Chris Bunch & Allan Cole - Sten 4 - Fleet of the Damned

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Fleet of the Damned

Sten 4

Chris Bunch & Allan Cole

Note

The titles of Books 1, 2, 3, and 4 are derived from 17th-century a.d. Earth and were a series of

commands used to bring oceanic warships of the British Navy into battle. Book 5's title was a semiformal

command to ship's gunners.

—AC and CRB

BOOK ONE

LINE OF BATTLE

CHAPTER ONE

The Tahn battle cruiser arced past the dying sun. The final course was set, and in a few hours the ship

would settle on the gray-white surface of Fundy—the major planetary body in the Erebus System.

Erebus would seem to be the last place that any being would want to go. Its sun was so near extinction

that it cast only a feeble pale yellow light to its few heavily cratered satellites. The minerals left on those

barren bodies would barely have supported a single miner. Erebus was a place to give one dreams of

death.

Lady Atago listened impatiently to the radio chatter between her crew and the main port com center on

Fundy. The voices on the other end seemed lazy, uncaring, without discipline—a marked contrast to the

crisp string of words coming from her own crew. It grated her Tahn sensibilities.

The situation on Fundy had been neglected too long.

Lady Atago was a tall woman, towering over many of her officers. At casual glance some might think that

she was exotically beautiful—long, flowing dark hair, wide black eyes, and sensuous lips. Her body was

slender, but there was a hint of lushness to it. At the moment it was particularly well set off in her dress

uniform: a dark green cloak, red tunic, and green form-fitting trousers.

At second glance all thoughts of beauty would vanish as a chill crept up the spine. This was Tahn royalty.

A nod of her head could determine any one of many fates—all of them unpleasant.

As her ship punched into landing orbit, she glanced over at her captain, who was monitoring the actions

of the crew.

"Soon, my lady."

"I'll require one squad," she said.

Her head turned away, dismissing the captain. Lady Atago was thinking of those undisciplined fools

awaiting her on Fundy.

The big ship settled to the ice about half a kilometer from the port center. The engines cut off, and the

ship was instantly enveloped in gray as sleet slanted in from a stiff wind.

Most of the surface of Fundy was ice and black rock. It was an unlikely place for any enterprise, much

less the purpose it was being put to by its present occupants.

The Tahn were preparing for war against the Emperor, and the Erebus System was the cornerstone of

their plan. In great secrecy, Erebus had been converted into a system-wide warship factory.

So distant and so undesirable was Erebus that there was little likelihood that the Eternal Emperor would

discover their full-out effort to arm themselves until it was too late. Thousands of ships were being built,

or converted, or refitted.

When Lady Atago's battle cruiser entered the system, she could partially see those efforts. Small,

powerful tugs were towing hundreds of kilometer-long strings of the shells that would be turned into

fighting ships and then transported to ground for final refitting. Huge factories had been hastily

constructed on each of the planets, and the night skies had an eerie glow from the furnaces.

The Tahn had drafted every available laborer down to the barely skilled. The poor quality of their work

force was one of the several reasons the Tahn had chosen to concentrate so much of their manufacturing

on planets rather than in space. Deep space required highly trained workers, and that was something that

the massive arming had stretched to the near impossible. Also, deep-space factories required an

enormous investment, and the Tahn could already hear the coins clicking out of their treasury vaults.

They wanted as many ships as possible, as cheaply as possible. Any malfunctions, no matter how

life-threatening, would be the problem of the individual crews.

The Tahn were a warrior race with stamped steel spears.

Lady Atago paused at the foot of the ramp, surrounded by a heavily armed squad of her best troops.

This was her personal bodyguard, chosen not only for military skills and absolute loyalty but for size as

well. Each member of the squad dwarfed even Lady Atago. The troops shuffled in the sudden, intense

cold, but Atago just stood there, not even bothering to pull her thermo cloak about her.

She looked in disgust at the distant port center. Why had they landed her so far away? The incompetent

fools. Still, it didn't surprise her.

