The Soldier: The X-Ship

by Vaughn Heppner

  Hoth stared at him with those suspicious eyes. “No. Clarke’s in a coma. I don’t know if he’ll ever wake up, either.”

  The soldier remained silent.

  “Who are you really?” Hoth asked.

  “Jack Brune.”

  “How can a man heal from a bullet in the head?”

  “Dr. Halifax can tell you that. I don’t know. I’ve been out for two and a half years, proof that a man can heal from the most outrageous wounds.”

  “Did you know that Clarke had been corrupted?”

  “No.”

  “He’s been under internal investigation the past three months.”

  “That’s interesting. What have you found?”

  “Why do you think Tara Alor was a robot?”

  “Gut feeling, I guess.”

  “How does a man survive a ten-floor drop?”

  “You’re jumping around with your questions,” the soldier said. “I suppose you’re talking about Rohan Mars. Look, Lieutenant, I destroyed two robots in my office two and a half years ago—”

  “I read the IPO report. I also read about witnesses seeing a man land hard from the stairwell. He raced out of the building unharmed. No one has ever seen him since. Why did robot people come to see you, Brune? What did Tara Alor want with you? Why did Dr. Halifax disappear that day two and a half years ago?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know any of those things.”

  Hoth smiled like a shark. “That’s okay. We’re going to keep you here a long time, a long time, Brune. If you can remember anything, let me know. Otherwise…” Hoth waited.

  The soldier lay back, staring up at the ceiling.

  Hoth grunted before turning to the two gunmen. “Don’t let him out of your sight. Go with him even into the restroom. I want him here after I’ve finished with that weasel Halifax.”

  If Hoth thought that had an impact on the soldier, the lieutenant was right. The soldier closed his eyes, though. It was time to heal, because soon, he would have to make a break for the scout.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Halifax paced back and forth in a cell. He wore blue coveralls and blue prison slippers. IPO officers had stormed the shack yesterday, finding him chained to the same chair in which he’d soiled himself.

  An officer had wrinkled his nose, leaving and coming back with different garments. “Clean yourself up, man.”

  Afterward, they took him straight to the Sparta spaceport. He left for the space station and answered questions there—here—by a Lieutenant Hoth. For once, Halifax had stuck to the truth, at least regarding how he’d gotten into the shack. He’d told Hoth about Clarke’s interrogation. Then he began fabricating, saying Clarke secretly hated Jack Brune and always had. Halifax was worried for his friend. Was Brune all right?

  Lieutenant Hoth had left without answering.

  Halifax had showered, eaten and tried to nap. He’d tossed and turned, being too wound up to sleep.

  The cell door opened. A muscled guard crooked his finger. Halifax followed him out into a different, bigger room, one with a table and two chairs. The guard left.

  Halifax walked around, trying to burn off nervous energy. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to know what had happened since Clarke had spoken to him.

  A door opened, and Lieutenant Hoth entered the room. “You busy, Doctor?”

  Halifax shook his head.

  “Come with me,” Hoth said.

  Halifax hurried. The two of them walked down corridors, leaving the prison. They climbed into a two-seat floater, moving faster through larger corridors.

  “Did you find Brune?” Halifax asked.

  “We have him in detention.”

  Halifax nodded as if relieved.

  “How did he survive a bullet to the head, Doctor? Where did you take him two and a half years ago?”

  “That’s privileged client-doctor information.”

  Hoth didn’t press. He parked in a hospital area. They alighted, entering the building and heading up for the ICU ward. A guard joined them, walking directly behind the doctor.

  “Here,” Hoth said, pointing at a table in a small room.

  Halifax and the others all put on masks. The three followed a tall doctor into a dimly lit room. On a med cot lay a man swathed in bandages with a breathing mask over his mouth and nose.

  Hoth and Halifax stepped up to the med cot. Halifax’s eyes bugged outward. It was Dan Clarke.

  “What happened to him?” Halifax asked in a quiet voice.

  “Antimatter blast and burns,” Hoth said. “You should know. You ordered the hit.”

