Battlecry: Sten: Omnibus One (Sten Omnibus)

by Allan Cole, Chris Bunch

  ‘What battle?’

  ‘In the early days of your reign.’

  And then, suddenly, the Eternal Emperor remembered. His laughter boomed across the yawning gallery. ‘Do you think I did that?’ he chortled, pointing at the drawn blaster and the screaming hordes.

  ‘But it’s well documented,’ Sullamora protested ‘It was you who made the final stand during the Uprising seven hundred years ago.’

  ‘What kind of a fool do you think I am? Hell, man,’ the Emperor said, ‘do you think – when the drakh hit the ducts – I stood out in front of anybody with a gun?’

  ‘But legend—’

  ‘Legend me arse,’ the Emperor said crudely. ‘You should know you can always buy a man with a gun. Nope, Sullamora this is not me. During that Uprising I made clottin’ sure I was far behind the lines with the bribes.’

  ‘Bribes?’

  ‘Of course. First thing I did was put a price on the heads of the Uprising leaders.

  ‘Like good capitalists, the rebels turned in their own leaders.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘It was horrible,’ he said. ‘Blood everywhere.’

  ‘And then what did you do with the rebel soldiers?’ Sullamora blurted out, despite himself.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Sullamora puzzled this over and then smiled. He had it. ‘Execute them all?’

  The Eternal Emperor laughed again. Sullamora shuddered; he was beginning to hate the Emperor’s mocking laughter. Although he knew it wasn’t directed entirely at him, his skin crawled at the feeling that it was aimed at the entire human condition.

  In that, he wasn’t far wrong.

  ‘No,’ the Eternal Emperor said, ‘I hired them. Gave them all double raises. And now, next to the Imperial Guard, they’re the most trusted regiment in my forces.’

  Sullamora filed that odd logic away. Perhaps this kind of personal insight might be of use to him. But, no, it would never work. How could you ever trust men who had tried to kill you? Better to crush them quickly, and get it over with.

  He looked at the Eternal Emperor with new disrespect.

  ‘You got anything decent to drink?’ the Emperor asked.

  Sullamora nodded, boldly grabbed the Emperor by the elbow, and led him to his private chambers.

  The Eternal Emperor had been drinking steadily for two hours, telling obscene stories about incidents in his reign. Sullamora forced a laugh at the Emperor’s latest joke and, with a great deal of distaste, realized that the Emperor always made himself the butt of all his jokes. The man’s a clotting fool, he thought, and doesn’t mind anyone knowing it.

  Quickly he buried the thought. It was about time to make his move, he realized, noting the fact that the Eternal Emperor had consumed enough spirits to stun a mastodon, without benefit of anti-inebriation pills. With that reminder, Sullamora secretly popped the fourth pill of the evening. He looked at the Eternal Emperor’s bleary eyes and decided the time was right.

  ‘I hope this has been a pleasant visit,’ he ventured.

  ‘Shhure. Shalla … I mean … Sha … no … Tanz. That’s it, Tanz.’ The Emperor sloshed out another glass and belted it down.

  ‘Great night. Now. Lesh … I mean … Let’s me and you go hit a coupla port bars. Get into a fight. Get into trouble … then finda coupla ladies.

  ‘I know some ladies with figures like’ – he made curving motions – ‘and minds like … like …’ He snapped his fingers – obviously these women were sharp, sharp. ‘We’ll argue all night, then … then … you know … all night.’ The Eternal Emperor gave Sullamora a sudden, sharp, terribly sober look. It came to the man as a shock.

  ‘Unless,’ the Eternal Emperor said, ‘you have something else on your mind.’

  ‘But … but …’ Sullamora protested. ‘this is just a social occasion … to show you my new gallery.’

  The Eternal Emperor laughed that mocking laugh again. ‘Give me a break,’ he said and, ignoring Sullamora’s bewilderment at the anachronism, pushed on. ‘You’re the head of the largest mining company in this region.

  ‘You got something on your mind. And you don’t have the cojones to ask for an audience. Instead you give me all this royal treatment. Clotting artsy garbage – and lousy art at that. Try to get me drunk.

