Star Soldier ds-1 Read online

  “Not seeing, really.”

  With his heart hammering, Marten turned and glanced for sight of the hall leader.

  Beth plucked at his sleeve. “She can’t just see one person. People might think her odd. Really, Marten, sometimes I think you’re corrupting her.”

  Marten could hardly think as he stalked away.

  “Don’t be elitist, Marten! Or—Where’s the major?” he heard Beth ask someone.

  Quirn! He couldn’t believe Molly was actually seeing him, maybe even kissing him. Rage flared within him. He hunted for the hall leader. Then he saw ferns thrash and he heard a muffled, “Stop. Not here.”

  Hall Leader Quirn struggled to hold onto Molly.

  Several quick strides brought Marten near. He yanked back the fern.

  “Marten!” said the hall leader, his features a mixture of rage, surprise and drugged lethargy.

  Marten lunged at Quirn.

  “Marten, no!” Molly cried.

  “Take your hands off me,” Quirn warned, who finally released Molly to defend himself. “I can—”

  He never finished. Marten slugged him in the mouth. Quirn slammed against the wall. Marten grabbed the front of Quirn’s shirt and…

  “You!”

  Marten looked over his shoulder.

  With her sidearm stunner, PHC Major Orlov shot Marten in the back.

  5.

  Each day the forty billion people of Sol III consumed billions of kilograms of food. The government’s nightmare—even before the civil war—was where to find all those calories. Earth’s environment was strained to the maximum and still there wasn’t enough to go around. A hundred of the solar system’s biggest gigahabs orbited the planet. On the gigahabs were fish farms, wheat farms, chicken farms and rice farms churning out food around the clock in order to provide the teeming hordes with their daily bread. Still that wasn’t enough. Beef had vanished long ago for the average man. Fish, chicken and rabbit returned more meat per bushel of feed than a steer did. Also, cows weighed ten times more than goats and ate ten times as much feed. Unfortunately, a cow only produced four times as much milk as a goat. For the same amount of feed, a goat produced twice what a cow could. For this reason, Earthmen in 2349 drank goat milk and ate goat-derived cheese.

  Breakthrough food technologies became stopgap measures. Massive starvation would have occurred but for humanity’s creativity. “Necessity is the mother of invention,” went the ancient saying. And men invented with a passion in the area of food production.

  In the end, one of the oldest foods in the chain came to humanity’s rescue. It happened partly for another basic need: oxygen. Near each major city gargantuan algae vats were constructed underground. In order to increase growth, powerful sunlamps burned every minute of the rotation cycle. Many names abounded for these life-saving, sustenance-rich algae a vicious, thick, goopy scum that clogged all known machinery. The nearest to the truth in terms of its rawest form was pond scum. Everything about this high-grade algae production required around the clock maintenance. From the heat flats, to the chutes that drained excess algae to the settling tanks, to the processing bins, the churn cycle and then the constantly cleaned canals that brought the vitamin-rich slop to the enhancing vats. Robotic machinery and androids cared for ninety-seven percent of the process. The last three-percent took flesh and blood workers in slick-suits slaving harder than any Egyptian had raising the pyramids.

  The slime pits became one of the supreme teaching tools for Social Unity. Reform through labor, first raised to an art centuries ago by Mao Zedong in the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution, now once more came into its own in the middle of the Twenty-fourth Century.

  For those who found normal social interaction intolerable, for those too thickheaded to understand the beauty of the system, well, a long stint in the slime pits often cured them of their pathological malaise. Perhaps as importantly, for the first time many of them performed a socially useful function. It wasn’t nice or easy. Sometimes, regrettably, workers lost lives to drowning, heat exhaustion, algae gorging, excess bleeding from torn limbs in the choppers, red-syrup lung, sludge parasite and a vicious form of black gangrene. Studies showed that unless the trainees bonded quickly with their counselors, their probability for survival was minimal. Upon initiation, each trainee or student was encouraged to develop the proper work ethic and enthusiasm for his instructor.

