The ACV vehicles had been short-stopped by a quickly massed wire screen, two meters high. They’d bumped up against the wire, then drifted back and forth while their only semi-trained drivers fought the controls and then those drivers had been calmly sniped down by Sten’s soldiers.
The two command tracks had lasted a few minutes longer – as long as it took the ten remaining Lycée kiddies to cut off all commo and for Sten and three men to slip behind them and launch line-of-sight rocketry into their unarmored rear boarding ramps.
It wasn’t much of a battle, Sten realized as he saw Ffillips jam a huge crowbar into one assault vehicle’s tracks and step back as the crowbar turned into filings and Ffillips commented disappointedly, ‘Some of my older manuals swear that an obstruction in the idler wheels will stop any track,’ before she flipped a fire grenade onto the greasy engine exhaust and the track became a bonfire.
And then the tracks were halted and their crews were piling out and Sten now knew why conventional soldiers still wear white undertunics as Parral’s last line of defense began surrendering en masse.
So now, Sten thought, it is time to deal with our friend Seigneur Parral …
Chapter Forty-Five
Parral was running out of alternate plans. His great scenario calling for the Jann and the mercenaries to pull a Kilkenney cats on each other had somehow failed. Even his high-tech defense scheme with the imported armor was a bust. So Parral was supervising the loading of the last few art treasures into the ship.
The ship – a modified short-haul, high-speed freighter – had been set down in the middle of the mansion’s grounds and the most portable and easily convertible of Parral’s treasures stowed on board.
His new plan was to get off Nebta, hunt up some habitable world, and go to ground until the screaming and skirmishing stopped. If it ever did. Because with Ingild dead, the Jann no longer a factor, and his own power-play circumvented, the Lupus Cluster faced the threat of peace for the first time in generations.
He was pretty sure that Sten would turn over Parral’s trading routes to the Bhor. Which would leave Parral somewhat less than necessary.
Oh, well, he consoled himself, under no circumstances can that drunk fuzz-kleek Theodomir hold things together for very long. Sooner or later he’d need expert help, money, and someone who could stay sober for longer than two hours. The mansion and Nebta could be rebuilt.
The last servant loaded the last painting, and Parral hurried up the ramp. He could hear the rifle fire approaching closer and closer. So? Let them loot the mansion. As the port closed, he managed a tiny moment of concern for his sister, Sofia, who’d disappeared some hours before. Then he shrugged. Perhaps she thinks she can do better with her bedmate Sten than with her brother.
Parral headed for the control room. The exec had been holding the ship on thirty-second-takeoff point for almost an hour. As Parral sank into the acceleration couch, the pilot began final countdown.
Outside, a haze built from the Yukawa drive, and the carefully sculpted gardens of Parral withered and died.
Five seconds and counting …
‘Talamein has blessed us,’ Mathias crooned as he focused the helmet sights across the mansion grounds. ‘We are chosen by Talamein for his purpose.’ His fingers touched ready-buttons on the firing panel.
Mathias and ten of his Companions had hastily set up the S/A missile ramp on the avenue behind Parral’s mansion. Mathias closed the helmet face, and his viewpoint became the restricted dual-eyes of the missile, the launch-tube looming to either side, and, visible at the center, the heat-waved trees of the mansion gardens. ‘I have it,’ he announced.
His hands went around the twin joysticks of the missile control panel. ‘Launch on command sequence.’
‘Standing by,’ a Companion announced.
‘Systems on standby. All systems on ready condition.’
Mathias felt the tremble as, a thousand meters away, Parral’s ship lifted from the estate. Prematurely he keyed the launch button on top of one of the joysticks, and suddenly his vision became broad and fish-eyed as the missile came out of the tube, hissing fifty meters up into the atmosphere.
Mathias kept his other thumb poised on the number-two joystick’s primary drive switch. The launch button now automatically became the manual-det switch.
Mathias orbited the missile, waiting for Parral’s ship to come out of ground-clutter, and then, as the sleek torpedo swept back around, he had the missile’s sensors on IR visual.
