Glory Main

by Henry V. O'Neil

  “Occupants. Speak in a clear voice and identify yourselves. You have one minute to impact.”

  They stared at each other from the pilot seats, astounded by the unknown technology and transfixed by the ship’s unchecked acceleration. Some sort of loose box whipped past them, crashing into the bulkhead next to Trent, but she showed no sign that she’d noticed. Mortas recovered first, figuring this had to be Glory Main because whatever had taken hold of them could destroy the ship without revealing the presence of the headquarters. No fighters, no rockets, just the wreck of a crashed shuttle on a dead planet. An oddly Cranther-­like thought came to mind just then.

  Cowardly fucks. Developed this incredible anti-­ship device and kept it a secret just so they could stay hidden.

  “This is Lieutenant Jander Mortas, Human Defense Force! I carry priority intelligence, given to me by a deceased Spartacan Scout! Do you hear me?”

  The ship nosed over further, now pointed directly at the ugly ground miles below. Mortas felt his back straightening, his feet reaching for the deck so that he was practically standing up in the seat’s harness. The bones of his right hand suddenly began to compress painfully, but when he looked he was only slightly surprised to see that Trent had grabbed hold of him. Her eyes were wide, staring down, and her cheeks vibrated from the clenching of her teeth.

  “I say again, this is Lieutenant Jander Mortas! Carrying vital information concerning a new enemy weapon! Information passed to me by Corporal Tel Cranther, Spartacan Scouts! Do you hear me?”

  It was impossible to know how much time they had left, but his eyes swam with vertigo and he finally understood they were simply going to slam into the deck below. A giddy rush passed through him, the awful sensation of falling with nothing to slow him down and the stark reality of his impending death. He twisted in his seat, grabbing Trent’s vise-­like grip with the hand from his injured shoulder, and she added hers on top of that.

  “They don’t believe us,” she blurted, her eyes on his and her breath coming in short gasps. “They don’t believe us. All this way and they’re just going to murder us.”

  The truth of it hit home, and Mortas felt the mad jitter of panic starting to rise in his chest. His heart was thundering with the ground’s approach, and he squeezed back at Trent’s hands with all his might even though pulses of electricity seemed to be shooting through his shoulder.

  This is it. This is really it. No Glory Main for either of us. No hot chow, no safety, no homecoming, nothing. Will they even tell Father what happened?

  Father.

  “This is Lieutenant Jander Mortas, and you’d better listen! My father is Olech Mortas, Chairman of the Emergency Senate! Do you hear me? Olech Mortas! Does that name sound familiar?” His voice broke as he shouted, but their speed didn’t change a bit. As if mocking him, the beeping from the console was joined by a warning buzzer barely audible over the roar of the engines and the rattling of the fuselage. Though unable to read the Sim indicators and other signals, there was no need to wonder what this one meant. “Answer me, damn you! Whoever you are, you will not survive the shitstorm when my father finds out what happened to me! And he will!”

  He glanced at the nose, terrified to look but too scared not to, the sight of the approaching rock paralyzing him. His mouth hung open, and a low moan drifted up from his very core.

  Here it comes. Please don’t make it hurt.

  “Jander.”

  He looked at Trent, who was wearing an expression of complete serenity. He tried not to show his terror, but it was too much and he couldn’t even answer. When Trent spoke, it was with utter calm.

  “Thanks for getting me here, Jan.”

  His horrified psyche almost didn’t register the words, and he never got to ponder them. The Wren’s nose lifted with a jolt, throwing them both back into their seats as the engines powered down like a loud sigh. The alarms shut off, but the silence was broken when the compartment filled with commands.

  “Lieutenant Jander Mortas! Your shuttle is being diverted to a quarantine bay. Do not attempt to take over the controls at any time. Do not attempt to leave the ship or open any of its hatches until told to do so. Any violations of these instructions will result in immediate destruction of your craft and everyone aboard. Do you understand?”

