The wolf worlds, p.15
The Wolf Worlds, page 15
Companion squad leaders now passed out live ammunition.
“Lock an’ load ae mag’zine,” Alex bellowed. “On command, begin . . . firing!”
The hillside rocked to the thunder of weapons. This time Alex waited until all trainees had fired their weapons dry (the projectile weapons used by the Companions and meres had fifty-round banana magazines, nowhere near the capacity of theunobtainable Imperial willyguns with their 1400-round AM2 tube mags).
Then he brought the Companions out of their holes, checked to make sure all weapons were unloaded, and went back down the hill. If God gae us tha gift ta see ourselves as others see us, came a misquote from Alex’s overly poetic backbrain. He led the hundred men from target to target.
“Noo, y’ken wha’ happens whae ae mon dinna find shelter encounterin’ ae enemy,” he explained. “Yama lad, y’dinna find naught to hide behind. Ah’ y’see whae would’ve recked wi’ ye?”
The trainee looked at the riddled silhouette, gulped, and nodded.
Alex saved the charging fanatics for last and then gently tapped one of “them” on his shredded plas.
“Ae dinna be knockit heroes,” he said. “But a wee hero who’s dead afore he closes wi’ the enemy be naught but ae fool, Ah think.”
The Companions, who’d now had a chance to see exactly what an enemy unit could do to them—and had done it to themselves—were very thoughtful on the run back to the training camp.
A fortieth-century explosive mine looked like nothing much in particular except possibly a chunk of meteorite. It would float innocuously until a ship of the proper size came within range. It then ceased to be innocuous.
The problem with mines, as always, was remembering where they’d been planted and being able to recover them after the war ended. For Sten’s mercenaries, however, who had no intention of hanging around the Wolf Cluster for one nanosecond after payday, it didn’t matter.
A combined platoon of Vosberh’s and Ffillips’ men had scattered half a hundred of such chunks of rubble, in orbital patterns that Egan’s computer boys had suggested, near one ofthe Jann main patrol satellites. Then they’d withdrawn on the Bhor ship, as silently and unobtrusively as they’d arrived.
The first mine didn’t detonate for almost a week. It was fortunate for Sten’s purposes that the first one happened to ignite when a full fuel ship was making its approach to the satellite. The small nuke not only took out the fuel ship but its two escorts and the pilot vessel from the satellite.
Mines, properly laid, are extremely cost-effective weapons.
* * * *
It was nae thae the Companions sang everywhere they went, Alex decided. It was thae they had such bloody awful taste in their music: doleful hymns; chants describing how wonderful it would be to meet death killing Jann.
Ah, well, he realized. Wi’ m’own race’s history. Ah dinnae hae a lot to complain aboot.
* * * *
“Seventy seconds,” one of Ffillips’ lieutenants said. Egan and his bustling computer people paid no attention.
The twelve of them, with two teams of Ffillips’ specialists for security, had taken over one of the Jann observation satellites. The three Jann manning the post had been disposed of, and Egan and his men had gone to work.
Wires, relays, laser-transmitters, and fiberoptic cables littered the satellite’s electronics room, and now the Lycee people waited while Egan caressed keys on a meter-wide board he’d lugged onto the satellite. He tapped a final key then pulled his board out of circuit. “Very fine,” he said. “Let’s blow it.”
Ffillips’ lieutenant saluted and his men began planting demo charges.
The Lycee gang had used the terminal on the satellite to patch straight into the Jann battle computer. They’d lifted all logs of the mercenary actions from the computer records.
That, Egan thought to himself, will make it a bit hard for the bad guys to get any kind of tac analysis. A good day’s work, herealized, as he headed for the Bhor ship hanging just beyond the lock.
He didn’t bother to tell anyone that he’d also removed any mention of the Lycee people or Egan himself from the records, and added a FORGET IT command just in case any entry was made. A soldier, after all, has to protect his back—and there was no guarantee that the good guys would necessarily win.
* * * *
And so the raids continued. A suddenly vanished Jann patrol ship here or a Jann outpost that broadcast pleas for reinforcement before signals shut down. Merchant ships that failed to arrive at their planetfalls. A few “removals” of Jann administrators.
