Battlecry: Sten: Omnibus One (Sten Omnibus)

by Allan Cole, Chris Bunch

  The ship itself was equally obscure. According to the record books, it had been constructed as the Imperial Merchant Ship (Passenger) Normandie. A luxury, super-speed liner that had been mothballed after its third voyage.

  The Normandie did appear, from the outside, to be a conventional liner, but it had been built for one purpose only – to be the Emperor’s vehicle, whether for secret missions or for vacations. It had the armament of a fleet destroyer and the power drive of a fleet cruiser.

  It took less than a hundred men to run the Normandie, which was state-of-the-art automated. That did not mean the ship was cramped, since the largest percentage of the Normandie was taken up with Imperial accommodations. Movable bulkheads and decking insured that the Emperor could hold anything from a private party for himself and a lady to an Imperial summit meeting.

  Since the ship officially did not exist, it did not have to worry about proper clearances. When necessary, it was easy for the Normandie to assume one or another of the identities of its supposed sister ships.

  It may have been the biggest cloak-plus-dagger ever built.

  *

  ‘Marr, you are being a daffodil. There is no possible pollution here.’

  ‘You talk and talk,’ Marr sniffed, ‘but I tell you, I can smell the fumes from the drive.’

  Marr and Senn were possibly the only caterers in history given an EYES-ONLY security clearance.

  They stood near the waist of the Normandie, watching as their supplies rolled up the conveyor into the guts of the ship.

  ‘All right, so there is pollution. I touch your delicate nostrils. But what will that matter to the fish? They are in tanks, not standing out here in the murk catching their death.

  ‘I am merely concerned that these Tahn beings will find our food offensive,’ Marr said. ‘How would you like to be responsible for this conference’s falling apart because of indigestion?’

  Their predawn bickering was broken off as Subadar-Major Limbu strolled up. The Gurkha officer was in full combat gear, including willygun and kukri hung in its sheath in the middle of his back. He saluted. ‘These fish,’ he indicated. ‘They are not for my men?’

  ‘They are not, Chittahang. I have enough dahl, rice, and soyasteak to turn every one of your naiks into balloons such as the one you are starting to resemble.’

  Chattahang glanced at his stomach reflexively, then recovered. ‘Ah. Very good. But I shall tell you a secret. That bulge is not from my stomach. I find it necessary to coil some of my other organs above my belt.’ He grinned, winked, and went back to supervising the loading of his men.

  ‘Marr, do you ever think we shall get the better of these small brown ones?’

  ‘Probably not.’ Marr turned and reacted. ‘Our fearless leader has arrived.’

  Five large flitters settled beside the Normandie, and people unloaded.

  ‘See, it’s that glut Sullamora with the Emperor,’ Senn hissed. ‘Why was he invited?’

  ‘I am not the Emperor, darling, but I assume that, since he is an Imperial trader there must be something involving trading rights with these Tahn – Senn, are you sure we are prepared?’

  Marr and Senn had been alerted to provide rations shortly after the Emperor-Tahn meeting had been set. They had immediately researched the tastes of the Tahn, particularly of their lords. Fortunately, vid-tapes on exotic cooking were still popular in the fortieth century. They had provided everything from live brine shrimp to starch to still-growing vegetables. Plus some surprises of their own, since every chef feels he can improve on anyone’s diet.

  Bootheels thudded on the tarmac, and the contingent of Praetorians doubled in from the security perimeter. They were ordered and counted by Colonel Den Fohlee, and paraded on board.

  ‘Do we have enough?’ Marr worried.

  ‘We have enough! One hundred fifty Praetorians, and we have enough starch and raw protein to keep them happy for a millennium. Thirty Gurkhas. The crew, with its own rations. The Emperor – who knows what he’ll want – Sullamora … I procured his favorite recipes from his cook. Extras enough for these Tahn, even if they feed their starving hordes. We are ready, my love.’

  ‘Yes, but what are we – you and I – going to eat?’

  Just as Senn’s membranes wrinkled in alarm, the boarding alarm gonged.

  The last of the rations went on board, and the ship’s ports swung shut. The flitters cleared the field, and then the Normandie’s Yukawa-drive hissed more loudly, and she lifted away.

