Sten s-1

by Allan Cole

  "The way I look at it, somebody thinks you did."

  "Thoresen?"

  "Himself."

  "I still don't—"

  "I promise I won't look at anything more than I have to. I'll concentrate on the last few hours you were on Vulcan."

  Sten took the flask from Mahoney. Drank deep. Thinking. Finally:

  "Okay. I'll do it."

  Mahoney put an arm on his shoulder, started leading him back toward the door.

  "This way," he said. "There's a gravsled waiting."

  . . .Sten oozed from the vent in the wall, his eyes on the patrolman's back. . .

  "No," Mahoney said, "it's not that."

  Sten was lying on an operating table. Electrodes attached to his head, arms, and legs leading to a small steel box. The box drove a computer screen.

  Mahoney, Rykor, and a white-coated Tech watched the screen and saw Sten drag the patrolman back to the vent and stuff him in. Rykor checked Sten's vital signs on another display, then motioned to the Tech. He tapped keys and more images appeared on the screen.

  . . .Sten and the other Delinqs were at Thoresen's door. Beside him was Bet. She took a plastic rod from a pocket. Positioned it in the middle of the door's panel. . .Bet. . .Bet. . .Bet. . .Bet. . .

  "Wait," Rykor snapped.

  And her Tech put the probe on hold. Bet's image froze on the screen. Rykor leaned over Sten and injected a tranquil. Sten's body relaxed. Rykor checked the medcomputer, then nodded at the Tech to continue.

  . . .And Sten stepped into Thoresen's quarters. . .They were in another world. . .an exotic, friendly jungle. . .except. . .Sten spotted a motion detector. . .leaped. . .knife plunging into it.

  "Almost there," Mahoney said. "Flip forward a few minutes."

  . . .Papers and more papers spilled from Thoresen's safe. . .And then Oron had it, a thick, red folder labeled BRAVO PROJECT.

  "Hold it," Mahoney said. "Stop right now."

  "Is that what you're looking for?" Rykor asked.

  "Yes."

  "And you want me—us—out."

  "Yes."

  Rykor signaled her Tech to wheel her out.

  "Watch his vital signs," she said. "If they even flicker, shut the probe off."

  "I can run it," Mahoney said.

  Reluctantly, Rykor and her Tech left. Mahoney returned to the probe, started flipping through.

  Oron's expression went blank and the folder spilled. Sten hastily tried to pick the pages up as they spilled over the floor. He wasn't even reading what was on them, but his mind registered images.

  Mahoney cursed at himself as he froze the image of each sheet of paper. His fingers were clumsy at the computer keys as he hardcopied the display. Clot—it was there all the time in Sten's brain!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  MAHONEY STOOD AT full attention before the Emperor.

  "AM2," the Emperor whispered to himself. "Yes. Yes, it makes sense. He just might be able. . ."

  He looked up at Mahoney, puzzled for a minute, then spoke. "At ease, colonel."

  Mahoney slid to a smooth, formal at rest.

  "You've told me the facts," the Emperor said. "Thoresen seems to be on the verge of artificially creating Antimatter Two. That's Bravo Project. Fine. Now, what are your feelings? Guesses. Half-thoughts, even."

  "The Empire runs on Antimatter Two," Mahoney said. "You control the source. No one, except you, knows where that source is. Therefore—"

  "I am the Emperor," the Emperor said. "AM2 makes me that. And since I am sane, and since I am. . .always, I provide absolute stability to the galaxy."

  "And Thoresen is thinking he can replace you," Mahoney said.

  The Emperor shook his head. "No. You underestimate Thoresen. The Baron is a subtle man. If he could successfully manufacture AM2—which, by the way, no one, not even I, knows how to do—it would still be much more expensive than what I provide."

  "So what's his game?" Mahoney asked.

  "Probably blackmail," the Emperor said. "It would be cheaper and far more rewarding to threaten. If everyone knows how to make AM2, then I am not needed. Of course, he's not bright enough to realize that proliferation of this knowledge would mean the fall of the Empire. Which no one, including Thoresen, wants. But in the meantime, we must be prepared for Thoresen to suddenly quote us a very high price for something."

