Alien Honor (A Fenris Novel)

by Heppner, Vaughn

  Cyrus’s boot stepped into the middle of the hot slime. He slipped and went down hard as his foot shot out from under him.

  A second later, a spark and loud ping told him one of the hunters had just fired at him. A second shot opened another crack. Hot gushing slime blew out of the pipe and steam billowed into the air.

  Cyrus used the distraction, getting up and sprinting away.

  Once more, shots rang out. More pings and sparks told him the billowing steam helped cover him.

  “There!” one of the Red Blades shouted. “He’s running for the ducts!”

  Cyrus didn’t turn around to look. He knew one of them would be pointing at him. They wanted the Dust. It was worth hard credits.

  He sprinted, leaped a low tube and took a sharp turn left. The leftmost thug skidded to a halt, lifted his arm, and took a deliberate bead on him.

  Cyrus concentrated, although he was only half aware of what he did. He ran, and sweat slicked his forehead. The sweat didn’t come from the running, but from using his power. If he really concentrated and poured mental energy, he could move tiny things with his mind, or block small things like a firing pin in a slugthrower.

  The thug aimed and the hunter must have pulled the trigger, but noting happened. The gunpowder didn’t explode. The Red Blade raised the gun in what appeared to be frustration and pulled the trigger a second time. Cyrus no longer used his power and the firing pin clicked normally against the bullet. A shot rang out, and the slug ricocheted off a pipe ten meters above the man. Steam hissed from the new crack, and if the thug hadn’t dropped in time, the hot steam would have melted his face.

  Cyrus would have laughed at the hunter’s panicked shout, but a throbbing pain in his forehead prevented that. Using his power had a cost. Cyrus’s eyesight blurred because of what he’d done, and he almost crashed into a pipe. Just in time, he ducked, rolled, and slithered into an opening, falling several meters before hitting metal. Despite his readiness for the drop, it knocked the wind out of him.

  In the gloom, his mouth opened and he tried to suck air. Finally, his lungs unlocked and he crawled into deeper darkness.

  Half a minute later, the hunters converged on the opening. Cyrus heard them, and he froze lest a noise give him away.

  “You had a clean shot at him,” one of the hunters said. He sounded like the leader. “What happened?”

  “My gun wouldn’t fire.”

  “That’s why you shot at a pipe?” the leader asked.

  “My gun worked then. There’s something weird about this kid.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that. He has our Dust. Go on, get him.”

  “Why do I have to go down?”

  “You had a clean shot and you missed. That’s why.”

  “I already told you my gun wouldn’t fire.”

  “Well it better fire this next time, or I’ll practice with mine on you.”

  “Okay, okay. Give me the light and the locator.”

  Cyrus had heard about locators. This was bad.

  A sudden change in the gloom—and a thud—told him the hunter had dropped into the duct.

  “We’ll wait up here and give you a hand out,” the leader said. “And don’t think about running off with the Dust.”

  Cyrus’s head hurt worse than ever. He hated the backlash of his talent. Now one of them had followed him down here.

  “It’s a tight fit!” the whiny hunter shouted up.

  “Shut up and get on with it,” the leader said. “The kid is probably running while you yammer.”

  “No. I have him on the locator. He’s near.”

  “Then get him!”

  Cyrus backed away, moving by feel.

  “Why don’t you surrender, kid?” the hunter called, his voice echoing strangely in the ducts. “All I want is the Dust. Give it to me and you can walk away.”

  In the darkness, Cyrus grinned like a wolf. The hunter lied. But something in the thug’s voice told Cyrus the man didn’t like it down here.

  Despite the headache, Cyrus knew he needed to use his talent one more time. It would get very bad afterward, puking bad. Sometimes, though, one had to pay the cost if he wished to live.

  The cat and mouse game lasted eight minutes. These were mazy, twisty ducts. The two hunters outside shouted down from time to time, offering advice.

  Finally, Cyrus backed into a side duct that squeezed his shoulders together. He kept his hands in front of him while gripping the silent vibrio-knife. He waited as the hunter crawled near.