  “We understand.” His ears were filled with the sound of his pounding heart, and he tried hard not to stutter. His mouth opened and closed uncontrollably, and he was only able to release Trent’s hands with difficulty. “I’m accompanied by Captain Amelia Trent and we have a deceased Forcemember with us, Chartist . . .” Too traumatized for shame, he looked at Trent. She appeared to be in shock, her eyes round and staring at him, but she recovered quickly enough.

  “Roan.”

  “Chartist Roan Gorman.”

  There was no reply to that, but the ship leveled out and went skimming down a black canyon toward an unknown destination.

  “Jander.”

  “Yes?”

  “Your dad really is Senator Mortas?”

  “Yes.” He wetted his lips. “I didn’t want to trade on his name, so I was keeping it a secret. Besides, it didn’t seem important until now. Sorry.”

  Trent’s mouth hung slightly open, and she turned her face toward the windshield with a look that was half surprise and half dread.

  The Wren followed a tortuous path down a long system of dark ravines, as if imitating the mode of travel that had hidden them the last few days. The voice didn’t return, and they left the controls alone as the craft slipped gracefully along. A short time later they passed under an overhang that hid them from view, and just after that a section of the rock moved out of the way to reveal a lighted hangar.

  The ship slowed as it passed into the landing bay, and the stark difference between the unmarked rock and the technological vault made Mortas feel as if he’d just traveled through time. In the space of a few yards he’d gone from pre-­human desolation to smooth walls of white metal, gauges, lights, ladders, and hatches. He felt his breath catch in his throat as he took in the marvels of modern, civilized living, and he remembered believing at one time that he would never see them again. His mind went back to the moment they’d abandoned the Insert, when they’d crested the first hill on what they believed was an empty planet. He’d looked back on the wrecked piece of equipment with genuine longing, and now felt as if he’d come full circle.

  Home.

  The ship came to a stop, hovering over a yellow circle painted on the floor and slowly turning in place before touching down. There were no other ships in the bay, but that wasn’t surprising because the voice had said they were going into quarantine. Trent touched his sleeve and pointed toward what appeared to be a row of black spacesuits standing against the far wall.

  “Banshees.”

  Even as he watched, the spacesuits began to move like robot soldiers. He now saw they were actually the armored fighting suits that the Force used on non-­Hab planets and in any encounter in space where the atmosphere could be lost. He’d received a brief familiarization in that gear just a few months earlier, and had come away tremendously impressed. Oxygen, water, food, and weapons were all part of the package. A suited soldier could run faster, jump higher, and hit harder than any human who’d ever lived. A soldier in one of those suits could be dropped into an ocean and simply walk out.

  The armored outfits contained titanic hydraulics, which had rendered the strength differential between males and females moot. The Hab planets were the most common battlegrounds of the war and, because they didn’t require the expensive fighting suits, the units that fought on them were almost all male. The Force did contest for possession of less hospitable environments, however, and so most of the units that specialized in suited combat were made up of females collectively known as Banshees. The helmet on the combat version of the suits completely hid the occupant’s face, so Mortas was puzzled b
y Trent’s observation.

  “Banshees? How can you tell?”

  “See the chest and groin armor? Where the color’s lighter?”

  The squad of armored suits approached before separating into two columns and smartly marching into position on either side of the ship. Now that Trent had mentioned it, Mortas noticed that the black plating was smudged in an almond color on the upper torso and where the legs came together.

  “I see it. What’s that got to do with the Banshees?”

  “When they go into battle they paint breasts and vaginas on their suits to let the Sims know who they’re fighting. Command absolutely hates it, and as punishment they have to wash the paint off by hand after the fighting’s done. Takes hours.” She grunted in respect. “Doesn’t stop them, though.”

  The voice came back just after that, and Mortas realized he couldn’t tell if it was male or female.

  “Lieutenant Mortas and Captain Trent. Your port hatch will open in one minute, and you will exit the craft with your hands held high. Carry nothing with you. Do you understand?”

