Battlecry: Sten: Omnibus One (Sten Omnibus)

by Allan Cole, Chris Bunch

  The minitransponder was one of those wonderful chunks of hightech that most soldiers were never able to find a usable situation for. In theory, it worked fine. Plant two or more senders in given locations at least one kilometer and thirty degrees apart. Those senders would transmit and tell the wearer of the transponder exactly when he was going in the wrong direction. It was sort of a compass with a built-in not-that-way-idiot factor.

  The reason that most soldiers were never able to use this wonderful gadget is its designers had never been able to figure a way to plant those senders deep in enemy territory, and therefore the system couldn’t work. It was a fortieth-century Who’ll Bell the Cat.

  Sten flipped on the transponder and touched the SYSTEM CHECK button. They had already planted four transponders around the Temple and should know exactly where they were at any time. However, Sten, having a deep and abiding lack of faith in technology, carried a conventional compass on his belt, as did Alex.

  ‘Ah dinna ken wha w’ be’t hangin’ ’boot, watchin’ drakh.’ Alex grumbled. ‘Ah’m ready t’ test m’ claustrophobia.’

  And he eased forward, down into the cleft. It was a tight fit, and Doc squealed as they went out of sight. Sten lowered himself into the blackness after him.

  Doc’s comfortable ride in Alex’s pack didn’t last much beyond the narrow entrance. The first chest-squeeze in the passage brought a gurgle out of him and a breathless insistence that he was quite capable of walking.

  And so Doc scuttled out of the pack and took the lead. Alex went second and Sten behind. Doc could ferret out the passageways, and, with Kilgour second, the team wouldn’t enter any passageways they couldn’t get out of.

  The cave went exactly as the geosurvey map said and was easily negotiable by bear-walking – bent over, moving on hands and feet. Only two sections required descent to hands and knees. They quickly penetrated about one-thousand meters into the cave. It was far too easy to last.

  It didn’t.

  Doc eeped in alarm as the crawlway came to a sudden end a few centimeters in front of him. He dropped to all four paws and shone his minilight down into the blackness.

  Far, far below, water gleamed.

  Sten and Alex crawled up beside him. Sten moved his head, and his helmet-mounted light flashed across the vertical walls below. ‘Another passageway. There.’ He pointed with the light. The passageway started about four meters above the dark pool that marked the water level.

  Alex unclipped the can of climbing thread from his belt, checked the hardener at the can’s tip, then sprayed a blot of the adhesive on the rock ledge. Then he slid his hands into the built-in grips on the can and wriggled over the edge, letting himself down with short blasts. He dropped until nothing could be seen of him but the bobble of light from his helmet. Doc took two custom-built jumars from his pack, fitted his hands into them, and went down the same thread. Sten, using more conventional jumars, did the same.

  Alex kept going down until he was below the passageway, then clipped and glued the climbing thread to the rock ringing the passage before hoisting himself up into it. The other two were close behind.

  The crawlway became rapidly worse, the roof slowly flattening down on them, until they were forced to hands and knees, elbows and knees, and then to a basic slither.

  The rock ceiling ripped Sten’s uniform as he pushed himself along.

  ‘I am no geologist,’ Doc observed, ‘but does the fact that the ceiling of this passage is wet signify what I suppose?’

  Sten didn’t answer him, though the dampness did imply that the passageway they were snaking along had been recently underwater. If it began raining outside (there would be no way for the cavers to realize this in time), the water level would rise. Sten did not want to consider the various ramifications of drowning in a cave.

  And then he stuck.

  The rocky ceiling bulged and without realizing it Sten had moved under the bulge while inhaling. Stuck! Impossible. That tub Alex made it!

  Sten kicked at the sides of the passageway. Nothing. He felt his chest swell and then his muscles started a hyperventilating beat.

  Stop it. He began the pain mantra. Panic died. He exhaled and slid easily under the obstruction. And the crawl went on.

  Then the cave opened up, its ceiling soaring far beyond the reach of the soldiers’ lights. Crystal of a million colors refracted from their lamps as they got to their feet and walked forward, soft, beachlike sand crunching under their boots.

