Sten and the Mutineers

by Allan Cole

  “So, they’re frozen in indecision, right sir?” Sten said. “They got their blood up, but now a large minority of them are sorry. And they are looking for a way out.”

  “All we have to do,” Mahoney said, “is beat Venatora’s price.”

  “And amnesty, sir,” Sten said. “You said they wanted amnesty.”

  “That I did,” Mahoney said. “And you can offer it to them.”

  A long silence followed. As Sten and the others thought this through, Mahoney could see doubt written on all of their faces.

  Finally, Sten said, “So, we’ll be giving them my word, sir?” Sten ventured. “About the amnesty?”

  “You will,” Mahoney said.

  “They’ll get the ransom money, then go free,” Sten pressed. “That’s what we’ll be saying, right?”

  “Yes,” Mahoney said. “That’s exactly what you should say. And you should also swear them to secrecy. Not a word of this incident can get out. If it does, the amnesty is off. And they’ll all be given fair trial. And then shot.”

  “So as not to encourage similar incidents, right, sir?” Sten said—rather tentatively. Suspicion prickled the back of his neck.

  “Exactly,” Mahoney said. “After they agree, you just have to give us a whistle and I’ll have a task force near at hand to take charge.”

  Sten thought a minute, then said, “What about Venatora, sir?” he asked. “She’s not just going to stand by and let all this happen without interfering.”

  “I don’t expect she will,” Mahoney said.

  “So what should we do about her, sir?” he asked. “What are your orders?”

  “The Emperor wants her dead,” Mahoney said. “Just as dead as she can be.”

  Mahoney’s holo image started to waver, then just before it blinked out, Ian leaned in and the image steadied.

  “Don’t forget Gregor,” Mahoney said. “His daddy wants him back.”

  And then he was gone.

  “Clot Gregor,” Sten said. “And clot his daddy, too.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  GREGOR

  Gregor stared morosely at the dinner plate. It was divided into three sections. Drakh-brown glop with lumps the size of marbles filled the largest section.

  This was the entrée. He’d never had the nerve to ask what the lumps were.

  More glop formed a mound in the second section—but it was grayish green with yellow streaks and had the consistency of garbage-pail slime.

  This was the starch.

  The third section contained the alleged sweet. It was purplish glop, with orange spots.

  He sighed and with great reluctance jabbed a plas spoon into the brown glop. Raised it to his lips, trying not to notice the long, snot-like strings stretching between spoon and plate.

  Gregor got ready. The trick was not to breathe. He stuck the spoon into his mouth—face contorting at the taste—and then he forced himself to swallow, half gagging and choking as he got it down.

  He let his breath out in whoosh, grabbed a mug of badly-recycled water, and drank it down, doing his damndest to dilute the disgusting taste.

  The water was almost as bad as the brown glop and for a moment he thought the battle was lost and nearly vomited. By sheer force of will he kept it down. Then he slumped back in his chair, gathering the courage and strength to start on the starchy slime.

  Gregor began by cursing the traitorous crew members in general and their back-stabbing ringleaders in particular for humiliating him so. He was their Captain, by God. A being they had sworn to obey when they joined the Emperor’s Merchant Service. It was as solemn an oath as any Imperial sailor made.

  Well, almost as solemn. They weren’t really professionals. Only quasi-military, as some of his old prep-school chums cruelly reminded him when they got together at their fathers’ clubs. But only a few dared say it to his face. And then only if they were drunk enough to forget just how important his old man was.

  His dad, Lord Wichman, was not only the president and CEO of Wichman XII, the most exclusive resort planet in the Empire, but he had been presented at court, was a board member on a dozen or more vital businesses and industries, and was a regular honored guest at the annual Empire Day festivities at Arundel Castle.

  When Gregor was a lad, he’d actually sat in the same box as the Eternal Emperor. During one performance an aerialist had slipped and fell thirty feet, hitting the ground so hard it looked like she bounced.

