Ash had sought to touch an off-worlder and to his total surprise he had made contact. At thirteen, he had the physique of an underweight eight-year-old. During mind-touch he had been in Forseth’s body. He had felt such strength in the Captain’s lean, muscular form. To be so powerful! To be such a man! He could imagine no greater feeling. Weak and sickly all his life, such size and strength was an impossible goal. Nevertheless it was Ash’s secret ambition, a dream he had had for as long as he could remember. At first he simply absorbed the sensations, the wonderful male power of the man, reveling in the joy of feeling physically robust.
Except then Ash felt more. He felt the adult craving of a healthy male: lust. He was strong, he was driven … he was hard. Ash became aware of the powerful urge to mate. He had been shocked at what he had seen, at what he had felt. The emotions — the sensations! He was caught up in the experience before he realized what was happening.
Arousal.
All-consuming sexual desire.
It was too much!
It was overwhelming!
And then Ash, with Forseth’s mouth, had kissed his mother’s soft lips; with Forseth’s hands he had touched her bare skin …
Horrified, Ash immediately tried to break contact, but his efforts were in vain. He was trapped within the Captain’s flesh, an unwilling participant, a prisoner to the man’s desire. Then, the worst! Ash shut his eyes tightly. He could never be absolved. For Ash discovered, despite his resistance, that he enjoyed it.
I wanted my own mother, exactly as Forseth did.
Ash opened his eyes, feeling perspiration tickling his neck and running down his back. He was sweating, as he had done continuously for the last two days. His mouth was so dry he couldn’t swallow. That memory. Those sensations. He had never ever experienced such a powerful need. His mother, soft and desirable … wanting him! Just like he had wanted her. But there was no escape. He couldn’t get the experience out of his mind. Would he ever be able to get these images out of his mind?
The high-pitched ring of the asteroid alarm destroyed the silence.
Both Sartha and Ash were thrown across the room with the force of an impact. There was a jolting crunch, and then it was quiet. A sullen, menacing stillness surrounded them, like the empty hush in the eye of a storm.
Sartha was on her feet in an instant, grabbing Ash by the arm. “Quickly Ashton!” she thrust him toward an emergency locker and grabbed two fullsuits, handing him one. “Get this on — hurry! We’ve been hulled.”
Arriving at the control room, fullsuit in hand, she scanned the settings. Assurance gave another lurch, knocking her to the floor.
Dressed in his fullsuit, Ash stumbled through the portal.
Assurance was keening, exploding with sounds Ashton had never heard before. She rolled and lurched; her stabilizers had been damaged.
Sartha suited up while she spoke. She was a little breathless, but her voice was calm and practical. “How anything got past the shields — I don’t know. We won’t make Kalar. We have to land. The nearest possible world is …” She studied the chart. “Opan.”
Sartha watched probable trajectories plot and re-plot on Icom. “Right … sweet Jana, we make planetfall in minutes. We’re lucky to be so close to a habitable planet.”
Lucky? Ash thought with shock and despair. He didn’t feel lucky. His life had changed too much. He wanted to go back to the way he was — to the innocence he had once had. He wanted to return to the past where he could play in the woods with his wolfhound, Tynan, where he could be with his father and respect his mother. He wanted to be on Delian, where his greatest concern was keeping out of sight of the World Press and avoiding the multitude of palace staff that surrounded him, people whose only desire was to care for him. His servants had just wanted to make him comfortable and keep him safe. He realized with regret that he had always resented their efforts. Never once had he appreciated all they had done for him. Until now.
His mother grabbed Ash by the shoulders. This time he made no attempt to pull away. Ash was in a kind of mental overload. He felt disconnected, as if everything that was happening was happening to someone else. “Ashton,’ Sartha said, “There’s still time. I’ve put off telling you but I must tell you now,” she paused, “in case something happens to me. Delian..,” she started to say, but there was another plunging roll and she and Ash fell. The ship tilted badly.
“Prepare for landing,” Sartha shouted, “We’re in re-entry — we’re out of time!”
