Juggernaut, page 44
part #2 of Sten Omnibus Series
“Well, sir? What do you think?”
The question was asked by a woman wearing the stripes of a lance bombardier—Markiewicz, Sten remembered. He answered honestly. “I’ve dug some tunnels,” he said. “But this is the best one I’ve ever seen. You’ve done a clot—sorry. An excellent job.”
“In the spirit of the Great One,” Cristata intoned. “By his leave only.”
“In the spirit of the Great One,” the other three said.
What the hell, Sten thought. So Cristata was converting the masses. If believing in whatever Cristata did could produce a tunnel like that, Sten was ready to be baptized himself.
“I’m impressed, as I said,” Sten went on. “But I’ve already said that you people can have any help we can give. Why’d you decide to show it to me?”
Cristata’s facial tendrils wiggled. “Because,” he said, “we appear to have a problem.”
His tendrils indicated. Sten looked: The large rocky chamber, he realized, was composed on three sides of roughly cemented chunks of rock—what must have been the cathedral’s foundations. But directly in front was one very large, very solid piece of stone, like unto a wall.
Sten figured out why Cristata had brought him down there. It was not pride. They needed help.
If Sten had not been Big X, he might have been more cooperative. But he had several thousand other people to consider, and so he put on his blandest face.
“You need help in getting through that clotting—beg pardon—rock?”
“We do,” Markewiecz said.
“I could have more diggers come in,” Sten said. “But it’d still take about a thousand years to chisel through that beast. And blasting, I’m thinking, is contraindicated.”
The humans slumped. But Cristata had no reaction.
“But I think we might be able to help,” Sten continued.
Cristata’s tendrils wriggled once more. “When a more senior reader offered to deliver what might be considered the less interesting—forgive me, Great One—portions of the lesson, portions which were my duty under normal circumstances, normally there were what I have heard called tradesies involved.”
“There are,” Sten said.
“We are listening.”
We, Sten wondered, far underground. We meaning Cristata and his converts, or we and his Great One? Sten considered the tons of rock, earth, and stone above his head and decided this was not a place to be terribly agnostic.
Sten was not offering a pigless poke.
Kraulshavn and Sorensen’s computer had already begun gaaronking through the surveyors’ figures. And yes, indeed, there were big missing spaces between what the measurements produced and what Koldyeze looked like.
Most interesting were the cheapjack echosounds the surveyors had run. Some of Avrenti’s supersensitive antitunneling microphones had somehow ended up in the hands of Kilgour’s thieves. Those had then been implanted in the stone courtyard, and an impulse had been introduced. The impulse was generally a somewhat unconnected chunk of stone atop the cathedral’s battlements. When said chunk of stone came crashing down, of course as a result of natural causes, the crash was recorded at various points and fed through Gaaronk.
The crashes did not match—and showed that, mysteriously, there was a lot of unknown there underneath Koldyeze. Empty unknown there.
Cellars.
That was Sten’s oinker in the sack.
“If,” he began, “I can show you a way around or through this rock, your tunnel is no longer going to be exclusive.”
The three humans growled.
“Continue,” Cristata said.
“I would like to use the tunnel to take more escapers out.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know. But you four would be the first. And you would have all the assistance my organization could provide.”
“We have all the aid we need from the Great One,” Cristata said. His converts nodded in agreement.
Sten felt slightly sorry for what he was doing, but as yet there was no other viable escape plan in motion. And Sten remembered once again that warrant officer crying over his parcel.
“We’ll give you more diggers. Diggers working under your direction. And nothing will be done without your knowledge and approval.”
“Do we have any choice?”
Sten did not bother to answer.
Markiewicz glanced at Cristata and answered for the four of them. “It appears as if the Great One wishes this.”
It was unanimous.
Sten sort of hated to give them what looked to be the answer, because it was simple.
Dig down.
Disbelieving—except for Cristata, who reasoned that somehow the Great One was speaking through Sten—they did.
