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“Soon after hearing nothing,” the Martian continued, “we detected heavy jamming.”

  This time Oslo fully faced the battlesuit. “You did not say anything about enemy jamming. That proves he—”

  At the last second, the arbiter attempted to whirl back around. Maybe he heard Jon’s stealthy approach. Jon plucked the gun out of Oslo’s grasp, shoving the smaller man.

  Due to the increased Gs and the arbiter’s precarious balance, Oslo collapsed onto the deck-plates.

  Jon was aware of the assault rifle aimed at him. He ejected the gun’s magazine and the bullet in the chamber. Then he dropped the empty gun and shoved it across the floor with a foot. He might have handed the arbiter his gun back as an act of bravado, but the secret policeman might have extra magazines on his person.

  “I have made my decision,” Oslo said angrily. “My judgment is that he must die. Kill him,” he told the Martian.

  The battlesuit lowered the assault rifle.

  “I have judged,” Oslo said, as he climbed up to perch again on his good foot. “I order you to kill him.”

  “Such an act is against my primary tenets,” the Martian said.

  “This is an outrage,” Oslo said. “You begged for a judgment. Now, you must abide by my orders.”

  “Why don’t you think for once?” the Martian asked. “We’re stranded in deep space in a nearly derelict battleship. An alien enemy has invaded the Solar System. We must join forces, not bicker with each other. This alien possesses technology far in advance of ours.”

  “What alien?” Oslo shouted, his face turning red. “You keep speaking about one, but there is no evidence of these fantastic creatures. What we are witnessing is a Neptunian plot. We know the Neptunians are uninhibited, capitalist technologists. How, otherwise, could they render such a powerful battleship as ours inoperative?”

  “You’re not reasoning correctly,” the Martian said. “If the Neptunians had such power, why didn’t they deploy it at the Battle of Nereid?”

  “Because we surprised them,” Oslo shouted.

  The Martian made tsking sounds. “Really?” she asked. “We decelerated for over a month to lower our velocity, and the supposedly technologically superior Neptunians failed to see that? That makes no sense at all.”

  “If your fabled aliens exist, why did neither side spot them?” Oslo asked.

  The Martian made another exasperated sound through the helmet speaker. “That’s why the three of us must go to the command deck. I have the evidence there that I need to show you. Then, if the admiral yet lives, we can make our plans concerning the best way to react to the new development.”

  Oslo was shaking his head. “No, no, no, no, no! First, you must shoot the space marine. If you are too squeamish, you must vacate the battlesuit and allow me to do so.”

  Jon had one hand behind his back, firmly gripping the box-cutter.

  “Don’t you understand yet?” the Martian asked Oslo.

  “What?” the secret policeman snapped.

  “Our battleship has lost almost all its initial velocity. Once that happens, where do you think the Brezhnev will go?”

  The arbiter became pale. “What are you talking about?”

  “The rogue computer caused the Brezhnev to brake so the battleship could return to the Neptune System. We’re headed back toward the last known sighting of the alien invader.”

  -10-

  The battlesuited Martian cradled Sapir Oslo while Jon brought up the rear. He’d re-shouldered the power pack and held the laser torch. Unfortunately, the increased Gs had turned the unit into an intolerable burden. Jon sweated as the straps dug into his shoulders. After several more steps, he realized that this was too much for his fatigued muscles.

  He unbuckled the belt and let the pack slip off his shoulders. The unit thudded onto the deck-plates behind him.

  The battlesuited Martian turned. “We might need that soon.”

  “I’m beat,” Jon said. “If you want to carry it, go ahead.”

  The Martian took her time answering. “No. We know where to get it.”

  Oslo remained silent. He’d quit talking after the Martian had told him he couldn’t have his gun back. He’d pouted at first. Then, his demeanor had changed, and Jon realized the secret policeman had begun plotting again. The man wouldn’t be happy until he shot him. Did the arbiter lack human feelings? He’d saved the little prick’s life several times already, and this was the thanks he got?

  Using a sleeve, Jon wiped sweat from his brow.

  The Martian faced forward and began clomping.

