The Soldier: The X-Ship

by Vaughn Heppner

  The two-seater slowed in an empty corridor.

  “What’s going on?” Halifax asked.

  “Just a second,” the woman said. She slowed more. With a start, she slammed the brakes. The floater jerked to a halt. She jumped off and ran away, ducking into a side corridor.

  “Hey!” Halifax shouted. He picked up the hand cannon—he’d set it on the floorboard earlier.

  Someone jumped into the vacated driver’s seat, and the floater started moving again.

  Halifax stared at a slender, dark-haired woman. He’d sat beside her before on the shuttle coming in from the deep-space starliner. He’d also seen her in a tourist shop window yesterday. He aimed the huge revolver at her.

  “Go ahead,” she said, without smiling and while driving the floater. “Fire if you think that will help.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Group Six,” she said. “The Director says hello.”

  Halifax’s arms began shaking. He lowered the revolver. He was sure the bullets were useless anyway.

  “Speechless, are you?” she asked.

  “This makes no sense. How did you learn about Rohan Mars helping me escape?”

  She gave him a scathing look. “Are you really that stupid?”

  “What?”

  “I told the chief of the station security center to give you Rohan’s description if you asked. It sounds like you did. Rohan has nothing to do with his. It’s my call, my game.”

  “How…how did you manage it?”

  “Money talks, bullshit walks. Do you know what I’m saying?”

  Halifax shook his head, more bewildered than ever.

  “I paid huge sums to convince the chief, the woman who just helped you. Now, you’re walking. A fat bribe seemed better than blowing up the space station in order to free you.”

  “You would do that? Blow up the station?”

  The woman shrugged.

  “You lack the hardware to blow up the entire station,” Halifax said.

  “Wrong again. Listen carefully, Doctor, and answer me this. Why did Clarke pretend to kill you and why did you send Clarke to kill Brune?”

  Halifax shook his head. “I don’t understand your murderous thinking. Brune was doing fine until—”

  “Oh, spare me, please. The Director wants the job done. He wants that bad. That’s why I’m here. I’m the best, Doctor, the best.”

  “I believe it.”

  “Now, though, my cover will be blown in the Rigel System. I’ve spent far too much to get you out of the joint. It was a risk, but hey—” She shrugged. “You have one chance of doing this. Brune is on his way. You two jerks can slip away if you move fast enough. The scout has plenty of juice to get you to you-know-where.”

  “Wait, wait, this is moving too fast for me. Does the Director want Brune to go to Avalon IV or figure out the tech company’s identity?”

  “Yes.”

  Halifax wiped sweat from his brow. “If Brune goes down onto the planet, how does he get back up?”

  “You’re the case officer. You figure it out. If you don’t figure it out, and if you don’t get the job done…” She blinked hard as she scrunched her face. “Know what I’m saying?”

  Halifax stared at his hands, at the huge revolver he held in his lap. Group Six of Earth used murderously effective people. Would the Director send Ultras after Brune and him—if the two of them were able to escape from Ms. Bloodthirsty here? Could he and Brune slip from the space station and get far enough away to use the Intersplit Field?

  “You haven’t answered me, Halifax.”

  “I know what to do and I can figure out the problems along the way. Can you really get us off the space station and ensure no one tracks us?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “I have that covered.”

  Halifax’s mouth turned dry. Could she be talking about blowing up the space station? Even this murderess couldn’t be that cold-blooded. Why, that would alert the IPO and Patrol and send them into overdrive.

  His stomach seethed. He feared he might throw up. The stress was getting to him.

  She glanced his way, grunted softly. “Don’t puke yet, tough guy. I’ll get you to the scout, you can bet on that. It’s up to you then.”

  Halifax nodded wordlessly. Then he groaned. This was getting to be too much.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The soldier awoke, and the sour-dry taste in his mouth let him know someone had used a knockout aerosol against him. He had no recollection of it. He also knew that he was no longer in detention or—

  He sat up, and lay back down with a groan as his stomach gurgled. He’d sat up too quickly. He closed his eyes, but that only made him feel worse. Opening his eyes, he stared straight up. A bulkhead loomed far too near. He detected the faintest vibration to it. Could he be in an assault missile?

  His head pounded. He didn’t know what an assault missile was, and yet, part of him clearly did. He had been in more than one before and survived to tell about it. He did not know when, how or what had happened afterward, other than his obvious survival. This reminded him of that.

  He turned his rusty neck, scanning his quarters. He lay on a cot, one attached to a bulkhead. The quarters were small, but they held wall drawers, a small bolted-down table and a magnetic-locked chair. He looked down on the deck beside the cot. Clothes lay folded beside boots. With a shock, he recognized the WAK .55 Magnum he’d found in Brune’s office. A shoulder rig to hold the hand cannon was neatly folded beside the weapon.

  There was a memory regarding this place. It felt implanted, belonging to Brune. He was aboard the ex-Patrol scout. Brune had named it the Descartes after some ancient French philosopher. That was interesting, and the reason why Brune had named it the Descartes was that the philosopher had invented a conundrum. How could one tell the difference between a dream and reality? How could one trust one’s senses to accurately inform one of reality? It was apropos to the soldier’s present situation, with this one difference. He often had trouble knowing which of his memories were real and which were implanted. He was also quite sure many of his real memories were in cold storage in his mind, frozen from him.

