Chris Bunch & Allan Cole - Sten 3 - The Court of a Thousand Suns

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The Court of a Thousand Suns
by Allan Cole and Chris Bunch
Note
The titles of Books 1, 2, 3, and 4 are Parisian slang for various parts of the guillotine. The "bascule" is the
board on which the condemned man is laid; the "lunette" is the circular clamp fitted around the man's
neck; the "mouton" is the cutting blade, plus its eighty-pound weight; and the "declic" is the lever the
executioner hits to drop the blade.
The title of Book 5, "The Red Mass," comes from a phrase used by a French deputy during the Terror of
the a.d. 1790s, one Monsieur Amar, in a letter inviting his fellow deputies to witness an execution "to see
the Red Mass celebrated…"
—AC and CRB
BOOK ONE
BASCULE
CHAPTER ONE
The banth purred at the quillpig, which, unimpressed, had firmly stuffed itself as far as it could into the
hollow stump.
The banth's instinct said that the porcupine was edible, but the six-legged cat's training told it otherwise.
Meat was presented by two-legs at dawn and dusk, and came with gentle words. The quillpig may have
smelled right, but it was not behaving like meat. The banth sat back on its haunches and used a forepaw
to pry two needles from its nasal carapace.
Then the animal flattened. It heard the noise again, a whine from the forest. The banth looked worriedly
up the mountain, then back again in the direction of the sound before deciding.
Against instinct, it broke out of the last fringe of the tree line and bounded up the bare, rock-strewn
mountain. Two hundred meters vertically up the talus cliff, it went to cover behind a mass of boulders.
The whine grew louder as a gravsled lifted over the scrubby treetops, pirouetted, searching, and then
grounded near the hollow stump.
Terence Kreuger, chief of Prime World's police tactical force, checked the homing panel mounted over
the gravsled's controls. The needle pointed straight up the mountain, and the proximity director indicated
the banth was barely half a kilometer away.
Kreuger unslung a projectile weapon from its clips behind his seat and checked it once again: projectile
chambered; safe off; ranging scope preset for one meter, the approximate dimensions of the banth's chest
area.
He checked the slope with a pair of binocs and after a few seconds saw a flicker of movement. Kreuger
grunted to himself and lifted the gravsled up the mountain. He'd already missed the banth once that day;
he was less than pleased with himself.
Kreuger fancied himself a hunter in the grand tradition. Time not required for his police duties was spent
hunting or preparing himself for a hunt, an expensive hobby, especially on Prime World. The Imperial
capital had no native game, and both hunting preserves there charged far more than even a tactical group
chief could afford—until recently.
Kreuger's previous hunts had been restricted to off-world, and mostly for minor edible or nuisance game.
That was well and good, but provided Kreuger with little in the way of trophies, especially trophies of the
kind that the gamebooks chronicled. But things had suddenly become different. His friends had seen to
that. After thirty years as a cop, Kreuger still prized his honesty. He just rationalized that what his new
friends wanted wasn't dishonest: look at the benefits! Three weeks away from Empire Day madness.
Three weeks on a hunting reservation, expenses paid. Tags for four dangerous animals—an Earth rhino,
a banth, a male cervi, and a giant ot.
He had already planned on which wall each head would be mounted. Of course, Kreuger did not intend
to mention to his soon-to-be-admiring friends where those trophies had been taken.
The gravsled's bumper caromed him away from a boulder, bringing Kreuger back to the present.
Concentrate, man, concentrate. Remember every bit of this day. The clearness of the air. The smell of the
trees below. The spray of dust around the gravsled.
Kreuger guided the gravsled up the slope, following the homing needle toward the sensor implanted in the
banth.
Below, a second, one-man sled coasted through the trees. Clyff Tarpy did not need binocs to follow
Kreuger's sled. Contour-following, he lifted his sled after Kreuger.
The banth was cornered.
Ahead of him to the right, the ground fell away steeply, too steeply for even his clawed legs to descend.
To the left was a sheer cliff. The banth huddled behind a boulder, puzzling.
