by Chris Bunch
They had the look of men going home. “Time to hoist ‘em,” one of them said.
In unison, they finished their drinks and rose. Sten pushed in behind them as they moved through the crowd and out the door.
* * * *
Sten huddled in the nose section of the shuttle. A panel hid him from the sailors. They lifted off from Vulcan, and moments later Sten could see the freighter through the clear bubble nose as the shuttle floated up toward it.
The deep-space freighter—an enormous multisegmented insect—stretched out for kilometers. A swarm of beetlelike tugs towed still more sections into line and nudged them into place. The drive section of the freighter was squat and ugly with horn projections bristling around the face. As the shuttle neared the face, it grinned open.
Just before it swallowed him, Sten thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
* * * *
He barely heard the judge as the man droned on, listing Sten's crimes against the Company. Sten was surrounded by Sociopatrolmen. In front of the judge, the Counselor loomed, his head nearly invisible in plastibandages, nodding painfully as the judge made each legal point.
They had found Sten in the shuttle, huddled under some blankets, stolen ship's stores stacked around him. Even as he messaged Vulcan for someone to pick Sten up, the captain kept apologizing. He had heard stories.
"We can't help you,” he said. “Vulcan security sends snoopers on every freighter before it clears, looking for people like you."
Sten was silent.
"Listen,” the captain went on, “I can't take the chance. If I tried to help and got caught, the Company'd pull my trading papers. And I'd be done. It's not just me. I gotta think of my crew..."
Sten came awake as a Sociopatrolman pushed him forward. The judge had finished. It was time for sentencing. What was it going to be? Brainburn? If that was it, Sten hoped he had enough mind left to kill himself.
Then the judge was talking. “You are aware, I hope, of the enormity of your crimes?"
Sten thought about doing the Mig humility. Be damned, he thought. He didn't have anything to lose. He stared back at the judge.
"I see. Counselor, do you have anything of an ameliorative nature to add to these proceedings?"
The Counselor started to say something, and then abruptly shook his head.
"Very well. Karl Sten, since you, at your young age, are capable of providing many years of service to the Company and we do not wish to appear unmerciful, recognizing the possibility of redemption, I will merely reassign you."
For a moment, Sten felt hopeful.
"Your new work assignment will be in the Exotics Section. For an indeterminate period. If—ahem—circumstances warrant, after a suitable length of time I will review your sentence."
The judge nodded, and touched the INPUT button on his justice panel. The Sociopatrolmen led Sten away. He wasn't sure what the judge meant. Or what his sentence was. Except his mind was intact, and he was alive.
He turned at the door, and realized, from the grin on the Counselor's face, he might not be for very long.
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BOOK TWO
HELLWORLD
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER SEVEN
"...simply a matter a’ entropy. Proves it,” the older man said. And lifted his mug.
The younger man beside him, who wore the flash coveralls of a driveship officer, snickered and crashed his boots onto the table. His coveralls bore the nametag of RASCHID, H. E., ENGINEERING OFFICER.
"Wha's so funny?” his senior said belligerently. He looked at the other four deep-space men around the tavern's table. “These is me officers, and they didn't hear me say nothin’ funny. Did ya?"
Raschid looked around and grinned widely at the drunkenly chorused “yessirs.” Picked up his own mug in both hands and drained it.
"Another round—I'll tell you. I been listening to frizzly old bastards like you talk about how things is runnin’ down, and how they're gettin’ worse and all that since I first was a steward's pup."
The barmaid—the spaceport dive's biggest and only attraction—slid mugs down the long polished aluminum bar. Raschid blew foam off the top of his mug and swallowed.
"Talkin’ to fools,” he said, “is thirsty work. Even when they're high-credit driveship captains."
The captain's mate flexed his shoulders—a move that had kept him out of fights in a thousand worlds—and glowered. Raschid laughed again.
