Death Match, page 39
part #3 of Sten Omnibus Series
They tried first with armor — but Guardsmen with AT weapons were stationed in the upper floors of the palace, firing down into the always-vulnerable top deck of the tracks.
Then fast gravlighters swept forward, trying to punch through the increasingly thin lines of the Guardsmen. They were stopped.
Next the Confederation began human wave attacks. Shoulder to shoulder infantry attacks, men and women shouting cheers and marching bravely, suicidally, into the near-solid gunfire.
They died — but so did Imperial Guardsmen.
She had seen Alex cursing and putting a field dressing on a bloody, if superficial, shrapnel wound on his upper leg before he had gone back to the slaughter. Otho, too, had been hit. But after his wounds had been dressed, he had returned to the line, spotting for a Guards’ mortar crew.
Cind wondered if they could stand two, three, or just one more assault before that wave washed over them.
There had been no opportunity to break contact and try for the Victory, assuming the ship was still on the ground.
Sten splashed down beside her.
The two of them were grimy. Bloody — but at least the blood was not their own. Their eyes were glaring.
“Well?”
“Two tubes left, boss.”
“Here.” He passed her another magazine of AM2 rounds.
“Be melodramatic,” she suggested. “Kiss me.”
Sten grimaced, started to obey, and then jerked back as he heard the grind of oncoming tracks once more. “Well, I shall be clotted. Look.”
This time the attack was combined armor and infantry. And, standing in that lead track was . . .
Cind grabbed her exotic rifle and sighted. She saw the handsome face and silver hair. “It’s him! You want the privilege?”
“Go ahead. I’ve had all the fun lately.”
The man in the track was General Douw. Cind supposed he thought this would be the final attack that would overrun the Imperial Forces, and had chosen to lead it himself.
Brave.
Brave, but dumb, Cind thought as she touched the trigger and the AM2 round blew Douw’s chest apart.
“Thank you,” Sten said.
Cind scrabbled for the willygun. The death of their leader hadn’t even been noticed by the oncoming soldiers.
Wave after wave of them poured into the square. Cind swept their ranks — then decided to wait until they were closer.
She lifted her head to see — and her eyes widened.
“Jamchyyd and Kholeric,” she whispered, her tone wholly reverent, actually calling on the Bhor gods as if she believed they might exist. “Sarla and Laraz.”
Coming over the city’s rooftops, swaying like a great dark snake, came the cyclone, cutting a solid swath as it came. And behind the first funnel cloud . . . another. One . . . two . . . Cind counted six of them, swinging back and forth like a dancer’s hips as they came.
Sten remembered: “. . . kill a thousand people in forty minutes . . . punch a blade of straw through an anvil . . . throw five tacships . . . a quarter Mick . . .”
The tornadoes picked up debris as they came. A roof. A shed. A gravsled. A personnel carrier. A crashed tacship. A man. Spun them, ruined them, broke them beyond recognition, and then used them as weapons.
Cind’s ears cracked, and she swallowed.
The roar was louder now than the gunfire, and the Altaic troops stopped. They turned — and saw the cyclones.
Then the first vortex entered the Square of the Khaqans.
It swept through the soldiers and their weapons like a vacuum cleaner picking up dust balls. It picked them up and cast them aside. Sten was on his feet. Shouting. Screaming. Unheard.
He was waving — back.
Back — away.
For the Victory.
The second tornado entered the square. Both funnel clouds twisted and spun, hesitating, as if unsure if they should continue.
Imperial soldiers pelted away from this new demon that no one could be expected to stand against.
But they were not in panic. They ran — but slowly, helping the limping walking wounded. Bringing their weapons with them, or abandoning them to pick up the ends of stretchers.
Sten and Alex held, just where the broad boulevard opened, the boulevard Sten had sent the Victory roaring down toward the embassy, lifetimes earlier.
The square was a black swirl, as yet another tornado came onstage. Palace walls ripped away, spinning out into the near-vacuum low-pressure area, and were caught by the cyclone and lifted thousands of meters up, into the overhanging cloud.