  “I know you’re close, kid. I can see it on my locator.”

  Sweat appeared on Cyrus’s forehead, and he sucked in his breath as he used his power. The man’s flashlight went out.

  Cyrus heard the hunter swear in frustration. He moved then as the thug clicked his flashlight on and off. At the last moment, something must have alerted the hunter.

  “You little punk,” the hunter snarled. A boom went off, a flash of flame, and a bullet seared lengthwise down Cyrus’s back—his back was parallel with the bottom of the duct. The bullet opened a furrow from his shoulder to his buttocks. That burned, and it caused Cyrus to lose concentration on his power. The flashlight resumed pouring out light, and the thug happened to be aiming it at his eyes. It blinded the hunter, the Red Blade.

  With a flick of his thumb, Cyrus clicked on the vibrio-knife. Its whine of noise was unmistakable.

  “No!” the hunter howled, trying to bring up his arms in front of his face.

  With terrifying ease, the knife cut through flesh and bone. Blood poured and the hunter died, slumping onto the metal floor.

  In the far distance, the other two hunters shouted, asking what happened.

  With a tug, Cyrus removed his knife from the man’s face. He shut off the vibrating blade. His hand was rock steady. His features were hard but calm. He didn’t like to kill, but if he had too, he did it.

  He wiped the blood on the man’s jacket. Red Blade, red blood—it was a Latin King joke. Then he pilfered his enemy, taking the gun, the locator, and the flashlight. He also found twenty-seven credits in the man’s pockets.

  Before the others decided to come down into the darkness with their slain comrade, Cyrus headed away toward a different opening. He could hardly see. His eyes burned and his forehead felt as if someone had driven a nail through it. He was still alive, thanks to his talent, and once more, he’d survived his competitors.

  He had everything under control.

  2

  TWO YEARS LATER

  Special Second Class Jasper of Psi Force didn’t look like the best telepath on Earth. He was short, bald, and overweight. He wore a shiny, shimmering suit and sat between two large NKV agents dressed in their black uniforms.

  The NKV were Premier Lang’s dreaded enforcers, his secret police. Marten Kluge—the first premier of Sol and controller of the Sunbeam over one hundred years ago—had wanted democracy implemented throughout the solar system. For a time—after several bitter wars—democracy had reigned. Eventually, Kluge died and the second controller of the Sunbeam became premier. He talked about democracy and practiced politics the way Caesar Augustus of ancient Rome would have understood. By the third premier, dictatorial rule had become the norm. Premier Lang was the fifth controller of the Sunbeam and ruled Sol from his seat of power.

  Rebellions and spontaneous riots bubbled into existence from Mercury to Neptune. The one good thing was that the ravages of the Cyborg War, particularly the genocidal tactics of the machine-man melds, had finally been repaired. The solar system had become crowded again. People had forgotten about the horrors of war as the young and hotheaded talked about the need for militant solutions as practiced by the legendary Marten Kluge.

  In the premier’s quest for iron-fisted peace, Lang had taken a leaf from the old Social Unity Party. He used the wealth of the Outer Planets to appease the billions on Earth and terraformed Venus. Many in the Outer Planets complained, and a few had formed conspiracies aimed at toppling the dictatorship. Each attemp
t had failed miserably, most in dark rooms where the leaders howled under torture, and one by the Sunbeam’s destructive ray. A few theorists believed Lang’s predecessor had died from an assassin’s poison. Conspirators had killed the tyrant but failed to stop the next man from filling the premier’s post. With Lang’s rise had come an ominous increase in secret police scrutiny and security procedures, the NKV.

  The two NKV agents beside Jasper were big men with normal faces. They carried weapons and rode with Jasper in an air-car approaching Milan.

  Mostly, the city entrance was green, a park with a few mansions for the very rich. Only the lucky and a few agricultural workers lived above ground. Everyone else lived in the kilometer-deep cities. Beyond the park were orchards and vineyards. It was beautiful and idyllic. The two NKV agents stared out of the air-car, apparently drinking in the details.

