Star Soldier (Book #1 of the Doom Star Series)

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Yeah.”

  “Or maybe they’ll tear your brain down and hook you into a beast.” More of that mad laughter came over the line.

  Then the cab shook as the beast tore into the rock with greater intensity than ever.

  To Marten’s left, a holoset flickered into life. A small, angry, holo-image shouted silently.

  Marten picked up the receiver and put it to his ear.

  “Slow it down, Marten!”

  “Roger,” said Marten.

  In order to keep Blake’s mind off his fate, Marten spent the rest of the morning playing chess. He let Blake win three games in a row. Blake hated losing, but he hated even more someone letting him win. So Marten had to stretch out the games.

  After lunch, Marten went on a routine inspection walk. His mind began to wander as he checked well-oiled segments of machinery… neatly maintained like his life. He didn’t know any more what he wanted. Not to live in Greater Sydney forever, that’s for sure. He wondered sometimes if he had the balls to take an excursion into the slums. Where had his daring gone? Had seeing his Dad’s head explode stolen something out of him?

  Despite the so-called glories of Social Unity, slums had formed in paradise. Each city seemed to have them. Greater Sydney wasn’t an exception. In fact, for reasons unknown to the social engineers, Greater Sydney’s slums proved nastier than the common run. Sydney’s deep-core mine reached down to Earth’s mantle, drawing planetary thermal power. Many of the larger cities did likewise.

  None of the levels reached anywhere near the mantle. The deep-core mine was a narrow shaft that went far beyond Sydney’s living space. The slums were always near the mine, or the upper part of it, anyway. Sydney’s slums were from Level Forty-one to Forty-nine and for a full kilometer outward. Police raids seldom helped keep control there. Social workers rarely ventured into the slums even if guaranteed army patrols. Hall and block leaders kept a low profile there. Ward officers seldom set foot in their own territory. Desperate people lived in the slums, uneducated, violent people with bizarre modes of thought and behavior. Gangs roved at night, youth gangs being particular bloodthirsty. Drug-lords hired people called mules, bodyguards and enforcers.

  The honest, card-carrying citizens on the fringes who lived above and below the slums cried out for stronger police patrols. So at elevator openings and stairwells and at strategic tunnel doors thick knots of heavily-armed shock cops formed.

  Marten wondered sometimes if the people in the slums had a greater form of freedom than those living in the better levels. Could he find the freedom he desired in the slums? Maybe he could, but maybe at too bitter of a cost.

  Marten kicked a rock out of his way. Where had his courage gone?

  Later, near quitting time, he turned left at a dark corridor and opened an emergency shed. Inside stood a makeshift kettle, a flame box underneath and strange fumes bubbling out of it. From a nearby bin, he took the last slices of algae bread and fed them into the kettle. He readjusted the still, switched bottles and examined a clear liquid in the light of his helmet lamp.

  The liquid was clear, hard liquor: synthahol. He sniffed it and screwed up his nose. It had an awful odor. He put the flask to his lips and threw back his head. He didn’t dare taste it, but he relaxed his throat and let the synthahol slide into his belly. Oh, it burned so nicely in his stomach. Then the alcoholic fumes shot up to his brain like fire—Liquid fire!

  He checked his chronometer, finished the contents of the flask and put it back under the drip.

  Comfortably numb, he strode for the main lift-tube about a kilometer away. He then reversed the process of this morning. The neck and shoulder stiffening wouldn’t occur until the synthahol wore off. But the cramped lift, the peacekeepers, the endless corridors of his complex… these things remained dreadfully the same.

  Marten doffed his clothes in his cubicle, showered, put on new clothes, ate a bowl of gruel and thought about calling Molly. He decided against it. Then his door chime sounded.

  For a moment, he froze as fear crawled up his spine. Then he shrugged. They didn’t have anything on him he could think of. But if it was cops, well, then it was the cops. He was more thankful than ever for the synthahol. When they took him, as they surely must in the end, he wanted to play it cool. He slouched against the wall, set his face in a neutral mask and said:

  “Enter.”

