Sten and the Mutineers Page 6

  Then another thought occurred to him and he couldn’t help but smile.

  And then someone slapped him hard across the face. He reeled back, raising a hand against another blow.

  “What was that for?” he whined.

  “Smiling, you were,” Zheng said. It was he who had delivered the blow. “Why smile, you?”

  “Oh… Oh… It was nothing,” Gregor said. “Just the anesthetic. Feeling a little woozy.”

  And he bit his lip against another reflexive smile. He had just figured out how he might turn all this misery into a pot of gold.

  He looked up at Zheng. “Have you started negotiations with the Empire yet?”

  Zheng was non committal. “Spoken to them, we have,” he said.

  In other words—a big clotting, “No.”

  “Well, before you get to far along,” Gregor said, “I hope you’ll consult with me.”

  Rual snorted. “Why would we do that?”

  “Because with my father’s influence,” Gregor said, “I can help you get a much better deal.”

  “We’ve already got an offer from Venatora,” Rual said. “I say we just take it and be done with the whole business. Every day we delay, the more dangerous it becomes.”

  “But what if I can get you more?” Gregor said. “A whole clot of a lot more.”

  Silence fell upon the room. Zheng’s pink tongue flashed out to lick his lips. There was a definite glitter in Rual’s eyes.

  Gregor looked at Shaklin. Other than fingering his dreadlocks, the man showed no emotion whatsoever. He’d sworn to everyone in the cabin that he opposed killing Gregor. So revenge wasn’t his motive. And money? As impossible as that seemed to someone like Gregor, riches apparently held no great attraction to Shaklin.

  So what was it that Shaklin wanted?

  Suddenly the tall black man straightened and turned to go. “It’s time for the Nav check,” he said and hurriedly left the cabin.

  “A Nav check?” Rual said. “What the clotting big deal? We’ve been—mas o menos—in the same place for the last month. What’s to check?”

  “If happy it makes him,” Zheng said, “Care, I do not.” He turned to Gregor. “Now, little cheena,” he said. “More, I want to know about your father.”

  And so Gregor told him more, only needing to exaggerate a little. His father was that important.

  But in the back of his mind he kept worrying over the Shaklin conundrum.

  If money wasn’t his object, what else could it be?

  Hard as he tried, Gregor couldn’t come up with a thing. What the clot could be more important than money?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE CORPSES IN THE TOOLROOM

  Kilgour said, “I cannae bloody see.”

  Stifling a groan, Sten turned his head in the direction of Alex’s voice. He felt dizzy. Confused.

  With great difficulty, he pondered Kilgour’s dilemma.

  Finally, all he could think to say was: “Have you tried opening your eyes?”

  He sensed movement. A large body shifting. Joints cracking. Then: “Ooch!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Stuck a bloody finger in me peeper.” A pause, then, “Who shut off the clottin’ lights?”

  Sten laughed and was immediately sorry. His body felt like it had been hit with a planet buster. He considered Alex’s question a moment, then remembered.

  “That would be me,” he said. “When they jumped us, I just had time enough to cut a handy power cable.”

  Even though he couldn’t see his friend’s face, Sten sensed confusion easily equal to his own.

  “When who jumped us?” Kilgour said. “Last thin’ Ah remember is arguin’ aboot who should drive the gravsled.”

  “Then you don’t remember Mahoney?” Sten asked.

  Another long pause. Finally: “Oh, aye. Th’ wee General. We were supposed tae meet up fur orders. Somethin’ abit some mutineers.”

  “We had the meeting,” Sten said, recalling same. “And we got our orders.”

  Alex sighed. “Ah don’t quite recollect. Are we supposed tae kill th’ puir buggers? If so, we’ve got tae catch ’em first.”

  Sten said, “We weren’t supposed to kill anybody. Not yet, at any rate. This was just supposed to be a recon job. Meet a barkeep. Get some intel. Maybe lay a trap.”

  Another groan as Alex shifted his bulk. He said, “Mah puir bones say we must’ve started on th’ meetin’ part ay the business.”