  ‘Now you’re just trying to get up the nerve to dump on me.’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest—’

  ‘Context, Tanz. Context. Clot, what do they teach corporate executives these days? Why, in my time— Hell with it. One more time – what’s on your mind, Tanz?’

  And Tanz, haltingly, told him. About his company’s plans to follow up on the rumors in the Eryx Cluster. His spies (although he did not use that word) had assured him that the gossip about the potentially superwealthy fields was a fact … And Sullamora wanted to personally hand in his company’s application for exploration to the Eternal Emperor.

  ‘Shoulda asked me straight out,’ the Eternal Emperor said. ‘Can’t stand a man who hems and haws.’

  ‘All right,’ Sullamora said. ‘I am asking you – “straight out,” as you say. My company is willing to invest the credits to exploit this new area.’

  The Eternal Emperor didn’t even think about it. ‘No,’ he said flatly.

  He took pity on the man, filled up Sullamora’s glass, and gave the corporate president time to choke down a huge swallow. ‘What I had in mind,’ he said, ‘was a consortium.’

  Sullamora spewed his drink across the table. ‘A consortium!’ he gasped.

  ‘Yeah,’ the Emperor said. ‘You get together with other big mining companies – I’ve already put out some feelers,’ he lied. ‘Put together a consortium and go at Eryx as a unit – then you can exploit the clot out of it.’

  ‘But the profits,’ Sullamora protested. ‘Too many companies …’

  The Eternal Emperor raised a hand, interrupting him. ‘Listen, I’ve already made my own studies. Any single mining company that attempts to exploit Eryx on its own is heading for bankruptcy. It’s a frontier area, after all. Now, if you people pool your resources, you might make a go of it. That’s my suggestion.’

  ‘Your suggestion?’

  ‘Yeah. Take it or leave it. Just a thought. Oh, by the way – your latest request for an increase in your company’s AM2 supply? …’

  ‘Yes?’ his voice quavered.

  ‘Think about this consortium deal, and I might consider it.’

  Since the source of all power (AM2) was supplied and controlled by the Eternal Emperor, Sullamora had just been kicked in the place where it would hurt the most.

  The Eternal Emperor took another drink. Slammed the glass down, making Sullamora jump about two feet.

  ‘Tell you what,’ the Eternal Emperor said. ‘If you like my consortium suggestion, I might even double your AM2 quota. What do you think of that?’

  Sullamora was not as dumb as he appeared. He liked that offer very much, thank you.

  ‘Double their quota?’ Mahoney asked in amazement.

  ‘Clot, no,’ his boss said. ‘I hate these mining companies. They’re almost as bad as the Old Seven Sisters …’

  He waved a ‘forget it’ at Mahoney’s ignorance.

  ‘Actually, for old times’ sake, I might halve it once they put this consortium together.’

  Mahoney was aghast.

  ‘You mean you’re actually considering letting people into the Eryx Region? Don’t you remember how far away we are—’

  The Eternal Emperor held up a hand, stopping him. He grinned at Mahoney and mock-tugged at his forelock.

  ‘Where’s the congratulations for your brilliant boss? I just bought you more time, Mahoney.’

  Mahoney was silent.

  The Emperor caught it, leaned forward across his desk. Steepled his fingers. ‘Something wrong, Colonel?’

  Mahoney hesitated.

  ‘What’s going on, dammit!’

  ‘Our operative. Sten. I can’t raise him.’

  The Emperor sagged back. ‘Whi
ch means?’

  ‘Hell if I know. sir. All I know is Mercury Corps Appreciation: All bets are off.’

  And the Emperor reached for his own bottle. ‘Clot! I just may have outsmarted myself.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  ‘He … he’s … dead?

  ‘I’m afraid so, dear.’

  And Parral bent forward to comfort his weeping sister. Sofia leaned into him for warmth and then jolted away. She wiped away her tears.

  ‘But how?’

  Parral gave her his best warm, brotherly smile. ‘Oh, he fought bravely, as did the other men. But I’m afraid it was just too much for them. A trap. They died to a man.’

  Sofia held her brother’s gaze for a moment, wondering if it was true, wondering if her brother had— No, that was too much even for Parral.

