Battlecry: Sten: Omnibus One (Sten Omnibus) (27 page)

‘On my command,’ the Jannisar captain said harshly. ‘Goblin tubes two, four, six, prepare to launch. Launch.’

Metal clanged as the three long-range missile tubes lifted above the cruiser’s outer skin. Oxygen and solid fuel boiled from the tubes as the Goblins fired.

‘We have a launch on missile six and missile two … launch on missile four … missile four, misfire.’

‘Attempt reignition,’ the captain said.

‘Reignition attempted,’ the weapons officer droned. ‘Attempt unsuccessful. Missile failed to ignite. Primary ignition circuits defunct … secondary ignition circuits defunct, missile falled to self-arm.’

A Jannisar will never show emotion, the captain thought. He cut off the weapons room circuit, then looked at his executive officer. His expression was also blank. Malfunctions weren’t, after all, that unexpected. By the time an Imperial warship was sold, it had generally seen a lot of combat. But still, the captain thought furiously, with the proper tools, what we Jannisar could do in the name of Talamein!

Then he refocused his attention on the missile tracking screen, as the two 5kt missiles homed on the fleeing
Cienfuegos
.

‘Guess he told me,’ Ida said ‘They’ve launched missiles.’

‘How long?’ Sten asked.

‘Impact in … eighty-three secouds. We’ve got a whole lifetime.’

‘Not funny,’ Sten managed as he dropped into a weapons seat and tugged on the helmet.

Into a gray half-world. Part of him ‘saw’ the ghost-images of the other soldiers in the control room. But suddenly he was the missile.

The weapons control system was, of course, no different from the feelies. The helmet’s contact rested on the base of the skull and induced direct perception to the brain. The operator, using a standard joystick and remote throttle, kamikazied the missile directly to the target.

Sten ‘saw’ the port open before him … a froth of air expired … then the streaked blackness as his CM missile launched. He flipped another switch on the panel and launched ‘himself’ again. He kept the second antimissile-missile on a slave circuit, holding a path to his flank.

Sten dimly heard Bet, from another panel, snap, ‘Gremlin flight nine launched … all ECM A-A-A operational … waiting for contact … waiting for contact.’

The Gremlins were small antimissiles that provided a false target signature identical to the
Cienfuegos
. Dead silence, waiting either for the Gremlins to divert and explode the Goblins or for Sten to close his own missiles into range.

Alex noticed that sweat had beaded on Ida’s lip hair. Then blinked as salt droplets rolled down his forehead, into his eyes. He deliberately looked over at Doc, Hugin, and Munin.

The tigers were pacing back and forth, their tails lashing. Doc sat perfectly still on the tabletop.

‘I have a diversion on missile one,’ Bet called suddenly. ‘The bassid’s turnin’ … come on, you. Come on … right on and …’ She blanked her pickup as one Goblin, idiot sure its mission was accomplished, blew a meter-long diversionary missile into nothingness.

‘Dummy,’ Bet said triumphantly, pulling off her helmet.

Sten suddenly muttered obscenities, yanked stick and controls back: ‘Stupid missile’s got a misfiring engine … no way to get a track on it.’

The second Goblin arrowed straight into Sten’s vision – and Sten desperately stabbed at the manual det switch.

The small nuclear head on his missile fireballed … but Sten had already switched ‘himself’ to the second countermissile, spun it on its own axis, and pushed full drive.

‘You have a negative hit on that,’ Ida said, keeping her voice calm.

Sten didn’t answer. He was slowly overhauling the Jann missile. He closed in … and his helmet automatically switched him from radar to realtime visual.

Gotcha … gotcha … gotcha … he thought as the blackened drive tubes of the Goblin grew visible.

‘Seven seconds till contact,’ Ida said, wondering how her voice stayed level.

And Sten fired his missile.

Another atomic fireball.

‘I still have a – nope, I don’t. Radar echo. We got ’em all, Lieutenant, old buddy.’

Sten took off the helmet; he blinked around the control room. He’d stayed with his missile right until det point – and his mind insisted that the explosion had temporarily flare-blinded his eyes. Slowly the room went from negative to overexposed to normal.

Nobody applauded. They were, after all, professionals. The only comment was Alex’s: ‘An’ noo y’ken whae a Scotsman wearit kilts. It’s so he noo hae to change trews when aught like this happens.’

‘Fine,’ Sten said. ‘First problem out of the way. With only two long-range launches, that’s probably all they’ve got. Which means they’ll close with us in …’

‘Four hours,’ Ida said.

‘Four hours. Perfectly lovely. Find us a place to hide. Preferably some nice world about 6AU wide with one hundred per cent cloud cover.’

