“We must fight on, regardless,” the NSN major had replied.
“My men are not kamikazes or jihadists,” the colonel had informed the major. “We are mercenaries for hire. You voided our normal contract by refusing to pay our fees. You declared a system-wide emergency and forcefully inducted us into your military. Perhaps you knew and perhaps you didn’t, but that went against the Mercenary Code as practiced in the Saturn System.”
“You should have made your objections known at the time,” the major said.
“You have a slight point,” the colonel said. “So, at first blush, your suggestion seems like the honorable action. However, the soldiers of the Black Anvil Regiment are my adopted sons. And according to the Mercenary Code, I am responsible for their welfare, for their very lives. You suggest that it was right for the Neptune military to act dishonorably against us and then expect honorable action from us. I disagree profoundly. You cannot expect a man to hold to an oath given while a gun is pointed at his head.”
“You’ll pay for your treachery.”
“You may be right,” the colonel said. “Yet, I will certainly pay with my men’s lives if I attempt the NSN’s insane plan. That is the greater sin. Surely, you can see that.”
“No!”
The colonel had exhaled through his nostrils. “This is my curse. I can understand your feelings. I even admit that your point troubles me.” The silver-haired colonel shrugged. “Nevertheless, I have decided, and I will stand by my decision.”
Later, SLN space marines had landed on the secret base. The regiment soon entered into a forced confinement and then found itself shipped to the Leonid Brezhnev, there required to go into the cryo chamber.
As Jon struggled to keep up with the battlesuit, a thought began to trouble him. Why had he come out first from cryo sleep? The arbiter had said he wanted the man who could solve the secret attack against the battleship’s main computer. Wouldn’t the colonel be that person?
What did it mean that he—Jon Hawkins—had first come out of cryo sleep.
“Hey,” he said.
The Martian halted, turning around. The speaker crackled into life.
“I’m sorry,” Gloria said. “I’m going too fast. I forgot about the greater Gs bothering you.”
“I admit, I’m tired,” Jon said. “That isn’t why I called out.”
“Oh,” Gloria said.
“How come I came out of cryo sleep first?”
“Beg pardon?” she asked.
Jon explained his dilemma.
“Arbiter?” asked Gloria. “Can you shed any light on this?”
“That is odd,” Oslo muttered. “Did the computer make a mistake? I agree it should have thawed out the colonel first.”
“Let me consider this,” Gloria said. “No,” she said a moment later. “I don’t know why you thawed out first, but I have a suspicion as to the reason.”
“Shoot,” Jon said.
The faceplate stared at him.
“Tell me,” Jon said.
“The colonel must have traded places when you originally entered the cryo units.”
Jon rubbed his forehead. He seemed to recall something of that nature Gloria was right. The colonel must have traded places as a precaution for his own safety.
“I’m sorry,” Gloria said.
“For what?” Jon asked.
She hesitated and finally turned back around. Soon, she began clomping again, although she didn’t move as fast as before.
Jon hurried after the battlesuit.
He could remember now the colonel quietly telling him to unobtrusively trade places. He’d understood the thinking. The colonel was the regiment’s father. He—Jon Hawkins—was an officer-cadet. A cadet should accept greater risk in order to protect the regiment’s brain and soul. If someone on the SLN battleship wanted to hurt the colonel during transit, that someone would now harm Jon, leaving the colonel intact.
In the end, it would have better if the colonel had woken up first. The colonel would have done more and better than he’d done. Still, he hadn’t done too badly. He’d defeated the secret policeman and defeated the rogue repair bot. Now, he had to make sure the regiment thawed out and took over the derelict Leonid Brezhnev.
-14-
Jon heard the clangs before he saw the bot. Could the same repair bot as before still be trying to hammer through the closed hatch?
He hustled to catch up with the others. He turned a corner in the corridor. The clangs had stopped. The former repair bot whirled around on its multi-treads. It seemed to regard the battlesuit and arbiter. Then, the treads whirred as the bot charged.
