by B. V. Larson
In this case, though, there was no element of fear—only eagerness for battle. Fighting hormones flooded his body and brain in anticipation, but he had long ago learned to control this feeling, to channel it into a clarity of mind rather than an explosion of physical violence.
“Course laid in and accelerating,” his helm operator, a neuter, reported. Dexon tried to remember its name, but while the non-sexed made coolheaded technicians, he found them to be largely forgettable and interchangeable.
“Make sure you conform to my velocity marks,” the warrior Yoxen, in charge of weapons deployment, snapped at the helm.
“I shall endeavor to give satisfaction.”
That instruction was unusual for a weapons officer to issue to a helm. Float mine deployment, while a critical job always given to a warrior, was generally just a matter of simultaneously activating four controls, spaced far enough apart on a console that accidental launch was statistically impossible.
Now, Yoxen activated those controls. “Eight weapons away and running true.”
This time, however, the special weapons were not intended to simply bob to the surface of the underspace dimension and pop out into normal space, exploding as close to a target as possible. Rather, they had their own bare-bones underspace generators. They would be set to run ballistically for a short period of time—varying by target—and then emerge.
In other words, these would act less like float mines and more like torpedoes, albeit unguided ones. To the enemy, it would appear as if multiple underspace contacts appeared from beneath the surface of the nearby moon and raced toward them. Dexon’s sixteen ships followed.
The Hun ships should react by evading their detected points of congruence, and attacking those points with shipkiller missiles. Their fusion warheads would attempt to detonate on top of the locations. If they were successful, the torpedoes would be destroyed. If not, the torpedoes would emerge and explode.
But in underspace, there was no way to see what was happening. Archers fought blind, with nothing but sophisticated computers and predictive software to keep track of everything.
“The weapons should begin detonating now,” grumbled Yoxen.
“I see,” said Dexon as the icons in his holotank began bursting like fireworks. “Helm, start your attack run.”
With these detonations, space was being filled with dust, particles, and fusion radiation. Detectors would be temporarily blinded, and the real Archer work, always dangerous in these fearless, fragile boats, could begin. Like the submarines of Old Earth, they lived by stealth. As soon as the enemy even knew of their presence they’d lost an advantage.
But today, with this critical battle on the line, War Male Dexon risked everything… just as eight decades ago brave Ruxin crews had tried—and failed—to punish the Mutuality fleets into leaving their homeworld alone.
Now, Dexon had a second chance, with the same goal: to destroy those who would steal his people’s newfound independence.
Revenge leaped forward into the mess. Dexon had four or five minutes before all of the torpedoes had been hunted down and killed. In this, the enemy multiplied the confusion, naturally believing they were being attacked by over one hundred Archers. One underspace signature looked exactly like any other, and each could be a ship able to dispense multiple float mines.
Thus, if they reacted as expected, the enemy should waste hundreds of missiles on these targets, the real Archers could hide among them.
The torpedoes had been launched in patterns intended to herd the enemy ships into kill zones. Dexon’s helmsman headed for Revenge’s designated kill zone.
Shocks buffeted the boat from time to time. Chill water sloshed and sprayed with vibrations that came like hammer blows as fusion charges exploded atop Revenge’s congruence point. Only a tiny fraction of energy leaked into underspace, but it was enough to damage his boat.
“Generator number six lost, War Male,” said his engineering officer. “Seven remaining.”
“Acknowledged.” Revenge could run on as few as four underspace generators, but not for long.
“Two neuter casualties,” the engineer continued.
“Carry on.” With tiny crews of just thirty-two each, two beings lost inordinately reduced an Archer’s efficiency. Yet, eighty years ago Dexon had personally destroyed seventeen human ships, and once he had brought his boat back to dock with just five Ruxins left alive.
Desire, dedication, and the willingness to endure counted for much in war.
“Helm, initiate the attack pattern.”
Revenge began a complex three-dimensional route designed for maximum coverage combined with non-predictable evasion, launching float mines at varying intervals. Because by the time there was no way to know exactly where enemy ships were, Dexon had to hope for lucky hits by his float mines. Given the size of space, even constricted by Leonidas, Sparta-3 and the enemy’s intention to seize control of the orbital arena of battle, actually achieving anything approaching a contact strike was a million to one.
But for long minutes, the Huns had to deal with these many Archers apparently scuttling around dropping extremely dangerous weapons in their midst.
And, as with all of Admiral Engels gambits, this was not only designed to do its own damage, but to set up the enemy for the next phase of the plan.
Chapter 26
Straker on Terra Nova
The figure leaning against the wall in the shadowy alley stepped toward Straker and spoke in Myrmidon’s voice. “You’ve had some adventures.”
Straker slugged Don in the gut. “Maybe too many,” he said as he stood over the gasping man. “I’m getting sick of your games.” He kicked Don in the ass, intending to cause pain and humiliation rather than real damage.
Don sprawled against the wall, and then sat up slowly. “You done?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m not sure why you’re upset.”
“Then you don’t know me very well.”
Don stood, brushing himself off. “I think I know you better than you know yourself. You have a talent for improvisation. I knew you’d win through. Have you seen enough?”