  It was one of the funniest things Gregor had ever seen—the young woman’s arms flailing, the gaping fish-like look on her face, emitting hilarious squeaky noises, topped off by the humorous double bounce when she hit the ground.

  Naturally, he’d laughed, and then he heard someone snort and he turned to see that the Emperor was looking at him. And he was smiling. Well, it was sort of a smile. On bad nights—and there had been many since he washed out of the Guard several years before—it seemed to him that the smile looked more like a grimace of disgust.

  But when he woke with the cold sweats, he calmed himself by thinking that at the worst it was merely the look of royal indigestion.

  Remembering the self-doubt, Gregor’s stomach roiled, and he pushed the plate of three glops away. Please, God, why did he have to eat this swill? There was plenty of good food in his private locker—seized by the mutineers, no doubt.

  Zheng and the others were probably enjoying his larder this very minute. Laughing at him all the while. All those delicacies: real beef steak, lobster, caviar, pâté, foie gras, plus all those special breads and cheeses and other gourmet treats. Washed down with fine wines and champagne.

  Instead, they were feeding him the barest minimum. Contractually, merchantmen were entitled to three BCM (Basic Crew Meal) containers a day, totaling 1,800 calories for humans, with different nutritional requirements for ETs.

  Gregor was a little over two meters in height, and before starvation had been forced on him, he weighed a slightly chubby 88 kilos. He didn’t know how much he weighed now, but there was no chub at all on his frame, and his uniform hung off him like a clown suit.

  Of course, no one in their right mind would eat this garbage, much less try to subsist on it. Which is why Gregor, who considered himself an enlightened captain, had instituted a generous program with special menus for a small percentage of the crew members’ wages.

  Naturally he made a profit, but his father had taught him that profit was as essential to life as clean air—which was another little side business Gregor had going.

  For a fair price, sweet-smelling air—instead of the oily recycled shipboard atmosphere—could be had by turning a nozzle above each being’s bunk.

  It was sweet and cool and made for easy sleep. Of course, if a being wasn’t frugal and was burdened with family responsibilities, they obviously couldn’t afford that inexpensive luxury and nothing but foul air would be emitted when the nozzle was turned.

  But that was to be expected. Fair was fair. After all, Gregor wasn’t in the charity business. And he worked hard to supplement his wages and the allowance his father regularly banked for him. He constantly, and assiduously, searched for new ways to turn a profit.

  Skimming and reselling supplies, buying refurbished equipment and clothing for the crew and pocketing the difference, as well as selling favorable shifts and appointments whenever the opportunity arose. And charging for little things, like emergency leave to visit ailing family members.

  It wasn’t much, but when it came to maintaining a ship and crew of 129, as well as a 125-kilometer-long space-train, even a small percentage made a handsome sum when the mission ended.

  And if a crew member made so bold as to complain, Gregor heaped on enough demerits so they could never go on leave and spread these subversive objections to others.

  Gregor repositioned the dish of three glops. He had to eat, damn it. The mutiny was alr
eady over a month old; no telling when the ordeal would end. He had to keep his strength up. His wits keen. And keep a constantly lookout for anything that might aid his chances of survival.

  Gingerly, he stabbed the spoon into the purple blob with orange stripes. As a sweet it would surely have more calories, so he might not have to eat as much.

  He held his breath.

  Took a bite.

  Then vomited his guts on the floor.

  He was bent over heaving when the cabin door banged open. There was silence. Then laughter. He looked up to see Zheng’s gloating face.

  Zheng was short and squat and had a habit of constantly licking his lips with a shockingly pink tongue. Not unlike a toad, Gregor thought.

  Behind him was Rual, a tall, skeletal, vaguely humanoid female of indeterminate age. She had a long, stern face with large, black unblinking eyes. Gregor had never seen her smile, much less laugh.

  “Gutt damn! Vhat a filthy miststuck you be, Gregor,” Zheng said. “Drakh for brains, also you have.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at Rual. “I think maybe Poppa had to pay somebody big credits to make him captain.”