  With a great heaving sob she collapsed into his arms.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  ‘Egan’s dead.’ The Lycée girl said in a monotone.

  Sten just nodded. There wasn’t time or energy to mourn.

  ‘He’s dead,’ the woman continued. ‘He was just walking out of the shelter for rations and they flamed him.’

  Viola shut up, and sat looking at and through Sten with the thousand-meter stare. Before Sten could make appropriate comforting noises, Alex had led her away, taken the computer terminal from her pack, and set the woman to figuring out some kind of strength report.

  Not that it was needed. The figures were already thoroughly graven into Sten’s mind:

  TROOPS COMMITTED: 670 (Sten had landed with 146 of his original mercenaries, plus 524 Companions.)

  TROOPS REMAINING: 321.

  Clottin’ great leader you make, Colonel, his mind mocked. Only 50 per cent casualties? Fine leadership there. And now what are you going to do?

  He heard a scraping sound behind him and turned to see Mathias crawling up. He crouched beside Sten, staring at him intently, his face pale, his eyes full of anger and hate. Hate … not at Sten … but …

  ‘My father,’ he said. ‘Did he give the orders to abandon us?’

  Sten hesitated and then said quite truthfully, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘His own son,’ Mathias hissed. ‘My Companions …’

  Sten put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘It was probably just Parral,’ he said. ‘Parral playing his own game.’

  Mathias dragged a sleeve across his grimy face. ‘I should have suspected …’ His voice trailed off. Sten steeled himself. He had to start thinking, not talking, not feeling sorry for himself.

  ‘Mathias,’ he snapped, and the young man jolted to semi-reality. ‘Get back to your men. Await my orders.’

  Mathias nodded numbly and slithered back to his position.

  Sten cautiously lifted his head above the boulder and eyed the perimeter. After they’d realized Parral’s transports had abandoned them, the force had found a defensive perimeter in the four-block-wide chunk of demolished machine-shops. They had dug in and waited for something to happen.

  They were completely surrounded by the surviving Jann – a force that Egan, in the last estimate before his death, had surmised to be about five thousand.

  Only about twenty to one odds. Easy – if you’re a hero in the livies. So you have a little more than three hundred troops left, most of them wounded, Colonel. By the way, you forgot the Bhor.

  Indeed. The thirty or so Bhor, since they could no longer fly, had fought on the perimeter as berserkers. Sten was only sorry that, evidently, Otho must’ve died in the original withdrawal. No one had reported seeing him or his body. Add thirty hulks. So, Colonel? What, then, are your options?

  There are only four possibilities in battle:

  1.–Win.

  2.–Withdraw.

  3.–Surrender.

  4.–Die in place.

  It didn’t take a battle computer to run the options. Winning was out, and there was no way to withdraw. Surrender wasn’t even an option – five of Sten’s mercenaries had tried that tactic. Now they were out in the middle of no-man’s land between Sten’s perimeter and the Jann lines. Crucified on steel I-beams. It had taken them almost a day to die – and most of them had been helped by grace rounds from the mercenaries.

  No. Surrender to the Jann was not possible.

  So here it is, young Sten. After all your cleverness and planning. Here you are, facing your only option – to fight a holding action that’ll go down in history beside Camerone, Dien Bien Phu, Tarawa, Hue, or Krais VII. Wormfood, in other words.

  And then anger flared. Well, and his mind found the phrase from Lanzotta, the man who’d punted him through basic Guards training: ‘I’ve fought for the Empire on a hundred different worlds and I’ll fight on a hundred more before some skeek burns me down, but I’ll be the most expensive piece of meat he ever butchered.’

  He spun back toward the command circle. ‘Alex!’

  The voice command – and Kilgour found himself at attention.

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Six hours to nightfall. I want you and five men – volunteers from Ffillips’ unit – standing by.’

  ‘Sir!

  ‘We have location on the Jann command post?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Tonight, then. We go out.’

  And a smile spread slowly across Alex’s face. He knew. Indeed he knew. And it would be far better to die in the attack than huddled in this perimeter waiting for it.

