Doom Star: Book 02 - Bio-Weapon Page 27

  Hawthorne appeared thoughtful. “Maybe the enemy gave them generous terms. They have after all become adept at turning captured soldiers into their own creatures.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. How could an officer steeped in social responsibility possibly consider surviving the capture of his ship?”

  “The will to live is strong,” Hawthorne said philosophically. “It may be that not all the officers were up to the task.”

  “Treachery piled upon treachery. This is a terrible blow, unfathomable, mysterious and sinister. We can’t allow the Highborn to tow the Bangladesh to the Sun Works Factory.”

  Hawthorne began to pace. “If you’ll excuse me, Madam Director, I must see the new Space Commander and get his recommendations on how to achieve our goal.”

  Blanche-Aster motioned to her guard-clone. “I’m sorry to have brought this news, General. My recommendation is to look into each of the officer’s records. Somewhere is the clue as to who sold his comrades to the Highborn.” The guard-clone wheeled the Madam Director away.

  Hawthorne turned to Captain Mune.

  For the first time during the conversation, the hulking bionic soldier seemed other than a statue. His steely eyes flickered over the hunch-shouldered General. “It has to be done, sir.”

  “You’re right, Captain. But it’s a filthy business.” Hawthorne knew he had to order the Bangladesh destroyed, to kill his own people, those who had survived the storm assault.

  “That’s why they pay us, sir, to do the dirty work the civilians won’t.”

  Hawthorne smiled painfully, putting his hand on Captain Mune’s shoulder. “Let’s get this over with, shall we.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The two men headed down the corridor to Space Command.

  24.

  With his battlesuit powered on low Marten crept through a corridor.

  For 72 hours, he had won the cat and mouse chase. First, he’d modified his battlesuit, removing its electronic ID tag and switching the setting of his Friend or Foe selector. Then he’d jury-rigged Bangladesh damage control crawlers, setting them on automated hunt and fix. The massive inner destruction to the beamship kept them busy. They thus constantly moved, which showed up on the Bangladesh’s motion detectors. Said detectors Marten destroyed with religious fervor, along with destroying ship’s cameras. Then a virus—preset by Admiral Sioux—shutdown the beamship’s computers and engines. From their comlink chatter Marten learned that the shock troops gave first priority to restarting the engines, then to hunting him and finally to inserting new Override software.

  For the past 72 hours Marten had lived on stims, Tempo and by drinking plenty of water. He had debated about walking into of group of his old comrades and explaining reality to them. They could listen or gun him down. He’d abandoned the idea when he couldn’t think around the fact that they would simply capture him and leave him for the HBs. Then in a recreation room he’d found several recorders. He went outside the ship and carefully thought out his options. After a half-hour, he recorded a message.

  MARTEN: I’ve given this a lot of thought, longer probably than any of you realize. The Highborn mean to rule us, the premen herds. They won’t stop with the premen herds of Earth or Venus, but go on to the Jupiter, Saturn, Neptune and Uranus herds. At least that’s how they think of us, as cattle. If Omi were awake, he’d confirm the story about their gelding plan. Think about that: cutting your balls to make you more docile. That’s what Training Master Lycon said. I heard it and so did Omi. Sure, we’re the shock troopers, the elite, the purebreds, I suppose. But what kind of future is it if we’re the premen, the Pre-Men?

  He’d switched off and thought more. Finally:

  MARTEN: Kang and others will tell you it is the best deal we can get. They’re probably right. The HBs won’t give you a better deal than what you already have. The truth is I’m not promising you anything new, the fact of your manhood. What I’m suggesting is to use it, to make your manhood count. Stand up like a man and take action. Or play it safe and remain a slave as you are. I heard Omi say a few weeks ago that we’re nothing more than those five-inch fighting fish at the Pleasure Palace. If that’s all you want to be, then you deserve castration. Only I don’t think that’s true, either. No one deserves that. So that’s what I think, I, Marten Kluge the Man. What do you think?

