STEN
“Hit it!” Sten said. “We’ve been blown.”
“Efter all tha’ bleedin’ work,” Kilgour grumbled, as he signaled the grizzled captain to turn about. “Freezin’ me knackers off all night, n’ boilin’ in me britches all day.”
“Mitzi says he’s convinced we’re lurking out here waiting for him to drop his guard,” Sten said.
“Weel, he’s got us deid tae rights oan ’at one, young Sten, doesnae he?” the heavy worlder said as he helped the crew stash the sail. “Jist like we’re lurkin’ oan his auld man.”
“True enough,” Sten said. “But Gregor acts like we’re trying to kill him, instead of just spying on him.”
“Ah’ve ne’er binsae insulted in me life,” Kilgour harrumphed. “If Ah wanted tae kill th’ wee scrote, he’d a been boobies up in th’ noonday sun long ago.”
Sten’s comm buzzed. It was Mitzi again.
“Gregor’s shouting for Security to turn out the guard,” she said. “But everybody is making nice, agreeable ‘yessir,’ ‘right away, sir’ noises and ignoring him.”
“Did you get a chance to plant that bug on him?” Sten asked.
“That’s a no go,” Mitzi said. “He’s ordered bodily scans twice a day. I’ll just have to stay close to him like silk on skin.”
“What about his old man?”
“I’m writing up a report now,” Mitzi replied, “and I’m laying it on thick, although I’m not sure he really cares. Sometimes it feels like he’s just keeping his kid on ice for something down the road.”
“I expect it won’t be something nice,” Sten said.
“Wouldn’t bet against that,” Mitzi said, then signed off.
Kilgour groaned in frustration. “Ah love ye loch a brither, wee Sten,” he said. “But Ah’m sick’t ay yer face an’ sick’t ay th’ soon ah yer voice, an’ Ah’m sick tae death of watchin’ Wichman an his bampot bairn circle aroond th’ jakes bowl before we flush it.
“Fur th’ life ay me Ah dinnae ken why Mahoney an’ th’ wee Emp don’t jist lit us tweep th’ bloody pair of ’em an’ lit us gang home.”
Sten sighed. “I’m just as sick of all this as you are,” he said. “And Ida. And Doc. But you know as well as I do that we have a clot more on our plate than the Wichmans.”
Alex snorted. “Hoo coodst Ah forgit? There’s also yer wee burd. The lady pirate. We’ve been trackin’ ‘er aw over th’ Possnet Sector as well.”
Sten flushed. “Venatora is not—I repeat—not! my girlfriend. She’s a mission target. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
“Aye, laddie,” he scoffed. “Jist keep tellin’ yerself ’at an’ mebbe yoo’ll believe it in a century ur three.”
Sten started to argue, but gave it up. His friend knew him too well.
“This is the nastiest, most boring bit of business we’ve been stuck with since Mantis school,” Sten said. “In one big tub of glop we’ve got the Wichmans, Queen Venatora, and her fellow pirate captains, and then the trickiest of all—the Tahn. It’s like playing three-dimensional billiards. With the table changing form and purpose no matter how much we finesse the cue ball.”
Kilgour grimaced. He said, “Ah, dinnae ken, laddie, when it aw went tae th’ home ay th’ devil himself. What th’ clot happened tae th’ guid auld days when all an honest Mantis fellaw hud tae dae was kill everybody, clean up th’ bluid an’ gang home for a wee bevy.”
Silence settled in. Other than blowing steam, griping about things they couldn’t change was pointless.
A chill wind picked up and Sten huddled deeper into his slicker. Miserable as this duty was, it was better than his previous life as a delinq on the run in a factory world where Migs like himself were the lowest of the low. They had so little value to the Company that they had ordered the death of hundreds of Migs—including Sten’s entire family—rather than chance a leak of their secrets.
He smiled a bitter smile remembering how, back in basic training for the Guards, Gregor had insisted Sten was actually a member of the Imperial ruling class with friends in high places. How else could Gregor explain Sten’s superior ratings?
Hard work? Study? Practice?
Never!
Such words had never been a part of Gregor’s lexicon.
Kilgour nudged him, and Sten caught sight of a stealthy little all-terrain craft slipping away from a dark cove. In a few minutes it was bumping against the fishing boat.
Lieutenant Mk’wolf popped up from the hold, mustache twitching and teeth gleaming through the dark camo makeup. “Got her done, boss,” he said. “Vid and sound in every room and all through the grounds.”
“Explosives?” Sten asked.
Mk’wolf pointed toward Wichlandia’s sparkling lights. “Got ’em all along the perimeter,” he said. “Then the admin wing. Plus an extra big load for the armory.”
He handed Sten a small black box. “Just say the magic word and the whole place will go up like a volcano.”
“And that word would be?”
“Whatever you choose, boss,” Mk’wolf said.
The face of the man Sten hated more than any other flashed into his mind. The one responsible for murdering his entire family back on Vulcan. Never mind Sten had already killed the man. Literally ripped his heart from his chest. A single death was far too small for the likes of the Baron.