Many days later, they broke through into the cellars of Koldyeze.
And that, for Cristata, created an even larger problem.
Once again Sten went out and down late at night, then shinnied down from that small rocky chamber into caverns. High stone-ceilinged caverns that led on into darkness. Caverns that were flagstone-floored, with pillars stretching up. Caverns that, Cristata pointed out, held all the temptations of Xanadu. Sten took a quick torchlight inventory, whistled, and agreed. Evidently the simple, monotheistic agrarian communards who had originally built Koldyeze had planned for some very rainy days. And they had planned on spending those rainy days in more than ascetic meditation. There were chambers with large barrels. Sten thumped them, and they appeared to still have liquid in them. He ran his finger along the barrel staves and tasted alcohol.
Other chambers held foodpaks; still others, clothing.
“And we have not fully explored these chambers,” Cristata went on gloomily. “But it would appear that whoever stored these substances enjoyed life.”
Sten eyed the foodpaks hungrily—and stopped thinking about what a meal composed of real food could do for him. Instead, he made plans.
Cristata—personally—would make a full survey of the cellars. What was in them would be communicated to Colonel Virunga and Mr. Hernandes only. The last thing Sten needed was for that tunnel, which looked to be their only salvation, to get blown because a bunch of tunnelers started looking fat, well dressed, and—worst case—drunk. The assigned tunnelers from the X organization would be conducted into the rocky chamber blindfolded and then taken through the cellars to the working face. Only Cristata and his converts would know what those cellars of plenty held. They would be kept secret for emergency rations and to help the escapers get into shape.
And Sten hoped most sincerely that none of Cristata’s true believers would suffer a lapse of faith and a subsequent big mouth.
Chapter Twenty-one
SENIOR CAPTAIN LO PREK sat nervously on the edge of his bunk, trying to decipher the radio chatter between the freighter captain and traffic control. The mysteries of naval patter were beyond him, but he could tell from the tone of the captain’s voice that all did not bode well.
Prek had wrangled passage on a ship carrying low-priority materials for the Tahn factories. Already the ship’s flight had been interrupted or rerouted half a dozen times since he had started his journey many cycles before. And from the captain’s whining, he was sure it was about to happen again.
He squirmed impatiently on the bunk, almost welcoming the bite of the metal edge into his skinny haunches. He felt helpless. There was nothing he could do or say to hurry the journey. He had already called in the few favors that were owed him to get the short amount of leave that had been approved. And he had almost begged to get permission to travel on the puny freighter. Permission had been granted grudgingly—possibly out of guilt.
Prek knew that he was not a man anyone liked. He was superefficient. Superobedient. Single-minded at his work. Never asking for any rewards for a job well done. Being non-competitive, he had also never harmed anyone in his life. Still, he was not liked. There was something about him… and Prek knew and accepted it, just as he accepted the guilt that caused in his fellow officers. For a change, he had used that guilt. Acting completely out of character, he had molded it to his own advantage. Normally, even the thought of something like that would have disgusted Prek.
But not this time. Because this time he was sure he had found Sten—or, at least, where Sten was hiding.
There was a new prisoner-of-war camp. For troublemakers. For survivors. It was on Heath at a place called Koldyeze.
Prek listened to the resignation in the freighter captain’s voice. There would be another delay. Another reprieve for his enemy.
Chapter Twenty-two
THE PRISONER WORK detail, surrounded by their Tahn guards, clattered back toward Koldyeze. Just in front of them the cobbled street wound upward toward the prison.
“I’m waiting,” Sten said.
“Shut up. You’ll see,” St. Clair whispered.
“Deee-tail… halt,” Chetwynd bellowed.
The prisoners clumped to a stop. On either side of the road rose abandoned slum apartments.
“Five minutes. Rest. Be grateful.”
Sten goggled as all the guards, including Chetwynd, ostentatiously turned their backs and the detail dissolved, scampering into the buildings like so many rodents.