  "Which would be?"

  "It doesn't matter," the Emperor said. "What matters is that we stop him. Now."

  Mahoney moved to attention again.

  "I want this kept quiet," the Emperor said. "So. Use a Mantis Section team. First, foment revolt. Second, capture Thoresen—alive, you understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then, with Vulcan in revolt, I shall officially be forced to land the Imperial Guard to restore order. Naturally, someone other than Thoresen will be chosen to head the Company."

  The Emperor picked up a drink, toyed with it, took a sip, frowned at the taste and put it down. Looked up at Mahoney again. Raised an eyebrow.

  Mahoney snapped a salute. Wheeled. Marched to the door and exited. The Emperor studied his drink. Yes, he had seen to everything. Now it was up to Mahoney.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  STEN AND THE other members of his team were gathered around the briefing table. Mahoney was at the head.

  "And so," Mahoney said, "with Sten's background on Vulcan, this team would be the logical choice for the mission.

  "Now, for the mission itself, I visualize a four-step program. . ."

  Sten didn't even hesitate when Mahoney had asked if they would volunteer for the mission. He had a special reason for wanting to go, and even if the others on his team had refused, he would have figured a way out to squirm his way in.

  Yes. A very special reason. When Mahoney had been flipping through his mind, he overlooked something. In the Bravo Project folder. Not that there was any reason why he should have noticed. It had been labeled: RECREATIONAL AREA 26: A SUMMARY OF ACTIONS. The Row.

  Thoresen had ordered it destroyed. And had killed his family.

  Mahoney finished. He looked around at the members of the team, his eyes stopping on Sten. "Any questions?"

  "No, sir," Sten said. "No questions at all."

  BOOK FOUR—RETURN TO VULCAN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  THORESEN WAS PLEASED with himself. He strolled through his garden, pausing now and then to enjoy a flower. There had been a few glitches, but so far, everything was going according to plan. He was no longer concerned about threats from the Emperor. All possible leaks had been plugged. Even including that little matter of the Mig, Sten.

  Sten was dead. Of that he was absolutely sure. Thoresen had just gotten the final information from his main contact on Prime World.

  "I've breached Guard security," Crocker had boasted. "So this is straight from their computer."

  "What does that mean," the Baron asked, "except that you are going to charge me more?"

  "It means your Sten is out of it for good. He was killed in a nasty training accident. A woman trooper was also killed."

  Thoresen smiled. How convenient. No final payment due to the assassin.

  "Good work. Now, what did you find out about my relations with the Emperor?"

  "You're fine, there," Crocker said. "The last time there was a complaint—and it was a minor one—about Vulcan, the Emperor sent a personal reprimand to the complaining party. He said he did not want a patriot such as yourself maligned."

  Thoresen plucked a flower. Sniffed at it. That, he didn't believe at all. He was sure the Emperor was playing some sort of game. But he wasn't worried. The only kind he could play was the waiting variety. And Bravo Project was almost complete.

  Yes, the Baron had a great deal to be thankful for.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  THE DRONE TUG shifted the huge boulder in its tractor grip and then nosed it against another. Ida cursed as she fought for control, slipped, and the boulders collided. Sten and the others slammed against the roc
k side, then tumbled toward the other as there was another loud thud.

  "Would you get this clotting thing going?" Sten yelled at Ida. "You're turning us into soyamush."

  "I'm trying. I'm trying," Ida shouted back. She slid back into her seat and once again began to tap delicately at the computer keys.

  Sten and the other members of the Mantis team were inside the boulder. It was actually a huge, hollowed hunk of ore fitted out as a minispaceship. Except, of course, there was no drive unit. Their tug provided that. Which was why everyone was cursing Ida, as she tried to maneuver the drone tug from inside the boulder.

  "It's not my fault," she complained. "The damn drone doesn't have the brains of a microbe."

  "Dinna be malignin' the wee beastie," Alex said. "Ye're the one giein' the brains—Ouch! Clot you, lass."

  Ida grinned back at them. This time the big jolt had been on purpose.

  "Maybe we better shut up," Sten said, "and let her drive."