Ida swung the scope console down on its retracting arm and started scanning the space-globe around them.

‘Here’s the plan. Ida’ll find some world where we can go to ground,’ Sten said, in his best command voice. ‘Maybe we’ll be able to reach it before the bad guys catch up with us. We’ll go in-atmosphere, set it down—’

‘Set
this
clunk down in-atmosphere?’ Ida asked.

‘—then we’ll sit on what hopefully is a tropic isle until they get tired of lurking and we can go home.’

‘You call that a plan?’

‘Doc, you got an alternative to sitting around up here and dying a lot’?’ Sten asked.

The team got to work.

‘The enemy ship has diverted course, Sigfehr,’ the Jann XO said. ‘Probability is they are plotting landfall on Bannang IV.’

Involuntarily the captain started, then composed himself. ‘That ship cannot be from any world in Lupus Cluster.’

‘Obviously not, sir.’

‘That increases my interest. An out-cluster ship, with enough antimissile capability to deter even us. Obviously a ship with what must be considered a valuable cargo. What is our closing rate?’

‘We will be within intercept missile range in three hours, sir.’

‘And Bannang IV?’

‘They could in-atmosphere at approximately the same time.’

The captain allowed himself a smile. ‘Were I not interested in their cargo, it would be tempting to allow them to land on Bannang. It is true – Talamein will revenge his own.’

‘Your orders, sir?’

‘Unchanged. Continue the pursuit. And destroy them.’

‘It ain’t much of a world,’ Ida said, ‘but it’s the best I can do.’

Sten eyed the screen, half-consciously read it aloud: ‘Single solar system. Sun pretty much G-one yellow dwarf … five worlds … That’s too close to the sun. Desert world … two methane giants.’

‘Unknown IV looks like home,’ Ida put in.

‘Unknown IV it is. Let’s see … about twelve thousand km on the polar axis. Spectograph – where the hell – okay: acceptable minims on atmosphere. Grav’s a little lighter’n normal. Mostly land … acceptable bodies of water … single source of electronic emission.’

‘So it’s inhabited,’ Bet said from the galley area.

‘Which is where we won’t put it down. Maybe they’re related to these clowns on our tail. You’re right, Ida. That’s our new home.’

‘
Maybe
it’s our new home,’ Doc said. ‘Both screens, you will note, show about the same figure. We’ll reach your Unknown Four just about the same time as the
Turnmaa
. The suspense should be most interesting.’ He pulled a chunk of raw soyasteak from Munin’s plate and swallowed it.

Sten itemized: ground packs, weapons, surface suits, survival gear, first-contact pouches … as ready as possible.

The computer clacked and spat out seven small cards. Each duplicated the data held in the
Cienfuegos’
computer – the data the spy ship had been dispatched to gather, an analysis of a mineral found on a world in the now-distant Eryx Cluster.

Sten wondered if he’d ever find out why the Emperor was so interested in the gray rock that sat on the mess table in front of him. His but to do, keep from dying, and not ask classified questions.

He distributed the cards to the team members and tucked one each into Hugin and Munin’s neck pouches.

‘Ah hae to admire a mon wi’ organization,’ Alex said. ‘Noo a’ wha Ah hae to worry aboot is splittin’ yon sample. Ah gie it a whirl an hour ago.’

‘And?’ Sten asked curiously.

‘Two iridium drills, two shipsteel crystals, an’ one scratch in m’ mum’s heirloom diamond. It’s hard, it is.’

Sten’s hand dropped, fingers curled. From the sheath in his arm a crystal knife dropped into his hand. Sten had grown it on Vulcan while doing time in the deadly industrial Hellworld for labor sabotage.

Double-edged, with a skeleton grip, the knife had a single purpose. To kill. There was no guard, only grooves on the end of the haft. The knife was about 22cm long and only 2.5cm thick.

Its blade, however, was barely 15 molecules wide. Far sharper than any razor could be. Laid against a diamond, with no pressure, it would cut smoothly through.

Sten carefully held the ore sample in one hand and started cutting. He was somewhat surprised – the blade met some resistance.

‘Aye,’ Alex said. ‘Ah nae ken whae we’re doin’ aie this. A substance ae tha’ … it’s price is beyond reckon.’

‘Worst abortion anybody’s ever seen,’ Ida said proudly.

‘Worse than that,’ Doc added. ‘Ugly. Misshapen. Improbable. It should work just fine.’

While the others in the team were readying themselves for landing, Doc and Ida had been building the decoy, three Gremlin antimissile missiles. The first was rebuilt to broadcast a radar echo like the
Cienfuegos
. The second was modified to provide an extremely eccentric evasion pattern, and the third was to provide diversionary launches, much as the
Cienfuegos
would under direct attack.