Lady Atago began walking determinedly through the snow; the squad followed her, their harness

creaking and their boots crunching through the icy surface. Big gravsleds groaned past, hauling parts and

supplies. On some of them, men and women clung to the sides, catching tenuous rides back and forth

from their shifts at the factories that ringed the port with smoke and towering flames.

The Lady Atago turned her head neither left nor right to observe the strange scene. She just stalked on

until they reached the center.

A sentry barked from a guard booth just outside the main door. She ignored him, brushing past as her

squad snapped up their weapons to end any further inquiry. Their boot-heels clicked loudly as they

marched down the long hallway leading to the admin center.

As they turned a corner, a squat man came half running toward them, hastily arranging his tunic. Lady

Atago stopped when she saw that he was wearing the uniform of an admiral. The man's face was

sweating and flushed as he reached them.

"Lady Atago," he blurted. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize you were arriving so soon, and—"

"Admiral Dien?" she said, stopping him in midgobble.

"Yes, my lady?"

"I will require your office," she said, and she walked on, Dien stumbling after her.

***

The Lady Atago sat in silence as she scanned the computer records. Two of her squad stood at the

door, weapons ready. The others had placed themselves strategically about the overlush offices of the

admiral.

When she had first entered the office she had given it one quick glance. A slight curl of a lip showed what

she thought of it: very un-Tahn-like.

As she scrolled through records, Dien muttered on in an endless stream of half explanations.

"There… there… you can see. The storm. We lost production for a day.

"And that item! We had to blast new landing strips to handle the freighters. The pressure was enormous,

my lady. The sky was black with them. And we had insufficient facil—"

He stopped abruptly as she palmed a switch and the computer screen went blank. She stared at it for a

long, long time. Finally, she rose to her feet and turned to face the man.

"Admiral Dien," she intoned. "In the name of Lord Fehrle and the Tahn High Council, I relieve you of

your command."

A painter or a physicist would have been in awe at the shade of white the man's face became. As she

started out of the room, one of her squad members came forward.

"Wait, my lady. Please," Dien implored.

She half turned back, one perfect eyebrow lifting slightly. "Yes?"

"Would you at least allow me… Uh, may I keep my sidearm?"

She thought for a moment. "Honor?"

"Yes, my lady. Honor."

There was another long wait. Then, finally, she replied. "No. I think not."

The Lady Atago exited, the door closing quietly behind her.

CHAPTER TWO

Sten and Lisa Haines squirmed through the mass confusion of the spaceport. As the main port for Prime

World, Soward had always suffered from overcrowding. But this was clotting ridiculous—it was arm to

tendril to antenna in beings.

The two became increasingly bewildered and unsettled as they pushed their way to the rented gravcar.

"What the hell is going on?" Sten asked, not really expecting a reply.

"I don't know," Lisa said, "but I think I'm already losing my tan, and if we don't get out of here, I'm gonna

be sick."

"Give me a break," Sten said. "Homicide detectives don't get sick. It's part of the job requirement."

"Watch me," Lisa said.

Sten grabbed her by the arm and steered the police captain around a staggering hulk of a young soldier.

"I don't think I've seen so many uniforms," he said, "since basic training."

They slid into the gravcar, and Sten checked with local traffic control for clearance. They were told there

would be a minimum forty-minute wait. An hour and a half later—after repeated delays blamed on

military traffic—they were finally able to lift away.

Things weren't much better as they cut through the city en route to Lisa's place. Fowler was in nearly

three-dimensional gridlock. The two hardly spoke at all until they finally cleared the outskirts and headed

for the enormous forest where Lisa had her houseboat moored.

***

"Was it always like this?" Lisa asked. "Or did I just get used to it?"

Commander Sten, formerly of the Eternal Emperor's Household Guard, didn't bother answering. The

uniforms plus the host of military vehicles and convoys they had spotted made it all pretty obvious.

It almost seemed as if Prime World were bracing for an invasion. That was an impossibility, Sten was

sure. But the Emperor sure as clot was mobilizing for a major military undertaking. And, Sten knew,

anything that involved shooting was almost certainly going to require that he once again risk his young ass.

"I don't think I even want to know—yet," he said. "Besides, we got a few days leave left. Let's enjoy

them."