“What in the—”
“Come on,” St. Clair urged, nearly dragging Sten into a doorway.
“Didn’t I say I had a surprise?” she went on.
“GA, Captain. And quick.”
“Don’t give me orders. Look. You know how to search a room?”
“I do,” Sten said.
“Okay. We’re going upstairs. You look for things. I’ll talk.”
They went up the rickety stairs, and Sten followed her instructions.
“What am I looking for?”
“Anything we can use. And anything the Tahn can sell. We got ourselves a business going, Big X.”
Indeed they did.
The slum quarters had never been that well populated—the apartments were entirely too close to Koldyeze. And the periodic draft sweeps the Tahn made for their military started, of course, in the poor sections of Heath. St. Clair had followed orders—if she was to be the scrounger, she would be a clotting good one. And the way to get things was, of course, on the outside. In spite of her total loathing for anything resembling manual labor, she had volunteered for every work gang going. She did not know exactly what to look for, but she knew there was something out there.
What was out there were the guards. And St. Clair knew that any being who was willing to batten on the miseries of others was corruptible. She had tested her theory—and her teeth—when she had found a jeweled tunic pin in some trash.
She had offered it to the nearest and—by estimate from body weight—greediest guard. He had snatched and examined it.
“Are there others?” he had asked.
“I guess so,” St. Clair said innocently, waving a hand around at the multistory buildings. “It’d be interesting to look.
“Wouldn’t it?”
The guard grinned. “Whyn’t you an’ the others go have a look?”
Within minutes, Captain St. Clair had the rest of the detail worming through the nearest apartment. That looked as if it could develop into something. Within two days she felt less like a corrupter and more like the corrupted. The “looting break” became an instant ritual for most of the work details on their way back to Koldyeze.
St. Clair stopped her explanation and marveled at Sten. He was listening intently while quartering the room like a bloodhound. He started at the far wall and quartered outward. Each piece of broken furniture was picked up or tapped for hidden compartments. The rags that had been clothes were swiftly patted down, then held up to see if they still could be used. The ripped mattress was kneaded for any interesting lumps. There were two pictures lying on the floor in their broken frames. Both of them were torn apart. Then Sten set to work knuckle rapping on the walls.
“I said to look for things,” she said.
“That’s what I’m doing.”
“Pretty clottin’ thorough, mister. What were you when you were a civilian? Some kind of burglar?”
“No,” Sten said. He certainly had no intention of explaining to anyone, least of all to St. Clair, whom he trusted about as much as a Tahn, that his search was the product of thorough Mantis training. “Here we go,” he said.
St. Clair stared—it looked as if Sten had pulled a sliver of metal from his arm and then knifed through a wall switch. The sliver disappeared, and Sten’s fingers emerged with a wad of credits. St. Clair inhaled sharply.
“Money. Tahn money.”
“Right. Now, go on out, Captain.”
“What are you—”
“That’s an order! Move!”
St. Clair found herself outside the broken door. A moment later, Sten stepped out beside her.
“Very good, Captain,” he said. “Now. Here’s the drill. Anything the guards want—play-pretties, alk, drugs—give it to them.”
“Give?”
“Give. Money goes to me.”
“Nice racket,” St. Clair said cynically.
Sten paused. “You know, troop—you got a bad attitude. You keep a log. Report what you bring in to Colonel Virunga. Or don’t you trust him, either?”
“I trust him,” St. Clair said grudgingly.
“Fine. I also want civilian clothes. Anything electronic. Wire. Tape. If you find any weapons—” Sten stopped and thought. A prisoner found with a weapon on him would be for the high jump—as would, most likely, the entire work detail. “Weapons—you stash them. Report to me, and we’ll arrange to get them in the gate.”
“Detail! Reassemble!”
“Let’s go.”
Sten clattered back down the steps. St. Clair followed, looking at his back and wondering several things.
