Sten

by Chris Bunch

"Somebody took H'mid's head off and left it for me to find,” Sten said. He crossed to a table and picked up a glass winer. Thumb over the cover, he eased the spout into his mouth and swallowed. After he'd set it down, he looked at the half-meter teddy bear sitting at ease in the room's only comfortable chair. The creature bore a near-benevolent scowl on his face.

  "Doc?"

  "Typical humans,” the teddy bear purred happily. “You people could clot up a rock fight. Proof of the existence of divinity, I take it. You would still be in your jungles peeling fruit with your toes if there weren't a God of some sort or another. One with a rather nasty sense of humor, I might add."

  Vinnettsa hurried down the stairs coiling wire to the broadcast antenna on the roof.

  "Come on, Doc. We don't have time for making love."

  Doc held his hands out in what he had learned was a human gesture, jumped off the chair, and began stuffing the hookup into a lift pack.

  Ida came unhurriedly out from the closet that concealed the entrance to the comroom. Hefted her compack experimentally. “Doc's right. You can't expect subtlety from anything other than us. Now, why they don't field an all-Rom team—"

  Alex chuckled. “For our Emp'rer whidny like havin’ a worl’ stole from under him, is why."

  Ida thought. “If we did steal it—and that's a thought worthy of a Rom—then he wouldn't have to worry, would he?"

  Sten looked around. Frick and Frack hung from the room's eaves, waiting.

  "Do they have us spotted?"

  "Negative,” Frick squeaked. “We overflew ten minutes ago. We saw nothing."

  Maybe. The two batlike beings weren't high on anyone's intelligence list. Or maybe Sten hadn't worded the question correctly. But the information was probably correct.

  The team was ready to roll. They huddled.

  "We ken we're blown,” Alex said softly. “D'ye think we redline an’ evac?"

  Jorgensen yawned. He was sprawled beside his pack, stocked pistol ready.

  "Y'all sure we want to just pull pitch? Mahoney'll torch our tail for an incomp."

  Sten looked at Doc, who wiggled tendrils.

  "Myitkina,” Sten said. It was Jorgensen's trance word. The rangy blonde sat immobile.

  "Possibilities,” Vinnettsa snapped.

  "A. Mission abort and withdrawal. B. Continue mission and assume nondiscovery. C. Begin alternate program."

  "Analyze it,” Sten said.

  "Possibility A. Mission priority high. Currently incomplete. Consider as last resort. Survival probability ninety percent if accomplished within five hours."

  "Continue,” Vinnettsa said.

  "Possibility B. Insufficient data to give absolute prediction. Assumption that local agent broke under interrogation. Not recommended. Survival probability less than twenty percent."

  The team members looked at each other. Voting silently. As usual, no one bothered to consult Frick and Frack.

  "Two Myitkina.” Jorgensen came out of the trance. “What's the plan?” he asked. “Mobs ‘n’ heroes,” Alex said.

  "That ain't too bad,” Jorgensen said. “All I gotta do is run a lot."

  Sten snorted. Alex clapped him on the back, a friendly gesture that almost drove Sten through the wall. Sometimes the tubby little man from the three-gee world forgot.

  Sten wheezed air back into his lungs.

  "Sten, you're a braw lad. A’ they say, the bleatin’ o’ the kid frees the tiger. Or some'at like that."

  Sten glumly nodded and started shedding weaponry.

  The assassin watched him from across the room. It would have to wait for a while. For better or worse, the assassin's future rode on the team's successes. For a while.

  M-PRIORITY OPERATION BANZI

  Do not log in Guard General Orders; do not log in Imperial Archives; do not multex any than source and OC Mercury; do not release in any form. IMPERIAL PROSCRIPT.

  STEN OPERATIONS ORDER 1. Situation:

  Saxon. Plus-or-minus well within Earth-condition parameters. Largely desert. Extensive nomadic culture (SEE FICHE A), predominant. Only port, major city and manufacturing complex Atlan (SEE FICHE B), situated in one of Saxon's few fertile valleys. Existence of large river and introduction of hydropower responsible for growth of Atlan. Atlan, and therefore Saxon's offworld policies, controlled by an extended tribe-family, the Q'riya (SEE FICHE C), believed to be an offshoot of main bedou culture Fal'ici. Manufacturing and all offworld trading controlled by Q'riya. In Atlan, their authority is enforced by the probably created semihereditary group known as the M'lan (SEE FICHE D). Q'riya authority does not extend beyond Atlan's limits, and semianarchy exists among the nomad tribes. Atlan's main export is weaponry, largely created by the introduction of major machinery by

  DELETED ... DELETED ... DELETED. Some primitive art, generally lowly regarded, also transshipped.