Lisa snuggled up to him and began softly stroking the inside of his thigh.

By the time they reached Lisa's houseboat, the almost heady peacefulness they'd found on their long

leaves from their respective jobs had returned.

The "boat" swung lazily on its mooring lines high above the broad expanse of pristine forest. The forest

was one of the many protected wilderness areas the Emperor had set aside on Prime World. However,

since the headquarters planet of his enormous empire was overcrowded and rents and land prices were

astronomical, people were forced to become fairly creative about finding living space.

Lisa's salary as a cop was hardly overwhelming. So she and a great many other people had taken

advantage of a loophole in the Emperor's Wilderness Act. One couldn't build in the forest, but the law

didn't say anything about over the forest.

So her landlord had leased the unsettleable land and then provided large McLean-powered houseboats

to anyone would could pay the freight. It was a squeeze, but Lisa made sure she could afford it.

They tied up to the side and walked across the deck to the door. Lisa pressed her thumb against the

fingerprint lock, and the door slid open. Before they entered she carefully checked the interior—a cop

habit she would never lose. It was one of many things she shared in common with Sten. After his years of

Mantis service, it was impossible for him to enter a room without making sure that things were reasonably

as they should be.

A few minutes later, they were sprawled on a couch, the windows opened wide to clear out the musty

air.

Sten sipped at his beer, half hoping it would wash away the slight feeling of sadness growing in his belly.

He had been in love before, had known his share of women. But he had never been alone with a lady for

this long a time, with no other requirement than to enjoy.

Lisa squeezed his hand. "Too bad it's almost over," she said softly.

Sten turned to her.

"Well, it ain't over yet," he said. He pulled her into his arms.

Sten and Lisa had performed admirably, everyone agreed, in thwarting the high-level conspiracy against

the Emperor. Things hadn't worked out even close to perfection, of course, but one can't have

everything.

Regardless, they had both been promoted and awarded leaves of several months. Thanks to Sten's old

Mantis chum, Ida, there was more than enough money to enjoy the leave in style.

So the two had bought tickets to a distant world that consisted mostly of vast ocean and thousands of

idyllic islands. They had charted an amphib and had spent week after blissful week hopping from island

to island or just mooring out in the gentle seas, soaking up the sun and each other.

During those months they had purposefully avoided all news of or contact with the outside. There were

scorched nerves to soothe and futures to be vaguely considered.

Sten wasn't too sure how much he was looking forward to his own immediate future. The Emperor had

not only promoted him but had heavily advised that he switch services from the army to the Imperial

Navy. Advice from the Commander And Chief Of All He Surveys, Sten knew, was the same thing as an

order.

So it was with a mixture of dread and some excitement that Sten contemplated what would come next.

Entering the navy, even as a commander, meant that he would have to start all over again. That meant

flight school. Sten wondered if he could get his old job back if he washed out. Clot, he'd even be willing

to go back to being a nice, dumb, not-a-care-in-the-world private.

Right. And if you believe that, my boy, there's some prime swamp land available at a dead bargain price

on a Tahn prison planet.

Sten came slowly awake. He felt to one side and noted Lisa's absence. She was across the large main

room of the houseboat, shuffling through her computer files for mail and phone calls.

"Bill," she muttered. "Bill, bill, bill, letter, bill, police union dues, letter… Clot! Knock it off, you guys. I've

been on vacation."

"Anything for me?" Sten asked lazily. Since he had no home address—nor had he since he was

seventeen—he had left word for everything to be forwarded to Lisa's place.

"Yeah. About fifty bleeping phone calls. All from the same guy."

Sten sat up, a nasty feeling growing slowly from his stomach to his throat.

"Who?"

"A Captain Hanks."

Sten walked over to her and bent over her shoulder, tapping the keys to bring up the file. There they

were, all right: call after call from a Captain Hanks. And Lisa hadn't been exaggerating by much—there

were nearly fifty of them.