  “Me?” Halifax squeaked. “I was chained to a chair. Clarke interrogated me, remember? He fired his gun six times. I thought he was killing me.”

  Hoth said nothing.

  The med screen on the wall began to beep in alarm.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave,” the tall doctor said from behind her mask.

  “Will he live?” Hoth asked her.

  “I’d say he has a twenty percent chance. But you must leave immediately.”

  “Revive him,” Hoth said.

  The doctor stiffened in outrage.

  Hoth pulled a wallet from his coat. He opened it and showed the tall doctor. “This is a special order from the President. This gives me the authority.”

  The doctor peered at whatever was written there. “Your request is inhumane,” she said.

  “We believe Cromis terrorists have struck Helos,” Hoth said. “Clarke might have been working for them. If that’s true, the man doesn’t deserve any of your sympathy.”

  The doctor straightened, stared at Clarke and then went to a tray. She picked up a syringe, hesitated before shrugging, and gave him an injection.

  Clarke twitched, twitched again and his eyelids began fluttering. He opened his eyes, although it wasn’t certain he saw anything.

  Hoth bent over him, clutching the man’s shoulders, making Clarke moan and wince.

  “Can you hear me, Dan?”

  “Yes,” Clarke croaked between cracked lips.

  “Dr. Halifax is here. You chained him in a shed. You interrogated him. Why?”

  Clarke’s brow furrowed. He had a terrible blood-clotted gash on his forehead.

  At Hoth’s signal, the guard pushed Halifax forward. The small doctor smiled in-gratingly at Clarke.

  “Halifax,” Clarke said in a hoarse voice.

  “Hello, Dan. I hope you get better.”

  “Shut up,” Hoth told Halifax. “Listen to me, Dan. We’ve read your report, the one you left in your office. You suspected Cromis terrorists had reached Helos. We know they ship explosives and other devices in cryo units. Was Halifax part of the Cromis link?”

  Clarke eyed the small brown-skinned man hovering nervously by his bed. “No,” he wheezed.

  “No?” asked Hoth, surprised. “Why did you interrogate him? Why did you fire six times beside him?”

  Halifax sweated these seconds. He feared Clarke would talk about Earth Intelligence. He didn’t know what to do.

  “Why did you interrogate him?” Hoth asked again.

  Clarke eyed Halifax once more before wheezing, “Brune. Brune never liked me. Dr. Halifax said he was alive. I was trying to find out where.”

  “Is Brune connected with the Cromis terrorist ring?” Hoth asked.

  “Brune’s with Earth,” Clarke wheezed.

  Halifax suppressed a shudder. Why didn’t Clarke shut up? This was a disaster.

  “We read the secret IPO report you wrote many years ago,” Hoth said. “Brune was an Anza Drop Trooper. According to the report, he left Earth a blank, slowly regaining his wits on a starliner. Dr. Halifax discovered the tattoo under Brune’s left arm that proclaimed him an Anza Trooper and figured out the rest.”

  Clarke raised a weak arm. “Brune tried to save me… He dragged me.”

  “Save you?” asked Hoth, stunned. “You mean in the bunker yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he th
e same Brune as two and a half years ago?” Hoth asked.

  “What?”

  “Why did you interrogate Halifax?” Hoth asked.

  “Intelligence…” Clarke wheezed. “Trick…”

  The med screen on the wall began beeping in alarm.

  Clarke groaned before his midsection surged upward, his eyes bulging as if he was in intense pain.

  The screen wailed in alarm.

  “Move aside,” the tall doctor said.

  Clarke’s entire body relaxed as she reached him. The wall screen showed that he flatlined.

  After several seconds of work, the doctor’s shoulders slumped. She turned to Hoth. “I hope you’re happy. He’s dead. The stimulant or your questions were too much for him.”

  Hoth was frowning, although it didn’t seem as if he’d heard the doctor. Slowly, he rounded on Halifax. “What did he mean, ‘Intelligence’?”

  “He wanted information, intelligence,” Halifax said.

  “Information about what?”

  “You heard him. On Brune. Clarke has always been afraid of Brune.”

