So Alex-at-the-lock deteriorated into a vulgar brawl. In any other society, it would have been called a massacre, but on Kulak it was merely a fight that would be told about for a few years until the people involved struck it rich and moved off or died.
And there was nothing that Kilgour enjoyed more than a vulgar brawl. In motion, he looked like a heavily armored ball that ricocheted away from the lock entrance to connect with a target and then spun back to position, an armored ball confusedly quoting half-remembered and terrible poetry.
‘Tha’ oot spake braw Horatius.
Th’ cap’ ae th’ gate:
T’ every man upon the airt,
A fat lip cometh soon or late.’
The fat lip was a miner’s smashed faceplate and a near-fatal concussion. Alex was too busy to see the man fall as he grabbed a swinging, grab-iron-wielding arm and shoved the grab iron into a third miner’s gut, exploding the pressurized suit.
‘Ae Astur’s throat Horatius
Right firmly pressed his heel …’
That miner gurgled into oblivion.
‘An’ thrice an four times tugged amain …
Sorry lad for the poetic licence.
’Ere he wrenched out the steel.’
The miners pulled back to regroup. Alex turned his suit oxy supply to full and waited.
The mob – only half of it was still interested in fighting – grew hesitant.
‘Wae none who would be foremost
To lead such dire attack;
But those behind criet “forrard.”
An’ thae before cried for their wee mums.’
That was too much, and the miners phalanxed forward. A phalanx works very well, so long as nobody takes out the front rank. Alex went flat in the dome’s muck and rolled toward the onrushing miners. The front rank stumbled and went down, effectively blocking the airlock. And Alex was running amok in their rear. The ram of his helmet was as effective as his feet and fists, and then the mob was hesitating, turning, and running down the narrow passageways, away from Alex.
He collected himself, chopped his suit’s air supply, and opened his faceplate, breathing deeply to let the euphoria and adrenaline ebb somewhat.
‘It stands some’eres or other
Plain for all to see.
Wee Alex in his kilt an’ socks
Dronk upon one knee
An’ underneath is written
In letters ae of mold
How valiantly he kept th’ bridge
Ee the braw days ae old.’
Alex looked around, hoping for an appreciative audience. There was none – the battle casualties were either terminal, moaning for a medico, or crawling away at speed. But Alex wasn’t bothered.
‘Tha,’ he went on, ‘wa a poem Ah learn’t a’ m’ mither’s knee an’ other low joints.’ He looked worriedly at the lock behind him. ‘Now, wee Sten, if y’ll be snaggi’t th’ doc so we can be away afore thae dolts realize Ah’m guardin’t a lock ’stead of a bridge …’
The dust was metal filings, quickly being blown into the yellow fog that clouded the outside of the dome. Sten briefly looked at the exploded walls that had been Stynburn’s chambers, then went after the footsteps in the dust.
They sprang, one every ten meters, up into what might have been called – had they not been swelling constantly, pulsating, then collapsing into ruin – hills.
The trail led around a boulder. Intent on the ground, Sten almost died, jerking aside only as the growth on the boulder matured, blossomed, and explosively ‘spored.’
The trail led along the edge of those hills, then down into a widening valley past a river of liquid metal.
Too easy, Sten’s mind warned him. Sten fought to see through the yellow haze, trying to track the quickly vanishing prints as they led up from the valley, then disappeared on a germinating pool of rock. Sten used his hand to sweep in a circle around the last truck, his arm-stretch a rough indicator of a man’s tracks.
He looked up. Below the rock bed was a small grotto. The winds hadn’t yet brushed the metal dust on the floor, and Sten could see footprints leading out of the cleft, headed down toward the river.
He was in the grotto, pacing carefully. Three steps in, and all systems went to red with an old joke: How can you tell a Mercury Corps man? By his tracks. He always walks backward. Sten rolled awkwardly in the suit as Stynburn dove at him from ambush at the edge of the grotto.
Stynburn’s clubbed spade-gun went for Sten’s faceplate, but Sten’s smashing feet sent Stynburn sailing over his head to roll in the dust.
