Revenge of the Damned (38 page)

There was the fumbling of a heavy greatcoat and then blinding pain as the sentry shifted most of the weight to the foot, jamming Sten's hand into the ground. Sudden relief flooded in as the Tahn stepped away, still fumbling with clothing, then more pain as the blood forced itself through crushed capillaries and veins.

Sten sensed that the sentry's back was turned to him. His head rose slightly, and he saw something large and pale peering at him. It was the sentry's naked behind.

From the splashing sounds on the ground, it was pretty obvious what she was doing. As she rose from the squatting position, adjusting her uniform, Sten curled his fingers, and his knife dropped from the surgical sheath in his arm. Its slim coldness in his palm comforted him.

Then he sensed startled motion. He had been discovered! Sten shot up like a great sea beast with a head full of glittering fangs rising above the surface of the water.

Numb fingers of one hand reached for her throat, and his knife hand drove at her abdomen. For one brief flash, Sten saw the sentry's face. She was young, no more than sixteen. And slender—no, skinny. So skinny that she looked like a poor, scrawny bird with flapping greatcoat wings. The eyes that widened just before death were filled with innocence and terror. A child, but a child who was about to die just the same.

It was prudence, not pity, that saved the girl's life. It was because there was no time to hide the body that Sten held back just before the knife plunged its needle length into her. Instead, he took a chance that his numbed fingers would work before she could scream.

He pinched the artery that cut off the flow of blood to her brain and then caught her in his arms as she collapsed. He lowered her carefully to the ground, fished in his pocket for a bester grenade, pulled the pin, covered, and blanked her memory.

There would be hell to pay when her sergeant found her on his next rounds. She would be cuddled up softly on the ground, sleeping the sleep of the blessed. The beating the sergeant would administer for sleeping on duty would be awful. But what were a few cracked ribs compared to a pile of pale guts glistening in the starlight?

Sten made sure the young sentry was comfortable, then slithered on up the hill, the ghost of her song humming softly in his head.

The chair groaned in protest as Virunga's 300-kilo-plus body rocked in mirth. Sten was catching him up on the war news. Although he tried not to paint a too-glowing picture of things, he could not help pumping up a morsel into a soufflé here and there for the hope-starved N'Ranya.

There was also a great deal of information about Sten's current activities on Heath that he was forced to censor on a need-to-know basis. And so, when he had the opportunity to embellish, he did, knowing that Virunga would do some censoring of his own when he filled in the others on Sten's visit. At the moment Sten was telling his old CO about St. Clair and L'n's adventures, exaggerating only a bit.

"… and so, there they were, General Lunga, his two aides, and at least a dozen joys of both sexes, and a couple in between, when they get the call.

"Priority One. Ears only. And all that rot. So the general shoos the whole shebang out. Punches in a supersecure line on his porta-com, and half a belch later he's on a direct to some muckitymuck aide to Atago herself.

"The aide double-checks. Is everything A-okay? No keen little ears hiding in a closet? The general looks around, then gives the guy an all-clear. The general gets his orders. He's to get his big-brass Tahn butt to the Fringe Worlds not yesterday but the day before yesterday. Big things are coming down.

"The general does a little lightweight protesting. Already heavy duties and that sort of thing. Meaning brass or no, he expects to get his previously reported butt shot off out there.

"There's a big long discussion. Pros and cons of ship and troop movements. A small shouting match. The general loses and storms out, his two boot shiners in tow.

"Of course, what he doesn't realize is that we've taken the whole thing down. Heard every word!"

"The… room… bugged," Virunga said flatly, knowledgeably.

"Not a chance," Sten said. "That room is permanently leased for the general's pleasures. His people run a sweep through before he comes and after he leaves."

"So how—"

"L'n," Sten said. "She heard the whole thing. The entire time the general was talking, she was curled up in the corner. Right in plain sight. You see, the general thinks she's just a pet. A largish, pinkish, cattish-type pet."

Virunga laughed again. But then the laughter cut off in midchortle. "Are… you positive all… this is good for… her? L'n is so…" His words trailed off not out of linguistic patterns but because of a lack of vocabulary for what L'n had to be witnessing daily.

