‘Of course – that’ll be the route all my eager miners’ll follow if word gets out.’
‘The plot led through the Lupus Cluster,’ Mahoney said.
‘What the hell is that?’
‘A few hundred suns, planets … mostly inhabited … back of beyond.’
‘Inhabited by whom, might I ask?’ the Emperor said.
‘My team’s ship got jumped by one of your majesty’s ex-cruisers. The Turnmaa.’
‘Are they all right?’ the Emperor asked tersely. All pretense of casualness was gone.
‘They’re fine. The cruiser starting shooting, my team put down on some primitive world. The Turnmaa came after them. So they took the ship. Two hundred dead black-uniformed crewmen later, they came home in the Turnmaa.’
‘Hostile group of boys and girls you breed over there in Mantis,’ the Emperor said, relaxing. ‘Any idea why these baddies jumped my ship? It was supposed to look like a tramp miner, wasn’t it?’
‘They started out by screaming “In the Name of Talamein,”’ Mahoney said, as usual preferring the indirect explanation.
The Emperor slumped down on the log. ‘The Talamein! I thought I put a stake through their heart ten generations ago!’
No psychohistorian has ever been able to explain why, throughout human history, waves of false messiahs come and go. Never one at a time. Witness, for example, the dozens of saviors, from 20 B.C. until A.D. 60, who gave the Romans a rough road to go.
A similar wave had swept the Galaxy some four hundred years previously. Since the Emperor knew that a culture must be allowed religious freedom, he could do little until a particular messiah would decide he was the Entity’s final fruition and declare a jihad. Until then, all the Emperor could do was try to keep the peace and endure.
There was much to endure.
Such as the Messiah of Endymion VI, who decided that all women on the planet were his sole property and all the men were unnecessary. The first item of interest is that the entire male population, believers all plus or minus a few quickly sworded atheists, suicided. Even more interesting is that the Messiah was impotent.
There was an entire solar system that believed, like the early Christian Manichees, that all matter, including themselves, was evil and to be destroyed. The Emperor never learned how they managed to blackmarket a planetbuster nor how they managed to launch it into their sun, producing both a solar flare and a sudden end to the movement.
A dozen or so messiahs preached genocide against their immediate neighbors, but were easily handled by the Guard once they off-planeted.
The messiah of one movement took a fairly conventional monotheism system, added engineering jargon, and converted several planetary systems. The Emperor had worried about that one a bit – until the messiah absconded to one of the Imperial play-worlds with the movement’s treasury.
One messiah decided Nirvana was a long ways off, so his world purchased several of the old monster liners, linked them together, and headed for Nirvana. Since their plot showed Nirvana to be somewhere around the edge of the universe, the Emperor quit worrying about them, too.
And then there was the faith of Talamein. Founded in reaction to a theology in decay, a young warrior named Talamein preached purity, dedication of life to the Entity’s purpose, and putting to the sword anyone who chose not to believe as he did.
The old religion and the new were at gunspoint when the Emperor stepped in. He offered the Talameins and their Prophet enough transport to find themselves a system of their own. Overjoyed, the warrior faith had accepted, boarded ships, and disappeared from mortal man’s consciousness.
The Emperor was fairly proud of his ‘humanitarian’ decision. He had interceded not because he particularly cared who would win the civil war but because he knew that (a) the old, worn-out theocracy would be destroyed, (b) the people of Talamein would have themselves close to a full cluster as a powerbase, and (c) that faith would inevitably explode out into the Galaxy.
The last thing the Eternal Emperor needed, he knew, was a young, virile religion that would ultimately find the Emperor and his mercantile Empire unnecessary. The result would be intragalactic war and the inevitable destruction of both sides.
Not only did the Emperor defuse the situation, but he also guaranteed that if the faith of Talamein survived, he would always be thought of as Being on Their Side.
All this the Emperor remembered. But, being a polite man, he listened to Mahoney’s historical briefing.
*
‘More fish, Colonel?’
Mahoney burn-cured a slight case of the hiccups with a shot from their second jar then shook his head.