  “How much farther is it?” Jon said, following her.

  “A few more corridors,” the Martian replied.

  The size of the Leonid Brezhnev was fantastic. Neptune did not possess anything remotely this huge. Most of the NSN warships controlled drones, which did the real fighting.

  Jon’s eyebrows rose. He was remembering more. The only close-in, heavily armored NSN fighters were space marine launch-ships. Is that what the regiment had become, Neptune Navy space marines? He couldn’t quite remember, but the thought was there. With the looming war against Earth, the NSN had inducted the regiment directly into its military. It hadn’t been a mercenary contract, but an involuntary draft.

  Finally, the battlesuit squeezed between two frozen hatches, which slid sideways instead of up and down like most hatches.

  The stench of death hit Jon right away. Lasers had roasted human flesh in here. Buckets of blood had splashed everywhere.

  He followed the battlesuit onto the command deck. It was huge like everything else on the Brezhnev. Caked blood and gore covered the controls, bulkheads, deck and ceiling. He spied at least thirty corpses and a handful of shot-up fighting bots.

  The fighting robots were cylindrical-shaped and the height of a man. This type used three legs for maneuver. Most had gun-ports and could expel an incredible amount of machine-gun fire. One was the laser bot responsible for much of the carnage, no doubt having beamed a military grade weapon.

  The robots must have surprised the command personnel. Among the dead were shot-up battlesuits with corpses inside them.

  The last moving battlesuit picked its way with care. Finally, the seven-foot suit came to a raised area before the dull main screen. A woman in a green and blue uniform lay there on her back. She shuddered, gasping for air. Bloody bandages were wound around her midsection. Her face had turned waxen.

  “She’s alive,” Oslo said in a muffled voice, with a sleeve held before his mouth and nose. No doubt, he couldn’t stand the smell.

  The Martian gingerly set him down. Oslo collapsed onto his butt. He looked exhausted, and he hadn’t even been walking.

  Jon quietly picked up a handgun laying on the deck-plates and shoved it behind himself, tucking it between his shirt and pants. He kept away from the other three so they wouldn’t notice.

  “Admiral Cheyenne?” the Martian said.

  The admiral raised her head before letting it thump back down. She raised a bloody hand next.

  The battlesuit froze in a forward motion. Clasps began unlatching. Soon, the back of the battlesuit parted like a splitting cocoon. A thin woman in a black skin-suit climbed out of the suit. The Martian had long dark hair and brown, inquisitive eyes.

  She held a computer tablet, and wore a small belt with a holster and a medikit attached.

  Jon was surprised she’d maneuvered the battlesuit so well. The suits were made for men weighing from 160 to 205 pounds, and from 5’8” to 6 foot in height.

  The Martian was barely 5’2” if she stretched and maybe 105.

  As the mentalist approached Admiral Cheyenne, the arbiter stirred where he sat. Oslo awkwardly maneuvered himself upright, hopping toward the open battlesuit.

  Jon watched the policeman to see what he would do.

  The arbiter kept watching the mentalist. The Martian knelt beside the admiral, whispering to her.

  Oslo was almost to the back of the battlesuit when he glanced at Jon.


  Jon grinned at the bastard.

  The arbiter kept his features deadpan. Then, he moved faster yet for the battlesuit entrance.

  Jon drew the gun, aiming it at Oslo as he shook his head.

  As soon as the arbiter saw the gun, he froze. “Look,” he said a moment later. “I have drawn him out. The space marine has rearmed.”

  The Martian looked up at Jon, noticed the gun and looked at the arbiter. It seemed she took in the open battlesuit. Finally, she gave her full attention back to the admiral.

  “Do you see?” Oslo asked her.

  “Go join the mentalist,” Jon said.

  “You are not in authority here.”

  Jon laughed. He’d given the secret policeman a chance. Now, he could shoot the bastard in good conscience.

  The arbiter seemed to divine Jon’s intentions. With ill grace, Oslo hopped away from the battlesuit, soon kneeling beside the admiral.

  Jon came closer to the trio.

  “You can put your gun away,” the Martian said sadly.