Then the vortex stalked forward once more, wind roaring and speed building, toward and through the palace that had once been the pride of the Khaqans, then had briefly housed Dr. Iskra.
The palace vanished in a swirl.
The tornado’s fellows, spawn of that great brooding wall cloud, came on, inexorably planing the soldiers of the Altaics, the shaky Confederation they had fought for, and that meaningless vanity of a palace that meant power from the face of Rurik.
They left nothing — nothing but chaos.
The Victory was still on the ground, waiting.
One AU off Rurik, Sten sent the message en clair, punched through with max power, direct to the Emperor’s private channel, second transmission to the Imperial office:
ALL IMPERIAL UNITS SUCCESSFULLY EVACUATED FROM RURIK IN GOOD ORDER. IMPERIAL UNITS NOW ON DIRECT COURSE FOR PRIME WORLD. ALTAIC CLUSTER NOW IN OPEN REVOLT AGAINST THE EMPIRE.
Now, court-martial me, he thought. You insane bastard.
Chapter Forty-two
MAHONEY WAITED IN a prisoner-for-transport cell beneath the large new building that was Internal Security’s headquarters. It was a small room, with white plas walls, a fold-up sleeping bench, and a hole in the floor for body wastes.
In a few minutes they would take him to his hearing before the Imperial grand jury. He was dressed in the pure white coveralls required by law for indicted criminals. The color was symbolic. White indicated presumed innocence. It also indicated that the prisoner’s statements had not been produced by torture.
Mahoney had to admit that in his case the latter was true. So far. He had been treated with rough but professional courtesy. Sure, he had been beaten. The first time when they loaded him on the transport to Prime. But that had only been to alert him to his new station in life — bruises and blood to show him who was boss. There had been no emotion in the beating. Nothing personal. The same all along the processing line, as he was transferred from one IS group to another.
When the beatings stopped, Ian knew his hearing date had been set. It was a routine precaution. To make sure everything had healed in time for his appearance.
Mahoney had weathered the experience well. Not that he was philosophical about his fate. He refused to think about it at all. To dwell on the betrayal would only serve to soften him up — for the probably inevitable brainscan.
Instead, he thought about old adventures. Friends. Lovers. He never thought about food. Mahoney was glad that prison fare was efficiently bland. Otherwise, those meals the Emperor had fixed for him with his own hands would have come back to haunt.
Ian’s hackles rose, his old Mantis senses prickling. Someone was watching. He made himself relax. Then he heard rustling at the cell door.
Ah, they’ve finally come, Ian. Be still, heart. And you there, lungs. You’re not needing so much air. Steady on, boyos. Be of good Irish cheer.
Poyndex looked through the two-way as the IS screws hustled Mahoney out of the PFT cell. He was surprised at how well the man looked and wondered if he could do the same in Mahoney’s position. He pushed that thought away. It was a talent he would just as soon leave undiscovered.
He stepped out into the hallway to intercept Mahoney and the guards. Ian saw him. From the flicker in his eyes, Poyndex knew he was recognized. The flicker vanished and was replaced with a grin.
“Oh, ho. So the boss sent the first team in,” Mahoney said. “I’d say I’m honored, but I’d be lying.”
Poyndex laughed. “I don’t want to be responsible for a lie,” he said. “We wouldn’t want to start the grand jury proceedings on the wrong foot.”
He told a guard to remove Mahoney’s restraints, then waved the guards away. “I’ll be your escort,” he told Ian. “I’m sure you won’t try anything . . . foolish.”
Mahoney rubbed life back into his wrists. “Why would I? I’m an innocent man. Joyfully waiting for justice to be done.” He laughed.
Poyndex grinned back and indicated the far corridor door. They both started walking, Poyndex just a half step behind Mahoney.
“Actually, I’ve come along to make sure that’s exactly what you get,” Poyndex said. “The Emperor wants complete fairness.”
“Oh, certain he does,” Mahoney chortled. “And tell him his old friend, Ian, is humbly thankful for this courtesy.”
