Star Soldier (Book #1 of the Doom Star Series)

by Vaughn Heppner

  Marten gritted his teeth, and stepped forward.

  “What’s wrong with you?” the woman asked, eyeing him. Her hair had been shaved down to her scalp and her black-tattooed lips were twisted into a sneer.

  Confusion froze Marten’s tongue.

  The woman leaned near, sniffed his breath. “You’ve been drinking. That’s against regs for an out-system traveler.”

  Speechless, Marten could only stare into her pitiless eyes.

  “Step out of line you,” ordered the PHC officer beside the woman, using his carbine to poke Marten in the chest.

  Marten recovered his wits. “I heard our transport has a reactor leak. I needed something to calm my nerves is all.”

  The woman narrowed her already hostile gaze.

  “Who told you that?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “About the reactor leak!”

  “Two maintenance men,” Marten said. “I overheard them talking.”

  “An eavesdropper, eh?” growled the man.

  “Forgot about that,” the woman said. “Maintenance was warned to keep quiet.”

  “They’ll have to be told again,” the man said, “after they exit the agonizer.”

  The woman grinned as she lifted her com-unit to report this delicious news.

  As he waited, Marten fought off a deepening sense of exhaustion.

  Finished reporting, the woman snatched his ID, eyed him closely, licked her lips in an evil manner and then waved him through with an arrogant flick of her wrist.

  The released tension almost made Marten buckle. But he didn’t. Instead, he moved through the exit portal, floated down a tube and entered the transport. Like most transports, the interior was plain, with endless brown cushioned seats set in tightly spaced rows. Welders buckled themselves in. A few chatted, some napped. Others put on vid-goggles and watched porn.

  Marten settled down and waited. His tranks wore off and his stomach twisted. He envisioned a hundred different problems. Finally, however, he was pressed without warning into his cushioned seat. That’s what he hated most about Social Unity. They treated you like cattle. As the growing acceleration shoved him deeper, he said a silent prayer for his parents. Then he wondered about his forged passes to Australian Sector. Would they work? He had no idea. But even if they did work—Earth was the birthplace of Social Unity, the epicenter of the most suffocating political creed ever invented. If the Sun-Works Factory had been hell, what would it be like on Earth?

  Part I: Civilian

  1.

  Concrete, glass and plasteel buildings sprawled for kilometers in all directions, but especially down. Greater Sydney, Australian Sector wasn’t as congested as Hong Kong or New York, but its fifty-one million inhabitants seldom felt the sun’s warmth. There wasn’t anything wrong with the sun or its ability to shine upon the populace. Ozone depletion, long a concern of earlier generations, had been taken care of a century ago. Nor was smog any worse than it had been at the beginning of the Twenty-first Century. The problem for sun-lovers had taken a different turn.

  To feed Earth’s hordes took more land than the world had and more than all the resources of the sea-farms. Thus, a hundred agricultural gigahabs orbited the planet. And even in the middle of the greatest civil war the Solar System had ever known, laser-launched transports went up and came back down every hour of the day. To save land the cities burrowed into the Earth rather than sprawl outward in ever widening circumferences. If humanity hadn’t taken this radical turn, concrete, glass and plasteel would have covered the entire planet by 2349.

  Greater Sydney boasted fifty-nine levels, neither the greatest nor the least among the planet’s megalopolises. Mole-like machinery eternally chewed into the stygian depths, expanding and mining, growing the city at a pre-determined rate.

  Most of the fifty-one million inhabitants carried their Social Unity cards with pride. They had been taught that the Inner Planets needed people who could work together for the good of the whole. Loners, hermits and individualists who were found out—and eventually they all were—underwent strenuous re-education or a stint of labor-learning in the algae tanks.

  Sometimes, however, even in this age of social paradise and raging civil war, certain officials took advantage of their rank or failed to perform zealously all their duties.

  2.

  Marten Kluge claimed he wasn’t angry, upset or even nervous. So he didn’t understand why Molly kept telling him to relax. As they stood alone in the narrow corridor outside the hall leader’s office, she tweaked his collar, fidgeting nervously with it.