‘Normal vision,’ he snapped. A companion flipped the switch on the primary switch and the missile howled up through Mach 8, crosshairs centered on the nose of Parral’s ship as it clawed for height. The gray steel closed in Mathias’ eyes until there was nothing but the heat-shimmer and the metal and then his eyes went blank.
Mathias yanked the helmet from his head in time to see the fire-ball sweep down the nose of Parral’s ship, catch the fuel tanks, and become an elongated cigar of flame, debris slowly pinwheeling back down toward the ground.
His Companions were cheering as Mathias dropped out of the command seat. Mathias allowed himself a laugh, then turned his face serious.
‘Not I,’ he said as the cheering suddenly stopped. ‘But Talamein. I count myself blessed that Talamein has chosen me as the tool for his vengence, for the beginnings that shall make the Faith into the fire-hardened sword the Original Prophet intended. For this – which I vision as merely the beginning – we shall give thanks.’
Which was why, when Sten and Alex burst through the brush, they found the ten men knelt in prayer, seemingly to an empty short-range portable missile launcher.
Chapter Forty-Six
Sofia sat on a small boulder just at the water’s edge. She was staring out to where the huge waves she loved were still continuing their thunder, regardless of man’s change.
Twenty meters behind her, just on the fringe of the black sand, Sten waited.
He’d found Sofia in hysterics in the mansion as his troops swept through, moving the servants out from the wall of flame that Parral’s crashed ship had started. He’d slammed a med-shot trank into her arm and ordered her moved to his own headquarters. Then, and it was very hard, he forced his mind back to business, to the endless details of what happens when you’ve won a war and what to do next.
The first, of course, had been a chain-coded message sent on Parral’s high-power transmitter, to a clean transponder on some worldlet just outside the Lupus Cluster. The message, a short series of code breaks, read:
GOOD GUYS CHOSEN AND VICTORIOUS. GOOD GUYS ARE THEODOMIR. PHASE A & B COMPLETE. APPROPRIATE ACTION IN YOUR DEPARTMENT NOW
Within three Imperial hours, the message had been through the Mercury Corps chain and was in Mahoney’s and the Emperor’s hands. And a return message went back:
STAND BY. IMPERIAL CONFIRMATION ON WAY. DO NOT EMBARRASS THE EMPEROR. LAYING ON OF HANDS WILL COMMENCE IN ONE WEEK. DO YOU PREFER PROMOTION, MEDAL, OR LONG LEAVE? YOUR PERFORMANCE DEEMED IN THE SNEAKY TRADITION OF MANTIS.
Which left only minor details until the Emperor and his entourage showed up to confirm Theodomir as the rightful Prophet and leader of the Lupus Cluster. Minor details like burying the dead, nurturing the sick, keeping the mercenaries from outrageous looting, and … and Sofia.
And so they had gone to that black beach. Neither Sofia nor Sten had said anything until the grav-sled set down. Then Sofia dropped her clothes and paced to the boulder where she had sat silently for almost two hours now.
Suddenly Sofia rose and walked back to Sten. She curled down onto the sand beside him.
‘You did not kill my brother?’
‘No. I did not.’
‘Would you have if you had the chance?’
‘Probably.’
Sofia nodded. ‘You and your soldiers will be leaving now.’
‘Yes.’
‘I will go with you.’
Sten hesitated – he didn’t think it would be a good idea for Bet to meet Sofia ev
en though Bet was no longer his lover. And explaining that Sten was neither a colonel or an ex-soldier would prove interesting.
Sofia shrugged. ‘You will be taking a vacation with your pay?’
‘Probably.’
‘I will spend it with you.’ Baronial habits die hard. ‘And then,’ Sofia went on. ‘I shall go. I have always wanted to see the Imperial Court.’
Sten covered a slight sigh of relief. Love is wonderful, but it does not last as long as soldiering. Unfortunately.
‘For a while, at least, I will not wish to see Nebta,’ Sofia finished. Sten had no comment. She took his hand, and they rose and walked into the small hut on the edge of the beach.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Five Hero class Imperial battleships hung in stationary orbit above Sanctus. The hovering sharks were attended by a cruiser squadron and three full destroyer squadrons. The formation was backed by a half fleet of auxiliary ships, planetary-assault craft, and two battalions of the First Guards Division.