After the birchwood fire’d burned down to coals, the Emperor had put the salmon on the sapling grill. He’d left it for a few minutes, then quickly splashed corn liquor on the skinside and skillfully flipped the slabs of fish over. The fire flared and charred the skin, and then the Ernperor had extracted the fish. Mahoney couldn’t remember when he’d eaten anything better.
‘So the people of Talamein ended up in this – this Lupus Cluster,’ the Emperor said.
He smiled to himself, remembering that when he had picked out the system for the young fanatics, a court wag had translated it ‘The Wolf Worlds.’ How appropriate, he thought, thinking of the attack on his Mantis team.
‘Then, following them, it seems as if every renegade, degenerate, and bandit warlord in their sector headed for the Lupus Cluster and sanctuary because they, of course, were True Believers in the Faith of Talamein all along.’
‘Tell me more,’ the Emperor said. ‘I’m morbidly fascinated on how much worse things can be.’
Things were, indeed, much worse.
About 150 years before, the Faith of Talamein itself had split, conveniently ending with the Talamein A people on one side of the roughly double-crescent-shaped cluster, the Talamein B fanatics on the other.
Talamein A had the ‘True Prophet,’ the man who claimed the most direct descent from Talamein himself. But this ‘original’ faith deteriorated into opulence, schismatic politics and a succession of less-than-prescient Prophets. This not only split the faithful, but the real power came to rest with a merchant council.
The council was made up of most of the baronial trading families, who were more than willing to provide leadership in the confusion. Each family, of course, secretly felt that the council was only temporary, until it managed to seize full power for itself.
So this ‘True Prophet’ of Talamein A was indeed a figurehead, but was also the only thing keeping one crescent of the Lupus Cluster from absolute anarchy.
On the other side were the ‘renegades’ of Talamein B, who had vowed a return to the purity of their original warrior faith. Purists need proctors, so the ‘False’ Prophet of Talamein B had created a ruling class of warrior-priests. Black-uniformed, they publicly eschewed worldly goods though their bleak fortresses were known to ‘store’ many ‘for the common good.’ Such were the Jannisars. The Jann had needed barely one generation to become the rulers of the people of Talamein B.
‘So on one side,’ the Emperor said, ‘we have these merchant princes. The top man is …’
‘A rogue named Parral. He currently heads the council.’
‘His Prophet is?’
‘Theodomir. When he was young he massacred a few lots of disbelievers then settled down to his real interests, which seem to be bribes, antiquarian art, and the martyrs of the faith. Sanctus – the homeworld and the capital – is sometimes called the City of Tombs.’
‘Who’s the Jannisars’ Prophet?’
‘A killer named Ingild. Among other things, my agents report, he’s addicted to narcotics.’
The Emperor put both hands to his temples and rubbed slowly, thinking.
‘Our analysis—’
‘Enough, Colonel Mahoney,’ and suddenly the Eternal Emperor was cold sober and his voice shifted into the metallic command tone.
‘Here is your analysis,’ he said. ‘First
, there is no way to mine this X-mineral without the word getting out. Second, when word does seep out, all those rich-miners-to-be will move straight through the Lupus Cluster. Third, either the merchants will turn privateer or the Jann will become bandits. Fourth, there will be a monstrous slaughter of those rushing to the gold fields. Open the scotch, Colonel.’
Mahoney passed the Emperor the bottle.
‘Fifth, the bloodbath will force me to send in the Guard – to keep the spaceways open and all that drivel. Sixth, it will be interpreted as the Eternal Emperor’s violating his most sacred word and supressing a religion. Here, have a drink.
‘Sixth – no, I did that. Seventh, before word of this discovery gets out, the entire Lupus Cluster must be under the control of one entity. By the way, does Theodomir the Vacillating have much longer to go?’
‘He’s probably got another one hundred years under him, boss,’ Mahoney said. ‘His main heir’s named Mathias. About thirty years old. Thinks religion and politics don’t mix. Unmarried. Lives a pure life. Thinks the faith of Talamein is sacred.’
‘Uh-oh,’ the Emperor murmured.
‘Nope. He thinks the faith of Talamein is for the vastnesses – he did say that, ’cause I can’t pronounce that word – and so he’s got a small troop of young men. They spend their time in manly sports, hunting animals, fasting, retreats, and so forth.’