  Marten turned off the recorders and played back the message. Maybe he could refine it to something perfect, but it said what he felt. When he returned inside the ship, he left the recorders in various open spots he knew they would come through. He hoped it would sway them, but he didn’t think it would. He just wanted somebody to know what he thought. Besides, it felt good to speak his mind.

  Now, after 72 hours, he realized that as good as he was he couldn’t keep ahead of thirty or so expert shock troopers forever. That’s how many they kept in rotation hunting him. It was a big ship with kilometers of open corridors and spaces, but they were good and learning fast. So as little as he had in way of supplies and without Omi, he crept for the escape pods. Earlier there had been too much fighting around them. Now the escape pods would be rigged, he knew, but he had to get off the ship while there was still time. He paused, extreme fatigue pulling at his eyelids. Every part of his body ached. At times he found himself blinking, wondering how he’d walked so far. He realized he was falling asleep on his feet. Soon he’d simply keel over snoring. Then he’d probably wake up, with Kang holding a vibroknife under his chin.

  The corridor was dark. Blasted utility units lay like junk on the floor. Dried blood was smeared everywhere. The corpses had been removed, whether by busy damage control vehicles or shock troopers he didn’t know or really care. To ping his radar might give away his position, so his visor was up and he washed the corridor with a helmet-lamp on low.

  The Bangladesh was a cocktail of strange odors. He picked out blood, the stench of laser-burns, plasma and hot grease. The tread of his half-ton battlesuit was loud, the servomotors a constant reminder that eventually his suit might break down.

  A loud click made him freeze. It came from around the corner.

  He switched off the helmet-lamp and waited in darkness. No one washed radar over him and no motion detector could see what didn’t move. His eyes couldn’t adjust to complete darkness, but his fatigue caused splotches and imaginary images to dance before him. So he finally turned his beam back on. The weariness made his skin sag and his limbs tremble.

  On ultra-low power, he shuffled toward the corner. He listened, but all he heard was his suit’s whine. Finally, he snarled to himself and bounded around the corner, to see two shock troopers aim heavy lasers at him.

  When they didn’t fire, he washed his headlight over their helmets. Stenciled on the foreheads was LANCE, VIP.

  Vip’s visor opened, although Lance’s remained shut.

  Marten wanted to tramp the last few meters between them and hug the rat-faced little Vip. The crazy eyes jittered and the mashed nose was the same. Vip even managed a grin.

  “Hey, Maniple Leader.”

  “Hey, Vip.”

  “I listened to your tape. Made some sense.”

  “What about Lance? What does he think?”

  “He thinks you’re crazy.”

  “Is he going to shoot me?” asked Marten.

  “I don’t think he’s made up his mind.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “Around.”

  “How come you’re here, Vip?”

  “Doesn’t this seem like the obvious place for you come?”

  “Yeah, I suppose it does. So why isn’t everyone here?”

  “They’re not as patient as me.”

  Marten smiled.

  “But you’re also out of luck,” Vip said.

  “Why is that?”

  “The other shock troops launched escape pods whenever they came upon them so the Social Unitarians couldn’t use them. Once Kang linked up with them and we took control of the ship, they launched the rest. I thi
nk maybe one got away with SU people aboard.”

  Marten swayed as he felt his resolve beginning to crumble.

  “Maybe that’s why some of the others didn’t stake out this area. They knew the pods were gone, so why should you try for them?”

  “Yeah,” Marten said.

  “So you’re out of luck.”

  Marten nodded.

  “If you want to come with me I’ll see that they treat you right.”

  “Until the HBs show up.”

  “You’ve burned your bridges, Maniple Leader. Which isn’t like you. Usually you have two plans going at once.”

  “I’m a soldier. It’s what I’m supposed do.”

  “Yeah,” Vip said. They looked at each other. “What should I tell Lance?”

  Marten glanced at the dark visor, at the laser-tube aimed at his chest. That wasn’t a little las-rifle but the heavy-duty stuff that could penetrate battlesuit armor.

  “Ask Lance if he wants it on his conscience that he’s the one who captured me so the HBs could put me in a pain booth.”

  “I can answer that for him. It would bug him.”

