Star Soldier ds-1 Read online

  Each of her men wore the red uniform of Political Harmony Corps. Beneath it they wore body armor. Silver packs attached by wires joined the slim pistols in their fists. Behind their clear visors, glazed eyes showed their post-hypnotic conditioning, and so perhaps did the set of their lips. They marched to death, to supreme suicide, and it had turned them into something akin to zombies. That in turn gave them an aura even the mob dreaded.

  Wherever the squad went, they had left a litter of the dead and dying. The major had ordered scattered army formations directly into the fray against the Highborn with orders that no one retreat in face of the enemy. A few times the lasers flared and stubborn police units fell dead at their posts. The truth was that nobody had expected the Highborn to fight with such grim elan underground. In Greater Sydney, everybody had agreed, the traitors from space would learn what real fighting was all about. Once the Highborn crawled in the Earth like moles, their vaunted superiority would prove false. That thought had been the illusion.

  Major Orlov staggered through the last of the shoulder-to-shoulder masses, which now surged toward Stairwell One hundred and six to Level Forty-one. Groups of people huddled together on the street in shock or dashed off to points unknown as fast as they could. Slowly the size of the mobs thinned. Still, wherever Major Orlov marched, people ran by screaming or grimly silent or stood numb as they gazed intently at the ceiling, as if expecting it to collapse at any moment.

  The major squared her massive shoulders and tugged her uniform straight. The berserk hordes frightened her. Some people had actually dared to hiss as they’d passed. Terror, as she well knew from those she’d tortured, often destroyed a lifetime of social conditioning. She shook her head, silently berating herself. She had played too long with Marten Kluge, had wished too fervently to see him broken. That was why Highborn had gotten so far into Sydney before she’d moved, why they had been able to block the normal route to her destination. It amazed her how efficient the enemy was. How extraordinary their martial accomplishments. She’d wasted time with Marten Kluge. And there had been something else, something she wouldn’t allow herself to admit. It’s why she hadn’t killed him in the interrogation room. She glanced at her men. No matter. Marten Kluge along with everyone else in Sydney would serve the greater good by their sacrifice.

  Yet…

  Major Orlov ran a dry tongue over equally dry lips. She didn’t want to perish, to become nonbeing. The idea made her guts churn. After this life, nothing, blank, deleted. But… sweat prickled her collar. What if the old legends—the nonsense from the ancient world—really were true? That was foolish. There was no Hell, no Judge in the afterlife. There was this one life, then nonexistence. She’d lived well. But she wanted to live still! And maybe Hell was real. Maybe for all the wretched evil she’d done—

  “I did it for the good of the State,” she told herself.

  Major Orlov removed her cap and wiped sweat from her forehead. The she placed the cap firmly on her head. A sick feeling thumped in her chest. What if the Great Judge didn’t view it that way? What if He consigned her to Hell for her errors of judgment?

  She left the blocks of barracks-like living complexes and entered a financial zone. In the distance roared the mobs. It made her shiver and hope with everything she had that they didn’t turn this way. The buildings changed from long edifices to smaller cubes of credit unions, banks, repo-houses and travel agencies. Plants and trees abounded in greater profusion. The streets and sidewalks switched from plain ferroconcrete to colorful bricks. They made eye-pleasing plazas with umbrellas, and table and chairs outside small eateries.

  The major stopped and tried to get her bearings. Being out of the mob was like leaving a high-pressure cage. She could breathe again, normally, but she felt funny just the same. Every so often, a group of people raced by, running to join the mob or to get far away from it. They avoided her, but they no longer seemed in awe. She didn’t like that. They thought perhaps that they had a new master to fear. Well they were wrong! She snarled at her zombies. They stiffened to attention, alert, eager to kill again before their finality.

  A sergeant hurried beside her and brought an electronic map. She traced her blunt finger over it, tapping the red dot.

  “Here.”

  He gazed at the buildings around them. Then he grunted, “Seven blocks over. That way.”

  “Yes.”

  “Major?”