Straker glanced around, but saw nobody with the agent. Of course, they could be hiding nearby and watching with surveillance devices, but Myrmidon had the demeanor of a man alone. He wore a long coat with its collar turned up against the night’s chill and a brimmed hat that reminded Straker of showvids from Old Earth times.
“How did you escape?” Straker asked, anticipating the answer.
“Oh, come on, Derek. Escaping was your job.”
“So it was all a show.”
“In a manner of speaking.” Don turned and began strolling down the alley. Straker followed. “You really did escape. All I had to do was explain myself to the controllers and assert my authority to gain my own freedom, at least to contact my superiors. I then called in a few favors to help restrain your pursuit, allowing you enough leeway to shake the security forces. After that, I used ring surveillance to track your movements.”
“Track me how?”
“A datalink implant under a rib. You remember those ‘samples’ Doris took?”
“What about you and the Bortoks? And the other agents, like the one I caught in the tunnel?”
“That wasn’t me with the Bortoks, but we all do look similar, I suppose. I had to provide a reason for surveilling you, so I made up a cover operation with trainees, supposedly shadowing another trainee.”
“But why? Why the whole thing?”
“Because you needed to see some things on your own, to be sure it wasn’t, as you call it, ‘all a show.’ You needed to meet real people and see they weren’t actors in some staged drama. You needed to find out firsthand the people you met were genuine and, despite their variety in physical type, are just as human as you or I.”
Straker glanced at his companion. “That’s probably all even true, but it’s also just the surface layer of what you want me to think. I’m still waiting to see what you
expect me to do.”
“Always the man of action, eh, Derek?”
Straker turned to seize Don, lifting him by his lapels to pin him against the wall. “I’m getting sick and tired of all this. Now start explaining or you’re in for some pain.”
Don smiled. “I am explaining, and I have a high tolerance for physical torment, so hurting me would be doubly pointless.”
“It might make me feel pretty good.”
“Is that who you really are, Derek? A torturer?”
“An honest man will lie if he needs to.” Straker sighed and dropped Don to his feet. “Fine. Just keep talking—and I hope we’re heading for a ship out of here.”
“We are.” At the next corner Don waved at an aircar parked at the curb. “Get in.”
“I’m still waiting for you to explain what this whole thing’s been about,” Straker said as they lifted off and flew low over the city. “Drop the inscrutable teacher act and just tell me.”
“Just telling someone something is the least effective method. I’m sure you learned in your military training that knowledge is good, but experience is better—and personal involvement is the most effective of all. That’s what I afforded you when I arranged all this.”
Straker snorted with amused realization. “Instruction, demonstration, and then practical application, they called it at Academy. You gave me all three, plus a live-fire exercise and even real combat, so to speak.”
“Once you were over the wall, that was real. You could’ve died and I wouldn’t have been able to save you.”
“And Roslyn? Is she really pregnant with my child?”
“I have no idea—but if she is, that’s a bonus.”
“Bonus for what?”
“Come on, Derek. You must have figured it out by now.”
“I have an idea, but I need you to say it.”
Don steered the aircar to a landing on a rooftop pad. “Maybe one more demonstration will help.”
He refused to say any more until they’d descended a high-speed lift that dropped them into the belly of the enormous building. Nondescript, soothing music wafted from speakers.
Straker stoically held his impatience in check. It seemed Don had one final act in his play before returning him to Republic space. The fastest way home was to put up with it.
The background music swelled, but remained a dreamy, relaxing sort as the lift doors opened and they debouched onto a balcony overlooking another factory floor. This one differed from the halls of the underworld in that it was brightly and pleasantly lit. Green, flowering plants streamed from suspended pots and from the walls. Their pleasing scents filled the air. On the whole, it seemed an environment tailor-made for people to relax, like a spa.
Humans of all sorts, from huge red Bortoks to the short, fat pig-men and everything in between, filed through mazelike walls at one end. Each wore a simple white robe, like a sheet with a hole cut in the center and dropped over their heads. Sprays of mist or gas fell intermittently among them, and they all moved as if enthralled, hypnotized zombies.
When they reached the end of their mazes, one at a time they were led without protest by antlike Opter workers to tables where they were directed to lie down. A mask with a feeder hose was placed over each face, and they closed their eyes.
Then the cutting started.
Robotic surgical arms used lasers to slice the people into pieces, quickly and efficiently. Straker’s gorge rose as soon as he realized what was happening and he struggled not to vomit.
He’d seen plenty of blood and death. He’d watched as butchers dismembered Melgar’s people for meat and fur. But this seemed somehow worse, with its cheerful atmosphere and its clinical, ruthless processing. There was little blood, and each part was delicately removed and immediately placed in cryogenic receptacles that dripped condensed vapor downward before they quickly closed.
First the fingers, or sometimes whole hands and arms, were amputated. Then, the torso was sliced open and the skin was pulled back with precision. Mechanical tentacles rapidly removed each organ and put it into their chill containers. When there was nothing left of the body cavity, the ribs, muscles and spine was then separated—and finally, the parts of the head: eyes, ears, jaw, skull, everything.
