Raised on the factory planet of Vulcan, Sten soon
learns about the survival of the toughest. Now he wants more than survival. The
Eternal Emperor rules countless worlds across the galaxy. Vast armies and huge
fleets await his command. But when the Emperor needs to pacify the Wolf Worlds,
the planets of an insignificant cluster that have raised space piracy to a low
art, he turns to Mantis Team and its small band of militant problem solvers.
Sten's destiny is in his own hands.
*****
Here's where to get the paperback
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Here's where to get the audiobook
*****
Here's where to get the paperback
Here's where to get the e-book
Here's where to get the audiobook
*****
STEN #2
THE WOLF WORLDS
By Allan Cole
& Chris Bunch
CHAPTER ONE
THE GQ SIRENS ululated through the Jannisar cruiser. The thunder
of crashing boots died away. The ship's XO nodded in satisfaction as the
STATIONS READY panel winked to green. He made a mental note to assign extra
penance to one laggard ECM station, then spun in his chair to the captain.
"All stations manned, Sigfehr," he reported.
The captain touched the relic that hung under his black tunic,
then opened his intercom mike. "Bow, ye of the Jann, as we make our prayer
to Talamein.
"O Lord, ye who know all things, bless us as we are about to
engage the unbeliever. We ask, as our right due, for your assistance in
victory. "S'be't."
The chorus of "S'be't" echoed through the ship. The
captain switched to a double channel.
"Communications, you will monitor. Weapons, prepare launch
sequence. LRM tubes two, four, six. Target onscreen. Commercial ship.
Communications, establish contact with target ship. Weapons, we will launch on
my command, after surrender of enemy ship. This is bridge, clear."
The cruiser's prey appeared to be just another obsolescent Register-class mining survey ship wildcatting
through the galaxy's outer limits.
Its oval hull was patched, resprayed, corroded, and even rusty
from its very occasional atmospheric landings. Its long, spindly landing legs
were curled under the ship's body, and the mining grab claws were curled just
below the forward controls.
It resembled nothing so much as an elderly crab fleeing a hungry
shark.
Actually, the ship was the IA Cienfuegos, an Imperial spy ship, its mission
complete and now speeding for home.
Extract, Morning Report, II Saber Squadron. Mantis Section:
The following detached this date, assigned temporary duty Imperial
Auxiliary Ship Cienfuegos (x-file OP CAM-FAR):
STEN, (NI). Lt. OC Mantis Section 13, weapons; KILGOUR. ALEX.
Sgt., NCOiC, Demolitions; KALDERASH, IDA. Corporal. Pilot &
Electronics; MORREL, BET, Superior Private, Beast Handler; *BLYRCHYNAUS*.
Unranked, Anthropologist, Medic. Team detached with Indiv Gear. Units 45
& 46.
NOTE: OP CAMFAR under dir O/C Mercury Corps, subsq. entries t/b
cleared thru Col. Ian Mahoney, Commander Mercury Corps.
Sten stared approvingly at the nude woman strobe-illuminated by
the hydroponic lights. He walked to the edge of the plot and gently picked his
way past the two huge, black-and-white Siberian tigers.
One of them opened a sleepy eye, emitted a low growl of
recognition. Sten ignored it, and it returned to licking its mate's throat.
Bet turned then frowned, seeing Sten. Sten's heart still thumped
when he saw her. She was small, blonde, and muscles rippled under her smooth,
tawny skin.
She hesitated, then waded through the waving plants to the edge of
the plot and sat beside him. Sten was only slightly taller than Bet, with black
hair and brooding black eyes. He was slender, but with the build of a trained
acrobat.
"Thought you were asleep," she said. "Couldn't."
Bet and Sten sat in silence for a moment—except for the purrs of
Munin and Hugin, Bet's two big cats. Neither Bet nor Sten was particularly good
at talking. Especially about . . .
"Thought maybe," Sten tried haltingly, "we should,
well, try to figure out what's going on."
"Going wrong, you mean," Bet said softly. "I guess
that pretty well is it," Sten said.
Bet considered. "I'm not sure. We've been together quite
awhile. Maybe it's that. Maybe it's this stupid operation. All we've done for a
long time now is sit on this clottin' ship and playtech."
"And snarl at each other," Sten added. "That, too."
"Look," Sten said, "why don't we go back to my
compartment? And . . ." His voice trailed off. Very
romantic approach, his mind snapped at him.
