scoutship doing a weave about forty feet overhead.

  The shops, of course, sold specialty items: weapons, custom-made, new or used, every conceivable death tool that wasn’t under Imperial proscript (which of course meant the Guard-only willyguns, as well as some other exotica). Uniform shops. Jewelers who specialized in providing paid-off mercs with a rapidly convertible and portable way of carrying their loot and accepting on pawn whatever jewels a loser needed to hock.

  And through the chaos marched, swaggered, stumbled, crawled, or just lay in a drunken babble the soldiers. All kinds, from the suited pilots to the camouflage-dressed jungle fighters to the full-dress platoons that specialized in guarding the palace.

  Then Sten noticed a very clear area on one side of the street. It was a small shop, with the dirt walk neatly swept, the storefront freshly painted. The sign outside read:

  JOIN THE GUARD!

  THE EMPIRE NEEDS YOU!

  Sten glanced in the door at the recruiting post’s only occupant, a very dejected, lonely, and bored Guards sergeant, wearing his hash-marks, medals, and unhappiness for all to see.

  ‘Ah nae understand’t our Guard,’ Alex said, seeing Sten’s gaze. ‘Dinnae thay ken half ae thae troopies ae deserters in the first place an’ in the secon’t place men whae na sane army’d hae in th’ first place?’

  Sten nodded glumly. Alex was quite correct – Hawkthorne was quite a place. Mahoney, Sten thought, was a jewel. Here, son. Go hire a few hundred psychopaths and crooks and topple two empires.

  And see if you can’t get it done before lunch …

  But that was the way Mantis Section worked. Sten probably wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

  Chapter Twelve

  COMMANDOS!

  200 OF THE FINEST NEEDED!

  DEFEND THE FAITH OF THE CENTURIES!

  PAY GUARANTEED

  Colonel Sten, late of His Imperial Majesty’s Third Guards Assault Division, is hiring 200 elite soldiers to assist in the protection of one of the Empire’s most respected social and theocratic orders.

  NONHUMANOID FREELANCES UNFORTUNATELY

  CANNOT BE CONSIDERED DUE TO ABOVE

  RELIGIOUS CONDITIONS

  Only the Best Need Apply!

  The Lupus Cluster and the Faith of Talamein is under attack by a godless and mercenary horde, attempting to invade and destroy some of this sector’s most beautiful and desirable worlds, inhabited by peace-loving people. Needed individual equipment: individual weapons, cold-weather suits, space combat suits. Combatants should expect little ground leave.

  A SHARP SHOCK NEEDED!

  Colonel Sten, highly regarded in the Guard both for his extensive combat experience (18 major planetary assaults, numberless raids and company-size actions), is noted for having the lowest casualty rate in the Third Guards.

  THOSE ACCEPTED WILL BE PROVIDED

  WITH USUAL SURV
IVOR’S INSURANCE

  PROVEN COMBAT EXPERIENCE NECESSARY

  To include covert operations, lifts, jugular raids, smash-and-grab, ambush, harassment, and diversionary. Background in following units preferred: Imperial Guards, Trader Landing Force, Tanh, some specific planetary forces allowed (please check with recruiter).

  CONDITIONS OF DISCHARGE

  WILL NOT BE INQUIRED INTO

  Standard Contract

  Individual acquisitions by proficient individuals or units will not be logged, provided point of origin is not from friendly forces. Commando-qualified soldiers, individuals or units, should apply Colonel Sten. Breaker House, WH1 . . .

  Sten read the onscreen ad and winced slightly.

  ‘You wrote this?’

  ‘Aye,’ Alex said, upending his half liter of quill.

  ‘It’s gone planet-wide?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You think you’re pretty clottin’ funny, don’t you?’

  ‘Aye,’ Alex agreed smugly and keyed for another drink.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sten looked at the man across the bar table from him and decided he was potentially lethal. About two cms taller than Sten, a kilo or two heavier. Part of his hawkface moved stiffly – a plas reconstruction, Sten guessed.

  The man probably had a hideout gun trained on Sten, under the table. And I really hope he doesn’t think about using it, Sten thought, eyeing Alex, who slumped, seemingly half asleep, on a stool nearby.