"Innocent? Sheltered? Sensitive?" Sten filled it in for him. Virunga nodded.

"Not anymore," Sten said. "You wouldn't believe the change. She made the jump from Koldyeze to freedom and landed on all four of her pretty little feet. Even Michele—I mean, St. Clair—is surprised how she's blossomed. She sounds like a dockworker now. Or a pro thief. It's cheena, and sus, and a pretty good use of drakh and clot when she needs them."

Virunga marveled at that. He was soaking up everything Sten said as if he were personally living each word. After his own years as a prisoner of war, Sten understood that, just as he knew that in a few days the euphoria would die and be replaced by deep depression. And the great walls of Koldyeze would press in even more. Then Virunga—along with the others whom he chose to tell about Sten—would start doubting if he would ever live to be free again. And the chances were, Sten thought, that the doubters would be right. He knew the war would end soon, but he could offer no guarantees on the fate of the Koldyeze prisoners in the melee that was sure to precede the Tahn's last fighting gasp.

But Sten had a plan—a plan that would do more than just relieve a little of the depression. It was a plan designed not only to save as many prisoners' lives as possible but also to hand any Imperial invasion force a small edge in the battle for Heath. It would not be a fifth ace. No, not that good. But it just might be a fifth face card of some kind. And there was a glimmer that it might even fill an inside straight.

You gotta quit thinking like Michele, Sten told himself. I mean, St. Clair. Like an imp, her lush form popped into his mind. Soft fingers. Even softer lips. Tingling whispers in his ear. Knock it off, Commander. Uh, Admiral, that is. Keep your mind on business. Remember, you're a high-ranking officer now.

Still, Admiral Sten had to bury a grin and cross one leg over the other. Thankfully, Virunga interrupted his thoughts.

"What… was… name of… Michele's—I mean… St. Clair's… casino again?"

Sten looked closer at Virunga. Had he guessed? The blank expression on the big, beetle-browed face gave no clue.

"The K'ton Klub," Sten said. "Why?"

"Oh… I just… didn't know… the young woman had… knowledge of… music."

"I didn't know you did, either," Sten said, mildly surprised.

"Yes… Oh… yes. I do. Although I… cannot… enjoy any longer." He tapped his ears. "Tone-deaf…now. An old… artillerybeing's… complaint. The guns… deadened… the ears. But when… I was… young. I very much… enjoyed the… music. I even… played…" He fingered an imaginary instrument. "A little… The saxophone. Not… the synth-sax… But… with the… reed. A real… reed. It sounded… so… Ah. I cannot… describe."

There was silence as Battery Commander (Lieutenant Colonel) Virunga briefly recalled a time before he gave up the wail of the saxophone for the thunder of guns.

More clottin' music, Sten thought. There must have been something catching at Koldyeze. Something in the air.

In a way he was correct. There was something in the air at Koldyeze. A great deal had happened since his chat with Pastour. To begin with, the prison was quickly becoming jammed with prisoners—of every variety, from high-ranking officers, to diplomats, to even a few captured provincial governors. The Tahn were heaping all their golden eggs in one big stonewalled basket.

And Pastour had heeded Sten's words about their treatment. Along with the prisoners, he had filtered in a small contingent of his own loyal officials. All of them had been placed in key positions. A stern warning went out that all inter-Empire laws involving prisoners of war must be adhered to down to the finest point. The clampdown was so severe that even Avrenti and Genrikh—especially Genrikh—were afraid to move.

Pastour had also set up a personal office inside Koldyeze. And he had made a habit of unannounced visits in which shaking transgressors would be lined up outside his office and called in one by one to be dealt with personally.

On top of all that, the awful losses the Tahn had suffered made it increasingly difficult for Derzhin to keep the prisoner-guard ratio at any kind of rational level. He was down to recruiting the very young or the very old. Supply shortages had also undermined the guards' morale. At home, and even on the job, their rations were at starvation level. And the treasure trove of foodstuffs and other materials that Cristata and Sten had discovered in the catacombs not only kept the prisoners from suffering equally but left them plenty for generous bribes.

It was so bewildering to many of those untrained Tahn that they seemed puzzled about whose side they were really on. If there were two sides to a troubling incident, the new breed of guards instinctively sided with the prisoners. The prisoners fed them, didn't they? They even gave them a little for their families, didn't they?

