Revenge of the Damned (39 page)

And before he knew it, Sten was being strong-armed into the wedge and carried off to clot knew where.

More than a million bodies were crammed into Heath's gigantic central square. The late-morning sun was turning hotter, and the crowd was packed so densely that the stink from their sweating bodies rose like fog from a primordial swamp.

Vidscreens many stories high had been set up on three sides. On the fourth was a towering porta-stage, behind it the blackened hole and rains of all that was left of the Tahn High Council's palace after the Imperial bombing raid.

Sten's group was trotted around the edges of the crowd to its front, and huge placards were thrust into their hands. Still waiting for the ax to fall, Sten glanced at the sign he held. "Down With Imperialist Hegemony!" it screamed in thick, blood-red letters.

A big sergeant threatened with a stun rod. "Wave the sign!" he screamed like a basic-training drill instructor.

"Oh. Okay," Sten said. And he waved the sign.

"Cheer for victory!" the sergeant advised him at the top of his lungs.

"Sure," Sten said.

And he began cheering for victory. Taking a clue from the others, he pumped his sign up and down vigorously. To begin with, he confined himself to bellows about nothing. Then, as the crowd's voice grew into an incomprehensible roar, Sten started relaxing. He was not in trouble at all. All he had to do was stand there and demonstrate for the Tahn livie camera crews, hear whatever speech he was supposed to listen to, and then go home when it was over. No problem. So he would be a couple of hours late.

Then he remembered the peculiar habit all totalitarian speakers had of railing on for half the day, and corrected that to maybe five or six hours late. It would be wearying, but he had undergone far worse on many other cesspools—such as the Lupus Cluster, where the phrase "papal bull" took on new meaning. So he decided to enjoy himself a little and mixed in a few obscenities with his bellows.

Five hours later Sten realized he had yet to cure himself of optimism. The crowd was still screaming—even louder than before—and any sign of weariness was quickly prodded out of them by roving cops with stun rods set on blister. And on the stage there was still no sign of activity.

Then from the distance he heard a howling sound that triggered his old infantryman's instincts, and he hunched his shoulders and pulled his neck in just before a black tacship squadron popped up over the horizon behind the ruined palace and thundered over the crowd so low that it gave the lie to the fact that there were no nerves in bone marrow.

It was all Sten could do to keep from flinging himself to the ground as that squadron was followed by another and then another, and then the whole sky became black as a thick fleet of battlewagons came between the sun and the ground in an awesome display of Tahn military might.

Even Sten was impressed at first, but then he began noticing things. There was something visibly and obviously out of kilter if one picked any single ship out of the mass. They were all creaky, battered, and old, with signs of hasty repairs, leaking fuel lines, and thick armor plate watted over gaping battle scars. But apparently only Sten noticed that, because the tone of the crowd changed from enforced duty to thrill.

A moment later, the sky cleared and Sten found his professional cynicism washing away, to be replaced by cold fear as he saw three of the biggest and most awesome battleships ever built parade into view. Their hulls were sleek and as black as a null star. The many artistically crafted ports hinted at firepower that would make the editors of
Jane's
weep in frustration at not having a picture and breakdown for their new fiche. Sten was only beginning to guess what those ports hid when the ships rumbled overhead and then passed from view.

The crowd's voice was momentarily stilled by pride and awe. Even the cops were quiet, their eyes glazed with patriotic fervor. It was like a religious experience, Sten thought. The Tahn's Great Spirit obviously loved things that went bang. Sten wondered wryly what Lay Reader Cristata would make of it.

A low hum broke off his thoughts, and Sten found himself craning back around along with the rest of the crowd to find its source. It came from the ashes of the palace.

He stared in fascination as something blazing white lifted from the ruins. It was shaped like an enormous spoked wheel, and it hovered just above the ruins for a few minutes, as if waiting for the last of the ashes to be repelled by the purity of the white and shower to the ground. Finally, it rose about half a kilometer above the ruins, then smoothly moved toward the stage.