  “Your bones would be correct,” Sten said. “When we get some light on the subject, you’ll find a few bodies crammed in here with us. Two of them have crushed larynxes. That was you. The other has what looks like a second mouth. In her neck. That was my bad. When I cut the power cable, I also managed to cut someone’s throat before I blacked out. My back is sticky, so I assume I’m lying in the scrote’s blood.”

  Silence. Sten hoped his heavy-worlder friend was coming out of his drug-induced state and was starting to get a handle on things.

  “What do we do next, wee Sten?” he finally asked. “Ah huvnae th’ faintest Scooby.”

  Before Sten could answer three things happened:

  A red pinlight blinked into life just above his head.

  His com unit crackled and buzzed in his ears.

  Ida started talking as only Ida could, by blistering his ears with a stream of what Sten could only think were Rom curses.

  Then the world settled a little more about Sten’s shoulders, and he could make out what she was saying.

  “Drakh and fall back in it,” she growled. “I’ve been trying to roust you scrotes out of that little cubby hole you’re hiding in for two small forever’s.”

  “Well, now you’ve found us,” Sten said. “The only problem is we don’t know where the clot we are. Our minds seem to be stuffed with mud.”

  Ida grunted. “Something much worse and smellier is more likely,” she said. “Actually, from my readings they hit you with a couple of hypoguns. Nothing life threatening. But you might be missing some of your short term memory for awhile.”

  She fell silent for a moment. Sten could imagine her aboard the Storm, punching in numbers. Weighing the telemeter stream she was getting from his and Alex’s implanted Med chips.

  Mental course correction as things became clearer still: Ida wouldn’t be aboard the Storm, which was still in the yard. She’d be aboard the new ship Mahoney had wrangled for them. The Jo’l Cash.

  “So where the clot are we?” Sten asked.

  Ida said, “You’re in a tool shed about three levels below the bar where you started out.”

  “But what about the mutineers?” Sten asked. “The guys Snilch told us about.”

  “Snilch?” Alex broke in. “Who the clot is Snilch?”

  Ida ignored him. She said: “Hello! Anybody home. Oh, for drakh’s sake, don’t you get it, Sten? We’ve been conned. Snookered. Flimflammed. Snilch was lying through that little twisted beak of his.”

  Silence as Sten took this in and Alex tried to come up to speed. A little more memory filtered in, and he suddenly had that awful feeling one gets when things have gone very wrong indeed.

  And there was only one direction the Finger of Blame could be pointed.

  “Drakh and fall back in it is right,” he groaned.

  Then he another gut-wrenching thought: “Those beings we killed? By any chance were they…”

  “Himmenops,” Ida finished for him. “A squad of Venatora’s superwomen.”

  “How in hell—”

  “Never mind the how,” Ida said. “It’ll come to you by and by. Meanwhile, I’m sure you’ll recall that those Himmenops have many largish sisters with pissy moods at the best of times. And right now they are on the way looking for paybacks.”

  For a crazy, heat-filled moment Sten thought of ask
ing if Venatora was with them. Instead he said, “Then you’d better hurry and get us the clot out of here.”

  “Roger, that,” Ida said. Sten imagined her fingers flying across her beloved boards as she made the patch.

  Then, in the voice of a Gypsy witch, she intoned: “Let there be light.”

  And just like that the darkness vanished to be replaced by glaring yellow lights beaming from the ceiling.

  “Ooch,” Alex said, rubbing his eyes. “Th’ lass has nae gentleness in her. She jist hits ye an’ goes about her merry way.”

  Sten found himself in a hidey-hole that he only vaguely recalled. There was no doubt that it was a toolroom—it was crowded with benches and machines and various mechanical devices, all glistening with oil and heavy grease.

  The room was small—there was barely space for Sten and his heavy-worlder companion, whose bulk filled one whole side—much less the ghastly remains of two very dead Himmenops. Even in death their musculature was such that Sten found it hard to imagine anyone could have bested them in a hand-to-hand fight. But the odd tilt of their necks and the deep impressions in their necks made by Kilgour’s steely grip told the tale.

