Death Match, page 11
part #3 of Sten Omnibus Series
“Yes, Sr. Milhouz,” Sten said into the com unit, smooth as glass. “This is Ambassador Sten speaking. How may I help you?”
As he listened to the young voice jabbering away in his ear and saw the flushed, excited features on the monitor screen, Sten knew he would have to break the first rule he had set himself in Phase One of this operation. Which was: Do not leave the embassy. Make them come to you.
“You may expect us in a few minutes, young man,” he said, and broke connection.
As he turned back to the board, he saw that Cind had entered the room. From the look on her face, he could see she had a pretty good idea of what was going on.
One of the monitor screens showed students hurling a shower of debris at the cops.
“This damned thing could be the spark that sets off the big ka-bang,” he told Cind. “So, here’s the drill. I’ll need about ten Gurkkhas. Maybe fifty Bhor. But we want to go at this real low profile. Concealed weapons. No uniforms. We don’t want to act like storm troopers.”
“Pretty tall order for the Bhor,” Cind said. “Especially Otho.”
“If this works right,” Sten said, “everybody will be so curious about Otho and the others, they’ll be too busy gaping to cause trouble… Alex?”
“Ready ae you are, lad,” Kilgour said.
“Okay, boys and girls,” Sten said. “We’re going back to school.”
Chapter Eleven
THE DAY WAS bright and bitterly cold as Sten and his crew moved through the Square of the Khaqans. He gawked along with the others at the monuments towering over them. He felt like an insect marching through a land of giants.
“I keep waiting for one of them to step on me,” Cind said, in an odd echo of his own thoughts.
“By my mother’s long and knotty beard,” Otho rumbled, “the man had ego enough for a fleet of us.”
Otho lifted a hairy paw to shield his eyes from the glittering domes and brooded at a particularly awesome display of bad taste. It amounted to a platform resting on the shoulders of a dozen statues. The statues — easily twenty meters high — were of perfectly formed male and female humans, probably Jochians. They were stark naked. Posed on top of the platform was an idealized statue of the Khaqan swathed in golden robes. He held a torch aloft, complete with eternally licking flames.
“I could understand the man if he built drinking halls,” Otho finally said. “It’s much more useful to a boasting being. Besides, if you set a good table and are not stingy with the stregg, no one minds a braggart.” He peered at Sten with his bloodshot eyes. “Not that I am one to follow this practice. I prefer my guests to extol my deeds voluntarily.”
Sten pointed at the legend inscribed in one corner of the display. It read:
TO HE WHO LIT THE ALTAICS WITH HIS GLORY.
Under it, in smaller letters:
From A Grateful People.
“Maybe he had a similar idea,” Sten said. “Except he dispensed with the good times for one and all.”
Otho’s massive brow beetled at him. “This is why I said a drinking hall would make better sense. For a being who ruled so long, this Khaqan knew nothing of leadership.”
Sten laughed agreement and motioned his group onward. He had decided it would be better to walk to Pooshkan University. It wasn’t far from the embassy, and walking would certainly be lower profile than a phalanx of armored gravcars.
Besides, the first rule Sten had adopted as he learned the ropes of diplomacy was that it was important not to become isolated. He knew many ambassadors whose feet had never touched real ground. They were whisked from the steps of the embassy to state chambers to banquet and back again, for their entire tour of duty. He had also noted that their advice was invariably wrong.
In this case, he had found the scene on the street to be no different from what he had seen on the com room vid screens. Except, emptier. But the feel was different, there in the bright sunlight and sharp cold. His breath steamed. Shadowy figures ducked out of sight as his team tromped along, wary hands and paws near weapons belts.
Everywhere Sten looked there was a gigantic portrait or statue of the Khaqan, peering down on the mere mortals who must tread the avenues to their inconsequential appointments.
Especially unnerving was the low sound of thunder that rumbled continually behind the distant mountains. It definitely added an edge to one’s mood.
Sten kept that in mind as he mentally prepared himself for young Milhouz and the other student agitators.
