Star Soldier

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Osadar, can you hear me?”

  His voice sounded small and far away, and it was the most glorious sound she’d ever heard. Leave it to the commander to realize they could still talk.

  “I can hear you.”

  He patted her shoulder, then maneuvered so they saw eye to eye. His skin looked pale, and his fear added to hers. She almost asked him if he had any Suspend. Of course, he did, but then he’d have to ask her why she asked. As he attached his vacc-suit to her, she eyed the nearing beacon. Soon they would know the worst. She turned to Technician Geller—

  Something caught her eye, something dark and fast, hard to see. Geller must’ve seen it too. Hydrogen spray billowed out of his tanks. It was too late. He jerked sharply at the waist. Mist blew out of his vacc-suit, and then blood and the gory innards of what had once been Technician Geller. The vacuum of space was ruthless.

  Osadar shuddered in terror.

  With a jerk, the commander unhooked Geller’s line from him. Then he clanked his helmet against hers.

  “To the right, by the exhaust port.”

  Osadar scanned the area. She was going to be sick. Then her eyes narrowed as something moved. She shrieked.

  A man with a skintight, almost rubber suit leaped in their direction, even though he had to be over three thousand meters away. He sailed for them, gaining fast.

  “Hang on!” she screamed at the commander.

  She squeezed thrust in controlled bursts when what she really wanted was to hold the trigger down and blast off. But she was too much a pilot for that; too trained in ways she couldn’t change. The man cradled something in his arms that looked like a spear gun. He aimed it at them.

  Osadar swung the waldo laser around. It was meant for repair work, but in a fix could double as a close-quarters weapon.

  “You think he’s a robot?” the commander asked.

  “He doesn’t look like a bot.”

  “Not even a Highborn is powerful enough to accelerate that fast in a single bound.”

  Osadar should have thought of that. The man came on fast nonetheless, his weapon tracking them. The tip of the “spear” was a half-moon blade, as if it was meant to rip open spacesuits and let vacuum do the dirty work.

  Osadar understood none of this as she moaned dreadfully. Leaping men with spear guns didn’t make any kind of sense in space. He would pass harmlessly underneath them by fifty meters—she’d easily maneuvered out of his flight path. She rotated her zero-G suit to keep the commander away from the gun. Her worksuit couldn’t be breached by something as primitive as a spring-driven spear.

  The man—if man he was—removed the half-moon crescent blade and attached what looked like an adhesive pad. He aimed and fired, and a filament line trailed the pad. It attached to the foot of her suit. He pressed a stud and reeled himself toward them.

  Osadar shrieked again and swung the laser arm. It couldn’t reach the spidery line! Her stomach went hollow as she readjusted the laser, aiming it at… what was he?

  Through his faceplate, he looked like a robot with shiny flesh, with fake human eyes. He neither smiled nor grinned nor scowled nor frowned. He watched them impassively as he approached, the way a lizard might watch as it sunned itself on a rock.

  Osadar clenched her teeth and turned on the laser. It harmlessly beamed past him. For with his arms alone, on the rifle that reeled him in, he swung his body forward, out of the way of the laser, and let go. He propelled himself through space. He wore no security line or any pack other than a slim breathing tank. If he missed them, he’d sail off into space. The risk—no spacer could do that so effortlessly and without a change of expression.

  With a pry bar that he’d taken off her suit, the commander jabbed at the man’s faceplate. Their enemy latched onto the bar and pulled himself upon the commander. He slid something thin and bright into the commander’s suit.

  Osadar twisted within her rigid cylinder to see what was happening. The commander’s face grew slack. His eyes fluttered.

  Grimly, she swung the work-laser.