  ‘It’s all what they used to call a crock, you know,’ the hawkfaced man said cheerfully.

  Sten shrugged. ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘I’ve got seventy-eight men—’

  ‘Seventy-two,’ Alex broke in, without opening his eyes. ‘Twa b’hospital, one kickit y’stday, three in a wee dungeon an’ y’ wi’out th’ credits to gie ’em oot.’

  ‘Good men,’ the man went on, seemingly unperturbed. ‘All with battle experience. About half of them ex-Guards, some more used to be Tanh, and the others I trained myself. You can’t ask better than that, Colonel.’ He carefully put quotation marks around Sten’s rank.

  ‘I’m impressed, Major Vosberh,’ Sten said.

  ‘Not from the contract offer you’re not,’ the lean mercenary officer said. ‘I read the fiche. Religious war. Two clottin’ Prophets. Council of merchants, for hell’s sakes. And these – these Jannisars.’

  ‘You did understand the fiche,’ Sten agreed.

  ‘And you expect me to commit my people into that maelstrom for a clotting standard contract?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  Sten leaned forward. ‘I want your unit, Major.’

  ‘But you won’t get it at those prices.’

  ‘I will. Item – you signed on for Aldebaran II; your side lost. Item – Kimqui Rising; the rebels won and you offplaneted without most of your hardware. Item – Tarvish System. They signed a truce before you got there. You’re broke, Major. As my sergeant-major said, you can’t even afford to bail your troopies out of jail!’

  Vosberh rose slowly, one hand moving, very casually, toward his tunic button.

  ‘Don’t do that, Major,’ Sten went on. ‘Please sit down. I need your soldiers – and I need you alive to lead them.’

  Vosberh was startled. Sten hadn’t moved.

  ‘All right. I apologize for my temper.’

  Sten nodded wordlessly, and Alex got up and headed for the bar. He returned with three liter glasses. Sten sipped from one.

  ‘Say I’m still in the market,’ Vosberh said, after drinking. ‘The job’s to take out these Jannisars and their boss, right?’

  Sten grunted.

  ‘Ah,’ Vosberh said, interested in something he must’ve caught in Sten’s expression. ‘But we’ll get back to that in a minute. How do we do it? Specifically.’

  ‘I haven’t chosen specific targets yet. We’ll base on a planet named Nebta, which should make your troops happy.’

  Alex handed Vosberh a fiche, which the man pocketed. ‘No major campaigns. No advisory. Assassination. Nitpick raids.

  No land-and-hold. Get in, get out, few casualties.’

  ‘They always say few casualties.’ Vosberh was starting to relax.

  ‘Since I’ll be with the landing forces, I have certain personal interest in keeping the body count low,’ Sten said.

  ‘Okay. Say I take standard contract. How’s it paid?’

  ‘Half in front, to the men’s accounts.’ ‘I handle that.’

  Sten was indifferent.

  ‘How’s the payment handled?’ Vosberh continued.

  ‘A neutral account on Prime World.’

  ‘Prime World? What about the Empire?’

  ‘I checked. They don’t even know where Lupus Cluster is. Private war. No Imperial interests in the cluster. Believe me I looked.’

  Vosberh was getting steadily friendlier. ‘When’s the payoff? When this Ingild gets crucified?’

  ‘When the job’s finished.’

  ‘We’re back to that, aren’t we? Maybe … maybe, Colonel-by-the- grace-of-this-Theo-character Sten has some plans of his own? Maybe when the Jann are history there’ll be another target?’

  Sten took a drink and stayed silent.

  ‘A forgotten cluster,’ Vosberh mused. ‘Antique military and a religion nobody takes seriously. This could be very interesting, Colonel.’

  He drained his glass, stood, and extended a hand. Sten stood with him.

  ‘We accept contract, Colonel.’ Sten shook his hand, and Vosberh was suddenly, rigidly, at attention. He saluted. Sten returned the salute.

  ‘Sergeant Kilgour will provide you with expense money. You and your unit will provide yourselves with all necessary personal weapons and equipment and stand by to offplanet not later than ten standard days from this date.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sten lowered the binocs and turned to Alex, more than a little puzzled.