  “You’re not thinking logically,” Jon told her.

  She regarded him, and it seemed as if wheels turned in her mind. “If the arbiter finds a weapon, he will shoot you. Your safest course is to kill him. I understand that. What you don’t understand is that we’re going to need the battleship’s codes. Those are contained in the arbiter’s brain. Thus, you must remain vigilant as we keep him alive.”

  “Are you on the Neptunian’s side?” Oslo asked in a sulky voice.

  “I’m on humanity’s side,” the Martian said sadly. “That means I hope to keep you alive. It appears you refuse to understand the mercenary’s predicament. For his regiment’s sake, he should kill you. I doubt you’re ready to die, though.”

  “Why do you speak of dying?” Oslo asked. “The final authority is mine once the admiral passes.”

  “In theory, you’re correct,” the Martian said. “In reality, you’re wrong at the moment. I urge you to adjust to the ever-changing situation.”

  The arbiter stared at her until his features stiffened angrily.

  “I would think a GSB agent would be a realist of the first order,” the Martian said. “How, otherwise, have the secret police maintained power all this time?”

  Jon stepped nearer as the two spoke. Blood soaked the admiral’s stomach bandage and pooled on either side of her. She’d lost far too much blood. Without a transfusion, she would die soon.

  “I purged the computer,” the Martian told the admiral.

  The admiral coughed, tried to speak, and coughed up blood.

  The Martian looked up in distress at Jon.

  He came closer yet. The increased Gs must be killing the admiral faster than earlier. Her body was too weak to endure the greater pressure.

  At that moment, the admiral shuddered, jerking her head. She stiffened before her head lolled to the side. At that point, her entire body seemed to deflate.

  Admiral Cheyenne of the Leonid Brezhnev joined the rest of her bridge crew in death.

  -11-

  After a short pause, perhaps of mourning, perhaps as he contemplated a new ploy, Sapir Oslo looked up.

  “The admiral’s passing is regrettable,” the arbiter said. “She was a noble woman fighting for a just cause. We will miss her wisdom. Sadly, I must now take up the reins of command. In this dire hour, I hereby take up the duty of chief commando. I will enter the battlesuit—”

  “You’re forgetting something,” Jon said, interrupting. “I have a gun. You don’t. That means I’m in charge.”

  The Martian ignored both of them as she struggled to her feet. She went to one of the previous dead and removed the man’s uniform jacket. She returned to Admiral Cheyenne, staring down at the corpse as tears welled in her eyes.

  “I am not religious,” the Martian said slowly, “although I do see the utility of religion. It gives the masses a moral compass they might otherwise lack. It can also give the practitioners solace in death. That is strange, is it not? Why does man need the belief that something lies beyond death? I cannot believe that evolution foisted the idea upon humanity. It is odd, but I can almost see that this belief is a sign of something greater than man that lies beyond the physical senses. I find myself wanting to believe the admiral’s soul has gone to a better place.” She gently covered the admiral’s face.

  The Martian regarded Jon. “What do you believe regarding the afterlife?”

  The question unsettled Jon. “What?” he said.

  “Is there something more to life?” the Martian asked. “Does something greater lie on the other side of death?”

  “Why ask me?” Jon said.

  “Because I already know the arbiter’s thinking,” the Martian said.

  “I find your statement presumptuous,” Oslo declared.

  “You believe in a higher power?” the Martian asked the arbiter.

  “Don’t be absurd,” Oslo said. “I am a strict rationalist. There is matter, and that ends the discussion.”

  “Why do people feel the need to believe otherwise?” the Martian asked him.

  “You’re wasting time,” Oslo said. “I have already declared myself in charge of the vessel. Now, I will enter the battlesuit—”

  “I’ve already told you that’s not going to happen,” Jon said.

  “Please,” the Martian said. “Stop your bickering for just a moment. We must say a word for the deceased admiral.”

  “I already said a word for the admiral,” Oslo informed her.

  “I know you did. Maybe that’s what started me thinking. Why did you do that?”

  Jon noticed a burning quality to the Martian’s eyes as she spoke. What exactly was bothering the mentalist?