  “Didn’t I tell you not to miss any more of the hum-a-longs,” she whispered, her pretty face creased with worry. She picked a speck of lint off his collar. “Maybe you could say you had a cold. That your throat hurt.”

  “The hum-a-longs don’t have anything to do with this,” said Marten. It was almost three years since he’d escaped out of the Mercury System. He’d turned into a lean, ropy-muscled young man with a handsome, expressive face and bristly blond hair.

  He wore black shoes, tan pants and a modest tan jacket with a black choker, suitable attire for such an important meeting, or so Molly kept telling him.

  Earth was amazingly different from the Sun-Works Factory. Marten had thought it would be worse, and in a way, it was. The cage was gilded, cleaner than the Sun-Works Ring that built the Doom Star ships. Because of that, the people of Earth had lost… something essential. They couldn’t even see the cage anymore. The enormous changes to his life, the sheer impossibility of affecting anything, had depressed Marten and worn down his resolve. He missed his parents, missed talking to people who thought for themselves. All he wanted now was to throw off his Social Unity pretense and be who he really was, if only for a few hours.

  “It must be the missed hum-a-longs,” Molly whispered, brushing his collar and bringing him back to the moment.

  “Tell me,” said Marten, “has the hall leader made another advance on you?”

  “…What difference would that make?”

  Silence was his only answer.

  Molly lifted worried green eyes. And with a gesture he’d come to adore, she brushed her stylish bangs. “Promise him you won’t miss any more hum-a-longs. Maybe offer to watch your neighbors more diligently.”

  Before Marten could reply, the door opened and a thin woman in a mufti robe stepped out. “Marten Kluge?”

  Unconsciously, his face tightened and his shoulders tensed.

  “Be careful, Marten,” Molly whispered. “And don’t say anything rash.”

  As Marten followed the mufti-robed woman, his throat constricted. So even though it was ill-advised, he tore off the choker and slipped it into his jacket pocket. The chokers were the latest craze, the latest symbol of social unity. Molly had bought him one expressly for the meeting.

  The outer office—the woman’s—was as coffin-small as his rental. Her desk and computer terminal filled it. So when she turned to open the hall leader’s door, she brushed his shoulder.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  She frowned, staring at his now bare throat. Then she turned, and said, “Hall Leader Quirn. Marten Kluge seeks your guidance.”

  The hall leader glanced up from behind his computer desk. He was small with narrow shoulders and wore a crisp brown uniform and military style cap—that to hide his thinning hair. He had ever-vigilant eyes and a mouth habitually turned down with disapproval. His eyes narrowed as he viewed Marten, and he touched the choker around his own throat.

  Marten’s bare throat felt exposed, naked, and it made him fidgety. Without thinking about it and before being bidden, he squeezed past the woman and stepped into the hall leader’s office.

  “Lout,” the woman said under her breath.

  The hall leader’s mouth twitched with annoyance as he studied Marten.

  “You sent for me,” said Marten.

  “I requested your presence,” said Quirn. To his secretary, “Hold any inquiries until we’re don
e.”

  “Yes, Hall Leader.” She closed the door.

  Marten marveled at the office’s spaciousness. It held the desk, two low-built chairs and a stand to the left with a potted plant. A holoscreen “window” showed crashing ocean waves.

  “I appreciate your promptness,” said Hall Leader Quirn, although he didn’t rise or offer his hand.

  Marten ignored the slight as he forced himself to act pleasantly.

  “Please,” said Quirn, “take a seat.”

  “Thank you,” Marten said, sitting in one of the low-slung chairs. He noticed that the higher-seated hall leader now looked down at him.

  Quirn gave him a superior smile as he picked up a plastic chart and tapped it against the desk.

  “Marten, I’m afraid we have some unfortunate business to discuss. Yes, troubling business.”

  Marten lurched to his feet.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Marten grimaced and touched his forehead. Then he looked up. “The pain comes and goes. But I feel better now.”

