Bio-Weapon ds-2

by Vaughn Heppner

  The tech swiveled back. His bored grin had returned, as if the pilot’s proven nearness had reinforced his confidence. He told Vip, “Really, it’s best not to think about it.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?” asked Vip, his left cheek twitching.

  “Sure wish I knew,” said the tech. He pursed his lips. Tap-tap to the chin. “Maybe if you pretended you’re a worm. You know, digging your way to the bottom of the Earth. Then the buried feeling will seem natural.” He chuckled as Vip paled, jerked around and stared dull-eyed at the shuttle’s low bulkhead.

  Marten put his left hand on the tech’s knee. In his right hand, under the tech’s nose, he held a knife, a wicked little blade.

  The tech with the dark, slicked-back hair stopped chuckling. His lifted his eyebrows, trying to appear nonchalant, as if he had angry shock troopers pull knives on him all the time.

  “I’m talking to you,” whispered Marten.

  “It’s the pain booth for sure if I report this,” said the tech.

  Marten stared dead-eyed.

  “He’s right, Marten,” said Lance, sounding worried.

  “What about this?” Omi asked. “The little prick isn’t alive to report it?”

  “That would make it harder,” Kang rumbled.

  “Not if the HBs resurrected him,” Lance said.

  “Maybe,” Kang said. “But there isn’t any Suspend aboard. So he’d stay down.”

  “Look here,” said the tech.

  Marten pressed the razor-point against the smooth skin.

  “Do you see what you did?” Omi asked the tech. “Now he’s mad.”

  “Hey, you’re right,” said Lance. He turned to the tech. “That was pretty stupid of you.” Then, in a perfect imitation of the tech, Lance pursed his lips and tapped his chin. “Maybe if you unbuckled yourself and bent down and kissed Marten’s boots. That might mollify him.”

  The tech opened his mouth.

  “Shhh,” Marten said. With the knife, he rotated the tech’s head so he faced Vip. “Lance,” Marten said.

  Lance gently shook Vip, who still stared at the low bulkhead. The little shock trooper hummed to himself.

  “Vip,” Marten said.

  When he didn’t respond, Lance shook him again.

  “What?” Vip asked.

  “I want you to listen to a promise I going to make this—he’s a vulture, Vip. He thinks it’s funny that you’re—”

  “I’m not scared,” Vip said.

  “I know that,” Marten said, as he stared at the ever-increasingly-worried tech. “It’s no big deal, Vip. But listen anyway, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Marten pushed the knifepoint just a little more, making the tech cry out and arch his head in order to escape the deadly blade.

  “What’s going on back there?” the pilot asked.

  “Nothing,” Kang said.

  “Are you okay, Ito?” asked the pilot.

  A pinprick of blood welled on the tech’s check.

  “He’s fine,” Marten said. “Aren’t you, Ito?”

  “Fine!” said the tech, his head arched back but unwilling to turn and face the pilot.

  The pilot shifted in her seat to look over her shoulder, but she was jammed down low and couldn’t see past the tech’s back.

  “Worry about flying,” Kang told her.

  Maybe the menace in his voice convinced her, maybe the fact that they were about to dock. Besides, what would the shock troopers dare do to a Highborn’s tech?

  Marten stared at the young man. “If you die in this coming assault, Vip, then one of us will come back and kill this vulture who thought it funny to try to scare you.”

  “Really?” Vip said.

  “I swear it.”

  “So do I,” Omi said.

  “Me, too,” said Lance.

  Kang grunted, gracing the pale tech with a brutal, sinister study.

  “Think about that while we’re traveling,” Marten said, but whether he meant it for Vip or the tech he didn’t say.

  “Docking in four minutes,” the pilot said, sounding very professional now, as if shuttling was all she cared about.

  Marten released the tech’s knee and wiped the blade on the tech’s suit. He then slipped the knife into its armpit sheath.

  The tech reached a trembling hand to his cheek. He stared at the minute red dot on his fingertip. Disbelief made round circles of his eyes. For a second it seemed he would speak, then he whirled around, facing the pilot, even as Kang and Lance starting talking about the tech’s probable sex preferences.