Besides, even Lady Atago's thought police could not squash the rumors that the war would end soon—and not in the Tahn's favor. Like Chetwynd, many of the new guards had decided to copper their bets and look out for their own hides.

There was something in the wind, all right, but Sten was hoping it would not all turn to flying drakh when the Tahn hit the fan. And that was why Sten had slipped back into Koldyeze. He wanted to give Virunga something to throw back.

He had told Virunga that Sorensen was Mantis and a battle computer, plus given Virunga Sorensen's activating code word. Now Gaaronk would be a backup computer. As for what Sorensen could be used for:

"Do you ever get up on the walls to snoop around?"

"A few… times. It is… difficult… with my… injuries." Virunga gripped his cane tighter.

"When you look at the city, what do you see?"

Virunga laughed. "… Lately… some big… holes in… ground. Our bombers… did… well!"

"Too right," Sten agreed. "But that's not what I meant. I mean as an old artillerybeing. What do you see when you see the city?"

Virunga's giant brows furrowed, his eyes nearly bushing out of sight. Then he gave another laugh—more like a bark, really.

"Koldyeze… is the highest… point," he said. "If… I had my… guns…" He lapsed into a brief dream of shells falling on Heath. His shells. Then he snapped into alertness.

Sten could see coordinates flashing across his eyes. There were many targets of opportunity. He stirred in excitement, remembering the stored weapons hidden in the catacombs.

"I… can get… the guns," he said. "They're… much out of… date. But… I can… fix them."

He blinked out of his planning and stared at Sten. There were no if's or hows or buts in his next question.

"When? Just… tell me… when?"

Sten came to his feet and walked over to the N'Ranya. He gave the big slab of furry muscle and bone that Virunga called a shoulder a hard squeeze. "I'll get word to you," he said. "You just be ready."

Virunga merely nodded. But Sten could tell that in his mind, Virunga was a battery commander again, and he was already moving up his guns.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

S
ten slipped out of Koldyeze just before dawn. As planned, he hid in the rubble surrounding the ancient monastery and waited for the lines of sleepy workers to stagger out of the slums and join the long labor lines that were marched off to the factories each day. Sten skipped the first two formations.

He was much too clean-cut for the ragged bands of obvious textile dye workers. The third group was a little cleaner, a little better dressed. From the conversations he big-eared after he joined them, most of those Tahn workers toiled at pharmaceutical vats or were janitorial crews for the munitions works.

By the time anyone woke up enough to wonder who the new guy might be, they were already in the center of the city, and Sten broke off to mingle with a marketing crowd. He bought a string bag and a greasy blob of some kind of animal protein and elbowed his way into a lane of Tahn who were vaguely pressing toward the direction of Chaboya and the K'ton Klub. Two more turns, a dive down an alley, and he would be home with a nice cold brew.

There was a stirring in the crowd ahead of him, then puzzled muttering. Before Sten had a chance to figure out what was going on, the crowd moved around the corner—to be greeted by a long line of green-uniformed Tahn cops spread out across the street, blocking the way. Sten's heart jumped orbit, and he whirled, crashing toes and ignoring protests. And as he whirled, another long green line snaked across the street, barring the back door. He was trapped in a Tahn sweep!

The beefy cops pressed in, their stun rods held at port arms, their black faceshields jutting forward. The crowd was strangely—Sten thought—silent, the muttering turning to a puzzled lowing with a few barks of pain as someone ran afoul of a stun rod.

Then phalanxes broke off from the main cop lines and speared through the crowd. Sten noticed from the rank tabs that the phalanxes were composed entirely of sergeants. Their eyes had purposeful hunters' looks as they scanned faces in the crowd, picking individuals out with a shout. "You! You! You!" Before any of the unfortunates had a hope of reacting, they were muscled into the wedge and swept away.

Sten was trying to back off, to slip close to a wall and then tunnel out through the mass of Tahn around him. Just as his elbow dug back, expecting more soft flesh but finding the hardness of a wall, an enormous sergeant spotted him. The cop thrust his stun rod out like a bludgeon, screaming, "You!"