  Ida caressed the keys. Finally, the tug began to respond more smoothly. The boulder next to them moved away to a safer distance. The drone's drive units flared, and they began to drift slowly after it, toward Vulcan.

  Sten had figured the perfect insertion method. Vulcan sent only unmanned tugs to the mining world, where all work was done by bots. A hollow boulder nearby carried their gear.

  On the final approach to Vulcan, Ida punched at her computer, setting up an ECM blanket to fool Vulcan's sniffers, then put a finger to her lips, warning them unnecessarily to be quiet. A security capsule sniffed them over, then gave the drone tug clearance.

  A jolt, whispered curses, and the tug started to move them toward a huge, yawning port. Then, slam, they were down.

  "Clot, Ida," Jorgensen groaned. "Gimme a little humanity."

  "That's her problem," Doc said. "She has too much of it."

  And then they were moving along a slideway toward the thundering sound of grinding, giant teeth.

  "This is where we get off," Sten said. "And quick."

  They blew the port and scrambled out. About a hundred meters ahead of them waited the enormous jaws of a crusher. Sten and Ida popped the other boulder open and began hauling out gear. Jorgensen patted a knapsack he was carrying. Inside, Frick and Frack were whining to get out.

  They carried the gear to the edge of the moving belt, then slid down after it.

  "Next time," Ida said as they stacked their things on a gravsled, "you drive."

  "Can't," Sten said. "I think you broke my arm."

  He ducked under her swinging fist, then jumped up on the sled. As the others climbed on, Sten switched the sled controls to manual and headed for their hiding place. He had spotted it when he was a Delinq. It was better than a hideout. It was a home, complete with access to food, drink and not-so-public transportation.

  "The Emperor's got nothin' on us," Jorgensen whistled.

  Even Doc was gawking at Sten's find. They were standing in the main ballroom of what had once been a luxury passenger liner. It was from the earlier days of interstellar travel, when journeys took months, and competing liners boasted of the diversions they provided their well-heeled customers. There were staterooms, party rooms, and several other ballrooms like the one they were standing in, with glittering chandeliers and polished floors. In the perfect nonenvironment of Vulcan, everything was exactly as the Company had left it centuries earlier when the ship was used to provide quarters to Execs overseeing the construction of Vulcan. It had been bought from a belly-up corporation, bolted into place, and then abandoned as Vulcan grew.

  Hundreds of meters up, near the ballroom ceiling, Frick and Frack wheeled about, squealing in delight at their regained freedom.

  "Well," Ida said, "the bats like it, so I guess it's okay."

  She wasn't quite so happy when Sten showed her the ship's computer and put her to work. "It's so clotting primitive," she said, "it belongs in a museum."

  Sten had had enough diplomacy drilled into him by now to know when to keep his mouth shut. And by the time he left, she was huddled over the board, stroking it back to life, and beginning the task of patching them into Vulcan's central computer.

  "As I see it," Doc said, "our first objective is recruitment."

  He snuggled his tubby body back onto the chair, feet dangling. They were in the captain's quarters, wolfing down the Exec meal Ida had conjured out of the computer.

  "Y'mean," Alex said, "Ah canna blow things oop yet?"

  "Patience, Alex," Sten said. "We'll get to that soon."

  He turned to Doc. "You can't just walk up to a Mig and wiggle your finger at him. He'll think you're a Company spy and run like hell."

  Jorgensen burped, then tossed a couple of Peskagrapes over to Frick and Frack. "Feed me some input, I'll see what I can plow up."

  Sten shook his head.

  "No. We'll start with the Delinqs."

  "From what you told us about them," Ida said, "they'll try to cut our throats."

  "A suggestion?" Doc ventured.

  Sten was surprised. Doc always stated facts. Never asked. Then he realized that despite their briefings, Doc was still feeling his way through the intricacies of Vulcan.

  "Shoot."

  "No, no. You don't want to shoot them."

  "I mean—Clot! Never mind. Go ahead."

  "What we may need to do is establish a suprapeer figure. A hero for them to emulate."

  "I don't get it."

  "Of course you don't. Listen, and I'll explain. . ."