Sten righted himself just as Stynburn came up firing the spadegun. Having seen the spade-gun, Sten was turning, to offer as small a target as possible; by chance his suited arm intersected the spear’s trajectory, deflecting the projectile harmlessly.
Two men, wearing suits that turned them into blobbed caricatures of humans, faced each other in an arena of metal dust that whirled and dissolved in the yellow wind.
Stynburn turned on his com. ‘Who are you? Who am I facing?’
Stan was not a man for dramatics. ‘Captain Sten. On His Imperial Majesty’s Service. I have a warrant, Dr. Stynburn.’
‘You have a warrant,’ Stynburn said. ‘I have a death.’
‘We all do, sooner or later,’ Sten said, looking for a strike point.
‘I will tell you one thing, Captain – Sten, was it?’
‘Doctor, you sound like a man who wants to die. I want to keep you alive.’
‘Alive,’ Stynburn mused. ‘Why? Evidently it’s all failed. Or perhaps it has not.’
Sten’s eyes widened. This wasn’t the first time he had faced someone who appeared mad, and Stynburn’s words were proclaiming just that.
‘Failed? What’s failed?’
‘You want me to talk, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Captain, you must know what I was.’
‘Mercury Corps. So was I,’ Sten offered, maneuvering toward the man’s left.
‘In another world, another time, we could have been friends.’
Sten deliberately stood straight, as if considering. ‘Yeah,’ he said slowly, musingly. ‘Maybe we could have. Clot, I always wanted to be a doctor.’
‘But that would have been another time,’ Stynburn said. Sten realized the man was playing games.
‘I have two deaths is what I should have said. Yours and mine.’
‘Then it’s your move, Doctor.’ Sten braced in suit close-combat position.
‘Not that way, Captain. You shall die. Here and now. But I shall give you this. No man should die in ignorance. I shall give you an explanation. That is Zaarah Wahrid.’
Sten keyed his mike then realized that the two words were explanation enough for Stynburn. He saw the man contort in his suit.
Years of Mantis training had taught Sten the various ways an agent could kill himself, and he knew full well that the contortions were Stynburn’s attempts to cramp his shoulders back. Sten was in motion, diving and rolling behind a growing/shrinking rock, hoping that the living mineral would stand as—
The first crash was not that loud. The bomb that had been implanted between Stynburn’s shoulder blades wasn’t very effective. The most powerful explosion was the oxyatmosphere in Stynburn’s suit fireballing across the grotto.
And then there was nothing except the gale’s howl in Sten’s outer pickups as he lifted himself over the rock and stared at the few tatters of suit that were scattered across the dusty floor.
Zaarah Wahrid, Sten thought as he picked himself up. One lead. Sten had a fairly good idea that one clue would not be enough.
He headed back down the trail, checking his helmet compass for bearings back to the dome.
The first job was to rescue Alex. If he was still alive, that’d be easy.
Because the next job was to face the Emperor with almost nothing.
BOOK FOUR
DECLIC
Chapter Thirty-Three
The Bl
ue Bhor was a two-story, rambling building that sprawled along the banks of the River Wye. Built nearly a century before, it was an inn that catered to the local fisherfolk and small farmers on the Valley Wye. The valley was gentle, with rolling, rocky hills that climbed up into low, gray-blue mountains – a place where someone could make a passable living fishing or a grumbling living digging out rocks from ground that sprouted stones faster than potatoes. Still, it could be a pleasant life in a place that was good to raise a family.
Then the sportspeople of Prime World discovered it. And fishing season after fishing season, people streamed into the valley to catch the elusive golden fish that darted along the river. New roads were built. Many, many businesses sprouted up, and even a town – the Township of Ashley-on-Wye – was created where only farms had existed before.
As the valley boomed, so did the Blue Bhor. It began as a single, not very comfortable bar with a rent-a-room above. Owner after owner expanded the inn to handle the growing business and then sold out. Eventually the Blue Bhor boasted two bars, a ramshackle kitchen the size of a house, and more than a dozen rooms, each with a wood-burning fireplace of a different design. Since every new owner of the Blue Bhor had added a room, a patio, or a fireplace, there was nothing unusual about the Blue Bhor this particular day as the construction sleds hovered up and unloaded materials and workers.
