Battlecry: Sten: Omnibus One (Sten Omnibus) (48 page)

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.

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.

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.

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.

‘Still,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t notified. No work done ’less I’m notified.’

Sten shrugged. He and Alex climbed back into the gravsled. Sten
keyed a report on the tiny onboard computer, then printed it and handed the hard copy to the guard. ‘Sign it.’

The guard stared at it, his eyes widening.

‘This says I refused you entrance. You’re blaming me ’cause you can’t fix the welder.’

‘Gotta blame somebody,’ Sten said. ‘Might as well be you. Look. Be a nice guy. Sign it. We leave. And then it’s party time tonight.’

The guard handed the report back, shaking his head. ‘Go do your work.’

‘Ah, come on,’ Sten said. ‘Give us a clottin’ break. I wanna go home.’

But the guard was firm. He pointed at the building. ‘Fix it.’

Reluctantly Sten and Alex climbed back out of their gravsled, loaded up their tools, and, with a few ‘clots’ thrown over their shoulder, began the weary climb to the fifteenth floor.

Ida and Doc piled over the turret top, into the track. On the ground beside it, the Companion lieutenant was moaning into unconsciousness. After the two had done a quick fiddle with one of the Mantis Section’s Hotwire Anything Kits, they’d crept back into the track park. It was unfortunate – for the lieutenant – that he’d come around the wrong corner at the wrong time. Ida’d forearmed him in the gut and Doc had tranked the man, but not before nearly biting through his leg.

Ida fumbled the box out of her purse, looking at the controls.

‘Over there,’ Doc said, pointing at the SP cannon’s security/ignition case. Within seconds Ida had the box epoxied on the case, and the box had analyzed and broken the three-sequence number code that brought the track to life.

As Ida fired the engine up, she settled into the gunner/driver’s seat then pushed the track controls forward and hunched a little.

‘Hang on, Doc. This is gonna be a clottin’ great ride.’

The SP cannon’s tracks raised great gouts of spray, and then, as Ida yanked one control stick all the way back, the track spun in its own length and churned out of the park toward the armory.

Alex allowed himself one genteel Edinburghian wheeze as he and Sten dumped their duffle bags on the wooden planking covering the Theodomir building’s fifteenth story.

Sten fished through one bag and took out a grapnel gun. He fitted the spool line to the grapnel’s shaft while Alex neatly coiled cable from the second duffle bag.

Then Sten took careful aim at the prison’s roof below through the gun’s vee-sights. He fired and with a whoosh the grapnel drifted toward its target, spooling out light silver line.

Bet signaled the tigers. Hugin and Munin flashed forward out of the alley mouth, bounding in rippling shadows toward the gate of the armory. A few meters from it, they split and darted unnoticed to either side of the gate. They slipped into shadows and became invisible, the only movement an occasional flash of a whipping tail.

Bet patted Otho on his hulking shoulder. She walked out from the alleyway and began ankling toward the steel guardshack.

She was wearing her most prim-but-revealing peasant costume. A summer dress that hugged her body but allowed her long limbs to flash out freely. She acted unsure, vulnerable, little-girl-lost. Without hestitation she walked straight toward the guardshack.

A young, handsome Companion stepped out. ‘May I help you, sister?’

She opened her eyes as wide as they could go. ‘Oh, yes, sir. I’m hoping you could. I’ve never been to the Holy City before, and … and …’

‘You’re lost?’

Bet gulped and gave a shy nod.

‘We were all with the village priest,’ she gushed, all over-explanation ‘The Talamein youth group – and one of the boys got, well, you know … too friendly, and – and …’ Bet stopped doing the galaxy’s best blush.

‘You left the group.’ The guard was all understanding, and protective.

Bet nodded.

‘And now you need to know how to get to the hostel?’

Bet nodded again.

The guard pointed down the street. ‘Just down there, sister. A few hundred meters.’

Bet gulped her thanks and began, with an innocent wiggle, to head for the hostel.

‘I’ll stand right here,’ the young Companion shouted after her, ‘and make sure you’re all right.’

Bet waved her thanks and moved on, tentatively, slowly. Tripping over little potholes – all Princess and the Pea. She heard gates clang open behind her and then the sound of bootsteps. The changing of the guard was right on time.

She nodded at the mouth of the alley. A moment later Otho staggered out, a shambling, stumbling drunken Bhor. He bleared at Bet, gave a huge smile, belched, and trundled forward. ‘By my mother’s beard,’ he shouted. ‘Here’s a find.’

Bet shrieked, tried to run, and caught a heel in the cobblestones. She fell heavily. An instant later Otho was falling on her. Laughing and gathering her up in his huge and hairy arms. The theory was that no one dumb enough to be a Companion would be bright enough to realize that, to a Bhor, breeding with a human was only slightly less revolting and impossible than with a streggan.

Otho pretended not to hear the shouts from the onrushing Companion and the other guards.

‘Just my luck,’ he chortled at Bet. ‘Now, don’t be afraid, little lady. Otho is going to—’

He grunted in pain as the Companion slammed into him. He twisted off Bet, wrapped a mighty arm around the Companion and there was a sharp crack as the man’s back broke.

Just behind him, a second Companion gaped in surprise. Bet shot him and he dropped without a sound.

Shouts. Clanking. Sounds of confusion. Bet looked up to see the guards gaping. There were about twenty men pointing and yelling. Weapons were coming up.

Bet put two fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly. The entire street seemed to rumble as the tigers roared and bounded out of their hiding spots, straight into the guards.

Guts trailing, three men went under before the rest knew what was happening. Hugin and Munin bounded among them, ripping, clawing, and tearing. There was immediate panic.