  Could the original Brune have had similar qualms? Did that mean someone had given him false or implanted memories? The idea was startling.

  Anger welled in the soldier’s heart. The idea of someone controlling him—he hated that. It was a primeval feeling. He would be free. He would be his own man. He would not dance to another man or woman’s tune. He would do a thing because he felt it was right or needed doing. He refused to accept anyone else’s notions regarding right or wrong, at least if they tried to press upon him their convictions.

  It was a powerful sensation, and it burned through him like righteous rage. Yes. For good or bad, he would decide for himself. In fact, he would discover which memories belonged to him and which were implanted. He would burn out the implanted memories, and if he had the opportunity, he would destroy those that thought to use him.

  The choice made him feel better. He also realized a truth about himself. In the past, the rage against control had aided him. He had learned to relax about it because he knew that eventually his rage would boil so hot that he would always move to free himself from any form of bondage.

  The self-knowledge was liberating. He smiled on the cot. He would still seek the woman on Avalon IV. Something about that was also primeval to him, the real him. He would attempt to weigh choices from this point on, however. He sought the woman. He also sought to free his mind from these hidden shackles.

  With a grunt, he rose, donning the clothes. It was a gray spaceman’s outfit: shirt, pants and light jacket along with socks and underwear. The heavy work boots fit. The shoulder rig with the enormous revolver felt good. He took out the gun, opened the cylinder and removed each bullet. He examined them, hefted each in a palm. They felt real.

  How wise it would be to fire this gun on the Descartes was another matter. He was on the scout, wasn’t he?

  It wa
s time to find out.

  He went to the hatch, studying it, pressing a button on the right. The hatch slid up. He poked his head out, regarding a short corridor either way. Interesting. He wasn’t imprisoned.

  With a shrug, he stepped out. The hatch shut behind him.

  He felt the vibration against the deckplates. The Descartes was accelerating, or decelerating, he supposed. It expended thrust, throwing something overboard—so to speak—to generate velocity. In order to move a spaceship, one had to throw or eject substance from it. The law of physics that said for any applied force an equal applied force went in the other direction.

  The soldier went right, his boots thudding against the deckplates. That told him the Descartes had gravity. The gravity came from grav units in the ship. They could add gravity to a place or nullify some of it, as in a gravity dampener.

  He pressed a wall switch, and a new hatch slid up, showing him the small control chamber. Dr. Halifax sat in the pilot’s chair. The man cradled a reader, glancing at it as he gingerly tapped the panel before him. The doctor wore a large white smock and—

  Halifax’s head jerked up. He glanced back. Worry shined in his dark eyes. Then a great big smile spread over the man’s face. “Brune, you’re up. This is wonderful news. We’re on your ship, meaning we left Helos’ space station. We’re still in the Rigel System, I’m afraid. The IPO has been hailing us, demanding we return. The operator has threatened us with the Patrol.”

  The soldier entered the chamber, causing the hatch to slide shut behind him.

  A huge window showed the stars ahead. The window covered one quarter of the chamber. The other three-quarters were more bulkheads. On these were many operating panels, which controlled the systems throughout the ex-Patrol scout.

  The soldier slid into a seat beside the doctor. He glanced at the nearest panel, feeling as if he could operate the vessel. Brune had. And yet, the controls all seemed foreign to him.

  The scout, he realized, was a sleek vessel with stubby wings on the sides for atmospheric entry. As the name implied, the ship had scouted for the Patrol. It had four personnel cabins or quarters, a small exercise area, a tiny science lab and comparatively large engine access tubes. Its arsenal included several anti-rocket missiles and two guns for firing .50 caliber depleted uranium slugs. The armor was minimal, and the ship did not have such a thing as an electromagnetic shield. Such a vessel should have a crew of four. Likely, it was just Halifax and him.

  “We’re over ten hours out from the space station,” Halifax said.

  The soldier raised an eyebrow.

  “We’re still too near the star to use the Intersplit Field,” Halifax said.

  “There are four stars in the system.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m heading away from all of them. Another half-hour and we can consider using the Intersplit.”

  The Intersplit engine generated a force that encapsulated or surrounded the ship with a green field. The encircling field made travel from one star to the next possible in reasonable amounts of time because it allowed the vessel to travel faster than the speed of light. The Intersplit engine was also the most expensive thing about the Descartes. Brune’s was old; the reason the Patrol had auctioned off the vessel many years ago. If the Intersplit engine failed, the ship would automatically lose its surrounding field, and the vessel would no longer be able to travel faster than the speed of light. That could strand them many years from anywhere civilized if they couldn’t repair the engine. The likelihood of another vessel finding them stranded in deep space was practically zero.

  “I’m surprised no one is chasing us,” the soldier said.

  Halifax stared silently at the reader.

  “What happened on the space station after we left?”

  “Massive electrical failure,” Halifax said.

