Sten and the Mutineers Page 9

Then he depressed the trigger and—whoosh!—the Fēidàn streaked out, leaving a shower of sparks in its wake, as it shot toward the crane.

  Compared to most weapons of its kind, the Javelin was agonizingly slow and wobbled in its course. The Himmenops turned their attention on the missile, blazing away.

  But the Fēidàn jerked this way and that, automatically avoiding enemy fire. It was clumsy, but it worked.

  And then the missile struck.

  Flames gouted from the base of the crane.

  A deafening explosion. Then another.

  Smoke boiled up. And then there was a loud screech of metal ripping away.

  And slowly, so slowly, the boom came down. It hit the warehouse floor with a resounding crash. Metal parts flew everywhere.

  The cloud of dust it raised was too thick to make out much, but to Sten’s enormous relief, when they cleared he saw the Himmenops women dashing back to safety. One of them was helping another, but other than that, it didn’t look like anyone had been hurt too badly.

  The marines cheered. Mk’wolf started to get up, ready to lead the marines in a charge, but Kilgour grabbed him and pulled him back while Sten motioned for the others to stay put.

  He fiddled with his com unit, turning it to “Big Voice.” Drew in several deep breaths. Composing himself.

  Then he spoke up. “Venatora,” he called out. His voice, magnified many times, boomed across the warehouse.

  No answer.

  “Venatora,” he called out again. “I hope to clot you’re there. We don’t want anyone else to get hurt, do we?”

  Still no answer.

  He glanced over at Kilgour, who shook his head. “Nae a prayer’s chance in perdition, laddie,” he muttered.

  But Sten didn’t think Venatora was the sort who would let others do her fighting for her. She’d want to kill her own snakes.

  With Sten, in this case, serving as the serpent.

  He was about to shout her name again, when her voice rang out. Clear and calm and without a hint of worry.

  “Is that you, lieutenant?” she said. “The poor soldier with a hundred grand in ready money?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  STEN AND VENATORA

  Across the warehouse, Venatora’s head popped into view. Several of her guardswomen hissed for her to get back under cover.

  She ignored them.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” she said, a smile twitching the corner of her lips. “Are you the poor soldier who somehow managed to scrape together a hundred grand for a wager?”

  “Guilty as charged, my lady,” Sten replied.

  “Do you suppose you’re up for another bet?” Venatora asked.

  “Depends on the stakes,” Sten said.

  “How about your life?” Venatora said.

  “Are you offering odds?” Sten asked.

  “I might,” Venatora said. “How are you powers of persuasion, Lieutenant?”

  “Let’s find out,” Sten said.

  And with that, he rose from cover. An AM2 round buzzed past. Sten didn’t flinch.

  “Get down,” Mk’wolf, hissed. “She’ll kill you.”

  Instead, Sten stepped from behind the barrier. “Here I am Venatora,” he said. “Come out the rest of the way and we’ll talk.”

  He scanned the far corner of the warehouse. Venatora had vanished. He saw a flash of metal. Then a spark. Another AM2 round buzzed past his head. Then he heard a loud flesh upon flesh smack.

  A moment later, Venatora emerged.

  Just the sight of her struck him a hard, breath-robbing blow. Like her guardswomen, Venatora’s attire was minimal. A small, black halter top. Black modesty patch where her thighs joined. Black metal bands circling her wrists and biceps. Her figure was lush, ebony skin glowing in the harsh overhead lights.

  There was something so primal about her it was all Sten could do to keep from rushing over to embrace her.

  Almost as if hypnotized, he took a step forward. Then another.

  “Sten!” Kilgour barked.

  With great difficulty, he stopped.

  * * * *

  Venatora watched Sten’s struggle, mildly surprised at her own reaction. She wasn’t displeased that he could resist her. In fact, she felt the thrill of challenge.

  She increased her powers. Pheromones flowing from the special glands that were both her gift and her curse. Behind her, she heard low moans of lust from her women, who were similarly affected.

