CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

IT WAS A small gray building in a small green glen, located almost one hundred kilometers north of Sanctus' capital. A young man in the blood-red uniform of Mathias' Companions escorted Sten to the entrance, waved him inside, and left him.

Sten entered, somewhat tentatively.

To a tourist the glen would have looked deserted. But Sten had heard rustling in the undergrowth as he and his escort had passed through. And the smell of many campfires. And the forest was silent—a sure clue to human presence.

The walls on the inside of the little building dripped with the sweat of the high-humidity water world that was Sanctus. No one waited for him inside.

He moved through what seemed empty administrative offices filled with desks, coms, and vid-file cabinets, then was brought up short by a glass wall.

Through the glass he could see Mathias.

Except for a modest breechcloth, the young man was naked.

Sten watched quietly as Mathias inserted his hands into two metal rings, attached to three-meter-long chains. The chains themselves seemed to hang from nothing, but were grav-bonded into position.

Mathias' body was all one gleaming, rippling muscle. And even Sten was impressed as the Prophet's son lifted himself effortlessly on the rings, supporting himself on upper-body strength alone. The young man's stomach muscles knotted as he lifted his legs straight up above his head and did a handstand on the rings. Mathias did an unbelievable number of arm presses, then swung his body in a long, slow, 360-degree loop. Again and again, and then he let go, doubling himself into a somersault. He landed perfectly on his feet as if he were on a low-grav planet.

Sten whistled to himself softly, and then opened and walked through the glass door.

Mathias spotted him instantly and shouted a greeting.

"Colonel. Your presence is our blessing."

Mathias grabbed a towel from the floor and began to wipe away the sweat as Sten moved forward to meet him.

Sten shook his hand, eyed the rings then the young man as he pulled on a plain, rough-clothed robe. "Pretty impressive," he said.

"Oh"—Mathias smiled—"my friends and I believe in the fitness of our bodies."

"Your friends?" Sten remembered the smell of campfires.

"The Companions," Mathias said, taking Sten by the arm and leading him toward the back door. "You know about them?"

Of course Sten did. They were the six hundred young men—

all very wealthy and all very religious—who were Mathias'

couterie. They delighted in all forms of sport, physical deprivation, challenge, and prayer. They were totally devoted to Mathias and the ancient ways of the religion of Talamein.

"Yes, I know about them."

He was on Sanctus at the mysterious request of Mathias, a polite plea for a visit. An important one, Mathias had assured him. Sten didn't have the time, but he thought it was politic to go.

"I have been following your exploits," Mathias said as they exited the door and started down the path into the fern forest.

Sten didn't reply. He was waiting.

"I must say, Colonel, I'm impressed." And with just enough hesitation to qualify for an afterthought: "As is my father."

Sten just nodded his thanks.

"I have been thinking," Mathias continued. "You and your men are bearing the brunt of this fight yourselves. For which we are grateful. But it isn't proper."

If Sten had really been a mercenary, he would have agreed.

Instead he made a polite protest. Mathias raised a hand to stop him. "If we are to be truly victorious," Mathias said, "Sanctus must dare to spill its own blood. Not just that of—if you will forgive me—beings who might be viewed as mere hirelings."

A self-deprecating smile to Sten.

"Not that we are not convinced that all of you are committed to the cause of Talamein. And that of the True Prophet—my father."

Sten accepted his apology. Very wary now.

"And so, I have a proposal for you, Colonel. No, an offer."

They turned the corner of the path, which spilled into a broad glade.

Mathias pointed dramatically. Drawn up in line after blood-red line were the Companions. Six hundred young men in their spotless ceremonial uniforms. Without an apparent signal, they all raised a hand in salute.

"MATHIAS," they shouted in unison.

And Sten gave a slight jolt as Mathias shouted back:

"FRIENDS."

The young men cheered deafeningly. Mathias, all smiles, turned to Sten.

"Colonel Sten, I offer you my life and the lives of my companions."

Sten wasn't quite sure what to say.

"What the clot could I do?" Sten asked Alex.

The big man was pacing back and forth in the control room on the Bhor ship.

"But the'r't nae professional, lad."

Sten slumped into a chair. "Look, Mahoney has moved the whole operation up one entire year."

"We'll recruit some more men," Alex responded.

"No time," Sten said. "Right now we need bodies. Anyplace we can get them."

"Cannon fodder," Alex said.

Sten shook his head. "They're not professionals, but the Companions have trained—after a fashion. And they will take orders. All we have to do is form them into our mold."

"An Ah dinnae ken wh'll be trainit' them," Alex continued suspiciously. "Ffillips? Trainit th' lads ae commandos? Th' nae be't time f'r thae."

"Possibly Vosberh," Sten said, keeping his face straight.

"Nae, nae. Tha' be't e'en more silly."

Sten grinned at him. "Then we have the answer."

Alex was aghast. "Me," he said, thumping a meaty thumb into

his chest. "Y'nae be't suggestin' ae Kilgour wae y'?"

"I thought it was your idea."

Sten handed Alex a fiche. "Now, I was thinking, Red Rory of the Advertisements, you should begin their training with…"