She told him the amount. It was huge, off the scale for someone like him.
He nodded. “Yes, I see. Well, I have to make a few arrangements for that amount, but I can come up with the full payment by next week.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
He ignored the remark. “Before I can get your money together, I need to get an item I left on the ship.”
“That is out of the question.”
“I know the corporation desires its credits—”
“We’re far beyond shaky promises,” she said, interrupting. “Now that you’re here, we no longer have to hold the vessel per the IPO request. That means we can begin auctioning it to recoup losses. If you can meet the costs, that’s one thing. According to your bank account, however, the odds you can make those payments are slim. Such being the case, I won’t allow you on the vessel, because Delbough & Macon Repairs will soon auction everything inside in order to help cover the docking fees. Then, we will have an open bidding, hoping to recover the extensive bill by selling the ship to whoever will buy it.”
He blinked several times, surprised at her abrupt shift, mentally shuffling for strategies, but coming up empty. Then he had a Brune idea. “I’m, uh, on a new case. I need the shipboard item to help me—”
“Mr. Brune, do you understand the meaning of the word ‘no’?”
He sat back in his chair, eyeing her, sensing something terribly wrong. The computer said he was dead. Would someone like Tara ignore that? Would higher company officials ignore that? It seemed doubtful to say the least. Then, there had been the long route here, the high-tech item she’d palmed earlier, and her abrupt change of manner now—there was something peculiar about Tara Alor. He couldn’t quite place it, but realized it had been bothering him from the first. In an instant, he understood. She had a feel like the three androids, the lookalike Rohan Mars triplets.
He didn’t have the WAK .55 on him, as it had remained in the locked box at the space station terminal. He’d been afraid to claim it; certain sensors would have detected it on him.
“Do you mind if I step outside for a smoke?” he asked. That sounded like a harmless request to get him out of her office. It was time to leave while he could.
She cocked her head as if questioning his request.
He stared at her, waiting for an answer.
“You do not smoke,” she said at last, robotically. “Your request, therefore, leads me to believe that you have reason to fear being in my office and wish to make a hasty exit.”
If she was an android like the trio, which he was inclined to believe—a spot in the middle of his forehead began to itch. Rohan’s bullet had gone in there; at least he had memories of that. The first time, the androids would have slain Brune in the initial rush without the hand cannon blazing away. If Tara was an android—he could pick up the chair and repeatedly bash her over the head with it. The chair was metal and fabric, and he believed himself strong enough to break an android head.
“We shall now dispense with the falsehoods, Mr. Brune. You have absolutely no method to make payment for the scout. I lied earlier about the IPO. They did not give DMR any instructions regarding the craft. Instead, we have paid the docking fees, waiting for someone to claim it. After your initial demise two and a half years ago, we found irregularities concerning you. Also, the Patrol emplaced heightened security around Avalon IV.”
His gut twisted with dread.
“Does it surprise you that I should speak of the proscribed planet?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why would DMR care about—?”
“Mr. Brune, when I say ‘we,’ I am not referring to DMR. Surely, you realize that.”
He said nothing, wondering why she bothered with all this chitchat. It didn’t make sense. Was she buying time?
“You are here speaking with me today because we have a proposition for you.”
“A proposition,” he said, using a Brune tactic as he winked at her. “Sure. If you’re kinky, we can do it right here in your office.”
Tara removed her folded hands from the desk.
He noticed she held the small device again.
She did not appear agitated with his off-color comment, but as if she judged him and did not appreciate what she saw. “Let us dispense with your sophomoric antics, as I find them wearisome.”
“You can call me Jack,”
She shook her head. “You are not as stupid as you are pretending to be.”
He shed the Brune antics with a twitch, tensing for an attack from her.
“Three individuals visited Brune two and a half years ago. They made him a proposal, which he declined. The report said he died, shot in the head. Now, you are here, claiming to be him. Surprisingly, you have a similar physique and similar superiorities as he. We have concluded that you also possess Anza Drop Trooper training. Much time has passed since the original offer, but the Patrol presence around Avalon IV has finally decreased. We are still interested in determining the woman’s fate and believe using you as an advanced scout makes sense.”
“What makes you think I would trust you? How can you people trust me?”
“Yes,” she said. “You are no longer playing the buffoon. Perhaps you understand. And I see that my help has finally arrived. Good. It has been wearisome using these delaying falsehoods.”
He noticed a blinking green light beside the desk screen.
The office door slid up and a battlesuited marine—or someone wearing a marine combat suit—aimed an ugly auto-rifle at him. The battlesuit of metal armor, exoskeleton power-units and engine must have weighed two tons altogether. The helmet had a mirrored visor and the main chassis had softly purring servos.
“You spoke of help,” he said. “Yet, you’re talking about giving me the scout in the belief I’ll go to Avalon IV for you—” It hit him then, how Tara was going to do this. “You plan to artificially alter my thinking?”
“Correct.”
Tactics, a soldier used tactics, which at times meant misdirection. “Then your files on me are lacking. I’m immune to mental adjustments, to post-hypnotic commands and mind-altering drugs. If you’re smart, you’ll send away the marine and let me walk.”