  Sten took another step forward. Then another. She was almost disappointed. Even so, she increased her powers.

  Then—to her delight—he stopped. She could tell that it was with great difficulty. But just the same he had the will to defy her siren musk.

  She called out: “What do you want, Lieutenant?”

  His reply was husky. Voice cracking. “You know.”

  She chuckled. “What are you offering?”

  Sten shook his head. Helpless to answer. She thrilled when she saw him lift a foot, as if to take another step. To her dismay, he moved back. Just one step.

  But that small bit of defiance shook her. She started to get angry.

  “I could kill you,” she said.

  “I know,” Sten said.

  She increased her powers. Saw him quiver. Knew she almost had him. Then, to her amazement, he took one more step back.

  “Wait!” she cried. Her voice a little shaky.

  Sten came to halt.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “You know,” he said again.

  “To live?”

  Sten laughed. It wasn’t a forced laugh. But lusty. From the belly.

  “For what I have in mind,” he said, “life would be the minimum requirement.”

  Now it was Venatora’s turn to laugh. “You’re expecting a great deal,” she said. “What would I have to gain?”

  “Oh, I think you know,” Sten said.

  This time the sound of his voice thrilled her. She felt heat in her loins. She steeled herself. How was it that this…this…human…could affect her so?

  She grew angry. “You killed my sisters,” she said. “I could never forgive that.”

  “They attacked us,” Sten said.

  “They were just going to detain you,” Venatora said. “They had strict order not to harm you.”

  “How was I to know?” Sten said. “You should have come yourself.”

  Venatora snorted derision. “I suppose you’d let me take you captive.”

  Sten shrugged. “We could have discussed it,” he said.

  “It’s too late now,” Venatora said. “Three of my people—my sisters—are dead.”

  Sten raised a hand, displaying two fingers. “Two,” he said. “Not three.” He paused, then added. “Would it help if I said I regretted those two?”

  Venatora didn’t reply.

  Sten turned his head. She heard him say, “Bring her out.”

  With a start, she saw the heavy worlder friend of the lieutenant lead one of her women out. Her heart jumped.

  It was Marta, by God!

  The sergeant handed Marta over to Sten. She almost fell, but Sten steadied her, bearing her weight.

  “She’s hurt,” Sten said. “We gave her medical attention, but she needs more.”

  “Bring her to me,” Venatora said.

  “Can we meet in the middle?” Sten asked. “If only to please my own people?”

  Venatora hesitated, then nodded. “Very well,” she said. “We’ll declare a truce.”

  “Truce it is, then,” Sten said. And started moving slowly forward, helping Marta along.

  Venatora moved forward to meet him.

  * * * *

  As she came closer, the atmosphere around her seemed to crackle with the sheer life force th
at was Venatora.

  Sten’s scalp prickled, and the hair on the back of his neck rose. He felt feverish, his mouth grew dry, his throat thick. He felt drawn to her like a powerful magnet.

  The closer she came, the stronger the pull. And he had a sense that the attraction was as great for her. That she was being drawn to him by a mysterious force.

  But then, when she was few meters away, she suddenly stopped. Sten almost groaned aloud. He could see that she was shaken as well.

  Perspiration trickled down one perfect cheek.

  They stood there in silence for a long time.

  Finally, Venatora spoke, voice thick. “Who are you?”

  “I told you. Sten. Lieutenant Sten.”

  “No. Really. Who are you?”

  Sten shrugged. He had no other answer.

  “One of my fathers said something like this might happen one day,” Venatora said.

  “What might happen?”

  Venatora motioned, delicate hand indicating the two of them.

  “This.”

  Sten wondered what she meant by “one of my fathers.” How many fathers could she have? But he said nothing.

  “He said if it did, I should kill you without delay,” Venatora added.

  “I’m glad you didn’t take his advice,” Sten said.

  “One of my other fathers disagreed,” Venatora said.