Kreuger's gravsled landed just outside the nest. Weapon ready, Kreuger moved forward.
Again, the banth was perplexed. The whine had been the cause of a loud explosion and searing pain
earlier, the pain that sent the banth fleeing through the forest toward the mountains.
But the smell was two-legs. Two-legs, but not familiar. Had the banth done something wrong? The
two-legs would tell him, feed him, and then return him to the warmth of his pen.
The banth stood and walked forward.
Kreuger's projectile weapon came up as the banth walked into view. No errors now. Safety off, he
aimed.
The banth mewed. This was not his two-legs.
"Bastard!"
Kreuger spun, the banth momentarily forgotten. He had not heard the second gravsled land behind him.
From five meters, the barrel of the weapon was enormous. Tarpy allowed just enough time to pass for
terror to replace the bewilderment on Kreuger's face. And then he fingered the stud. The soft metal
round expanded nicely as it penetrated Kreuger's sternum, then pin wheeled through the tac chief's rib
cage into his heart. Kreuger, instantly dead, sat down on a small boulder before slowly toppling forward
onto his face.
Tarpy smiled as he took a thick chunk of soyasteak from his beltpak and tossed it to the banth. "Eight
lives to go, pussycat."
Tarpy took a small aerosol can from his pak, and, backing up, erased his footsteps from the dusty rock.
He paused by Kreuger's gravsled long enough to shut the power off and disconnect the beacon. The
longer it took to find the body, the better. Tarpy mounted his own sled and nudged it back down the hill.
The banth's tail whipped back and forth once. He did not like the smell from the strange two-legs. He
picked up the slab of soyasteak, sprang over the rock wall, and went back down the mountain. He
would eat on the ground he was familiar with, and then perhaps unravel the puzzle of the other soyasteak,
the one with needles that walked.
CHAPTER TWO
The man in the blue boiler suit had his long knife against the throat of Admiral Mik Ledoh. With his other
hand, he forced the Eternal Emperor's Grand Chamberlain closer to the edge of the battlements,
"Either our demands are met immediately, or this man dies!" His amplified voice echoed across the
castle's stonework, down the 700 meters of emptiness and across the parade ground.
One hundred meters below and to the right, Sten checked his foot/handholds. His clawed fingers were
barely clinging to mortar notches in the stone. One foot dangled over emptiness, the other was firmly
braced on the face of Havildar-Major Lalbahadur Thapa. Sten's willygun was slung from a clip-strap on
his dark brown combat suit. Snapped to one arm was a can of climbing thread. At its end was a grapnel.
From above them the terrorist's voice came again: "You have only seconds left to reach your decision
and save this man's life!"
Sten's left hand went up and out, stretching for a new hold. At first he thought he had it, then the mortar
crumbled and he almost came off. Sten forced his body away from its instinctive clutch at the wall, then
inhaled deeply.
"Kaphar hurinu bhanda marnu ramro," came the pained mutter from Lalbahadur below him.
"But cowards live longer, dammit!" Sten managed as he one-handed out, lifting both feet clear. Then his
climbing boots found a hold, and Sten was momentarily secure. Breath… breath… and he once again
became a climbing machine. Below him, Lalbahadur and the rest of the Gurkha platoon moved steadily
up the vertical granite wall toward the two men above them.
Five meters below the parapet. Sten found a stance—a protruding knob of rock. He touched the second
can of climbing thread attached to the swiss seat around his waist, and a spidery white line spat out,
touched the rock facing, and bonded to it.
Sten motioned outward then toward his waist, signaling that he was secure and could belay the rest of the
troops below him. From a third can, on the rear of his harness, a thread descended to the Gurkhas
below.
Lalbahadur came up into position, on a single line to Sten's immediate right.
Sten paid no attention. He touched the nozzle of the thread can on his arm, and allowed about fifteen
meters of thread, the grapnel at the end, to reel out. He freed one hand from the wall and weaseled it into
the thread glove clipped to a carabinier sling, then began rhythmically swinging the grapnel back and
forth. Suddenly he cast upward.