Sten's head stalked back along with a million-plus others as a huge port slid open and a large black capsule appeared. The capsule broke away and settled silently down until it nearly touched the stage. There was a series of sharp cracks, and then red pods shot out and the capsule grounded, its legs taking up the weight.

Silence. Not a mutter or a whisper from the crowd. Then martial music trumpeted from giant vidscreen speakers. A portion of the capsule's smooth skin broke away, revealing a yawning arced doorway. Uniformed Tahn guardsmen marched swiftly out, their boots reaching knee level and then slamming down in unison.

They took positions around the stage. Sten noted swiftly that their weapons were not ceremonial and were kept at edgy ready. He saw officers among them—probably Intelligence—scanning the ground, looking for any hint of trouble. There was none. The crowd was firmly in the arms of its leaders. Music swelled louder, and first one and then another member of the Tahn High Council appeared.

As they spread out on stage, Sten automatically checked their positions against his small mental library of vidpics of the council, making what he could of who was in favor and who was not by where they stood.

Except for the absence of Pastour and Lord Wichman's spot directly to the right of the empty center place of honor, he could detect no difference. He quit trying as soon as he saw the first of the combat-clad Tahn soldiers wheel out of the doorway: The man towered well above the others on the stage. He was joined by another and then another, all equally tall. The squad formed up, and as Sten remembered where he had seen those troopers before, Lady Atago stepped out behind them. Her personal guardsmen were probably among the few Tahn in the empire who were taller than Atago.

The crowd erupted into a howl of greeting as the guardsmen marched her to the place of honor, then withdrew. But not very far, Sten saw. They were hovering right behind and on either side, ready to throw themselves around her as living shields if necessary.

Lady Atago stretched both arms over her head, and the cheers of the crowd became even louder—so loud that they echoplexed and howled as the vidscreen speakers picked up the reverb. For a moment, although he was surrounded by many times more than a million beings, Sten felt completely alone.

He remembered the last time he had seen Lady Atago. It had been back on Cavite in the early days of the war. She had worn a red cloak and green tunic, just as she did now. And she stood barely 150 meters away. He remembered that brief moment when he had shifted the willygun until the green tunic was centered in the cross hairs. He had inhaled, let out half that breath, and taken up the slack on the trigger. In a moment an AM2 round would blow a fist-sized hole in that tunic. And then Atago's bodyguards were moving like a corps de ballet, closing around their charge—and all Sten could see was the white of their uniforms instead of the red and the green.

To this day, Sten was not sure whether he had missed the shot out of cowardice or lost an opportunity. As he watched her, he cursed himself for both. It did not matter which side of the coin came down. Both were losers. And he could not help wondering what would have happened if he had succeeded. Who would be standing on the stage now? Wichman? Pastour? Anyone at all?

On the stage, Lady Atago had lowered her arms and let the cheers wash over her. Then she raised them again, asking for silence. She got it.

"Thank you, my fellow Tahn," she began, "for joining us in this celebration."

Sten saw not a flicker among the rapt faces around him. To the crowd there was no incongruity in the fact that they had not joined anything voluntarily. And what was there to celebrate?

"These are trying times for us, my people," Atago continued. "Our resolve is being tested more than in any other era after the Great Shame. And it is this resolve of ours—this dedication to victory basic to our Tahn way of life—that we celebrate today.

"But there is more than just resolve that makes up the Tahn genetic code. There is also the absolute willingness to sacrifice all to preserve—"

She waited, and then the final word snapped out of the speakers like a metal-tipped whip.

"Honor!"

"
Honor
!" the crowd screamed back. "
Honor
!"

"Yes, honor," Lady Atago said. "Let no outlander mistake the meaning of this word to the Tahn. To us it is not just a phrase requiring sacrifice for the future of our children and their children's children. Because we would sacrifice all for honor. And we are willing to die to the last Tahn lest our honor be fouled."

Again she held the moment, bowing her head.

"For without honor there can be no future," she went on. "Without honor the Tahn are extinct as a race. And if we all die to fulfill this unique and holy vision of ourselves, what does it matter? We may all be gone, but we still will have left our mark on history.