  “I’m happy to hear that,” Sten said.

  Venatora shrugged. “There’s still time,” she said.

  Another long silence. Sten could almost see the wheels turning in Venatora’s head.

  With great force of will she made her decision.

  “I’m here for Marta,” she said.

  Sten sighed. “So you are,” he said.

  He moved away from Marta, who wavered, then took a step forward. Sten gently pushed at the small of her back. She took another, then another, and then collapsed at Venatora’s feet.

  “Here, let me help,” Sten said.

  But Venatora raised a hand, stopping him. She signaled and two women ran forward, collected Marta, and carried her away.

  Sten and Venatora were alone again. They looked each other over. Hungrily.

  And Sten saw resolve firm in Venatora’s eyes.

  “Goodbye, Lieutenant Sten,” she said and started away.

  “What about next time?” Sten called after her. “What will you do then?”

  Venatora paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. Sten thought he had never seen a woman so woman so beautiful—so desirable.

  “Kill you,” she said.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  FLIGHT FROM PORT CHINEN

  The warrior women hustled Venatora along a warren of tunnels, alleyways, and abandoned buildings to a rooftop where transport to her ship waited. She resisted when they tried to push her on board and insisted that the medics deal with Marta first. Then she got in and told her pilot to wait while she sussed things out.

  Across the chaos that was Port Chinen, she saw the immense black gates that marked the Imperial fortress. Security bots armed with missiles swooped overhead, on constant alert for any outside danger. It was an open secret that the fortress was ringed with enough armament and trained personnel to hold off even a large force. But as she examined the imposing edifice, she noted cracks in the security she’d make use of one day.

  Venatora had designs on Port Chinen. She’d even made informal contacts with the Tahn, a new enemy of the Eternal Emperor, whose support would be priceless when she made the fortress her own.

  The Tahn were a chilly people. An obsessively warlike people. But Venatora was secure in her redoubt deep in the Possnet Sector and had little to fear from their notorious backstabbing ways.

  Meanwhile, she’d have to be patient until she had the means to expand her hive and establish new ones.

  But that would have to wait until she closed the deal with the mutineers and got her hands on all that Imperium X.

  Yes, she would have to be patient, an increasingly difficult task. The pressures for expansion were enormous. There were more princesses—queens in waiting—than at any other time in her reign. Most were easily malleable, but there more than a few chafed for hives of their own, or plotted her overthrow.

  Her assassins had dealt with the worst of the lot, and her network of spies kept sharp eyes on the others. But she had to be careful. If she went too far—killed too many, or clamped down too hard—the hive would become so restive that her leadership skills, and her arsenal of pheromonic weapons, might not be enough to retain control. Civil war, then chaos, then anarchy would surely follow. Her fathers had warned her again and again what to expect.

  The Emperor’s space-train of Imperium X would put paid to all those problems. And more. Nightmares of collapsed hives would be replaced with dreams of a glorious, ever expanding domain.

  That, in short, was her dilemma. Certain failure. Or success beyond her wildest dreams. There was no in-between.

  And Sten was the key to it all. She wished she didn’t have to kill him. But at present she could see no other way.

  As she kept watch on the fortress, she spotted a contingent of Imperial gravcars speeding up to the gates. Several security bots swooped down to sniff the vehicles out, gave them the all-clear, and a minute later the big gates groaned open.

  She guessed that one of them contained Sten, who would be in a hurry after his encounter with her to make his case with the mutineers.

  Venatora was about to give her pilot the go-ahead when the implanted com unit buzzed in her ear.

  She tapped her throat-mic. “Yes, Father Raggio?” she said.

  The buzzing resumed. It was a shorthand developed by her fathers to communicate quickly and concisely no matter where she was.

  When it ended she said, “I’m sorry I was unable to carry out your orders, Father Raggio. I’ll soon remedy that. Sten will be dead, as ordered, the first opening I get.”

