Sten laughed, and they went to work in the powerhouse of the dam that bulked at the mouth of the valley, the source of power for all of the elaborate weapons factories scattered below.
At Alex's direction, they positioned charges carefully interconnected with time-fused det cord. They went by a very cautious book and set a complete backup system.
"Gie us two advan'ges," Alex said. "First, we mak siccar, an' second we'll nae hae t'be luggin' a' this, home." He effortlessly picked up a concrete block that must've weighed three hundred kilos, and "tamped" his charge.
"Ye gae to yon end, an' final check. Ah'll dae this side."
Sten and Vinnettsa doubled off down the long, echoing concrete corridor.
Sten bent over the first charges, checked the primer tie, tugged gently at the bedded primer, ran his fingers down the fusing for breaks.
Ten meters away, Vinnettsa lifted her pistol. Careful. Two-hand grip. And a job's a job.
Alex swore. Ah'm gettin' careless. Sten had his crimping pliers. He spun and ran lightly down the corridor. He came upon an unexpected tableau. He froze.
Vinnettsa was aiming, savoring the last second of accomplishment.
Alex, without thinking, spun. Ripped a wide disc insulator from the top of a machine, arced it.
The insulator spun…arcing…wobbling…almost too much force…as Vinnettsa increased pressure on the stud.
The edge of the insulator caught her just above the elbow. Bone smashed and blood rained as the insulator clipped her arm, gun and all, off.
Sten rose, his gun up, then he saw Vinnettsa. Her face was clenched in agony as she scrabbled one-handed for a second gun from her waistband, and swept up—
The first round exploded against the concrete, and Sten went sideways.
All on automatic, just like he was taught: right hand up, left hand around the trigger; trigger squeeze; squeeze; and held all the way back.
Vinnettsa's head exploded in a violet burst of blood and brains. Her body slumped to the pavement.
Sten's shoulder slammed into the pavement. He just lay there. Alex pounded up, bending over him.
"Are ye a'right, lad?"
Sten nodded. Not time yet to feel anything.
Alex's eyes were puzzled. "Lass must've been crazy."
Sten pushed himself up on his knees.
"Y'hit, Sten?"
Sten shook his head. Alex lifted him to his feet, then looked over at Vinnettsa's body.
"We nae got time to greet noo," he said. "But Ah feel Ah'll be doin' some tears later. She wae a good'un." Paused. "We hae work, boy. We still hae work."
Alex's shot was a masterwork. The powerhouse shattered, walls crumbling. Huge chunks of the roof sailed into the lake, and a few thousand liters of water slopped over the edge.
But the dam held.
The team had time to see their handiwork, and to see the city of Atlan roaring in flames, before the Imperial cruiser touched down softly beside them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE MANTIS SECTION museum was a small, squat building of polished black marble. There were no inscriptions or signs.
Sten walked slowly up the steps to the door. He inserted his finger in a slot and waited while somewhere a Mantis computer chuckled through its files then buzzed him through. He stepped inside and looked around. Behind him the door snicked closed. Twin beams of light flicked on, probed him swiftly and decided he belonged.
The museum was a single large room, lit only by spotlights on each exhibit. Sten saw Mahoney at the far end and started walking toward him, noting the exhibits as he went by. A twisted battlesuit. Charred documents, carefully framed. Blasted machines. The leg of what appeared to be an enormous reptile. There was nothing to point out what any of them were, or what incidents they commemorated. In fact, the only writing was on the wall where Mahoney stood. It bore names from floor to ceiling, Mantis Section casualties—heroes or failures, depending on your point of view.
Mahoney sighed, turned to Sten.
"I keep looking for my own name up there," he said. "So far, no luck."
"Is that why you called me here, colonel? So I could carve in mine? Save Mantis the trouble and expense?"
Mahoney frowned at him.
"And why would we be doing that?"
Sten shrugged. "I blew it. I killed Vinnettsa."
"And you're thinking there was a choice?
"Battle fatigue? She cracked? And you should have been able to handle it?"
"Something like that."
Mahoney laughed. A grim little laugh. "Well I hate to spoil your romantic delusions, Sten. But Vinnettsa didn't crack. She really tried to kill you."
"But why?"
Mahoney patted him on the shoulder, then reached into a pocket, pulled out a flask. Handed it to Sten. "Take a nip of that. It'll put you straight."
Sten chugged down several large swallows. He started to hand the flask back to Mahoney, who waved it away.
"Keep it. You'll need it."
"Begging the colonel's pardon, but—"
"She was an assassin, Sten. A very highly paid professional."
"But she was cleared by Mantis security."
Mahoney shook his head. "No, Vinnettsa was cleared by security. The woman you killed was not Vinnettsa. It took us a while, but we worked it out. The real Vinnettsa died while on leave. It was a pioneer world, so we didn't get word right away. A clerk, named Frazer, noted the report, then disappeared it. Paving the way for the assassin to step into her place."
"What happened to this Frazer?"
"Killed. Probably your assassin to cover her tracks."
Sten thought it over. It made sense. But it didn't make sense. "But why would anyone go to all that trouble for me? It must have cost a pile of credits."
"We don't know."
Sten thought over his list of enemies, and yeah, he had a few. Maybe even the killing kind. But they would have settled it in a bar or back alley. He shook his head. "I can't think who it would be."
"I can. Vulcan."
"Impossible. Sure, they were after me. But I was a Delinq. A nobody. No, even those clot brains on Vulcan wouldn't plant an assassin just to get somebody like me."
"But they did just the same."
"Who? And why?"
Mahoney gestured at the flask. Sten passed it to him, and he took a big slug.
"There's one way to find out," Mahoney said.
"How?"
"Mindprobe."
Sten's skin crawled as his mind called up images of brainburns and Oron. "No."
"I don't like it any better than you, son," Mahoney said. "But it's the only way."
Sten shook his head.
"Listen. It's got to have something to do with that little mission I sent you and your friends on."
"But we didn't get anything."
"The way I look at it, somebody thinks you did."
"Thoresen?"
"Himself."
"I still don't—"
"I promise I won't look at anything more than I have to. I'll concentrate on the last few hours you were on Vulcan."
Sten took the flask from Mahoney. Drank deep. Thinking. Finally:
"Okay. I'll do it."
Mahoney put an arm on his shoulder, started leading him back toward the door.
"This way," he said. "There's a gravsled waiting."
…Sten oozed from the vent in the wall, his eyes on the patrolman's back…
"No," Mahoney said, "it's not that."
Sten was lying on an operating table. Electrodes attached to his head, arms, and legs leading to a small steel box. The box drove a computer screen.
Mahoney, Rykor, and a white-coated Tech watched the screen and saw Sten drag the patrolman back to the vent and stuff him in. Rykor checked Sten's vital signs on another display, then motioned to the Tech. He tapped keys and more images appeared on the screen.