Chetwynd was waiting in the street outside.
“You!”
Sten snapped to attention. “Sir!”
“What was your name again?”
“Horatio, sir.”
“You sure you don’t remember me?”
“Nossir!”
“Before the war, I worked the ports,” Chetwynd went on. “Maybe you used to be a merchant sailor?”
“Nossir! I was never offworld before I joined up, sir.”
Chetwynd scratched his chin. “Clot. I dunno. Maybe you got a twin brother somewhere. You two got anything?”
St. Clair felt Sten’s fingers touch her hand. As an experienced gambler, she palmed the object, then held it out.
“Credits,” Chetwynd said. “Very good. Very good, indeed. Maybe next time I’m in charge of the detail, and you two want to go off and…” He snickered. “I can make it a long enough rest break.”
St. Clair thought fondly of how she could thank Chetwynd as she smiled and ran back toward the detail.
Drawing and quartering, she decided, was far too easy.
Bed Sten? She would rather make love to a mark.
Chapter Twenty-three
THE SUPERSECRET OF the Prisoner’s Aid parcels was that they were neither quite wholly altruistic nor neutral.
Mercury Corps—Intelligence—field operatives, which of course included Mantis, flag officers, and skippers of long-range penetration units or ships were given the secret orally when a mission suggested they might be captured.
A few items in each crate were loaded. For instance:
One key item to look for was any foodstuff that supposedly had been produced by a paternally named firm, such as Grandfather’s Caff, Dronemaster’s R’lrx, Packguru’s Scented Tofu, and so forth. All the firms were quite legitimate, but the foodstuffs packaged were designed to be as close to inedible as the Emperor’s most devious chemists could make them. Even a prison guard should have had little interest in them.
There was nothing out of the ordinary in their contents, but each of those cans contained something potentially useful for an escaper. Microwire saws were buried in the rim of the pak. Needle-size engraving tools were in others. Still other paks had miniature printed circuit boards sealed in the double layer that made up the pak’s base. It would take a cursing prisoner two days to break the seal apart—but that might also prevent discovery even with a thorough inspection. There were other interesting devices in other cans. All the materials used would never show up on detectors.
All metals—such as the pins and needles in the archaic sewing kits—were magnetized and could be used in compasses.
The clothes themselves were indelibly marked with a black-white X on the front and rear. There was no reason for a prison official to object to issuing them—they certainly could never be used for any kind of escape. The X’s were actually almost indelible. Each parcel contained small single-use artificial sweetener packs, artificial sweetener that was in fact tasteless. The sweetener was intended to be dissolved in water, and the clothing soaked in it. Four hours later, the X’s would vanish and the POW would be left with a garment that, given enough tailoring skill, might be converted into an acceptable civilian-looking garment for his escape.
No one outside Imperial Intelligence knew about that—certainly not the gentle Manabi. It was a violation of every POW convention and any civilized ethos. And, of course, it had been the personal scheme of Fleet Marshal Ian Mahoney in the days when he had headed Imperial Intelligence.
Even the legitimate items in the aid parcels had their own, nonlegitimate purposes.
For one thing, the foodpaks were very useful for one of Kilgour’s intelligence schemes.
This one he had mentally dubbed “Seduction of the Innocent/Reward for the Wicked (Wee Free Division).”
By that point he had selected the agents for the operation, choosing the friendliest and most open prisoners he could find. Each of them was ordered to choose a guard or two, then try to make friends with that screw.
To accomplish that, the “seducers” were given access to anything any of the prisoners had. If a guard fancied a ring, somehow he would be given it. If a guard needed someone to talk to, there would always be a sympathetic ear or auditory apparatus the seducer could provide. The only limit was sexual involvement—not because Kilgour had any particular moral qualms but because he was an experienced enough spy-master to realize that pillow talk usually was not significant and that there was the constant danger of the seducer eventually becoming the seducee. There were five primary goals:
