Читать книгу Sten (Sten #1) - Allan Cole - Страница 12

CHAPTER SEVEN

“. . . simply a matter a’ entropy. Proves it,” the older man said. And lifted his mug.

The younger man beside him, who wore the flash coveralls of a driveship officer, snickered and crashed his boots onto the table. His coveralls bore the nametag of RASCHID, H. E., ENGINEERING OFFICER.

“Wha’s so funny?” his senior said belligerently. He looked at the other four deep-space men around the tavern’s table. “These is me officers, and they didn’t hear me say nothin’ funny. Did ya?”

Raschid looked around and grinned widely at the drunkenly chorused “yessirs.” Picked up his own mug in both hands and drained it.

“Another round — I’ll tell you. I been listening to frizzly old bastards like you talk about how things is runnin’ down, and how they’re gettin’ worse and all that since I first was a steward’s pup.”

The barmaid — the spaceport dive’s biggest and only attraction — slid mugs down the long polished aluminum bar. Raschid blew foam off the top of his mug and swallowed.

“Talkin’ to fools,” he said, “is thirsty work. Even when they’re high-credit driveship captains.”

The captain’s mate flexed his shoulders — a move that had kept him out of fights in a thousand worlds — and glowered. Raschid laughed again.

“Man gets too old to stump his own pins, he generally finds some punko to do it for him. Tell you what, cap’n. You gimme one good example of how things is goin’ to hell in a handbasket, and maybe, jus’ maybe, I’ll believe you.”

The captain sloshed beer down and wiped the overflow from his already sodden uniform front.

“The way we’s treated. Look’a us. We’re officers. Contract traders. Billions a’ credits rest on our every decision. But look around. We’re on Prime World. Heart’a the Empire an’ all that clot. But do we get treated wi’ the respect due us? Hell no!”

“We’s the gears what makes the Empire turn!” one of his officers yelled.

“So, what d’ya expect?”

“Like I said. Respect. Two, three hunnerd years back, we woulda been fawned over when we made planetfall. Ever’body wantin’ to know what it was like out there. Women fallin’ over us. I tell you . . .”

The captain stood up and pointed one finger, an effect that was ruined by a belch that rattled the walls slightly. “When an empire forgets how to treat its heroes, it’s fallin’ apart!” He nodded triumphantly, turned to his officers. “That prove it or not?”

Raschid ignored the shouted agreement. “You think it oughta be like the old days? Say, like when there were torchships?”

“You ain’t gotta go back that far, but tha’s good example. More beer! Back when they was ion ships and men to match ‘em.”

“Torchships my ass,” Raschid sneered. He spat on the floor. “Those torchships. You know how they worked? Computer-run. From lift-off to set down.”

The other spacemen at the table looked puzzled. “Wha’ ‘bout the crews?”

“Yeah. The crews! Lemme tell you what those livies don’t get around to showin’. Seems most’a those torchships were a little hot. From nozzle right up to Barrier Thirty-three, which is where the cargo and passengers were.

“After a few years, they started havin’ trouble gettin’ young heroes as crew after these young heroes found their bones turned green an’ ran out their sleeves after two-three trips.

“So you know who these crews were? Dockside rummies that had just ‘bout enough brains to dump the drive if it got hot beyond Thirty-three. They’d shove enough cheap synthalk in ‘em to keep ‘em from opening up the lock to see what was on the other side, punch the TAKEOFF button, and run like hell. Those were your clottin’ hero torchships an’ their hero ossifers.

“An’ you think people didn’t know about it? You think those drunks got torch parades if they lived through a trip? You think that, you even dumber than you look.”

The captain looked around at his crew. They waited for a cue.

“How come you know so much — Barrier Thirty-three — on’y way a man could know that he’d have to crew one.”

The old man’s mug slammed down. “That’s it! We come over here for a quiet mug or so — sit around, maybe tell some lies . . . but we ain’t standing for nobody who’s thinkin’ we’re dumb enough to believe . . .”

“I did,” Raschid said flatly.

The man broke off. His mate stood up. “You sayin’ you’re a thousand years old, chief?”

Raschid shook his head and drained his beer. “Nope. Older.”

The captain twitched his head at the mate . . . the mate balled up a fist that should’ve been subcontracted as a wrecking ball and swung. Raschid’s head wasn’t there.

He was diving forward, across the table. The top of his head thudded into the captain’s third officer, who, with another man, crashed to the floor in a welter of breaking chairs.

Raschid rolled to his feet as the mate turned. He stepped inside the mate’s second swing and drove three knife-edged fingers into the inside of the mate’s upper arm. The mate doubled up.

Raschid spun as the other two men came off the floor . . . ducking. Not far enough. The captain’s mug caromed off the back of his head, and Raschid staggered forward, into the bar.

He snap-bounded up . . . his feet coiled and kicking straight back. The third officer’s arm snapped and he went down, moaning. Raschid rolled twice down the bar as the mate launched another drive at him. Grabbed the arm and pulled.

The mate slid forward, collected the end of the beer tap in the forehead, and began a good imitation of petrification.

Raschid swung away from the bar, straight-armed a thrown chair away, and snap-kicked the captain in the side.

He lost interest for a few minutes.

Raschid, laughing happily, picked up the fourth man by the lapels . . . and the broken-armed third officer kicked his legs out from under him.

Raschid crashed down, the fourth man flailing punches at him. The old captain, wheezing like a grampus, danced — very deftly for a man his age — around the edge of the roiling mass, occasionally putting the boot into Raschid’s ribs.

Two hands came from nowhere and slammed against the captain’s ears. He slumped. Pole-axed.

Raschid scrambled to his feet, nodded at the new man in the fight, then picked up the third officer and slung him through the air at his sudden ally, a gray-haired behemoth with a nose that’d been broken too many times for anyone to be interested in setting it. He thoughtfully dangled the third officer with one hand, making up his mind. Then slammed the heel of his hand down just above the bridge of the man’s nose, dropped him, and looked around for someone else.

The man who wore the Raschid nametag was sitting atop the fourth spaceman. He had a double handful of the man’s hair, and was systematically dribbling his head on the bar floor.

The gray-haired man walked over, picked up the mate’s unfinished beer and drained it. Then he grunted.

“I think you’ve made your point.”

Raschid peeled back the man’s eyelids, and reluctantly let the man’s head slam finally to the floor and stood.

The two looked each other up and down.

“Well, colonel?”

The gray-haired man snorted. “H. E. Raschid. They get dumber every year. Or anyway somebody does.”

“That smacks of insubordination, colonel.”

“Sorry. Would the all-highest Eternal Emperor of a Billion Suns, Ruler of a Zillion Planets, and Kind Overseer of Too Many Goddamned People care to accompany his good and faithful servant back to the palace, where important business awaits, or — or you wanna stay the hell with it and go look for some more action?”

“Later, colonel. Later. Don’t wanna corrupt the young.”

The Eternal Emperor threw an arm around his aide — Col. Ian Mahoney, O. C. Mercury Corps, the shadowy Imperial force responsible for intelligence, espionage, and covert operations — and the two men walked, laughing, into the thin sunlight of Prime World.