  2. Mission:

  To prevent offworld shipment of currently produced arms and, if possible, to significantly reduce or destroy that production capability.

  3. Execution:

  The team-in-place shall exercise the option of how the mission is to be carried out, hopefully by political means but, if necessary, mililarily. Factors—this must not be attributed to an Imperial Mission. All extremes shall be taken to prevent evidence of Imperial involvement. Reiterate: All extremes (SEE ATTACHED, MISSION EQUIPMENT). Mission limitations: preference casualty rate among Fal'ici to be kept as low as possible. Continued existence of Q'riya in present position not significant. Alteration of existing social order not significant.

  4. Coordination:

  Little support can be given, due to the obvious conditions of OPERATION BANZI (see above), beyond standard evacuation deployment, which shall consist of...

  5. Command & Signal:

  OPERATION BANZI will be under the direct control of Code, Mantis Team operating under code schedule...

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The guards neatly lofted Sten into the cell's blackness. He thunked down on an uncomplaining body. Sten rolled off and started to apologize, then sniffed the air. About three days beyond listening, he estimated.

  He got to his feet. The cavernous cell was very dark. Sten kept his eyes moving, hyperventilating. His irises widened. The view wasn't worth even one candle, he decided.

  The prison was well within the anthro profile that fit Saxon. Build an unbreakable cell, and throw everybody into it you don't like. Feed them enough so they don't starve noisily, and then forget them. What happens in the cell is no one's concern.

  He just hoped that Sa'fail was still alive.

  Sten found a wall and put his back to it. Waiting. Lousy, he decided. It took about ten minutes for the bully-boy and his thugs to loom up in the blackness.

  Sten didn't bother asking. The heel of his hand snapped the head villain's neck back, a sideslash dropped him while he gargled the ruins of his larynx. The second received a fist behind the ear as Sten bounced off the man's dead leader.

  He threw the second corpse into the third man's incoming fists, then half turned, foot poised. The third man decided to stay down.

  "Sa'fail. Of the Black Tents. Where is he?"

  The toady grimaced. Thought was obviously not one of his major operational abilities. Sten was patient.

  The toady looked at Sten's ready strike, grunted. “In that corner. The dreadful ones keep their own."

  Sten grinned his thanks and snapped his foot out. Cartilage smashed, the man howled and went down. Sten bent over the man. He decided he wouldn't have to kill him. The toady would be too busy bleeding for an hour or so to backjump Sten—and that, he hoped sincerely, was all it would take.

  He worked his way through the bodies, softly calling the nomad's name. And found him. Sa'fail had an entourage. Sten looked them up and down. Surprisingly healthy for prisoners. He wondered if they'd gotten to recycling their fellow prisoners to stay healthy yet.

  The nomad sat up and stroked his beard.
<
br />   "You are not of the People,” the one who must have been Sa'fail's lieutenant said.

  "I am not that, O Hero of the Desert and Man Who Makes the Slime Q'riya Tremble,” Sten said fluently in the desert dialect. “But I have long admired you from afar."

  The nomad chuckled. “I am honored that you found your admiration so overwhelming you must join me here in my palace."

  "Much as I would like to exchange compliments, O He Who Makes the Wadihs Tremble,” Sten said, “I would suggest that you and your men get very close to that wall over there. You have"—Sten thought a moment—"not very long."

  "What will happen?” the lieutenant asked.

  "Very shortly most of this prison will cease to exist.” The nomads buzzed then snapped silent as Sa'fail motioned.

  "This is not a jest, I assume?"

  "If it were, I would find it less funny than even you."

  "Even so, although your consideration might be for a brief time."

  Sa'fail considered. Then lithely came to his feet.

  "We shall do what the outlander wishes. No matter what happens, boredom shall be relieved."

