The Wolf Worlds

by Chris Bunch

  He looked out at the thousand before him and thought that the officers would be the most important graduates the Citadel ever produced. He also sensed that most of them would be dead in not too many months.

  "It is fitting," he continued, "that while we celebrate the Killing and your acceptance as Jann I tell you of the trials that we shall face.

  "Trials which we shall only overcome by strength. Our strength, the strength of our arms, our minds, and our Faith in Talamein."

  The cadets stirred. The speech was quite different from what they had expected and from what they were accustomed to hearing from their cadre.

  "These trials I shall now warn you of. They have been building for time. We know the babblings of the madman Theodomir. And we know how dearly he would love to destroy the flame of truth, so it could be perverted into his own ashes."

  More like it. The cadets relaxed, and a few of them even smiled grimly. They were quite used to Theodomir diatribes.

  "But the madman has gone beyond ravings. He has determined to try us by force of arms."

  Large smiles from some of the cadets—in their final training cycle most of them had participated in raids against the poorly trained, ineffectual levies of Theodomir. Khorea understood their smiles.

  "This night you will become Jann. And then you will go out to face the armies of Theodomir. But be warned—these are not the rabble you have known.

  "Theodomir has chosen mercenaries. Men who have trained to the peak of killing madness in the gold-souled ranks of the Emperor of the Inner Worlds."

  Khorea ceremoniously spat.

  "Mercenaries. But a mercenary can fight, regardless that he defends an evil cause. This then is the trial you will face, Jann-to-be.

  "At this moment Theodomir, the False Prophet, is raising an army against our peaceful worlds. An army that does not believe. An army that, if it conquers, will ensure that the Truth of Talamein and we. his servants, will cease to exist. If they win, it shall be as if we had never existed.

  "Tell me. Jann-to-be—to keep that from occurring… is that not worth the Death? My death, your death—the death of every man in this room?"

  Silence. And then one cadet came to his feet. Khorea automatically noted him proudly as the cadet screeched:

  "Death! Long live death!"

  And the cadets howled, the long, enraged howl of hunting beasts.

  Sten whirled the fusion grapnel twice, then cast it straight up. The line coiled at his feet disappeared upward, into the obscuring snow, and then the head of the grapnel hit the outer skin of the Citadel about twenty meters up and instantly melted itself into bond.

  Sten gave a tug. Solid contact. He began catwalking his way upward, keeping his body almost ninety degrees out from the curving surface of the Octopus.

  When he reached the grapnel's head, he braced himself against it and hurled a second grapnel upward. Even with the crampons, he almost slipped and fell, before the grapnel hit. skidded, and then caught.

  Sten leaned back onto the rope then began the next stage of the climb to the roof of the Jann sanctuary.

  Below him Alex, Kurshayne, and Ffillips' commandos began swarming up the awesome curve of the Octopus like so many ice flies. Grapnel, gloves, and boots found every protuberance in the smooth surface to keep from coming off.

  Sten was the first to reach the weather membrane'. He peered down through its red glow into the chapel below. It was empty. Alex pulled up behind him and tapped Sten's boot.

  Sten reached back for the blister-charge, and Alex, panting after the climb, slid it into his gloves. Sten gave one fast look at the charge, thanked the whizkids again, licked the charge, almost freezing his tongue in the process, and slapped the charge to that "breathing" membrane. Then, still in one motion, he slid back down the rope.

  The charge fused to the membrane, glowed, and then the whole membrane surface began a slow melt. It peeled back and up, leaving a gaping hole directly into the heart of the Jann Citadel.

  Sten took yet another grapnel from Alex, anchored it on the edge of the hole, and then unreeled the line down into the chapel below.

  Then he descended, hand over hand, into the Citadel. Alex, Kurshayne, and Ffillips' men and women followed. They landed, then spread out through the chapel, checking for intruders and setting up security.

  Sten stood in the middle of the room. It was awesome. Sten could almost feel evil flowing from the walls. In the flickering torchlight, the huge military statues loomed at him like gargoyles, about to leap through the forest of wall-hung regimental banners. It was indeed a temple—a temple for the worship of violent death.