  The door opened and beautiful Molly Tan stepped within. She wore shimmering sequins similar to this morning’s ad girls, and she wore a silky red skirt and silver slippers. She had short red hair combed to the left, freckles galore and a body to kill for. Her legs—Marten puckered his lips and imagined kissing them.

  Molly hopped near and pecked him on the lips. Then she frowned.

  “Marten, you’ve been drinking again.”

  He shrugged.

  “But you can’t be drinking this afternoon.”

  “Why not?”

  She pouted as she ran her hands over his chest. “Discussions start in fifteen minutes.”

  “So?”

  “Hurry, Marten, get dressed or we’ll be late.”

  He almost said no, forget it, not today. Then they’d fight, Molly might storm away, and then that bastard, Hall Leader Quirn, would drape his slimy arm over her shoulder and console her at the discussions.

  He threw on a synthetic leather jacket and boots.

  “You should wear a shirt under the jacket,” she said.

  Marten left the jacket open, exposing his lean stomach, and he didn’t comb his hair. Maybe it was the synthahol whispering. He dressed slum, the daring new style. It wasn’t the right sort of dress for discussions, maybe more an outing to the zoo.

  Molly told him all that. He kissed her to silence. She told him to take a mint. She hated synthahol breath.

  “And it’s illegal, Marten. You know that.”

  “I know.”

  “I should report you.”

  “Then who will you have to move in with?”

  “Oh, Marten!” she said, brightening, clapping her hands. “Are you serious? Do you want to move in today?”

  He blinked at her in confusion, uncertain what he’d just said.

  She pouted. “We can’t get married. Marten, that’s… that’s reactionary. Do you know what my friends would say?”

  Marten took the mint, ushered her out the cubicle and in silence they rode the conveyer to the discussion room. He tried to take her hand. She jerked it away. He rubbed her shoulder, whispering, “Don’t be anti-social.”

  She glared at him. He gave her a playful pinch. Finally, she relented and gave him a smile. He kissed her. She kissed him back.

  They jumped off the conveyer and strolled to the large double doors of the discussion room. Crowds poured in. The women dressed in silky, knee-length skirts and slippers. Some had sequined blouses like Molly, others wore frilly blouses with the top three buttons open. Every female dressed in bright, “happy” colors. The men wore brown shorts and sandals, and typically yellow sleeveless shirts with red cloth-cuffs. Within the building ferns abounded everywhere. They hung from the high ceiling and lined the walls. Couples and triplets mingled freely. Giggling came from the hidden lanes created by the ferns. Pleasant, sing-along-humming issued from wall speakers.

  When a chime sounded people moved to the center of the room, sitting on mats. The men sat cross-legged, the ladies tucked their legs under themselves. A few people frowned at Marten’s attire. More than one woman shook her head at Molly in sympathy. She shrugged, rubbed Marten’s shoulder and finally started scolding him for wearing such improper garments to discussions.

  Molly brooded even as the speaker moved toward center stage. The speaker was a terrifying ogre of a woman: large, massively shouldered, with ponderous breasts and a big gut. She wore the tight-fitting red uniform with black epaulets of Political Harmony Corps. She stomped her black boots on the platform as if on parade. She came to a sudden halt and wheeled toward the crowd, glowering at them from beneath the low
-slung brim of her black cap. She had heavy jowls that wobbled as she spoke. Her thick right hand rested on the butt of her holstered stunner. Her tiny black eyes, dots within folds of flesh, seemed to glitter as she searched for those who lacked social harmony.

  “Depressingly formidable,” whispered Molly.

  Marten squeezed her hand. Few here would dare joke about a political police officer. That Molly could was one of the reasons Marten liked her.

  The PHC officer barked out in a drill parade voice, telling them how evil the Highborn were, how the genetic soldiers hated everything good and proper. Their political philosophy, as low and primitive as could be imagined, was based on the master-slave relationship. The Highborn could never win, everyone knew that… and on and on she roared. Finally, her voice broke as she burst into praise of the Directorate’s bold new plans that would throw these space deviants off the good old Earth.

  Cued, Hall Leader Quirn stepped onto stage. His community persona was utterly different from his office presentation. Today he wore attire similar to the men but with the added features of a short “block leader” cape and his military style cap. He clapped loudly as he limped toward the major. The crowd leaped to its feet, clapping and shouting approval for the major’s speech. As Marten rose, Molly cheered beside him.