Tara stood up.
So did the soldier.
The battlesuited marine entered the room, put a heavy metal glove on his left shoulder and pushed him back down into the chair. The door automatically slid closed behind the marine.
“You are predictable,” Tara said, opening a wall safe. She extracted a hypogun and several glass capsules of different colors. She examined the capsules, choosing the green one, slipping it into the hypogun.
“Is Delbough & Macon Repairs working with the mysterious tech company?”
“Really, Mr. Brune, you are quite boring. Now sit still. We want you in prime condition for the mission.”
He did no such thing, but with a mighty tug wrenched his shoulder out from under the marine’s exoskeleton grip. That ripped his shirt and left bloody marks on his skin. He slid from the chair and rolled onto the floor.
“Restrain him,” Tara commanded.
The battlesuit’s servos purred as the marine lunged for him. The soldier leaped backward out of the battlesuit’s grasp, his shoulders smashing against the wall. The marine lurched faster at him. The soldier scrambled madly from the marine’s path as he crab-walked backward on the floor.
“Restrain him now,” Tara said.
By then, the soldier was up on his feet, backing away, moving in a circular path. The battlesuit swiveled and came at him, still holding onto the auto-rifle. The soldier realized he would never make it to the hatch to escape. So, as the battlesuit lined up with the window, the soldier leaped, moving cobra-quick. The element of surprise gave him a half-second, and he was lightning fast when he wanted to be. The soldier reached out and pressed a switch on the auto-rifle. Like that, five heavy slugs fired from the orifice, each one slamming ag
ainst the window. The first shot cracked it. The second shot lengthened the crackling lines. The third, fourth and fifth shots shattered the huge window.
The soldier was already on the floor beside Tara. As the auto-rifle fired, she dove for the floor, reaching for one of the bolted-down desk legs. He chopped at her hands, but she refused to let go. Staring at her, he hit her in the face. It was like hitting sheet metal. He struck again. She defended with her hands—
The explosive rush of atmosphere picked up Tara Alor. The surprise caused her to release the tiny unit.
Holding onto a desk leg with one hand, the soldier snatched the tiny unit out of the air.
Tara shrieked as the rush of air lifted and expelled her out of the window. In the vacuum of space outside the station, she twisted futilely.
The battlesuit staggered in the hurricane-level shriek. He tripped over something on the floor and suddenly toppled out of the shattered window.
The soldier pressed the switch on the disc and felt a sizzling sensation. A personal force field activated. For a moment longer, he had enough air pressure around him that he did not explosively decompress. Air and water remained in his lungs, eyes and other body parts.
As the tiny shield generator powered down, all the air in the office left. He was in vacuum, meaning there was no more wind. He stood, rushed to an emergency override switch and pressed it, ready for what happened next. The metal door slid open. Air from the corridors began rushing out with hurricane force. He grabbed an edge and yanked himself into the corridor barely in time. The hatch shut—an emergency procedure—just as the force-field disc lost the last of its power.
He was alive. Would vacuum hurt an android like Tara Alor? How had the mysterious tech company inserted her into Delbough & Macon Repairs?
He tried to get up. He needed to move. Instead, because of a delayed lack of oxygen to his lungs, he passed out.
Chapter Fifteen
The soldier didn’t stay out for long, waking up as emergency sirens continued to blare. He felt exhausted as he climbed to his feet.
First glancing both ways, not seeing anyone, he began walking, getting the heck out of here. Then it dawned on him. Cameras would be recording his getaway. Station security and likely the IPO would question him concerning terrorist activity. That was what blowing a window out in a space station would look like in their eyes. If they had connected him in any way to the missile and downed IPO lifter yesterday—
Terrorist action—they would look for connections if they hadn’t already.
As he kept hoofing it, his chest began throbbing worse than ever. He needed a plan…a plan…but he didn’t have one, as he felt too lousy to think straight. He couldn’t run into the countryside while stuck on a space station.
He wasn’t sure if he could keep going at this pace. Security cameras watched him. Better they catch him the easy way instead of coming at him with guns blazing. The soldier began staggering, clutching at his chest. He fell dramatically to his knees, making sure to put a surprised look on his face. Then he keeled over, hitting the floor with his chest.
After that, he closed his eyes and waited. He must have really passed out again, because the next thing he knew big armored battlesuited marines were hauling him to his feet. Did DMR have these guys on standby? No, he doubted that. He saw IPO MARINES stenciled on their chests.
“There’s been an accident,” he said.
None of the battlesuits said a word. One of them picked him up, taking him to a waiting med-unit outside the main DMR building. The medics inside the med sled began working on him. They were terse, saying nothing, and finally, one of them put a respirator over his mouth.
That took away the ache in his chest, but by that point, he felt sleepy again.
Soon, medics with a grav-gurney took him from the parked sled and through clean corridors into a hospital room. A doctor showed up, fussed over him and finally declared that his hardy constitution had saved him from real harm.
By that time, an IPO lieutenant showed up with two IPO gunmen in tow. The stern gunmen flanked the door, keeping their eyes glued on him.
The lieutenant’s last name was Hoth. He was stocky with a red face and black hair, like a cat’s pelt on his head. He wore a long coat and fat enfolded hard, dark, accusing eyes.