Sten tapped the key that gave him Hanks's recorded message. He was a shrill, whiny man whose voice

went from basic urgency to ten-alarm emergency. But the gist of it was that Sten was wanted

immediately, if not sooner. As soon as he returned he was to consider any remainder of his leave

canceled. He was to report to Imperial Flight Training.

"Drakh," Sten said.

He walked away from the computer and stared out the open window at the green waving forest, his brain

churning. He felt Lisa gentle up behind him, her arms coming softly around his waist.

"I feel like crying," she said. "Funny. I don't think I ever have."

"It's easy," Sten said. "You just squint up your eyes and think about almost anything at all."

Sten did not report immediately as ordered. He and Lisa had a lot of good-byes to say.

CHAPTER THREE

The eternal emperor had definite ideas about a picnic.

A soft rain of five or ten minutes that ended just before the guests arrived added a sweetness to the air.

Said rain had been ordered and delivered.

He thought that a breeze with just a bit of an invigorating chill in it whetted appetites. As the day

progressed, the breeze should become balmy, so the picnickers could loll under the shade trees to

escape the warming sun.

Said gentle, shifting winds had also been ordered.

Last of all, the Eternal Emperor thought a barbecue the best form of all picnics, with each dish personally

prepared by the host.

The Eternal Emperor scanned the vast picnic grounds of Arundel with growing disappointment as he

added a final dash of this and splurt of that to his famous barbecue sauce. Meanwhile, all over the picnic

grounds, fifty waldo cooks manning as many outdoor kitchen fires exactly copied his every dash and

splurt.

Hundreds of years before, the Emperor's semi-annual barbecue had begun as a nonofficial event. He

started it because he loved to cook, and to love to cook is to watch others enjoy what you have lovingly

prepared. At first, only close friends were invited: perhaps 200 or so—a number he could easily handle

with a few helpers. In fact, the Emperor believed there were many dishes that reached near perfection

when prepared in quantities of this size: his barbecue sauce, for instance.

It was a simple event he could comfortably fit on a small shaded area of the fifty-five-kilometer grounds

of his palace.

Then he had become aware of growing jealousy among the members of his court. Beings were irked

because they felt they were not part of a nonexistent inner circle. His solution was to add to the guest

list—which created a spreading circle of jealousy as far out as the most distant systems of his empire.

The list grew to vast proportions.

Now, a minimum of 8,000 could be expected. There was no way the Emperor could personally prepare

food in those proportions. The clotting thing was getting out of hand. It was in danger of becoming an

official event—the likes of an Empire Day.

He had been tempted to end the whole thing. But the barbecue was one of the few social occasions he

really enjoyed. The Eternal Emperor did not consider himself a good mixer.

The solution to the cooking was simple: He had a host of portable outdoor kitchens built and the waldo

cooks to tend them. Every motion he made, they duplicated, down to the smallest molecule of spice

dusted from his hands. The solution to the now-official social nature of the event, however, proved

impossible. So the Eternal Emperor decided to take advantage of it.

He invited only the key people in his empire to Prime World, and he used any potential jealousy of the

uninvited to his advantage. As he once told Mahoney, "It's a helluva way to flush 'em out of the bush."

The Emperor sniffed his simmering sauce: Mmmm… Perfect. It was a concoction whose beginnings were

so foul-looking and smelling that Marr and Senn, his Imperial caterers, refused to attend. They took a

holiday in some distant place every time he threw a barbecue.

The original creation was born in a ten-gallon pot. He always made it many days in advance. He said it

was to give it time to breathe. Marr and Senn substituted "breed," but the Emperor ignored that. The ten

gallons of base sauce was used sort of like soughdough starter—all he had to do was to keep adding as

many ingredients as there were beings to eat it.

He dipped a crust of hard bread into the sauce and nibbled. It was getting better. He looked around the

picnic area again. All the fires were ready. The meat was stacked in coolers, ready for the spits. The side

dishes were bubbling or chilling, and the beer was standing in barrels, ready to be tapped.

Where were the guests? He was beginning to realize that either some of the beings he had invited were

terribly late or they had no intention of coming at all. Already, retainers were putting tarps on tables that

would obviously not be used.