  Their ability to sit serenely beside him deeply bothered Jasper. He was the most talented telepath on Earth. Yet the leaders of Psi Force had given him a second class ranking. It was insulting. Worse, he felt little better than a chained ferret, carefully kept under control to do his duty.

  Out of the billions in the solar system, only 143 people had psionic abilities strong enough to produce visible effects. Those abilities stretched across a range of talents: telepathy, empathy, telekinesis, clairvoyance and others. That wasn’t the reason why Lang’s people desperately scoured the solar system for more. No. The psi-able could perform an amazing new trick for their masters.

  Masters: the word galled Jasper. He hated one other word, too: mutant. The world treated him like a freak of nature, one they needed to tame and corral so they could use.

  Jasper touched his smooth scalp. Learned surgeons had put an inhibitor into his brain. Oh yes, it was a fine piece of netting carefully woven under his skull. It was a fail-safe, a chain, a collar to put on the mutant. They had put the inhibitor into the freak that terrified normal people.

  “You’re sure it’s Milan?” asked the NKV lieutenant. He was the one with an inhibitor switch. When he flicked it on, Jasper could apply his talents. When it was off, the inhibitor kept him from using his psionic abilities.

  “Yes,” Jasper said without looking up. At the moment, the switch was on. “The youth is still in the city.”

  The air-car banked, heading down.

  The truth of the matter was something completely different from what normal people thought about Specials. Jasper understood why they feared him: because he was a godlike being, a new man, superior to these halfwits with their bulging muscles. They had chained him out of fear of his superiority. They thought to use him as a toy, a thing, a component in one of the greatest discoveries and inventions in human history.

  It was small “h” human because the Normals lacked psionic powers. They were the old breed in awe of those who, in several centuries, would supplant them. Did they think he would play their chained ferret forever?

  I’ll find a way to rid myself of this inhibitor. Thinking about that brought a smile to Jasper’s chubby face.

  “Do you know which level he’s in?” the lieutenant asked.

  Of course, Jasper knew. He was a telepath. The lieutenant was a dolt to ask such a stupid question. But that isn’t how Jasper answered. He said, “I don’t know yet, but I will once we begin searching the city.”

  The NKV lieutenant nodded.

  Jasper smirked to himself. It was good to keep the extent of his ability secret. The day they learned his true might would be the day he ran everything.

  Premier Lang hunted the solar system for Specials, for mutants to use in the new Space Fleet. There were several laborious ways to discover if a person had psionic talent. But when the odds were 143 out of tens of billions… one wanted a better way.

  Jasper was the better way. With his telepathy, he could pinpoint others of his kind as if they were flickering candles in a dark room. He hated being a chained freak, a slave to lesser beings. But he’d be damned if he was going to let others of his kind walk free while he had to wear a leash. Besides, once he discovered a way to beat the inhibitor, he would have soldiers in his new army to help him.

  Cracking his knuckles, Jasper closed his eyes and concentrated. Oh, this was interesting.

  He opened his eyes and glanced at the lieutenant. “We’d better hurry. Our candidate is in trouble.”

  “Trouble with the law?” the lieutenant asked.

  “No. With several Red Blades.”

  The two NKV agents glanced at each other. “Who are these Red Blades?” the lieutenant asked.

  Jasper concentrated once more. The wild ones usually didn’t have good mind shields. This one certainly didn’t. He was an open book. “Red Blades are a gang, Dust dealers.”

  “Vermin,” the lieutenant said with a frown.

  “Whatever they are, they’re hunting the candidate,” Jasper said. “And this time it looks as if they have him.”

  The lieutenant bent toward to the pilot in front. “Condition red,” he told the man.

  The pilot nodded, got on the radio to the airport, and sped down for a landing.

  Jasper folded his arms. This looked as if it could get interesting.

  Cyrus Gant ran, skidding around a corner and sprinting for his life. Behind him shouted thickly-built goons. They wore red jackets with big blades stenciled on the back. Each clutched a shock rod, a nasty weapon normally wielded by riot police.

  “You little punk!” shouted a goon with a tattooed head. “You can’t run forever!”

