By the time the streggan were nursery legends, the Bhor had already established themselves as traders throughout the Lupus Cluster. Even though the People of Talamein—both sides—were moderately xenophobic, they knew enough to leave the Bhor alone.
As long as the Bhor kept to themselves and stayed within the trading enclaves, there was no trouble as the humans expanded through the cluster. The Bhor did not think much one way or another of most people anyway, so coexistence was possible.
Until the Jannisars decided they needed an Enemy. Which put the rogue, one-god fanatics against casually pantheistic armed trader-smugglers.
When Sten met them, the outnumbered Bhor were as headed for extinction as their old enemies, the streggan. But with no one to drink their souls to hell.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"HAWKTHORNE CONTROL, THIS is the trader Bhalder. Request orbital landing clearance. Clear."
Otho closed the mike and looked over the control panel at Sten. "By my mother's beard, this be an odd world. Last time we put down here there were three different landing controls." Otho rumbled slight merriment. "And they swore great oaths that if we followed anyone else's landing plot they'd blow us out of the atmosphere.
"Enough to drive a Bhor to stregg, I tell you." He grinned huge yellow teeth at Sten. "Of course, that doesn't take much doing."
Sten had noticed.
The speaker garbled, then cleared. "Vessel Bhalder. Give outbound plot."
"This is the Bhalder. Twenty ship-days out of Lupus Cluster."
"Received. Your purpose in landing?"
"My chartermate is hiring soldiers," Otho said. "Vessel Bhalder. this is Hawkthorne Control. Received. Welcome to Hawkthorne. Stand by for transmit of landing plot. Your approach pattern will be Imperial Pilot Plan 34Zulu. Caution—landing approach must be maintained. You are tracked. Transmission sent."
"And if we zig when this pilot plan says to zag," Oth grumbled, "we'll be introducing ourselves to interdiction missiles."
Even mercenaries have to have a home—or at least a hiring hall. Hawkthorne was such a "hiring hall" for this sector of the Galaxy. Here mercenaries were recruited and outfitted. Hawkthorne was also where they crept back to lick their defeats or swaggered back to celebrate their victories.
It was a fairly Earth-normal world around a G-type star. Its environment was generally subtropical.
And Hawkthorne was anarchic. A planetary government would, be created by whatever mercenary horde was strongest at any given time. Then they'd be hired away and leave a vacuum for the smaller wolves to scrabble into. Other times the situation would be a complete standoff, and total anarchy would prevail.
The mercenaries hired themselves out in every grouping, from the solo insertion specialists to tac-air wings to armored battalions to infantry companies to exotically paid logistics and command specialists. The only coherence to Hawkthorne was that there wasn't any.
The Bhalder swung off final approach leg, Yukawa drive hissing, and the flat-bottomed, fan-bodied, tube-tailed ship settled toward the landing ground.
Weapons stations were manned—the Bhor took no chances with anyone. The landing struts slid out of the fan body, and the Bhalder oleo-squeaked down. A ramp lowered from the midsection, and Sten walked down, his dittybag in one hand.
A dot grew larger across the kilometer-square field and became a gravsled jitney, Alex sitting, beaming, behind the tiller.
Alex hopped out of the jitney and popped a salute. Sten realized the tubby man from Edinburgh wasn't quite sober.
"Colonel, y'll nae knowit hae glad Ah be't t'sae y', lad."
"You drank up the advance," Sten guessed.
"Thae, too. C'mon lad. Ah'll show y' tae our wee hotel. It's a magical place. Ah hae been here n'more't aye cycle, an' thae's been twa murders, aye bombin' an' any number'! good clean knifmt's."
Sten grinned and climbed into the gravsled.
Alex veered the sled around two infantry fighting vehicles that had debated the right of way and now blocked the dirt intersection with an armored fenderbender.
The main street of Hawkthorne's major "city" was a marvel, filled with heavy traffic, which consisted of everything from McLean-drive prime movers with hovercraft on the back to darting wheel-drive recon vehicles to a scoutship doing a weave about forty feet overhead.
The shops, of course, sold specialty items: weapons, custom-made, new or used, every conceivable death tool that wasn't under Imperial proscript (which of course meant the Guard-only willyguns. as well as some other exotica). Uniform shops. Jewelers who specialized in providing paid-off mercs with a rapidly convertible and portable way of carrying their loot and accepting on pawn whatever jewels a loser needed to hock.
And through the chaos marched, swaggered, stumbled, crawled, or just lay in a drunken babble the soldiers. All kinds, from the suited pilots to the camouflage-dressed jungle fighters to the full-dress platoons that specialized in guarding the palace.
Then Sten noticed a very clear area on one side of the street. It was a small shop, with the dirt walk neatly swept, the storefront freshly painted. The sign outside read:
JOIN THE GUARD! THE EMPIRE NEEDS YOU!
Sten glanced in the door at the recruiting post's only occupant, a very dejected, lonely, and bored Guards sergeant, wearing his hashmarks. medals, and unhappiness for all to see.
"Ah nae understand't our Guard." Alex said, seeing Sten's gaze. "Dinnae thay ken half ae thae troopies ae deserters in the first place an' in the secon't place men whae na sane army'd hae in th first place?"
Sten nodded glumly. Alex was quite correct—Hawkthorne was quite a place. Mahoney, Sten thought, was a jewel. Here, son. Go hire a few hundred psychopaths and crooks and topple two empires.
And see if you can't get it done before lunch...
But that was the way Mantis Section worked. Sten probably wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
CHAPTER TWELVE
COMMANDOS!
200 OF THE FINEST NEEDED!
DEFEND THE FAITH OF CENTURIES!
PAY GUARANTEED
Colonel Sten, late of His Imperial Majesty's Third Guards Assault Division, is hiring 200 elite soldiers to assist in the protection of one of the Empire's most respected social and theocratic orders.
NONHUMANOID FREELANCES UNFORTUNATELY CANNOT BE CONSIDERED DUE TO ABOVE RELIGIOUS CONDITIONS
Only the Best Need Apply!
The Lupus Cluster and the Faith of Talamein is under attack by a godless and mercenary horde, attempting to invade and destroy some of this sector's most beautiful and desirable worlds, inhabited by peace-loving people. Needed individual equipment: individual weapons, cold-weather suits, space combat suits. Combatants should expect little ground leave.
A SHARP SHOCK NEEDED!
Colonel Sten, highly regarded in the Guard both for his extensive combat experience (18 major planetary assaults, numberless raids and company-size actions), is noted for having the lowest casualty rate in the Third Guards. THOSE ACCEPTED WILL BE PROVIDED WITH USUAL SURVIVOR'S INSURANCE PROVEN COMBAT EXPERIENCE NECESSARY To include covert operations, lifts, jugular raids, smash-and-grab, ambush, harassment, and diversionary. Background in following units preferred: Imperial Guards, Trader Landing Force, Tanh, some specific planetary forces allowed (please check with recruiter).