All those thoughts had vanished, however, when they entered the Square of the Khaqans. The sheer size of it would stagger any normal being’s imagination. Just as the blinding colors fuddled the senses. It was a difficult place to get any kind of perspective. Turning away from a garish pillar, the eyes would clear, only to be confronted by a monument so large it made one dizzy.
Despite the sheer size of the square, Sten felt frighteningly closed in. With good reason. His professional eye noted that the square was built for maximum crowd control. Then he saw the Killing Wall. He didn’t have to ask what it was as he looked over its black smoothness. A monument of hatred. Of power gone mad.
A sudden helplessness gripped him. He felt far too small for the task. His mind told him that was silly. The square had been designed to elicit exactly that response. Still, the feeling was difficult to shake.
At last they reached the far exit. Pooshkan University was just beyond. As Sten heard the low chanting of angry students, his mood instantly lifted and spring returned to his step. At least this was something he could confront. And maybe even solve.
“Th’ cops’re stokin’ up their wee courage,” Alex said. He had gone on ahead with a Gurkkha squad to scout the situation. “Th’ gravlighters’re pourin’ by th’ minute. Wi’ reinforcements. An’ the brass’re well back oot a harm’s way i’ th’ mob should break through.”
“Worthy warriors all,” Otho snorted. “They lead from the rear. Even to attack children. I tell you, my friend, there is no honor in this place. I swear to you I will feel no joy when I break their heads.”
“Now, Otho,” Sten soothed. “Breaking heads is not your job description. This is a diplomatic mission, remember?”
Down the street they could all see and hear the squalling confrontation that was their mission. Sten professionally estimated that there were about a squillion beings about to go at it, tooth, nail, tear gas, and guns. There came a thunderous shower of rocks falling on the cops’ riot shields. Oh, yes — and rocks as well.
“I promise I will use no more than this, my friend,” Otho said, shaking a clenched ham of a paw. The other Bhor rumbled in agreement.
“Your orders,” Cind snapped at Otho, “are to use nothing but open hands. Or elbows and knees. Light kicking is also permissible.”
There was a long silence as Otho peered at this small thing issuing orders. Cind stared back. “Is that understood . . . Private?” she said.
Laughter boomed from Otho. “By my father’s frozen arse cheeks,” he said, “open hands it is.” He glanced at Sten and wiped moisture from the edge of one bloodshot eye. “She makes me proud,” he said. “She proves the worth of Bhor training and ideals.”
As Otho struggled with his emotions, there were more loud shouts down the street. A police bullhorn rumbled a warning. And there was another rock shower.
“Dinna be bawlin’t, m’ great hairy beast ae a friend,” Alex said. “W hae a riot to tend to. Remember?”
“We’re going to have to get to it first,” Cind said, indicating the confused mass of beings jamming the street and the arched entrance to the university.
Then Sten heard a familiar voice. “Beings of Jochi,” it thundered over a porta boomer, “listen to the pleas of your children . . .”
It was young Milhouz. Sten spotted him standing high off the ground, on the base of yet another heroic statue of the late, not so great Khaqan.
“We bring you a message of hope and lo —” And the voice cut off as a group of shielded cops charged the students. There were screams of pain and anger, which were overridden instantly by a roar from the crowd of adult onlookers. Then there were cheers and some laughter as the charging cops abruptly changed course and beat a hasty retreat. Milhouz flashed a victory sign.
But Sten could see that the victory would be short-lived. The cops were humiliated now — and even more scared than before. He could see that they were about to renew the assault, this time in massed and deadly force.
He nodded to Cind. “You know the drill.”
They moved forward. Alex took a flanker’s role, moving with the Gurkkhas around the cops. Cind took some Bhor to cut between Alex and the angry crowd of adult civilians. Sten, Otho, and about twenty Bhor went straight up the middle, through the cops.
“Ooops! Pardon me,” Cind said, as she jabbed an elbow into a burly Tork dockworker. “How rude of me,” she apologized, neatly clipping a Suzdal in the jaw.