  Cyrus would have liked to shout back how clever that sounded. But he was too winded, too spent by a long chase. He ran through a giant warehouse with mountains of crates all around. The workers were gone. The place was empty but for the seven of them—six Red Blades to beat to death one Latin King.

  Cyrus had come here for a special delivery, but had found an ambush instead.

  He’d risen in rank from being a mule to a foot soldier in the Latin Kings. Killing the enemy gunman in the ducts had catapulted him far ahead of others his age. The older, stronger foot soldiers had jeered him at the beginning. Cyrus showed them their mistake by offering to duel anyone knife-to-knife. One soldier six years his senior had taken him up on the offer. Cyrus never fought for sport, and he hadn’t that day either. He’d killed the Latin King and taken the beating for it from the others without protest or regret. To climb the ladder of power, one had to pay the price. To make the others fear and respect him, the beating had been a cheap price to pay… in his opinion.

  He was taller than two years ago, but just as thin, with muscles like strings of steel. His eyes were deep blue and haunted with the knowledge that today he was going to die.

  This was a setup, a careful one, and Cyrus suspected one or two Latin Kings had helped the Red Blades lure him here. The six men blocked his escape routes. He’d cut one and taken a hit in his left shoulder for it. His shoulder still buzzed from the shock.

  Cyrus’s lungs burned with the need for air. Sweat slicked his skin. He had good clothes now and the regular boots that all Latin King foot soldiers wore. When the bosses gave him an assignment, he came through every time. Unfortunately, he wasn’t going to come through today and fear made his mind cloudy. He despised that.

  Cyrus skidded and ran between two mounds of piled crates.

  “Bad choice, cutter!” a goon shouted. “This is the end of the line for you.”

  Cyrus understood the taunt a few seconds later. He’d run into a cul-de-sac. A quick scan showed him the crates were piled too high for him to scale them. He whirled around and faced the racing goons.

  They slowed down, three panting Red Blades. The others would be coming from where they had blocked his escape routes earlier. Each of the Red Blades had wide shoulders and thick muscles from hours in the gym and growth hormones. One by one, they flicked on their shock rods to full intensity. Sweat dripped from their beefy faces and the crazy look in their eyes told Cyrus they were high on Dust. Their smiles said this was going to be
brutal.

  “Kneel, cutter, and we’ll bash you in the head first, making it easy on you. Resist us, and we’ll take hours to finish it and make sure it hurts bad.”

  Thinking about the coming beating made several of Cyrus’s bones ache from previous breaks. His palms were sweaty and he gripped his vibrio-knife so hard his hand hurt. His mouth was dry and his tongue stuck to his teeth.

  If you’re going to die, go out swinging.

  Cyrus grunted, and through an act of will he forced his muscles to loosen. He even managed a shrug, but he couldn’t think of anything cool to say to show them he thought they were punks.

  The three goons inched closer, and two of them began to weave their rods back and forth. The third goon spit on the warehouse floor.

  “Your death is going to be a hard one, cutter.”

  Cyrus crouched, with his knife close to his chest. Which one should I cut first? He didn’t know. As he tried to puzzle it out, a sizzle sounded.

  The leftward goon staggered.

  What was that? What’s making the noise?

  The Dust freak who had staggered shuffled around as if he’d been hurt. The other two goons paused, glancing at the third.

  A volley of sizzles sounded, one after another. One of the Red Blades dropped his shock rod so it hit the floor with a clack. He followed it, hitting the cement face first. Then the others fell with their batons. They fell and lay still as if dead.

  Cyrus stood there blinking as two black-coated men approached the fallen Red Blades. The two men had flat-shaped guns gripped in their fists. Those obviously weren’t slugthrowers, but they were something fancy that made sizzling sounds.

  Another man followed the two in black. The other was short, fat, and bald, and wore a shiny suit. That one looked bored, and his eyes shined strangely, almost a metallic color. He raised a pudgy hand and pointed a fat finger at Cyrus.

  “He’s the one you want,” Mr. Shiny Suit said.

  “So I gathered,” said one of the men in black. “Cyrus Gant?”

  “Yeah?” Cyrus asked. “Who are you?