The twenty-gram-weight grapnel flickered upward and then caught, spinning twice around the muzzle of
an archaic cannon which protruded from the crenellation above him.
Sten clipped his special jumars on the thread and snaked upward while the man in the boiler suit was
staring out, into the lights. He never saw Sten lizard up, past the cannon and onto the battlement.
"We have waited for enough time," the voice boomed, on cue. The knife arm came back for the fatal
stroke, and Sten came out of the shadows low, coming straight up, one clawed hand slamming into the
man's face and a blocking hand snapping into the knife.
The man in the boiler suit staggered away, and the Chamberlain tottered for a minute on the edge of
emptiness, then caught his footing. The man with the knife recovered, long blade ready.
But Sten was already inside his attack, double-fisted hands swinging. The strike caught the terrorist on
the side of his head, and he dropped limply.
Behind the battlements, the other terrorists spun toward the threat. But they were far too late. The
Gurkhas swarmed up from the darkness and came in, 30-cm kukri blades glittering in the spots. And,
once again, the cry "Ayo Gurkhali" rang around the castle, a battle cry that had made thousands of
generations of violent men reconsider their intentions.
To a man, the terrorists were down.
Lalbahadur checked the downed men to ensure they were, indeed, out. NaikThaman Gurung unslung the
rocket mortar from his back and positioned it. Sten nodded, and the mortar bloomed fire as the round
lofted up, out into blackness, and then curvetted down to thud onto the parade ground far below.
Gurung bonded the line that ran back from the mortar, impacted far below in the parade ground to a
battlement, then grinned at Sten. "We barang now, Captain."
"Platoon up," Sten shouted. "By numbers—move!"
The first to go was Thaman. He attached jumar clamps to the thread that reached more than 700 meters
down to the parade ground, swung his feet up, and was off, whistling down the near-invisible thread to
safety.
Sten saluted the Chamberlain. "Sir."
Admiral Ledoh grimaced, shoved the ceremonial cocked hat more firmly on his head, took the pair of
jumars Sten handed him, and then he, too, disappeared down the thread.
Sten was the next to go, freewheeling off the tiny clamps toward the solid concrete ground. He braked at
the last minute, took his hands from the jumar handles, hit, and rolled twice.
Behind him, Lalbahadur and the others descended the thread, hit, recovered, and doubled into platoon
formation. Admiral Ledoh, a bit breathless, took two steps forward and saluted. Above him, the Eternal
Emperor applauded. Following his cue, the half a million spectators filling the grandstands that lined the
five-kilometer-long parade ground broke into cheers—applauding as much for the "terrorists," who were
taking their bows high above, as the Gurkhas, Ledoh, and Sten.
Ledoh broke his salute and puffed toward the steps that led to the Imperial stand. By the time he'd made
it into the stand itself, the Emperor had a drink waiting for him. After Ledoh shuddered the alcohol down,
the Emperor asked with a grin, "Who had the idea of that stupid hat?"
"I did, Your Majesty."
"Uh-huh," the Emperor snickered. "Howinhell'd you hold it on down that Slide for Life?"
"A superior, water soluble glue."
"It had better be. No way am I going to live with that—that—bedpan attached to the head of someone I
must see every day." Without waiting for a response, he added, "Have another drink Mik, for godsakes!
It isn't every day you play Tarzan."
The second order was followed quickly and thankfully.
The Emperor was celebrating an invention of his own. Empire Day.
He'd begun the ceremony more than 500 years earlier to celebrate winning a war that he'd since
forgotten.
The premise was simple: Once a year, every year, all Imperial Forces put on a display, on whatever
world they happened to be assigned to, with everyone welcome.
There was, of course, more purpose to Empire Day than just a parade. There was a second or tertiary
purpose to almost everything the Eternal Emperor did. Not only did the display of armed might reassure
the citizens of the Empire that they were Protected and Defended, but also, Empire Day served to
discourage potential Bad Guys from developing Evil Schemes, at least toward Imperial Interests.