Ash struggled into a web and engaged the protective restraints. A piercing, tearing noise deafened him. He smelled something burning. Then he felt a choking heat and, despite his fullsuit, a crushing pressure. He couldn’t breathe. After that there was nothing, as Ash lost consciousness.
8. Conqueror
Breaking Point is that moment at which the subject’s physical, mental, or emotional strength gives way under stress. My genius lies in prediction and execution — when, how, and why a subject will break. I am the most accomplished master of the subject in the United Worlds today.
— Neopol Jones, CV, under “Strengths and hobbies”
“Well, Captain, let me have your report,” Neopol said.
“Sir, toxic reaction should now be inert. Sensors confirm — ” Captain Barlow cleared his throat, “ — the absence of human life.”
Commander Jon Barlow, Captain of Conqueror, stood in front of Admiral Neopol on the bridge, carefully concealing his emotions. His battleship remained in an established orbit around Delian after releasing its lethal payload of poisonous gas. An enormous United Worlds Government Warship, Conqueror’s crew numbered close to eight hundred, and it seemed to Captain Barlow that every one of them had been in opposition this mission. Most had queried the abnormal operation and he had protested most of all.
Barlow shifted imperceptibly under the Admiral’s gaze, wondering if his thick brown hair needed a cut. Why was the Admiral staring at him? Barlow felt uncomfortable, but damned if he would show it. While he was glad Admiral Satoshi was enjoying well deserved leave, it was unsettling to have a man like Neopol replace him. High Command had put Admiral Neopol Jones temporarily in charge of Conqueror and its crew. Apparently the Admiral disliked the surname Jones, and preferred to be addressed by his first name, Neopol.
Barlow felt drops of perspiration running down his back. The Admiral was actually making him sweat. This whole operation had been difficult from the start. First to find that the people of Delian were somehow guilty of treason and had to be destroyed, then to discover that three had been kept on board for “examination.” What did that mean? The detention deck was consequently off limits to all personnel, except for Neopol’s aide and his two doctor cronies. What was Neopol doing with the Delian prisoners? The man had certainly been secretive about it.
And why had Conqueror been ordered to commit full-scale genocide, when the UW Government and the Fleet itself was formally dedicated to the preservation of life and the expansion of the Freeworlds? That had been the reason he joined the Fleet: to help, not to destroy. But every protest or query had been ruthlessly silenced. There was nothing anyone could do except follow orders. Barlow ruthlessly suppressed his desire to swallow. What a nightmare.
Barlow secretly hoped that at least some Delians had escaped. A few days prior to gas release, he had noticed heat in G sector. Although unlikely, a ship may have lifted. He should have reported it, but failed to do so. He really didn’t know why he hadn’t. No one else had notice the scanner glow, and Barlow had remained silent.
Perhaps through some extraordinary destiny, a few lone survivors had avoided the fate of so many others on Delian. The idea heartened him. It was illogical, but he kept thinking of his own wife and his two children, aged five and seven. He would have wanted someone to give them that chance.
The Admiral was tall and heavyset, yet also quick and agile, unusual for a man of his size. Possessed of god-like capabilities in observation and intellect, Neopol was more than capable of comma
nd. He was competent, formidable and experienced; the Admiral knew exactly what he was doing around a fleet ship. These attributes were just what should be desired in a commanding officer. But there was something not quite right about the fellow, a lack of humanity or compassion. Admiral Neopol had listened to his detailed and well-argued protests about the gassing of Delian. He had been patient, nodding with apparent interest and understanding. But then he had calmly given the order to kill millions.
Neopol was always impeccably dressed, well-manicured, with thick, soft hands and heavy golden rings on his fingers. His age was indeterminate, as often could be the case with the prevalence of skin and body sculpting throughout the Freeworlds. Barlow guessed he was between forty and sixty, and he wore his black hair in a precision military cut. Rumor had it that he had once been a tall, muscular woman who had undergone a sex change. It was not that uncommon a procedure, from man to woman or from woman to man. The techniques had been perfected for over two centuries. Still, Barlow suspected that with Neopol the procedure had gone wrong. There certainly was something odd about him. It would explain those two peculiar physicians he kept company with.