  Chapter Forty

  It had taken almost two days to dig Khorea and what little remained of his command structure out of the bunker. They’d found him, huddled under a vee-section of the collapsed ceiling, deep in trance state.

  The Jann medics had quickly brought him out of it, and Khorea had refused further aid. He’d insisted on taking charge of the final destruction of the mercenaries.

  Khorea was probably still in minor shock, delayed battle stress. He had ordered the slow death of the mercenaries who’d deserted and insisted that all Jann be ordered to take no prisoners. He was determined to wipe out the far-worlders who’d shamed the Jann – to the slow death of the last man and woman.

  Khorea now sat behind the hastily rerigged computers and screens in the command post. He hated them and longed for the days when a leader led from the front.

  Then he half smiled. Realized that all of his electronics, all of his analysis, produced only one answer – the mercenaries would not, could not, surrender.

  He shut down his command sensor and stood.

  ‘General!’ An aide.

  ‘Tomorrow. We will attack. And I will lead the final assault.’ The aide – eyes wide in hero worship – saluted.

  ‘Tonight, then, assemble my staff. We shall show these worms what Jann are, from the highest to the lowest. But tonight – tonight we shall assemble for prayers. Here. One hour after nightfall.’

  Chapter Forty-One

  ‘… But before we could stalk the streggan,’ the ancient Bhor creaked, ‘there was preparation. We fasted and considered the nature of our ancient enemy. And then, once we had determined our mind upon him, we feasted. Then and only then would we set out across the wave-struck ice to find him, hidden deep in his lair …’

  Ancient, Otho thought, wasn’t the word for the old Bhor. One sign of approaching death for a Bhor was for the pelt on his chest to begin turning gray. Shortly thereafter, the Bhor would assemble his family and friends for the final guesting and then disappear out onto the ice to die the death, lonely but for the gods.

  This Bhor, however, was almost totally white-haired from curled gnarly feet to beetled brow. He was, as far as anyone knew, the last surviving streggan hunter.

  And so they listened in council.

  Just as the council had patiently listened to Otho, still being bandaged from the wounds incurred as he’d pirouetted his lighter up and out-atmosphere when he heard of Parral’s abandonment.

  Just as they had listened to the youngest Bhor discuss why the entire Bhor people must immediately support the maroone
d warriors.

  Just as they had listened to the captain of a merchant fleet discuss calmly – for a Bhor (only two interruptions and one hospitalization) – why the mercenaries should be abandoned and attempts made to reach reapproachment with the Jann. The merchant also happened to be Otho’s chief trading rival.

  But the council listened, as they would listen to any Bhor. The Bhor were a truly democratic society – any of them could speak at any council. The decision, which could take weeks to reach and involve several minor brawls, would have been discussed, argued, fought over, and then settled.

  Once decided, the Bhor moved as of one mind. But the time it took! For the first time – and Otho realized his inspiration was a corruption gotten from those beard-curs’t humanoids – Otho wondered whether his was an excessively longwinded and indecisive society.

  And the ancient droned on, making no point at all, but telling the old stories. Normally Otho would have been the first to sit at the ancient’s right, keeping him full of stregg, fascinated by talk of the old days. But his friends – friends, by my mother’s beard, friends who are humanoid – were dying.

  Otho ground his fangs. The debate might continue for another four or five cycles. Since Robert’s Rules hadn’t penetrated to the Bhor, there was only one customary way to force a vote. And generally it meant the death of the Bhor who did it. By my father’s chilly bottom, Otho groaned, you owe me, Sten. If I live through this, you owe me.

  The ancient creaked on. He was now describing exactly how you tasted a streggan’s fewmets to determine whether the creature was seasonable or not.

  Otho rose from his bench and stalked into the center of the council ring, his meter-long dagger leaving its belt harness.

  Without warning, Otho pulled the long, trailing beard straight out from his chest and, with a dagger-flash in the firelight, cut it away. He tossed the handful of fur down, into the center of the ring, then, as custom dictated, knelt, head bowed.

  To the Bhor, the length and thickness of one’s beard signified personal power, much as the length of other appendages has signified similarly to other cultures and beings. To chop off one’s beard, in-council, meant that the issue was life-defining.