The most massive display on Empire Day occurred on Prime World. Over the years, Empire Day had
become the culmination of a two-week-long celebration of athletics and the arts as well as of military
might. It was a cross between Saturnalia, Oktoberfest, the Olympics, and May Day. For that one night,
the Imperial palace was thrown open to everyone, which by itself was a major encouragement.
The Emperor's main residence and command center on Prime World, the palace, was set in a
fifty-five-kilometer-diameter circle of gardens. The fifty-five-kilometer measure was significant, since that
was the line-of-sight horizon limit on Prime. The Emperor was not fond of stumbling across people
whose presence he had not planned on.
At the center of the circle of manicured and wildly varying parklands was the main palace itself, possibly
the ultimate motte-and-bailey design, occupying an area six by two kilometers.
The "bailey" consisted of high, fifty-degree-banked walls that vauban-vee-ed back and forth, from the
main entrance gate toward the palace itself. The walls were 200 meters high, and buried within was a
high percentage of the Emperor's bureaucracy. They were not entirely nuke-proof, but it would take
direct hits to wipe out the structure, and the Emperor could continue operations even if his palace was
completely sealed off; decades worth of food, air, and water were tanked below the walls for his staff.
The palace itself, a large-scale copy of Earth's Arundel Castle, stood at the far end of the
five-kilometer-long parade ground that made up the center of the bailey.
Even more so than the bailey walls, the castle had been built on the iceberg principal. Imperial command
barracks/living quarters tunneled underground below the castle itself for more than 2,000 meters.
The castle was faced with huge stone blocks behind which were nuclear-blast shielding, and meters of
insulation. The Emperor liked the look of Earth-medieval, but preferred the safety and comfort provided
by science.
The palace was open to the general public on Empire Day, when huge Imperial Guard gravlighters
carried the tourists in. During the remainder of the year, only palace employees boarded a high-speed
pneumosubway thirty-four kilometers away in Fowler, and were blasted to their duty stations.
Since attendance at Empire Day on Prime World was roughly akin to being presented at Court, the
Emperor had figured out long ago that many more millions of his people would want to go than there was
space for. So he'd set up attendance much like what he'd described to an uncomprehending official as a
"three-ring circus." Nearest to the castle were the most desirable seats. These the Emperor allowed to be
assigned to Court Favorites, Current Heroes, Social Elitists, and so forth.
The second "ring," and there was no easy way to tell where the dividing line was, went to the social
climbers. Those seats could be sold, scalped, threatened for, and otherwise acquired by those people
who knew that seeing Empire Day on Prime World was the culmination of their entire life.
The third area, farthest from the Imperial reviewing stand itself, was carefully allotted to Prime World
residents. Of course, many of these tickets ended up in the hands of outworlders rather than in those of
the Prime Worlders they'd been assigned to, but the Emperor felt that if "local folks" wanted to make a
credit or two, he certainly had no objections.
Seating was on bleachers that were installed weeks before the ceremony, on the banked walls of the
bailey that surrounded the parade ground.
Technically, it didn't matter where the attendees sat; huge holographic screens rose at regular intervals
atop the walls, giving the spectators access to instant close-ups as well as to occasional cut-arounds to
those people in the "first circle" who were somehow Noteworthy.
Some events, such as Sten's "rescue", were only held at the far end of the parade ground, next to the
castle itself. But most were set up to run continuously, down each area to an eventual exit at the far end
of the parade ground.
Empire Day was the most spectacular staged event of the year. The Court still proclaimed itself the Court
of a Thousand Suns, even though the Empire numbered far more systems than that, and Empire Day was
when those suns shone most brightly.
It was also a night on which anything might happen…
Wheezing, Sten leaned against the wall of the concrete tunnel—a tunnel normally sealed by heavy
collapsed-steel blast doors. Now the doors were raised to permit the Empire Day participants entry onto
the parade ground.
Beside him, panting more sedately, was Havildar-Major Lalbahadur Thapa. The other Gurkhas had been
praised and dismissed, to spend, for them, a far more enjoyable evening devoted to gambling and
massive consciousness-alteration by whatever substances they chose.
"That was a famous display," Lalbahadur grunted.