  She squinted at him, a little man with a deadly laser. Not that he was so small really, just that all her life she’d been bigger, larger than practically everyone. Sometimes she found it annoying; mostly it proved useful for intimidation purposes.

  “They will be wary,” the sergeant said. “They might shoot first.”

  Major Orlov bit back the retort that maybe it would be just as well if they did shoot. That thought she mustn’t allow herself, not after such an illustrious career. So she lifted a haughty chin and rapped an order. The squad, their trigger fingers overly sensitive, jogged behind at the double as she marched to face down the Deep-Core Personnel.

  Deep-Core took orders straight from the SU Directorate and no other. Neither the Army nor the PHC nor the Political Action Committee had any authority over them. To ensure Deep-Core’s independence and protection from terrorists they had their own police units and security directives. Some called them a state within a state. The practically limitless energy that came from this advanced technology and the awful risks it entailed demanded such a condition. Deep-Core Security guarded the emergency elevator on Level Forty that sank far into the Earth. The Regular Army had demanded reinforcements from them. The answer, as always, had been, “Don’t be absurd.”

  After a brisk walk, Major Orlov rounded the last corner and marched toward the entrance of a low-built building that looked just like the others in this district. A spacious plaza fronted the glass entrance, not for gracious living, but to provide a wide field of fire. The building looked like a bank, but that was illusion. It would be a vault over a vault, in other words, a well-constructed fortress. Apple trees rustled along the brick-laid plaza, while soft music played overhead. The war hadn’t yet reached here, although a bloodstain here and there showed where Security had slain refugees foolish enough to head here for safety. And of course, Security had quickly removed the bodies, undoubtedly dropping the corpses down the chute to the core waste dump.

  Major Orlov knew weapons tracked her. Security operatives watched their every move. It made her back itch, and she wondered if they would simply cut her down without a warning. The farther she walked, the more certain she became they waited until none of them could get away before they opened fire. Her belly muscles clenched and her mouth grew drier. It became agony to take another step.

  “Halt!” rumbled a command, as if out of the very air.

  Major Orlov almost collapsed right there. She froze in the middle of the plaza and waited. The short hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Her red-suited zombies halted behind her, their programmed eyes absorbing every detail. She vaguely wondered if being so near to death heightened one’s senses. Did knowing that she would soon not-be make her want to live these last few hours with all the zest she could muster? The seconds dragged, and she wondered if security personnel debated about talking first or just going ahead and killing them. She wanted to scream, ‘Wait, we’re PHC!’ Yet maybe that fact was going against them in the debate.

  Her thoughts stopped as the glass door opened. Her knees felt weak, and she felt absurdly happy that she could live a few more hours.

  Out marched a slender man in a brown uniform. He smoked a stimstick, the tip glowing red, and he wore his cap at a rakish angle. He smiled at them, but his mean little eyes took in their lasers, their red uniforms.

  He smiled to show her she didn’t frighten him. Major Orlov was certain of it, the arrogant prick! He probably relished his position. He no doubt delighted in cowing people when he knew snipers would back his every word. So she took a wide stance and put her hands on her
heavy hips. She glowered at him with the PHC look.

  It didn’t impress. He saluted, allowed himself another drag on his stub of a stimstick, then took it with his slim fingers and flicked it far. In fright, Major Orlov and her men watched the smoldering stub. It seemed too much like a signal. When the stub hit the bricks and broke into sparks they all winced. But nothing bad happened.

  “It’s major, I believe,” he said, with a cursory glance at her epaulets.

  Major Orlov maintained her glower, and she hated him more by the nanosecond. She wasn’t used to such disrespect and she silently damned him for scaring her.

  He darted a glance at her killers, and the down turn at the corner of his lips said he saw something nasty about them that one shouldn’t really talk about. So he regarded her again. “This is a restricted area, as I’m sure you know.”

  Major Orlov drew a plastic computer card from her side. It was her directive. She thrust it at him.

  He made no move to take it. “You must move along now, Major, and, uh, take your men with you.”