When the Emperor came to dedicate a building or to legitimatize a conqueror, he preferred to have no surprises – least of all those that began with a bang and directed some sort of projectile in his direction.
The fiche that the courier ship had delivered weighed almost a full kilo and contained everything there was to know or do about its subject:
Protocol Manual for Imperial Visits.
It included such pieces of information as to what weaponry an honor guard could carry (no crew-served weapons, no individual edge weapons, individual weapons with their firing-section disarmed, no magazines in weapons); length of welcoming speech (no more than five minutes); number of people permitted to speak on landing (three maximum); quartering requirements for Imperial security (one barracks plus apartments adjoining the Imperial suite); dietary requirements for security element (normal Imperial diet for plain-clothesmen; dhal, rice, and fowl or soyasteak for Gurkhas); and so on and on, endlessly.
Embarrassingly thorough and detailed, the fiche was one of the reasons why the Emperor had survived – by his personal estimate – more than 160 assassination attempts, only three of which had been successful.
*
It was, of course, one of Sanctus’ few sunny days. On an island continent, this also meant it was muggy enough to swim in.
The assembled hierarchy of the Church of Talamein, who’d been standing on the reviewing stand in their full formal robes since an hour before dawn, collectively and silently wished for a good dense fog or perhaps even a snowstorm.
The Emperor – by deliberate policy – was keeping them waiting.
The worthies stood on the kilometers-square landing ground, with ranked Companions in their full-dress uniforms around them. Across the field, behind guarded perimeters, were those lucky citizens of Sanctus permitted to view the first Imperial visit to Sanctus. Or, for that matter, to the Lupus Cluster.
Mathias and his father stood side by side, sweating ignobly. Neither of them found any reason to talk to the other.
And then the crowd murmured as, high overhead, five specks materialized and hurtled toward the field.
The specks grew larger and became cruisers. The crowd began to cheer – the cruisers were the Emperor’s advance guard. The ships sonic-crashed to a halt a thousand meters above the field, then sank slowly, one to each corner of the landing ground and the fifth directly opposite the reviewing stand.
Landing ramps slid out, and uniformed troops double-timed down them, drawing up into line formation across the field. They were Guardsmen, and their locked-and-loaded willyguns were at the ready.
From the fifth ship two other formations ran down the ramp toward the reviewing stand. All of them were in the fairly plain brown livery of the Imperial household. And all of them were former Guards, Mercury Corps, or Mantis operatives.
Swiftly, without worrying about anyone’s dignity, they checked the Companions’ weapons to make sure they were, indeed, unloaded.
Another squad, murmuring apologies, came onto the reviewing stand and ran mass-detectors over the dignitaries. Theodomir was humiliated. One plainclothesman even had the temerity to confiscate the tiny flask of wine that Theodomir had in an inner pocket as an emergency resource.
Then the head of security took a small com unit from his belt and keyed it. Spoke in an unintelligible code. He listened, shut the com unit down, and turned to Theodomir. He bowed deeply.
‘You will prepare to receive the presence of the Eternal Emperor, Lord of a Thousand Suns.’
And Theodomir, reluctantly – he was the anointed Prophet of the Faith of Talamein! – found himself bowing back in awe.
‘Colonel,’ the Emperor asked, a trifle plaintively, ‘would a single drink matter to these clots?’
‘Nossir,’ Mahoney said – but made no move to the decanter in the dressing room.
Neither did the Emperor.
‘One of these eons,’ the Emperor continued, ‘I shall come reeling down that ramp, declare in a high falsetto that this bridge is now open, and proceed to circumcise the first dignitary I see with the ribbon-cutting scissors. Then I will vomit over the rest of whatever noble thieves are greeting me.’
‘No question at all,’ Mahoney agreed blandly. ‘Excellent idea.’
‘Oh. One thing. Your operative, this—’
‘Sten.’
‘Sten. Yes. He and his mercenaries have been instructed?’
‘They’re out of sight, sir. You won’t see any of them.’
‘There were no problems?’
