He'd hand-cast directional vee-mines, hooked them to sensors, and mounted them on either side of the portal. They made a significant mess, enough of a mess to delay the next wave of Companions.
The pause allowed Alex and Sten to hook the descenders onto the thread and back out the window. Neither of them found great exit lines as they pushed off, straight down the vertical wall of the Temple.
No one but a fool springs ten or twenty meters per leap on a long rappel—no one but a fool or an outgunned Mantis soldier.
They hit the ground at the bottom, Sten slamming down the last fifteen meters and thudding to safety with an oof. Then they shed their harness and were running.
"C'mon, lad," Alex urged. "W'nae hae truck wi' thae fruit-bars nae more."
And then they were out the gates of the Temple and running toward the town below, swinging into the backstreets toward Sanctus' landing field, where, Sten desperately hoped, Otho had the lighter waiting.
"Dinna worry," Alex flung back cheerily. "A' w' hae t'do is get away frae th' fanatics, gie oursel's offworld, an' then nae worries save th' wrath ae Mahoney an' th' Eternal Emp'ror."
And then a platoon of Companions was running down the alley. They spotted the two men and ran forward. Alex went down on one knee, weapon coming out of its pouch, and double-handed autofire into the men.
Then they were back up, running into a side passageway and Sten thinking, If I can only live through the next fifty minutes I can handle anybody's anger.
BOOK FIVE
FLECHE
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
MATHIAS, THE ONLY True Prophet of Talamein, stood before his Companions, a red sea stretching out before him in row upon orderly row.
The Prophet had been talking for three hours, retelling recent exploits, reaffirming their faith in him and Talamein, whipping them into a frenzy. Their voices were hoarse from shouting, their faces flushed, and in a few places there were gaps in the line where Companions had fainted.
Mathias had told them of the betrayal by Sten's mercenaries, who, in league with his father's guards, had foully conspired to assassinate his father.
Theodomir was a martyr to Talamein. Mathias assured the Companions that as long as he lived his father's name would never be forgotten.
Then he had led forward the traitorous members of his father's guard. The guards were silent, beaten. A few were weeping. One by one he had them executed, and the Companions cheered wildly as each man died.
Now Mathias was building to the final moments of his speech.
"This is not the death," he shouted, "that I plan for the mercenaries of the Traitor Sten. They are awaiting their fates at this moment in my cells, deserted by their two leaders, Sten and Kilgour, who made cowardly escapes."
"Kill them," the Companions screamed.
Mathias held up a hand for silence. "Not yet. Not yet, my brothers. First we will try them, so all the Empire will learn of their foul crimes. And then we shall convict them and execute them."
He smiled at his young troops. "I have appointed a committee of Companions," he said, "to determine how they shall die."
A small pause for effect. "And I promise you they shall be long deaths. Agonizing deaths. We shall squeeze from them every drop of blood possible to repay them for my father's death."
The Companions roared their approval.
Mathias lowered his voice, ready now to play his final card. "Lupus Cluster is ours now, my friends. And I dedicate my life as your Prophet, that all men may worship Talamein and bask in his glory."
"S'be't," his men shouted.
Mathias tensed, leaned forward, his eyes seeming to bore into every man's soul. "But there are huge forces now at work against us. Forces that deny Talamein."
A low moan of dismay swept the Companions.
"At this moment, our enemies are gathering. Creeping to our gates."
Another long pause from Mathias.
"I say we should fight," he shouted.
"Fight. Fight. For Talamein," they screamed back.
"I declare a holy war. A war against heresy. Against treason. Against all who blaspheme against the name of Talamein."
The men were in ecstasy, breaking ranks and rushing forward to lift Mathias up and carry him away in triumph.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
COLONEL IAN MAHONEY, still commander of the Mercury Corps, stood at attention, his heels locked, his face red, his spine a steel bar. He was receiving the chewing out of his life, a dressing down delivered by the all-time master of dressings down.
"Colonel Mahoney, I do not know what to do with you. I do not know what to say."
Mahoney refrained from noting that the Emperor had been at no loss for words for at least an hour.
"Do you realize what has happened, Mahoney? I have just given my blessing to a fanatic. A fanatic who calls me a heretic. Me. ME!"
Mahoney was wisely silent.
"Clot it, man, I hung myself out there like a babbling fool. State visit. Empire-wide vid coverage. I clotting declared the Lupus Cluster open."
He leaned across his antique desk. "And when I declare something open, by all that is holy in this silly sorry Empire that I was dumb enough to found, I expect it to stay open. Do you understand, Colopel?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Don't yessir me!"
"No, sir."
"Don't nossir me, either." He glared at Mahoney, trembling with anger. Then a long sigh. "Ah, clot it, Mahoney. Siddown. Pour us a drink. Something nasty. Something poisonous. Something that will get me good and clotting drunk."
Mahoney sat—but did not make the mistake of relaxing. If it was possible to sit at attention, he did it. He reached for the Eternal Emperor's latest batch of experimental scotch and poured drinks. He sipped at his with as much military bearing as a man could possibly sip.
The Emperor noticed the scotch. Gave Mahoney a thin smile. "You never did like this drakh much, did you, Mahoney?"
Mahoney made a noncommital noise. And waited for the Commander in Chief of the greatest military force in human history to finish speaking his mind.
The Emperor shot back his scotch, shuddered, and poured himself another.
"I'm a reasonable man, Mahoney. I know how things can go wrong. All right. So I'm up to my butt in alligators. So what? I've been there before."
He drank.
"I only have one question," he said in his most reasonable tone of voice.
"Which is, sir?" Mahoney asked.
The Eternal Emperor rose to his feet.
"WHO PUT MY ARSE IN THE SWAMP, MAHONEY? WHO? WHOSE IDEA WAS THIS DEBACLE?"
Mahoney couldn't tell his boss it was, after all, the Emperor's idea.
"I take full responsibility, sir," he said.
"You're clotting right, you do, Mahoney. I'm gonna... I'm gonna... Colonel, I want you to think of the worst command in my empire. A hell hole. A place you won't be guaranteed to survive in for more than a week."
"Yes, sir."
"I want a full report on it by tomorrow."
"Yes, sir."
"Now, who's that other fellow. Lieutenant what-his-name?"
"Sten, sir. Sten."
"Right. Sten. Is he still alive?"
"Yes, sir."
"That was his first mistake, Colonel. Now, Sten. For him I have special plans. Do I still own Pluto, Mahoney?"
"I believe so, sir."
"No. No. Too soft. I'll think of something. You just leave that Sten to me, Mahoney. You'll be too busy finding that hell hole I'm going to send you to."
"Yes, sir."