The heavy assault rifle came up. It hissed, and a stream of 5mm saboted-needles stitched into the bot. They hit with accelerated force, punching through the metal casing.
The bot whirled in a circle and toppled a second later. The pincers opened and closed with muted clacks.
The Martian hosed another round of needles, no doubt for insurance.
The repair bot hissed as sparks flew. Then, the skeletal-mechanical arms froze, and the bot died—or ceased to function, as Oslo preferred them to say.
The battlesuit marched past the bot, kicking it out of the way. Gloria brought Oslo before the small control pad that was located to the hatch’s upper right.
Oslo typed in the security code.
Gloria shoved open the hatch and marched through into the adjoining corridor. In moments, she reached the cryo-chamber hatch. She lowered her left arm, letting the arbiter stand.
Jon panted as he reached them. If they were going to live on this wreck for long, they were going to have to reduce thrust or fix the gravity dampeners.
Oslo composed himself before regarding Gloria. “I hope you’ll allow me one more plea. I have been pondering the problem.”
Jon bit his tongue. He’d given the power back to Gloria when he’d let her climb into the battlesuit. Better to wait and see what her attitude would be.
“I’ve pondered the problem longer than you have,” Gloria answered. “We need bodies.” She raised a big mechanical arm, pointing with a gloved finger. “Those are the last bodies left on the ship, besides us.”
“How do you know this to be true?” Oslo asked.
“I don’t know it perfectly,” she admitted.
“Interesting… Let us search—”
“No,” Jon said, interrupting. “We thaw out the regiment now.”
Oslo lofted his eyebrows and feigned surprise. “I see. You’re in charge of the Brezhnev, are you? You know better than a Martian mentalist. You can simply order us to dance as your puppets. No. I do not believe the mentalist is going to allow you to order her like a dog.”
“I’m not a dog,” Gloria said.
“I should say not,” Oslo said. “You’re the one who—”
“Please,” she told Oslo. “That’s not going to work on me. We need the regiment—”
“But they’re opposed to the fundamental principles of social justice,” Oslo said, interrupting. “How can we trust—?”
“No more,” Gloria said. “Will you begin the process or not?”
Sapir Oslo regarded the battlesuit a few seconds longer. Finally, his shoulders deflated. “I will begin the process. However, this is not the place to do so. The control facility is over there.”
“You’re sure?” Gloria asked.
“I know about the security procedures, yes,” Oslo said.
A feeling of doubt filled Jon. There was something off here. “Why can’t we go in and do it manually?” he asked.
Oslo shrugged. “Of course you can, if you want. That will take hours, though. I was under the impression you wanted it done right away.”
Jon glanced at the battlesuit. Hours? Maybe they should decrease the engine’s thrust first.
“Hurry to the control chamber,” Gloria said. “As I have the awful feeling that time runs against us.”
Before Oslo could take his first hop there, Gloria scooped him up and marched to
the neighboring hatch.
Jon debated waiting here. He was beat. But the worry in him finally grew too strong. By the time he reached the hatch, the arbiter had opened it and gone inside.
“I’ll wait here,” Gloria told Jon. “I don’t feel like getting out of the suit just yet and facing the Gs on my own.”
Jon nodded, following the arbiter into the room.
It was a small control area with video links above. Those were presently blank.
Oslo glanced at him with distaste. The arbiter had already seated himself. “You really shouldn’t be in here.”
“Yeah, well, those are the breaks,” Jon said.
The arbiter made a disdainful sound through his nose as he began to adjust the panel. Lights appeared. Screens activated, and heat began to blow from a vent.
“Hmm,” Oslo said.
Jon looked up at the screens. It showed various angles from the cryo chamber, the countless, frost-covered coffins. Abruptly, the screens went dark.
“What happened?” Jon said.
“Excuse me?” Oslo asked lightly.
