The Wolf Worlds (Sten Book 2)
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1984 Set three thousand years in the future, the eight Sten novels tell the tale of a tough, street-wise orphan who escapes his fate as factory planet "delinq" to become the strong right-hand of the most powerful man in the Universe--a man hailed by his billons of subjects as "The Eternal Emperor." 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.
currently heads the council.” “His Prophet is?” “Theodomir. When he was young he massacred a few lots of disbelievers then settled down to his real interests, which seem to be bribes, antiquarian art, and the martyrs of the faith. Sanctus—the homeworld and the capital—is sometimes called the City of Tombs.” “Who’s the Jannisars’ Prophet?” “A killer named Ingild. Among other things, my agents report, he’s addicted to narcotics.” The Emperor put both hands to his temples and rubbed slowly,
Sten craned his neck back, looking up the sheer cliff of ice that towered above him. It was a near-impossible climb and therefore, Sten reasoned, the route where the Jann were most vulnerable. He looked at Alex and shrugged, as if to say: “It ain’t gonna get any easier.” Alex held out one hand. Sten stepped into it, and the heavy-worlder lifted him straight up. Sten scrabbled for his first handhold, found a crack in the ice, jammed a fist into it and the spiked crampon points into the ice, and
charges lifted the building straight up—and then dropped it back down on itself. Some of Sten’s men, in spite of specific orders, were too close to the blast area. They died. Others would never hear again without extensive surgery. Sten’s raid was more than satisfactory. A side benefit—one which would ultimately save Sten’s life—was that the Jann command bunker’s com net was cut and Khorea, together with what little Jann command staff still lived, would be buried for at least three days.
the Emperor asked, a trifle plaintively, “would—a single drink matter to these clots?” “Nossir,” Mahoney said—but made no move to the decanter in the dressing room. Neither did the Emperor. “One of these eons,” the Emperor continued, “I shall comereeling down that ramp, declare in a high falsetto that this bridge is now open, and proceed to circumcise the first dignitary I see with the ribbon-cutting scissors. Then I will vomit over the rest of whatever noble thieves are greeting me.” “No
little-girl-lost. Without hestitation she walked straight toward the guardshack. A young, handsome Companion stepped out. “May I help you, sister?” She opened her eyes as wide as they could go. “Oh, yes, sir. I’m hoping you could. I’ve never been to the Holy City before, and . . . and . . .” “You’re lost?” Bet gulped and gave a shy nod. “We were all with the village priest,” she gushed, all over-explanation. “The Talamein youth group—and one of the boys got, well, you know . . . too friendly,