  More buzzing. She frowned. Then: “You’re happy it turned out that way? But why?”

  She listened intently. A look of confusion on her face. “Yes, Father Raggio,” she said. “I understand all that. But what if—”

  Again, buzzing cut her off. Now, she looked really confused.

  “I confess that he did affect me that way,” she replied when he was done. “But I can control that. You know I can.”

  More buzzing. More listening. Finally, she smiled.

  “Oh, I understand what you are getting at,” she said. “Very clever. But do all the other fathers agree?”

  What she heard next made her laugh. “Even Father Huber? Well, that has to be a first.”

  More laughter. Then Father Raggio signed off.

  Venatora settled back into her seat. For the first time since she met Sten at the Xypaca fight, she felt at ease.

  Then, for no apparent reason, she started getting angry.

  “Well, clot him!” she said, startling the others. “Clot Sten all to hell!”

  And then she brusquely ordered the pilot to get underway.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE ETERNAL EMPEROR

  It was a beautiful spring day on Prime World, and when Mahoney strolled through the Emperor’s private garden, he was delighted see it was in full bloom. The colors and perfume of the exotic flowers and plants teased the eye and excited the senses.

  There was a hint of wood smoke on the air, and when Mahoney rounded the lemon tree, its branches weighed down with ripening fruit, he found the Emperor bustling about his outdoor kitchen, directing several little bots to deposit the ingredients for the meal he was preparing on a long, rough wood table.

  “Ah, Ian,” he said, “you’re just in time for my daily ‘those sons of bitches’ session. You do the honors with the booze while I get the Aubergine Politiko ready for the oven.”
>
  Chuckling, Mahoney made his way to the portable bar, set up near a beehive-shaped brick oven. A ribbon of mesquite smoke rose from the chimney.

  “So, we’re roasting politicians today, are we boss?” he said.

  The Emperor snorted. “Ian, if I get much more lip from those scrotes in Parliament, don’t be surprised if I have the whole lot of them drawn and quartered and fed to the pigs.”

  “We don’t have any pigs handy, Sir,” Ian said, “but give me a couple of hours and I’ll have a grav-truck load ready and waiting at the gates.”

  He reached for the Scotch, but the Emperor stopped him. “Let’s start with ouzo, Ian,” he said. “We’re celebrating the Greeks today.”

  “Any special reason, boss?” Mahoney asked, guessing correctly that a bit of informality would be welcome.

  The Emperor ran his French knife through a large purple vegetable, cutting it lengthwise into thin slices. Grabbed another, and did the same.

  “I’m trying to remind myself why I chose democracy back when I set up this whole shebang,” the Emperor said, “instead of something sensible, like a dictatorship.”

  Mahoney nodded, then found a clear liquid in a bottle marked “ouzo.” He fetched it down from the shelf.

  “Let’s face it,” the Emperor continued, “strongman rule is lot more efficient. There is no pretense of consulting anyone. You just do it. If anybody complains, you toss them into the slammer.”

  He waved the knife. “And if that didn’t work, my less sensitive brothers and sisters of tyranny just cut out their tongues.”

  He was smiling when he said the last, so Mahoney chuckled. He wasn’t always sure when his boss was joking, but at the moment it seemed a safe enough assumption. Even so, his tongue suddenly felt a little larger in his mouth.

  The Emperor held up one of the purple vegetables. “You see this?”

  Mahoney nodded. “I see it, boss, but I don’t have the faintest idea what it is.”

  “Its fancy name is Aubergine,” he said. “But in reality it’s only a clotting eggplant.”

  “Gotcha, boss,” Mahoney said, pouring a couple of fingers of ouzo into two glasses.

  The clear liquid turned cloudy when he added a couple of ice cubes and a splash of water. He set one before the Emperor and took a sip of his own. Ouzo tasted like licorice—not one of Ian’s favorite flavors—but like most booze, after a couple of pops, it went down just fine.