  Salt and rock formations climbed crazily around them, here a giant morel, there a spiraled gothic cathedral, still another a multi-color twisting snake.

  None of the three found words as they walked through the monstrous room, their light illumining treasures seen by man for this first and only time. And then the treasures fell back into darkness as they went on.

  The stunning chamber came to a rapid end with a vertical wall, a roaring waterfall, and a deep pool. No side passages. No alternates. The cave just stopped.

  Sten puzzled over his map. According to the projection, the chamber should have a lower passage out. And there probably should be no river and waterfall.

  He swore to himself as he realized what had happened. Sometime in the past, an underground river had worn through into the chamber and then dumped straight into the lower passageway. In caver’s jargon, it was called a siphon. Naturally the survey by the geoship could not show something as insubstantial as water.

  So the cave they had to follow did continue. And if the three Mantis soldiers had gills, they would be in no trouble whatsoever … Sten’s thoughts were interrupted as Doc shed his tiny pack and dove into the pool, disappearing.

  ‘Ah suggest w’be watchin’ our wee timepieces,’ Alex said. ‘Since Altairians no ken people dinnae hae th’ ability to stop breathin’ f’r hours a’ ae time.’

  It was four minutes by Sten’s watch when Doc resurfaced and hauled himself, shivering, out of the frigid water. Alex, in spite of protests, shoved the Altarian inside his own shirt to warm him up.

  ‘It goes down three meters, then level for possibly another four. There is one narrow place, but I would think it passable. Then you hulking beings will have to turn your bodies through ninety degrees, into a small chamber with an exit to atmosphere directly overhead.’

  Sten and Alex eyed each other. Then Sten motioned for Alex to go.

  ‘Na, lad. Y’mus do’t. Ah’ll bring up th’ rear.’

  Sten took a dozen deep breaths, enough to saturate his lungs but without going into hyperventilation. He unslung his pack and belt, clipped them together, and jumped, feet first, into the water.

  Blackness. Muddy water. Light just a glow. Down. Down. Cold. Sten could feel the rock close in as he hit the bottom of the passage, rolled, and kicked himself forward. The floor came up, grinding against Sten’s gut, then he was through, his heart throbbing, then his fingers touched rock. He felt to the side and found the tight spot. Sten jackknifed and inched his way into the chamber. Skin shredded as he struggled through, hung in the tiny rock womb, then kicked off from the bottom, hand above his head and through the crack and up through dark waters, eardrums pounding and heart throbbing and lights beginning at the back of his eyes. He surfaced, gasping deeply, then swam for a beach illuminated by his helmet light.

  As he crawled up onto the beach something splashed beside him, and Doc flopped onto dry land, then sat, looking miserable, his fur wet and bedraggled.

  Back in the passage, Alex was well and truly trapped. His body simply would not bend far enough to make the jackknife turn. Alex wondered to himself why he could never remember times like these when some Mantis quack suggested he could stand to shed a few kilos.

  As yet, he was unworried. His enormous lungs had more than enough air. P’raps, laddie, Ah’ll turn aboot an’ go back an’ consider whae t’ do next. P’raps, e’en, Ah’ll hae t’ let young Sten carry on w’oot me.

  Alex then discovered he couldn’t turn back around, either. So he kicked forward a
nd tried the jackknife again, with even less success.

  Alex realized he was starting to drown.

  Th’ hell Ah am, he thought in sudden rage. Ee yon mountain comit nae t’ Mahamet, he thought, as he brought his knees up to touch the rock wall in front of the passageway, gripped the rock rim, and thrust.

  It was not true, despite stories told later in Mantis bars, that the earth moved. But what did happen is a half-meter-square square of living rock ripped free, coming toward the dim glow of Alex’s light.

  And then he was rolling into the chamber and frogging his way up for air and light.

  He surfaced like a blowing whale, then thrashed his way to shore. Sten, sheepishly treading water just above the hole Alex had come out of, had been getting ready for a nonsensical and impossible rescue dive. He swam toward the small beach, in Alex’s considerable wake.

  ‘Ah thought Ah sae aye fish’t Ah knew’ was Alex’s only explanation for the delay, and the team continued.