A man is much larger than a mosquito—and Sten’s entire force was less than one-millionth the strength of the Jann. But a mosquito can drive a man to distraction and, given enough time, bleed him dry.
Sten was slowly bleeding the Jann.
* * * *
“You’re sure?” Sten asked dubiously.
“Aye,” Alex said. “Th’ Companions are as trained ae Ah can makit ’em. We’re ready to go to battle, lad.”
Excellent, Sten thought to himself. Now all I have to do is figure out where and when.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
STEN EYED SOFIA with extreme interest, what she was holding with extreme skepticism, and where they were about to go with extreme terror.
One of the more fascinating things about Sofia—besides how a woman that young could come up with such unusual ways of passing the time when the candles were blown out—was that her body, from the eyebrows down, was completely depilitated. And so she stood, naked and smiling on a black volcanic sand beach, waiting for Sten. Beside her were two three-meter-long pieces of hand-laid clear plas. The boards went from their knife-tip to a curved, half-meter midsection to a suddenly chopped stern. Hanging under each board’s tailsection were twin, scimitar rudders.
Sten, whose “culture” had taught him that the best place for water was in a glass with a healthy dollop of synthalk, had trouble understanding the Nebtans’ fascination with see-through watercraft.
“You are hesitating, O my brave Colonel.”
“Clottin” right,” Sten murmured as he turned from the exotic spectacle of Sofia to stare down that beach into the ocean.
Though Nebta normally had mild tides, there were certain places where sharply shelving sea bottoms and undersea reefs made waves build and double on themselves. Such was this beach—one of Parrel’s seemingly numberless hideaways. Back in the tropic foliage was a small cottage. The beach swept the base of the tiny bay, possibly four kilometers wide at its mouth. And the waves walked in—building to ten- and twelve-meter heights before they crashed into the shore.
One such wave broke, perhaps three hundred meters from the beach, and spume flew high and the air boomed and the ground trembled somewhat and Sten winced.
Sofia had kidnapped him for a three-day break. Sten was quite kidnappable, despite Mahoney’s announcement that the timetable was now very, very short—he still hadn’t figured out exactly what depredation he and the meres planned next.
“This is a sport?” Step questioned. “It looks more like ritual suicide.”
Sofia didn’t answer; instead she dropped one of the long planks on the sand, picked up the other, and dashed into the surf crawling on the shore. Why, Mahoney, do I have to kill myself practicing these quaint local customs? Sten wondered. He picked up the second board, ran into the water, flat-dove on top of the board, and paddled after Sofia through the surf.
Sten, in spite of Sofia’s giggled harassment and example, was not naked. He wore a pair of briefs, having semi-successfully argued that he would not need a third rudder even if he was dumb enough to try this.
But still, he thought as he awkwardly paddled out behind Sofia’s board, the view was worth it. And suddenly the backwash caught him and suddenly the board was on top of him and suddenly he was wading back to the beach to pick up his board.
Looking out to sea, he then noticed how Sofia caught her board in both hands and rolled upside down when a wave came over her.
Learning is such fun, he thought as he began the long paddle out again.
And somehow the gods were kind and somehow the waves were quiet and somehow Sten ended up sitting on his board, outside the breaker line next to Sofia.
“Oh, Princess,” Sten began, sputtering out water that tasted very salty, “this is a wonderful sport which you have shown me. Now I assume we sit out here until UV rays burn us, paddle back in, and do what all sensible animals in their mating season do. Correct?”
As a wave swept in behind them Sofia laughed and started paddling vigorously. The wave caught her board and picked it up. The wave grew to seven meters in height, curling, cresting, and—Sten never having been around the ocean much—sounding an ominous boom as it drove toward shore.
You could get killed doing this, Sten thought in astonishment as he saw Sofia get to her knees, then her feet, riding the wave as her board skimmed down its face. He watched Sofia as she back-and-forthed on the board, always keeping it just ahead ofthe breaking wave as it self-destructed.
Impossible, Sten’s mind told him flatly. You are expected to mount a piece of flotation gear, riding an ocean current as it moves toward shore at perhaps 8okph, stand up, maintain your balance, and also be able to do what . . .
Sofia had her toes curled snugly over the board’s front edge, still as her board curved up and down on the still-unbroken wave front.
And then the wave broke and somehow Sofia was out of the wave, and behind it and waving Sten on.
