Battlecry: Sten: Omnibus One (Sten Omnibus)

by Allan Cole, Chris Bunch

  Sten nodded politely at a glowering guard team of Companions as they passed in their gravsled, then tapped the reins on the hauling beasts’ backs. They grudgingly moved from a stagger into a slow walk.

  ‘An’ noo,’ Alex said, ‘w’be’t goint into tha’ tiger’s maw.’

  ‘Hugin and Munin’s maw’s back on Prime World,’ Bet added from her position, sitting just behind Alex and Sten, who were on the cart driver’s bench.

  ‘Sharrup, lass,’ Alex replied. ‘Ah’m dooncast. Ah fearit this scheme wi’ nae workit oot f’r th’ benefits of Kilgours.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Sten agreed. ‘We’re doomed. And doomed without hearing the last of Red Rory.’

  ‘Red Rory, aye?’ And Alex brightened. ‘W’noo. Wh’n last w’sawit Red Rory, an entire Brit comp’ny wae chargint up thae hill, a’ter his head, aye?’

  Sten nodded wearily. The things he did to keep morale up.

  ‘So tha’ screekit, an’ scrawit, an’ hollerint, and ae kinds ae goin’ on, an’ then heads come doon thx hill, bumpit, bumpit, bumpit.

  ‘Anh’t’ thae Brit gin’ral’s consid’r’ble astonishment, here’s his wholit comp’ny, lyin’ dead in thae dust.

  ‘But b’fore he hae a chance to consider, yon giant on tha hillcrest screekit again:

  ‘“Ah’m Red Rory ae th’ Glen! Send up y’ entire rig’mint!”

  ‘An the gin’ral turnit sa red hi’ adj’tant fearit he gae apoplexy. An’ he holler, “Adj’tant!’

  ‘“Send up tha’ wholit blawdy reg’mint! AH WAN’ THA’ MON’S HEAD!”

  ‘An’ tha’ whole reg’mint fixit thae bay’nits an’ thae chargit up thae hill. An’ thae’s screamint, an’ screekit, an’ shoutint. an’ carryint on, for aye half ae day.

  ‘An’ thae’s dust, an’ thae’s shots, an’ thae’s aye battle.

  ‘An’ th’ gin’ral’s watchint frx doon below.

  ‘Ah sudden, thro’ thae dust, he see’t his adj’tant comit runnin doon thx hill.

  ‘An’ tae adj’tant screemit. “Run, sah! Run! It’s ae ambush! Thae’s two ae ’em.”’

  Very complete silence for many minutes.

  Finally Sten turned to Alex, incredulous. ‘You mean, that’s the story I’ve been waiting for, for the last year?’

  ‘Aye,’ Alex said. ‘Dinnae it b’wonderful?’

  Even more and longer silence …

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Mathias watched as they led another of Ffillips’ mercs into the chamber. The man was naked and sweating heavily under the bright, revolving interrolights. His body was covered with bruises and cuts from many days of beatings. The soldier was exhausted; his eyes were rolling in fear.

  Mathias nodded at the chief interrogator, and the man was muscled into a chair and strapped down. Coldly and efficiently, an interrogrator’s aide snapped electrical leads to the prisoner’s body.

  The Prophet stepped forward, looming over the man. Then spoke gently. ‘Son, don’t let this go on. It grieves me to see a poor sinner submit to such an ordeal. End it for yourself. I beg you in the name of our gentle Father, Talamein.’

  He leaned closer to the man.

  ‘A simple confession of your sins and the sins of your leaders is all we require … Now, will you confess? Please, son.’

  Weakly the soldier shook his head, no.

  Mathias nodded for the inquisitor to start. And the first screams ripped from the soldier’s body.

  An hour later Mathias walked from the chamber, a tight little smile of satisfaction on his lips.

  From a crystal decanter, Mathias poured himself a goblet of pure, cold water. Its source was one of the clear mountain springs that he had recently declared holy.

  It was night on Sanctus, and Mathias was alone in his spartan chamber. Outside the room he could hear the faint sounds of the pacing guards.

  Mathias reviewed his plans once more before going to sleep on the small, hard, military cot he favored.

  He realized unhappily that his plans for the resettlement of Sanctus was not proceeding as swiftly as he would like.