Poyndex forced a small chuckle of appreciation. He had decidedly mixed feeling about his mission. On the one hand, Ian Mahoney was his sole competition for the power he now wielded. Disgrace had ended that competition.
“Tell him not to worry,” Mahoney said. “When questioned I’ll stick to the facts. I have no intention of bringing his name into these proceedings.”
“An unnecessary promise,” Poyndex said smoothly. “But, I’m sure he will be pleased you’re still thinking of his best interests — that you remember your past relationship.”
On the other hand, Mahoney had once stood in Poyndex’s shoes. He had been the Eternal Emperor’s faithful servant for decades. As he watched Mahoney walking tall toward his fate, Poyndex feared for his own. This is what will happen, he thought, if you should fall from grace.
A whisper in the back of his mind hissed: Not if . . . but when.
“Tell the boss I remember,” Mahoney said. “I remember very well.”
“I’ll do that,” Poyndex said. “And that’s a promise.”
His hand dipped into his pocket, then came out. As they reached the door, Poyndex pressed the silenced barrel against the soft spot at the back of Mahoney’s neck.
There was a quick flinch of skin from sudden cold.
Poyndex fired.
Mahoney tumbled forward. Slammed into the door. Sagged down.
Poyndex stood over the body, amazed. Mahoney’s face still carried that damned Irish grin.
He bent down, pressed the barrel against Mahoney’s head, and fired again.
With a man like Ian Mahoney, you had to make double damned sure.
Chapter Forty-three
“FARE THEE WELL, you banks ae Sicily, fare thee well, thee brooks an’ dells, frae thae’s noo Scots soldier thae’s mourn th’ last of ye,” Alex hummed from memory, thinking fondly of a very tall brew as soon as the fleet was absolutely clear of anything, including vacuum, that resembled the Altaic Cluster.
He was idly punching through various public channels being cast from the Imperial worlds ahead. Nearby, Sten was collapsed in the Victory’s CO station — but no one asked him to move. Both of them still wore their torn, filthy combat uniforms.
The bridge was near-silent — probably because no one thought they would actually have gotten away with this one.
“Sports,” Kilgour muttered, finding another cast. “Ah dinnae ken whae thae’s bein’s thae think thae’s virtue in puntin’ a wee sack ae leather frae one chalk’t line t’ another.
“Reminds me,” he said to Freston, who sat near the console, “ae th’ time thae tried t’ make m’ play a clottin’ sport ae gentlebein’ts call’t crickit. First Ah thinks thae’s mad, goin’t chirp —”
And his mouth snapped closed.
No one exactly remembered what the liviecaster on-screen was saying. But it was very clear:
Disgrace . . . once hero of the Tahn war . . . Governor General . . . supreme penalty . . . Ian Mahoney . . . name to be stricken from all records and monuments . . . traitorous . . .
Sten was standing beside him. His face was white.
“That’s torn it,” he whispered.
Kilgour started to say something, then shook his head. He swallowed.
He heard the snarl from the watch officer behind him: “Watch your screens, mister. What’s that com that just ran?”
“Uh . . . sorry . . . it’s coded.”
“I can tell it’s coded,” the watch officer said. “Who’s it to? Who’s it from?”
“Sir . . . I think . . . Prime. And . . . and it’s intended for the Caligula . . . I think.”
“Don’t think, mister. Know!”
“Sir . . . we don’t have the code. It’s not indexed.”
Sten forced shock and anger about Mahoney’s murder away. “What is the signal?”
“We don’t know, sir. From Prime to Caligula, sir.”
“I heard that. Patch me to Mason.”
“Yessir.”
“Caligula, this is Victory, over.”
. . . This is Caligula, over.
“This is Victory. What was the transmission you received?”
“Wait one . . . signal being decoded . . .”
“How th’ clot,” Kilgour wondered, hair on the back of his neck starting to lift, “d’ thae hae’ th’ code an’ we dinnae?”
“Sir! The Caligula’s broken contact.”
“Reestablish.”
“Caligula, this is Victory, over. Caligula, this is Victory. Do you receive this transmission ?”