Why in the Emperor’s name, Sten whimpered to himself, did I have to fall in love with a macha woman?
And then he dropped back on the board, hearing his words echo in his mind. Love? Sofia? You are here on the Emperor’s Mission. Sex is one thing. Love? Sten, do you know what love is?
Indeed I do, his mind answered. I remember you mourning for Bet when you thought she was dead. I remember Vinnitsa. And then Bet’s being alive. But also remember the love fading with Bet and you suddenly finding yourself as friends.
Nice thinking, another part of his mind mocked. Good way to keep you from having to do what Sofia did. There is no way that this can be done without a meta-balance computer, Sten’s mind continued as he dug for the next wave.
And it built and Sten crawled cautiously to his feet and suddenly he was standing and just as suddenly the wind was roaring like the wave below him and Sten wondered why all the excitement since this wave is not moving me all that fast and suddenly he moved his board to the top of the wave and it crested and . . .
The wave curled and smashed, carrying nondescript bits of debris with it, several logs, Sten, and his board.
The board was on top of Sten, then Sten was on top of theboard, then the board was lost and Sten was quietly chewing sand and small beach creatures, then he was picking himself up in the spume and quiet of the beach and Sofia was laughing at him.
He spat a mouthful of seaweed and waded to the shore. “Ready to try it again?” Sofia asked.
“In a moment,” Sten managed. “But first let’s have a taste.” And he staggered up the beach toward their picnic outfit, with Sofia behind him. With luck, wine, and a certain amount of technique, Sten felt sure he would never have to get near that killer ocean again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
STEN AND MATHIS walked out onto the floor of the massive hangar where Sten’s mercs and the Companions were assembled.
“People of the Prophet,” Mathias roared, and Sten wondered where the extra set of vocal chords came from as his boyos thundered their agreement.
“Now we strike against the heart of the Jann,” Mathias shouted. “Against Ingild. We shall destroy the heresy. We go forth to die for Theodomir and the True Faith of Talamein.”
While Sten listened to the howl of glee from Mathias’ legions, he wondered if he was riding another wave of the kind that Sofia had seen him destroyed on. He almost discarded the notion, but over the years, Sten had learned never to scrap that kind of thought. He filed it away to ponder later.
Than Mathias smiled and bowed to Sten. “Our Colonel. Our leader. The man who has led us in victory. He will now tell us how we shall destroy the falseness—the evil—of contra-Prophet thinking that is the empire of the Jann and Ingild.”
“Aye, Colonel,” Alex semiwhispered from behind him. “Howyou plan ae bein’ ae braw hero ae tha, Ae dinna ken.”
Hell if Sten knew, as silence fell in the huge hangar. Hoping for inspiration, he eyed the wall-size sit chart that showed, in multicolor projections, the garrison worlds of the Jann. And then he had what might be an idea.
And slowly began composing the battle plan…
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
OTHO POURED STEN and Alex another mug of stregg, rumbled a laugh, and said, “By my father’s frozen buttucks, I have no interest in hearing the way you presented the situation to those beardless fanatics. But since you’re here, and all… His voice gurgled off as he downed his drink. Alex followed suit.
Sten carefully ignored the mug. “Situation, Target—Urich. The Jann shipbuilding world. The only world they’ve got that can produce starships.”
“Och,” Otho agreed.
“This is our target. We’ll take out this entire complex.” The plot board hummed into life and the holographic projection vibrated into existence.
“Urich,” Sten continued. “Ship docks are”—he touched a control—“in green. Landing facilities, blue. AA lasers, surface-to-air missiles, and multibarrel projectile weapons in red.”
Otho stood and peered down at the projection. Then belched thoughtfully. “By my mother’s beard, but the black ones guard themselves well.
“Having none of your knowledge, Sten,” Otho went on, “and being but a simple trader, I would have no idea of how you humanoids could capture such a place.”
“We aren’t. This is another smash-and-destroy run.”
“You’ll use nuclear hellbombs?”
“Negative.”
“If I were a warrior,” Otho said, “which, praise the beard of my mother, I am not, I would need a host of Bhor and several planetary cycles to destroy this Jann nest.”
“We aren’t going to take everything out,” Sten said. “Just this.”