"Man gets too old to stump his own pins, he generally finds some punko to do it for him. Tell you what, cap'n. You gimme one good example of how things is goin’ to sheol in a handbasket, and maybe, jus’ maybe, I'll believe you."
The captain sloshed beer down and wiped the overflow from his already sodden uniform front.
"The way we's treated. Look'a us. We're officers. Contract traders. Billions a’ credits rest on our every decision. But look around. We're on Prime World. Heart'a the Empire an’ all that clot. But do we get treated wi’ the respect due us? Hell no!"
"We's the gears what makes the Empire turn!” one of his officers yelled.
"So, what d'ya expect?"
"Like I said. Respect. Two, three hunnerd years back, we woulda been fawned over when we made planetfall. Ever'body wantin’ to know what it was like out there. Women fallin’ over us. I tell you..."
The captain stood up and pointed one finger, an effect that was ruined by a belch that rattled the walls slightly. “When an empire forgets how to treat its heroes, it's fallin’ apart!” He nodded triumphantly, turned to his officers. “That prove it or not?"
Raschid ignored the shouted agreement. “You think it oughta be like the old days? Say, like when there were torchships?"
"You ain't gotta go back that far, but tha's good example. More beer! Back when they was ion ships and men to match ‘em."
"Torchships my ass,” Raschid sneered. He spat on the floor. “Those torchships. You know how they worked? Computer-run. From lift-off to set down."
The other spacemen at the table looked puzzled. “Wha’ ‘bout the crews?"
"Yeah. The crews! Lemme tell you what those livees don't get around to showin'. Seems most'a those torchships were a little hot. From nozzle right up to Barrier Thirty-three, which is where the cargo and passengers were.
"After a few years, they started havin’ trouble gettin’ young heroes as crew after these young heroes found their bones turned green an’ ran out their sleeves after two-three trips.
"So you know who these crews were? Dockside rummies that had just ‘bout enough brains to dump the drive if it got hot beyond Thirty-three. They'd shove enough cheap synthalk in ‘em to keep ‘em from opening up the lock to see what was on the other side, punch the TAKEOFF button, and run like hell. Those were your clottin’ hero torchships an’ their hero ossifers.
"An’ you think people didn't know about it? You think those drunks got torch parades if they lived through a trip? You think that, you even dumber than you look."
The captain looked around at his crew. They waited for a cue.
"How come you know so much—Barrier Thirty-three—on'y way a man could know that he'd have to crew one.” The old man's mug slammed down. “That's it! We come over here for a quiet mug or so—sit around, maybe tell some lies ... but we ain't standing for nobody who's thinkin’ we're dumb enough to believe..."
"I did,” Raschid said flatly.
The man broke off. His mate stood up. “You sayin’ you're a thousand years old, chief?"
Raschid shook his head and drained his beer. “Nope. Older."
The captain twitched his head at the mate ... the mate balled up a fist that should've been subcontracted as a wrecking ball and swung. Raschid's head wasn't there.
He was diving forward, across the table. The top of his head thudded into the captain's third officer, who, with another man, crashed to the floor in a welter of breaking chairs.
Raschid rolled t
o his feet as the mate turned. He stepped inside the mate's second swing and drove three knife-edged fingers into the inside of the mate's upper arm. The mate doubled up.
Raschid spun as the other two men came off the floor ... ducking. Not far enough. The captain's mug caromed off the back of his head, and Raschid staggered forward, into the bar.
He snap-bounded up ... his feet coiled and kicking straight back. The third officer's arm snapped and he went down, moaning. Raschid rolled twice down the bar as the mate launched another drive at him. Grabbed the arm and pulled.
The mate slid forward, collected the end of the beer tap in the forehead, and began a good imitation of petrification.
Raschid swung away from the bar, straight-armed a thrown chair away, and snap-kicked the captain in the side.
He lost interest for a few minutes.
Raschid, laughing happily, picked up the fourth man by the lapels ... and the broken-armed third officer kicked his legs out from under him.