  Marten Kluge found himself placed among the incorrigibles, due in large measure to Major Orlov backing up Hall Leader Quirn’s testimonial. No one thought Marten’s odds very good for survival, least of all Marten Kluge. But he’d be damned if he were going to just lie down and die.

  6.

  For four days, Marten Kluge uttered no word to anybody. They cut his rations in half, quartered them, and then they told him he could eat when he decided to cooperate and talk. Stubbornly, day and after day, he kept his lips shut and his eyes peeled. His cellmates stole food from the refectory, he discovered on his fifth day after the judgment. On the eighth day, he successfully performed his first theft from them. The day they caught him started ordinarily enough.

  The squad worked in the heat flats for ten hours straight, twice the legal limit. Exhausted, they dragged themselves through decontamination, peeled off their slick-suits and staggered under the showers. Seven men of various shapes, sizes and ages slumped against the tiles as icy water needled their skin. Marten tilted his head back and gulped water. His blue eyes were bloodshot. His skin was blotchy and his stomach seemed glued to his spine.

  The water stopped. They shuffled to the vents and like patient animals endured the heated air. When it quit, they donned coarse, itchy tunics and marched barefoot to their cell. Each man crumpled to his mat on the steel floor and fell asleep.

  A klaxon woke them. They rose, with black circles around their eyes, and they shuffled out of their cell for dinner. Marten brought up the rear. Just before reaching the door, he knelt, felt the open stitching of the nearest mat and drew a hidden wafer, popping it into his mouth.

  “So it’s you!”

  Startled, Marten looked up.

  A short, swarthy, stocky youth glared at him. He was Stick, a knifeboy from a pocket gang in the slums.

  Armored guards stood outside, as did over a hundred men and women trooping out of their cells to dinner. Now wasn’t the moment to fight. Stick knew it, so did Marten, but Stick didn’t seem to care. He launched himself into the cell, aiming a karate kick at Marten’s head. Marten dodged, and the foot slammed against his shoulder and spun him to the floor.

  Stick snarled, “Where I come from we kill thieves.”

  Marten staggered to his feet. He felt lightheaded and his vision was blurry. He was taller than Stick, probably weighed more, but the scars on Stick’s body had come from a hundred different street fights.

  In the corridor, there was shouting and shrill whistle blasts, and then the loud zaps of shock rods striking flesh.

  Stick roared a battle cry and rained a flurry of blows at Marten. Smack, smack, smack, Marten’s cheek stung. He grunted as a fist snapped into his stomach. His ribs ached where Stick connected with his heel. Then red despair boiled into Marten. He gave an inarticulate cry as he charged the knifeboy. Knuckles thudded atop his head. Then Marten lifted Stick off his feet and shoulder-slammed him against the wall. He grappled as Stick gouged with his fingernails.

  “Stop!” shouted the guards, blowing whistles as they piled into the room.

  Neither man heeded the call. So shock rods fell on them, stunning them into submission. Armored guards separated them and hauled them to their feet and forced-marched them out of the cell and down the corridor filled with open-mouthed trainees. Marten glared wildly at everyone. Stick had eyes only for Marten. The look promised murder.

  A guard twisted Marten’s arm behind his back. Marten ground his teeth together, refusing to cry out.

  “Think you’re a tough bastard, huh?”

  Marten remained silent.

  The gua
rd twisted harder.

  Marten yelled. The guard laughed in his ear. Marten struggled to free himself, and to his amazement, the guard let go. Marten turned toward his tormenter. Shock rods hit him in the face. He saw their black visors and the gleaming white teeth of their sadistic smiles. Then he blanked out into unconsciousness.

  7.

  Marten woke to the sound of a hissing hypo. Groggily, he realized someone had shot him full of stimulants. He was also aware of a body beside him. He checked and saw Stick sneer. They sat on a bench together.

  “You’re meat,” said Stick.

  “The prisoners will not speak unless they are spoken to.”

  It was an effort, but Marten swung his eyes toward the front. Ogre-sized Major Orlov sat there, her black cap snug over her beady eyes. Brutality shone on her face. Behind her stood two, red-uniformed PHC thugs, men with the zealous glare of the hypnotically adjusted. They were in a small room, the lights bright and the walls bare.