  From there it was easy. The transponder pointed them directly to where one of the enormous poured-and-reinforced columns came through the cave’s roof. A small demo charge cracked the side of the column enough for the three to enter.

  Then it was just a matter of the three exhausted, bedraggled beings chimneying their way up seven-hundred meters of glass-smooth wet concrete.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  It wasn’t much of a diversionary attack. But then it wasn’t supposed to be. But battle plans, including phony diversions, never work out exactly as they should. Mantis section and the seventy-odd mercenaries who weren’t immediately hospitalized had planned to assemble outside one of the Temple’s secondary gates, snipe any Companion stupid enough to stick his head above the walls, fire all the available pyrotechnics and light artillery at the gates, and, finally, whoop and holler a lot while Sten and Alex went for Mathias.

  Even though she probably belonged in an intensive care capsule, Ffillips insisted on being present. She was quite happily functioning as Ida’s loader while the Rom woman directed bursts of 50mm fire at one of the Temple’s gates.

  ‘Of course I’m not saying there’s no place for mercenaries,’ Ida explained. ‘It’s merely a dumb way to make a credit.’

  ‘Some of us,’ Ffillips managed as she dumped another clip of shells into a loading trough, ‘don’t have any other choice.’

  ‘Clottin’ hell!’ Ida snorted. ‘There’s always a choice.’

  ‘Even for a mercenary?’ Ffillips asked dubiously.

  ‘Certainly. A good killer would be a wonderful banker. Or diplomat. Or in commodities, which I can tell you privately is a guaranteed mill-credit career.’

  Ffillips was trying to decide whether Ida was joking when a burst caught the Temple gate on one of its hinges and proved that the contractor who had built the Temple had been no more honest than most public-works builders.

  The entire gate pinwheeled into the air, leaving a clear entrance to the Temple. Suddenly the diversionary attack turned quite real as the mercs howled – a long, curdling wolfpack sound – and ran forward.

  Lean, bloody men and women with death in their eyes and revenge in their guts.

  Ida flumped into the self-propelled gun’s seat and cranked the engine. With Ffillips still loading, Ida gunned the SP track into the Temple’s main courtyard.

  Behind her Bet and the two tigers followed silently.

  Chapter Seventy

  ‘Which way will it blow?’ Sten whispered while examining the tiny ring charge that was anchored to the top of the hollow column.

  Sten, Alex, and Doc were five meters below the charge that when set off should let them into the Temple. They were locked in place with treble strands of climbing thread.

  ‘Ah, lad, questions ae thae be’t whae makit life in’trestin’,’ Alex breathed as he triggered the demoset.

  The column’s cap lifted, as did the floorbeams above it and then the flagstone that was the central Temple’s actual flooring.

  The flagstone tumbled in the air and chopped down two guards, one Companion, and a statue of the late Theodomir.

  Alex, Sten, and Doc shinnied their way up the last few meters, and then they were inside the Temple.

  They went looking for Mathias.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Ida was leaning half out of her seat and completely unprotected by the track’s armor when the Companion finished reloading. She was reaching for a banner that looked like it was made of gold when four rounds slammed into the Rom woman’s chest. She sagged across the track’s bow and rolled sacklike to the ground as the unmanned track stalled. A look of surprise, anger, and vast disappointment was frozen on her face.

  Bet cradled Ida in her arms as Hugin and Munin finished their slow savaging of the Companion who had shot her. Then Bet lowered Ida to the ground and jumped to her feet, mind blank and firing, and the ground rocked and thundered as the Anti-Matter-Two rounds poured out of her willygun, exploding the platoon of Companions running toward her.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Mathias’ advisors died in the first burst of fire as Sten and Alex charged through the double doors, into the conference room. The advisors had been too busy watching the debacle in the courtyard one-hundred meters below the balcony to hear the death-rattles of the guards outside the chamber. For which minor error they became very dead.

  Mathias stood, looking unsurprised at the carnage, as Doc slid out of Alex’s pack and unlimbered the hypo. Alex kept Mathias in the sights of his willygun as the Prophet walked slowly forward.