“Sir, the Caligula’s broadcasting.”
“GA.”
“Not to us, sir. To its DD screen. Burst transmission. I didn’t get it.”
Sten was trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Then he noticed the main maneuver screen.
The Caligula had broken fleet formation, together with the four destroyers that normally screened the battleship. It set a new course . . .
“What’s the Caligula’s new orbit?”
“Wait one, sir . . . it appears to be a near-reciprocal track from the fleet’s. Straight — I’m estimating — back toward Jochi!”
There was a rumble of surprise.
“Quiet on the bridge.”
Sten forced his mind to function. What the clot was going on? He found he had spoken aloud.
“Sir?” It was Freston. “I think I might know.”
“One ray of light. Talk to me!”
“Uh . . . sir, before I was assigned to you, I was com officer on the Churchill. And the captain had been given a private code when he took command. There was another copy in the ship’s safe, to be given to the XO or whoever took over if the CO was a casualty.”
“GA. But why the clot would the Caligula — or Mason — have a code that we don’t? We’re the flagship.”
“Yessir. But — but we’re not carrying a planet buster.”
Of course. The Empire did not like even to admit that it had weaponry heavy enough to shatter a planet. But it did. Planet busters were never used — even during the height of the Tahn war they had not been launched.
For the Emperor, it had little to do with morality. Genocide made lousy politics, he used to say. That had been the Emperor’s view. Apparently, went Sten’s grim thoughts, the Eternal Emperor had changed his mind. Perhaps it had never been a moral issue for the Emperor. But it certainly had been for Sten.
“Is the Caligula answering?” Sten asked.
“Negative, sir.”
“Commander, do you have a tacship flight on standby?”
“Of course.”
“I want one ship. The best pilot on the Victory. Kali-armed. Launch time as soon as I get to the hangar deck.”
Kilgour was on his feet, starting for the companionway.
“Alex! I want you here on the bridge. I’ll be broadcasting from the tacship, but I want the com linked to the Victory.”
“Y’ dinnae need me frae that, skip.”
“And I want a synth that’ll match analysis.”
“Right. Ah hae it noo. Away wi’ y’ lad.”
And Sten was running for the Victory’s hangar.
The tacship flashed out from the Victory’s port and, barely clear of the mother ship, went to full AM2 drive.
“What’s the IP?”
La Ciotat didn’t need to look at a screen.
“Fifty-three . . . fifty-one minutes, sir.”
“Fine.” Sten sat at the weapons officer’s station, adjusting the control helmet to his own head.
“Here’s the drill. The Caligula is headed back for Jochi. It’s going to launch a planet buster.”
La Ciotat, priding herself on her poker face, wasn’t able to control her expression. “But what — is Admiral Mason mutinying, or —”
“You do not need to know, Ms. I want you to hold a closing course on the Caligula and have your com person keep an open link to the Victory. I want you to notify me when we’re within . . . five minutes of the Caligula. Do you have any trouble with those orders?”
“No, sir.”
“Keep us from getting tagged by the destroyers. I’m pretty sure they’ll have orders to stop us.”
“That’s not even a concern. Sir.”
Sten almost smiled — it sounded like La Ciotat was drakh-hot.
“Caligula, this is Victory. Admiral Mason, this is Sten, over.”
“Still no response.”
“Caligula, this is Sten, over. Patch me to your Six Actual. That is an order, over.”
“Seven minutes to intercept, sir.”
“Goddammit . . .”
The screen on the tacship suddenly cleared, and Sten saw Mason’s face.
Mason — or so Sten hoped, at least — would be seeing Sten, or a computer synthesis of Sten, back on the bridge of the Victory and never think that his response had been almost immediate and that he was, in fact, aboard a tacship bare minutes behind the Caligula.
“Admiral Mason, I think I understand your mission,” Sten began.
“I am under orders, sir, to not discuss my assignment with anyone.”
“I am not interested in discussing, Mason. This is not a debating society. And I know that you’ve been told to bust Jochi.