  The idea had come to him like a vision. He saw a series of small, isolated spiritual communes, devoted to reflection and worship. To create these communes, he would empty the cities and villages. Move the peasants off the farms.

  The latest reports said that the idea had met a huge amount of resistance, especially from the farmers and artisans. Who would till the land? they complained. Who would mix the mortar and build the buildings?

  This kind of small, ungodly thinking would have to stop Mathias decided. He would not let the unenlightened of his planet stand in the way of a glorious future.

  He scrawled an order for Companions to sweep into the villages. What he could not do with reason, he would accomplish by force. He added a suggestion to the report: Burn the homes and destroy the farms. That way the peasants would have no place to return.

  Mathias was more pleased with his progress involving the matter of the mercenaries. Of course, he had personally handled that. He had scheduled the public trial to begin the following day. Enough mercenaries had confessed to insure its success.

  One by one, each man would be found guilty. And Mathias would order their executions. Those, too, would be public.

  It would be a solemn occasion, followed by a great celebration. Mathias had already announced that some of the rules of Talamein behavior would be relaxed during the festival.

  A wise Prophet, he told himself, had to understand that his people were only weak human beings.

  Mathias began to scrawl a few notes concerning the planet-wide month of purification that he would declare to take place immediately after the festival.

  He had some interesting ideas on this subject. Floggings, for instance – all voluntary, of course.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Ffillips stood at stiff attention before her ragged band of men. They were drawn up in the temple’s central courtyard. Ffillips could sense the hidden vidmonitors that were broadcasting the event across the planet. Around them were row after row of spidery bleachers filled with red-uniformed Companions. Seated in front of the bleachers were the ten judges handpicked by Mathias from his officer corps.

  On one side sat the Prophet himself. He was seated on a small onyx throne. He wore a simple uniform, with only two small golden medals – the torch symbol of Sanctus – to mark his rank.

  The evidence had been given – mostly, the humiliating confessions forced from men and women who couldn’t bear up under torture. The judges had weighed the verdict. And it was about to be delivered.

  Ffillips knew she was dead.

  Mathias raised a hand for silence. Instant hush. He leaned slightly forward in his throne. His face was serene, almost kindly. ‘Do you wish to say anything in your behalf?’ he asked Ffillips. ‘In the interest of justice?’

  Ffillips looked coldly at Mathias and then at the judges. ‘I don’t see her here.’

  ‘Who?’ Mathias asked.

  ‘Justice,’ Ffillips said. ‘Now, as one soldier to another, I’ll ask you to end this sham. My men and I await your decision.’

  But before Mathias could give the signal, Ffillips shouted: ‘DETACHMENT, TEN-HUT.’

  And her sad, ragged troop suddenly became soldiers again. They snapped to, throwing off the exhaustion and fear. Even those crippled by torture drew themselves up. A few had to be helped. Some grinned at Mathias and the Companions through broken teeth.

  Mathias hesitated, then turned.

  ‘What is the verdict?’ he asked the judges.

  And the same word hissed out along the line of ten.

  ‘Guilty … Guilty … Guilty …’ And so on until the last judge pronounced their fate.

  Mathias rose, bowed to the judges. ‘I have agonized over this,’ Mathias announced. ‘The evidence was overwhelming, even before the trial. And, as you all know, I counseled compassion.’

  He paused for effect.

  ‘No doubt,’
Ffillips said, loudly enough for the vidmonitors to pick up.

  Mathias ignored her.

  ‘But,’ the Prophet continued, ‘I must bow to the wisdom of the judges. They know best the desires of Talamein. I can only accede. And give thanks to our Father, for his guidance.’`

  He turned to Ffillips and her men. ‘With great sorrow, I must pronounce judgment—’

  Ffillips shouted the order: ‘TROOP, RIGHT FACE.’

  Her troops wheeled as one. Proud men and women ready to go to their deaths. Their guards broke rank and dignity, rushing over to them, shouting, waving their weapons.

  Mathias had to rush out the words:

  ‘You are all sentenced to die,’ he shouted. ‘Within five days. Before the people of Sanctus, and—’

  Ffillips broke through his ranting: ‘FORWARD … MARCH …’

  And the soldiers stepped out in perfect time, heading back for their prison and their doom.