  “Splendid. If you’ll retake your seat.”

  “I’ll stand if it’s okay with you? Sitting too much….” Marten shrugged. “You know how it is.”

  “What I have to say is better discussed if you sit.”

  Marten could picture Molly advising, “Sit down, Marten. Don’t be rash.” Despite this common sense and the feeling of weakness in his knees, Marten resisted.

  “No. I’ll stand.”

  Quirn leaned back in his chair, eyeing him.

  Marten smiled, trying to placate the hall leader with a social gesture.

  “Hmm.” Quirn sat forward and placed the plastic chart on the desk, smoothing it with his fingers. “Very well, we shall proceed.”

  “Good.”

  “No, Marten, I’m afraid that it’s not good. And that pains me. Of all the tasks a hall leader performs, this is personally the most difficult. Yet none of us is allowed to shirk his responsibilities. There would be chaos otherwise. Now then, your profile… Marten, it’s taken a decided turn for the worse. It’s come to my attention that you’ve actually missed three hum-a-longs in a row.”

  “I-I had a cold,” Marten said, the excuse sounding lame even to his ears. “My throat hurt.”

  Quirn’s voice became an octave more menacing.

  “During that time you’ve also missed two discussions and quite incredibly failed to fill out any community charts. Now,” he cleared his throat, reaching for one of the drawers. “I will allow you to fill out several charts here this very moment. Particularly, I would like to know how Mr. Beerbower spends his quiet time from four in the afternoon to—”

  “Uh,” Marten said, “I’d rather not.”

  Quirn looked astonished. “Everybody fills out community charts. We watch out for one another.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Now see here, Marten, the entire thrust of Social Unity demands that we care about our community. In a time of grave crisis such as this we must be certain that the group functions as smoothly as ever, as one.” Quirn opened the drawer and took out a plex-sheet, holding it across the desk.

  Marten hesitated. He could take the plex-sheet and fill in nonsense as he’d done in the past. But that didn’t really matter today, did it? It was a known fact that the hall leader switched partners with amazing regularity, and his partners were always attractive and energetic. Whispers abounded that Quirn saw such couplings as conquests. Few dared refuse his advances. Molly had dodged him the most persistently, and Marten was certain the hall leader now took it as a personal challenge. Quirn was clever, too. He must realize that if he sent Marten to the slime pits, without real justifiable cause, that might embitter Molly. Therefore, the two of them today were going to have to go through a charade.

  “This is quite unprecedented, Marten. Failing to fill out the charts shows a decided lack in political duty. Perhaps….” Quirn’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you hold heretical views.”

  Marten still couldn’t reach out and take the plex-sheet. He knew he couldn’t tell Quirn that he was tired of pretending, especially now that the Highborn attacked Earth. The genetic super-soldiers had rebelled against Social Unity, just as he wanted to rebel. The Highborn had started the civil war, it was said, through an act of rage. Marten squinted. The truth was that he was soul sick, cramped, feeling as if he should have gone down fighting with his Mom and Dad. He’d watched Quasar several weeks ago and had seen a documentary on the cave paintings in Southern France Sector. What had fascinated him was the whole idea of cavemen. Free to roam wherever they willed. Hunting for food, really protecting their mates. It had seemed so… alive. He’d imagined himself bellowing at other cavemen, a club in his hands. A man who fought for the well-being of his woman would cherish her. He would treat her as the greatest thing in his free-living life. Like his Dad had treated his Mom. Definitely heretical views.

  “No?” Quirn asked icily. “Very well.” He put the plex-sheet back in the drawer, closing it with a thump. Then he folded his hands on his desk, and his mouth quivered with distaste. “I’ve given this much thought, Marten. I’ve talked with Reform through Labor and found that openings are available.”

  “You’re sending me to the slime pits?” For a wild instant, Marten envisioned himself leaping over the desk and attacking the hall leader.