  “Marten Kluge, the State believes that you are worse than an incorrigible.”

  Marten said nothing concerning her statement. He was too shocked and dismayed to discover her here.

  Major Orlov, her ham-like hands resting on her knees, shifted her attention to Stick. “What could possibly drive a trainee to strike another member of society?”

  Stick took a leaf from Marten’s book, saying nothing.

  Major Orlov nodded curtly, as if confirming a suspicion. “Intransigence is punishable many different ways.”

  Stick’s eyes darted around the cell.

  “On the other hand, cooperation shows willingness to reform, which means the incorrigible might possibly be returned to the labor battalion he originally came from.”

  “Uh…” Stick shifted on the bench. The two thugs behind the major grew tense. Stick’s shoulders slumped in a submissive way. The guards relaxed and the major stretched her lips in what she surely assumed was a smile.

  “We had an argument,” Stick said slowly.

  The major’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Does Marten Kluge slack off during work hours?”

  Stick shrugged.

  “No. Mannerisms don’t interest me.”

  Stick stared at her.

  “Truth interests me. Factual, precise, measurable truth.” She glanced at Marten.

  He glowered, but he didn’t glower at her. In fact, he didn’t really listen to her. He stared straight ahead and let rage consume him. His eyes grew glossy and his breathing deepened. He let rage wash over his thinking as he brooded on how much he hated everyone here. How everyone here was against him and plotted to thwart him. They tried to make him talk. He would never talk. He would rather they slice open his belly than give them the satisfaction of hearing him talk. They tried to subdue his will. They had taken away all his personal freedom. No. He refused. He wouldn’t budge a millimeter.

  Major Orlov pursed her lips. “The truth is both of you broke regulations. These regulations are not frivolous guides haphazardly written. Indeed not! They are here to reform you. But we can only reform you if you will help, if you will cooperate. Truth…. It is a precious commodity. Those who cooperate will only wish to speak truths. Now, I will give you each a chance to tell me factual, actual truth.”

  Marten breathed heavily through his nose. For the moment, he subsisted on rage.

  Stick, however, thoughtfully rubbed his chin. He eyed Marten and then he judged the major and her two killers.

  “You want the truth?” asked Stick.

  Major Orlov bared her teeth. “At this moment we attempt to solve deep-seated issues. I admit to a personal interest—I wish to show the sluggards who run Reform how to… how to correct an incorrigible.” She glanced at Marten, before she continued with Stick.

  “I tell you frankly, the tank awaits both of you if we fail. But you must never think of the tank as punishment. Indeed not! The tank is merely one of society’s many tools of reform. Unless each of you is reformed, we have failed in our assigned task. I hate failure. It mocks the State, which is the engine that gives the greatest good to the most people. So yes, truth must now step forth so that the proper correctives can be applied to each of you.”

  Marten vaguely understood that hoarding food was punishable by death. Not that he planned on turning Stick over to them. To cooperate was the first step toward giving in.

  Stick seemed to think about his answer as he gauged the major. “We don’t get along.”

  Major Orlov leaned forward. “Indeed. Why did you choose that moment to publicly reveal your dislike?”

  Stick hung his head as if defeated. “He spoke profanities.”

  Major Orlov sat straighter, her interests obviously engaged. “Marten Kluge spoke to you, verbally?”

  Stick nodded miserably. He was a good actor.

  Major Orlov scowled and snapped her thick fingers. One of her red-suited killers stepped forward.

  “Give me your agonizer.”

  The man placed a small disc with a dial into her huge hand. She twisted the setting onto high as the two thugs swung behind Stick and held him fast.

  “Mannerisms annoy me. They indicate frivolity.”

  She placed the agonizer to his neck. Stick arched his back and winced horribly, but he made no noise other than a croak. Finally, she removed the agonizer and handed it back to the thug.

  She addressed Marten. “What did you say to him?”

  Marten glowered at the wall.

  “My patience is not unlimited, Mr. Kluge.” After a moment, Major Orlov pursed her lips. She asked Stick, “What did he say to you?”