  “That’s it?” Marten said. “Just bug him?”

  “Yeah. Lance is pretty set on making it out alive.”

  Marten nodded. He was so tired. He wanted to quit now anyway. Instead: “I’m leaving, Vip.”

  “Where can you go?”

  “I don’t know. But I haven’t given up yet.”

  Vip chuckled.

  “If Lance’s wants to shoot now is the time.”

  Vip glanced at Lance, and it seemed as if Vip listened. Then Vip grinned again. “Good-bye, Maniple Leader.”

  “Good-bye, Vip. And Vip?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why don’t you leave Omi somewhere I can pick him up?”

  “Maniple Leader… it’s over, finished. You’re a dead man. Do you really want to take Omi down with you?”

  Marten considered that. He finally nodded. “Omi would want me to.”

  “Okay. I’ll think about it.” Vip cocked his head. “You’d better go if you want to stay free for awhile.”

  Marten hesitated, and then he stood at attention and saluted Vip and Lance. When Lance saluted back, Marten hurried away into the darkness.

  25.

  A 623 Prowler Repair pod scanned the inner ring of the Sun Works Factory. Expelled hydrogen particles propelled it across the metallic surface, a man-sized globe with a small radar packet and searchlight that swept back and forth. It cut a twenty-meter swath as it first went fifteen kilometers one way and then turned around and traveled fifteen kilometers the other way. Twenty meters at time, searching, scanning, the white light washing over the station for signs of breach or meteor damage.

  Then it braked. Its searchlight washed over a large hole. The tiny pod computer beamed a message to the main station comp. As it waited, the red strobe light atop it winked at ten second intervals. A message returned.

  The Prowler pod acknowledged and logged the command, and then so very gently it applied thrust as it entered the gapping hole. The white light washed over a large cavity and over what appeared to be ship locks and oxygen pumps. Then two floating objects, highly reflective, man-shaped and secured by lines to the farthest reaches of the cave came to light. The Prowler pod paused, rotated and slowly withdrew from the gapping indentation. All the while, it broadcast an emergency code for the two lifeforms it had found outside the livable portion of the station.

  26.

  Anxiety on one hand and boredom on the other had turned Training Master Lycon irritable. He sat in front of a computer screen and checked report after report. He rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. Outside his cubicle marched a platoon of monitors, barking orders and promising dire wrath to anyone that slacked off.

  The anxiety came because too few shock troopers had made it aboard the beamship. The skill of the enemy in repelling so many space marines had surprised the Top Ranked Highborn and even more surprised Lycon. It was another dreaded indication that not everything went according to the great master plan. That in turn had weakened the Grand Admiral’s position—and that hurt Lycon because the Grand Admiral was his sponsor. The Bangladesh’s surprise proton-beam attack had already dealt the Grand Admiral a hard blow. That a premen spacecraft had been able to cause such damage and thereby throw the Highborn into such a crisis meant that someone had erred. Premen were inferior, a fact that no one could deny. Inferior beings do not deal superior beings such surprises unless those in charge are reckless or careless. Logic dictated as much. And since the Grand Admiral was ultimately in charge of all Highborn activity, this crisis hurt his exalted position.

  Even worse, however than the weakening to the Grand Admiral’s position—in Lycon’s view and to his goal—was that because of the Bangladesh’s success the Sun Works premen had become restless. They stirred with hints of rebellion. And the scandal with the Chief Monitors, that they had been practicing drug lords, had hurt, too. Their daring was amazing and disconcerting to the Top Ranked. How Hansen and his chief aide had escaped was still a mystery. That there had been corruption among the most trusted premen and now with these hints of rebellion had proved to the Top Ranked that premen could ever be trusted. And that severely weakened the idea of the shock troops in space. In other words, the Praetor’s philosophy and those who held it had gained ascendancy. Except for the Praetor himself. That drug lords had worked under his administration undermined his authority. He thus pressured all Sun Works personnel to acts of perfect precision and relentless activity.