His finger went through a huge, imposing structure in the center of the complex. One kilometer by two kilometers long by one kilometer.
“This is the engine-hull mating plant. Destroy it, and the whole port’s nothing but a yacht repair yard.”
Another control fingered, and the plotting board cleared, then refocused, this time with only the mating plant on the board. A brooding, dark-gray mass.
Above the projection hung a list of the plant’s vital details. Ti-ferroconcrete construction, terra-beam reinforcement. The walls were, at their base, fifty meters thick, tapering to a thickness of twenty meters at the roof curve. At either side of the structure were huge clamshell doors, with control booths centered in the midpoint of each panel.
“Environment controls, damage controls, and admin are in a long tube, running lengthwise down the plant’s interior, halfway up the walls,” Sten continued.
“You’re a world of information about this, Sten,” Otho said admiringly. “Could I wonder your sources?”
Alex preened slightly. “In th’ propit light, Ah look quite dashin’ ae a Jann.”
Otho touched mugs with Kilgour, and they downed thecontents and refilled the mugs.
“I can feel the time-winds touch me,” Otho said as he gazed intently at Sten. “What will you require of the Bhor?”
“Two things. Most important, fifty planetfall lighters, with pilots.”
“Which will be used for?” Otho was growling now.
“You’ll land the unit. Then you and your pilots will provide supressing fire.”
“No.” Otho pushed his mug away and hunched, beetling face now locked in merchant/skeptic/negative expression. “Perhaps you do not understand the Bhor position,” he growled. “Admitted, we are not fond of the Jann and, when possible, find an excuse to alter their existence cycle. But we are still only minor body parasites to them.
“And while we admire your cause, Colonel, we must be . . . your word I believe is ‘pragmatic’ about the situation.
“Sometimes the cause of righteousness does not win, as I am sure you are aware. And if you lose . . . and by the fortune of your fathers survive, you and your soldiers will merely lick your wounds and move on to another war.
“But we—the Bhor—must remain to reap the wrath of the Jann.
“We will convoy you and your forces, Colonel, quite willingly. We will even provide resupply. Both functions are those of a merchant. But join your war?—No.”
Alex purpled and was about to say something but Sten quickly shook his head. “I understand, Otho. You do have your people to worry about.”
The hulk looked puzzled, then relieved. As Otho reached out for the mug, Sten added quietly, “Your people—and your ancestors.”
Otho glowered and took his hand off the mug.
“My apologies, Otho. Now if you will excuse us . . .” Sten stood and Otho rose also, moving slightly reluctantly toward the port.
“We have our own streggans to fight.”
And before Otho could react, Sten eased him out. Came back to the plotting board.
“Ae m’ gran’ said, y’catchit more haggis wi’ honey thae vin’gar,” Alex said, with mild admiration. Sten frowned then shrugged and sat back down at the table.
Then, swinging a computer terminal down from the ceiling and eyeing the plotting table’s holography, he began writing his operations order.
The port slid open and Otho loomed in the way. “Your streggans indeed! By my mother’s beard!”
He stalked back to his half-finished mug, drained it, refilled it, drained it again, and then growled, “If the Bhor must take sides, then at least we must have all information,” and hovered over Sten’s terminal…”
OPERATIONS ORDER 14
EYES ONLY. DISTRIBUTION LIMITED TO FOLLOWING OFFICERS AND CONCERNED INDIVIDUALS. ALL RECIPIENTS TO SIGN RECEIPT THIS ORDER. ALL RECIPIENTS TO ACKNOWLEDGE RECEIPT ON ACCEPTANCE. OFFICERS INVOLVED ARE DIRECTED TO READ THIS ORDER IN PRESENCE OF ACCOMPANYING GUARD. NO COPIES PERMITTED. UPON COMPLETION THIS ORDER TO BE RETURNED TO ACCOMPANYING GUARD FOR RETURN THIS HEADQUARTERS. Distribution: STEN, OC. BN-2 SECTION, FFILLIPS, QIC FIRST COMPANY, VOSBERH, QIC SECOND COMPANY. Note: Eyes Only: Involved indigenous personnnel (committed Bhor tac/air personnel, Command structure, MATHIAS’ COMPANIONS) will be verbally briefed by OC. This order is not to be discussed in their presence.