‘Mmm.’ The Emperor was deep in thought again.
‘What’s the problem, boss?’
‘I can’t remember whether I was on seven or eight.’
‘Eight. I think. Can I have the bottle?’
‘Royalty has its privileges,’ the Eternal Emperor said, swallowing twice before he handed the jug to Mahoney.
‘Eighth, we want the cluster controlled by one entity, but one that’s … amenable to reason. Which means he’ll listen to me without my having to send in the Guard. Nine, these Jannisars are impossible. No way am I going to be able to keep a bunch of thug priests under control.’
‘Uh, you’re saying you want ol’ Theo to come out on top?’
‘Not at all. I want somebody on his side to come out winners.’
‘Anybody in particular?’
The Emperor shrugged. ‘Hell if I care. You pick a winner, Colonel.’
Mahoney felt himself sobering up. ‘Obviously this is to be a deniable operation?’
‘Brilliant, Colonel. Of course I don’t want the hand of the Emperor to be seen meddling in a cluster’s private politics.’
Mahoney chose to ignore the sarcasm. ‘That means Mantis.’
‘By the way,’ the Emperor said, neatly plucking the bottle from between Mahoney’s feet. ‘That team that took the samples?’
‘Yessir. Team Thirteen. Lieutenant Sten commanding.’
‘Sten?’
‘He’s handled some difficult assignments for us in the past, sir.’
‘Give him a couple of medals, or something,’ the Emperor said.
‘Or something,’ Mahoney said.
‘Any decision, Colonel?’ the Emperor asked. ‘Before we get thoroughly drunk – which Mantis unit do you intend to use?’
Mahoney took the bottle back and drained it. Oddly, when he was drinking or angry, he spoke with the faint whisper of what used to be called a brogue. ‘Could I be troublin’ you for some of your ’shine, Emperor? And in answerin’ your question, indeed, I think I have just the lad in mind.’
Chapter Eight
It took a while for Sten to hunt down the rest of his team members to let them know he was being detached. They’d scattered across the Guard’s Intoxication and Intercourse world as completely as they could.
Bet, true to their agreement, had gone her own way – picking up a hunting guide and disappearing into the outback with Hugin and Munin. Sten had given her the message briefly, over a com in Mantis voice-code, then gotten clear. He wasn’t sure he was that sophisticated yet.
Ida had been easy; she’d been comfortably ensconced in a casino, trying to see if her beat-the-game system would bankrupt the casino before the officials threw her out.
Doc had disappeared into the wilds of the recworld’s only university and was finally located growling contentedly at anthropology fiches in the media center. Before him was a flask of Stra!bo blood-milk drink that he’d conned a slightly revolted Guard tech to put together for him.
Detached service wasn’t unusual for Mantis soldiers. But this was the first time it had happened to Team 13 and to Sten. But the Emperor orders, and man can but obey.
Sten was feeling a little homesick-in-advance and he was puzzled about how one man could accomplish what Mahoney had ordered. Meanwhile he was scouring bibshops. He knew he would find Kilgour in one of them.
He heard Alex before he saw him, as the voice boomed out the screen opening of the shop. ‘So the adj’tant sae “Sah,” an’ dispatchit thae best Brit sol’jer, who fixit his bay’nit …’
‘What’s a clottin’ bayonet?’ another voice asked.
‘Y’dinnae need to know. Jus’ keepit silent an’ list’n. So this braw Brit sol’jer goes chargint opp yon hill. An’ in a wee second, his head come bumpit, bumpit, bumpit back down.
‘An’ then yon giant skreekit e’em louder, “Ah’m Red Rory ae th’ Glen! Send opp your best squad!”
‘Ah the Brit gen’ral, who’s turnit purple, sae, “Adj’tant! Ah wan’ that mon’s head! Send opp y’best squad.” An’ th’ adj’tant sae “Sah!” an’ opp go thae regiment’s best fightin’ squad.’
And Sten, wondering if he’d ever hear the end of the Red Rory saga, walked into the bar.
Alex saw him, read the expression, and grunted to the two totally swacked guardsmen who were pinned against the wall by the table. ‘Ah gie y’ a wee bit more ed’cation some other time. Be on wi’ ye, lads.’