"Yuh," Sten said.
"I am sure that, should any evil man desire to hold our Chamberlain for ransom, he will never do it on the
edge of this castle."
Sten grinned. In the three months he'd commanded the Emperor's Own Gurkha Bodyguard, he'd learned
that the Nepalese sense of humor matched his own, most especially in its total lack of respect toward
superior officers. "You're cynical. This has given us much honor."
"That is true. But what puzzles me is that one time I made my ablution in one hand, and waited for the
other hand to fill up with honor." Lalbahadur mocked sadness. "There was no balance."
"At least there is one thing," Lalbahadur brightened. "Our heroism will be shown to the parbitayas back
home, and we shall have no trouble finding new fools who want to climb walls for the glory of the
Emperor."
Sten's comeback was broken off as a band crashed into noise behind him. The officer and the noncom
straightened as the Honor Guard of the Emperor's Own Praetorians thundered forward. Sten and
Lalbahadur saluted the colors, then shrank back against the wall as the 600-plus men of the palace
guard, all polished leather, gleaming metal, and automata, slammed past.
At the head of the formation the Praetorian's commanding officer, Colonel Den Fohlee, ramrodded a
salute back at Sten, then snapped his eyes forward as the honor unit wheeled out onto the parade
ground, to be met with cheers.
"My father once told me," Lalbahadur observed, "that there are only two kinds of men in the world.
Normally, I do not listen to such nonsense, since it is my thought that the only two kinds of men in the
world are those who see only two kinds of men in the world and those who do not." He stopped, slightly
confused.
"Two kinds of men, your father said," Sten prompted.
"Yes. There are those who love to polish metal and leather and there are those who would rather drink.
Captain, to which group do you belong?"
"Pass, Havildar," Sten said with regret. "I'm still on duty."
Sten and the noncom saluted, then the small, stocky man doubled off. Sten had a few minutes before
guard check, so he walked to the end of the tunnel to watch the Praetorians parade.
They were very, very good, as befits any group of men and women whose sole duties and training
consisted in total devotion to their leaders, an ability to stand motionless for hours on guard, and colorful
ceremonious pirouetting.
Sten was being unfair, but the few times he'd been told off for parade duties, he'd found it a pain in the
moulinette. Parading soldiers may be interesting to some types, but those people could never have spent
the endless dull hours of shining and rehearsal that a parade takes.
Although Sten had to admit that the Praetorians were highly skilled. They paraded with archaic projectile
weapons; the stubby, efficient willygun wasn't spectacular enough for any manual of arms. And the
willygun had no provision for a bayonet. By the fortieth century, the benefits of mounting a can opener on
the end of a rifle were long gone, save for ceremonial purposes.
And so the Praetorians jerked to and fro in intricate array with near-four-foot-long rifles.
The soldiers initially had their weapons at the shoulder. On count, the weapons came down to
waist-carry, the bayonets gleaming before them like so many spears.
Marching in extended order, on command, each rank would wheel and march back toward the next
rank's lowered bayonets. Sten winced to think what would happen if a noncom missed a beat in the
continual chant of commands.
The unit pivoted back on itself, then wheel-turned in ranks. By chant, they began a progressive manual of
arms; as each line's boots would crash against the tarmac, that rank would move from carry arms to port
arms to shoulder arms to reverse shoulder arms.
Simultaneously, squads broke apart and began doing by-the-count rifle tosses—continuing the
progressive manual, but after the shoulder arms command each soldier would pitch his weapon straight
up and backward, to be caught by the next person in ranks.
Sten, watching with give-me-strength cynicism, had never studied history enough to have met the old line:
"It's pretty, but is it war?"
CHAPTER THREE
Certain beings everyone loves on first sight: They seem to live on a slightly higher plane than all others.
And yet those noble ones find an echo of themselves in all other living things. They see life as art, so
therefore can be somewhat pretentious. Yet they also mock their own pretensions.
Marr and his lover, Senn, were two such beings, twittering superlatives over the Praetorian Guard.
"My, what lusty fellows," Marr said. "All those muscles and musk. Almost makes a creature want to be
human."