  Offworld, Normandie would rendezvous with a destroyer squadron and a cruiser element. Those Imperial sailors had been told only that they were to escort a ship to a location, prevent anything from happening to that ship, and then return it to its base. They had no idea that the Eternal Emperor was on board, nor that the meeting with the Tahn lords was the only chance of avoiding an eventual intergalactic war.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The group sat silently around the huge table that was Frye’s main groaning board. Solid depression had set in. At the far end of the table Haines was idly doodling on her miniscreen. At the other end sat a strangely quiet Alex. He gloomed across the table at Liz, who was punching in a few last commands at her ever-present control unit.

  Sten entered, a sheaf of print-outs under his arm, and saw the expectant looks come suddenly up at him. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t have a thing … but maybe I’ve got some kind of weird map we can all jump off from.’

  People came alive again. Sten began handling out the eafs of paper. ‘One thing I learned as a crunchie – when you’re stuck in it, make a list of what you know. And what you don’t know.’

  He gave them all a sickly grin and shrugged. ‘Keeps you looking busy and important, anyway.’

  They began going over Sten’s list. The facts had been boiled down:

  1 The original plot was to assassinate the Emperor. All information indicates a wide-ranging conspiracy.

  2 The plot is continuing. Otherwise, why the mysterious deaths near Soward – all former Praetorians or palace employees? Also, why the attack on Sten? By former Praetorians – mostly deserters Subfact: At least forty Praetorians disappeared in the last E-year.

  3 The plot seems to involve someone in the palace itself. Consider the multitude of computer taps and scans on the outside that lead, and then disappear, in there.

  4 To repeat, the plot is continuing, and the Emperor logically is still the ultimate target.

  ‘As a cop,’ Haines broke in, ‘it sure would make me feel better if I knew the target was out of the way.’

  ‘At least that has been solved,’ Sten said. ‘The Emperor has left Prime World. I can’t tell you for where but he is absolutely safe and surrounded by trusted advisors and security.’

  Alex breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank th’ lord,’ he said. ‘No clottin’ Romans.’

  ‘Has the Emperor been informed how deep in the drank we are?’ Liz asked.

  ‘Negative,’ Sten answered. ‘We’ve agreed on absolute com silence. I can only reach him in an emergency. There is a line established at the palace.’

  They waited for him to say more, and then when ht didn’t, continued reading.

  5 Kai Hakone is obviously one of the main conspirators. Key indicators here are Stynburn and the many other connections to the Battle of Saragossa. Also, Sten was attacked immediately after interviewing the suspect.

  6 Zaarah Wahrid is another connection to the Battle of Saragossa. Question: What does a destroyed ship have to do with the conspiracy?

  7 Complicating factor: Hakone had no connection with the palace. He is a known adversary of the Emperor and is not welcome.

  ‘When do we arrest this clot, lad? Ah’ll twist his guts into a winding sheet an’ find out what we mus’ ken.’

  ‘Not a chance, Alex,’ Sten said. ‘To defuse this thing we’ve got to pick up everybody at the same time. Especially the inside man at the palace.’

  ‘Take Hakone now and we blow it,’ Haines agreed.
/>   They bent their heads to read the rest.

  8 Should we be checking the archives for more on Saragossa? Could other connections be hidden?

  ‘Have you got a year?’ Liz said dryly. ‘I don’t know a computer in the Empire that could run that scan sooner.’

  ‘Forget it, then,’ Sten said.

  ‘Is that all?’ Haines asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Sten answered. ‘Except Hakone.’

  ‘I’m running him now,’ Liz said, pointing at her monitor screen.

  ‘A stupid suggestion to the expert,’ Sten said to Liz.

  Liz gave a low chuckle. ‘When all else fails,’ she said ‘stupid works with a computer.’

  ‘He’s got to have a headquarters somewhere,’ Sten said. ‘Hakone can’t be running plotters in and out of his home, or meeting them on street corners or some such rot.’

  ‘A vacation home?’ Haines postulated.

  ‘Someplace remote?’ Liz said.

  Collins was already keying in an ownership search. She used the same program she had jury-rigged to break through Stynburn’s corporate maze.