Clot them! What's a picnic without a few ants? He refused to have his good time spoiled. The sauce, he

told himself. Concentrate on the sauce.

The secret to the sauce was the scrap meat. It had taken the Emperor years to convince his butchers

what he meant by scrap. He did not want slices off the finest fillet. He needed garbage beef, so close to

spoiling that the fat was turning yellow and rancid. The fact that he rubbed it well with garlic, rosemary,

and salt and pepper did not lessen the smell. "If you're feeling squeamish," he always told Mahoney, "sniff

the garlic on your hands."

A few more gravcars slid in. Guests hurried out, blinking at the smoke rising from the fires. The Emperor

noticed that they were gathering in tiny groups and talking quickly in low voices. There were many

glances in his direction. The gossip was so thick, he could smell it over the sauce.

The sauce meat was placed in ugly piles on racks that had been stanchioned over smoky fires—at this

stage the recipe wanted little heat, but a great deal of smoke from hardwood chips. The Emperor liked

hickory when he could get it. He constantly flipped the piles of meat so that the smoke flavor would

penetrate. In this case, the chemistry of the near-spoiled scraps aided him: They were drying and porous

and sucking at the air.

Then he—and his echoing waldoes—dumped the meat into the pot, filled it with water, and set it

simmering with cloves of garlic and the following spices: three or more bay leaves, a cupped palm and a

half of oregano, and a cupped palm of savory to counteract the bitterness of the oregano.

Then the sauce had to simmer a minimum of two hours, sometimes three, depending upon the amount of

fat in the meat—the more fat, the longer the simmer. The picnic grounds smelled like a planet with an

atmosphere composed mostly of sulfur.

The Emperor saw Tanz Sullamora arrive with an enormous retinue that easily took over two or three

tables. Sullamora would be a booster. The merchant prince was not a man whose company the Emperor

particularly enjoyed. He didn't like the fawning clot, but he needed him. The man's industrial influence

was huge, and he had also had close connections with the Tahn, prior to the current difficulties. The

Emperor hoped that when the current difficulties were settled, those connections could be reestablished.

The Eternal Emperor had experienced many difficulties in his life—not to mention in his reign—but the

Tahn had to be high up there on the lost sleep list.

They were an impossible people from a warrior culture that had been steadily encroaching on his empire.

A thousand or two years ago he could have easily solved the problem by launching his fleets in one

massive raid. But over time the politics of his commercial empire had made this an impossibility, unless he

were provoked—and the provocation would have to be costly. The Eternal Emperor could not strike the

first blow.

A few months earlier he'd had the opportunity to begin building a diplomatic solution to his difficulties.

But the opportunity had been lost through betrayal and blood.

Who was that young clot who had saved the Emperor's royal ass? Stregg? No, Sten. Yeah. Sten. The

Eternal Emperor prided himself on remembering names and faces. He kept them logged by the hundreds

of thousands in his mind. Stregg, he remembered, was a vicious drink that Sten had introduced him to. It

was a good thing to remember the young man by.

While he was waiting for the meat to simmer to completion, he could drink many shots of Stregg and

prepare the next part of the sauce at his leisure.

There were many possibilities, but the Emperor liked using ten or more large onions,

garlic-cloves—always use too much garlic—chili peppers, green peppers, more oregano and savory, and

Worcestershire sauce. He had once tried to explain to Mahoney how Worcestershire was made, but the

big Irishman had gagged when told that the process started with well-rotted anchovies.

He sautéed all that in clarified butter. Then he dumped the mixture into another pot and set it to bubbling

with a dozen quartered tomatoes, a cup of tomato paste, four green peppers, and a two-fingered pinch

of dry mustard.

A healthy glug or three of very dry red wine went into the pot. Then he added the finishing touch. He

stirred in the smoky starter sauce that he had prepared in advance, raised the heat, and simmered ten

minutes. The sauce was done.

He drank some more Stregg.

Two of his cooks speared an enormous side of beef on a spit and set it rotating over the fire. Meanwhile,

a pig's carcass was being quartered and set turning. It was time to start the barbecue.