Guns went off, and bullets ripped into Companions instead of tigers.

Then, as a melée, the Companions fled back into the guard tunnel, fighting each other to be first.

It was a long, narrow tunnel with gates at each end. The one on the street side had been opened for the changing of the guards. Security required that the other – the only other exit – be closed.

Companions on the inside of the armory gaped in horror as their friends charged toward them and beat on the bars helplessly as Hugin and Munin tore into them.

Panicked men were climbing the portcullis, trying to squeeze through the slots. And being dragged down.

A guard on the inside violated orders and slapped a button to
open the interior gates. As the few Companions still alive spilled through, the guard raised his weapon to fire at the tigers. Before he could shoot, his head exploded.

Bet and Otho ran yelling and firing into the interior courtyard. The way to the armory was open.

Sten and then Alex clipped wheeled guides to the slender cable. The monastery was about twenty meters below them and about one hundred meters away.

Sten tugged experimentally on the wheel’s tee-handles. Then held on tight and, without a word, he lifted his feet and began the long, fast slide down toward the monastery roof. He held his breath as his speed grew with every meter of drooping cable. Behind him he heard a low hum as Alex followed.

The roof was coming up fast, and Sten got ready for the shock of landing. Just before he hit, he was textbook-perfect limp and ready. As he slammed into the prison roof, he heard alarms begin to howl. He tumbled back to his feet and was scrabbling a grenade from his pack as he heard the loud thunk of Alex’s landing.

Alex did a shoulder roll, Sten pointed, and they sprinted across the roof.

One roof guard got a shot off at them, and Alex cut him in half with a burst from his willygun. They paused about thirty meters from the roof’s inside edge. Sten quickly checked for the proper vent, making a mark on his mental map.

‘This one,’ he yelled, simultaneously spinning the timer wheel on the grenade’s primer to seven seconds. Alex had three more grenades out of his pack and ready. They dropped the cluster down the shaft and double-timed away.

Four, five, six
, and the grenades exploded. The blast sent Alex and Sten sprawling, their ears thundering. Smoke billowed as they ran back to the hole in the roof.

Alex dug a can of climbing thread from his small backpack, anchored one end on the roof, and, holding the can, ‘sprayed’ himself down into the prison.

Sten snapped a special figure-8 descender on the thread – it would have cut through any conventional piece of abseiling gear – and followed. He dropped the last few meters clear, landing beside the heavy-worlder. Then Sten was up and running down a long, stone-walled corridor.

Through the thick walls they could hear the drumming of booted feet. A door smashed open, a confusion of men rushed out, firing.

Bullets splattered around them as Sten and Alex opened fire at the same instant. Sten leaped over dead and dying men and sprinted toward the end of the corridor.

A solid metal door stood between them and Ffillips. Sten slapped a demo pack to the door, thumbed the button, and ducked. There was an explosion and the door dropped in one molten sheet.

Sten and Alex fired two deadly bursts at a group of Companions behind them and thundered down the corridor toward the main cells.

The alarms were screaming help … help … help … through the emptying streets.

Ida and Doc waited for help to come up the Avenue of Tombs, either for the armory or the prison beyond it. Ida had quickly figured out the simple twin-stick controls and Doc had worked out the loading mechanism of the track’s quad cannon.

They shared a bar of protein and, in the eating of the foul stuff, had agreed to not disagree. Then they heard the rumble of the reinforcements coming. Ida started to fire up the track.

‘Wait,’ Doc advised.

Ida buried an impatient obscenity and waited.

Then, through the acquisition scope, Ida saw the reinforcements coming. The first to spin into the street were SP tracks identical to the one they rode in. Next came a mass of Companions on foot.

‘Now,’ Doc said.

Ida shoved the track-brakes/throttles forward, and, tracks-clanking, the SP cannon moved out into the middle of the street. Before the others had time to react, she had begun firing.

The street became a sudden volcano as shell after shell crashed into the oncoming tracks and men.

Doc was a flurry of unending activity as he loaded the guns almost as quickly as Ida could fire. He did wish, however, that he could take a look through her scope at the gore in the streets.

Sten shoved the tiny demofinger into the cell door and shielded his eyes. A low glow, then a ping, and the door swung open.

Ffillips stepped out and gave Sten a long, steady look. ‘You took your time coming, Colonel,’ she said.

‘A little close,’ Sten admitted.

‘Excellent. Now we’re free. Where are our weapons?’

Sten grabbed her by the arm and led the way. Behind her thronged the other mercenaries.

*

The mercenaries poured out the gates of the prison. The guards might have been able to handle a break by convicts. But not by trained, experienced soldiers who armed themselves as they went, from dead guards.

Once free, they pounded down the street toward the armory. Just beyond it they could see the blazing track that Doc and Ida were using to hold off the Companions.

Then they were through the tunnel and inside the armory itself. Bet and Otho had already broken open the arms room and they were passing out weapons, grenades, and belts of ammunition.

It was like candy.

Professional soldiers don’t have much use for battlecries but the time spent in Mathias’ dungeons had made the mercs a little less than cold-bloodedly professional. Shouting and cheering, they spread out through the gates of Sanctus, always after their ordered goal, but keeping an eye out for humiliations that had to be repaid:

Ffillips was the first to spot a small company of Companions. She motioned to a squad of her men, and quickly, silently they slipped forward.

And the mercenaries gave the Companions a far easier death than they had planned for the mercenaries.

It was the same across the city, as the mercs fanned out, killing efficiently and coldly. Hunting out the Companions and swinging their guns aside when civilians stumbled into their sights.