  ‘Th’ mon’s a military fanatic,’ Alex said. ‘There’s where we’ll upend him. Certain a’ he wrote his bloody great work on the Mueller Wars—’

  Before he could finish, the answer swarmed up and curled into place on the screen. Alex’s guess had hit close.

  ‘Zaarah Wahrid,’ the screen entry began. ‘Register No. KH173. Berth 82. DO YOU REQUIRE DESCRIPTION?’

  ‘Clotting yes,’ Sten shouted as Liz typed in the orders.

  Kai Hakone was the owner of the tiny and well-worn space yacht Zaarah Wahrid, which was berthed in a private port only a hundred or so kilometers away.

  ‘Get the ship’s computer on the line,’ Haines snapped.

  ‘Not so fast, Lieutenant,’ Liz said. ‘What if the onboard’s been rigged?’

  ‘She’s right,’ Sten said. ‘We’ve gone too far to get in a hurry now.’

  ‘I’ll ask the computer if the ship needs servicing,’ Liz said. ‘Real routine.’ The answer came back negative.

  ‘Okay, now something official but innocuous.’

  ‘When’s the last time the ship left port?’ Sten suggested.

  Liz tapped her keys. ‘Not for more than a year. But that’s fine. I can do a log search. Nothing pushy. Just the surface info. That’ll keep Zaarah Wahrid on the line.’ The little boat began running through its log as Liz gently inserted a few of her probes – always keeping just out of the way, hovering and buzzing like an electronic fly.

  ‘Will you look at this?’

  Liz had run an IQ scan on the onboard.

  ‘This little putt-putt has a computer big enough to run a liner!’

  ‘Why would a little yacht need something that size?’ Haines asked.

  ‘Ah – ah, ah, no you don’t, Zaarah clotting Wahrid.’ Liz shut down fast. ‘She’s also got more booby traps then you can drink beer,’ she said to Alex. ‘I hang on anymore, and the least she’ll do is wipe.’

  Sten slumped down, exasperated. ‘Is that all you could get, Liz?’

  ‘No, I tricked it into giving me its key.’ She scribbled it down.

  Sten climbed to his feet. ‘Come on, Alex. I think we better do a little lightweight breaking and entering.’

  They headed for the door.

  ‘Oh, Captain?’ Liz said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You probably ought to know something else.’

  ‘Go.’

  ‘Apparently Zaarah Wahrid’s got a bomb on board. Seems like a pretty big one.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  Sten and Alex slouched out.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  It was a tiny main cabin aboard an equally tiny speedster. Although the speedster was only of moderate value, at one time someone had put a great deal of care and work into it, maintaining the plaswood floor and walls and deep ebony fittings and cabinetry. But it had become a mess. Clothing was littered about, and it was cluttered with dirty food containers that the current occupant hadn’t even bothered to dump into the waste system.

  Tarpy was sprawled across a bunk, his eyes closed and a small smile on his face. He was swarming with cats. In another age they might have been called alley cats. Certainly their pedigree would have been questioned. Tarpy called them spaceport cats, and they were every size and color imaginable. He was stroking the furry bodies that threatened to bury him, and idly monitoring the goings on of the Zaarah Wahrid, a rust bucket berthed about half a klick away.

  Somebody urred beneath his left shoulder, and Tarpy lifted it enough for a kitten to escape. The kitten joined several others nursing at Momma’s teats. Momma was permanently enthroned on Tarpy’s stomach.

  The cats were the only thing keeping Tarpy sane. Nothing, absolutely nothing had happened around the Zaarah Wahrid since he had taken up post. He had backup muscle stashed just on the other side of the Zaarah Wahrid, but Tarpy had kept contact with them to the absolute minimum. He considered them all dim-witted clots, whose only value was a willingness to die in place.

  For company, on the long watch, Tarpy preferred his pussycats.

  He felt a slight tingle at his left ear and heard a faint beep-beep-beep. Tarpy’s heart raced and he ordered his pulse to slow. Finally something was happening!

  He gently disentangled himself from the cats and sat up in the bunk. He punched in the visual monitor and began sweeping the area around the ship’s berth.