"You wouldn't know what to do with even one of them if you were," Senn sniffed. "I should know. It
certainly has been a long time since you tried your wicked way with me."
"I was merely admiring those wonderful young men. They please the eye. Nothing to do with sex. A
subject you always seem to have on the cranium."
"Oh, gonads. Let's not fight, Marr, dear. It's a party. And you know how I love a party."
Senn softened. Perhaps he was behaving like an off-cycle human. He leaned closer to Marr and let their
antennae twine. Parties always got to him, too.
In fact, there were very few beings in the Empire who knew more about parties than Senn and Marr.
Celebrations of all kinds were their speciality—a little gutter, a little tack, interesting personalities tossed
into a conversational salad. Their official function on Prime World was that of the Imperial Caterers.
They were always deploring the fact that the Eternal Emperor's get-togethers put them in the red. They
were, however, much too good businessbeings to deplore too loudly; the Emperor's "custom" was the
reason their catering service was booked years in advance.
In an age not generally known for permanent bondings, the two Milchen stood out. They had been
sexually paired for more than a century and were passionately determined that the relationship should go
on for a century more. However, such stability was not unusual in their species; for the Milchen of
Frederick Two, pairing was literally for life—when one member of a Milchen pair died, the other would
always follow within a few days. Long-term pairings among the Milchen were always of the same sex.
For want of a better description, call it male. The other gender—put the "female" label on it, it's
easier—was called Ursoolas. Of all things in the many universes, the Ursoolas were among the most
beautiful and delicate, beings of gossamer and many-changing perfumed colors. They lived only a few
short months, and during that time it was all loving and sexual intensity. If a Milchen male pair was
fortunate, it might enjoy two or three such relationships in its lifetime. Out of each bonding came a "male"
pair and half-a-dozen dormant Ursoolas. The mother would whisper a few last loving words to her
broadsac and then die, leaving the care of the young to the father pair.
For the Milchen, life was a never-ending breeding-cycle tragedy, that bred the kind of loneliness that can
kill a loving race. And so they evolved the only system open to them—same-sex bonding. Like most of
their people, Marr and Senn were passionately devoted to each other, and to all other things of beauty.
They were slender creatures, a meter or so high, and covered with a downy, golden fur. They had
enormous liquid-black eyes that enjoyed twice the spectrum of a human's. Their heads were graced with
sensitive smelling antennae that could also caress like a feather. Their small monkeylike hands contained
the Empire's most sensitive tastebuds, and were largely the reason for Milchen's being among the
Empire's greatest chefs. The Eternal Emperor himself grudgingly admitted they surpassed all other races
in the preparation of fine meals. Except, of course, for chile.
The two Milchen cuddled closer and drank in the ultimate spectacle that was Empire Day. Busybodies
that the Milchen were, the beings around them were at least as interesting to them as the Imperial display.
Marr's eyes swept the VIP boxes. "Everyone, but everyone is here."
"I noticed," Senn sniffed. "Including a few who ought not to be."
He pointed to a box across from them as an example—the box that held Kai Hakone and his party.
"After the reviews of his last masque, I don't know how he can even hold up his pâté in public."
Marr giggled. "I know. Isn't it delicious? And the silly fool is such a bore, he even agreed to be the guest
of honor at our party."
Senn snuggled closer in delight. "I can hardly wait! The blood will flow, flow, flow."
Marr gave his pairmate a suspicious look. "What did you do, Senn? Or dare I ask?"
Senn laughed. "I also invited his critics."
"And?"
"They were delighted. They'll all be there."
The two chuckled over their evil little joke, and glanced at Hakone again, wondering if he suspected what
was in store for him in few short days.
Marr and Senn would have been disappointed. Kai Hakone, a man some people called the greatest
author of his day—and others the greatest hack—wasn't even thinking of the party.