  “What did he mean by ‘trick’?”

  “I wish I knew,” Halifax said, trying hard not to smile. That had been a close call. Clarke had died barely in time.

  “What connection does Brune have with Cromis terrorists?”

  “I think Brune had a case against one once,” Halifax said. “Yes. He went to Cromis III four years ago, bringing in a fugitive. He must have angered the Cromis matriarchs that time. I imagine they’ve been yearning for revenge ever since.”

  Hoth stared at Halifax until he turned to the guard. “Take him back to his cell. Let him marinate. When you’re ready to tell the truth, Doctor, let me know. Until then, expect to stay with us a good long time.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Halifax paced in his cell for hours. Due to Hoth’s questioning, he learned about the antimatter missile strike at Graff’s complex. What did the strike mean? He was sure it meant the Director’s killers had made their first move. Why had they tried to kill Brune, though? Did the Director’s killers think he’d double-crossed Group Six? If that was true, his life was in danger from them. Would they try to hit him and Brune on the space station?

  In the end, mentally and physically exhausted, Halifax lay on his cot, falling fitfully asleep. After a time, he snorted awake as a flashlight shined in his eyes.

  “What’s going on?” Halifax muttered, squinting, using a hand to shield his eyes from the light.

  “Shhh,” a woman said. “We have to move fast.”

  Halifax’s scrotum shriveled as hot fear radiated in his groin. The Director’s people were back at it. Did they think he was a fool? “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  The light pulled back until the woman turned it, showing her face. She was older, with wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. She didn’t look like a hitman, but wore some kind of uniform. She shined the light on him again, although not in his eyes this time. “You don’t want to reach the scout?”

  “Yeah, right, like that’s where you’d take me.”

  “Don’t you recognize me?” she asked.

  “Why should I?”

  “I run the station security center. I was there when they brought you in.”

  “You’re IPO?”

  “No. I run the station security center, the ‘prison,’ if you want to be old fashioned.”

  “You’re the warden?”

  “Look. I’m supposed to take you to your scout. I showed my good faith by showing you my face. You could describe me or point me out in a lineup. So, we can’t dawdle here, or there will be hell to pay for both of us.”

  Halifax sat up, bewildered by the turn of events. “Why are you doing this?”

  She hesitated before saying, “It’s a favor for a friend.”

  “Uh-huh. Give me the real reason.”

  “You’re making this difficult.”

  “Look, lady, bad people want to kill me. This is crazy, anyway. How do I know you’re not going to bring me to them?”

  “Oh,” she said after a moment. “I hadn’t thought of that. You don’t trust me. I heard about the first terrorist attack. There was another here earlier this afternoon—space station time. It’s night, by the way. I’m assuming you’re the terrorist leader.”

  Halifax blinked repeatedly. “This isn’t making sense. You’re the law, part of the law, anyway. Why would you help terrorists?”

  “So you are a Cromis terrorist?”

  “No!” Halifax said, outraged. “Oh, this is finally making sense. You’re setting me up, trying to get me to confess to crimes I didn’t commit.” He raised his head and spoke louder, “It’s not going to work, Lieutenant. I didn’t have anything to do with the missile strike.”

  “Shhh,” she said, lunging onto him, pushing him down and putting a hand over his mouth. She turned the flashlight, scanning the open cell door and beyond into the corridor. In a moment, she eased off him. “What’s wrong with you? Do you want me to get caught?”

  He heard the wounded outrage in her voice. She was frightened. Could she really be the warden—the head of the station security center? Who would have paid her to free him? This made no sense. Wouldn’t the person have had to pay her a fortune to risk this?

  “Listen,” he whispered. “Tell me who you’re doing this for and why. Otherwise, I’m staying here.”

  She breathed rapidly for several seconds, maybe thinking it through. “The man didn’t give me a name.”

  “Fair enough. What did he look like?”

  “Short, dark hair and wearing black goggles,” she said.

  “Rohan Mars,” Halifax whispered, more baffled than ever. “What was his pressure point?”

  “What?”

  “Why are you doing this? What did he tell you?”