  “It don’t matter.”

  Her tone turned glacial. “I will determine that.”

  “He called me a dirty gook.”

  “Ah… a racial epithet?”

  “Yeah.”

  She swung back to Marten. “That is a serious crime, Mr. Kluge. You shall spend ten days in the tank unless you admit to your racial bigotry and make a formal apology to everyone in squad eleven.”

  The glassy look left Marten’s eyes. He grew aware of the conversation, playing it back in his mind, as it were. He glanced at Stick, who wouldn’t meet his gaze. A small, tight smile played on Marten’s lips.

  “And what do you find so amusing?” asked the major.

  Marten fixed his gaze upon her.

  “Here, Mr. Kluge, insolence is a costly attitude to sustain.”

  Major Orlov could hurt him, hurt him very much. Despite that, Marten let his contempt for her freeze onto his face.

  She flushed. She leaned forward and deliberately slapped him across the face. Marten checked his impulse to leap upon her. Instead, he laughed.

  She bolted upright, seemed on the verge of falling upon him and then whispered, “Into the tank with him this very instant.”

  8.

  Nine-foot tall glass cylinders lined the sides of a sterile auditorium. In the middle stood what seemed to be an emergency medical operating theater, complete with green-clad doctors and nurses. Several interns strolled around a working cylinder.

  As he was marched past them, Marten saw green-colored water pouring into the cylinder from the top, splashing upon a naked woman inside. The water swirled up to her thighs. Drenched and wretched she worked the lever of a hand-pump built into the cylinder. At every stroke, water exited via a tube and drained out through the auditorium floor.

  Marten’s scrotum tightened and he stumbled.

  From behind, Major Orlov steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. He felt her breath on his neck.

  “Ten days in there, Mr. Kluge. Either that or speak to me now.”

  Marten calculated the fall of the water. It wasn’t gushing, but it was constant. He felt dizzy, lightheaded. He considered the medical unit. They wouldn’t let him die, it seemed. So he steeled himself for the worst and kept repeating in his mind how he’d never give in.

  “Foolish,” said Major Orlov, perhaps noting the set of his jaw. “There are constant miscalculations. Often the trainee dies
of heart failure. Sometimes the pumping malfunctions and more water pours into the tank than was required. Before anyone can draw the trainee to safety, he or she drowns.”

  A small, balding doctor with a clipboard stepped up. He kept blinking his eyes rapidly. He said hello and explained the pump to them, the water temperature—icy—and that at times “elements” were added to the tank to increase the discomfort and thereby help prod the recalcitrant to speedier reform.

  “Any questions then?” asked the doctor when he had finished.

  Marten stared rigidly ahead.

  “He refuses to communicate,” Major Orlov explained.

  “Indeed? Interesting.”

  “Incorrect, Doctor. It is social maladjustment.”

  “True, true.” The doctor, with his right cheek twitching, indicated that Marten should enter the tank. Two beefy interns rolled a platform beside the cylinder. They ripped off Marten’s tunic, attached a harness, lifted him with a winch and released him into the nine-foot tube.

  An intense feeling of shame filled Marten. Distorted through the glass he saw Major Orlov and the doctor inspecting him, Orlov pointing at his privates. Marten turned his back on them and studied his surroundings. The glass was cold and the floor was wet and slimy under his bare feet. Above, the interns slotted a stopper over the top.

  “Are you ready, Mr. Kluge,” the doctor asked over an intercom.

  Marten refused to acknowledge him.

  “Hmm, I see. Well, in your case, Mr. Kluge, the simple expedient of verbal communication will end your stay. Otherwise—” the doctor glanced at his clipboard. “Ten days?” he asked Major Orlov. “Is that warranted?”

  “You exceed your authority, Doctor.”

  “No one has survived ten days in the tank. It’s physically impossible.”

  Marten glanced over his shoulder at them.

  Major Orlov smiled as her eyes lingered on his buttocks. “Yes, that gained your attention. You are a madman, Mr. Kluge. This time you will have to talk.”