  ‘I have been expecting you,’ Mathias said. ‘My best friend and my worst enemy.’

  He shrugged out of his red tunic and flexed his muscles. His hands knotted into fists. Sten waited.

  ‘And now we decide the Truth of Talamein,’ Mathias said softly as he came in.

  Sten thought of the careful reasonings and appeals to friendship that he’d come up with to avoid this confrontation. Useless. He shrugged out of his pack and moved forward.

  As Mathias’ hand flashed back, behind him to his belt, and came out with a small projectile weapon. The pistol came up and Sten double-stepped into him, right foot coming up in a sweep-kick, and the weapon pinwheeled out of Mathias’ hand.

  Sten kept the kick moving, then recovered, his back to Mathias. Sensing Mathias was coming in he crouched, arm high, and half-spun back to face the Prophet, arm raised to block the snap-punch Mathias had launched.

  Both men recovered and side-paced.

  ‘You don’t have to die,’ Sten said.

  ‘Of course,’ Mathias agreed. ‘And I shall not. Not now, not here, not ever. This is the Test of the Flame.’ And, gymnast that he was, he came straight in, a mae-tobi-geri flying frontal attack.

  Sten one-stepped under Mathias, snap-punched straight up into his thigh, rolled away as the Prophet crashed back down, then recovered as Mathias drove a knife hand toward Sten’s head.

  Sten flicked his head to the side, and Mathias’ killing punch slammed across his temple and ear.

  Sten knife-blocked before Mathias could recover and thudded a flat palm into Mathias’ temple. Temporarily stunned, the Prophet back-rolled twice and came to his feet, half smiling.

  ‘You are a worthy opponent.’ He drove in again. Sten blocked his swing-punch, and then Mathias’ fist-strike came down on Sten’s skull.

  The world blurred and went double. Sten snapped his blocking hand into Mathias’ gut and, contradicting conventional tactics, dove flat-forward, ball-rolling, rising, and turning as Mathias attacked.

  A punching attack, blocked twice, in eye-blurring motion. Sten snapped a knee up into Mathias’ diaphragm, and the man sagged back.

  Then Sten’s single, half-cupped hand swung, slapping Mathias’ eardrum. A two-hand stroke would have killed him, but the single blow merely sent his mind spinning, and, for the first time, Mathias lost his balance, stumbling backward.

  And Sten paced in, step … punch … step … punch … knuckled fist turni
ng and thudding in below the Prophet’s ribcage. Mathias doubled.

  A final feint as his fisted, coupled hands came up for Sten’s face. Sten locked wrists, drove the strike up, and then, howling, leaped straight up into the air, his foot coming up and out and buried into the Prophet’s chest.

  Mathias back-flipped and struck the floor behind him with a dull thud.

  Then Doc was at Mathias’ side, quickly checking his pulse. ‘Adequate, adequate,’ he murmured, as he pressed the hypo’s trigger and the drug sprayed into Mathias’ veins.

  ‘You probably broke some bones, but you didn’t kill him.’

  Sten was not listening. He was dropped down into semilotus, lungs sucking in air as he recovered.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Bet’s flashes in the courtyard: Ida’s body; Ffillips calmly sniping down Companions as they came into sight; Otho, evidently trying to find a Companion who could be thrown completely through a stone wall; the tigers, impossibly low, crawling under a firewall of tracers, then darting into a weapons pit. End tracers. Begin screams.

  And then she heard the voice – the boom that turned the din of battle into a sudden hush as Companions, mercs, and Mantis people turned, to look up the looming wall of the Temple to the balcony.

  On the balcony stood Mathias, with a hailer-mike hung on his chest. ‘I SPEAK AS TALAMEIN.’

  The battle stopped instantly. The Companions flinched upward, then recovered, waiting for the war to start again. But the mercenaries were as captivated as any, staring up at the red-clad figure high above them.

  The Companions made obeisance as the voice continued. Stiff, metallic, but forceful.

  ‘I have chosen to temporarily inhabit this envelope of flesh to speak to you, people of the Faith and the Flame.

  ‘And I have chosen to manifest myself in this sin-riddled flesh to keep my people from falling into the pit of heresy.