“Program it for ‘Thoresen’,” Sten said.
Kilgour nodded, understanding. “Good choice, laddie,” he said.
Mk’wolf hesitated, then said, “Yessir, Thoresen it is.”
Sten smiled to himself. He knew Mk’wolf didn’t have the faintest idea what they were talking about. But he was smart enough not to press the issue.
“Any thoughts on what Gregor’s old man is up to?” Sten asked.
Mk’wolf said, “He spends most of his time getting ready for the official grand opening of Wichlandia. It’s quite the event. Big shots and glitterati from all over the region are gagging for invitations.”
“What about the Tahn?” Sten asked. “Have they been around.”
“In droves,” Mk’wolf said. “He’s become quite the Tahn darling. Every day they’re out cruising the grounds on those little grav sleds playing some sort of silly little game that none of us can make heads or tails of. Except every time we think we’re onto something, Wichman changes the subject and the rules of whatever deal he’s trying to cook up.”
“What silly game would that be?” Sten asked, burying a smile. He knew very well what it was, but he wanted to see Kilgour’s reaction.
Mk’wolf shrugged. “Not sure, boss. They drive little gravcarts around this big field for hours at a time hitting a little white ball with clubs. Never did find out what the game is called.”
Sten watched Kilgour’s face in fascination as Mk’wolf went on to over explain the mysteries of Wichman’s sport. Kilgour’s big round mug seemed to swell larger and larger as the lieutenant spoke, the color deepening until it was practically scarlet.
When Mk’wolf stopped to draw breath, Kilgour exploded.
“Ah’ll hae ye ken ’at silly little game ye waur blasphemin’ is known fur ’n’ wide as th’ king ay sports. Nay, the king AN’ th’ queen of sports.”
He jabbed Mk’wolf’s chest with a thick finger. The lieutenant was knocked a step back with each jab.
“The game’s called golf, cheil. It’s golf yoo’re malignin’. Golf! Created by bonny Scotsmen loch meself thoosands ay years ago tae benefit aw beingkind.”
Then the fury went out of him. His color returned to normal. He sighed, shaking his head.
“Ah d’nae ken Ah’d taken oan a barbarian fur a shipmate. Ah’m sore disappointed in yer, laddie.”
Mk’wolf gave Sten a what-the-clot-happened look. A slender, well-built human with a hawk face, Mk’wolf was a born cynic, and had a what-the-clot attitude about most things. But Kilgour’s tirade was a little overboard.
Sten took pity. “One question, Lieutenant.”
Mk’wolf snapped a salute. “Sir?
“Did you plant a few extra bombs in the bar?”
“I took the liberty of doubling the charge,” Mk’wolf said.
Sten slapped him on the back. “Good lad,” he said.
Mk’wolf handed Sten a fiche. “It’s stuffed full of evidence. Deals and more deals. Almost all involving sanctioned goods.”
Sten’s eyebrows rose. He lifted the fiche. “You mean we have Wichman on here selling illegal weapons and machines.”
Mk’wolf shook his head. “Nothing so damning as that, sir,” he said. “The old man is too sneaky. He hints about this, that, and the other. Then backs away, saying he’ll have his people study the matter and report back.” He pointed at the fiche. “What we have there are Tahn bigwigs bragging about making those deals after the fact. Meeting Wichman’s people in secret. Setting up corporate cutouts. That sort of thing.”
“So, there’s no smoking fiche?” Sten said, his face falling.
“Nothing solid enough to call in the Guard,” Mk’wolf said. “But there’s one thing on there that might interest you. It seems there’s a some kind of a Tahn big shot on his way to Wichlandia. He’ll be here in a few days, and Wichman has his spies and dirty tricksters working overtime putting together possible deals.”
“Did you catch a name?” Sten asked.
“Lord Fehrle,” Mk’wolf said. “But we didn’t get much more than that.”
In his ear, Ida spoke up. She was monitoring the situation from their ship—the Jo’l Cash—which was parked behind the shield of Wichlandia’s smallest moon.
“Fehrle’s the senior member of the Tahn High Council,” she said. “Only reason a muckety like Fehrle would be there is for something really big.”
“Any idea what it might be?” he asked.
“Nossir,” Mk’wolf said. “Except that Wichman’s people have been talking to the pirates a lot. All back channel stuff.”
“That’s not much help,” Sten said. Soon as the words came out of his mouth, he was sorry he’d spoken.
“Best I could do, boss,” Mk’wolf said, face darkening with disappointment.
The last thing Sten wanted to do was add to a growing morale problem. For what seemed like an eternity they had been cruising the Possnet Sector, following villains and spending days on pointless stakeouts.
Sten clapped Mk’wolf on the back. “Come to think of it, this could be the breakthrough we’ve been looking for. We even have a name we can report. Lord Fehrle. Great work, lieutenant. I’ll be sure to sing your praises to Mahoney.”
He was rewarded by the looks of pleasure on the faces of Mk’wolf and his crew. A reminder, Young Sten, he chided himself, that there is a lot more to leadership than gathering your forces and charging the barricades.