  “Are they blaming us for that?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Who really did it? Wait. The people who freed us must have caused the damage. Are they the same people who launched the missile at the IPO lifter?”

  “Who can say?” Halifax answered evasively.

  “You.”

  “No. I’m clueless. I woke up in my quarters and found the Descartes traveling away from Helos. About an hour ago, a space station operator started making threats.”

  “What kind of massive electrical failure?”

  Halifax shrugged uneasily.

  “Why do I feel as if you’re lying?”

  “An unhealthy distrust of others would be my guess.”

  From his seat, the soldier examined the various panels. He rose and went to a different seat. With a few experimental taps, he turned on a sensor. He aimed the sensor at the space station. He could see Helos easily enough; the space station was a spec on the scope. He couldn’t tell anything specific at this distance. At least the space station was there. It did not seem as if a vast cloud of debris surrounded or had replaced it.

  He swiveled his seat and regarded Halifax. The doctor pretended to study his reader, but really, he waited.

  “Care to tell me about it?” the soldier asked.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Who helped us escape?”

  The doctor spread his nimble hands.

  “What do you suggest we do now?”

  “It’s your ship. It’s your call.”

  “Can you pilot it?”

  “After a fashion,” Halifax said, raising the reader. “I keep studying the manual. Piloting isn’t difficult, provided the destination is on the charts. If the engine goes out—” He shook his head.

  The soldier looked out of the polarized window. “We can never go back to Helos.”

  Halifax’s face took on a pinched look. “I agree.”

  “So, what do we do for funds?”

  “Sell the Descartes and split the money.”

  “And then…?”

  “We go our separate ways,” Halifax said.

  “What would you do?”

  “Go far away from—from here.”

  “You were going to say something else.”

  “Was I?”

  The soldier shook his head. It didn’t matter. He had to think this through. “How many people own a spaceship?”

  “The fabulously wealthy, for one,” Halifax said.

  “I’m not that. How did I acquire it?”

  “A poker game. I remember it vividly. You won me, along with the ship. I’m eternally grateful, of course. But…with the Patrol on the hunt for us…maybe we should go our separate ways.”

  The soldier turned to the window again and studied the stars. “No. I don’t think so. I want to go to the Avalon System.”

  Did Halifax start like a frightened rat? The soldier turned to the man.

  Halifax’s throat convulsed before he said, “Avalon is a proscribed star system.”

  “Just the planet of Avalon IV is proscribed, not the system.”

  “Same thing, as Avalon IV is the only habitable planet in the system.”

  “When did you look that up?”

  Halifax opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He shrugged a moment later. “You know,” he said, “I don’t rightly know.”

  “Hmmm…” the soldier said.

  An alarm sounded before he could say more. The soldier turned, noticing a blinking red light on the sensor panel. He sat and studied the scope, grunting in disbelief.

  “What happened?” asked Halifax.

  The soldier studied the scope to make sure about what he saw. The Helos space station was no longer there. The spec he’d seen before had become larger, indicating debris. He tapped the panel. The debris was still spreading. It appeared radioactive.

  Halifax moved near, peering around him. The small man groaned in dread. “This is awful. They’ll think we had something to do with it.”

  The soldier straightened, turning to the frightened doctor. “Why would you say that?”

  “It’s obvious. We escaped detention and fled the station in what th
ey considered a stolen ship. They threatened us as an in-system Patrol vessel turned our way. The space station exploded. I’d say the main reactor had a core meltdown that went critical. That’s sabotage, delayed sabotage. We’ll be on every IPO and Patrol list as terrorists.”

  “Helos—the radiation will surely strike the planet.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Halifax said in a stricken voice. “This is a dire event. They’ll hound us for the rest of our lives. What’s so important about the woman that they would do something like this?”

  The soldier frowned. “Are you talking about the woman who escaped the tech company and fled onto Avalon IV?”

  “Yes,” Halifax said.

  “Who are they?”

  “Rohan Mars and his friends,” Halifax said, talking fast and with fear in his eyes. “You must remember Tara Alor? She exploded with the power of a nova bomb.”

  “True.”

  “Now, her compatriots have destroyed the space station.”

  “Did Rohan Mars help us escape?”

  A paler Halifax threw up his hands. “I have no idea. I’m spitballing here, using what I know and piecing it together as the most likely scenario.”

  The soldier nodded slowly. “Perhaps we should head back and help, turn ourselves in to the IPO and explain about Rohan Mars.”

  “Are you mad?” Halifax shouted, with sweat prickling his features. “The IPO can’t protect us. We have to move forward or flee far from here and sell the ship.”

  The soldier eyed the panicked doctor. There was more going on here than he understood. Halifax was obviously holding back on him. “Where did you take me in the cryo unit, the first time when I had a bullet in the brain and we left Helos?”

  “A-A-A place I’ve sworn never to reveal.”

  “That strikes me as suspect.”

  “I’m the one who stuck his neck out,” Halifax shouted. “Why do you keep accusing me of treachery? Who has saved your hide time after time?”

  The soldier scratched his cheek. “What’s an assault missile?”