Around him were a dozen or more fans, all very rich and very fawning. A constant stream of exotic
dishes and drinks flowed in and out of the box. But it was hardly a party. Even before the celebration had
begun, everyone had realized that Hakone was in "one of those moods." And so the conversation was
subdued, and there were many nervous glances at the brooding master, an enormous man with
unfashionably bulging muscles, a thick shock of unruly hair, heavy eyebrows, and deep-set eyes.
Hakone's gut was tightening, his every muscle was tense, and he was perspiring heavily. His mind and
mood was ricocheting wildly. Everything is ready, he would think one minute, and his spirits would soar.
But what if there's a mistake? Gloom would descend. What has been left undone? I should have done
that myself. I shouldn't have let them do it. I should have done it.
And on and on, as he went over and over each detail of the plan. Thunder arose from the crowd as
another spectacular event crashed to its conclusion; Kai Hakone barely heard it. He touched his hands
together a few times, pretending to join in the applause. But his mind churned on with constantly changing
images of death.
The last of the marching bands and dancers cleared the field, and the crowd slowly chattered its way into
semisilence.
Two huge gravsleds whined through the end gates—gravsleds loaded with steel shrouding, lifting blocks,
and ropes. They hummed slowly down the field, each only a meter from the ground, halting at frequent
intervals. At each pause, sweating fatigue-clad soldiers jumped off the sleds and unloaded some of the
shrouding or blocks. Ropes and cables were piled beside each assemblage. By the time the gravsled
stopped next to the Imperial reviewing stand, the long field looked as if a child had scattered his building
blocks across it. Or, as was the case, an obstacle course had been improvised.
As the sleds lifted up over the castle itself, two large targets—solid steel backing, plus three-meter-thick
padding—were lowered from the castle walls to dangle 400 meters above the field. Then six bands
marched in through gates and blasted into sound. Some military-trivia types knew the tune was the official
Imperial Artillery marching song, but none of them knew the tune itself was an old, bawdy song
sometimes titled "Cannoneers have Hairy Ears."
Two smaller gravsleds then entered the parade ground through the gates. Each carried twenty beings and
a cannon. The cannons weren't the gigantic combat masers or the small but highly lethal laserblasts the
Imperial Artillery actually used. The wheeled cannons—mountain guns—were only slightly less ancient
than the black-powder, muzzle-loading cannons staring down from the battlements.
After the forty men had unloaded the two mountain guns, they doubled into formation and froze. The
leader of each group snapped to a salute and held it as a gunpowder weapon on the castle battlements
boomed and a white cloud spread over the parade ground. Then the forty cannoneers began.
The event was variously called "artillery competition." "cannon carry," or "impressive silliness." The object
of the competition between the two teams was fairly simple. Each team was to maneuver one mountain
gun from where it sat, through the obstacles, to a site near the Imperial stand. There it was to be loaded,
aimed at one of the targets, and fired. The first team to complete the exercise and strike the target won.
No antigrav devices were allowed, nor was it permitted to run around the obstacles. Instead, each gun
had to be disassembled and then carried/hoisted/levered/thrown over the blocks. The competition
required gymnastic skills. Since each team was moving somewhat over a thousand kilograms of metal,
the chances of crushed body parts was very high. Nevertheless, qualification for the Cannon Carry
Teams was intense among Imperial Artillerymen.
That year the competition was of particular interest; for the first time the finals were not between two of
the Guards Divisions. Instead, one team of nonhumans, from the XVIII Planetary Landing Force, would
challenge the top-ranked men and women of the Third Guards Division.
Another reason for spectator interest, of course, was that the cannon carry was one Empire Day event
that could be bet on. Official odds were unusual: eight to five in favor of the Third Guards. However,
actual betting ran somewhat differently. Prime World humans felt that the nonhumans, the N'Ranya, were
摘要：

/*/*]]*/ScannedbyHighroller.Proofed&re-formattedbynukie.MadeprettierbyuseofEBookDesignGroupStylesheet.TheCourtofaThousandSunsbyAllanColeandChrisBunchNoteThetitlesofBooks1,2,3,and4areParisianslangforvariouspartsoftheguillotine.The"bascule"istheboardonwhichthecondemnedmanislaid;the"lunette"isthecircul...

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