No more than two minutes passed from the placing of the mask to the complete disappearance of every trace of one human’s existence. It was a scrapyard, a recycling facility—an annihilation machine.
It made a human being into nothing. Every time it did, the robotic cart containing the receptacles drove off through a door on quiet rubber wheels.
“This is the end of many on Terra Nova,” Don said. “Young or old, genius or stupid, cruel or kind, if they displease the Queens or break the rules, or get on the wrong side of the controllers or anyone else with authority, or simply get too old, vivisection is their fate.”
Straker rubbed his eyes. “This is what you wanted me to see. It’s stomach-churning. This whole planet is one big house of horrors, even if parts of it seem pleasant.”
“And what makes it that way? What’s the root cause?”
“You tell me.”
“No, Derek. I’ve laid it out for you. You instinctively recognized it in your own society—societies I should say, since you’ve seen several firsthand. You fought against it, and for its opposite. They even gave you a title that exemplifies your role—a role you were meant to play. Come on, Derek. Put it together.”
Straker rubbed his jaw, forcing himself to look at the clinical holocaust below. He thought about everything he’d seen since the Battle of Corinth—the Mutuality, the war, Sachsen, the Ruxins, the Hundred Worlds from the outside—and about the Opters and Terra Nova.
“Tyranny,” he finally said. “It’s all about tyranny. One set of people—humans or aliens, no matter—lording it over another set, without any choice. Sometimes it’s species or race, sometimes it’s sex or politics or a bunch of other excuses, but it’s always about selfish power and treating each other like things instead of people. This butchery is the ultimate expression of tyranny—turning people into products. What happens to the body parts?”
Don rubbed his hands on the chromed metal rail. “They have any number of uses. Some aliens buy certain cuts as delicacies, much as humans eat choice viands. The best young organs are sold to the wealthy in human space, sometimes to save lives, other times merely to extend the lifespan of the geriatric rich or powerful. There’s always been a brisk trade in human flesh, whether living or dead, from the earliest recorded histories on Old Earth.”
“I saw that corruption and tyranny firsthand,” said Straker, turning his back on the abattoir below. “It’s what made me want to overturn the system. It’s what made me into the Liberator.”
“And are you still the Liberator?”
“Or the Befreier, or the Azaltar, or whatever. Yeah, I guess I am. It’s what I’m good at.”
“Even though you know that people will, after a time of freedom, start forging chains for each other and for themselves?”
Straker shrugged. “That’s not my problem. A fireman doesn’t give up putting out fires just because he knows there will always be more arsonists. A cop doesn’t stop locking up criminals just because he knows crime never ends. A man has to do some good in this world, even though he knows he can’t do everything.”
“Then you know the answer to the riddle.”
“What riddle?”
“Why did I show you this?”
Straker knew. “You want me to free Terra Nova.”
“Yes.”
“Why should I?”
“Because it’s who you are.”
“I can’t do everything.”
“I’m not asking you to do everything. I know you have to go back and finish your work in human space. Once you’re done with that, I want you to remember Terra Nova and the trillion people enslaved here. Being made into things here. Being murdered here every day.”
“I’ve seen worse. There was a Mutuali
ty officer, Dwayne LaPierre I think his name was, who murdered a million civilians just to make a point.”
Don gestured toward the factory floor. “This is one of hundreds of vivisection centers on this planet. Your mind can’t even encompass the scale of the monstrosity that is this place. They dismember over ten million each day. The Opter Queens created us, using DNA sampled from humans as far back as pre-space-travel Old Earth, only to use us like organic machines. They treat their own no better, but two wrongs don’t make a right. We deserve to live out our lives and choose our own destinies like God meant us to.”
“God? You believe in a god?”
Don shrugged. “Your chaplains called it the Unknowable Creator. There must be something above us, whatever you call it. Even if there isn’t, humans will create it with our thoughts—our beliefs, our culture. It’s part of being human. If there’s nothing greater than ourselves—nothing better—then we’re all just intelligent, soulless animals and we might as well selfishly treat each other like shit. If there is no God, I have no argument.”
“Maybe we can choose to be better than how we started. Maybe we really are evolving upward.”
“Upward toward what? Without an ideal, a model of what’s good and great, there is no up or down, no reference point. Without absolutes, even conceptual ones, everything becomes relative—and relatively worthless.”
Straker snorted. “Look, I’m no brainiac philosopher, but I do know right from wrong. I don’t care whether that’s a product of evolution or some god or creator or big soul up in the sky. It’s nice to believe there’s something greater, but even if there isn’t, I’m going to do what’s right, as much as I can, as long as I can, until they kill me or I die of old age. That’s my philosophy.”
“Then keep Terra Nova in mind, Derek. Because what’s happening here is evil, and you’re the best chance I see to set it right.”
“Fine. Deal.” Straker stuck out his hand to Don, who took it in a strong grip. “You’ve convinced me. Probably could’ve convinced me a lot quicker without the whole escape game, but what’s done is done.” He let go. “Now hurry up and get me home.”