The Wolf Worlds

by Chris Bunch

  Finally the silver-haired woman said, with obvious reluctance, "Lift the siege for us. Then give us three days to re-supply."

  Sten smiled.

  Sten's first analysis was that mercenaries work for pay, or for beloved/feared/respected leaders, or possibly even for idealism. Ho. Ho. Ho. None of the latter two applied to these tax collectors.

  Second analysis, as he and Alex crouched in the brush behind the "tax collector's" headquarters, was that no matter how high they promoted him, he better never get so lazy, luxury-loving, and sloppy.

  The setup was pretty plush. Five tracks, which should've been on line, were semicircled in front of the headquarters. The headquarters unit was three com tracks, two soft-skinned computer vehicles, one security-monitor half-track, and one extended-base track that was the unit leader's quarters.

  Most of the tracks had their rear ramps dropped, and light gleamed through the small camp. What perimeter human guards there were had been positioned well within the light circle, so Sten knew they'd be night-blind.

  Sten kicked Alex's outstretched foot. "Time to take the palace, Sergeant." Alex rolled to his feet, and the two cat-footed forward toward the headquarters.

  Sten was within two meters of the first guard when he was spotted. The man's projectile weapon came off his shoulder— on his clottin' shoulder!—to somewhere between present and port arms.

  "Halt." Bored challenge.

  Sten didn't answer.

  Simultaneous: guard realizing two men were coming in on him/his weapon coming down/hand toward trigger/Sten inside his guard.

  Very smoothly… step in… right hand back, left forward. Hipsnap and Sten's cupped right hand shot forward. It crashed into the sentry's chin, and his head snapped back. The man was probably dead, but Sten continued the attack, one sidestep and the edge of the hand straight across the man's larynx. Catch the body and ease it to the ground.

  And then they were both running.

  Alex rolled a fire-grenade into the security-monitor halftrack, flat-dove as another sentry fired a burst into his own camp, rounds whining off armor, and was back on his feet just as an alarmed tech peered out of one of the computer vehicles, saw Alex, and yanked the door closed.

  Alex's fingers grabbed the door, centimeters from slamming, and three-gee muscles yanked. The door skrawked completely off its hinges and went spinning away.

  One of the techs inside was grabbing for a pistol. Alex one-handed a console through the air at him. It crunched the man's chest, and he sprawled, blood spurting and shortcircuiting the main computer. Lights flashed and then the inside of the vehicle was plunged into darkness.

  "Cask? Cask?" The other tech's terrified whisper.

  Ah, wee lad, Alex thought. M'moon's in benev'lence, an' Ah lie y' t'livit.

  And he was out the door, moving toward the second vehicle. He picked up its ramp and slammed it sideways into the track's now-clamped-shut door. Door and ramp gave way at the same time. Bullets seared out, and Alex flattened to one side.

  Ah c'd use m'willygun ae thae very moment, he thought, and then saw what looked like a hydraulic jack nearby. Alex rolled to it, took the meter-long handle in both hands, and twisted. The handle, only half-inch mild steel, snapped off cleanly.

  Alex rose to his feet, hefted the handle, then hurled it through the vehicle's door. Followed it with a thermite grenade. A howl gurgled down and then sparks began flashing and Alex could see flames crackle.

  He picked himself up, dusted his knees, and looked around for something else to demolish. The headquarters was in chaos— it seemed as if everyone was shooting. But not at Alex.

  Since panic spreads, the line units opened up. Alex wondered idly what they thought they were shooting at, then wandered over to see if Sten needed any help.

  He didn't.

  Alex started to enter the command track, then checked himself. "Ah'm wee Alex a' th' Pacifists," he said softly.

  Sten chuckled and emerged from his lurking place just inside the track's entrance. He wiped his knife-blade clean and slid the knife back into his arm.

  The two men stood, slightly awed by the high explosive and pyrotechnics on the plain around them.

  "C'mon, laddie. Thae clowns'll be ae it a' night, an' Ah'm thinkit Ah buy y' a wee brew."

  And, as silently as they came, Sten and Alex disappeared back into the night.

  "Ah dinnae like to tell the wee laddie no," Alex explained. "PREEEEE-SENT… HARMS!"

  And the ragged formation of beings brought their weapons up. At least those that had them did.

  "Aw," Alex said, entranced, "ae likit ae wave an' all."

  "You," Sten said, "have even a lousier sense of humor than Mahoney."

