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

by Vaughn Heppner

  He said nothing to that.

  “There, that’s exactly what I mean.”

  “Sir?”

  “You’re a brooder.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “More than that, you’re a loner.”

  The five weeks of training had taught Marten one thing, to control his temper, the rage that boiled within him, even as his sense of despair increased. He hated Captain Sigmir, but he felt he masked it so no one knew.

  “You use your leadership skills for your own benefit, to think as you wish, to do what you want even if the crowd likes or dislikes it. What I mean is that you aren’t using your leadership skills to drive ahead, to make others march to your will.”

  “Sir?”

  “Marten, leadership is a gift. I believe you’re squandering yours in isolation. Yes, you are a rock. You stand and do whatever you think is right. Those are all good things, I suppose. But in this war you can rise high if you’ll learn to strive to make others obey your will.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They exchanged glances.

  Marten didn’t allow himself to shiver. Looking into that strange face, so filled with vitality and a strange lust, reminded him that the captain had been dead once. Marten felt it showed.

  Captain Sigmir sighed. “I haven’t convinced you. But Marten, I’m still going to recommend you as the lieutenant of Second Platoon.”

  “Sir, I…”

  Captain Sigmir held up a powerful hand. “Kang will run First Platoon. Now there’s a preman who understands leadership. But you’re a much better tactician than Kang. Yes, you’re a splendid tactician. Oh, we’re quick to note such things. You lack something of Kang’s ferocity, or so the superiors believe. I’m not so certain, though. Your rage—” Captain Sigmir laughed. “Oh, yes, Lieutenant, I know very well that an inner rage seethes within you. I can feel it. At times I even think that it’s directed at me.”

  “Sir, I ah—”

  “But that’s neither here nor there, Lieutenant. Hate me all you wish just as long as you obey me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you agree to your lieutenancy?”

  “Agree, sir?”

  “Unless you agree to your new rank you will not receive it. Such is the Highborn dictate regarding rank.”

  Marten thought about that. Clever on their part, he decided. They wanted him to take some of the blame, to smear on the guilt. What would happen if he refused? Probably Captain Sigmir would post him to Kang’s platoon. If that happened, he’d have to kill Kang fast or be the slain one. The ex-Red Blades boss was a sadist almost as bad as the once dead, Lot Six beta Highborn strutting beside him. He finally decided it was easier to revolt—when the chance came—if he was one of the guards carrying a gun than if he was one of the prisoners the gun was trained on.

  Marten nodded. “I agree.”

  “Splendid, Lieutenant. I’m overjoyed to hear it.”

  “One question, sir.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Who are my sergeants?”

  “Your Top Sergeant will be Omi, of course, with Stick and Turbo as the regular Sergeants.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Captain Sigmir stopped, reaching down to put a hand on Marten’s shoulder. “One more week of training, Lieutenant, then we will be shipped into battle.”

  “We, sir?”

  “I’m to be the Captain of Tenth Company.”

  Marten blanched in spite of his best efforts not to.

  “Problem, Lieutenant?”

  “Begging the Captain’s pardon, sir, but I suggest you have a well-trained group of bodyguards.”

  Captain Sigmir grinned evilly. “Lieutenant, that is well-spoken. Now, back to your squad, my boy, and on the double.”

  12.

  Unknown to the Highborn or to Marten, the civil war entered a new and vastly more dangerous stage when Secret Police General James Hawthorne ordered code A-927Z beamed into deep space via a special laser lightguide flash. As per his orders, and without Director Enkov’s knowledge, Beijing HQ started the process by regular e-mail.

  On a rather ordinary fish farm orbiting Earth, as yet untouched by Highborn suicide commandos, a communication technician read his e-mail with surprise. As ordered, he pulled up a standard production report and typed in the e-mail’s command. To the technician’s surprise, a secret computer file embedded in the report scrolled onto his screen. He read it and raised his eyebrows, but he knew better than to question an apparently senseless order when given under such strict conditions. So he aligned the lightguide flash-emitter to the dictated coordinates and typed the send sequence on his keyboard. Then he picked up his container of instacaf and took a sip.