  The man pulled another of his uncanny maneuvers, and sailed upside down over the laser-arm and above her helmet. She craned her neck to look up at him. His fingers were long and spider-like. He reached out. She flinched away from his fingers. Then she grinned tightly. His would be an effort in futility to try to latch onto her bubble helmet. Then, to her horror, small adhesive pads on his fingertips pressed onto her helmet top. With a jerk, it stopped his flight. Gracefully, like a perfect killer, he brought himself parallel with her as if they were lovers. He stared at her. There was no gloating or triumph, no ‘Did you see that?’ in his eyes. He stared impassively. Anyone but this obvious non-human would have crinkled up the corners of his lips. She’d never see such flawless, uncanny, zero-G maneuvering, and she’d been around plenty of hardened space-hounds.

  Although vomit burned the back of her throat, although she knew it wouldn’t matter, she brought up a waldo clamp to try to crush him. It wasn’t in her to go down without a fight.

  He shoved a gleaming steel needle into her elbow. She yelled. Then a great weariness settled over her. Why, she wondered. Why go to so much trouble when a simple plasma rifle could’ve taken care of everything? It didn’t make any kind of sense.

  5.

  Like some obscene, overgrown monkey, Toll Seven rode the zero-G worksuit, braking with particles of hydrogen spray as he brought both captives to his ultra stealth pod. The vessel was as black as night and spherical, and only a little larger than an old-style garbage Dumpster of the Twentieth Century. The ceramic hull gave the lowest sensor signature of any vessel in human space, and it was crammed with the latest Onoshi Electronic Counter-Measure equipment and decoys.

  He floated them into the cargo bay. The Suspend would keep them in the suits, so he simply latched them to a rack and then went back for the others in the ship.

  An hour later, he closed the cargo bay. Except for the slain security officer and the technician he’d let vacuum explode, all of IH-49’s crew lay like wood in his ship. He entered his command module and set course for home. He timed his burst with the first long burn of IH-49’s famed ion engines. The ice hauler would make the trip to the Oort Cloud, but without any crew.

  Toll Seven shut off his engine. He would coast for a week. He shut down contemplation mode and instantly entered deep sleep.

  6.

  Much of Greater Sydney burned out of control. The rest was shambles. Millions wandered the tunnels and ruined levels. Millions more hovered on the brink of dehydration, ready to join the hundreds of thousands of dead. To rebuild Sydney would take months. The Highborn presently fought a cunning campaign to save what they had.

  First, they accessed the city’s backup computers. Then they declared a general amnesty. Surviving police and SU bureaucrats could keep their old jobs, provided they came to Highborn Mobile HQ in the next two days and declared themselves. Most did, thankfully. It was so much easier to plug trained personnel back into their old jobs than to train someone else who had no idea how to lead. The returning police officers were immediately put in charge of the clean-up crews: which consisted of any able-bodied person healthy enough to work. The former ward, block and hall leaders found themselves given a day’s stiff indoctrination, and then set in charge of fabrication and housing. Superintendents and all former SU secretaries ran the new government under Highborn dictates. “Excellence brings rewards,” was the first basic slogan, “Life goes on,” the second.

  The Highborn divided Sydney’s populace into three categories. Category one, the highest ranked, was all Free Earth Corps (FEC) volunteers, munitions workers and deep-core personnel. Category two was police, housing, clean up and transport. Category three was everyone else. Rations and chits were given accordingly.

  After several days, a semblance of order settled over Greater Sydney. That’s when Marten slipped out of the temporary FEC barracks. It happened after the Highborn took Ah Chen. They’d found out she was deep-core. The n
ew rulers only had a few of those and they desperately needed to keep the deep-core mine running.

  “You’ll be shot,” said Stick, after Marten told them he was leaving.

  “I’ve got to find her,” Marten said.

  “Why?” asked Turbo.

  “They didn’t ask her if she wanted to go,” Marten said angrily. “They just took her.”

  “So?” asked Turbo. “What can you do about it?”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out,” Marten said.

  Omi held out his hand. “Luck.”

  Marten solemnly shook the ex-gunman’s hand. After that, Stick and Turbo shook his hand.

  “Stay alive,” said Stick.