  “You’re a weasel like Hoth says. Why do you need to know?”

  “Life and death reasons,” Halifax muttered.

  “All right, all right. He paid me, paid me an exorbitant amount. I’m sick of my job. I want to live for a change while I’m still young enough to enjoy things.”

  Halifax believed he heard truth in her voice. Of course, he realized that he wanted to believe her. What a man wanted to believe he could sometimes convince himself was happening even if it wasn’t.

  “You said a scout,” he said. “Do you mean the ex-Patrol scout under Jack Brune’s name?”

  “Yes. Now, are you coming or not?”

  “I want to trust you…”

  She exhaled. “Here. He said this might convince you.” She pushed something into his hands.

  Halifax felt—a gun, a revolver. It was huge and heavy. She shined the light on it. Oh, man, it was Brune’s WAK .55 Magnum. He pushed out the cylinder, finding big bullets in it. He pulled one out, inspecting it. It looked legitimate.

  “How long are you going to take?” she hissed.

  “Let’s go,” Halifax said. “I’m convinced.” As they headed out of the cell, he wondered just how much Rohan Mars had paid the woman. Well, it didn’t matter. It was time to scram, getting as far away from the Director’s killers as he could.

  He followed her down the hall. She’d clicked off the flashlight. They moved almost soundlessly through the prison, avoiding cells and other people.

  He held the hand cannon with both hands. He certainly hoped he didn’t have to fire this thing. It would tear the arm out of its socket. Why was Rohan paying this lady? The obvious answer was that Rohan wanted Brune to make the space jump onto Avalon IV. Yet, what would have caused Rohan to believe Brune would do that all of a sudden? Hmm… this would bear some deep thought. Maybe the android had secretly tagged the scout. The tech company’s people would show up later in a bigger spacecraft, maybe to scoop them up.

  That seemed risky for them. Would the likelier move have been for the android try to jump them on the way to the scout? Wouldn’t Rohan know they would expect him to do that?

  “My head hurts,”
Halifax said.

  The woman rounded on him, glaring in the dim light.

  Something seemed way off about this. Halifax’s gut squeezed painfully. He nodded, indicating that she should keep going. She did, opening a hatch and peering out. Halifax hefted the magnum, debating smashing it over the back of her head. It would knock her out; but would that help him? What if she was telling the truth?

  Okay, he told himself. But what was Rohan’s reason for doing this? That was what he couldn’t understand.

  “Now,” the woman said. “It’s clear. Let’s go.”

  Halifax cradled his arms around the hand cannon in case there were cameras watching them. He didn’t want anyone to think he had coerced the woman. The IPO would put him away for good in that case. He had second and third thoughts about going through with this, but he kept thinking about the Director’s trigger-happy team. They were out there, lurking. It seemed clear they had fired the missile. He wanted to leave the Rigel System forever. He had no plans of ever coming back here.

  The next twenty-three minutes tested his resolve as his guts seethed and twisted. The two of them rode in a two-seat floater down large dim corridors. It was nighttime on the space station like she said earlier. The woman started sweating and smelled like fear.

  “I don’t like this,” she said.

  “You and me both,” Halifax muttered. He kept thinking about Rohan Mars and the Tara Alor model. Lieutenant Hoth had questioned him about her. From the questions, Halifax had figured out some of what had happened to Brune.

  The tech company that made androids wanted Brune to make the orbital drop down to Avalon IV. They would hardly just give them the scout and let them go, hoping that Brune did the job for them.

  “I’m an idiot,” Halifax muttered under his breath. The tech company people must realize he and Brune were desperate. The IPO had them. Would Rohan’s people deliver Brune unconscious to the scout? Had Rohan bribed a medical tech to give Brune knockout gas? Would they have drugged Brune to make him malleable to suggestion or would they have access to old cyborg technology as the Director’s people had? If Brune had several implants in his skull, what would happen to him?

  Halifax wiped his brow. The game had slipped out of his control. He was a known quantity now. Halifax had always operated best from the sidelines, from the shadows. He would know more when he saw Brune. Why was—