“So very sorry,” Lalbahadur Thapa said, as a sharp toe made contact with the shins of a towering Bogazi. He squeezed his slim figure past two more and trod heavily on the toe of a mammoth Jochian, blocking his path.
“My fault,” Alex said as he leaned a shoulder into a cop and sent him tumbling against his mates. His arm swept back in awed reaction to his own clumsiness. Another cop went sailing. “Och! Thae must’ve smarted. F’rgive me, lad.”
“Coming through,” Sten shouted. A knee lifted and caught a crouching cop in the behind. The cop went mask first into the ground. “Sorry about that. Imperial business, you know.”
A thick cop arm circled Otho’s neck. Two more came at him, riot sticks raised to strike. “By my mother’s beard,” he said, “my boot wants tying again.” He leaned forward to do the deed, and the cop went sailing over his head — right into his charging colleagues.
Someone had Cind by the shirt. A big someone. She jabbed him in the eye with a finger. The big someone howled in pain and let loose. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me today,” Cind said. “I’m so clumsy.”
A Suzdal snapped at Chittahang Limbu. The little Gurkkha grabbed it by the ear just as the jaws reached his throat. He twisted. The Suzdal went with the twist, tumbling over into his pack sisters. “I am such a silly man today,” Chittahang mourned. Then, under his breath, he muttered, “Yak pube.”
“Make way! Imperial business! Make way!” Sten shouted. Remarkably, it was working. Most of the cops parted to let them through. Those that didn’t got an elbow or a heavy Bhor slap.
Alex came upon two cops beating the bejabbers out of a small student. Without pause, he lifted them from the ground and slammed them together. He let go. They fell to the ground. Unconscious.
“Och, no. Ah hope Ah dinnae go an’ break y’r wee heads. Sten’ll hae m’ hide f’r it.” He moved on.
Otho and four Bhor broke through to the statue. They turned — like living armored tracks — sweeping a wide, clear space around them. A few seconds later, Sten was in the center of the clear space. A few seconds more, and the whole group had taken up formation around him.
Sten looked up at Milhouz. The young Jochian’s jowls were flushed with astonishment.
“Sorry I’m a little late,” Sten said. “Now. If you’ll give me that thing, I’ll have a little chat with these good people.”
He indicated the porta boom in Milhouz’s hand. The young Jochian stared at him, mouth open. Then he nodded and handed Sten the boomer.
“I can’t believe you did that,” he said.
“Neither can I,” Sten said. And he turned to face his public.
“First . . . we demand respect for the dignity of all species of the Altaic Cluster,” Milhouz said, stabbing a finger at the document that he and his fellow students had drawn up.
“I don’t think anyone would argue with that,” Sten said. He glanced around the cafeteria table at the other student leaders. They were all very young, all very solemn.
Strange, Sten thought, how much youthful beings looked alike. Whether Suzdal, Bogazi, or human, they had those great wide innocent eyes and round helpless faces. Terminally cute, Sten thought. Which, come to think of it, was an odd bit of universal genetic programming. The probable reason parents didn’t kill their young at birth.
“Second,” Milhouz continued, jowls flapping like a small, burrowing rodent, “the equality of all species must be the cornerstone of the future government.”
“The Emperor’s record is pretty clear on that,” Sten said dryly. “He’s a noted champion of equality.”
“Still must be said,” the Bogazi student broke in. Her name, Sten remembered, was Nirsky. From the way the other Bogazi males fawned on her, he assumed she was pretty.
“Then, say away,” Sten said.
Milhouz cleared his throat for attention. “Third. All militias must return to their home worlds. Forthwith.”
“I suspect that will be high on the agenda of any new authority,” Sten said.
“You’re patronizing us,” Milhouz complained.
“Not at all,” Sten said. “I’m merely underscoring a fact.” He kept his features bland.
“No one ever listens,” the Suzdal yipped. He had been introduced to Sten as Tehrand.
“Yes. That’s right. We stayed up all night hammering out these demands.” The speaker was a Tork. A very lovely Tork, who obviously doted on young Milhouz. Her name was Riehl.
“I’m listening,” Sten said. “I went to some trouble to get here, remember? Now, why don’t you go on?”