  ‘If this Major Ffillips is the clottin’ great sneaky-peeky leader you say she is, how in the clot did she get herself this pinned down?’

  ‘Weel,’ Alex said, thoughtfully scratching his chin, ‘yon wee major makit ae slight error. The lass assumit whan sh’ nae pay h’ taxes, th’ baddies’d show up, roll a few roun’s, an’ then thae’d g’wan aboot thae bus’ness. Sh’ reckit wrong.’

  Sten gaped. ‘You mean those tanks down there … are tax collectors?’

  ‘Aye,’ Alex said.

  Below the hillock they lay on was a wide, dusty valley. At one end the valley narrowed into a tight canyon mouth, barely twenty meters wide.

  In the valley were ten or fifteen dozen infantry attack vehicles – laser- and rocket-armed, five-meter-long tracks, each carefully dug in. In front of them were infantry emplacements and, Sten’s binocs had told him, a very elaborate electronic security perimeter.

  ‘Taxes ae Hawkthorne.’ Alex continued, ‘be’t a wee complex. Seems ae mon whae sayit he be th’ gov’mint – if he hae enow firepower to backit hae claim, well, tha’ be what he be.’

  ‘So when this instant ruler asked for credits, Ffillips told him to put the tax bill where a laser don’t shine, and then they put her under siege?’

  ‘Aye, yon Ffillips ’raps is a wee shortsighted ee her thrift,’ Alex agreed.

  ‘And all we have to do is break through the perimeter, get inside that canyon, convince Ffillips that we can pull her tail out, and then break the siege?’

  Alex yawned. ‘Piece ae cake, tha.’

  Sten took out a cammie face-spray and wished desperately that he’d been able to bring two sets of the Mantis phototropic camouflage uniforms with him.

  ‘What Ffillips dinnae ken we knowit,’ Alex mentioned, ‘is tha twa weeks ago, sappers infiltrated her wee p’rimeter an’ blew her water-wells to hoot.’

  Sten eyed the tubby man from Edinburgh and wished, for possibly the ten thousandth time, that he wouldn’t hold all the intelligence until the last minute.

  A piece of d
arkness moved slightly and suddenly became Sten, face darkened, wearing a black, tight-fitting coverall. Behind him slipped Alex.

  In front of them were the manned and the electronic perimeters. They’d passed the emplaced tracks easily – armor soldiers traditionally believe in the comforts of home. Which means when night comes they put on minimal security, electronic if possible, button up all the hatches, turn on the inside lights, and crack the synthalk.

  Sten and Alex had moved forward of the armor units walking openly, as if they belonged to the tax-collecting unit.

  The manned post to their left front was no problem. The two men behind the crew-served weapon were staring straight ahead. Of course there was no need to watch their rear.

  The problem was the electronics.

  Sten dropped flat as his probing eyes caught an electronic relay point. He moved his hand forward, closed his eyes, and finger-read the unit. Clot me, he thought in astonishment. This thing’s so old it’s still got transistors, I think!

  Alex passed him the Stealthbox. Sten touched it to the relay and the box clicked twice. Then a touchplate on the stealthbox warmed, signaling to Sten’s hand that the relay would now send OK OK OK NEGATIVE INTRUSION even if a track ran over it. The two men crawled on.

  Sten and Alex were barely fifteen meters in front of the manned position when, without warning, a flare blossomed in the night sky.

  Freeze … freeze … move your face slowly away … down in the dirt … wait … and hope those two troopies back in the hole aren’t crosshairing on your back.

  Blackness as the flare died and crawl on.

  The second line of electronics was slightly more sophisticated. If Sten and Alex didn’t need to crawl back out, it would have been

  simple to put a couple of ‘ghosts’ into that circuitry, so that the perimeter warning board would suddenly show everything attacking, including Attila’s Hordes.

  Instead Sten took a tiny powerdriver from his waistbelt and gently – one turn at a time – backed off a perimeter sensor’s access plate. The stealthbox had already told him there were no antishut-down sensors inside.

  Sten set the access plate down on the sand and held one hand back. Alex gingerly fished a very dead desert rodent from his pouch and passed it to Sten. Sten shoved the tiny corpse nose-first into the sensor. That sensor flashed once and went defunct.