Ida broke in. “Speaking of our Satanic Majesty,” she said, “I just got an ‘eyes only’ from Mahoney.”
“What about?”
“Want the bad news, or the bad news?” she said.
Sten sighed. “Bad news first,” he said.
“Mahoney wants to talk.”
Another sigh. “Okay, what could be worse than that?”
Ida snorted. “Easy, sweet cheeks. What he called about.”
“Which was?”
“Venatora is on the move.”
For the second time that night, Sten cursed.
* * * *
He stood under the fresher while hot, soapy cleansing agents rat-a-tat-tatted against his body, penetrating every fold of skin, pore, and hair follicle.
Even so, he could not seem to relax. Sten palmed the controls, making the stream hotter, stronger, but no matter how hard it hammered against him, he could not remove Venatora’s image from his mind.
Venatora.
The first time they met, she’d vowed to kill him.
Quite different from the last time, when promises of a different sort burned in her eyes.
Between those two events Sten and Venatora had played a high-stakes game of wits, wagering their lives and self esteem on each move.
They’d first met over a Xypaca fighting pit, totally absorbed with one another. Shocked by the intensity of their emotions. Crossing mental swords in their own very private battle of wits and nerve, while all around them adrenalin-charged gamblers shouted or groaned, depending on the fortunes of the small beasts fighting to the death for the gamblers’ enjoyment.
Sten had won the first encounter—but barely. Venatora accused him of cheating. He had, but only a little. He accused her of being a poor sport who was trying to renege on the wager—one hundred thousand credits.
In the end, she’d paid up, teasing him with the prospect of a rematch in some other, equally adrenalin-charged event.
With Sten and Venatora facing one another in a fighting pit of their own devise.
Sten: Mantis assassin.
Venatora: Pirate Queen.
She ruled the Himmenops, a fierce race of warrior women biologically chained to their queen. The Himmenops’ sleek little pirate ships roamed the Possnet Sector, looking for opportunity. And with the discovery of the rich Imperium X deposits, there was a mouth-watering plentitude of that.
And they weren’t the only trouble in the region. Unruly pirates like the Himmenops constantly trolled the sector looking to steal everything from space trains bearing raw ore, to an ever-increasing demand for goods and services for the thousands of beings flocking to the region.
Imperial forces were overwhelmed by the sheer number of attacks. Culminating in the theft of an entire Imperium X space train by mutineers rebelling against the Eternal Emperor.
That convoy had been commanded by Gregor, taken hostage by the mutineers led by two psychotics who used Gregor’s inhumane treatment of the crewmen to foster the rebellion. Then the mutineers parked themselves and the spacetrain just off Venatora’s stronghold for weeks, negotiating between Venatora and the Emperor via his most skilled Mantis assassin—Sten.
In a complicated cat-and-mouse game—one that saw Gregor and his fabulously wealthy father attempt a double-cross—Sten had won in the end, penetrating the Himmenops defenses to steal back all but a handful of the ore-bearing cars.
To Sten’s disgust, Gregor and his old man had been declared heroes by the Emperor—who was playing his own very far behind the scenes cat and mouse game with the Wichmans and the Tahn.
Which then led to what seemed to be an endless mission in the desolate Fringe Worlds.
A mission with two objectives:
(1) Gather evidence against Lord Wichman and Gregor, then kill them, while blaming the Tahn.
(2) Wipe out the pirates who plagued the area. Starting with Venatora.
Sten was inching his way toward achieving the first objective. When he did, he’d have no problem at carrying out the kill orders.
As for the second…
Venatora.
Venatora.
Venatora.
The name pulsing in his chest.
Her image was seared in his memory after their first meeting in a mining company gambling hell known as Rec Area 477.
She was tall, slender, her skin a gleaming ebony, her hair, long sable tresses that spilled over one bare shoulder, her breasts round and firm and high, her hips and thighs a beckoning paradise.
That one glimpse, accompanied by a strange, almost giddy feeling of yearning.
But yearning for what?
And the answer came back: Venatora.
Mahoney said she was a splicer. A biological creation of a mysterious cabal known only as “The Fathers.”
Pheromones enabled her to command absolute obedience from the Himmenops, an apian-like all female society ruled by a queen. And then there were the Zabanyas. An elite corps of women who were specially bred to guard the queen. Large, heavily muscled humanoids. Albino white. Silver hair. Glowing pink eyes.
A startling contrast to the dark-eyed ebony beauty who ruled them.
Sten vividly recalled their first and only kiss.
When their lips touched he felt like he was submerged in a warm river of sensations.
He reached out—meaning to embrace her. A gentle hand on his chest firmly pushed him away.
Sten tried to speak. But all he could manage was a strangled croak.
Then, somehow he managed: “Venatora. We must—”
Two fingers touched his lips, silencing him.
And she said, “We shall, Sten. We shall.”
Then she was gone.
Vanishing into the dense spaceport bar crowd. Her last words echoing in his mind: “We shall, Sten. We shall.”
Now here he was. Months later. Once again on endless patrol. Wondering what she meant by those parting words.
Wondering if she ever thought of him.