  “This is direct from Beijing.” The first hint of uncertainty entered his eyes, and oh, that thrilled her.

  “This is Deep-Core.” He spoke reverently.

  “The SU Directorate supersedes Deep-Core.”

  Momentary awe flickered across his face—that she could bear orders stamped by a Director. He suppressed the awe, and then he snatched the card and dropped it into a scanner slung on his belt. He stared at the scanner longer than necessary. Finally, he glanced at her, murmuring, “This is highly unusual.”

  “Notice the seal.” She couldn’t keep the glee out of her voice. “SU Directorate.”

  “Hmm.” He spoke into his cuff. Then he drew a second stimstick from his uniform.

  Her men stiffened, as if this slender officer would actually do the killing. He need merely twitch his finger and lasers would cut them down. He had no need to draw a gun, not out here.

  The Deep-Core officer inhaled, and the end of his stimstick glowed into life. He blew narcotic smoke into the air. Suddenly he cocked his head as if he heard an inner voice. No doubt, an implant communicator had been embedded in his skull. He lifted his eyebrows, glanced at Orlov. It took him a moment to formulate the words. “This way then,” he said, “but your goons stay behind.”

  “I beg to differ. My orders clearly state I’m to help defend your station.”

  “You can’t mean inside?” he asked in outrage, finally shedding his calm.

  “My orders are explicit.”

  “But…. That just isn’t done.”

  “If you need to, reread the directive,” she said.

  He spoke into his cuff again, sharply. The answer returned faster. He blinked and took the longest drag of his stimstick yet, holding the smoke in his lungs. He exhaled as if sighing. Finally, he composed himself and muttered, “Very well then, follow me.”

  Major Orlov marched across the plaza toward the Deep-Core Station, her squad behind her. Inside would be armored security. They would be just as suspicious as this man was. This was a delicate operation. The elevator down would be Security’s inner sanctum, the holy of holies for these officers. Deep-Core’s orders, training and special conditioning were to destroy the elevator rather than to lose control of it. Oh yes, this would be a very delicate operation, perhaps the greatest of her career.

  A pain flared in her ponderous left breast. Major Orlov feared the end, yet…. The good of the many outweighed that of the few. She knew that. It beat in her brain until she wanted to retch. So she set her teeth and marched after the slender Deep-Core officer. At least she’d take all the bastards of Greater Sydney with her, there was that much to console her. And she’d take out the hated Highborn who had brought this awful fate to pass.

  Hot molten metal would spew into Greater Sydney, slaying, searing and destroying all. No one could escape. It brought an odd smile to Orlov’s lips. Then the brown-uniformed officer opened the glass door into the Deep-Core building. She followed. Behind came her killers. The extra special operation was about to begin.

  16.

  The frenzied hordes appalled Marten. Faintly, from down the stairwells came the sounds of gunfire and plasma cannons. The sounds lashed the crowds, the masses, and they trampled weaker people, clawed and fought to get away. Illegal weapons appeared. Shots rang out. The moans of the dying mingled with groans of terror. Hundred-man fights raged. Big men with crank bats, wearing the uniform of a local sports team, waded through the mob. Their heavy bats rose and fell. People collapsed, their skulls crushed and their faces bleeding. Kitchen knives appeared in fists, were plunged into tightly packed bodies. An overturned car plugged one lane. People scrambled to get over it, trampling a knot of school kids underneath. The old hobbled, infirm and begging for help, to be thrown aside by stronger, younger people again and again. Some of the frail gave up. Others held up their arms, pleading. Outside a theater, chorus girls screamed offers to whoever would save them.

  Where any of these people thought they could hide was a mystery to Marten. But that didn’t matter. Panic overrode logic.