“Fourth,” Milhouz continued, “we demand amnesty for all students at Pooshkan who participated in this blow for freedom. And this must include us — the members of the Action Committee.”
“I’ll do my best,” Sten said, meaning it.
“Not good enough,” Nirsky said. “Promise, you must.”
“Promises are easy to make,” Sten said, “but hard to secure. Once again — I’ll do my best.”
Milhouz’s face took on a look of saintly purity. “I’m willing to take my chances,” he said. “I’d gladly lay down my life for my ideals.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” Sten said. “No one’s life is at issue here. All I’m saying is when the new government is in place, some people might not take too kindly to the damage you’ve caused.
“There may be charges. Fines. A little jail time at the most. Which, by the way, I’ll do my damndest to prevent. But they may not listen to me. So, be prepared.”
Squabbling erupted. Sten leaned back in his chair as the students tossed his comments back and forth. Tehrand shot him a threatening look, Suzdal teeth gleaming. Sten paid him no mind, just as he ignored the thirty or more other students in the room, many of whom were also giving him the evil eye.
Although he had elected to meet with the group alone, he doubted there was much they could do that he couldn’t handle, should the situation turn nasty.
“I’m sorry,” Milhouz finally said, “but that demand is not negotiable.”
“What if it’s refused?” Sten asked.
“We’ll burn the university to the ground,” Riehl said, her pretty features flushed with resolve.
“I wouldn’t advise that,” Sten said. “In fact, I really wish you’d consider making no threats at all. It’ll give me more leeway to negotiate with the police.”
“One week only,” Nirsky said. “Then burn we must.”
“We all agreed,” Tehrand said. “We voted on it.”
“So have another vote,” Sten said. “You can say it’s in light of new factors Sr. Sten has brought to your attention.”
“Democracy doesn’t work that way. All votes are final,” Milhouz said pompously. “Which brings us to the next and most important demand . . .
“The rule of the Khaqans must end. In fact, the rule of any form of tyranny must end. We demand a new order. Only through democracy can the problems of the Altaics be finally resolved!”
“To further this end,” Riehl said, “we have drawn up a list of candidates acceptable to the Pooshkan Action Committee.”
“Hold on,” Sten said. “Tell me more about this ‘approved’ list. Doesn’t sound too democratic to me.”
“Oh, but it is,” Milhouz said. “In its purest sense.”
“And he doesn’t mean that primitive theory where every being gets to vote, no matter how . . . undeserving.” Riehl gave Milhouz a melting look. Sten figured Milhouz for the list of the “deserving.”
“I see,” Sten said. He made diplomatic hmmm noises. “How interesting you should think that way.”
“Good. You understand my point,” Milhouz said, taking this for acceptance. “Let’s be frank. Most beings — meaning the, well, uneducated classes — want to be told what to do.” He leaned forward, impassioned. “They feel . . . uncomfortable with weighty decisions. They want structure in their lives. It makes them . . .”
“Comfortable,” Sten helped.
“How astute of you, Sr. Ambassador. Yes. That’s the word exactly. Comfortable. And happy, as well.”
“Educated ones know best,” Nirsky said. “A long-known fact,” Tehrand yipped.
“There can be no tyranny if you have an educated elite, is what Milhouz says. Isn’t that right, de — ahhh. Isn’t that right?” Riehl blushed at almost revealing her feelings.
Milhouz gave her a warm pat on the thigh, letting his hand linger. “Yes. I did say . . . something like that. But, I’m no genius. Others mine the same field.” He gave Sten a very solemn look. “So the thought isn’t entirely original.”
“How very modest of you,” Sten said.
“Thank you, Ambassador. Anyway . . . back to the point of our . . . manifesto. We believe the new leaders of the Altaics should be chosen from all the great families of the cluster. The most educated Suzdals, Torks, Bogazi, and Jochians — like myself.”
“Would success at this university help in their . . . qualifications?” Sten ventured.
“There is no greater laboratory of learning than Pooshkan University. So . . . that goes without saying.”