  The space-yacht port was fairly easy to survey. It looked like a two-kilometer-high metal tree with many branches. The trunk of the tree was devoted to shops, restaurants, maintenance and fueling. The branches were divided into private registry berths housing everything from yachts of near-liner size to little put-abouts.

  Just to the side of the Zaarah Wahrid Tarpy saw something move. He scoped in on the movement as Sten and Alex walked out of the shadow of an overhanging ship and sauntered vaguely toward the craft. Tarpy grinned in recognition and hit the alarm buzzer to alert his muscle.

  He rose from the bunk and slipped on his weapon harness. He strolled toward the door then paused for a moment. Tarpy looked at the open containers of food on the floor. It was more than enough to keep his friends happy until the job was done.

  The door hissed open and Tarpy disappeared.

  Alex gave the berth area one more quick visual check. No one. Not even a tech around. ‘Gie it a go, lad, we’re clean as the queen’s scantlings.’

  Sten walked straight to the lock panel near the ship’s entrance, flipped it open, and began punching in the lock code Liz had given him. He entered the first three numbers and then waited for the computer to check them and give him the go-ahead for the next group. ‘Get ready to jump, Alex. Can’t tell what’s on the other side of the door.’

  Alex nodded and made his visual sweep again. Almost before he spotted the muscle, the heavyworlder felt his muscles bunch and a cold chill beneath his spine. ‘A wee lot a’ comp’ny,’ he hissed to Sten, and stepped quickly away from the ship’s lock.

  Sten whirled in time to see a figure dash from one conex to another. Alex and Sten gave it one heartbeat then two, then three, swiftly looking for and finding cover and quietly slipping willyguns from tunic holsters and palming them.

  ‘There!’ Alex said.

  Sten slowly turned his head as Tarpy stepped out alone.

  ‘Help you, bud?’ Tarpy drawled, moving toward them. Sten noticed that the casualness masked a professional and subtle half-circle. He wasn’t coming directly at them but moving to one side.

  ‘The fuel tank,’ Sten whispered to Alex.

  Alex nodded, catching the fact that Tarpy was putting a huge supply container within range of an easy belly dive. They heard the rustle of footsteps to either side as Tarpy’s thugs moved into position.

  ‘A few wee rats,’ Alex said.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Four. Maybe five.’

  Sten for
ced a grin at the approaching enemy. ‘You have a name, friend?’

  ‘Tarpy, if anyone cares.’

  Sten just nodded, keeping the stupid grin going. ‘You got something to do with this rustbucket?’

  ‘Might,’ Tarpy said. ‘That is, if you have business with it, I do.’

  ‘I could,’ Sten said. ‘Me and my partner have been looking for something cheap. Something we could fix up.’

  Tarpy smiled a lazy smile back. ‘She’s a fixer-upper, all right,’ he agreed. ‘But whatcha gotta do is talk to the owner. Get permission and all that.’

  ‘Now!’ Alex shouted.

  Sten brought his willygun up and snap-fired at Tarpy as he dropped to the ground in a shoulder roll and came up behind a tumble of ship iron. A round spattered against the hull behind him and almost simultaneously he heard a shriek of pain.

  ‘Ah was right, lad,’ Alex called from the other side. ‘’Twere definitely five wee rats. Four noo.’

  Tarpy had easily made it to cover. Sten chalked up another mark under the professional column and began checking the area for the others.

  There was a clatter of footsteps on plating beneath him, and Sten glanced down through the gap between the Zaarah Wahrid and gravslip. Right beneath was a large and very expensive yacht. One of Tarpy’s yahoos was stalking him below. It was like playing three-dimensional chess. The enemy could come from every side as well as down and up. Sten signaled to Alex. He had the left flank and Sten the right. They would take care of the bullyboys first and then worry about Tarpy.

  He heard a heavy thud as Alex dropped ten meters down to the next berthing slip. Above Sten was a ladder leading to the next deck, half shielded from prevailing winds by a curving metal reef. Sten took two steps to one side to draw fire and then leaped for the ladder and began clambering upward. He was hoping to hell no one was in position, and his back crawled under imaginary sights as he monkey-sprinted up the rungs.

  Sten spotted the first man’s buttocks almost immediately as they slowly disappeared across the hull of a moored gravflit. The man was trying to find the high ground. Sten shot him through the bowels.