  "HIN… SPECTION… HARMS!" A bucket-of-bolts clatter as the assembled hopeful mercenaries snapped their bolt-carriers open. The young man wearing captain's bars, khaki pants, and a blue tunic managed a salute.

  "Unit ready for inspection, Colonel," he said.

  Sten sighed and started down the line. He stopped at the first person, who was trembling slightly. Sten snapped out a hand for the man's rifle. The prospective merc didn't let go.

  "You're supposed to give it to me when I want it," Sten explained. The man released the rifle. Sten ran his little finger around the inside of the firing chamber, then wiped off traces of carbon. He glanced down the corroded barrel and gave the weapon back. Then he moved on to the next person.

  The inspection took only a minute.

  Sten walked back to the captain. "Thank you, Captain. You may dismiss your men."

  The captain gaped at him.

  "But, uh…Colonel…"

  All right. He wants an explanation, Sten thought.

  "Captain. Your men are not trained, are not experienced, are not combat ready. Their weapons—those they have—are ready for recycling, not for killing people. If I hired your unit, I'd be…"

  "Like takit wee lambkins t'slaughter," Alex put in. Both Sten and the captain wondered what the hell he was talking about.

  "I'm sorry. Captain," and Sten started away.

  The young officer caught up with Sten, started to say something, reconsidered, then began again.

  "Colonel Sten," he finally managed. "Sir, we… my unit…need this assignment. We're all from the same world, all of us. We grew up in the same area. We've used all our savings just to get here. And we've been on Hawkthome for five cycles, and so far, well…" He suddenly realized that he sounded like he was begging and shut up.

  "Thank you for your time. Colonel," he finished.

  "Hang on a second, Captain." Sten had a thought. "You and your men are stranded, yes? Zed-credits? And nobody, justifiably, will hire you?"

  The captain nodded reluctantly.

  "Captain, I can't use you. But in the center of the city there is a man who can."

  The man's expression grew hopeful.

  "He's an old sergeant, and you'll find him at Imperial Guard Recruiting. Now, here's what he'll want to see from you…"

  Sten ignored the boy sitting across the mess table from him and glowered at Alex.

  "Another joke, Sergeant?"

  "Nossir. Ah dinnae ken whae tha' lad comit frae."

  The boy was about nineteen years old. About Sten's height and possibly fifty kilos in weight with an anchor tied around his ankles. Even in the daylight Sten could see the glitter of the boy's surgicorrect lenses.

  "You want to enlist?"

  "Certainly," the boy said confidently. "By the way, my name's Egan. And I'm speaking for twelve colleagues."

  "Colleagues," Sten said amazedly.

  "Indeed. We would like to sign on. We've read your contract and accept the terms for the duration of service."

  Sten moaned to himself. It was turning out to be a very long day.

  "If you read my, uh, proposal, you'd have seen that—"

  "I saw that you want a hardy crop of killers. Daggers in their teeth or wherever you people carry them."

  "Then why—"

&nb
sp; Again an interruption. "Because you can't fight a war without brains."

  "I assumed," Sten said, "that I could possibly provide those."

  "You? Just a soldier?" It was Egan's turn to sound amazed.

  "I manage."

  "Manage? But you need battle analysis. You need projections. You need somebody to run logistics programming. You need somebody who can improvise any ECM system you might require. You need—Colonel, I'm sorry if I sound cocky. But you really need us."

  "Not a chance. You and your friends—I assume they're like you?" Sten tried another, somewhat more polite tack. "First of all, how can I tell if you're really the brain trust you say?"

  "Possibly because I know your payee account on Prime World is 000-14-765-666 CALL ACCOUNT PYTHON, account depositor one Parral, world unnamed, and your current balance, as of this morning, was $72,654,080 credits."

  Very silent silence. Sten decided he was getting tired of gaping. It was time to start laughing. "Howinhell," he managed, "did you find that out? We are operating through cutout accounts."

  "You see why you need us. Colonel?"

  Sten didn't answer immediately. Oh, Mahoney, his mind went. Why did you put me out here by myself? I don't know what the clot kind of people you need to run a private war. So far all I've done is fake it. I wish I were back with Bet and the tigers and doing something simple like icing some dictator.

  Stalling, he asked, "Egan. One question. Who are you and your friends?"

  "We… up until recently, we were advanced students at a lycee."

  "Which one?"