  * * *

  The subdued tech led them through the airlock and into the Storm-Assault Missile. The first room contained five, penetrator torpedoes. Like huge cartridges, they lay side by side, near the single firing tube. Beside each torpedo was a shock trooper battlesuit. There were five names stenciled on the helmets: MARTEN, OMI, KANG, LANCE and VIP. They were big, exoskeleton-powered suits, with oxygen tanks in back, HUD helmets and articulated armor. The shock trooper skull-patch was on the right sleeve of each battlesuit and the left pectoral. Their lasers, breach-bombs and torches were already packed in the torpedoes.

  Marten and the others eyed the suits and the torps. They were accustomed to them, well-practiced in their use.

  “It won’t be a space hab we’re storming,” Omi said.

  “A freaking ship in the voids,” said Lance.

  Kang cracked his knuckles. “Won’t make any difference. Either we get in or we don’t.”

  “No,” Omi said. “There’s no pickup ship if we don’t get in.”

  “We’ll get in,” Marten said. He refused to think about Nadia or how close he’d come to escaping. He would get another chance if he could survive. That’s all that mattered now. And killing Hansen later if the Chief Monitor harmed Nadia.

  “The void,” whispered Vip, shivering.

  The tech cleared his throat. He floated by the partition hatch. “Training Master Lycon wants everyone in by oh-eight-hundred.”

  “Gonna wet your pants if we’re late?” asked Lance.

  “You’re really starting to get on my nerves, you little creep,” Kang said. “Marten, where’s your knife?”

  Marten patted his armpit sheath.

  “What’cha got in mind?” asked Lance.

  “It’s an old Mongol custom,” Kang said. “Blood sacrifice. I practiced it back in Sydney.”

  Marten believed it.

  “Blood sacrifice appeases the spirits and helps gain victory,” Kang said.

  Omi lifted his left eyebrow, and nodded sagely.

  The young tech licked his lips as he kept searching their faces for a smile, or for some indication that they were joking. “Y-You need my help getting into the G-suits,” he finally said.

  Lance snorted. “We know how to climb into suits.”

  “Not these,” said the tech. “T-They’re…”

  A clang sounded from the outer hatch. Air hissed into the lock. Everyone turned. The inner hatch popped open. Into the cramped room floated Training Master Lycon. He wore a vacc suit, working off its bubble helmet as he entered.

  The five men of the maniple straightened even as they lowered their eyes in regulation pose.

  Huge Training Master Lycon swept his gaze over them, settling onto Marten. There seemed something extra ferocious in his glance. Maybe he’d talked with the pilot.

  “Tech,” he said.

  The tech floated near the Highborn. He also carefully kept his eyes cast downward.

  “Is everything in order?”

  “Yes, Training Master.”

  “The maniple has been thoroughly briefed?”

  “Yes, Training Master.”

  “Do you believe they understand the procedure?”

  “Yes, Training Master.”

  “Then you have nothing else to report, is that correct?”

  The tech hesitated as his shoulders tensed.

  “Time is critical,” said Lycon.

  The tech
swallowed audibly. “Yes, Training Master. I-I mean no, nothing else to report.”

  Lycon nodded. Then he studied the five shock troopers, finally settling on Marten. “Maniple Leader.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Excellence in training does not negate all sins. You are therefore under disciplinary punishment. Kang.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are maniple leader for the duration of the mission.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If Marten commits any breach of discipline, shoot him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Unless you perform an outstanding feat of daring, Marten, noted and reported by your maniple leader, on your return you will receive twenty minutes in the pain booth.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lycon swept his fierce gaze over the team. He abruptly settled the vacc helmet over his head and left through the hatch.

  After it clanged, Lance turned to Marten. “That’s tough luck.”

  Marten shrugged.

  The tech had his grin back. “Okay, let’s go,” he said. “Into the G-suits.”

  “Don’t think this nulls my promise,” Marten told him.

  The young tech appeared shocked. “Threatening me is a breach of discipline.” He turned and pointed to Kang. “That means you have to shoot him.”