Bet hesitated. Considering. Finally she shook her head.
"No," she said. "I think I want things left alone until we get
back. Maybe—maybe when we're on R and R . . . maybe then we'll
go back to being like we were."
Sten sighed. Then nodded. Perhaps Bet was right. Maybe it was best—
And the intercom sang: "If we aren't disturbing the young
lovers, we seem to have a small problem in the control room."
"Like what, Ida?" Sten asked.
The tigers were already up, ears erect, tails swimming gently.
"Like a clottin' great cruiser haulin' up on us from the rear." Bet
and Sten were on their feet, running for the control room.
***
A relatively short man, about as wide as he was tall, scanned the
display from the ship's Janes fiche and grunted. Alex was a
heavy-worlder with steel-beam size bones and super-dense muscles. And his
accent—Scots because of the original settlers of his homeworld—was as thick as
his body.
"Naebody w'knae th' trawble Ah seen," he half sung to
himself as he glanced over the description of the ship that was pursuing them.
Sten leaned over his shoulder and read aloud: "619.532.
ASSAULT/PATROL CRUISER. Former Imperial Cruiser Turnmaa, Karjala class. Dim: 190 meters by 34…
. clottin' chubby ship . . . Crew under Imperial manning:
26 officers, 125 men…."
"Four of us, plus two tigers, against 151 troops," Ida
broke in. The Rom woman mused over the odds. She was as chubby as she was
greedy. Ida had her fingers in every stock and futures market in the Empire.
"If anyone's taking bets, I'll give odds … against us."
Sten ignored her and read on: "Armament: Six Goblin anti-ship
launchers, storage thirty-six in reserve … Three Vydall intercept missile
launchers, storage forty-five in reserve… four Lynx-output laser systems… usual
in-atmosphere AA capability… single chain gun, single Bell-class assault
laser, mounted unretractable turrets above A deck. Well-armed little
bassid . . . Okay, now, speed…."
"Ah'm kepit my fingers linkit," Alex murmured.
"Clot," Sten said, "they can outrun us, too."
It was Ida's turn to grunt. "Clottin" computer, all it
tells us is that we're swingin' gently, gently in the wind. Any data on who
those stinkin' bad guys are?"
Sten didn't bother to answer her. "What's intercept
time?" he snapped.
Ida blanked the Janes display and the screen relit: AT
PRESENT SPEED. TURNMAA WILL BE WITHIN WEAPONS RANGE IN 2 SHIP SECONDS FOR
GOBLIN LAUNCH. CONTACT WILL BE MADE IN-
Bet cut the readout. "Who cares? I don't think those clowns
want to shake our hands." She turned to Sten. "Any ideas, Lieutenant?"
Ida's board buzzed. "Oh-ho. They want to talk to us."
Her hand went to the com switch.
Sten stopped her. "Stall them," he said.
There was a reason for Sten's caution. The problem wasn't with the
control room—the Cienfuegos was indeed an Imperial spy
ship—but except for its hidden super-computer, a rather sophisticated
electronic suite, and overpowered engines, it still was pretty much the
rust-bucket inside as it was on the outer skin.
The problem was its crew: Mantis section, the Empire's
super-secret covert mission specialists. Mantis troopers were first given the
standard one-year basic as Imperial Guardsmen, then, assuming they had the
proper nonmilitary, nonregimented, and ruthless outlook on life, seconded first
to Mercury Corps (Imperial Military Intelligence) and then given the
two-year-long Mantis training.
Clot the training, Sten thought while trying to come up with a
battle that offered even a one-in-ten chance of survival. The problem was
really the team's physical appearance: Munin and Hugin, two four-meter-long
mutated black-and-white Siberian tigers. One chubby Scotsman. One fat woman
wearing a gypsy dress. One pretty woman. And me, Sten thought. Sten,
Lieutenant, commanding Mantis Team 13, suicide division.
Whoopie, he thought. Oh, well.
Sten motioned to Doc while Ida fumbled with the com keys, making
confused responses to the cruiser.
Doc waddled forward. The tendriled koala's real name was
*BLYRCHYNAUS*, but since no one could pronounce his Altarian name, they called
him Doc. The little anthro expert (and medic) held all human beings in absolute
contempt. Though he was mostly considered a pain in the lower extreme, he had
two indispensable talents: He could analyze culture from small scraps of
evidence; and (as one of the Empire's most formidable carnivores) he had the
ability to broadcast feelings of compassion and love for his adorable self and
any companions.