  Egan hesitated, then blurted, "Prime World."

  Both Sten and Alex looked impressed. Even soldiers knew that the Empire picked its brightest to attend the Imperial Home World Lycee.

  "So what are you doing here?"

  Egan looked around the mess. No one was within earshot. "We were experimenting one night. I built a pickbox—that's something you use to get inside a computer—"

  "W'ken whae i' be," Alex said.

  "And I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time, but somehow we ended up inside the Imperial Intelligence computer."

  Sten, carefully keeping a straight face, held up a hand for silence. Egan shut up. Sten motioned to Alex. They rose and walked to the far end of the mess, both automatically checking for mikes.

  "D'ye ken whae yon wee but wickit lad done? He an' his boyos got aeside Mahoney's files. Ah nae wonder wha' thae b'doint ae Hawkthorne. Espionage's good frae ae penal unit f'r life." Alex chuckled.

  "What, good Alex, do you think of our Colonel Mahoney right now?"

  "Ah'm thinkit h' beit puttin' us in ae world ae drakh. Ae this momit, Ah nae b'thinkit kindly ae th' boss."

  "So we hire these kids?"

  "Frae m'point, Sten lad, there be nae ither choice."

  * * *

  Computer printouts littered the room. Sten dragged a paw through his now-longish hair and wondered why the clot anybody ever wanted to be a general in the first place. He never realized how much paperwork there was before you got to say Charge!

  Alex was sprawled on the couch, placidly going through a long, fan-folded report, and Egan hunched over the computer keyboard. He tapped a final series of keys and straightened.

  "Ready, Colonel. All units are on standby."

  "Aye," Alex agreed, tossing the logistics printout to one side and reaching for a nearby bottle.

  "Sten's Stupidities," Sten said, coming to mock-attention and throwing a salute to the winds. "Ready for duty, saaah! I have two hundred who're—"

  "Two hundred and one," the voice rumbled from the corner of the room.

  Alex was on his feet, pistol ready, as Sten hit attack stance.

  The voice shambled forward. Sten decided the man must be both the ugliest and most scarred humanoid he'd ever seen.

  He held both hands up, palms forward, waist level, in the universal I-bear-no-arms symbol. Sten and Alex relaxed slightly.

  "Who the drakh are you?"

  The man looked down. Picture a giant, two-and-a-half meters tall, looking hunch-shouldered and shamefaced.

  "Name's Kurshayne," he said. "I want to go with you."

  Sten relaxed and grabbed the bottle. "We closed recruiting yesterday. Why didn't you apply then?"

  "Couldn't."

  "Why not?"

  "I was in the clink."

  "Nae problem wi thae," Alex said, trying to be friendly. "All ae us bin thae. E'en m'mither."

  "But I ain't with any mob," Kurshayne said. "There weren't nobody to stand my bail."

  "If you're solo, what are you doing on Hawkthorne?" Egan asked.

  "Lookin' for work."

  "Any experience?" Sten asked.

  "I guess so," the giant answered. "I got this."

  He pawed through his waistpouch, dug out a very tattered and greasy fiche, and reluctantly handed it to Sten.

  Sten took it and dropped the card into the pickup. It started as a standard Guard Discharge Certificate:

  THIS IS TO CERTIFY THAT THE BEARER IS KURSHAYNE, WILLIAM PRIVATE

  TERM OF ENLISTMENT: 20 YEARS

  ASSIGNMENT: FIRST GUARDS ASSAULT

  MILITARY SCHOOLS: NONE

  DECORATIONS AWARDED: NONE

  HISTORY: 21 Planetary Assaults, First wave. 12 Relief Expeditions, 300 support assaults (TAB XI FOR DETAILS), Brought up for following awards: Galactic Cross, four times; Imperial Medal, eight times; Titanium Cluster, sixteen times, Mentioned in Dispatches, once. Reduced in rank, 14 times (TAB X2 FOR DETAILS).

  The fiche continued scrolling. Sten looked up at the giant with considerable awe. Four times this Kurshayne was up for the Empire's highest medal? And…

  "Why'd you get busted fourteen times?"

  "I don't get along with people."

  "Why not?" Egan asked.

  "Dunno, really. I guess I like 'em okay. But then—then they do things. Things that don't look right. And I gotta do something about it."

  I have more than enough troubles, Sten thought, and took the man's fiche out of the pickup. He handed it back to the man.