"And a thousand years from now—and a thousand after that—beings will read of us and marvel at the standard for honor we set. And they will curse themselves for their weaknesses and damn themselves as cowards because no living thing will ever achieve that mark again. But they all died, their children may protest. And their parents will nod, yes. But they died for…
honor!

It took a half hour for the crowd to calm down before Lady Atago could go on. They shouted and wept and hugged one another and passed children from shoulder to shoulder so they could reach out and touch history.

Lady Atago kept very still during that time, letting the wave of sound wash over her, seemingly unaffected. Her face was stern—and waiting.

"And so, my fellow Tahn," she continued when the time was right. "I have called you here to celebrate. To celebrate and to rededicate ourselves to honor.

"It will not be easy. We face a formidable foe. A foe who will not be satisfied until the last of us has been ground up for his bread and meat. We have won great victories against this foe, and we have suffered great losses.

"But it does not matter. I welcome this foe. As you all should. Because we are fortunate to live in a time of our ultimate test. This foe has forced us to confront our own weaknesses. And when it is over, we will be strong and pure and good. Or all of us will be dead…

"… for honor." The last words came softly, like a prayer. The crowd was silent, as if sensing what was to come.

Lady Atago slowly raised her hands to the clear Tahn skies. The odd thought crossed Sten's mind that not once had Lady Atago mentioned the Eternal Emperor by name. It was a speechmaking tactic that he immediately mentally wrote down in his little Mantis book of propaganda tricks.

"I pledge to you this, my fellow Tahn. I will hurl at our foe every bolt you build me. I will track him to the Fringe Worlds. I will hunt him out of his coward's lair in Cavite. And then I will follow him wherever he flees to.

"I pledge you battle, my fellow Tahn. I pledge you victory. Swift and sweet. But I may not be up to your measure. Some weakness in me may make my aim go astray.

"And so… if in the end I fail you… If I cannot give you the victory you deserve…"

There was a long, last wait…

"I pledge you honor!"

Sten barely noticed the tumult around him. The crowd was insane, but that did not matter. Because he was witnessing a rare thing: a leader who was addressing her people—and believing every word she said.

Since Sten had set off for Koldyeze, the K'ton Klub had closed, reopened, and then closed again. In a few hours it would reopen once more, and Alex and St. Clair and L'n were waiting anxiously at a table in the empty nightclub.

To cover their anxiety, they were doing what soldiers have been doing ever since beings had picked up a rock and learned to throw it at others. In short, they were grousing and wondering what foolishness they would be asked to do next.

"Look, I don't mean to complain," St. Clair was saying. "Business is great, and I'm also enjoying beating the snake-snot out of the Tahn. But I'm a bottom-line kind of a person."

"True," L'n said. She said it a little too quickly but presented a guileless pink furry face to St. Clair's quick questioning look.

"Whae be y'r wee problem, lass?" Alex asked.

"Lately I don't feel like we're getting anywhere. We're wrecking their money. Fine and good. We're fouling up production. Messing with their morale. Stealing their secrets. And being a general pain in the tush. This is great. As it should be. We're hurting them bad."

"I don't see what your problem is," L'n said. "What more do you want?"

"I want to hear them yell ouch," St. Clair said. "I mean, how bad are we
really
hurting them?"

"Aye," Alex said, tapping the table thoughtfully. "Ah ken whae y' mean."

"You do?" asked the unsuspecting L'n, who still had a few innocent bits left in her.

Alex nodded wisely. " Tis ae old malady," he said. "How much hurt hurts. Aye. An old tale, lass. Let Kilgour tell y' how old."

And Alex settled back to tell a suspicious St. Clair and an intrigued L'n his story.

"Ae gran'sire ae mine wae trappin't. Ae Eart'. Bleakit an' cold an' a'. Been oot ae th' wilderness aye weeks an' months.

"An' one day, thae was a wee town. Nae, no e'en a town. A village. Thae see't thae great pourit ae snow comin't toward them. An' thae thinki't ae's a bear or some'at.

"M' grandsire, 'twere.

"Lookin't f'r ae dentist.