  Marten nodded, and then he turned and walked out of the barracks. It had been as easy as that. The Highborn had posted all the names of the FEC volunteers. They had warned the volunteers that if any of them were caught outside the barracks they would be shot. But Marten had a plan. It was tested two hours later when a police sweep caught him in the middle of a rubble-strewn street, four levels down from the barracks.

  “Name?” growled a heavyset, sweating cop. He had a shock rod on his belt, but no stunner or needler. Those had been deposited in Highborn vaults. Two other cops waited behind the older, bald man. They had large plastic shields, batons and wore riot helmets and grim scowls. Dust and sweat slicked their faces. Their uniforms smelled like smoke.

  Marten hesitated.

  “Give me your name,” repeated the heavyset cop as he wiped his sleeve across his forehead. The main air-conditioners worked at ten percent power. From level ten down, the air was stale and much too warm.

  “I’m in maintenance,” Marten said, and he tried to stroll away.

  The two cops with the plastic shields stepped in his path, one of them shoving him back.

  The sweating, heavyset cop scowled and took out a rag to mop his face. “Are you a troublemaker?”

  Marten shook his head.

  “Then give us your name,” said the cop who’d pushed him with his shield.

  Hoping this worked—it had better—Marten gave then a fictitious name, from one of his mother’s forged passports from the Sun-Works Factory. The Highborn had downloaded Sydney’s computers and those computers had been linked throughout the Inner Planets.

  The older, sweating cop stuffed his rag in his back pocket and unhooked a hand computer, punching the fictitious name into the database. He squinted at Marten as it processed.

  Realizing suddenly that this might not work, Marten sidled near the cop who had pushed him. His heart beat faster as he tensed.

  The unit beeped and the sweating cop examined it. “This is odd. It says you work in food processing, not maintenance.”

  Marten went limp. The old names still held.

  The other cop said, “You’re a liar. They should send you to the slime pits for that.”

  “Quiet!” snapped the heavy, sweating cop. “That’s… that’s old-style talk.”

  The other cop suddenly looked scared.

  The heavier cop faced Marten. “Maybe later they’ll put you in maintenance. For now head east two blocks until you reach Work Gang Twenty-seven. Tell the foreman Sergeant Jones sent you. And don’t skip out, boy. Otherwise it’s the firing squad for you.”

  Marten walked briskly east. But once out of their sight, he turned north. If he were picked up again, he’d have to use a different forged name.

  Yet for all his vigilance, another police sweep picked him up two levels down. He used another fake name—he only had two more—and this time couldn’t get out of clean up. So for the next few hours he loaded broken concrete and plasteel onto a lifter. It was hard, sweaty work, done under the watchful eye of a former block leader. At the end of the shift, they received a ration of water and a crust of algae bread.

  Marten sat with a group of other tired men. They either sprawled on the ground or sat on broken concrete blocks, guzzling the water and chewing the week-old bread.

  “Back to work!” said the foreman, clapping his hands to show that he wanted them to move quickly.

  Marten rose. Nothing had changed. These men were still ready to bleat to whoever was in charge. The only ones who seemed willing to fight… were the slum dwellers, he realized in surprise. Maybe he would be better off rejoining Turbo, Stick and Omi.

  No. He wanted to see Ah Chen again and hunt for Molly. So he worked along the fringe of the group, and then a little farther away yet. The former block leader glared at him, his moist eyes shining. Then the foreman stamped elsewhere. Marten edged a little farther from that spot, checked and saw that no one watched. He strode away briskly.

  “Halt!” shouted a cop, who stepped from behind a standing half wall.

  Marten broke into a sprint.

  “Stop!” roared the cop, and others gave chase.

  Marten found it difficult to breathe in the stale, hot air. He was glad the police didn’t have any stunners or needlers.

  Gasping, he stopped a level later, his throat and chest aching because of the polluted air. How in the world was he going to find Ah Chen or Molly like this?

  7.

  Marten thought up a strategy thirty minutes later. It happened as he stumbled upon a snoozing cop. Marten had slunk careful through a rubble-strewn street, and ducked behind a building when he heard voices. Then he heard snoring, and to his amazement, he saw an overweight old man sleeping on a cot. It was hot, and the old man had taken off his police shirt, helmet and heavy utility belt. Inspired, Marten took the three items, hurried away and a few blocks later donned the old man’s garments.