  On the outside of the space habitat a special laser lightguide tube popped up, adjusted with canny precision and shot a tight beam of light bearing the coded string: A-927Z. The tube then zipped back into its holder and triggered an unfortunate sequence of events, at least regarding the signal officer.

  Vents opened in the communication module’s ceiling and sprayed a fine mist of combustibles. The officer, with his container halfway to his lips for yet another sip, had time enough to say, “Hey,” as his computer files self-deleted. And a pre-timed spark ignited the mist. The explosion shook the entire space hab and demanded the full attention of all fire-fighting personnel and auto-equipment. The signal officer, his computer and various personal effects disappeared in the ball of explosive flame.

  Meanwhile, the communication laser flashed through space at the speed of light, three hundred thousand kilometers a second. The lightguide system had a singular benefit over a regular radio message. A tightly beamed communications laser could only be picked up by the receiving station it hit. That, however, demanded precision, and the farther the target, the greater the precision needed. This flash had a long journey in terms of solar system distances, thirty AU or 4,347,400,000 kilometers. Thus, traveling at the speed of light, the message reached the selected target, Neptune habitat, roughly four hours after it had been sent.

  The personnel there decoded the flash and read A-927Z. It had an effect similar to a spade overturning an ant colony: boiling activity erupted.

  Toll Seven had docked his ultra-stealth pod some time ago, his cargo discharged and stored in deep freeze along with a thousand other carefully stolen people. Workers with hand trolleys entered the locker. Osadar Di, stiff as a log and almost as dead, found herself propped upon one of the first trolleys and rolled to the beginning of a process which would grant her new life but at the cost of her humanity.

  Thankfully, for her and her sanity, she had no awareness of the first steps. Set on a conveyer, she traveled to a thawing tank. Immersed in aquamarine liquid, her frozen limbs and torso grew supple. The analyzers attached to her beeped at the right moment and a lifter set her on a new conveyer, where she received a shock of life. Her entire body jerked so hard that she tore several muscles, a minor but not unnoticed matter to the monitoring AI. With an agonizing wheeze, Osadar took her first new breath and her eyelids fluttered. A fine mist rained upon her, killing all bacteria and other biological infestations. In that instant, she awoke to excruciating pain. The torn muscles brought her up sooner than anticipated. Somewhere an alarm rang. At this phase of transformation, her awareness was an unwanted anomaly.

  Despite the pain, Osadar felt a great lethargy. Then it came to her that the robotic-looking man who had slain Technician Geller had shoved a needle into her. How long had she been out? She moved her head to the side, and screamed. Staring at her wide-eyed like a deader was the commander of IH-49. Others lay beyond him and they moved on an assembly line. Horror screwed up her face. She bit back a second scream, knowing that her worst fears had all along been right. Life was a rigged crapshoot meant to shaft you in the end no matter what you did.

  Osadar tried to move her limbs, but they were so sluggish, and the torn muscles sent mind-rending pain messages to her brain.

  Then emergency hypos shot her full of
drugs and numbed her nervous system.

  “No,” she whispered, struggling to rise before she slumped back into unconsciousness. A few moments later she entered the choppers, as the technicians there called them. In actuality, tiny vibroblades sliced the top-most layer of her skin, which was peeled away and discarded into a burner.

  The entire process proved grim in the extreme. Director Enkov’s bodyguard had in many ways been rebuilt. But compared to what they did to Osadar Di he had merely had his toenails trimmed. They tore her down, removing her heart, lungs and kidneys. Finally, her brain was detached from her spinal column and placed into pink programming gel. The combination entered an accelerated life situation computer. Her brain along with others was electronically force-fed millions of pieces of new data. It was mostly tactical military information and how to use what would soon be her new cyborg body. The program then ran her through thousands of simulated situations:

  She dropped Earthward in an attack pod. The pod peeled away and she floated on chutes. Two hundred meters above the ground the lines detached and she plummeted and landed in a crouch. Experiencing events within the simulator as if they were reality, she bounded in hundred meter leaps at the enemy, her thermonuclear slug-thrower chugging in controlled bursts. Within the simulator she target-practiced with dart guns, lasers, regular carbines, knives, spears; hurled grenades at super tanks, manned a laser battery and more. The events played until they became second nature. Within those events command words, obedience conditioning, how to use inner nanonics and other sundry cyborg functions were drilled into her.

