“I am,” Wexx said. “Given his nature, when he speaks about mutiny, I become concerned. He does not strike me as given to idle speech.”
“Your point is well taken, Doctor. I will redouble my surveillance.”
“You won’t tell him I was the one who—”
“Doctor, I will keep this conversation in strict confidence. Nor will I apprehend him for questioning. Your topic is a delicate one. If he has more confederates—other than the few crewmembers who voyaged with him aboard Argonaut—I want to know who these confederates are. They are hidden now, but with the addition of your information, I am confident of uncovering their identities soon.”
“Do you truly think they will mutiny?” Wexx asked.
“I doubt it, but people often make rash decisions. If they do try—do not fear, Doctor. The monitors have the situation under control. We know what to do.”
Wexx nodded, feeling better about the talk. She had done the right thing. The monitors followed the rules and they had the power to enforce order. She had nothing to worry about now other than keeping the Specials mentally fit.
7
After the fifth successful shift since Venice’s murderous attack, Discovery seemed to settle back into a normal routine.
Even as he floated in the marine combat training chamber, Cyrus knew that was an illusion.
He drifted shirtless in the chamber. He was lean, with whipcord muscles and more scars than any marine. Most of the old wounds were thin white lines that had come from knives or other cutting implements. There was one puckered bullet scar near his navel. It had almost killed him. The slug had plowed through his intestines and blown out his back. He was thankful for modern medicine.
Cyrus floated in the chamber, holding a practice knife. Five marines were at anchor points on the padded walls, ceiling, and floor. A sweaty, locker room odor filled the area, while First Sergeant Mikhail Sergetov floated at the opposite end of the chamber from Cyrus. Mikhail was older than Cyrus by ten years, bigger and more heavily muscled. He had the square jaw that most people thought of when picturing a marine. The NCO also gripped a practice knife, and his dark eyes were hard on Cyrus.
One of the things Cyrus liked about the marines was that they didn’t pull any punches during combat training. It was their religion, he supposed. Normals, if they had anything to do with him, kept at a safe distance. The marines in here…
“What are you grinning about?” Mikhail shouted across the chamber.
“How I’m going make you look like a little girl,” Cyrus said.
Several of the watching marines laughed.
Cyrus and Mikhail floated weightless, as did an extremely heavy medicine ball in the center of the chamber. The ball had more mass than five big men.
Normality seemed to have returned to Discovery, but that was a false conclusion. As Cyrus debated combat strategy, he counted the disturbing clues. First, the monitors had become even more grim than usual. Second, around half the crew was on lockdown at any one time and third, Jasper seldom spoke with anyone, not even him. The man had become a recluse. Jasper shifted and stayed alone in his new quarters.
The fourth clue manifested now. A hatch hissed open and shut. Cyrus didn’t look to see who had entered the training chamber, as he kept his eyes on Mikhail. The first sergeant had thrown a practice knife at him once, nearly hitting him in the forehead. That would have given the man his first win over Cyrus at knife fighting, something Cyrus was intent at never letting happen.
“Better start spitting,” Mikhail said.
That was one way to get out of a motionless float while weightless in the middle of a chamber. The spit would be the ballast that fractionally moved one in the opposite direction. A better way would be to take off your clothes and throw them, as it would be heavier ballast.
“We need more action and less talk,” a deep-voiced man said.
Cyrus glanced back and was shocked to see the commander of the ship’s marines in the chamber. He’d only seen the man once before at a distance.
Colonel Boris Konev was big and red-faced, with heavy sideburns and a thick neck. He was the strongest marine here, a classic specimen of a warrior. He was a foot shorter than Argon, but the difference made Colonel Konev six feet tall. He had taken rejuvenation therapy. The colonel was sixty-two, but had the strength and reflexes of a man in his mid thirties.
“Cut him, First Sergeant,” Konev said in his booming voice.
“Line,” Mikhail said.
One of the marines on the wall threw a lead weight at Mikhail. Attached to the weight was a thin rope. Mikhail grabbed the line with his free hand.