No doubt about it, Neopol was the most frightening superior officer he had ever known. Barlow couldn’t exactly explain why the Admiral made his skin crawl, but he could never feel safe around him. The man was dangerous. There would be trouble if a ship had escaped Delian and Neopol found out. If Neopol was able to produce evidence to a Board of Investigation that Barlow was responsible, he could be fined, demoted or even imprisoned.
But there was no reason for the Admiral to review Conqueror’s scanning records. No reason at all. Why would he? Except … one could never tell with Neopol. No longer reassured, Barlow couldn’t stop himself from swallowing nervously.
“Well, Captain? Am I boring you? I asked if my shuttles are ready.”
Barlow had let his mind drift for an instant and the Admiral, ever astute, had noticed. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. They are ready to launch. I have two hundred and fifty men aboard, awaiting departure. They have their orders. Will you be joining them, sir?”
“Yes, of course,” Neopol said, his voice and demeanor composed. “I’ll want to personally ensure the accomplishment of our mission. You don’t think I’d rely on a junior officer, do you? On something this important? I intend to secure the Testimonials and the Delian Damithst myself. Is the equipment aboard?”
“Yes, sir,” Barlow replied evenly. “You’ll find all that you require.”
“Very well, we leave immediately. You’re in command while I’m on Delian.” Neopol’s eyes met his. His voice was cool, his expression calm. “If there are any problems, I’ll hold you responsible.”
“Of course, sir,” Barlow saluted, his spine tingling. The Admiral’s words were a statement of fact and his facial expression had been professional. Why then did he feel so threatened?
Admiral Neopol strode off with his aide, Sub-Lieutenant Janson. The man followed his master like a well-trained dog.
Captain Jon Barlow watched the retreating figures, soulfully relieved to see them leave. Lieutenant Commander Gene Pagett, his second-in-command as well as his best friend, was piloting the shuttle. A tall, slim man, Gene was clear-eyed and always clean shaven — having eradicated his beard as a teenager. Pagett hated fuss. He had brown hair, not unlike his own and had altered his hazel eyes to a deep and natural-looking green, the better to attract women he had said. It seemed to be working. Gene never lacked for a partner. Jon liked to tease him about this vanity, but Gene had explained that he was only being practical: women liked green.
On Delian, Pagett would serve directly under Neopol as his junior officer. Poor Gene, Barlow thought to himself. Is he in for a surprise. As Captain of Conqueror he was a buffer between the Admiral and his crew. Barlow felt a wave of misgiving. He wondered how Pagett would cope with the Admiral. Did Pagett have any idea what Neopol was like? He hadn’t had the opportunity to discuss the issue with his second-in-command, and he would never put such communication on Icom. Not when fleet communications were monitored.
Barlow wondered about Neopol’s aide. What kind of person could stand working so closely with the Admiral?
A white-faced, taciturn man, Janson seemed to know exactly what Neopol wanted. He followed orders exactly, never questioning and never offering anything either. The man was a puppet, Barlow thought sardonically. If Admiral Neopol told him to take out his weapon and shoot himself in the head, he probably would do so without a moment’s hesitation.
Barlow had always considered himself a strong individual, not easily intimidated, but the Admiral and his aide had changed that view. Having those two around supervising his every move was unnerving; between them they seemed omnipresent. Janson was bad enough, but with Neopol he felt as though he was being shadowed by the Deceiver himself.
The once cheerful and productive crew of Conqueror had kept up a good front, but he felt the tense undercurrents. There was nothing that he could pinpoint, but his men sensed that something was wrong. There was a kind of group awareness. Like an overstressed joint with metal fatigue, appearing solid but dangerously soft inside, every member of his crew expected something to give way.
They had not officially queried the destruction of the Delian people because their Captain had gone along with it. The slaughter had sickened him, but he hadn’t been given a choice, not with a direct order from High Command and a man like Neopol to enforce it. Barlow shook his head. Neopol was frightening, but his aide was soulless. He fervently hoped that Pagett would know what to expect and would be able to cope.