By now, the Emperor realized that all the guests who were coming were there. A quick glance at the

tables showed that a full two-thirds of his invitation list were busy elsewhere.

The Emperor decided to check the list later. He would remember the names.

He got out his brush and started sopping the roasting meat with sauce. The fire flared with the rich

drippings. A smoky perfume filled the air all over the picnic grounds as the waldo cooks followed his

motions. Usually, this was the time when the Emperor would settle back for a lazy basting: a beer for him,

a brush of sauce for the meat.

It was also a time when he pretended great indifference to the rapturous faces of his guests. His mood

blackened as he saw the sea of faces tight and worried.

What were the Tahn doing, anyway? Intelligence was zilch. Mercury Corps had never been the same

since he had promoted Mahoney.

"Clotting Mahoney," he said aloud. "Where the hell is he when I need him?"

The voice came from just behind him. "Fetching you a beer, Your Highness."

It was Major General Ian Mahoney, commanding general, First Guards Division. He clutched two mugs

overflowing with foam.

"What the clot are you doing here? You weren't invited."

"Arranged some leave, sir. Perks of being your own CG. Thought you wouldn't mind."

"Hell, no. If you're gonna sneak up on a man, I always say, do it with beer."

CHAPTER FOUR

Mahoney wiped the last of the sauce off his plate with the thick stub of garlic bread, bit into the bread,

and sighed. He took a deep honk of beer and then squeegeed the plate with the rest of the bread. He

popped it down and settled back.

The Eternal Emperor, who'd barely touched his own plate, was watching him with great interest.

"Well?" he said.

"Heaven," Mahoney said. He took another sip of beer. "Excuse me. Heaven, sir."

The Emperor took a small bite from his own plate, frowning. "Maybe a bit too much cumin this time."

Mahoney gave a deep belch. He looked at the Emperor inquiringly, and the man passed his nearly full

plate over to Mahoney, who shoveled in a mouthful of satisfying proportions.

"No. Not too much cumin," the Emperor said. He leaned his chair back to catch the last warm light of the

sun. The Eternal Emperor appeared to be a man much younger than Mahoney. Midthirties, perhaps.

Heavily muscled—like an ancient decathlon champion. He let the sun soak in, waiting to hear Mahoney's

real purpose.

Finally, Mahoney took one more swig of beer, wiped his lips, straightened his tunic, and sat up in near

attention in his seat.

"Your Majesty," he said, "I respectfully request permission to deploy the First Guards in the Fringe

Worlds."

"Really," the Eternal Emperor said. "The Fringe Worlds? I suppose you're worrying about the Tahn."

Mahoney just looked at his boss. By now, he occasionally knew when he was being toyed with.

"Yes, sir. The Tahn."

The Eternal Emperor could not help sweeping the picnic grounds with his eyes. The few guests who had

bothered to show had left early, and the waiter bots were already cleaning up. In half an hour the area

would be pristine—all broad lawns and rare azaleas.

The Eternal Emperor pointed to one of the flowering bushes.

"You know how many years I worked on those, Mahoney?"

"No, sir."

"Too many. The things love dry climates. Aussie deserts, that kind of drakh."

"Aussie, Your Majesty?"

"Never mind. Point is, I hate clotting flowers. Can't eat the SOBs. What's the damned use of them? I

say."

"Exactly, sir. What's the use of them?"

The Eternal Emperor plucked a flower from a nearby bush and began stripping it, petal by petal.

"What do you think they're up to? The Tahn, I mean."

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, I think they're getting ready to kick our rosy red behinds."

"No drakh. What the clot you think I've been doing?"

The Emperor pulled the handle of a keg and sudsed more beer into his glass. He started to drink, then set

the glass down. He thought for a while, making endless concentric rings that cut in on each other again

and again.

"The trouble, Mahoney," he finally said, "is that I got a clot more to move than the Tanh. Just to hold

what I have, I have to double my fleet. For a counterattack, I need another third. For a full assault, twice

more.

"A thousand years ago or so, I swore I'd never come to this. Silliness. Too big. Too much to protect.

Chris Bunch & Allan Cole - Sten 4 - Fleet of the Damned

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