Cyrus could have shouted, “You cheater,” because this was a cheat. But he knew a setup when the jaws closed around him.
“You should not have gone on the surface during a shift,” Colonel Konev said. “If no one else will teach you obedience to the rules, I will, Special Fourth Class.”
Cyrus had no idea what the colonel was talking about. What was wrong with the man?
Mikhail was moving now, yanked toward a padded wall. He released the line and twisted so he hit the wall with his feet.
Cyrus tucked his knees up against his chest. If he’d bent his head, he could have touched his knees with his chin. He shot out his legs while torqueing his stomach muscles.
Mikhail grunted as he pushed off the wall, aiming at Cyrus. The marine extended his arm, with the practice knife thrust out for an impaling hit. Cyrus’s violent motion caused his head and shoulders to change direction, aiming now at Mikhail.
Two marines shouted: sounds of admiration for the weightless maneuvering.
Mikhail yanked his thrusting arm back, bringing his knife to his chest. Instead, he brought forward his other hand, the strong fingers ready to grasp whatever they could.
Cyrus recognized the technique. It was basic knife fighting. Keep the knife back until you got a clean thrust. Don’t let your opponent block your knife too soon.
Space marines were experts at close combat. That open hand represented danger.
Cyrus waited as Mikhail closed. At the last moment, Cyrus reached out his free hand, grasping three of Mikhail’s fingers. Cyrus shoved himself away, even as Mikhail closed his hand, attempting to grab him. The marine’s eyes widened. Cyrus had seen such things a hundred times, the tiny signals that everyone gave. Mikhail’s practice knife thrust up at him. Cyrus moved faster and with greater precision. He parried so their blades clinked, and he pushed, propelling himself away from Mikhail and toward the medicine ball.
Mikhail flailed another knife cut, but Cyrus tucked, and the marine’s practice blade sliced past without hitting him. Then Cyrus’s feet touched the medicine ball. He let his legs curl, and then he shoved off the heavy object.
“Look out, First Sergeant!” a marine shouted.
Mikhail had attempted a free-floating maneuver, trying to get his feet aimed in the direction he traveled. He now looked up, and he grunted, trying to bring his knife into position.
It didn’t help. Cyrus darted his blade past Mikhail’s knife and he slashed the practice weapon across the marine’s left cheek and then down across the neck.
“An artery cut,” Konev said. “First Sergeant, you will bleed to death. You have lost the match.” He swiveled his thick neck to study Cyrus. “I would like a word with you.”
The colonel reminded him of one of the sub-leaders in the Latin Kings. He had presence, a dominant spirit.
Sheathing the knife, Cyrus pushed off and floated down to Colonel Konev.
“Where did you learn such tactics?” the big man asked.
“From your men, sir,” Cyrus said.
Konev grinned infectiously. “No, none of my men taught you that. You are a knife fighter.”
“No, sir. Your men try to be knife fighters. That’s why they lose. Fighting is for fools. I learned to kill.”
“In what unit?” Konev asked.
“The Latin Kings.”
“Eh?”
“It was a gang in Milan, sir; well, in much of Italia Sector.”
“Ah, yes, a street gang, is that it?”
“Yes, sir,” Cyrus said.
“I hear many of the best Earth recruits come from such, ah, gangs.”
“I don’t know about that.”
The smile went away as Colonel Konev studied him. “You are among the best. Is that not so, eh?”
“Uh, I’m the best knife man aboard ship.”
The brown eyes seemed to search Cyrus. “You are young. You are quick, and First Sergeant Sergetov tells me you are smart. How smart are you, knife man?”
This was getting weirder by the moment. What was the colonel on? “I know who my friends are,” Cyrus said.
Konev nodded. “Yes… smart and quick. I see how it must have been in the gangs. You have an animal sense and leadership charisma.” The strong fingers tightened on Cyrus’s shoulder. “Remember who your friends are.”
“Why did you tell Sergetov to cheat just now?”
Konev drew Cyrus closer, and the brown eyes seemed to burn. “It is a sign,” he whispered. “When you least expect it, eh. Do you understand?”
Cyrus had no idea, but he said, “Oh, I do.”