  The lights flickered as a dreadful quake caused masonry to rain upon the mob. Shrieks and bellows rose to a crescendo as trapped people turned, clawing those nearest them in the need to get away. The crank-bat wielders were attacked from all sides and the big men went down under an avalanche of screaming people. Waves of human flesh turned in any open direction and bolted for safety. Twenty office managers in tweed suits sprinted into a building, to come tumbling back out as a drunken mob bashed them with bowling balls. Crammed bodies jammed the nearest stairwell; several young men climbed atop that packed crowd and slithered over the heaving mass. One was pulled headfirst back into the throng, his screams lost in the noise as boots and shoes crushed the life out of him. A boy, his face pale with terror, refused to move as he stood there, ashen and silent.

  To Marten’s horror, a mob charged them, led by a tall man with long hair. Inhuman fear stamped their features. Demented, they could not grasp that there was no way out in this direction. Marten and the Incorrigibles were sheltered in a small cul-de-sac. Once the mob reached them, they’d be trampled, perhaps to death.

  Omi raised his assault carbine to his shoulder. Flames leapt from the short snout and he trembled from the vibration. Marten couldn’t hear the shots over the wild sounds around them. The lead man blew apart in a spray of blood and bone. Behind him, others plunged to the ground, gut and chest-shot. The survivors turned as they bellowed like maddened bulls.

  Trembling, Stick led them to a nearby hole in the wall. An artillery shell must have created it earlier. They ducked into what looked like a hotel lobby. There they waited as if sheltering from a storm. The mob had become like a force of nature, this one particularly unpredictable.

  “Why’d you do that?” Turbo roared into Omi’s ear. It was the only way to make himself heard.

  Omi didn’t say why. Like Marten and Stick, he crouched with his back against a wall. He closed his eyes and pressed the hot barrel of his gun against his forehead. Perhaps he felt bad for what he’d done. Perhaps he merely rested.

  “We gotta keep moving,” Marten said.

  “Why’d he kill them?” shouted Turbo.

  “I don’t know.”

  “We ain’t murders!” the junkie bellowed.

  Omi moved like a spark, jumping into Turbo’s face. “They would’ve trampled us! That’s why!”

  “You murdered them!” shouted Turbo, saliva spraying out of his mouth.

  Omi swung the butt of the carbine into Turbo’s gut. The tall junkie bent at the waist, falling backward. The gunman fed a bullet into the chamber and raised his weapon.

  “No!” shouted Marten. He leaped beside Omi and yanked down the barrel.

  For a moment, it seemed Omi would use the same trick on him. Then the Korean’s shoulders sagged and he threw himself against the wall, his eyes closed as he rested his forehead against the hot barrel of his gun.

&n
bsp; Marten helped Turbo.

  “He’s crazy.”

  “Maybe we all are,” Marten said.

  Turbo laughed harshly. “Not like him, baby. He’s Class-A crazy.”

  Stick moved beside them. “Listen.”

  They did.

  “The crowd’s thinning out,” Stick said.

  “Yeah,” Marten said. “I’m not shouting anymore.”

  Omi opened his eyes. He wouldn’t look at Turbo. “I have one question.”

  “Name it,” said Marten.

  “What’s our plan?”

  “I plan on living, you murdering bastard,” Turbo said.

  Omi acted as if he didn’t hear. He asked Marten, “You tell me our plan.”

  “We have to stop PHC,” Marten said.

  “From doing what?”

  “What do you think?” Marten exploded. “From blowing the deep-core mine.”

  Omi rose, and now he stared at Turbo. “Exactly.”

  “So you can gun down anybody now?” shouted Turbo. “Is that your excuse?”

  “So we can save Sydney. Yes.”

  “Just like the cops say,” Turbo sneered. “You’re doing this for everyone else, huh?”

  “That’s right,” the gunman said.

  “Yeah?” said Turbo. “Well—”

  Marten grabbed Turbo’s skinny arm, shaking him. “Save it. Let’s go.”

  They followed him out of the hotel and back onto the street. A group of teenagers armed with bricks sprinted past. They hurled the bricks at windows, cars, stores or dwelling places, their laughter hysterical. Two old men helped up an old woman with a bleeding gash on her forehead. Crushed bodies lay everywhere. The relative quiet after the mob had passed an eerie feeling to it, making the world strange.

  “Come on,” said Marten.