  "Kurshayne, if we weren't fully manned…"

  "Beggin't y'r pardon, Colonel." Alex.

  Sten held. Alex paced slowly around the giant.

  "Ah knae ye," he said, very, very softly. "Y'r a mon whae knowit th' right, but y' dinnae ken whae thae be't betters'n y' Aye, Kurshayne, Ah knae y'ilk."

  Kurshayne glowered down at the rotund sergeant.

  "Nae, Ah proposit ae wee game," Alex said silkily. "Y' ken aye punch?"

  "I know one punch, little man," the giant said. "Do you want to play it with me?"

  "Aye. Ah do thae," Alex said.

  "You go first."

  "Nae, m'lad," Alex said, a grin flickering across his broad face. "Y'be't thae applicant. Ah be't thae mon. Gie i' y'best shot."

  Without warning Kurshayne swung, an air-whistling roundhouse punch that caught Alex in his ribs. The punch tumbled him, rolling and spinning back against the couch, the couch crashing over, and then Alex slammed flat against the wall. He lay motionless for a moment.

  Then he picked himself up and came back. "Aye, tha be ae braw slug, m'lad," he said. "B'nae i' be't mae turn.

  "An' Ah be't fair. Sportin', likit. Ah gie y'warnin'. Nae likit yae, wha hie me ae sucker punch ae i' y'be't ae Campbell. Nae, Ah w'hit ye, mon.

  "But since Ah want ye in m'troop, Ah nae will damage y' severe't. So Ah tell y' whae Ah'Il be hittint y'. Ah be strikit y' ae th' center chest. Light-like, f'r Ah nae want y' hurt."

  Sten had never heard Alex's dialect so thick. Correctly, he figured Kilgour was angry. Sten decided he was sorry for what was about to happen. Illogically, he was starting to like the dumb giant.

  Kurshayne braced for the punch.'

  Instead, Alex delicately reached forward and picked Kurshayne up with… clottin' hell, one hand, Sten realized… and lifted him clear of the ground. And then, seemingly casually, threw Kurshayne.

  Two hundred kilos of Kurshayne
, as if the laws of gravity had been put on hold, flew through the air. Hit the wall—two meters off the ground—and the wall went, crumbling into plas destruction in the corridor outside.

  Kurshayne pin wheeled after the wall, out into the corridor. And, moving very, very fast, Alex went after him. He bent over the semiconscious relic and near whispered.

  "Nae, nae, y'wee mon. Y'hae ae job, Ah reck. But y'll no playit thae game twice, Ah reck."

  Kurshayne fogged his way to his feet. "Nossir."

  "Ah'm nae sir. Ah'm nae but aye sergeant. Yon Sten, h'be't sir."

  Kurshayne struggled into rigid attention. "Sorry, Sergeant."

  "Ah ken y'be't sorry, lad," Alex crooned. "Nae, y'be't off aboot i', an' Ah wan' y'back here in ten hours, clean't up an' ready t'fight."

  "Sir!"

  And Kurshayne saluted and was gone. Sten and Egan were still gaping as Alex turned.

  "W noo hae 201 soldiers, Colonel Sten," he said. Then staggered to the console and snagged Sten's bottle.

  "Clottin" hell!" Alex groaned. "Yon lad nie near kilt me! Th' things Ah do't frae th' Emp—th' cause!"

  Chapter Fifteen

  AND I HAD a great future as a cybrolathe operator, Sten thought mournfully, looking at his assembled troops. They were standing in what could only be called Parade Motley on the landing ground, just in front of the Bhalder.

  Oh, Mahoney, I will get you, Sten groaned. There were Vosberh's troops. Unshaven, unbathed, but well armed and, Sten conceded, fairly lethal.

  Beside them, giving many hostile looks, were Ffillips' commandos. Spit and polish.

  There were other one or two at a time pickups and Egan's crew of studious-looking Lycee kiddies.

  Why me all the time? Sten wondered.

  Beside Sten were flanked Vosberh, wearing a simple brown uniform, Ffillips in her personally designed dress uniform (suspiciously close to Guards full-dress), Alex, and Kurshayne.

  Kurshayne had evidently decided he was cut out to be Sten's personal bodyguard and had equipped himself with what he thought was an ideal weapon.

  As far as Sten could tell, since Kurshayne refused to let anybody examine it, it was a full-auto projectile weapon, with about a one-gauge barrel.