  Next to Sten was another Himmenops, her nearly naked body twisted in her last desperate efforts to breathe. A bloody second mouth gaped below her chiseled chin. Sten remembered carving that second mouth just before he felt the sting in his arm from a hypno gun.

  Then everything went blank.

  With difficulty, he climbed to his knees and reached for the airlock’s wheel. It refused to turn. Sten shrugged, flexed his wrist just so, and his knife leaped from its fleshy sheath in his arm and his fingers curled around its slender haft.

  Anticipating his actions, Ida said, “Unless you’re suited up, better drop the idea of cutting yourself out of your little home away from home. When the others fled, they dumped the atmosphere.”

  Alex spoke up. “Cheers for the warnin’, darlin’.”

  “Don’t call me darling,” Ida snapped.

  “Oh, aye,” Alex said. “Ah was thinkin’ on anither word, but thought it micht be impolite.”

  He was sitting up now, pushing one body onto the other to give himself more room. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles.

  “Ah’m Red Rory of th’ toolroom,” he intoned.

  “Who the clottin’ clot is Red Rory?” Ida demanded.

  Sten jumped in. “Shut up, Ida,” he pleaded. “Or he’ll tell you. In infinite detail. Now, about your plans to get us the clot out of here?”

  Ida said, “I’ve tracked the atmospheric supply network and will have that fixed in a jiff and a half. Plus I’ve got three of our Marines on the way.”

  Kilgour frowned. “Marines? We have Marines?” Then light dawned. “Oh, aye. We hae a full crew ay squadies noo, don’t we?” he said. “They’ll be makin’ ye a bonny admiral affair ye ken it, wee Sten.”

  Sten couldn’t help but grin. He’d felt a little otherwordly when command of the sleek Radoslaw class fighter had been turned over to him. The Jo’l Cash had a crew of 75, missile batteries, chainguns—all the things a young being would pine for when heading into combat.

  Of course, he didn’t have the faintest idea how to run a ship of that size and sophistication, so Mahoney had thoughtfully provided them with a real ship’s captain, complete with graying hair, steely eyes, and an attitude that plainly showed she did not appreciate taking orders from a mere lieutenant who was about the age of her twenty-something son.

  The captain was also incompetent as clot. It was the captain, after all, who had gotten them into this mess.

  In Sten’s experience incompetent people, stupid people, knew their flaws and resented the clot out of anyone with even a gram of ability, and took it out on them every chance they could.

  Ida’s voice broke through. “You still with us, Sten?”

  “For better or worse,” Sten said.

  “Well, you’d better come up with something better than that,” Ida said, “or this whole exercise will be a complete waste.”

  “Cheers fur remindin’ us, mah wee tub of Rom,” Alex said.

  He patted the cheek of one of the corpses. “An’ here we waur thinkin’ evr’thin’ was hunky dory.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE GOD BOX

  Sten didn’t know what “hunky dory” meant and had no intention of asking Alex. The last time he’d stepped into that mess, it had gotten him the “Spotted Snake” story, which had taken two small eternities to tell. And then delivered a payoff that left him feeling like he’d just completed—barely—a Mantis Section survival test through the parasitic swamps of Clamitus III.

  But if it meant things were a mound of drakh waiting to be stepped in, then that exactly described the mission from the moment he, Alex, Ida and Doc had boarded the Jo’l Cash.

  It also underscored the dilemma he found himself in now, trapped in a toolroom with Alex, surrounded by the corpses of Venatora’s women.

  Originally, the plan had been to be as low key as possible. When the ship took on supplies, they’d blend in with the dock workers and crew and quietly make contact with the captain, who would stash them in a spare berth until the vessel was well on its way.

  Only then would their presence be explained. It was a carefully crafted explanation that had been pored over by Rykor’s best psyops team.