He pulled back the table, and, relieved, the two guardsmen stumbled away. Sten slid into an empty chair.
‘Gie me th’ worst, lad. An kin handl’t.’
And Sten repeated Mahoney’s briefing, the anti-tap pak on his belt turned up to high.
‘Ah wae wrong! Ah noo can handl’t,’ Alex moaned. He was even too depressed to order more quill.
‘Whae m’mither sae i’ she findit out Ah been cashier’t frae th’ Guard?’
‘It’s just a cover, dammit. Your mother’ll never hear.’ ‘Y’dinnae ken m’mither.’ Alex groaned. ‘Ah whae y’be’t, lad, if Ah’m a busted-out Guards RSM?’
‘Obvious. I would like you to meet ex-Captain Sten, Third Guards, decorated, wounded, mentioned in dispatches, and cashiered for committing nameless atrocities.’
Alex groaned again, brought a paw out in what Sten thought would be mock-salute, and turned into a grab for Sten’s mug.
‘Ah knewit, Ah should’a stayed Laird Kilgour.’ He sighed.
Chapter Nine
According to church dogma, Talamein had ordered his fleet of émigrés to set down on Sanctus because a vision told him that the water-world was particularly blessed by the spirit of the cosmos.
Actually, Talamein had diverted for the first E-normal world that swam onto the scopes since he was faced with near-mutiny and his people were developing a moderate case of the cobblies.
Sanctus had one major city – the City of Tombs – a few minor fishing villages, one minor port, and hundreds of villages. Its population was composed of those in the theocracy, those who exploited the pilgrims to the World of Talamein, and peasants – fisherfolk or farmers.
And Sten.
He shifted uncomfortably on the stone bench and massaged the stiff place in his neck. A cold breath of air needled his spine. The Prophet’s guardsman eyed Sten just as coldly as the breeze caressing his spine. Sten grinned at him and the guard turned away.
He had been sitting on that bench for three hours, but patience was a virtue learned quickly on Sanctus. Especially in the City of Tombs, with its drab bureaucratic priests, massive monuments to the long-dead, and ghostly cold spots.
Not exact
ly soft duty, Mahoney, Sten thought, looking around the ancient anteroom in pure boredom. Like everything else in the City of Tombs, it was constructed of yellowing stone that had once been white. The chamber was enormous, decorated here and there with chiseled faces, gilded statuary, and elaborate tapestries.
And the room was thick with the scent of incense.
But like everything else on Sanctus, everything in the room was worn and threadbare. The tapestry had been torn and then mended, the gilded figures chipped.
Even the guard, with his ceremonial halberd and unceremonial projectile weapon, was threadbare, his uniform far from clean and patched many times.
Sten, on the other hand, wore the brown undress of the Guards division, his chest hung with the decorations he and Mahoney had decided were appropriate. Conspicuously absent was a Guards Division patch on the sleeve – but there was a dark patch where it might have been ripped off following a court-martial. He stood out in the poverty that was Sanctus.
Money was the number-one problem on the World of Talamein, far more important than the state of a being’s soul. Bribery, Sten had learned, was a surer path to salvation than prayer.
Fortunately, Mahoney had supplied Sten with more than enough credits. He had already been a week on Sanctus, humbly seeking an audience with Theodomir the Prophet, but it had taken awhile to grease his way up the chain of command.
A helluva way to run a religion, Sten thought.
He had paid a last big bribe the day before to purchase a bishop. So far the bishop had kept his promises.
Sten had been ushered through the streets of the ‘awesome’ City of Tombs, with its vast monuments and towering chimney-like torches. A few of the torches spouted huge columns of flame. They were turned on, like fiery praywheels, when the families of the very rich made their offerings for the recently departed.
To Sten, the city looked like a huge valley of factories in mourning.
Sten eased himself down the bench another half meter to escape the cold. Besides the tawdriness of the place, the cold spots were one of the first things Sten noticed. They seemed to be scattered all through the long hallways and chambers, rising strangely from seemingly solid stone. Careful, Sten warned himself, or pretty soon you’ll start seeing Talamein ghosts.
Battlecry: Sten: Omnibus One (Sten Omnibus) Page 30