  He tested his plan several blocks later. A squad of three police doing a routine sweep marched toward him. With his helmet on, dark visor lowered, and with his hand on the shock baton swinging at his belt, Marten swaggered toward them. It brought back haunting memories of how his father had once tricked Sun-Works personnel.

  “You!” he bellowed. “Report!”

  The three men stiffened to attention.

  “I said report!” Marten shouted in his best imitation police voice.

  “We’ve rounded up four stragglers, sir,” said the sergeant.

  “Just four?” Marten asked angrily. “This area crawls with refugees. Find them. Or soon you’ll be busting rubble.”

  They hurried off. With his hands on his hips, Marten watched them go. When they were out of sight, he sighed with pent-up fear and went his own way. Just like in the old days on the Sun-Works Factory circling Mercury, the very audacity of the ploy had protected him. No one would dare impersonate a police inspector; at least no one raised on Social Unity credos.

  He reached the Deep-Core Station that he’d entered what seemed a lifetime ago, and he waited until he saw a brown-uniformed deep-core worker strolling home. The man looked young and wore shiny black boots. He smoked the stimstick that seemed habitual with deep-core workers and had an arrogant way of holding his shoulders. Marten trailed him, waiting until no one else was in sight. Then he strode quickly, catching the man unawares.

  “You!” Marten said, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him around.

  The man glowered. “Don’t you know who I am? Take your grubby hands off me this instant.”

  Marten drew the shock rod and touched the man’s neck.

  With a scream, the deep-core worker fell to the ground, twitching.

  Marten felt sorry for him but was certain this was the only way he could gain the needed information. He kicked the deep-core worker in the side, but not too hard.

  “You’re a straggler!” Marten shouted.

  “No!” howled the man.

  “Liar,” Marten shouted, kicking him again.

  The worker covered up. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

  Marten hauled him to his feet, the shock rod poised for a beating.

  “I’m a Deep-Core Worker,” the man wailed.

  “Prove it.”

  The man dug a wallet from his pants pocket.

  “Bah,” Marte
n said, knocking it out of the man’s hands. “Fake IDs don’t interest me.”

  The man’s eyes boggled. “No one fakes Deep-Core IDs.”

  “Who is Ah Chen?” Marten barked.

  “What?” the man asked, bewildered.

  “So you don’t know.”

  “Wait. Yes, yes, I know Ah Chen. S-She’s Deep-Core.”

  Marten barked harsh laughter.

  “She’s a Third Grade Engineer. They sent her down this morning.”

  “Down?”

  “To the deep station.”

  Marten’s stomach knotted. “For how long is she down?”

  “Why do you want to know that?” asked the man, suddenly suspicious.

  Marten slapped him across the face instead of using the shock rod again. “You’re a straggler.”

  “She’s down permanently, or until they train her replacement. Please, you’ve got to believe me.”

  A cold sinking feeling filled Marten. Ah Chen had told him that Major Orlov had slain almost all the deep-core personnel in Sydney. The Highborn would dearly need the deep-core running if Sydney and the outlying areas were to have power. She’d feared the Highborn would take her and send her down-station for a long time, and she’d been right. There was nothing Marten could do for her now.

  Marten shoved the man away. “Run.”

  “What?” asked the bewildered man.

  “Run!” roared Marten, raising the baton as if to swing.

  The man took off running, slipping and stumbling until he ran out of sight.

  Disgusted with his methods and depressed that Ah Chen was gone from him for a very long time, Marten stalked off in the opposite direction. How long could he keep on running and pretending? Maybe long enough to find Molly, he decided.

  8.

  Transcript #30,512 Highborn Archives: of an exchange of notes between Paenus, Inspector General, Earth, and Cassius, Grand Admiral of Highborn. Dates: February 1 to February 7, 2350.