  The drom spat at Alex. He ducked and thumped four fingers against the beast's sides. It whuffed air and wobbled on its feet. The other members of the Mantis team hated droms, the stinking, recalcitrant transport beast of Saxon. They didn't bother Alex. He'd once been unlucky enough to serve with a Guard ceremonial attachment on Earth and had encountered camels.

  But he didn't regret what was about to happen to this particular drom. The animal belched.

  "Ye'll naught be forgettin’ yer last meal,” he thought, and strolled away from the tethered beast. In trader's robes, carrying a forged day-pass plate, he'd been shaken down by the security guards surrounding the prison.

  Search aboot as ye will, he thought. It's nae easy to find a bomb when it's digestin'in a beastie's guts. An'ye no saw the guns in that garbage in the wee cart.

  He squatted by the wall and let the last few seconds tick away.

  Frick banked closer to Frack. Half-verbal, half-instinct communication, nonwords: Nothing unusual. The other team members were in place. Frick's prehensile wing finger triggered the transceiver.

  "Nothing. Nothing.” Flipped the com off and he and his mate banked for the city walls.

  If there were any team members to link up with, they'd meet outside. In a few seconds.

  Possibly when the charge goes, the assassin thought. Thought discarded. We will need every gun we have.

  Jorgensen nervously fondled the S-charge looped around his neck. If life signs weren't continuously picked up by the internal monitors the ensuing blast would leave nothing to ID a Mantis trooper or his equipment.

  One day closer to the farm, Jorgensen thought morosely. That's the only way to look at it. He unrolled the rug and lifted out the willygun.

  "I realize you did this deliberately,” Doc purred. “You know the antipathy we of Altair have toward death."

  "Nope,” Vinnettsa said. “I didn't. But if I had, it's a clottin’ good idea."

  Doc sat just in the entrance to a mausoleum, pistol clutched in his fat little paws. Vinnettsa made her final checks on the launcher and willygun, then let the elastic sling snap the willygun back under her arm.

  "Revenge. A typical, unpleasant human trait,” Doc said. “Your people never get even?"

  "Of course not. Anthropomorphism. Occasionally we are forced personally to readjust the measure the—your word is fates—have made."

  Vinnettsa started to answer, and then the first blast whiplashed across the cemetery.

  And the two of them were running from the tomb toward the guard quarters that ran inside a tunnel ahead of them.

  A week before, bribed guardsmen had cemented the charge into the guardshack on the main gates.

  The first explosion was minor. Alex had built it up of explosive, a clay shaping and, bedded into the clay, as many glass marbles as he could buy in the bazaar. Now the marbles cannoned out, quite thoroughly incapacitating the ten guards lounging around the gates.

  Alex had set the charge below waist level. “The more howlin’ an’ fa'in’ an’ carrin’ on wi’ wounded, the greater they'll be distracted."

  Vinnettsa set the range-and-charge fuse on the launcher's handle, brought it up. Aimed. As she counted ten, she heard the shouting of the officers who were mustering their riot squads to run them down the tunnel into the prison...

  She touched the stud. The rocket chuffed out, cleared its throat experimentally, then the solid charge caught.

  Vinnettsa flattened as the shaped charge blasted through the solid brick and exploded in the tunnel.

  She picked herself up and watched the roof drop in. An added dividend, she thought. She headed for Alex's positition.

  "If Ah hadna been stupid, Ah wouldna been here. Second and third charges.” Alex hit the det panel under his robes. Two more diversionary charges blew on different sides of the prison.

  "The Guard is mah home, Ah nae want for more. Fourth and fifth charges.” He blew those.

  "An’ noo ‘tis time for us a’ to be gone.” He fingered the main charge switch. And turned. Interested.

  The drom ceased to exist. As did the wall.

  The shock wave blew the main wall out, huge bricks hurtling across the brief space to shatter the inner wall of the prison. It crashed down. Prisoners howled in fear and agony.

  Alex grabbed the willygun from the ground. Held it ready. Dazed, blinking prisoners stumbled out.

  "Go! Go!” he bellowed. They didn't need much encouragement. “C'mon, Sten, m'lad. Time's a-draggin'. Ma mither's nae raised awkward bairns."

  Sten, an older, bearded man, and several men wearing the tatters of nomad gear ran into the street.

