Fleet of the Damned (Sten #4). Allan Cole

to tell whoever was inside that this was not an IP, so he/she didn’t have to conceal whatever he/she might have been doing. A sultry voice came through the annunciator, a voice as soothing as any emergency surgery nurse could have.

      Sten told the box what he wanted.

      “Orbit a beat, brother, and I’ll be with you.”

      Then the door opened, and Sten dropped into horror.

      Sten was not a lot of things:

      He certainly wasn’t ethnocentric. The factory hellworld he’d been raised in had given him no sense of innate culture.

      He was not xenophobic. Mantis training and combat missions on a thousand worlds with a thousand different life forms had kept that from happening. He also was not what his contemporaries called a bigoted shapist. He did not care what a fellow being looked or smelled like.

      He thought.

      However, when a door is opened and someone is confronted by a two-meter-tall hairy spider, all bets are off.

      Sten was—later—a little proud that his only reaction was his jaw elevatoring down past his belt line.

      “Oh dear,” the spider observed. “I’m most sorry to have surprised you.”

      Sten really felt like drakh.

      The situation called for some sort of apology. But even his century had not yet developed a satisfactory social grace for a terminal embarrassment. Sten was very pleased that the spider understood.

      “Can I help you with something?”

      “Uh… yeah,” Sten improvised. “Wanted to see if you knew what time we mess.”

      “About one hour,” the spider said after curling up one leg that, incongruously, had an expensive wrist-timer on it.

      “Oh, hell. I’m sorry. My name’s Sten.”

      And he stuck out a hand.

      The spider eyed Sten’s hand, then his face, then extended a second leg, a pedipalp, laying its slightly clawed tip in Sten’s palm.

      The leg was warm, and the hair was like silk. Sten felt the horror seep away.

      “I am Sh’aarl’t. Would you care to come in?”

      Sten entered—not only for politeness but because he was curious as to what sort of quarters the Empire provided for arachnids.

      There was no bed, but instead, near the high ceiling, a barred rack. The desk took up that unoccupied space, since the desk chair was actually a large round settee.

      “What do you think—so far?”

      “I think,” the lovely voice said, “that I should have my carapace examined for cracks for ever wanting to be a pilot.”

      “If you figure out why, let me know.”

      The social lubricant was starting to flow, although Sten still had to repress a shudder as Sh’aarl’t waved a leg toward the settee. He sat.

      “I involved myself in this madness because my family has a history of spinning the highest webs our world has. If you don’t mind a personal question, why are you here?”

      Sten knew that if he told Sh’aarl’t that the Eternal Emperor himself had punted him into this mess, he’d be ascribed either a total liar or someone with too much clout to be friendly with.

      “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

      “Perhaps I might ask—what is your real rank?”

      “Commander.”

      Sh’aarl’t exuded air from her lungs. Of course she was female—even huge Araneida seem to follow the biological traditions. “Should I stand at attention? I am but a lowly spacebeing second.”

      Sten found himself able to laugh. “Actually, I’d like to see it. How does somebody with eight legs stand at attention?”

      Sh’aarl’t side-jumped to the center of the room, and Sten tried not to jump vertically. Attention, for a spider, was with the lower leg segments vertical, the upper ones at a perfect forty-five-degree angle toward the body.

      “At full attention,” Sh’aarl’t went on, “I also extend my fangs in a most martial attitude. Would you like to see them?”

      “Uh… not right now.”

      Sh’aarl’t relaxed and clapped a pedipalp against her carapace. Sten surmised, correctly, that this signified amusement.”I guess you had no trouble with the push-ups today.”

      Again the clap.”How serious do you think these beings are?” Sh’aarl’t asked, changing the subject.

      “I dunno about Ferrari,” Sten said. “But that Mason scares the clot out of me.”

      “I also. But perhaps if some of us hang on and survive until others are washed out… Certainly they can’t throw everyone away—given what the Tahn are preparing. Am I right?”

      Sten realized that she was desperately looking for reassurance, and so modified his answer from “I think these people can do anything they want” to, “Nope. There’s got to be a couple of survivors. Speaking of which—why don’t we go downstairs. See if this—” Sten almost said spider-web “—tender trap they’ve put us in also feeds the fatted lamb.”

      “Excellent idea, Commander.”

      “Wrong. Candidate. Or Sten. Or you clot.”

      Again the clap.

      “Then shall we descend for dining, Sten? Arm in arm in arm in arm…”

      Laughing, the two went out of the room, looking for food.

      * * * *

      Later that night, there was a finger tap at Sten’s door.

      Outside was one of the barracks staffers. If the staff members all looked, to Sten, like palace retainers, this man would be the perfect butler.

      After apologies for disturbing Sten, the man introduced himself as Pelham. He would be Sten’s valet until Sten completed Phase One.

      “Complete or get flunked, you mean.”

      “Oh, no, sir.” Pelham appeared shocked. “I took the liberty, sir, of looking at your file. And I must say… perhaps this is speaking out of school… my fellow staff members and myself have a pool on which of the candidates is most likely to graduate. I assure you, sir, that I am not being sycophantic when I say that I put my credits down on you with complete confidence.”

      Sten stepped back from the doorway and allowed the man to enter.

      “Sycophantic, huh?” Sten vaguely knew what the word meant. He went back to his desk, sat, and put his feet up, watching Pelham sort through the hanging uniforms.

      “Mr. Sten, I notice your decorations aren’t on your uniform.”

      “Yeah. They’re in the pocket.”

      “Oh. I assume you’ll want—”

      “I will want them put in the bottom of the drawer and ignored, Pelham.”

      Pelham looked at him most curiously. “As you desire. But these uniforms are desperately in need of a spot of refurbishment.”

      “Yeah. They’ve been at the bottom of a duffel bag for a couple of months.”

      Pelham collected an armload of uniforms and started for the door. “Will there be anything else required?

      You know that I’m on call twenty-four hours.”

      “Not right now, Pelham. Wait a moment. I have a question.”

      “If I may help?”

      “If I asked you who Rykor was, what’d be your reaction?”