‘None at all. Theodomir is embarrassed by them, and a good percentage of the mercenaries are deserters from the Guard. Also, since when did a soldier like to stand at attention until he passes out?’
‘Colonel,’ the Emperor said, checking for the nineteenth time whether the button-line on his midnight-black tunic was even, ‘you know about psychology and all that. Why do I still get nervous doing this kind of thing – after a thousand years?’
‘It’s your constant youthfulness.’ Mahoney said. ‘Your charming naivete. The awareness that makes all of us love and serve your Eternal Worryship.’
‘Bah,’ the Emperor growled, and touched a button. ‘Captain. Land this bucket. I’m getting tired of waiting.’
The five battleships, each nearly a kilometer in length, hissed down toward the field, and their black shadows merged and blocked Sanctus’ sun.
Four of them hung a hundred meters overhead, but the fifth, the Vercingatorix, dropped to ground gently on the landing field. And then, following orders, its captain cut the McLean generators and the ship proceeded to sink twenty meters into the field itself. It was the Emperor’s own way of autographing a world.
The side of the ship dropped open and became a twenty-meter-wide ramp.
Theodomir waved wildly, and his band began playing. Twenty bars into the song, the band broke off, as no one had yet appeared at the ramp’s top. Just as the band squealed and ground to a halt, the Emperor walked down the ramp. Three beats after him, two Gurkha units came down behind him. As the small brown men spread out to either side, the Emperor walked toward the reviewing stand.
The Emperor gives good ceremony, Mahoney thought to himself, watching the solitary man walk toward Theodomir’s stand. Two turrets on the Vercingatorix swiveled to cover the stand itself.
The Emperor stopped in front of the stand and waited.
And the hierarchy of Talamein dropped to its knees. Even Theodomir, recognizing he was committing some enormous breach, went down.
Only Mathias stayed on his feet, eyeing the muscular man standing below him.
The Emperor keyed his larnyx-mike and, on the Vercingatorix, techs found the symp-frequency of the landing field’s speakers and patched the Emperor to them.
‘I greet you, O Prophet,’ the voice echoed and re-echoed across the field. ‘As your Emperor, I welcome you and your people back into the fold of Imperial protection. And, as your Emperor, I recognize the heroism and truth of your beliefs an
d the long martyrdom of your founder, the Original Prophet Talamein.’
Then the Emperor flipped his mike back off and started up the steps to the stand, wondering how long he could make these fools sweat in the sun before he had to let them move on to the next, totally predictable stage of the ceremony.
‘And this,’ Theodomir said proudly, ‘is a replica of the very gun station Talamein himself manned on the Flight for Freedom.’
Mathias, the Emperor, and Theodomir were deep in the heart of Sanctus’ inner fastness, touring the treasures of the faith.
The Emperor was preceded by plainclothes security men to each station, plus leap-frogging squads of Gurkhas. Behind them by about forty meters was an awestruck draggle of dignitaries and Companions.
‘You know,’ the Emperor said conversationally, ‘I knew Talamein. Personally.’
Theodomir blinked and Mathias now felt an urge to kneel. The Emperor smiled at their confusion.
‘I found him … interesting,’ the Emperor continued. ‘Certainly it was unusual to find so much dedication in a man so youthful.’
Mathias blinked – the only holos he’d seen of Talamein showed him as an elderly, bearded man. He was not sure which was the greater shock – to realize that, indeed, Talamein had walked the face of the Galaxy as a man, or that the soft-spoken man across from him had actually spoken to the First Prophet.
Far behind the group there was a stir as one Companion heard the echoed words of the Emperor, gasped ‘heresy,’ and scrabbled for his weapon, momentarily forgetting it was deactivated.
Before his hand touched the holster snap, the razor steel of a Gurkha kukri was at his throat, and he heard a soft hiss: ‘Remove your hand, unbeliever. Instantly.’
The Companion did just that, and the young havildar-major smiled politely, bowed a bit, and resheathed his long knife.
The Emperor chose to make his announcement after the services, on the broad steps of the inner fortress itself. This time his speech was recorded and patched into a cluster-wide broadcast.
Battlecry: Sten: Omnibus One (Sten Omnibus) Page 44