  Behind him Sten heard Alex's breath hiss. His friend shivered. "Ah nae hae seen aught's'cold." he whispered. Sten nodded, then looked over at Kurshayne.

  "Blow it." he ordered.

  * * *

  The Jann cadets were eating in silence. On the huge stage, the officers were also at their meal. General Khorea nibbled politely at each dish, then pushed it away. He refused when a servant offered to refill his wine glass.

  Khorea looked around at the cadets and felt a great stirring of pride. Soon, he thought, all these young men would be joining him in the great Jann cause. Many would die, he knew. He also wondered if one of these young men at the tables would someday be a general like him.

  And at that moment there was an enormous, soul-shattering explosion. For one of the few times in his life, Khorea felt an instant of fear. The enemy had struck where no Jann had ever believed possible. The Citadel was under attack.

  Vosberh and his men raced toward the barracks. Minutes later, Jann guards, reacting to Vosberh's diversionary blast, poured out of the barracks and died as Vosherh's men sprayed them with a withering fire.

  Vosberh snapped a command and his fire team hustled forward. Quickly they set up the tanks of the flamethrower, twisted the controls, and a sheet of flame gouted out.

  The first barracks complex exploded into fire.

  Kurshayne hustled up to a statue and draped a heat-pack on one huge metallic arm. Around the chapel Sten, Alex, and Ffillips' men were doing the same.

  Sten slapped his last heat-pack into place, whirled, and ran tor the huge door. He and Kurshayne were the last men out. Sten barked an order, and Kurshayne hit the det button while still on the run. Behind them in the chapel the heat-packs detonated, one by one.

  The fire began as a slight red glow, gradually growing larger and larger, and then a blinding flash of white.

  Each pack was like a miniature nova. The heat radiated out, farther and farther, with white glow blending into white glow, until the whole chapel was blinding white.

  The drapes and regimental banners were the next to go, crisped in the instant fire-storm. And the golden statues began to bubble and then melt. A molten river of gold streamed across the floor as the statues melted like so many giant snowmen.

  Air howled through the hole in the roof and the open door like two tornadoes as atmosphere rushed to fill the semivacuum created by the fire.

  And then, with a roar, the entire temple exploded.

  That second blast shook the Citadel to its foundation. It hit the dining room like an earthquake, flinging Jann to the floor.

  The enormous room was in chaos. Men shouted meaningless orders that no one was heeding anyway. On the stage Khorea dragged himself out from under the table, pawing for his weapon. He was appalled at the hysteria raging about him. A wild-eyed Jann officer ran toward him. waving his gun. Khorea grabbed the man, but the officer struggled free and ran on.

  Khorea grabbed for a mike. In a moment his voice boomed through the huge dining-hall speakers, demanding order. It was a voice trained on a hundred battlefields and brought almost instant response. Men froze in place, recovered, and then turned to stare up at him.

  But before he could issue any orders, the main doors blew open and Sten's killing squad waded in. They punched through the unarmed cadets, ignoring them, and fanned out across the room in three-man teams, firing into
the Jann officers on the stage.

  A young cadet lunged at Sten with his ceremonial dagger. Kurshayne grabbed the boy with one hand and hurled him across the room. Behind Sten, Alex lifted an enormous table and threw it into a group of charging cadets. It sent them reeling back, effectively out of the fight.

  Sten flipped a pin grenade into a group of officers, and they disappeared in a hurricane of arms and legs and gouting blood. The wall beside him exploded, and he whirled to see a Jann officer getting ready to fire again.

  Kurshayne swung that monster shotgun off his shoulder and triggered it. The officer shredded in the hiccuping boom of the cannon.

  Ffillips plunged forward onto the stage itself just as Sten and his team got moving again, up the other side.

  Sten spotted Khorea instantly, recognizing him from Mahoney's briefing. He slashed his way forward, going for the ultimate target. But there were dozens of men between him and the general. They died bravely, but they died just the same, trying to protect their general.