  Alex saw a platoon of guards double around the corner toward him. “Ye'll nae credit I thought a’ that,” he grumbled, and hit the last switch. A snake charge positioned on the pavement moments before blew straight up, into the oncoming guards.

  He flipped Sten a gun as he ran up. “C'n we be goin'?” he said. “'M gettin’ bored lurkin’ aroun’ wi’ nothin’ much to do."

  Sten laughed, dropped on one knee and sprayed bullets down the street. Then the nomads, still bewildered, followed the two soldiers at a dead run.

  Doc waved his paw idly. Two willyguns crackled. The four guards at the gate dropped as the bullets exploded in their chests.

  Jorgensen and Vinnettsa went down, guns ready, as Sten, Alex, and the nomads ran up. Alex continued on, up to the gates, unslinging a satchel charge. He bent over with it, and touched the timer. Turned and walked back. “Ah suggest we be layin’ doon, or we'll be starin’ at all our own knackers."

  The nomads looked uncomprehending. Sten motioned furiously, and they chewed brick pavement along with the team.

  Another blast, and the gates pinwheeled away. Bits of iron and timber crashed around the crouched soldiers.

  "Miscalculated a wee on that one,” Alex muttered. “Y'kn keek m1 frit."

  They were on their feet, running out into the desert.

  "We wait here,” Sa'fail ordered. “My men watch the city. They will be coming down to see who is stupid enough to come out of Atlan without soldiers to keep them safe."

  The team automatically set up a perimeter, then slumped behind rocks. Vinnettsa pulled a canteen from her belt and passed it around.

  "The Fal'ici owe you a debt,” Sa'fail said to Sten after drinking.

  Sten looked at Doc. This was his area. The bear walked into the middle and turned through 180 degrees. Tendrils waving gently.

  Sten could feel the tension ebb. Automatically, everyone—soldiers and nomads—felt the small creature to be his best friend. That was Doc's survival mechanism. His species were actually spirited hunters who had nearly destroyed the wildlife of their homeworld. They hated everyone, including each other except during estrus and for a short space after a pup was born. But they exuded love. Trust. Pity the creature that stopped to bathe in the
good feelings from the small creature.

  "Why,” Sten had once asked, halfway through Mantis training, “don't you hate us?"

  "Because,” Doc said gloomily, “they conditioned me. They condition all of us. I love you because I have to love you. But that doesn't mean I have to like you."

  Doc bowed to Sa'fail. “We honor you, Sa'fail, as a man of honor, just as your race is honorable."

  "We Fal'ici of the desert are such. But those town scum...” Sa'fail's lieutenant spat dustily.

  "I assume,” Sa'fail went on, “that you liberated me for a reason."

  "Indeed,” Doc purred, “there is a favor we wish."

  "Yours is anything the People of the Black Tents may offer. But first we have a debt to settle with the Q'riya."

  "You may find,” Doc said, “that more than one debt may be paid at a time."

  * * * *

  The tent was smoky, hot, and it smelled. Why is it, Sten wondered, that a nomad is only romantic downwind? None of the princelings seemed to have any more water to spare for bathing than their tribesmen did.

  He grinned as he saw Sa'fail, at the head of the table, ceremoniously bundle a handful of food into Doc's mouth. Lucky if he pulls back all his fingers, he thought. But it is going well.

  He unobtrusively patted Vinnettsa beside him. The tribesmen had only grudgingly allowed Ida and Vinnettsa full status with the other Mantis members. It had helped that Vinnettsa had been jumped one night by three romantic tribesmen and, in front of witnesses, used four blows to kill them.

  Alex tapped him. “Ah gie ye this as an honor, m'lad."

  Sten opened his mouth to ask what it was and Alex slipped the morsel inside. Sten bit once, and his throat told him this texture was not exactly right. He braced and swallowed. His stomach was not pleasant as it rumbled the bit of food down.

  "What was it?"

  "A wee eyeball. Frae a herdin’ animal."

  Sten decided to swallow a couple more times, just to make sure.

  The tents spread out for miles. The Mantis team and their charges had arrived at Sa'fail's home, and immediately riders had thundered off into the desert. And the tribes had filtered in. It had taken all of Sa'fail's considerable eloquence to convince the anarchic tribesmen to follow him, and only continuous, loud judgings held the tenuous alliances together.