Finally the entire team stood around the three welded missiles, deep in the cargo hold of the ship.

‘Pretty,’ Sten said. ‘But will it work?’

‘Who the hell will ever find out?’ Bet said. ‘If it does, we’re fine. If it doesn’t …’

She turned and headed for the bridge. Hugin and Munin paced solemnly behind her.

‘Closing contact,’ the Jannisar XO reported.

The captain ignored him for a moment. He was running tactical moves through his brain – the enemy ship will (a) engage in combat … and be destroyed; (b) surrender … impossible; (c) launch a diversion and enter atmosphere.

Only possibility …

‘ECM room,’ he called up. ‘Report readiness.’

The delay was long. ‘Most units in readiness, Sigfehr. Interdiction system standing by, target/differ system plus/minus forty per cent, blocking at full standby.’

His screen broke: 32
MINUTES UNTIL INTERCEPT ... 33 MINUTES UNTIL TARGET BREAKS ATMOSPHERE.

The crab
Cienfuegos
continued its so-far-successful scuttle.

Inside the control room, Mantis troopers were tightly strapped down – including the tigers who, isolated in their capsules, were somewhat less than happy about the state of the world. The battle was, from then on, in the hands of whatever gods still existed in the fortieth century.

Except for the tigers, all were clad in the phototrope camouflage gear of operational Mantis soldiers. They wore no badges, no indication of rank, just the black on their left collar tabs and the flat-black Mantis emblem on their right.

Three screens glowed dully – the proximity detector locked on the Jann cruiser, the main monitor on the upcoming world, whose atmosphere had already begun to show as a hazy glare, and Ida’s central nav-screen.

Doc provided the needless and somewhat sadistic commentary: ‘Sixteen minutes until atmosphere … 15 minutes until the
Turnmaa
is in firing range … 15 minutes/fourteen minutes … 14.90 minutes … 14.30 minutes; congratulations, Ida, you’ve picked up a lead.’

Alex broke in. The tubby three-gee-world Scotsman was lying on his accel couch. He’d insisted that if he were going to die, he was going to die in uniform. And the others agreed.

‘It wae back ae Airt … ane, b’fore the Emp’ror, even. In those days, m’ancestors wae called Highlanders, aye.’

‘Twelve minutes, even, and closing,’ Ida announced flatly.

‘Now, in th’ elder days, tha’ Brits wae enemies. E’en tha, we Scots ran th’ Empire tha had, wi’out tha’ known it.’

In spite of the tension, Sten got interested.

‘Howinhell, Alex, can anybody run an empire without the boss knowing about it?’

‘Ten minutes to atmosphere,’ Doc said.

‘Ah ’splain thae some other time, lad. So, one braw day, there’s this reg’mint ae Brit guards, aw braw an’ proud in their red uniforms an’ muskits. An’ th’ walkin’ along thro’ this wee glen, wi’ they band playin’ an’ drumits crashin’ an singin’ and carryin’ on, an’ all ae sudden, they hears this shout frae th’crags abouve ’em. “Ah’m Red Rory a’ th’ Glen!”

‘An’ th’ Brit general ’e looks up th’ crag, an’ here’s this braw enormous Highlander, wi’ his kilt blowin’ an’ his bearskin o’er one
shoulder an’ aye this braw great claymore in his hand. ’E has this great flowit beard on him.

‘An’ yon giant, ’e shouts just again, “Ah’m Red Rory a’ th’ Glen! Send oop y’best pickit man.”

‘An’ so the Brit gen’rl tums to his adj’tant an’ says, “Adj’tant! Send up our best man. Ah wan’ tha’ mon’s head!”’

‘Hold on the story,’ Ida cut in coldly. ‘We’re on launch.’

Dead silence in the control room … except for the increased panting of the lashed-down tigers.

Consider three objects, the target/goal, the pursurer, and the pursued. Seconds … now milliseconds in the light-year chase … as the
Cienfuegos
tries to hide in-atmosphere. Three factors in the equation. And then an unexpected fourth as the decoy-missile launches.

‘Captain! I have a double target!’

‘Hold course. Repeat, hold course. ECM room, do you have a selection?’

‘Negative, captain. We have a negative … Talamein help us … all systems lost in ground-clutter.’

The captain closed the com circuit. Forced down the sailor oaths that rose unasked in his regimented memory. Substituted a prayer. ‘May the spirit of Talamein – as seen in his only true prophet Ingild – be with us. All stations! Stand by for combat!’