Jon squinted at the arbiter. What he heard in the secret policeman’s tone went back to his days as a New London gang enforcer. There was a palpable sense of deceit in the arbiter.
“Get the video-feed back up,” Jon said.
“Naturally,” Oslo said.
Jon watched as the arbiter tapped one control, adjusted another—
A warning klaxon made them both jump.
“What was that?” Jon demanded.
“I’m not sure,” the arbiter said.
Jon heard the lie in the man’s voice. He drew his gun and shoved the end of the barrel against the arbiter’s head. “Give me video-feed or you’re dead.”
“Killing me is a bad idea,” Oslo said. “So I made a little mistake—”
“Now!” shouted Jon, as he shoved the gun harder against Oslo’s head. “You’re up to something. Make the klaxon stop.”
“By all means,” Oslo said. Dots of sweat had appeared on the secret policeman’s face. He examined the panel and finally tapped a button.
The klaxon abruptly quit.
Jon felt a moment’s peace. Then he noticed a blinking red light to the side of the panel that did not stop.
A bad feeling erupted in his gut.
“You bastard,” Jon said. He grabbed the back of the arbiter’s collar, hauling him upright. With the gun pressed against the arbiter’s head, Jon shoved him toward the exit.
“I insist on better treatment,” Oslo said.
Jon raised the gun. With the butt, he clouted the arbiter against the back of the head. They stumbled through the hatch together.
“What’s wrong?” Gloria asked.
“Carry him to the cryo chamber,” Jon shouted. He didn’t stay to see if she did. He ran, as the bad feeling had gotten worse.
Before reaching the hatch, he heard klaxons from inside the chamber.
“No!” Jon shouted.
It took him three tries before he pressed the switch that opened the hatch. Freezing air billowed out. At the same time, flashing red lights and a blaring klaxon erupted from the icy chamber.
Jon rushed to the colonel’s unit. Red warning lights flashed on the upper left-hand corner. Inside the unit, the colonel twitched. His skin had turned a terrible blue color.
Jon dropped his gun and began searching for a control. There were a mass of them to the side. Picking up the gun, with his heart racing, he charged the others in the corridor.
Gloria still held Oslo.
“What did you do?” Jon shouted. “Why is the colonel dying?”
“Capitalist scum,” Oslo sneered. “Do you think I would willingly revive—?”
Jon’s gun roared three times, the bullets smashing Sapir Oslo’s skull.
Jon whirled away and charged back into the cryo chamber. He worked frantically on the colonel’s unit, the gun dropping unheeded to the floor, his vision blinded by emotion. He wiped his eyes and continued working.
Two minutes later, the Martian shuffled beside him. She stared at the unmoving colonel and then at Jon.
“Your colonel is dead,” she said. “We have to save the others.”
Jon stared at her starkly.
“He’s dead,” she said softly. “He was probably the first to die. But I think we might be able to save some of the others.”
“How?” Jon asked in a deadened voice.
“You’re not going to like it.”
“How?” he shouted. He picked up the gun and aimed at her.
“The sequence is clear. The system is taking out the highest ranked first. We could try to save those, but we’d keep failing. Or we can start with the lowest ranked, saving them as we climb up the ladder. You’re going to lose soldiers. It’s a question of how many you want to save.”
The world spun in Jon’s mind. He wanted to fire at her. He wanted to curl up and die. He—
I am a soldier of the Black Anvil Regiment. Everything rests on me. I can mourn the colonel later.
“Show me what to do,” he said in an intense whisper.
“Follow me,” she said, heading for the back units.
He watched her tap controls on the farthest cryo unit. He saw how she shut off the emergency kill switch and how she began the revival procedure.
She looked up at him with burning eyes. “Do you understand?”
For an answer, he lunged to the next unit, doing exactly as she had done. He concentrated like he’d never done before. He waited to see if the soldier would wake up. When the soldier did, Jon leaped to the next unit, beginning the procedure over again.