  And Khorea saw Sten and instinctively recognized him as the leader of the attack. Khorea clawed his way forward. He wanted desperately to kill Sten.

  A group of Khorea's aides rallied, grabbed the general, and, ignoring his shouts of protest, did a flying-wedge toward the rear of the stage. Sten had one last, fleeting look at the man's white, spitting face as the aides earned him through the rear door and disappeared.

  Then Sten went down under a pile of bodies.

  They punched and kicked at him, fighting each other in their blind fury for revenge. Sten slashed and slashed with his knife. And still they kept coming. Sten could feel numbness spread through his body.

  Alex and Kurshayne fought desperately to get to him. For fear of killing Sten. they had to use their hands. Hurling men away, smashing skulls, and literally ripping limbs from bodies.

  And suddenly they were there. There was no one in front of them but a battered and torn Sten. bleeding from a dozen superficial cuts.

  Alex pulled him to his feet. They looked around for more Jann to kill. There was nothing but pile after pile of black-uniformed bodies and Ffillips' commando teams, grimly making the same search.

  Sten spotted Ffillips across the stage. She gave him a large smile and a thumbs-up sign. It was over. Before the Jann cadets could rally at the loss of their cadremen. the mercenaries were moving across the stage and out a side door.

  Outside the Citadel, the mountaintop ran with rivers of fire. Vosberh had done his job well. All the barracks were crackling and exploding.

  Sten, Ffillips. and their people linked up with Vosberh and Egan's troops at the start of the exit roadway. They were in loose formation, ready to move out.

  "Casualties," Sten snapped.

  "Three killed. Two stretcher cases. Ten walking wounded. It was a walkover." Vosberh reported.

  "None," Egan said proudly.

  Ffillips looked mournful. "Seven dead. Twelve more wounded. All transportable."

  Sten saluted his subcommanders and turned to Alex. pointing at the downward S-curving roadway.

  "We'll walk this time."

  "Ah'm w'y', lad," Alex said. "M'bones ae t' oldit to play billygoatgruft wi' again."

  The mercenaries moved out briskly.

  Behind them, the Citadel and its dreams of death and glory flamed into ruin.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE DOCTORS HOVERED over the wriggling, leechlike creatures, waiting for them to shoot their potent narcotics into Ingild the Prophet's veins. They were the perfect parasites for an addict, creatures who traded euphoria for a few calories. Ingild waved at the doctors impatiently, and they carefully coaxed the tiny bulbous monsters free of his skin.

  Ingild sat up and motioned the men away. The doctors scattered, not bothering with their usual professional bowing and posturing. The "False" Prophet (as Theodomir would have called him) was in a snit. He glanced around the throne room at his guards, trying to compose himself before the comforting ego-drug took effect.

  A little over half the guards in the throne room were black-uniformed Jann. Ingild fought back instinctive paranoia, even though he knew that in this instance it was a correct psychosis. The Jann guards, he realized, were more interested in watching Ingild than in protecting him from possible assassins. The rest of the guards were members of Ingild's own family, which made him relax a little. He pushed aside the thought that there was an excellent possibility they had been subverted by the Jann.

  The symbiotic narcotics began to filter through, and he felt a faint wave of relief.

  He was Ingild, and before him all men owed allegiance.

  Ingild, like his counterpart and opponent Theodomir, was a middle-aged man, not too far into his second century. But unlike Theodomir, he looked as if he was near the end of his time. Ingild was wizened, his skin blotched and peeling. His head featured a bald dome with unhealthy strings of hair dangling from the sides.

  A traveling medico had given him the reasons for his scrofulous appearance many years ago. The doctor had said that Ingild's deep-seated fears counteracted the benefits of modern longevity drugs. Ingild had the man executed for his advice, but had kept the compu-diagnoses and scrolled through them several times a day for insight.

  A Jann guard walked over to him, very correct and military, but Ingild could sense the contempt.

  "Yes," Ingild said.

  "General Khorea," the guard announced.

  Ingild covered the wave of fear and nodded at the guard. Khorea entered, made a slight bow, and strode over to the throne couch.