  They didn't have to wait long to put Doc's plan into effect. Ida had patched into the Sociopatrol Headquarters' system, blue-boxed a monitor on it, then left orders for the ship computer to wake her at the appropriate time.

  They had been nailed cold. All exits were sealed and the Sociopatrol was moving in reinforcements. It was a large Delinq gang armed with riot guns and obeying orders with almost military precision as the leader snapped out commands.

  "You three, behind those crates. You and you, over there."

  There was a loud crump as the Sociopatrol peeled the outer lock door. The leader looked around. It was the best she could do. In a few minutes, they would all be dead. She took up position behind a stack of crates and waited.

  Another, louder crump and the main door exploded inward in a shower of metal splinters. Screams from the wounded. The leader recovered, fired a burst at uniformed figures in the doorway. Ragged fire began behind her as the others started to fight back. Hopeless. The patrolmen advanced behind a huge metal shield.

  A shout above them.

  "Down!"

  The leader looked as a slim figure dropped from a duct onto a mountain of crates. He was behind the advancing spearhead of Sociopatrolmen. She lifted her weapon. Almost fired. Again, there was a shout.

  "Flatten."

  She dropped as Sten sprayed the patrolmen with his willygun. Mass confusion and hysteria began among the attackers. A few tried to fight back. Sten worked his willygun like a hose, spraying from left to right and then left again. And in a moment it was over and there were twenty dead Sociopatrolmen.

  Sten jumped down and walked toward the Delinqs. They came out of hiding, dazed. Staring at Sten as he advanced. One boy took a cautious step forward.

  "Who's your leader?" Sten asked.

  "I am." A voice behind him.

  He turned as the woman came from behind the stack of crates. And froze.

  Bet.

  She fell. And fell. And fell. Screaming for Sten. Every muscle tensed for the hurt. A child again in nightmare fall.

  And then there was a softness. Like crashing into a soft pillow, but still falling. And the pillow stiffened, and she bit. . .bottom? And was flung upward, tumbling over and over. Then falling again. Slower.

  Until Bet found herself suspended in midair over a huge machine. A McLean gravlift that workmen used to hoist heavy equipment through the ducts.

  Cautiously, she slid off the pillow and dropped to the floor. She peered up into the darkness. Nothing.
She shouted for Sten. There were sounds above her, then a beam of light speared down. She threw herself to one side as patrolmen fired at her. Came to her feet and sprinted away.

  Bet stretched luxuriously on the bed. Nuzzled up to Sten.

  "I never thought—"

  He silenced her with a kiss. Drew her closer.

  "What's to think? We're alive."

  Ida paced back and forth, glaring now and then at the door to Sten's quarters. She was very angry. "That's just great," she snarled at Alex. "She bats her eyes and no more Mantis trooper. Just another loverboy."

  "Ye nae hae a sliver a' romance in yer bones, lass?"

  Ida snorted but didn't even bother to answer.

  "We all ken aboot Bet," Alex said.

  "Sure," she snapped. "We all know each other's psych profile. Just like I know you mourn for your mother's home-cooked haggis. But that don't mean I have to let your dear old momma join our team."

  "Now, dinna be malignin' me mither. Had an arm a' her could stop a tank wi' one blow."

  "You know what I mean."

  "Ah do. An' y'be wrong. Wrong a' wee lil body cou' be."

  "How so?"

  "I'ye nae see it, whidny bother a' explain. Ah'll be havin' Sten do it f' me."

  Ida snorted again, then grinned. "To hell with it Let's have a beer."

  "We don't have a chance," Bet pleaded. "Let's just get out. Off Vulcan. Like we always dreamed."

  Sten shook his head.

  "I can't. And even if the others let me, I wouldn't. Thoresen—"

  "Clot Thoresen!"

  "Exactly what I plan to do."

  Bet started to tell him that killing Thoresen—even if he could—wouldn't bring his family back. But that was obvious. She sighed. "How can I help?"

  "You've been running that gang since I. . .left?"

  Bet nodded.

  "From what I saw, they're pretty good."

  "Not as good as Oron's," she said. "But the best, now. We're armed and not running like Oron did."