In his heart, he sealed off the certain knowledge that he was dooming the higher command to death. That would include the chaplain.
Klaxons rang. Red lights flashed. Jon and Gloria went from unit to unit. He wished he’d let Sapir Oslo live so he could torture the arbiter for the next several years.
“No,” he whispered. He had to concentrate. He was saving lives. He revived what he could of the regiment. If he slacked in any of this, more of his fellow Black Anvil soldiers would die.
He glanced at the mentalist. She worked fast even as her features glistened with perspiration. She seemed so frail. She lacked heavy muscles to fight the debilitating Gs. Yet, she forged ahead, gritting her teeth.
Jon would never forget this.
He didn’t have time for sentimentality. He had to become a machine and do his duty. He would worry about the future later. He would mourn his comrades another time. Now, he had to work.
In the end, he and the mentalist saved a over five hundred and fifty Black Anvil soldiers. He was the only surviving officer, if an officer-cadet counted.
What could a measly five and a half hundred Saturn System mercenaries do in the scheme of an alien invasion? The Brezhnev was little better than a derelict, without a working computer system and no knowledgeable crew. They faced an unknown enemy under the stress of intense Gs as they returned to the planetary gravitational system.
Things could hardly look bleaker. The colonel had been a military genius. He—Jon Hawkins—was little more than a stainless steel rat with a few mercenary skills tossed in.
Gloria shuffled near, slumping down to sit against the colonel’s cryo unit where Jon had his head between his knees.
Slowly, he raised his head, staring at her.
She looked exhausted with black circles around her eyes. Behind them, the first revived soldier thudded onto the cold deck-plates.
“It’s up to you,” she said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re the regiment’s ranking officer.”
Jon laughed bleakly. “What am I supposed to do?”
She studied him, finally saying, “You asked the right person.”
He stared at her, waiting for it.
“You should give up,” she said.
“Huh?”
“I urge you to surrender. An invincible alien ship is out
there. Your colonel is dead. His officers perished with him. What can you do? You’re too young and inexperienced. The soldiers you saved will blame you for letting the others down.”
“I shouldn’t have trusted the secret policeman,” he said.
Gloria nodded. “That’s another reason why you should quit. You made a mistake. Oslo was correct—”
“Stop it,” he said.
“Why?”
“It’s cruel.”
She laughed mirthlessly. “The universe is cruel. The aliens are cruel. No doubt, as a mercenary, you already know that life is cruel, or did you have an easy childhood?”
His eyes narrowed.
“I see. You had a rough childhood. This is too much, though. It’s time for you to curl up and die. I’m sure your colonel would have agreed with that.”
He whirled on her as rage erupted in his eyes. He drew his hand back. He was going to slap her for saying that.
She smiled coldly, silently daring him to strike her.
He lowered the upraised hand. He swallowed the defeat that was consuming him. The colonel was dead, but the regiment still lived. An alien ship had come, beginning the process that had slain the colonel and the majority of the regiment. The secret policeman had won—
“No,” Jon whispered. “You’ve haven’t won yet.”
“What was that?” Gloria asked.
He saw her anew, the sweat on her features, the hollowness of her eyes. She was small. She was hyper-intelligent, and she had the brownest, most interesting eyes he’d ever seen.
“Will you help me?” he asked.
“One hundred percent,” she said in earnest. “Just like I’ve been helping you from the beginning,” she added.
“Yeah,” he said, as he climbed to his feet.
He had 553 mercenaries. They were his responsibility now. Maybe the colonel and the chaplain were looking down from Heaven to see what he would do.
Jon looked up, travelling in his mind beyond the low metallic ceiling. Then, he saluted as sharply as he could. Turning with the professional precision that he had been taught, he regarded the soldiers coming out of the cryo units.
He had a job to do, a regiment to run. “God help me,” he whispered, “because I’m going to need all the help I can get.”
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