  At last, the data processing ended. Her brain emerged very different from when it had entered. Something of the old Osadar Di remained, but it lay submerged in the new cyborg personality, or the lack of it.

  The reattachment of her brain to a new and improved spinal column was a delicate operation. The scientists and technicians on the secret Neptune habitat had learned to marry genetic human material to machinery like seamless cloth. An armored brainpan was only the beginning of it. She now had power-graphite bones, artificial muscles, millions of micro-nanonics in her bloodstream, an armor-plated body and eyes that could never be mistaken for human. Little was left of the old Osadar Di. And to make sure that that little part could never rebel, obedience chips were liberally sprinkled throughout her nervous system. A tiny powerful governing computer was linked to her brain and embedded within the central mass.

  The process from Suspend-dead human to cyborg took two weeks. Training her to use her new body would take another three. Then Cyborg Osadar Di— better known as OD12—would enter the first ultra-stealth pod to make the many-months long journey from Neptune to Earth.

  Then maybe Social Unity could finally regain the initiative against the Highborn.

  Soldier

  1.

  13 April 2350

  Emergency military conference, Day Two of the Invasion of Japan Sector: 1.19 P.M.

  Participants: Enkov, Hawthorne, Kitamura (Field Marshal, Japan Sector) Ulrich (Air Marshal, Strategic Command East), O’Connor (Admiral, Pacific Fleet) Green (Colonel-General, Replacement Army East).

  Enkov: You misjudged them again.

  Hawthorne: I don’t think that’s the correct analysis, Director. Strategically this invasion makes no sense. From Australia, they launched the Papua/New Guinea Campaign, which, I might add, has bogged down in the treacherous mountain terrain.

  Green: Even Highborn have their limits, it seems.

  Hawthorne: Exactly. But to address your question, Director, let me point out that they’ve captured twenty percent of the small Pacific Islands from Japan to the Hawaiian Islands to Australia. It seemed clear until two days ago that they planned to build a Pacific Basin Stronghold. Now their supply lines from Australia to Japan stretches past Indonesia, the Philippines and Taiwan.

  O’Connor: Over four thousand kilometers.

  Hawthorne: Granted they rush supplies and troops in well-armed convoys, but our ability to intercept and destroy them has now—what are those numbers again?

  O’Connor: Their transports are thousand-ton Vickers Hovercraft, a rugged prefab design that we believe is already in mass production, with Destroyer Class Hovers serving as escort. Fast V-Boats range as perimeter guards, while VTOL Hover Carriers provide fighters, bombers and their dreaded HK-Leopards. Those search out our submersibles with uncanny accuracy.

  Hawthorne: Yes, thank you, Admiral. But what are the improved odds regarding our ability to sink them along this four thousand kilometer route?

  O’Connor: A sixty-percent increase.

  Enkov: I’m delighted to hear it. As will be the other directors. How much tonnage have you destroyed since the Japanese Invasion?

  O’Connor: Ah… none yet, Director. It’s still early in the invasion and we have only a few boats along the route. But we believe a pattern has emerged, one that indicates—

  Enkov: Here we go again. It’s always about holding back to study their pattern, to make sense of these swift moves that seems to paralyze my military men. Yet you just said, General Hawthorne, that attacking Japan lacked strategic sense. What you really mean is that the Highborn have upset your precious pattern concerning their intended behavior.

  Hawthorne: They are unpredictable.

  Enkov: Or perhaps they are simply more subtle that you, General.

  Hawthorne: I take that as a given, Director. Yet I believe they’ve finally overstepped themselves.

  Enkov: Not in terms of sea-borne supply, it seems.