  Quirn raised a hand. “You know very well that a political crime such as yours—”

  “Missing three hum-a-longs is a crime?”

  “Please don’t interrupt. And the answer is yes, for refusing to join your friends and neighbors in sanctioned political harmony, for willfully staying away, that is a political crime. And that translates into an assault upon humanity. Almost as repugnant are your thought-crimes—surely you have some. Fortunately, for you, Marten, the guidelines unequivocally state that thought-crimes occur to most citizens at one time or another—thus the need for a firm teaching party like Social Unity. Yes, a stint in the 'slime pits ' as you put it might be in order.”

  Quirn let the threat hang in the silence for a moment while he watched Marten narrowly.

  “However, in your case I don’t believe that would help. And in these trying times even heretics like you must pull their weight. Marten, you need to understand that the State wants to correct your bad tendencies so that you can become fully functional again. So, I’ve thought of the perfect job that I believe will help teach you this.”

  Marten stared at the hall leader, wondering what the man’s devious mind had thought up.

  Quirn shoved a small slip of plex-paper across the desk.

  Marten picked it up. Biocomp engineer, it read. Then he noticed the hours: Early morning shift.

  “I’ll have to get up when everyone else is asleep.”

  “Yes,” said Quirn.

  Marten understood. With these new hours, he wouldn’t be able to spend as much time with Molly. In other words, she’d have more time alone. And because he hadn’t been sent to the slime pits, Molly would surely be grateful to the hall leader. Very neatly done, Marten thought sourly. He looked at the slip of plex-paper again: Biocomp engineer.

  …Interesting.

  3.

  OFFICE OF THE SUPREME COMMANDER

  PLANS AND OPERATIONS DIVISION

  BEIJING, EAST ASIA SECTOR

  TOP SECRET

  14 April 2349

  Directive No. 1

  For the prosecution of the war

  “Ultimate victory demands objectivity. Due to their bioengineering, the Highborn rebels automatically have certain advantages. These can neither be wished away nor ignored. Simply stated, man for man the Highborn are smarter, quicker, stronger and perhaps even wiser. Their intense training also heightens their military advantages. Breakthrough ship design and technology has armed them with craft superior to any in the Solar System. Combined with a surprise assault, the genetic super-soldiers have gained mastery of Earth-Luna space.

  “It can be expected that total enemy space-fleet con
trol of Venus and Mercury will occur in short order.

  “Recommendation: All fleet units randomly retreat into deep space until our superior production gives us a two to one advantage in ship tonnage.

  “Army Units, it should be noted….”

  ***

  The microphone snapped off. Even thought he couldn’t see them, Secret Police General James Hawthorne stared steely-eyed where the ancient men and women of the Directorate were sitting. Or he assumed they sat behind the polished surface in front of him. Otherwise, he sat alone at a table, a spotlight shining in his eyes and a mike in front of him.

  Whoever sat behind the polished wall had been given the chance of a lifetime. The orbital bombardment that had destroyed Geneva had also slain the entire Social Unity Directorate and the SU General Assembly. These new members were a mystery to him and the world at large. He’d carefully studied the files of two aged women who had made it onto the Directorate. They were products of extreme longevity treatments. The others on the Directorate were still blanks to him, although he assumed most of them to be old. In any case, they had gained supreme rank in a single amazing bound. Which of them would come to dominate the Inner Planets hadn’t yet been thrashed out.

  General Hawthorne wore the green uniform with red piping along the sleeves of Directorate Staff Planning. He was tall and gaunt with wispy blond hair, and many said he had the emotions of granite.

  The wall speakers warbled into life.

  “Our military ships are to flee?”

  Whether a man or woman had spoken was impossible to tell. The shiny, metallic wall confronting General Hawthorne gave him no clue. Such caution bespoke the Directorate’s fear. Not fear of the Highborn, necessarily, but fear of his access to secret police files. The Geneva bombardment had stirred a hornet’s nest of intrigue and deadly political jockeying. No one trusted anyone—not that anyone really ever had. It was just many times worse now.