  ‘And Talamein …’ Mathias screamed.

  Ffilhps shot him the universal gesture of contempt. And, in her best parade-ground voice: ‘CLOT YOU.’

  All was confusion. As the mercs disappeared, Mathias was yelling instructions at his guard and fruitless explanations at the vidmonitors.

  Ffillips might have been a dead woman, but she knew how to go out in style.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  The giant funeral chimneys of Sanctus belched out ash, smoke, and fire, working overtime as the very wealthy and highly nervous ruling class of the Lupus Cluster poured in their donations to the new Prophet.

  Sten, Bet, Alex, and the others jockeyed their gaudily painted wagons through the crowds that were pouring into the holy city.

  Red-uniformed Companions made cursory attempts to check out the pilgrims. Here and there they pulled people aside to run scanners over their bodies and belongings. But mostly they were just waving the hordes of people through, barely able to keep up with the traffic, much less look for malcontents.

  Once they got through the gates, Sten waved his people to one side. He took a fresh look at the Sanctus of Mathias.

  To either side of the Avenue of Tombs and its eye-ear-nose-and-throat-polluting monuments spread the city itself. Sandwiched between the mix of small homes, tenements, and the occasional gabled mansion were the narrow streets and alleyways. Sanctus’ capital had evidently not had much of a planning commission.

  And now the barely passable streets were roiling with visitors. Sten’s back prickled as he realized that all of them, whether peasants, artisans, or merchants, were in their colorful best clothes. Also, Sten noted, here and there, other entertainers’ wagons.

  The chaos was worrisome. It was a perfect cover, to be sure, but the spontaneous partying meant that Sten and his team had less time than they thought. None of them had seen or heard about the sentencing cast, but from the festive tourists, Sten realized he would have to act quickly.

  Bet slid across the seat toward him and nuzzled his neck. ‘Mathias acted more quickly than we thought,’ she hissed. Sten forced laughter and pulled her close for a kiss. A Companion stared at them curiously for a moment, then moved on. A drunken beggar stumbled past, waving a sheaf of tickets.

  ‘THE EXECUTIONS,’ he shouted. ‘SEE THEM IN PERSON … STILL A FEW SPACES LEFT IN THE PUBLIC SQUARE.’

  He staggered on.

  ‘SEE THE EXECUTIONS … THE TRAITORS OF TALAMEIN …’

  His voice was finally drowned out by the crowd. Bet broke away from Sten and slid off the wagon seat. Sten gave her a slap on the rump.

  ‘See what you can find out,’ he whispered.

  Bet nodded and laughed lustily, then jumped down onto the roadway. In a moment she had disappeared into the throng.

  Alex stuck his head out from the wagon’s interior, then slid up on the seat beside Sten.

  ‘Best be movin’, lad,’ he said.

  Sten took another look at what faced them before he gigged the beasts into motion.

  The Temple sat at the end of the Avenue of Tombs, atop a gently rising hill about three hundred meters higher than the city gates. Its spire towered over thick, protective walls. Below the Temple was what had been a monastary. Years past, it had been a place of silent devotion for Talamein priests. More recently Theodomir and now Mathias used it as a prison.

  Sten pointed it out to Alex.

  ‘Tha’s whae th’ be’t keepint our Ffillips,’ Alex said. He passed Sten a wineskin. Sten upended the bag, letting the wine pour into his mouth. Then it went back to Alex, who raised it, eyes scanning the landscape over the tanned leather.

  ‘Over there.’ Sten said, nodding to the skeleton of a building going up beside the old Talamein monastery/prison. ‘That’s our way in.’

  Alex peered at it for an instant, then turned away.

  What he had seen was a slim, towering needle of steel, very much out of place next to the ancient monastery. They had heard it was going to be the new barracks Mathias was building for his Companions. Ironically, it was also to be named for Theodomir.

  They noticed there were no workers around the building. Obviously they had been given time off for the holiday. They also noticed that although most streets were filled with partying citizens of Sanctus, the area around the prison was carefully being avoided.

  Down the hill from it, still on the Avenue of Tombs, they spotted the main armory for the Companions. That area, too, was deserted.

  ‘Got it?’ Sten asked Alex.

  Alex considered for a moment.