  That meant the Training Master and his marshals helped suppress preman thoughts of rebellion. Thus the four ‘beta’ Highborn, Lycon’s training team, and he over-watched monitors who made sure premen repair teams worked to capacity.

  Lycon read more reports. A few minutes later, a cough interrupted him. He scowled at a monitor, a lean man who stared at the floor.

  “Yes?” asked Lycon.

  “Highborn, there is a report that might interest you.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Lycon.

  Without looking up the monitor held out a paper.

  For reasons he couldn’t explain Lycon hesitated. Then he snatched the paper. “A pod found two premen, so what?”

  “The pickup ship did a bioscan, Highborn.”

  Lycon dropped to:

  Bioscan: Heydrich Hansen, Ervil Haldeman

  “Is this right?” asked Lycon.

  “Yes, Highborn. My team awaits your orders whether to bring them around or not.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “They’ve been given Suspend, Highborn. Both are very much alive.”

  Shocked, Lycon wondered what this meant to him. Maybe nothing at all or maybe— He nodded. “Yes, revive them and let me know when they come around.”

  “Yes, Highborn.” The monitor saluted and marched away.

  Lycon thoughtfully rubbed his jaw and then he turned back to the reports and kept on reading.

  ***

  An hour later Lycon stood in a sterile medical center. A gnomic doctor in a green gown stared meekly at the floor while nurses hurried by. A level down was the Neutraloid surgery room. This level saw to burn and revival victims.

  “Are they both lucid?” asked Lycon.

  “Yes, Highborn,” said the doctor, a wizened old woman with bad breath.

  “Have either made any statements?”

  “Both were cautious, Highborn, and were clearly terrified. They raved, in fact, one of them trying to break free to kill the other. At my orders, both were been given tranquilizers. They are heavily sedated.”

  “I’ll see them anyway.”

  “Yes, Highborn.” The old doctor opened the nearest door.

  The room was small, with two steel-lined beds, each holding a white paper-clothed occupant. Short, broad-shouldered Ervil lay strapped to his bed. He stared at the ceiling with blank-looking eyes. Hansen kept testing his straps, until he noticed Lycon. He paled considerably.
<
br />   “You may leave,” Lycon told the doctor.

  “Yes, Highborn.” She hurried out.

  Hansen managed to pry open his lips. “You-you-you.”

  Lycon cocked his head. As a former Chief Monitor Hansen should know better than to speak first, even drugged he should know. Why was it that both the Praetor’s chief monitors lacked proper protocol skills?

  “You are an odd species,” said Lycon, moving closer, putting his hands on the bed’s stainless steel railing. “Given rank and trust you turn around and practice the worst kind of deceit. Whatever motivated you to manufacture dream dust?”

  “Motivated me?” croaked Hansen. “What about you?”

  Lycon shook his head. Hopelessly deranged this one. He had scanned the report of the 623 Prowler’s find. It had been a hanger of some kind, and by the particle traces in the hanger, a spacecraft had left within the past few weeks. These two had probably planned to escape and been double-crossed and left behind. As Chief Monitor Hansen had an enviable life ahead of him, Lycon couldn’t understand why he would make drugs and then try to flee to who knew where?

  Hansen drooled and spoke in sly undertones. “You killed Bock for a reason. I know that much.”

  “Highborn,” corrected Lycon. “When you speak to your superiors you must use the correct protocol procedures.”

  Hansen blinked several times before he asked, “If you’re so high-born how come everyone’s been able to trick you so easily?”

  “Explain.”

  Hansen’s head lolled back and forth across his pillow. “No, no, no. Nothing for nothing is my motto. If you wanna know then you gotta promise to help me.”

  “Don’t trust him,” warned Ervil.

  Lycon was surprised that Ervil meant the warning for him. “Why shouldn’t I trust Hansen?” he asked, bemused by these two.

  “Because he’s a double-dealing bastard. I’ll kill when I get the chance.”

  “Be quiet, Ervil,” slurred Hansen. “We gotta use Lycon and get him to help us.” With his long, sly face, Hansen regarded Lycon. “You’d better deal with me. It would be in your long term interest.”