"Any idea who they are?" Sten asked. Doc sniffed.
"I have to see them," he said.
Sten signaled Ida, who had taped a crude frame to the com pickup
so that she would be the only creature visible on the ship.
"Once more onto the breach of contract," she said and
keyed ANSWER.
Three stern faces stared at her from the screen.
"G'head," Ida yawned. "This is Hodell, Survey Ship P21. Ca1 Cervi on."
"You will cut your drive instantly. This I order in the name
of Talamein and the Jannisars."
Out of sight of the Jann captain, Doc studied the man. Noting his
uniform. Analyzing his speech patterns.
Ida gave the captain a puzzled look. "Talamein? Talamein? Do
I know him?"
The eyes of the two men beside the captain widened in horror at
her blasphemy. The senior officer glared at Ida through the screen.
"You will bring your vessel to an immediate halt and prepare
for boarding and arrest.
"By the authority of the Prophet, and Ingild, his emissary in
present-time. You have entered proscribed space. Your ship will be seized, you
and your crew conveyed to Cosaurus for trial and execution of sentence."
"Y'sure got yourself a great justice system, Cap'n." Ida
rose from her chair, turned, and planted her bare, ample buttocks against the
pickup. Then, modestly lowering her skirt, she turned back to the screen. She
noted with pleasure she'd gotten a reaction from all three black uniforms this
time.
"And if nonverbal communication ain't sufficient," she
said, "I'd suggest you put your prophet in one hand and your drakh in the
other and see which one fills up first."
Without waiting for an answer, she broke contact.
"A wee bit d'rect, m'lass?" Alex inquired.
Ida just shrugged. Sten waited patiently for Doc's analysis. The
bear's antenna vibrated slightly. "Not pirates or privateers—at least
these beings do not so consider themselves. In any case authoritarian, which
should be obvious even to these odiferous beasts of Bet's."
Hugin understood enough of the language to know when he was being
insulted. He growled, warningly. Doc's antenna moved again, and the growl
turned into a purr. He tried to lick Doc's face. The bear pushed him away.
"I find interesting the assumption of absolute authority,
which would suggest either a fuehrer state of longstanding or, more probably,
one of a metaphysical nature."
"You mean religious," Sten said.
"A belief in anything beyond what one can consume or exploit.
Metaphysics, religion, whatever.
"My personal theory would be what you call religious. Note
the use of the phrase 'In the name of Talamein' as a possible indicator.
"My estimation would be a military order, based on and
supporting a dictatorial, puritanical religion. For the sake of argument, call
this order the Jannisars.
"Note also that the officer has carefully positioned two
aides to his either side. Neither seemed more than a bodyguard.
"Therefore, I would theorize that our Jannisars are not a
majority in this . . . this Talamein empire, but an elite
minority requiring protection.
"Also note the uniforms. Black. I have observed that in the
human mind this indicates a desire for the observer to associate the person
wearing that uniform with negativism—fear, terror, even death.
"Also, did any of you notice the lack of decoration on all
three uniforms? Very uncharacteristic of the human norm, but an indicator that
status is coupled with the immaterial — in other words, again, an indicator
that we're dealing with metaphysical fanatics."
Doc looked around, waiting for applause. He should have known
better.
"Ah a'ready kenned they wa' n'better'n a lot'a
Campbells," Alex said. "The wee skean dubhs th' had slung a' they
belts. No fightin' knives a man wae carry. D'ble-edged, wi' flat handles. A
blade like tha's used for naught but puttin' in a man from the rear."
"Anything else, Doc?" Sten asked.
"The barrel that walks like a being said what I had left
out," Doc said.
Sten rubbed his chin, wishing, not for the hundredth time, that
Mantis had been able to assign them a battle computer before the mission.
Finally he looked up at everyone. "The way I see it, we have to let them
play the first card."
*****
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*****
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*****
THE STEN COOKBOOK & KILGOUR JOKEBOOK
THE STEN COOKBOOK & KILGOUR JOKEBOOK
Two new companion editions to the international best-selling Sten series. In the first, learn the Emperor's most closely held cooking secrets. In the other, Sten unleashes his shaggy-dog joke cracking sidekick, Alex Kilgour. Both available as trade paperbacks or in all major e-book flavors. Click here to tickle your funny bone or sizzle your palate.
*****
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In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is "The Blue Meanie," a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. Here's where to buy the book.
*****
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