A junior ensign silently appeared beside Barlow, courteously waiting. Barlow turned and raised his eyebrows in query.
Excuse me, sir,” the man said, handing his Captain an envelope. “Lieutenant Commander Pagett asked me to ensure that this was personally delivered into your hands.”
Barlow nodded, accepting the envelope. It was obvious that his friend hadn’t wanted to risk Icom. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan.”
“No problem, sir,” Morgan answered cheerfully, his eyes shining with surprise and pleasure.
Captain Barlow nodded his farewell and strode off, walking at a brisk pace toward the bridge.
Morgan watched his Captain move down the corridor and shook his head.
How does he do it? Morgan wondered. On a ship this size the Captain knew everyone’s name. He must stay up nights studying personnel records. Ensign Morgan watched as Captain Barlow opened the envelope and glanced at the note from Lieutenant Commander Pagett.
The Captain roared with laughter. Then, turning a corner, he was gone.
Grinning broadly, Ensign Morgan left in a much better frame of mind. His encounter with the Captain and his superior’s ability with names would be interesting to mention to his friends over the next meal, or better yet when off duty and sharing a beer or two. More importantly he would be able to tell his friends about Lieutenant Commander Pagett’s note, which he shouldn’t have read but had.
Ensign Morgan shook his head. A pity Neopol had come to Conqueror. There was always a bad smell aboard any vessel. It was just bad luck that this particular one came from so high up. The Captain had hidden it well, but everyone knew he’d been having a rough time with the new Admiral. Well, the Admiral would find out. Their Captain and his number one were not so easily intimidated.
Morgan could recall the message exactly. It was in reference to the Admiral and his peculiar henchman, Janson. It said: “Chin up. Appears that I’m stuck with them for the time being — not you. I recognized Taro instantly; but who, pray tell, is the Deceiver’s Apprentice?”
Once the Admiral and his Aide boarded the shuttle for Delian, they were ready to depart. The shuttle was piloted by Conqueror’s second-in-command, Lieutenant Commander Gene Pagett. Clearance for take-off was given and with a faint rhythmic hum they began their journey.
Admiral Neopol picked his teeth while considering the situation. He would get a promotion from Lord Andros
for this and it had been easy. Right until the end he had fooled the Delians into thinking that they could negotiate. They had been an imprudent, trusting race; the United Worlds were well rid of them. Neopol knew why they had to be destroyed. Apparently they were able to read minds. Andros was unnecessarily concerned. The Delians hadn’t even discovered that he intended to exterminate them — that showed how well they could read minds.
Neopol shut his eyes and slept.
His rest was interrupted by a change in engine noise as they landed. The slim form of the ship’s pilot, Lieutenant Commander Pagett, came towards him.
“We have arrived on Delian, sir. Shall I have one of the troops disembark to test the air?”
“That won’t be necessary.” Admiral Neopol hesitated before further reply, his finger tips together.”Janson,” he called sharply.
“Yes, sir,” his aide appeared, standing to attention.
“You’ll be the first on Delian,” Neopol informed him. “I want you to test the air. The atmosphere may still be contaminated.” He paused and studied his aide through narrowed eyes. How would Janson take the news? He wondered with a thrill of excitement, savoring the moment. He added, alert to any reaction, “Begin immediately. A mask or fullsuit won’t be necessary.”
“Yes, sir.” If there was any thought of pain or death going through Janson’s mind, it was not showing. With a bland expression, he acquired the testing equipment and, without so much as a break in his stride, went through the lift locks unprotected.
The Admiral stood up and stared in silent fascination. When Janson reappeared he seemed to suffer no ill effects from his journey outside. Pity, Neopol thought. He would have liked to watch the man choke and slowly turn blue, struggling for air. If Janson were dying, would he react then? Or would he simply expire, with no observable agitation? Just once Neopol wanted to detect fear, anger or hate displayed on the man’s face. Never mind; there would be another chance. Some day he would penetrate that calm exterior, expose a tender nerve, and achieve a definite reaction, just as he had with the other sub-lieutenants that had served under him.
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