The colonel’s eyes tightened. “We shall see, knife man.” Konev’s fingers gripped painfully, and his voice lowered so Cyrus had to strain to hear. “I know you now, knife man. I have taken your measure. You impress me, and I will welcome your help when the time comes.”
This was just like the Latin Kings, higher ups making cryptic comments. In Level 40 Milan, this talk would have come from a sub-leader readying for a power grab. What power could Colonel Konev hope to take? It was something worth pondering.
Konev released him, nodded a last time, and turned to go. “Continue,” he said.
“Colonel,” several of the marines said, saluting.
He saluted the men in return before exiting.
Cyrus looked up at a small bubble in the ceiling. The monitors listened. He wondered what they would make of this little incident.
8
The illusion of normalcy lasted several more shifts, enough to bring Discovery to a mere 8.25 light years from New Eden.
As Wexx watched, Special Roxie fit the induction helmet over her head. The nurses fit the mask and checked the breathing tube. Finally, they opened the top of the cylinder. With the nurses’ help, Roxie slid into the blue solution. She wore a green slick-suit and settled herself comfortably.
A few more shifts and we’re there, Wexx told herself. Then we can all take a long and needed rest.
Wexx scanned the medical board and saw that all was well.
The shift crew went to work. Tension built rapidly, and several of them kept glancing at Roxie in the cylinder. The minutes merged and everything proceeded normally, if shifting 1.7 light years could even remotely be considered normal. Wexx watched the brainwave spike. It meant Roxie worked with AI Socrates, bringing the vast distances together in the miracle called a null portal.
Wexx expanded her lungs. Humanity accepted no limits in its quest for the stars. It used this scientific “magic” to achieve the impossible. DW technology had been a glorious breakthrough indeed.
A klaxon blared and a grim, cold feeling bit into Wexx as the null portal began to appear outside the Teleship. She asked the nearest nurse if he felt that, and he said no. They always said no. It proved to her that she had a latent psi-talent. If only she could tap it as the other Specials had tapped theirs. It was unfair she couldn’t. Wexx knew it and she knew life was often grossly unfair in a thousand different ways.
The cold and loneliness of the null portal passed. Heat filled her being, beautiful warmth of the soul. What did it feel like being the one who brought Discovery closer and closer to the great prize? Humanity needed these planets. Sol System was becoming stagnant. New Eden was so close now, so near.
“Begin shutdown sequence,” a warrant officer said.
Wexx checked the medical panel. Brainwave rhythms—Oh oh. She’d never seen this before.
Wexx swiveled her torso toward the cylinder as her heart sped up. Roxie didn’t have long hair to wave as Venice’s had. But Wexx feared to see metallic eyes staring at her through the Plexiglas.
Blue solution sloshed over the cylinder slot as Roxie pushed out of the opening. She ripped off her mask and flung the induction helmet so it banged against the deck plates.
The entire shift crew turned to the cylinder.
Roxie opened her mouth and gave a bloodcurdling scream.
It chilled Wexx as the noise went up and down her spine like icicles. Not again.
Discovery was under one G acceleration, so there was pseudogravity. Roxie used the gravity and leapt like a feline from the top of the cylinder, landing on the deck plates on all fours. She snarled wildly like a feral creature.
One of the shift crew began moaning. Another one screamed.
Roxie sprang for the hatch, sprinting fast in her wet slick-suit. She snarled, glaring at them with crazed eyes.
“Stop her!” Wexx shouted.
The warrant officer, a tall man, shoved out of his chair and ran to intercept the Special. Roxie turned her head, staring at him as her eyes turned gunmetal gray. Without being touched, the warrant officer doubled over as if someone punched him in the gut. He grunted and sailed off his feet as if a battle android had swatted him. He thudded against a bulkhead and crumpled onto the deck plates.
“Do something!” Wexx shouted.
No one else moved. Everyone cowered in his or her location.
“Roxie!” Wexx shouted. “Stop! What’s wrong with you?”
The formerly shy Special charged for the hatch. Who knew what she planned to do. The hatch swished open, and Roxie yelped in fear.