Raschid crashed down, the fourth man flailing punches at him. The old captain, wheezing like a grampus, danced—very deftly for a man his age—around the edge of the roiling mass, occasionally putting the boot into Raschid's ribs.
Two hands came from nowhere and slammed against the captain's ears. He slumped. Pole-axed.
Raschid scrambled to his feet, nodded at the new man in the fight, then picked up the third officer and slung him through the air at his sudden ally, a gray-haired behemoth with a nose that'd been broken too many times for anyone to be interested in setting it. He thoughtfully dangled the third officer with one hand, making up his mind. Then slammed the heel of his hand down just above the bridge of the man's nose, dropped him, and looked around for someone else.
The man who wore the Raschid nametag was sitting atop the fourth spaceman. He had a double handful of the man's hair, and was systematically dribbling his head on the bar floor.
The gray-haired man walked over, picked up the mate's unfinished beer and drained it. Then he grunted.
"I think you've made your point."
Raschid peeled back the man's eyelids, and reluctantly let the man's head slam finally to the floor and stood.
The two looked each other up and down. “Well, colonel?"
The gray-haired man snorted. “H. E. Raschid. They get dumber every year. Or anyway somebody does."
"That smacks of insubordination, colonel."
"Sorry. Would the all-highest Eternal Emperor of a Billion Suns, Ruler of a Zillion Planets, and Kind Overseer of Too Many Goddamned People care to accompany his good and faithful servant back to the palace, where important business awaits, or—or you wanna stay the hell with it and go look for some more action?"
"Later, colonel. Later. Don't wanna corrupt the young."
The Eternal Emperor threw an arm around his aide—Col. Ian Mahoney, O. C. Mercury Corps, the shadowy Imperial force responsible for intelligence, espionage, and covert operations—and the two men walked, laughing, into the thin sunlight of Prime World.
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Baron waited in the anteroom, pacing nervously, glancing now and then at the two huge Imperial Guardsmen playing statue at the entrance to the Eternal Emperor's chambers. If he thought about it—and Thoresen was trying hard not to right now—he was scared. Not a familiar emotion for the Baron.
He had been summoned by the Emperor across half the galaxy with none of the usual Imperial Palace formal politeness. The Baron had simply been told to come. Now. With no explanations. Thoresen hoped it had nothing to do with Bravo Project, although he was sure that even the Emperor's elaborate spy system wouldn't have uncovered it. Otherwise Thoresen was as good as dead.
Finally, the doors hissed open and a tiny robed clerk stepped out to bow him in. Thoresen was only slightly relieved when the guards remained at their stations. The clerk withdrew and the Baron was left in an immense chamber filled with exotic items collected by the Emperor over his thousand years of life. Odd mounted beasts from hunting expeditions on alien worlds, strange art objects, ancient books opened to wonderful illustrations far beyond any computer art conceivable.
The Baron gawked about him, feeling very much like some rube from a border world. Eventually he noticed man waiting far across the chamber. His back was to Thoresen and he was apparently looking out over the Prime World capital through the large curved glass wall. He was dressed in simple white robes.
The Eternal Emperor turned as Thoresen approached and made his bows.
"We were told by our aides,” the Emperor said, “that you had a reputation for promptness. Apparently they misinformed us."
The Baron gobbled. “I left as soon as—"
The Emperor waved him into silence. He turned and looked outside again. A long silence. The Baron fidgeted, wondering.
"If it's about the Company's latest prospectus, your highness, I can assure you there was no exaggeration. I'd stake my reputation on—"
"Look at that,” the Emperor said. Confused, Thoresen peered outside. Below, members of the Royal Court flitted about in an elaborate lawn dance on the Palace grounds.
"Simpering fools. They think that because they are titled the Empire revolves around them. Billions of citizens work so they can play."
He turned to Thoresen. A warm smile on his face. “But the two of us know better, don't we, Baron? We know what it is to get our hands dirty. We know what it is to work."
