CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

STEN THOUGHT THE freighter gave ugly a bad name.

Pritchard-class freighters were one of those answers to a question no one had asked. Some bright lad, about one hundred years earlier, had decided there was a need for a low-speed, high-efficiency deep-space freighter that also had atmospheric-entry capabilities.

The designer must've ignored the existence of planetary lighters, high-speed atmo-ships for the more luxurious or important cargoes, and the general continual bankruptcy-in-being of any intrasystem freighter company.

The Pritchard-class ships were well designed to be exactly what the design specs stated, so well that it was nearly impossible to modify them. Therefore, they trickled down from large-line service to small-line service to system-service to, most often, the boneyard.

This particular example—the Atherston— had cost somewhat less than an equivalent mass of scrap steel.

The Bhor had towed the ship to a berth in a secluded part of Nebta's massive equatorial landing ground, and Parral's skilled shipwrights and Bhor craftsmen, directed by Vosberh, had gone to work.

The Atherston's looks hadn't been improved any by the modifications. Originally the ship had a lift-off nose-cone and drop-ramps for Roll On, Roll Off planetary cargo delivery.

The nose had been solidly filled with reinforced ferroconcrete, as had fifty meters of the forward area, so that the drop-ramps were now barely wide enough for troops to exit in double column. The command capsule had been given a solid-steel bubble with tiny vision slits, and the bubble was reinforced with webbed strutting. And finally, just to destroy whatever aesthetic values the tubby rustbucket had, two Yukawa drive units were position-welded and then cast directly to either side of the ship's midsection. Steering jets made an anenome-blossom just behind the nosecone.

"Beauty, isn't it, sir," Vosberh said briskly. Sten repressed a shudder.

"Best design for a suicide-bomber I've ever seen," Vosberh went on. "I figure that you'll have a seventy-thirty chance when you crash into that plant."

"Which way?" Sten asked.

"You pick." Vosberh smiled. Then he turned serious.

"By the way, Colonel. Two private questions?"

"GA, Major."

"One. Assuming that you, uh, miss, and by some misfortune pass on to that Great Recruiting Hall in the Sky, who have you picked as a command replacement?"

Sten also smiled. "Since both you and Ffillips will be grounding with me on the Aiherston, isn't that a pointless question?"

"Not at all, Colonel Sten. You see—a little secret I've kept from you—I believe I am immortal."

"Ugh," Sten said.

"So the question is very important to me. Under no circumstances shall I turn over command of my people to Ffillips. She is arrogant, spit-and-polish, underbrained…" and Vosberh ran momentarily short on insults.

"I would assume that Ffillips feels about the same toward you.

Major."

"Probably."

"I will take your first question under advisement. Second question. Major?"

"This raid on Urich. Is there any chance it will end the war?"

"Negative, Major. We'll still have scattered Jann to mop up—and Ingild to deal with. Why?"

"I warned you once, Colonel.'The minute that Parral or that stupid puppet prophet he's running get the idea they're winning…" Vosberh drew a thumb across his throat.

"Mercenaries," he went on, "in case you haven't learned, are always easier to pay off with steel to the throat instead of credits in the purse."

"Good thought, Major. Answer—as I said. This war has not even begun."

Vosberh saluted skeptically and turned away.

"What is that supposed to be. Sergeant?" Mathias asked, staring up at the wood-plas-concrete assemblage in front of him.

"Yon contraption's ae fiendish thingie, Captain," Alex said. "A'

tha' Ah'm supposit t' tell ye is it's som'at nae longer needs t' exist.

Ye're trained noo, Captain. Takit y'r squad an' destroy yon device."

Mathias scowled but obediently shouldered the demopack filled with plas bricks weighted to simulate demo charges and cord that simulated fusing and primacord.

He motioned his squad forward and, as Alex stepped back, they swarmed up the structure, hesitating at certain key points to lay "demo charges" and connect the fusing and primacord.

Alex checked his stopwatch and grudgingly admitted to himself that even fanatics can be good. The mockup was actually one of the tube-latches that the raid was intended to destroy on Urich.

Mathias and his men dropped off the structure and doubled up to Alex. Mathias and one other man were trailing simulated det fuse. Not even breathing hard, Mathias snapped to a halt and saluted.

"Well, Sergeant?"

"Ah reckit y'r times fair," Alex said. "Noo. Twicet more an'

ye'll hae i' doon pat. Then, t'night, w' comit back an' run th' drill again. Wi'oot light."

The landing field was scattered with more of these practice structures, and, on each of them, a mixed group of mercenaries and Mathias' Companions rehearsed what they would have to be able to do drunk, wounded, gassed, or blind when the strike force hit Urich.

Otho's howls of rage were moderately awesome, Sten realized, listening to the Bhor rage on about what had been done to his trading lighters.

"Armor! Projectile cannon! Shields! Chem protection! By my mother's beard, have you any idea how long it will take us to reconvert our lighters to useful configuration?"

"Don't worry about it, Otho," Sten said. "Probably we'll all die on Urich and then there won't be any problems."

"Och," Otho agreed, brightening and slugging Sten on the back. "By my grandsire's womb, I never thought about that. Shall we share some stregg on the thought. Colonel?"

"Mathias?"

"Six hundred trained men, present, ready."

"Vosberh?"

"We're ready."

"Fflllips?"

"All teams trained, aware of targets, ready for commitment."

"Egan?"

"Intelligence, ECM, sensors all on standby."

"Sergeant Kilgour?"

"No puh-roblems," Alex purred.

"Order group number one," Sten said. "All troops are restricted to base camp area, effective immediately. You may inform your troops that Parrel's units are patrolling our perimeter with instructions to shoot on sight any soldiers attempting to take French leave.

"We board ship in two days. I expect all men to be fully converted to all-protein diet, water-packed, and all equipment to be double-checked and shock-packed. We will board ship when Mathias and I return from Sanctus.

"That is all, gentlemen."