  The ego-drug cut in for an instant, and Ingild did a mental sneer at Khorea's appearance. The man had not even bothered to change, he thought, after the debacle at the Citadel. His uniform was torn and there were streaks of dried blood on the exposed skin.

  Khorea drew up before him and snapped a very respectful salute. Ingild just nodded his acceptance. Then Khorea shot a look at the guards, made a signal, and, to Ingild's horror, all of them withdrew.

  When the last man had gone, Khorea sat on the edge of Ingild's couch. Ingild fought back an angry scream. Instead he smiled at Khorea and gave him a fatherly pat on his arm.

  "At last, my general," he said, "you have returned to me. I have prayed for your safety."

  Khorea made an impatient motion. "Listen very carefully. I have had an address prepared. It minimizes the damage to the Citadel.

  "Basically it says we fought back a cowardly surprise attack. We drove the enemy away and killed many of them."

  "But," Ingild protested, "your report—"

  "Forget my report," Khorea snapped. "That was for my officers." Then, almost as an afterthought: "And for you."

  Ingild swallowed his indignation.

  "You will emphasize the casualties to the cadets. They were mere children, after all."

  Ingild looked at him in surprise. "But there were few cadet casualties."

  Khorea gave him a withering look, and Ingild bit back any other protest.

  "Everything is ready for your system-wide address," Khorea continued. A small pause for effect. "My speechwriters have appended an appropriate prayer."

  "What do we do next?" Ingild blurted, hating himself for it.

  Khorea smiled.

  "We fight," he said. "Total war. These are only mercenaries, after all. They will collapse after a few engagements.

  "Especially when this amateur Sten, who leads them, is proven only to be lucky and not in fact a qualified leader at all."

  "Who is he?"

  Khorea grimaced. "Ex-Imperial Guards. Court-martialed and thrown out. Hardly a worthy opponent."

  Khorea stood up. "But Sten and the mercenaries are the worry of the Jann. You must see that the faith of our people is behind us.

  "I wouldn't advise any more stimulants before your address," he warned.

  Ingild shivered, but involuntarily nodded obedience.

  Khorea smiled his cold smile again, drew himself up, and delivered a perfect salute. Followed by
a low, mocking bow. "The Jann will await your further orders, O Keeper of the Flame."

  He wheeled and marched out. Ingild looked after him, hating the clicking heels and the ramrod back.

  A moment later, his guards drifted back in.

  Chapter Twenty

  EVEN PIONEER CLUSTERs, settled by dissidents, fanatics, and malcontents, and crippled by two warring religions, can have a minor Eden.

  Such was Nebta, the temporal version of Sanctus. Parral's power base.

  The Nebtans controlled mainstream trade, which meant whatever merchanting the Bhor weren't able to wangle, connive, blackmail, or smuggle.

  Nebta was a very rich and very beautiful world, a world where even the poor were rich—at least compared to the other habitable Lupus Cluster planets.

  Nebta's oceans were slightly salty and its minor moon provided gentle tides. It swam in a perpetually mild climate, and most of its small continents were located inside the planet's temperate region.

  The ugly necessaries of warehouses, landing fields, and brokerage houses had been sensibly located on the large, equatorial, desertlike main continent.

  Nebta's merchant princes preferred their mansions, luxury, and indolence to the realities of trade. Sten had wondered how long it would take Ida to own the entire planet if she were there.

  The government of Nebta was based on strength. Each of the merchant princes had his private army and generally confined himself to his own fortified city and fortress mansion.

  Nebta was "ruled" by a council of these merchant princes, a council that had been suborned, subverted, and threatened into acquiescence by Parral many years before.

  Inside the fortified cities lived the clerks, shipping specialists, bankers, and such. The farmers lived outside the cities and were, by mutual agreement, kept out of the constant political connivings of the merchants.

  Parral's own fortress-estate was actually a series of mansions, covering more than 150 square miles of hand-manicured parkland. Grudgingly Parral had housed Sten and his mercenaries in one of those mansions, a sprawling marble monstrosity the mercs were happily turning into a cross between a barracks and a bordello.