  O’Connor: It takes time to reposition our fleets, Director. The bulk of our submarine squadrons lie in Java Strait and the South China Sea, in the southern region off Malaysia. It was anticipated that the Indonesian Islands were their next target. We could have bloodied them well there. The surprises we had in store for them…. Well, it’s moot now. Presently, the Highborn supply-line from Australia to Japan brushes near the extreme west of the Philippine Sea but not quite over the Mariana Trench.

  Enkov: I fail to see your point.

  O’Connor: We must move our submarines carefully, Director. Highborn detection devices are incredibly sensitive. But if we could slip into the Mariana Trench—

  Enkov: What difference does that make?

  O’Connor: Depth, Director. If we can slip deep enough even their detection devices can’t spot our subs, or if they do spot them, short of nuclear depth charges we’re safe from attack.

  Enkov: Safe, yes, but neither can you attack from the great depths.

  Hawthorne: We’ve developed a new pop-up buoy that will be able to—

  Enkov: Correct me if I’m wrong, General Hawthorne, but developed means on the planning screen, not yet aboard the submarines.

  Hawthorne: Yes, Director. And therein is our chief problem. The former Directorate agreed to the creation of the Highborn because Earth seemed incapable of producing proficient soldiers. This new breed of warrior was supposed to do all of Social Unity’s soldiering. Because of it, Earth defenses were allowed to deteriorate. We are the heirs of their errors.

  Enkov: More history, General?

  Hawthorne: Sir, the truth is large military vehicles such as submarines and spacecraft take several years to construct, at least under peacetime conditions. Planes also have a lag time, but not as great. As you know we’ve accelerated production, but as of now, our space and water-borne fleets are only as large as we had at the beginning of hostilities. Fifty-three percent of our submarines were targeted and destroyed the day Geneva and the old Directorate was destroyed. Since then, Admiral O’Connor has only lost eighteen submarines.

  Enkov: And shown little for it.

  Hawthorne: I’m not certain I can agree with that analysis, Director. Premature moves only hand the Highborn further chances to complete their original destruction. We must husband our forces until an opportunity of enough worth and one that we can win presents itself. I believe the Invasion of Japan is just such an opportunity. Admiral O’Connor has moved his fleets into position
or is in the process of moving them. Yet we must not allow the Highborn the free destruction of our fleets. Rather, I am timing for one sudden swoop upon every aspect of the invasion. Admiral O’Connor will cut their supply lines. Air Marshal Ulrich, who repositions his fighters and bombers along China’s coast and slips replacement fighters when he can onto Japan, will sweep the sky of enemy craft. Colonel-General Green has already ordered a mass transshipment of replacement troops from Vietnam to Korea. Once in Korea the bulk of them will be shipped onto Japan and there provide needed ground forces to sweep and destroy the trapped enemy units. It’s a bold and audacious plan, Director—Operation Togo.

  Kitamura: Named in honor of the Japanese Admiral who destroyed the Russian Baltic Fleet over four centuries ago in a surprise attack in the Tsushima Strait.

  Hawthorne: Yes, thank you, Field Marshal. The Highborn have once more struck with surprise. But we’re reacting faster than ever and have a plan that has every chance of blooding them much more than they’ve planned for. This, Director, is why we’ve been husbanding our irreplaceable fleet units.

  Enkov: What about the troop build-up in Indonesia?

  Hawthorne: We’ll leave them there for the moment.

  Enkov: A week ago, you said they were our best men.

  Hawthorne: Second only to Field Marshal Kitamura’s soldiers.

  Enkov: Report on that, Field Marshal.

  Kitamura: Honored Director, Japan will never fall. Our soldiers have dedicated their lives to Social Unity and promise to hurl back these Supremacist invaders. Three assaults have struck the home islands, at Kobi, at Tokyo and at Sendai in the north. Battle rages hottest in Tokyo—

  Enkov: I’ve received reports they dropped nuclear bombs.

  Kitamura: Tactical nuclear explosions of one and two kilotons, yes, Honored One—Precision nuclear strikes that destroyed our “deep-space” laser batteries.

  Hawthorne: Beam weapons, Director, capable of hitting spacecraft in near-Earth orbit.