Now Thoresen was really confused. The man was blowing hot and cold. What did he want? Were the rumors about his senility true? No, he cautioned himself. How could they be? After all, the Baron had started them. “Well?” the Emperor asked.
"Well, what, sir?"
"Why did you request this audience? Get to the point, man. We have delegations waiting from twenty or thirty planets."
"Uh, your highness, perhaps there was some mistake—not yours, of course. But—uh ... I thought you wanted to—"
"We're glad you came, anyway, Baron,” the Emperor interrupted. “We've been wanting to talk to you about some rather disturbing reports.” He began to stroll through the room and Thoresen fell in beside him, trying hopelessly to get his mind on top of the situation. Whatever that was.
"About what, your highness?"
"We're sure it's nothing, but some of your agents have been making certain comments to select customers that a few of our—ahem—representatives construe as possibly being, shall we say, treasonous?"
"Like what, your highness?” Feigned shock from Thoresen.
"Oh, nothing concrete comes to our mind. Just little suggestions, apparently, that certain services performed by the Empire could possibly be done best by the Company."
"Who? Who said that? I'll have them immediately—"
"We're sure you will, Baron. But don't be too harsh on them. We imagine it's just a case of overzealous loyalty."
"Still. The Company cannot be a party to such talk. Our policy—in fact it's in our bylaws—is absolute."
"Yes. Yes. We know. Your grandfather drew up those bylaws. Approved them myself as a rider to your charter. Quite a man, your grandfather. How is he, by the way?"
"Uh, dead, your highness. A few hundred years—"
"Oh, yes. My sympathies."
They were back at the door and it was opening and the little clerk was stepping forward to lead an absolutely bewildered Thoresen out the door. The Emperor started to turn away and then paused.
"Ah, Baron?"
"Yes, your highness?"
"You forgot to tell us why you were here. Is there some problem, or special favor we can grant?"
Long pause from Thoresen. “No, thank you. I just happened to be on Prime World and I stopped by to inquire—I mean, I just wanted to say ... hello."
"Very thoughtful of you, Baron. But everything is proceeding exactly as we planned. Now, if you'll excuse us."
The door hissed closed. Behind the Emperor there was a rustling sound, and then the sound of someone c
hoking—perhaps fatally—and a curtain parted. Mahoney stepped out from behind it. Doubled up with laughter.
The Emperor grinned, walked over to an ancient wooden rolltop desk and slid open a drawer. Out came a bottle and two glasses. He poured drinks. “Ever try this?"
Mahoney was suspicious. His boss was known for a perverse sense of humor in certain sodden circles. “What it it?"
"After twenty years of research it's as close as I can come to what I remember as a hell of a drink. Used to call it bourbon."
"You made it, huh?"
"I had help. Lab delivered it this morning.” Mahoney took a deep breath. Then gulped the liquid down. The Emperor watched with great interest. A long pause. Then Mahoney nodded. “Not bad."
He poured himself another while the Emperor took a sip. Rolled it around on his tongue and then swallowed. “Not even close. In fact, it tastes like crap."
The Emperor drank it down and refilled his glass. “So? What do you think of him?"
"The Baron? He's so crooked he screws his socks on in the morning. He ain't no toady, though, no matter how it looked when you were playing him like a fish."
"You caught that, huh? Tell you what, if I weren't the biggest kid on the block I think he woulda cut my throat. Or tried, anyway."
The Emperor topped off their drinks and then eased back in his chair, feet on his desk. “Okay. We had our face to face—good suggestion, by the way. And I agree the man is just dumb enough and power hungry enough to be dangerous to the Empire. Now. Spit it out. What should I be worrying my royal head about?"
Mahoney scraped up another chair, settled into it and put his feet up beside the Emperor's.
"A whole lot of things. But nothing we can prove. Best bit I got is that a real good source tells me that Thoresen is spending credits by the bundle on a thing he calls Bravo Project."
"What's that?"