He asked how Brune was feeling, but the soldier didn’t get the idea Hoth really cared. It was what a person should ask when greeting a victim in the hospital, and Hoth obviously played by the rules. The lieutenant nodded noncommittally when the soldier told him he felt sluggish. Then, Hoth asked him to repeat exactly what had happened to blow out a space-station window.
Hoth could have used a recorder, but he opted for a notepad and jotted notes. The soldier didn’t care for the scratching pencil, wondering if Hoth ever forgot what he wrote in there.
“Hmm…” Hoth said when the soldier was done. Snapping the notepad shut and stuffing it in a coat pocket, the lieutenant said, “Orbital Security failed to pick up any Tara Alor remains outside.”
The soldier had left out a lot. Now, he said, “I had the feeling she was a robot.”
Hoth stared at him. “Why would you think something so ridiculous?”
“Maybe she had maneuvering jets in her boots and fuel in her legs and flew away before Orbital Security arrived.”
“The vacuum you swallowed must have scrambled your brains instead of your lungs. Tara Alor didn’t go anywhere. She blew up, every part of her.”
The soldier blinked several times before asking, “Did Orbital Security scoop up any bio tissue?”
“What’s wrong with you, Brune—if you are Brune? She violently exploded into molecules and atoms. According to reports, she exploded with the power of a nova bomb.”
“What?”
“The blast shook the entire station. How is it you didn’t feel it?”
“I must have been unconscious when it happened. She kept a nova bomb on her? How was that even possible?”
“I didn’t say that. I said she blew up at nova-bomb strength. The tech people don’t know how she did that yet. One thing is certain, her remains are scattered or vaporized so thoroughly that if she were a robot—why do you think she was?”
“It was just a feeling.” The soldier kept thinking about Hoth’s comment, “If you are Brune.”
“Vacuum poisoning of the mind,” Hoth said. “By the way, the marine is also dead but not as dramatically. Security found him with his visor open. He was all out of air.”
“Why would he do that?”
“That’s funny. I was about to ask if you opened the visor for him before you pushed him outside?”
“How do you push two tons of armor?”
“That’s not an answer. I could even construe it as evasion.”
“Maybe the marine had a post-hypnotic command or had been drugged. Drugging would explain how I managed what I did. Did you check his helmet comm-log? My credits are on someone radioing him once he was floating outside. Whatever the person said to him activated the conditioning and the marine killed himself by opening his visor.”
“Do you know how difficult it is to condition someone to commit suicide?”
“No.”
“Bullshit,” Hoth said, although without heat. “How do you expect me to believe that you’re Jack Brune? You know some goons killed Brune two and a half years ago, don’t you?”
The soldier shook his head. “After their assault, Dr. Halifax put me in suspended animation. I’m still fuzzy on quite a few things about that, though.”
“Let me get this straight. Halifax grabbed you—with a bullet in your brain—and left a Brune lookalike to go into an incinerator for cremation? Why would he bother with such an elaborate deception?”
“I don’t know about that part. I just know I’ve been away a long time, recovering. I also know that my office was just like I left it, with my gun and clothes in place. Someone was paying my rent all this time.”
“Is that so? Tell me. How does one recover
from a bullet in the brain?”
“You’d have to ask Dr. Halifax about that.”
“I plan to,” Hoth said, “after I’m done talking to you.”
The soldier’s expression didn’t change, but his stomach tightened. Was the lieutenant telling the truth? What had happened to Halifax anyway? Where had the little man gone after leaving the bunker?”
“You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden,” Hoth said.
“Is Dr. Halifax well?”
Hoth took out his notebook, flipping it open, flipping pages. “Uh-huh, uh-huh, by the way, how well do you know Dan Clarke?”
“He’s a Senior Lieutenant in the IPO.”
“He was that. He was also supposed to be your good friend, Brune, your contact in the Helos IPO. You called him, and he did what he could for you. That was against regulations, of course. Tell me, Brune, why did Clarke do all that for you?”
“We hit it off back in the day.”
“What about yesterday when Clarke landed at one of Graff’s offsite locations? Why did you set him up for a missile strike? Why did you have antimatter in the warhead?”
“I didn’t set up anyone.”
“We scrubbed the place, Brune. Do you know what we found in the bunker basement?”
The soldier shook his head.
“A destroyed cryo unit, the one Dr. Halifax shipped on a starliner, the one that had you in it, I’m guessing. Know what else?”
The soldier said nothing.
“Graff said he rented the place to Halifax.”
Tactics, misdirection, lies and—sometimes the truth worked when the enemy expected more lies. It was time to maneuver again.
“I don’t know about any of that,” the soldier said. “I woke up a short time ago down in the bunker basement. I’d been in the cryo unit like you said. The doctor told me he was leaving the bunker in order to set up a meeting with Clarke. The next thing I knew, someone smashed open the basement door. They hauled me out. That’s when the missile struck. Somehow, I survived the explosion.”
“So did Clarke.”
“I’m glad to hear that. He’ll tell you I’m telling the truth.”
The Soldier: The X-Ship Page 8