Revenge of the Damned (Sten #5). Allan Cole
St. Clair was ready for her twenty-first attempt.
Observing the work details, she had noticed an absolute consistency to their actions. Buried in the middle of a thirty-man work gang, she hummed happily to herself, watching that routine play out once more.
Shuffle… shuffle… then wait as each work gang was singly processed through each of the three gates in the center sanctuary, being swept and counted at each gate. Then each detail moved across the guards’ courtyard to the outer gate and waited until that gate came open.
Her gang started through the process. As they were herded across the inner courtyard, St. Clair worked her way to the outside of the knot of prisoners.
The outer gate was opened, and the gang went through. It was time.
St. Clair had noticed that as each gang exited the cathedral, the Tahn guards would turn, come to attention, and salute the colors hanging on either side of the Koldyeze’s entrance.
Five seconds of inattention.
More than enough.
As the guards saluted, St. Clair elbowed a prisoner aside and darted for the edge of the path that wound downward toward the city. Six to three, she had thought, they won’t see me. Five to two there’ll be an incline I can scramble down. Eight to one, even if it’s a cliff I can spot a ledge or something I can drop to and get out of the line of fire.
One meter short of the edge, St. Clair realized that she had made another sucker bet and slid to a stop.
The edge of the path dropped straight down for more than 100 meters. All the outcroppings she could see were obviously rotten. St. Clair had no interest in ostentatious suicide.
There were shouts behind her, and a projectile snap-CRACK-D past her head. St. Clair put her hands straight up, turned around, and looked at the guards hurtling toward her.
“And sixteen to three I’ll never learn how to fly,” she managed before a rifle butt drove into her stomach and sent her down.
* * * *
Sweat beading on his forehead, Alex fiddled at the lock, trying for what seemed the hundredth time to coax the strange-looking eyehook key his people had fashioned over the little nipple of metal he could feel inside. He had already turned three wheel gears, and according to theory he had just one more to go.
The key slipped, and it was all Alex could do to bury an almighty great shout of “Clot!” Instead, he wiped the sweat sting out of his eyes, bent his creaking spine, and eased the key back inside.
Behind him, his two companions chatted on, presumably critiquing Alex’s efforts. He did not know that for sure, because the entire conversation was taking place in silence.
“Patience, lads,” Alex said, although he had not heard anyone complaining. “Ah’m a wee tickle away.”
“Not to worry,” the big blond man said aloud. “Kraulshavn and I aren’t the hurrying kind.”
Kraulshavn looked up at his largish friend, Sorensen, waiting for a translation. Sorensen’s fingers signed swiftly, and Kraulshavn nodded his head in vigorous agreement. Alex shifted his attention momentarily from the lock to Kraulshavn. There was more finger wagging.
“Whae’s he sayin’?”
“That if you are even close to being correct about the contents of the room, the wait will be well worth it.”
Alex grunted his answer and tickled on with his eyehook key.
Kraulshavn and Sorensen were hands down the strangest pair that Alex and Sten had thus far roped into their growing organization.
Sorensen was the epitome of a corn-fed farm boy, with slabs of muscle, pale skin that flushed at the least effort, and a grammar-book way of speaking. He also did not appear to be blessed with a great deal of native brightness. But Alex knew from his days in Mantis how strange a breed Sorensen was. Beings like him had made up a valuable part of several Mantis teams Alex and Sten had been on. They were living battle computers. Their innocent looks and surface slowness concerning immediate things about them hid a massive calculating brain. In fact, Alex strongly suspected that Sorensen was a surviving member of a blown Mantis Team or maybe still active on a deep-cover run. There was no sense in asking, because Sorensen would not answer. Even more nagging than that was the fact that if Sorensen was Mantis and Alex knew the being’s private code word, they would have themselves the damnedest walking, talking battle computer. Which might help on the odds a bit. He shot Sorensen another sizing-up look.
Like his brothers and sisters, Sorensen knew zip about his fellow beings. His people were perfect marks for any con man or traveling carny. In fact, the Imperial governor-general of their homeworld had been forced to pass strict laws forbidding carnivals, circuses, or anything even vaguely connected with hustle artists. On the other hand, if Sorensen was shown a distance point, he could instantly calculate the range, trajectory, wind speed, and relative gravitational tug that any projectile might encounter on its way to its target.
Those talents made Sorensen a valuable find. Doubling his value was the man’s friendship with Kraulshavn.
Alex felt the eyehook catch. Gently he twisted and felt the gear wheel sliding smoothly until it clicked into place with its gearmates. Inside, the gears should have been lined up, exposing the pie-shaped wedge cut into them. Quickly, Alex pulled out the eyehook and inserted a heavy bar key. A few minor fumbles and the gears fell back with a heavy thunk. On the other side of the door Alex could hear a counterweight shift, and he stepped back to let the door creak open on its heavy hinges.
Kraulshavn signed what Alex took to be a “congratulations” at him. A little dip at the end by the being’s nimble fingers, however, looked suspiciously like “dummy.” Alex shot Sorensen a glance. The big man was looking blandly innocent.
“Ah’m sussin’ a wee joker frae y’r mate,” Alex said.
“There was not one single joke in anything he said, Mr. Kilgour,” Sorensen protested.
He turned to Kraulshavn, spelling out Alex’s comments. Kraulshavn’s mouth opened in a round merry O. He covered it with a delicate furry hand, hiding his silent giggle. Alex had to grin.
“Na. He’s nae a joker. Noo our Kraulshavn. ‘Kay. Waggle thae a’ th’ lad. In yon room thae may be’t a wee haunt.”
“Ghosts?” Even Sorensen was incredulous at that. Kraulshavn signed back what was a blatant suggestion where Alex could put his “wee haunt.”
Alex just shrugged. “Aye. Ye be’t doubters. But th’ Tahn hae tales thae’ll kink y’r curlies.”
With that, he walked inside. Despite their strongly expressed doubts, Sorensen and Kraulshavn hesitated a long moment before they followed.
Kraulshavn had particular reason to hesitate.
* * * *
Like any reasonable and sophisticated adult Struth, Kraulshavn viewed stories of the spirit world with imperious amusement, as something to look down one’s beak at. Even so, ghost stories were an important and ancient signing tradition in his society. Nestlings barely able to put a few symbols together were told simple tales of ghastly elegance. In the deep past, fear of the unknown had been a valuable tool for a hen to keep her featherless, spindly hatchlings safe.
The Struth had originated on a barren and hostile world that to a nervous observer might have seemed to be entirely populated by creatures with fangs and claws and talons and sharp beaks. That was just true enough to require some fairly tricky skills to avoid being on someone else’s menu.
In Struth prehistory, they had once been a species facing extinction. Originally beings of the air, they were a little bit too large to hide and too small to defend themselves. The Struth were also handicapped by poor hearing—limited to the ultrafrequency sounds the leaders and guards of the rookeries used to guide their brothers and sisters. The advantage of that was they could not be heard by any potential enemies. Unfortunately, that meant