They were greeted and guided by the newest owner, one Chris Frye, Prop. He was a tall, rangy man with little use for any BS except his own. Frye had purchased the place with his pension monies, and things had not really been progressing very well. His biggest problems were that he was exceedingly generous and had a tendency to pick up the tab for people he liked; he mostly preferred to close up the joint and just go fishing; and the only people he really got on with were fisherfolk – serious fisherfolk like himself who rarely had money and were always putting their bills on the tab.
Frye had just about been ready to toss the whole business over, sell out, and then spend the rest of his life fishing, when Sten showed up. Sten and Frye only knew of each other by reputation. They formed an instant liking for each other on first meeting, as only two old hands from Mantis Section can.
Frye had spent the last years of his military career in Mantis Section overseeing the transition of Lupus Cluster from a fanatic religious culture to a trading system loosely ruled by the shaggy Bhor. He’d spent many cycles drinking Stregg with the shaggy Bhor, toasting mother’s beards and father’s frozen buttocks. He had also heard a thousand different stories about how the Bhor had come to rule the Lupus Cluster. Mostly, the stories were not to be believed. They all came down to a single root: a young man named Sten. Sten, they all agreed, was the greatest fighter, lover, and drinker in Bhor history. Besides, they liked the little clot, even if he was human.
‘In the whole time I was there,’ Sten confessed to Frye, ‘I only got laid twice, and I lost almost every battle except the last.’
‘The one that counts,’ Frye said.
‘Maybe so,’ Sten said, ‘but my ass was seriously in a sling the whole time I was there. Clot! You can’t drink with the Bhor! Unless you sneak some sober pills, and even then I was flat on my back after almost every party.’
Frye decided that Sten was a pretty nice fellow. Of course he was a clotting liar from Mantis, taking on the persona of the real Sten. He had long ago decided that the Sten of legend would have been a royal pain. Who the clot would ever want to drink with the perfect being the Bhor were always going on about? So Frye just smiled when Sten introduced himself, and accepted without a giggle the cover name he was using. Frye figured the name Sten was about fifty different people. Mantis did things like that.
Over one long night of hospitality Blue Bhor-style – which meant groaning platters of fresh fish, game, and side dishes, all from the Valley Wye – they struck a bargain. The Blue Bhor was to be Sten and Haines’s safe house. Since it was off-season in the Valley Wye, the cover was near perfect. Frye would close for remodeling, just like every other new owner of the inn. To cut the cost of the extensive repairs, he would house and feed the construction crew.
It was a great bargain on both sides. To make the cover work, they really would have to remodel the old place. Not only that, but the bill for the rooms and the food would have to be paid, in case there was a smart bookkeeper snooping around. This allowed Haines to bring in a fairly large crew of experts to work on the case. It also allowed her to haul in as much sophisticated equipment as she needed, hidden between the stacks of construction materials.
The deal would make Frye’s best year ever – especially coming during the off-season. He was even thinking about maybe staying on a few years longer; on the kind of credits Sten was stuffing into his account, Frye would be able to entertain fisherfolk for eons to come.
Haines stumped into the main bar and slid onto a stool. Behind her the last group of workpeople were unloading the last gravsled of equipment. She sniffed at her foreman’s coveralls and wrinkled her nose. ‘I smell like I been dead for two weeks.’
Frye gave one more swipe with his rag at the gleaming wood bartop, grabbed a tall glass, and frothed out a beer. He slid it in front of her, then leaned over and gave an ostentatious sniff. ‘Smells better to me,’ he grinned. ‘Less constable and more good, honest sweat.’
Haines gave him a hard look and slugged down a healthy portion of beer. This put her in a better mood, especially since Frye topped it up again. ‘You don’t like cops, huh?’
Frye shook his head. ‘Does any sensible person?’
Haines considered this for a moment. Then she gave a short laugh.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Even cops don’t like cops. That’s why I got into homicide. When you’re really doing your job, other people don’t like to associate with you.’