  Rual measured him with cold eyes. Gregor shivered. “If we can’t get a deal with the Emperor,” she said, “I want to be the one who cuts his throat.”

  Before Zheng could answer, someone else came forward. It was Shaklin. A tall, handsome young man with dark skin, beaded dreadlocks, and misty brown eyes that always seemed as if they were searching for things no one else could see.

  “Zheng, you swore there would be no killing,” he said, elbowing Rual aside. “Otherwise, my teammates and I would have never agreed to join you.”

  Shaklin was a self-proclaimed bishop of the Church of the Universal Location, a religion Gregor had never heard of before. More importantly, he and his team of nineteen beings came from a race of tribal navigators who had obsessively roamed their home planet, mapping every conceivable position, from the molten interior to the upper atmosphere and eventually on to uttermost space. In short, they were the only beings aboard the Flame who could safely navigate from one place to next. They were also the ace up Zheng’s sleeve. If boarders threatened the ship, Shaklin and his team could swiftly plot a series of jumps so complicated they would be impossible to follow.

  Rual clearly wasn’t happy with Shaklin’s interference. Her hand went to the haft of the long knife sheathed in her belt.

  “If we take Venatora’s deal,” she said, “we won’t need Gregor—or you. So back the clot off, holy man.”

  Then she turned to Gregor. “In fact,” she said, “I have a mind to kill the scrote right now. To slice his lying throat from ear to ear.”

  As she advanced on him, Gregor felt sudden wetness at his crotch.

  “Please,” he squeaked to the others. “Please!”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A MATTER OF PROFIT

  Gregor shrank back in his bunk as Rual came for him, pulling the long knife from her belt.

  But then to his enormous relief Shaklin stepped between them, blocking her.

  A nasty grin creased Rual’s face. “Don’t mind doing you first, Holy Man,” she said. “You and your teammates are always acting like you’re better than the rest of us.”

  “Now, now,” Zheng broke in. “We here all be shipmates. Very rich shipmates, soon to be. Quarrel, we must not.”

  He put a restraining hand on Rual’s knife arm. “Shaklin, a good man is he,” Zheng said in his most soothing voice. “In his head, he lives. In his church, he lives. Beings, all equal, he believes.”

  Gregor could see the war going on in Rual’s face. She badly wanted to kill Gregor and didn’t give a damn one way or another if Shaklin had to go first. Whether Shaklin was a good man or not had no bearing on what was going to happen next. But by sheer force of will, the canny Zheng was getting a far more important message across. Without Shaklin and his crew the whole enterprise would fail and they’d all soon be against the wall facing an Imperial firing squad.

  Rual sighed and stepped away, sheathing her blade. Now Zheng turned to Shaklin, who was clearly furious at being threatened. Zheng gave Shaklin’s shoulder a comradely squeeze.

  “Mind not our Rual’s temper,” he said. “Sometimes, too hot it becomes.”

  Rual’s face reddened and Zheng hastily added, “And good reason for this temper, she has.” He indicated Gregor. “Much suffering, this man has caused our Rual.”

  Gregor snorted. This was too much.

  “It’s not my fault she’s a gambling addict,” Gregor said. “I put in that gaming area in the Rec Room for the entertainment of the crew. And at my own expense, I might add.”

  He pointed an accusing finger at Rual. “She’s in there every minute off shift dumping credits into the machines. Why, I even caught her in there gaming during work hours. Having her fun on company time.”

  Fury once again overtook Rual. Drawing her knife, she pushed past the other two men and would have buried it hilt deep into Gregor’s chest if Shaklin hadn’t grabbed her wrist and spun her around.

  While Gregor cowered in his bunk, Rual struggled, screaming curses and threats. She nearly broke away. But then Zheng jumped in and helped Shaklin disarm her.

  Rual collapsed, shedding bitter tears. “Gone, gone,” she moaned. “Every credit I had in savings. My pension fund. I even took money from my own family.”

