Across the street, Dynsman dumped his equipment into a case, ran to the rear of the building, dropped the thread ladder down two levels, and quickly descended. When he hit the second level, he touched the disconnect button, and the ladder dropped down into his hands. That ladder also went into the case, and Dynsman faded into the shadows, headed for his own personal hideaway, deep inside one of Prime World's nonhumanoid conclaves.
Ears still ringing from the explosion, he did not hear the clatter of boots on the catwalk above as they ran toward the shattered ruin that had been the Covenanter.
Moments before the explosion, Sergeant Armus had been trying to soothe the injured feelings of the other member of his tac squad. The sector was so quiet and the duty so boring that it felt like a punishment tour. They were an elite, after all, a special unit that was supposed to be thrown into high-crime-potential areas to put the lid back on, and then turn the area over to normal patrols.
Instead, they had been on nothing duty for nearly a month. Sergeant Armus listened to his corporal run over the complaints for the fiftieth time. Tac Chief Kreuger must really have it in for them. Nothing was going on in the sector that one lone Black Maria couldn't deal with. Armus didn't tell the man that he had been making the same complaint nightly! He had to admit there was a great deal of justification for his squad's complaints. Kreuger must be out of his clotting mind, assigning them to a dead sector, especially with the festival going on. Maybe the crime stat computer hiccupped. Maybe Krueger had a joygirl in the area who had complained about getting roughed up. Who could fathom what passed for the mind of a clotting captain?
In the interest of maintaining proper decorum, Armus kept all that to himself. Instead he ran the overtime bit past his squad members again—which was another thing that was odd. Because of the pressures of the festival, there were very few tac soldiers to spare, and the entire unit had been on overtime from almost the beginning. Now, how the clot was the chief going to explain that?
And then came the shock wave of the explosion. Almost before the sound stopped, the squad was thundering down the rampway and turning the comer—sprinting for the ruin that had been the Covenanter. Armus took one look at the shattered building and three thoughts flashed across his brain: fire, survivors, and ambulance. And, as he thought, he acted. Although no flames were visible in the ruins of the bar, he smashed an armored fist into an industrial extinguisher button and a ton or more of suds dumped into the building. He shouted orders to his men to grab any tool in sight, and thumbed his mike to call for an ambulance. Then he stopped as an ambulance lifted over the catwalk and hissed toward the bar. What was that doing here? He hadn't even called yet! But he had no time to waste; he unhooked his belt pry bar and plunged into the ruins after his men.
BOOK TWO
LUNETTE
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dear Sten:
Hi ya, mate. Guess you're surprised to hear from the likes of me. Well, yours truly has finally landed some much-deserved soft duty. This is duty, I might add, befitting a clansman of such high rank. Sergeant Major Alex Kilgour! Hah, Captain't Bet you never thought you'd live to see the day!
Sten pulled back to give the letter a disbelieving glance. Kilgour! He didn't recognize him without the thick Scots accent. But then, of course even Alex wouldn't write with a burr. He laughed, and dove back into the letter.
Of course, a sergeant major still can't drink at the fancy officer clubs with an exalted captain, but an honest pint of bitter is an honest pint of bitter, and it drinks much smoother when it's never your shout. I've never seen such a brown-nosing clan of lowly noncoms as I've got here. Although I do not dissuade them of this practice. I'm sure that buying a pint for the sergeant major is a ceremony of ancient and holy tradition in these parts.
To be honest with you, this tour is beginning to wear thinner than a slice of haggis at a Campbell christening. The powers that be have posted me as curator of the clotting Mantis Museum. Now, as you well know, it requires a Q clearance to even see the lobby of this godforsaken place, so we don't get a lot of visitors. Just blooming security committee politicians getting their clotting expense tickets punched on the way to some gambling hell. Although there was one lass... Ah, never mind. A Kilgour doesn't kiss and tell, especially when the bonny one outranks him.
Anyhow, here I am, performing the safest duty in my wicked career as one of the Emperor's blackguards. I'm going out of my clotting mind, I tell you. And the only thing that keeps me sane is that you can't be doing much better in that fancy-dan job of yours on Prime World. No, I'm afeared it will never be the same since they broke up our team—Old Mantis 13. They better well retire the number, I tell you, or there'll be some explaining to do to a Kilgour.
Have you heard from the others? In case your news is wearier than mine, I'll fill you in on what I know. Bet has been promoted to lieutenant and is running her own team now, although I'm not too sure what nasty business she's about at the moment.
As for Doc, well, that little furry bundle of sharp edges managed himself a sabbatical leave. Do you recall the Stralbo? You know, The People Of The Lake? Those horrendous tall blokes who supped on blood and milk? Sure, I thought you would and wasn't Doc more than a giggle the way he got blotto on all that blood? So, what Doc is doing is getting drunk and staying that way all in the name of Mother Science.
The only one I haven't picked up any particulars on is Ida. When her hitch was over, she refused to reup and did a bloody Rom disappearing act. Although I imagine she must have gnashed her teeth over all that filthy lucre they were waving at her. One thing I have to say for her, though, she did come through on my share of the loot she was investing for us. It was a clotting big heap of money that took almost all of one leave for me to go through. If you haven't got yours yet, I suspicion that it's probably winging its way to you. Truly, it's a nice bundle of credits. If by chance she's holding out on you, howsomever, check the futures market columns. Any big jump or dip in the exotics, and you'll find the plump little beggar.
Well, I've about run out of time to get this into the next post. Hope all is well with you, mate.
Yours, Aye. Alex Kilgour
Sten chuckled to himself as he blanked out the letter. Same old Alex, grousing when the tour is too hot, and grousing when it's too soft. He did, however, have a point about Prime World. It looked soft, and felt soft—dangerously so. Sten had pored over the records his predecessors had left. For the last few centuries, they were almost depressing in their lack of action. However, the few times things did happen, he noticed, the situation tended to get very bloody and very political. After his years in Mantis Section, blood didn't bother Sten much. But politics—politics could make your skin crawl.
Forgetting how small his quarters were, Sten leaned back in his chair, bumping his head against a wall. He groaned as the thump reminded him of the royal hangover he was suffering from. The only effect the Angelo stew had was to mask the alcohol and allow him to stay up even later with the Emperor.
Somehow, he had stumbled through his job the next day, leaving him no other cure the following night than to try to drink the residual pain and agony away. Sten had sworn to himself last night that today he would be pristine pure. Not a drop of the evil Stregg would wet his lips. That was the only way out of it. The trouble was, just then, it wasn't Stregg he wanted, but a nice cold beer.