  “Shut up,” growled Kang.

  “But—”

  Kang floated over, grabbed the tech’s finger and twisted so he yelped

  “None of that,” Marten said. “You heard the Training Master, we have to harness up.”

  Kang turned, with a frown on his flat face. “I’m giving the orders now.”

  Marten hesitated only a moment. “Right. I’m sorry, Maniple Leader.”

  “Noted,” Kang said. “Okay, let’s harness up.”

  Since Marten was nearest to the hatch, he opened it and was the first into the next room. There were only two human-habitable ones on the entire SA Missile.

  Even more cramped than the first room, this one had five acceleration couches side by side. On the couches lay the G-suits, heavy, ponderous things, with thick tubes attached to the top of the helmets and out the heels and other various locations. For as long as the trip took, they would be in those things.

  Shedding their garments until they were naked, and helped by the tech, the five-man maniple worked past the eel-like mass of tubes and slid into the very slick fabric within the suits.

  “It’s freezing,” said Lance.

  “It feels like oil,” Omi said.

  “The inside of each suit conforms to your body shape,” said the tech, for once sounding professional.

  After they were secure, he latched them, checking the seals and dropping their visors. He came to Marten last.

  “You know what?” whispered the tech.

  Marten lay snug like a caterpillar in its cocoon, and about as immobile. He peered at the tech smiling down at him. The boy had bad breath.

  “You getting brave now?” asked Marten.

  “I could poke out your eyes,” said the tech, showing Marten the penlight laser-spotter in his hand. “But you know why I’m not going too?”

  “‘Cause the sight of blood scares you?”

  “No, Mr. Tough-Guy, because every way you look at this, you’re doomed. The Highborn are firing their spreads into five different cones of probability, and even then, they’re not really sure they’ll get this X-ship. Think about that. Five different vectors they’re firing into, using a hundred Storm-Assault Missiles like this one. And you can bet that if you miss your target that you’re never coming home. You’ll just go on sailing forever, sooner or later dying from lack of oxygen.”

  Marten remained silent because he couldn’t think of anything to say.

  The tech nodded and looked at the others.

  Marten knew the look. He was building up courage, probably to shout this information to everyone.

  Marten said, “Remember, though, we might make it back.”

  “What?”

  “One out of five isn’t zero.”

  The tech stared. “You’re even dumber than you look if you think those are good odds. Besides, even if you get there you have to break into the battleship.”

  “Yeah, bad odds,” Marten said. “But do you want to bet your life on it?”

  The tech’s eyes shifted away. He pushed off Marten’s suit and floated out the room. As the hatch slammed shut, hypos from the suit’s medikit pricked each of them. A cool, numbing sensation spread over Marten. Then his helmet grew opaque and VR-images blossomed onto the HUD (Heads Up Display) section of the visor. It showed him the outside of the missile, from a camera there.

  A bloated, gross feeling suddenly overwhelmed him. Then his helmet’s intercom buzzed.

  “I feel like throwing up,” Vip said.

  “Try and relax,” said Lance.

  “Yeah,” Marten said.

  By the sounds, valves in the room opened and an ethylene glycol solution that made sludge seem thin glopped in. It pressed against the G-suits and the oily inner surface of the suit’s interior seemed to sink into Marten’s skin. As the tech had predicated, Marten felt as if he was being smothered. three atmospheric pressures compressed against each of their G-suits. The reason they’d been given drugs was so their innards became pressurized enough to resist the outer force.

  The delicacy of the human body meant that a person could only take eight Gs before passing out from lack of oxygen to the brain. Highborn could take about twice as much, which was another of their superiorities over premen. With these suits, however, the shock troopers could survive the twenty-five G acceleration that the missile needed in order to catch up to the Bangladesh after the beamship passed Mercury. The suits would also stimulate their muscles throughout the trip so they wouldn’t atrophy.

  “This is gonna be a load of fun,” said Lance.

  With his chin pressing the various switches in his suit, Marten checked the VR files. Battle plans, entertainment dramas, porn, it was all here. He switched to the missile’s cone camera, watching them being slid out of the hanger and toward the gargantuan boost ship.