  She jabbed an accusing finger at Gregor. “The machines are rigged,” she said. “The concessionaire at the last port told me so himself. He was chuffed because the captain made him pull his machines—machines with fair odds approved by the company—and installed his own.”

  Frightened as he was, Gregor couldn’t help but feel a flash of pride. It had been one of his cleverest moves. Not only had he fixed the odds so they were more favorable to the House—meaning himself—but he’d installed a special program that targeted certain individuals.

  It sussed out weak-willed scrotes like Rual and played them like a cat toying with its prey. Letting them win a few rounds—sometimes even for large sums of money. Then, wham! The gaming fist would come slamming down. The mark would be taken for every credit he possessed, and then a loan program would pop up, offering usurious interest rates for immediate gratification. And when that was gone, the hacked names and contact numbers of friends and relatives would appear, and the mark would be enticed to contact them immediately for loans.

  The program even offered suggestions the mark could use to wheedle money from those who hesitated. A fictitious daughter suffering from an equally fictitious malady. Or, the mark might be encouraged to say the child had been kidnapped, possibly even injured.

  The wheedling possibilities were endless.

  It wasn’t Gregor’s fault that Rual and her ilk were all such willing liars. Such low class beings that they’d bankrupt their own loved ones to feed their filthy habits. They were born victims and would more than likely die victims.

  He shook his head in disgust. “Not my fault,” he whispered.

  To his horror, it seemed that Rual had only been shamming. Waiting for her chance. As the others gaped at Gregor for speaking so foolishly, she jumped for him.

  Somehow the knife was in her hand again, the sharp edge gleaming in the cabin light.

  The blade swung, and Gregor screamed in pain as the it slashed across his chest. Hot blood spilling.

  Once again, the blade slashed at him, but somehow Shaklin got there in time and grabbed Rual’s wrist.

  Then Zheng stepped in, embracing Rual. The fury drained away, and she collapsed into his arms, weeping and sobbing that she was sorry, so sorry.

  And Zheng was saying, “Never mind. Never mind. Soon, put right all will be. More credits than dreams you will ever have. And fixed, your family will be. Proud of you again, they will be.”

  Meanwhile, Shaklin had rustled up a
first aid kit. Skillfully, he stripped off Gregor’s shirt and dabbed the wound with cotton swatches.

  “It’s not so bad,” he said. “Maybe only six or seven staples will do the job.”

  Gregor gasped as she poured a stinging liquid into his wound. Then he was groaning in pain as she got out the medical stapler and hit him six, then seven, then eight times.

  Tears streamed down Gregor’s face. “You could have used the anesthetic,” he said, pointing at the slender cylinder next to the bandages. “It’s there in plain sight.”

  Shaklin snorted derision. “You’re lucky I wasn’t holding the knife,” he said. “If anyone has the right to take your life it’s me.” A single tear ran down his cheek. “You are the reason Pegatha was taken from us.”

  Desperate, Gregor grabbed the cylinder and pressed it next to the wound. There was a slight sting and then the pain vanished. Gregor sank back in his bunk, drawing in deep breaths to regain a modicum of control.

  And with control came a feeling of bitter resentment. Shaklin’s remark had been so unfair. The accusation as false as it was scurrilous. It wasn’t his fault Shaklin’s mate had died. An airlock malfunction. She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  True, a port maintenance inspector had spotted the faulty airlock seal. But replacing it would have put Gregor so far behind schedule that it endangered his mission bonus.

  Besides, the inspector said it wasn’t that serious and was happy to sign off on the airlock—plus all the Flame’s other maintenance difficulties—for a hefty fee. Well, not so hefty that Gregor couldn’t expect a handsome profit when he received his well-deserved bonus.

  Gregor had been taught by his father, Lord Wichman, that profit was life’s Holy Grail. And for profit, there will always be risk. Sometimes risk might cause discomfort for a few beings. But that was the price one must be willing to pay for success.

  It briefly occurred to Gregor that Shaklin and the other mutineers might be presently engaged in just that sort of risk taking. Betting their lives against the chance of great profit.