  Trent still wore Cranther’s skull cap, and Mortas thought of the two knives that had belonged to the scout. Healthy annoyance flowed through him, and he responded in a snarl. “I’m carrying two knives that were the property of the deceased Spartacan Scout I mentioned. I’m not giving them up.”

  A trace of anger came with the answer. “Lieutenant Mortas, you will obey all commands or you will be executed on the spot! You will carry nothing with you! Do you—­”

  A female’s voice confidently interrupted the transmission. “I think we can handle a fighting knife, Control. Even two.”

  The voice didn’t reply to that, but the port hatch opened as predicted. Mortas gave Trent a big smile and a squeeze on the shoulder as they unbuckled their harnesses, and then he took the lead as they went to the exit. Raising his hands as far as his injured shoulder would allow, he bent over and stuck his head out to find a ramp had been rolled into place. Walking down, he was pleased to see that the Banshees held their weapons ready but not pointed at him or Trent. Knowing how they both looked, him with several days’ beard, both of them covered with dirt and worse, and Trent’s uniform ripped where the spear had miraculously missed her, he supposed they didn’t appear to be much of a threat.

  A lone figure stood facing them, and from the condition of her armor she was probably the group’s leader. In addition to the discoloration on the chest and groin, her suit sported numerous abrasions and what appeared to be a patch where something heavy had hit her. She wasn’t carrying a weapon, and gestured with an armored glove as she turned and started to walk. She didn’t look back, and the same voice that had let him keep the knives came from somewhere in her suit as they followed.

  “I’m taking you to decontamination now. They’ll be burning your uniforms, boots, and any other articles of clothing, so if there’s anything you want to keep—­like a knife or two—­set them aside when we get there.” Mortas heard a mechanical whirring behind him, and both he and Trent looked back to see a set of scrubbers descending from the bay’s ceiling toward the Wren. The other Banshees had moved away from the ship but kept it under a watchful, helmeted eye.

  “One of our ­people died getting us into orbit, his body’s on board. He was a member of the Holy Whisper.” Mortas faltered, unsure. “Is there something special we do for them?”

  The Banshee kept walking, her heavy metal boots ringing on the floor plates. “Special? How long have you been in the zone, Lieutenant?”

  “Long enough.”

  She reached out with a gauntleted finger to punch a button on the wall next to a large hatch, and it glided open. Inside was a spotless white room, but what caught their eyes was a pair of transparent cylinders that ran from floor to ceiling. Mortas had undergone a practice decontamination once before, but it had been little more than a group shower for new lieutenants and they’d laughed their way through it. He looked over at Trent, who was regarding the tubes in obvious alarm.

  “What is it?” He asked in a low voice. “Claustrophobic?”

  “You could say that.”

  They passed the Banshee and approached the tubes. Up close they weren’t quite as intimidating; the clear material was hard and immaculate, and there was enough space inside to reach out with both arms almost to full extension.

  “See? Not such a tight fit.”

  “Sure.”

  The Banshee spoke again, pointing at a long white bench that was bolted to the floor. “Please strip down to your skin. Anything you want to keep, leave on the bench. Once it’s been deconned you’ll probably get it back. Everything else just drop on the deck.”

  Mortas sat down heavily, the strain of the ordeal starting to slip away. His stomach growled in anticipation, but he fought the urge to ask about food. He crossed one leg over the other and began unfastening his boots, marveling at how scuffed up and filthy they were. He turned the first boot over once it was off and shook his head when he looked at the wear on the sole. They’d been almost brand new when he’d awakened in his transit tube, believing that he was about to be assigned to his first platoon. That idea reminded him of something he’d said an age ago, when they’d met the crazy major who’d tried to kill him.

  This is my platoon.

  He looked over at Trent, who was pulling off a bloody sock while keeping a fearful eye on the decontamination cylinders.

  My platoon’s dead. Only brought one of them out.