  ‘A wee dicey, lad,’ he said finally. ‘But it’ll hae t’ shift.’

  Sten gave the signal, then his wagon and the others tumbled forward, deeper into the Holy City.

  On a side street farther down the hill from the Companions’ armory was what had once been a park. Before Mathias it had been a small green area for pilgrims. A place to rest and, after worship, to picnic after the long fasting. It was three-quarters screened by a ring of tall, slender trees.

  But the Companions had put it to a more practical use. Where once had been a sprawling green lawn was now a sea of well-churned mud. The park was filled with small, tracked self-propelled cannon, whose honeycomb armor allowed them high speed and maneuverability. The tracks were built for two men, had small, open turrets, and were armed with quad, full-auto 50mm projectile cannon.

  They were powered by old-style low-friction engines that gave maximum performance to a fairly cumbersome little package.

  Milling and relaxing in the myriad aisles between the track columns were Companion drivers, mechanics, gunners, and general gofers. Though most of them were pretending to be busy at their duties, they were actually rubbernecking at the crowds of fun-seekers cavorting a hundred meters or so away in the street.

  Ida and Doc broke out of the crowd. A few giggling children followed them for a moment or two, delighted at the spectacle. But as they wandered toward the track park, anxious parents called them back.

  Ida was dressed in her rainbow gypsy best. And she was dragging Doc along on a short, silver leash.

  ‘Alley-oop,’ she shouted.

  And Doc did a ponderous somersault.

  They paused near one SP. A few curious Companion privates moved forward a bit to see better.

  ‘Play dead,’ she said.

  Doc flopped to the ground and stiffened his limbs. ‘Don’t go too far!’ he hissed.

  ‘Your idea,’ Ida whispered back, enjoying every minute of it.

  A few young men, glancing nervously over their shoulders for superiors, came closer.

  ‘Now, beg.’ Ida commanded.

  ‘No,’ Doc whispered. ‘I don’t do begging.’

  Ida jerked the leash while she glanced around the park, instantly filing layout, security, and, most important, eyeing the track’s individual locks.

  ‘I said beg.’ Ida smiled sweetly.

  Doc did as he was told, trembling on hind legs and waving his paws. He swore to himself that Ida would die many deaths for this disgrace.

 
‘What are you doing here?’ shouted a Companion lieutenant.

  Instantly young Companion privates jolted in their boots, looked nervously about and started to drift away.

  Ida looked at the young lieutenant, then at Doc.

  ‘It’s a new act, sir,’ she said. ‘He’s a bit wild yet. Don’t know how to behave.’

  Before the glowering officer, she half-dragged Doc away on the leash.

  ‘Next time,’ Doc hissed when they were out of earshot, ‘you go on the chain.’

  As they melted back into the crowd, Ida noticed that the lieutenant was still watching them. Just for cover, naturally, she gave Doc a little kick.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  The small gravsled hissed up to the Theodomir Barracks-to-be. On it was an untidy assortment of crammed tool boxes and chaotic mounds of electrical spare parts.

  Sten and Alex stepped off and, ignoring the guards, began to fill two duffle bags with tools and spidery electrical parts. A bored chief guard wandered over.

  ‘Here now. What’re you two doing?’

  Sten just grunted at him. Alex handed the guard a grease-stained permit. Both grease and permit had first met less than an hour ago. The guard peered at the permit.

  ‘Says here,’ he commented, ‘they got problems with the welder on floor fifteen.’ He glared at the two men, trying on his cop-suspicious look.

  ‘I ain’t heard about that,’ he said.

  Sten wrestled on his toolbelt.

  ‘Whaddya expect,’ Sten said. ‘It’s a clottin’ holiday, ain’t it? Nobody don’t hear nothin’, unless you’re like my partner and me.

  ‘Clots We were gonna party tonight. But no. Whadda they care? We spend all those credits on some approved quill. We gotta couple ladies lined up. We’re gettin’ heated up. Then we get the call. Problems with the clotting welder on the Theodomir building.

  ‘Fix it, they say. I say send somebody else. They say fix it or don’t show up tomorrow. So here we are. And we’re gonna fix it and get back to the party.’

  The guard was a bit stubborn. He, too, had a party planned and hadn’t expected the day to be a duty day.