  To begin with, the very word “mutiny” had nasty connotations and was to be avoided at all costs. Even the most benign officer must look at her crew at times and wonder if they’d all secretly like to jam her in a tube and deep space her.

  If badly handled, the news that a real crew had rebelled against their officers would spread through the ship at warp speed and soon everyone aboard would be unnerved, staring suspiciously at one another and concocting all sorts of conspiracy theories. Eventually, it would spread to other ships and then on to rage across the fleets, like one of those ancient plagues that demoralized, then destroyed entire navies.

  Morale, Sten thought, would be so far under the drakh house it might never surface again.

  Then, as Mahoney had carefully explained, there was the even bigger picture of what was at stake:

  The Emperor’s prestige.

  The loyalty of his supporters and allies.

  The carnivorous gleam in his enemies’ eyes as they saw him stripped and robbed by small-time thugs like a bumbling spaceport tourist who had wandered down the wrong alley.

  They also didn’t want to announce themselves to the mutineers aboard the Flame until the last possible moment. The idea was to suddenly pop up just a little outside of what the mutineers would consider their safe zone, and then very slowly, very laboriously, begin negotiations.

  “Boredom works wonders in times like these,” Mahoney said. “They’re all on a hair trigger and so when you slow things down it’ll drive them half mad. Then, when you do make the offer, they’ll be so glad to see the back of it they’ll agree to all sorts of nonsense.”

  Meanwhile, Mahoney said, he wanted Sten to test the limits of that agreed upon “safe zone,” probing here and there for signs of weakness.

  “The sooner we can catch them out before the deal is official, the easier and neater this whole thing will be,” Mahoney had said.

  And, stretching over all the whole clotting thing, was the need to keep the Empire at large from ever learning what had happened in the pirate-ridden Possnet Sector.

  “All business must be conducted in absolute secrecy,” Mahoney said. “And I can’t stress the word strongly enough.”

  Unfortunately, it was a word that had apparently gone missing from Captain W’lson’s vocabulary.

  At first, everything seemed to be going fine. Sten and the others blended in with the workers, overseeing the loading of a large container marked “Engine Room Supplies.” In reality, it contained various highly cl
assified weapons, tools, gear, and devices produced in Mantis Section laboratories and was known by everyone in the trade as a “God Box.”

  Or, as Alex put it: “If yoo’re up drakh creek missin’ a paddle, a God Box works faster’n prayer.”

  Just as they got it stowed in an out-of-the-way spot in the hold, a young Marine approached them.

  “Which one of you is Captain Sten?” he asked.

  Still a little dazed from the toolroom misadventure, Sten hesitated a beat. Oh, that’s right. He was—temporarily—a captain, not a lieutenant. A bizarre thought intruded: maybe his pay check would reflect the promotion. Then, quickly realizing how mentally off course he was, he thought: Sure, Sten. Sure. In the reality that is Imperial Personnel: Payment of… A bottle-eyed clerk would probably dock him for some nonsense like “being out of grade.”

  Pulling himself back to the moment, Sten said, “That would be me, corporal. Do you have a berth for us?”

  The corporal saluted, then said. “Not exactly, sir. The Skipper wants to speak to you first.”

  He motioned for them to follow, and with some trepidation, Sten and the others fell in behind him.

  To Sten’s dismay, instead of leading them to a quiet retreat away from the hubbub of a working Ship of the Line, the Marine took them through the main passageways, where they drew the immediate attention—and curious stares—of the crewmembers. Then a double bay door opened before them, and Sten realized they were stepping into the bridge, where—to his horror—the captain had arranged for them to receive the full honors due an important admiral’s chief aide, who also happened to be his nephew.

  As pipes shrilled throughout the Jo’l Cash, the drawn up Marine squad snapped to attention with much slamming of boots, Sten half jumped across the intervening space and grabbed the captain by her epaulettes.

  “Stop this,” he hissed. “At once.”

  Captain W’lson stared at him in total disbelief, going from deathly pale to purple rage in milliseconds.