Thoresen's head snapped up as he caught something in the drone from his chief of security.
"What did you say?"
"We have recovered the bodies of thirteen Delinqs and full identities have been made."
"Not that. After."
"Uh, one, possibly two of them escaped."
So. He was right to worry.
"Who were they?"
"Well, sir," the chief said, "we recovered a hair particle in your quarters. A chromosome projection estimates the man would have been—"
"Let me see for myself," the Baron snapped.
A computer image began to build on the screen as the chromoanalysis built the image of a man cell by cell. Finally, there was a complete three-dimensional figure. It was Sten. Thoresen studied the image carefully, then shook his head. He didn't recognize the suspect. "Who is he?"
"A Mig named Karl Sten, sir. Reported missing in that Exotic Section explosion some cycles—"
"You mean the man responsible for that debacle is alive? How could he possibly—oh, never mind. That's all."
"But, sir, there's more infor—"
"I'll go over the report myself. Now. That's all!" The Baron scrolled the report that was Sten's life. It didn't take him long. There wasn't much to it, really, if you separated out all the legal and psych trash.
Suddenly, the connection was made. The Bravo Project. Sten was an orphan of Recreational Area 26. The Row had come back to haunt him.
He palmed the console board and the startled face of the chief leaped on the screen.
"I want this man found. Immediately. I want every person available on this."
"Uh, I'm afraid that's impossible, sir."
"Why is that?" Thoresen hissed.
"Well, we—uh. . .have located him. He's on an Imperial troop ship, bound for—"
Thoresen blanked the man out. It was impossible. How could—? Then he pulled himself together. He'd find this Sten. And then. . .
A few moments later the Baron was talking quietly to a little gray man on a little gray world. The hunt for Sten had begun.
BOOK THREE—THE GUARD
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
NUCLEAR FIRES BLOOMED up from the planet, silhouetting the warships hanging just out of the atmosphere.
"H minus fifty seconds and counting. Red One, Red Two detached to individual control. Begin entry maneuvers." The command ship's transmission crackled in the assault ship's control chambers.
Controls went live, and the fleet transports swung in from their orbital stations. Braking rockets flared as the ships killed velocity and sank closer toward atmosphere's edge.
"Foxfire Six, I have an observed ground launch. Predicted intersection. . .uh, thirty-five seconds. Interception probability eighty-three percent. Beginning diversion. . ." signaled an observation and interdiction satellite.
Foxfire Six's pilot cursed and slammed full power to the drive on his assault transport. He picked a random evasion pattern chip and fed it into the computer.
Deep in the ship's guts, Sten crashed forward against the safety straps. His platoon sergeant slammed against the capsule wall. The ceiling rotated around Sten, swung up crazily, and then went away as the artificial gravity went dead.
Sten and the other men in his platoon wedged themselves more tightly in the shock cocoons as gravity came and went in a dozen directions while the transport veered. The control room speaker crackled: "Four seconds until atmosphere. H minus thirty. . .antimissile evasion tactics in progress."
Pinpoint flames leaped from the O and I satellite as it launched a dozen intercepts down toward the six pencil lines of smoke curling up for the transport. Close to the black of space, pure light flashed. "Foxfire Six, I have a hit on one of your birds. Hit also tumbled gyros on second bird. Suggest you make diversionary launch."
The transport's weapons officer dumped two batteries of gremlins to home on the upcoming missiles. The gremlins spewed chaff as they dropped.
A missile fell for the ruse, and diverted onto a gremlin. The others, probably ground-guided, homed on the huge troop transport.
"Foxfire Six, intercept now ninety-nine percent. Suggest you launch troop caps."
Inside Sten's capsule, the beeper went off, and a computer voice announced, "Capsule launch on short countdown. Surface impact one minute twelve seconds."
The transport pilot hit the launch key and the craft seemed to explode. The huge cone separated from the ship's main body, then spewed twenty long capsules into space. The capsules went to automatic regime, and targeted on the robot homer already in place on the target zone.
The grizzled corporal cocooned next to Sten said thoughtfully, "Guess they got us targeted. Six to five they'll take us out before we ground. Naw. Make that eight to five. Want a piece?"
Sten shook his head, and the capsule rotated around him again.
Forty-six seconds had passed since the invasion elements, Red One and Red Two, had dropped away from the fleet.
The sky around the planet was blazing from nuke and conventional explosions.
Two missiles proximity-detonated on troop capsules. Sten's capsule juddered. "In atmosphere," the corporal said. An idiot-level radar in the capsule nose tsked and told the capsule's computer to kill speed. Huge wings snapped out from the capsule's sides, and nose rockets bellowed. The capsule's vertical dive shallowed as the wings' leading edges went red then up into white. The air-howl was deafening inside the capsule.
Nearly simultaneously, the capsule's computer dumped three tear-away parachutes out the tail, and pulsed rockets to turn the capsule's course away from the ocean, back on track with the TZ homer. The computer deployed two sets of divebrakes to burn away before the capsule was subsonic.
Short-range ground/air missiles flashed up from the air defenses around the planet's capital below Sten's capsule. One- and two-man tacships skipped and skidded through the black blossoms, then tucked and went in.
Laser sights targeted launch sites, and glidebombs dropped, locked in.
The second wave of tacships swept across the city, scatterbombs cascading down. In the city's heart, a firestorm raged, solid steel and concrete flowing in rivers as the city melted.
A terrain-following missile picked up Sten's incoming capsule, targeted and went to full boost, but lost the capsule in ground clutter. Unable to pull his bird out, the missile's officer manually detonated, hoping to do damage with a near miss.
The capsule pancaked in, up a wide avenue. Touchdown!—and the shockwave caught the capsule, one wing slamming against the street, and then the capsule pin-wheeled.
Sten's eyes came open. Blackness. Then the minicharges blew and the capsule's bulkheads dropped away.
The men cascaded out, onto the street.
Sten stumbled, regained his feet, and automatically knocked down his helmet's flare visor. He hit the breakaway harness on the willygun; magazine in; armed; Sten went down on one knee. Ten meters away from his nearest squadmate.
Landing security perimeter complete. A bellow from the platoon sergeant: "First. Second squads. Maneuver. Third squad. Security. Weapons squad, set up over by that statue."
"Come on. Diamond. Move it."
Sten and his squaddies moved forward, hugging the side of the street. Sten's ears finally decided to return to life, and now he could hear the clatter of bootheels and the creak of his weapons harness.
The first missile from the weapons squad's launchers shushed into the air, and swung, patrolling for a target. "Come on, you. You ain't got time for bird-watching. Keep your—"
The squad went flat as rubble crashed. Sten rolled through a doorway and came back up.