Star Soldier (18 page)

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 new 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,” Marten 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.

February 1

To Paenus
:

Disaster was barely averted in Sydney. A court of Inquiry thus convenes on the Twenty-fourth concerning it and other anomalies regarding the Australian Campaign. Whether you are in the dock or on the bench remains to be seen.

Luckily, for you, the suicide squadrons were able to breach stubborn city strongholds. Reports indicate that cortex-bomb-laden Earth troops preformed best in this regard. Surprisingly, renegade police personnel showed an avid bloodthirstiness when pitched against Social Unity security forces. Because of these specialist troops, Highborn casualties remained within the accepted limits during the underground city fighting. I am recommending a hundred and fifty percent increase in the number of suicide troops.

That is, however, the only bright spot regarding your premen troops. The Hawk Teams and panzer crews—I wish to remind the Inspector General of staking his reputation upon them if they were given the right training. The Hawk Teams and panzer crews have failed miserably. They lacked adequate zeal and cunning, while the casualties among the Hawk Teams were simply staggering. The panzer crews were worse: timid in the attack and cowardly during exploitation maneuvers. Because of this, Highborn casualties
exceeded
the acceptable limits during the first half of the Australian campaign.

I await your explanations and your plans in order to avoid this in the future, provided you have one, my dear Paenus.

February 3

To Cassius
:

Grand Admiral, please forgive my delay in answering. My training personnel are strained to the limit and I am overloaded. We badly need more Highborn drill lieutenants and captains. As it is, I have been forced to take veteran Earth troops off line to use as instructors. Their veteran status is dubious at best, as you indicated in your letter. Earthlings lack fiber and fighting ferocity—I had simply not realized the extent of their non-Highborn qualities. To instill this into them is daunting in the extreme.