  Oslo shrugged indifferently. “In truth, I spoke as a gesture of good will. I sensed an emotional attachment on your part toward the admiral. I have heard that such emotional attachments are rare among mentalists.”

  “Why should I feel this way about the admiral?” the Martian asked. “I do not enjoy the sadness. It serves no useful purpose. In fact, it thwarts our present purpose by delaying us.”

  “Exactly,” Oslo said. “So, if we could—”

  “That causes me to question the situation more deeply,” the Martian said, as if she hadn’t heard the arbiter’s words. “What is the utility of this sadness? Why do most people feel it at a time like this? I can come to only one reasonable conclusion.”

  “What’s that?” Jon asked, finding that he was curious regarding her answer.

  The Martian regarded him as she wiped her eyes. “I have begun to wonder if the powers behind reality have caused humans this feeling. These powers are warning us in this moment. They are telling us that there is something more to life, to reality, than mere material existence. They are saying, in effect, that souls exist and live beyond our physical life.”

  “When you say powers,” Jon said, “you’re talking about God.”

  “That is one name for the powers,” the Martian agreed.

  “You’re also talking about Heaven and Hell,” Jon said.

  “You’re religious then?”

  “I guess so,” Jon said, remembering some of the things the chaplain used to tell him. He looked down at the dead admiral, her face covered by the jacket.

  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” Jon quoted. “May her soul go up to God in Heaven. May she find peace from the turmoil of this life. Amen,” he finished.

  “Thank you,” the Martian said softly. “That was beautiful and poignant.” She turned away from them, wiping her eyes once more.

  The arbiter seemed impatient, but he held his peace.

  Jon studied the dead admiral. He looked at the other corpses. He didn’t want to be on the command deck anymore. He didn’t like thinking about stuff like this. It made him feel funny. He’d done plenty of hard things in his life. Some might call them wrong things. The chaplain had called such things sin. Would God judge him for his sins?

  “Are we done here?” Jon asked.r />
  The mentalist faced him, and she appeared quizzical. “Why are you upset?”

  “We’ve got to do something,” Jon said. “We can’t waste time just standing around.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “By the way, my name is Gloria Sanchez. I am of the Ninth Level. I did not get your name.”

  “Jon Hawkins of the Black Anvil Regiment,” he said.

  Gloria seemed to be avoiding looking at the admiral’s corpse. She pulled up her tablet as if she wanted to show them something.

  “Do we have to stay here?” Jon asked.

  “For the moment,” Gloria said. “If you’re finding the presence of the dead uncomfortable, I suggest you block their existence from your thinking.”

  “Is that what you’re doing?” Jon asked.

  “Yes,” she said in a clipped manner. The mentalist’s features altered subtly. They became more wooden, almost masklike.

  “I need to show you something,” Gloria said.

  Jon glanced at the arbiter before he said, “I don’t want to crowd around your tablet. I don’t trust him enough to do that. I saved his life, and he’s shown me no gratitude for it. I think he’s evil, capable of any action in order to get his way.”

  “Evil is a moral judgment,” Gloria said. “I try to avoid those. Facts interest me, not feelings. Still, your unease does you credit. The arbiter is an opportunist of the first order, with his objectives always uppermost in his thinking.”

  “Insulting me is a bad idea,” Oslo told her.

  “But there was no insult intended,” Gloria said. “I spoke fact. Do you disagree with my assessment concerning you?”

  “I have sworn to uphold the Solar League,” Oslo said. “You took a similar oath. Or have you forgotten?”

  She turned away from them and the corpse, approaching the blank main screen. “What I want to show you is small. You might not see it on my tablet. The main screen would be better. I pulled the data from the ship’s sensors just before the computer made its first attack. It’s why I’ve suspected alien interference.”

  “I’m going to enter the battlesuit,” Oslo told Jon.

  Jon grinned nastily. The bastard wanted to play this kind of game, huh? That was fine with him. He was going to enjoy smacking the creep around. If the policeman suddenly became too dangerous, he’d kill him in good conscience.