  Highborn glory: Succeed or die.

  The quiet, desperate rage that he’d been struggling to contain blossomed into something darker and more urgent. Not only were they ripping him away from all that he’d ever worked for, but… They were cheap missile fodder, a mere biological component webbed into a warhead—becoming the warhead. They were a bio-weapon of a different sort. They were dogs to kick around and abuse, and geld if they became too intractable. No. This was worse than madness. It was inhuman debasement, a shredding of all dignity. Escape was no longer good enough. If he made to the Outer Planets he vowed to warn them of the hell that was coming and do everything he could to help stop it.

  25.

  Both Highborn Grand Admiral Cassius and Social Unity’s Supreme Commander, General James Hawthorne, considered themselves keen students of military history. Each searched the past for clues, looking for what to avoid or what to do.

  Throughout his life, the Grand Admiral had only known victory. Beginning as a young clone-cadet in the Moscow War Academy, to the stunning and brilliant Second Battle of Deep Mars Orbit in 2339, he’d shown dash, iron will and a fanatical, almost otherworldly genius. In the Second Battle of Deep Mars Orbit, he had crushed the combined Fleets of the Mars Rebels and the Jupiter Confederation’s Expeditionary Force sent to help the Martians. Genius had marked even his planning and execution of the Highborn Rebellion in 2349.

  Most Highborn likened him to the ancient world-conqueror, Alexander the Great, while the Social Unitarians thought he more resembled the worst of civilization’s scourges, Genghis Khan.

  The Grand Admiral planned to outdo both ancient warlords. After conquering the four inner planets and crushing Social Unity, he dreamt of continuing with the Jupiter System. He would crush its Galilean moon-kingdoms of Io, Europa, Ganymede and Callisto, together with the rest of the gas giant’s snowba
lls awash in wealth and high technology. The strange space-habitat states orbiting Jupiter would also be plucked like ripe fruit. Then he would lunge at the Saturn System, at Uranus. He dreamed of the subjection of the entire Solar System, all the way to the distant science outposts on Charon. The crux of his reasoning settled upon the fact that he was a Highborn, a true lord of Order and genetically superior to the masses of Homo sapiens spread helter-skelter throughout the system. After all, the two examples from the past had been mere premen. Still, both premen had overcome fantastic odds and preformed outstanding feats of daring and strategic brilliance. In some senses, they could be emulated. But instead of their earth-bound glories, future ages would marvel at his conquests, at his stunning judgments and genius. Or so he mused in his quieter moments of reflection.

  As he lay in his study aboard the Doom Star Julius Caesar, which orbited the Earth’s Moon, he pondered a different problem: namely, the X-Ship Bangladesh. He pondered it as he laid his nine-foot frame on the couch. He had tossed his boots aside. His feet crossed at the ankles and perched on the couch’s armrest. He kept twitching his VR-gloved hand, images flashing across the lens of his VR-goggles.

  The people and point in history he settled upon were the Japanese of the early to middle Twentieth Century. They had been militarists, men who understood about honor and the will to fight. What most intrigued the Grand Admiral were the last days of 1941 and the next several months of 1942. It began with a naval battle called Pearl Harbor. He twitched his fingers, studying the plan, the risks and the brilliant execution of this Nipponese Admiral Yamamoto. After the incredible victory in Hawaii, the Japanese Fleets had scored one stunning win after another from the Philippines to the Indian Ocean. Finally, with their island empire won in a few swift months, the Japanese gathered their naval vessels into a vast armada to finish off the Americans at Midway.

  The Grand Admiral read fast and he frowned at what he read. At Pearl Harbor, the Japanese had planned in minute detail and with painstaking thoroughness. They had trained to a pitch of excellence of nearly Highborn quality. But the Midway Operation, it had been a sloppy affair born of conceit. Ah, the old historian had a phrase for it: victory disease. The Japanese of World War Two had won so handily and so quickly that they soon believed that their superiority was inborn, innate and would always be that way.