Jasper stood there in his shiny suit. “Stop, Roxie.”
She snarled, slashing her fingers at him, although she stood several feet away.
Jasper shouted in pain. Blood spurted from his cheek as three furrows like claw marks appeared.
Roxie snarled again triumphantly and inched toward the door.
“Roxie!” he shouted.
She raised a hand, the fingers curled like talons. Her fingernails were longer than most and it seemed then as if the edges were as sharp as claws.
Jasper’s eyes became like marble, and it changed his pudgy appearance. In Wexx’s eyes, he seemed to grow in stature and nobility. He seemed kingly and proud, like a warrior to fear and obey.
Roxie stepped back, turning her head, snarling and spitting rage. Then she twisted, sprang at Jasper, and used both hands to rake and slash.
Jasper cried out, his shiny suit ripped and strips of cloth fluttering away as Roxie used her telekinesis to attack. He staggered sideways from the hatch, just a short, fat, balding man once again.
Roxie darted past him as he lay on the deck plates. She shot for the exit.
From on the floor, Jasper raised a hand, and he shouted in a fierce voice.
Roxie screeched, a sound of pain and agony. She arched backward. Then her hands clamped onto her head. She whirled around and glared at Jasper. With a wild aspect, she began to stalk him.
“No!” he shouted. His fingers shot outward and he pressed his open palm toward her.
Her eyelids fluttered. Her head drooped. Then, thankfully, Special Third Class Roxie slumped unconscious to the deck.
9
Cyrus sat across from Jasper in the training chamber. Roxie was safely in a stasis cylinder, asleep. Chief Monitor Argon had interrogated Jasper in sealed NKV quarters and declared the telepath safely inhibitor-sealed once again.
I don’t get it, Cyrus said, seeping his thoughts through a mind shield. What did you tell the chief monitor?
The truth, of course, Jasper said. Somehow, my inhibitor failed to halt my telepathy. I sensed danger and stopped Roxie from doing any more harm. After testing the inhibitor, he sees that it’s functioning again.
That’s a crazy story: that somehow your inhibitor
failed. He shouldn’t have believed it.
He did.
Did you control him? Cyrus asked.
Not enough for me to trust him, Jasper relied. I nudged his thoughts. Then he checked my inhibitor and found it working. He had to believe me then.
Okay, Cyrus said. Let’s quit playing games. Why did Roxie go crazy?
Jasper shrugged.
The answer’s easy, Cyrus said. She didn’t trust the aliens and they did something to her. Either that or it’s so bad at New Eden that Roxie was willing to do anything from going there.
That’s sheer nonsense.
Yeah, Cyrus said. Then why haven’t they talked to me? They must know I’m not going to accept their BS answers.
I hate to tell you the truth, as I don’t want to poke a hole in your self-esteem. The reason they haven’t talked to you yet is that your psi-ability is the weakest. You can’t reach them. In another few light years, you should be able to meet them halfway.
Venice was higher rated than you, Cyrus said, and you reached the aliens first.
Yes, because my telepathy is more powerful than her powers. It’s simply that telepathy isn’t useful for shifting. That’s why my ranking is foolishly ranked Second Class instead of First.
Cyrus drummed his fingers on the table. Jasper sounded plausible, but Cyrus didn’t believe the man. The aliens had gotten to the telepath. Now… Jasper affected the crew. What was he attempting?
Do you really trust the aliens? Cyrus asked.
They freed us from the inhibitors.
At what cost, though? Look what happened to Venice and Roxie. Cyrus had a thought. Do the aliens hate women?
No. That the females reacted in similar ways is a coincidence, nothing more.
I don’t trust them, Jasper.
You haven’t spoken with them. When you do, you’ll see I’m right. Besides, I don’t fully trust them either.
Cyrus didn’t believe that. Jasper lied to him. Okay. He knew how to survive on his own. He needed to figure out a way to stop Jasper.
Are you satisfied? Jasper asked.
Yeah. Thanks.
Then let us continue with your mind shield practice.
Alien Honor (A Fenris Novel) Page 9