Frye’s retort was interrupted by the sound of footsteps, and they turned to see a grizzled man, in battered clothing and old-fashioned waders. He was lugging what appeared to be archaic fishing equipment.
‘Bar’s closed,’ Frye sang out.
The man just stood, peering into the place, as if letting his eyes adjust from the bright, clear Valley Wye sun outside.
‘I said the bar’s closed,’ Frye repeated.
‘Remodeling,’ Haines threw in.
The man shook his head, and then shuffled slowly over to the bar and sat down on a stool. ‘Worst fishing I seen in years. I need a beer.’
He clinked some credits on the bartop. ‘A tall cool one. No. Give me a whole damned pitcher.’
Frye shoved the credits back. ‘You haven’t been listening, mister. I told you, the bar is closed. For remodeling.’
The man wrinkled his brow in a frown. ‘Well, I’m not walking to Ashley for a beer.’ He glanced over at Haines’ frosty mug. ‘She got one, so you must be serving. So gimme one. I’ll pay double! Tap’s working. What the hell do you care?’
Haines felt her neck prickle. Something wasn’t quite right here. She slid a hand into a coverall pocket and touched the small weapon nestled there. Then she slid off her stool and stepped a few paces to the side, covering both the man and the door. ‘Listen when you’re being spoken to, mister,’ she said. She nodded at his gear by the side of the stool. ‘Now, the place is closed. Pick up your things and go.’
She noticed that Frye was reaching under the bar for something.
‘So,’ the grizzled man said. ‘What if I don’t?’
Then he casually reached across the bartop, grabbed Haines’ beer, and calmly chugged it down. He slapped the glass down and looked up at them. Haines had her gun out.
‘Lieutenant!’ a voice barked behind her.
Hearing Sten’s voice, she partially turned, keeping the grizzled man in view. He grinned broadly, and then Sten was plucking the weapon from her hand.
Haines was ready to roundhouse Sten. She gaped as Sten stepped past her and came to attention in front of the beat-up old fisherman.
‘I’m sorry, Your Highness,’ Sten said. ‘We were
n’t expecting you until tomorrow.’
Haines chin started to fall toward the swell where her breasts began.
‘No problem,’ the man said. ‘Thought I’d stop by a little early. Get in a little fishing. Check things out.’
Sten stepped behind the bar and drew the man a beer. He slid it over and the fisherman took it in one long shallow. He turned to Haines and gave her a little wink.
‘Lieutenant Haines,’ Sten began, ‘allow me to introduce you to—’
‘It’s the Emperor,’ Haines croaked. ‘The clotting Eternal Emperor.’
The Emperor bowed low over the stool. ‘At your service, ma’am.’
Sten had to grab for Haines’s elbow as the hard-bitten lieutenant of homicide felt her knees buckle.
‘Zaarah Wahrid.’ The Emperor rolled the phrase over on his tongue, puzzling at it, searching his memory. He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t mean a thing to me. That’s all he said?’
Sten sighed. ‘I’m afraid so, sir. I’m sorry, but the whole thing has been nothing but a mess from the moment you put me on it.’
He drew his beer toward him, and then pushed it away. ‘Sir, I really think I ought to—’
‘Quit?’ the Emperor thundered. ‘No clotting way! I’m up to my neck in drakh and you want me to relieve you?’
‘With all due respect, sir,’ Sten pushed on, ‘I have failed to carry out every portion of this assignment to any kind of satisfaction.’
The Emperor started to jump in, but Sten raised his hand, calling on his rights as a free individual to quit a job if he wanted. ‘I’ve done nothing but spend a shipload of credits for zed information. All we’ve still really got are much supposition and too many rumors.
‘Beautiful. I hit Stynburn. Raise a whole lot of hell. Probably take you two years to settle those miners down. And all I come back with is a phrase nobody’s ever heard. If this were a Mantis operation you or Mahoney would have had my head and sent me to deep freeze as well.’
Battlecry: Sten: Omnibus One (Sten Omnibus) Page 68