  He pulled off the other boot absently, not noticing the stains on his socks.

  What did Cranther call me, the first time we met? Lieutenant Death.

  His torn tunic came off next, still stiff from all the blood, both Sim and human. He poked a finger through one of many circular holes in the back, only now recognizing them as burn holes from the explosion and the fire back at the drome. Dry mud flaked off of his trousers as he slid them down, wincing at his shoulder injury when he reached for the field dressing on his wounded leg.

  Seeing his own injury, he looked over at Trent in time to see her slide out of the worn flight suit. If she’d been wearing a bra at the beginning of their experience she’d lost it along the way, and he tried not to stare. Her white skin was streaked with dirt, and just below her left breast there was a long, red scrape that ran around her ribs. A miracle that the spear-­shaped shrapnel hadn’t impaled her.

  “Hey.”

  She turned unfocused eyes toward him, and he gave her a reassuring grin before reaching out and running a thumb along the scratch on her side. “Thanks for not dying on me.”

  Trent offered him a weak smile before standing and shucking down her underwear. Though filthy and slightly emaciated, her body was toned and shapely and even in his debilitated state he found it desirable. She pulled off Cranther’s skull cap and he was surprised to see how much hair spilled out from underneath it. Stripping off the last of his own clothes, Mortas wondered if they’d be separated after decontamination or if they’d at least be allowed to eat together. He opened his mouth to put the thought into a question just as the tubes, silent and immobile until then, gave off a loud rush of escaping air and began to rise toward the high ceiling. Each one left behind a circular raised pad with a shiny grate made up of small, finger-­sized openings presumably designed to let the liquid decontamination spray drain out.

  Mortas winced with his first barefoot step, and looked down to see a pair of feet he hardly recognized. Covered in grime, they still showed the pale yellow flaps of healing blisters and the roughened ridges of cellulitis. Both his big toes bore purple welts that suggested he’d bled under the cuticles, and the nail on his left little toe was actually missing. He felt something brush his palm, and then realized that Trent was taking his hand as they walked. The hand shook until it gripped his, hard.

  “It’s all right. They’re just gonna wash us off, and then we’ll get nice cl
ean clothes and some hot food, and then they’ll have the docs check us out.” She didn’t respond, and began to slow down as they got closer to the pads.

  “Listen.” He leaned in, for the first time becoming aware of how foul they both smelled. “You just look at me while this is going on. All right? Look right in my eyes, until they hit us with the suds of course, but you just look right at me and everything will be fine. Heck, we got this far, what’s a little shower?”

  That seemed to reach her, and Trent gave him an embarrassed smile. “Thank you, Jan. Get me through this, okay?”

  “I promise.” A quick hand squeeze, and he stepped up onto the pad. “See? Nothing to it.”

  The cylinder slid down, locking him in, and he watched as Trent’s did the same. He reached out and plunked the transparent wall with his middle finger to see how thick it was, and the stab of pain told him he wouldn’t be beating his way out anytime soon. A fan-­like orifice opened far over his head, and he watched as a heavy mist descended. It was laden with some kind of liquid, and he shivered just a bit as it washed over his naked body. Unseen particles began chewing deep into his pores, and he passed Trent a thumbs-­up that she didn’t return.

  Motion outside the tube caught his eye, and he turned to see two forms in bulky chemical suits entering the room. They carried large white bags, and quickly collected everything that he and Trent had brought or worn. He beat a flat hand against the side of the tube, trying to get their attention, but they were already leaving. The Banshee followed them out, and the door shut behind the trio without a sign from any of them.

  Confused, he found Trent’s worried eyes on him and tried calling out her name. She raised a hand to an ear and shook her head to indicate she couldn’t hear him, and he gave her a helpless shrug. Mortas looked up, hoping to see the decontamination chemicals on the way, but was surprised to observe an orange circle of light forming around the top of the tube. A similar pattern had appeared far over Trent’s head, and it now began moving slowly downward, flickering with an inner energy.