  Quirn motioned them down as his voice came over the speakers.

  “Thank you, Major Orlov, thank you. That was very informative. Yes, I understand now how in the end our military will defeat the Highborn. Their very… evil gives them a certain advantage over good folk like us, trusting folk that we are. How vile it was of them to have taken advantage of our good nature. But soon, very soon they will be defeated.”

  “Correct!” barked Major Orlov.

  Quirn and she vigorously shook hands on center stage. She dwarfed him like some medieval monster. Then he faced the crowd again. “Major, I’m sure that many, many of the folk of Hall C-Two hundred and seventeen have questions for you, burning questions that I’m certain only you have the expertise to answer.”

  From her spot on the floor, Molly hissed at Marten, who swayed on his feet, not having yet sat down again like everyone else.

  “Yes, that man over—why, it’s Marten Kluge,” said Quirn in surprise. “Dearest Marten, do you have a question for the major?”

  A thin man in a yellow zipsuit hurried toward Marten. The man excused himself as he stepped over seated people until he shoved a mike under Marten’s nose.

  “Uh...” said Marten, and it came over the wall speakers.

  People laughed.

  Quirn held up exquisitely clean hands—they shone as if lacquered. “There are no bad questions. Only questions that haven’t yet been asked.”

  “Quite correct!” barked the major.

  “Yes, I do have a question,” Marten said.

  “Splendid!” cried Quirn. He nodded for Marten to go ahead and ask it.

  “Don’t you say anything silly, Marten,” Molly said from the floor.

  The mike picked that up and broadcast it throughout the room. Nervous laughter greeted her words.

  “A woman’s wisdom,” shouted Quirn.

  Clapping erupted everywhere from the women.

  Marten growled into the mike. “Yeah, I got a question. How many times can the Highborn retreat to their drop zone? The news said three times already. That seems two times too many to me.”

  Silence greeted his words.

  Licking his lips in a nervous gesture, Quirn glanced at the major. She stared at Marten with obvious hostility.

  Marten leaned his face toward the mike. “I know there aren’t any bad questions.”

  As if pricked, Major Orlov snarled, “Far better to die fighting for political equality and social equity than to fall into the hated hands of the Supremacists! Humanity stands shoulder to shoulder against these caste masters, against the peerage of supposed genetic superiority. I for one refuse to buckle under these grandees, these supposed lords of creation. United together and no matter the cost, we will hurl these interlopers into the depths of space.”

  Major Orlov’s pin-dot eyes shone. “How many times can the Highborn retreat to their drop zone? That, my arrogant friend, is a matter of state security and only told to those who need to know!”

  “Ahhh,” went throughout the room.

  Marten allowed Molly to drag him down beside her.

  “How could you, Marten?” she said, tears brimming.

  Marten might have been worried, but good old synthahol came to his rescue. He blanked out and time seemed to leap forward. The next thing he knew they mingled among the crowds, discussing what had been said. No one asked him about his question. Molly fidgeted and she kept touching his jacket until he zipped it.

  Hall Leader Quirn limped up, a glass of punch in his hand. His eyes appeared glassy. Rumor said he sniffed dream dust, but surely, he’d not slipped a dose here. Beside him strode Major Orlov.

  “Be careful, Marten,” Molly hissed into his ear.

  “Ah, dear fellow,” said Quirn, slapping Marten on the shoulder. “What possessed you to ask such a question?”

  “Sorry,” Marten mumbled. Beside him, Molly heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Ah, well, must have been a hard day at work,” said Quirn, his right eye fluttering, a sure sign of dream dust usage.

  PHC Major Orlov wasn’t so gracious. She planted herself in front of Marten, her burly arms akimbo. “I never believed there were alarmists. Not until I saw you.”

  “Asking questions is wrong?” Marten meekly asked.

  “Certain questions are. Any patriot knows that.”

  Tears leaked from Molly’s eyes as people turned and stared.

  “Molly!” cried Quirn. “Please don’t cry.” He moved forward as if to console her.

  But Molly turned away and fled toward the nearest Lady’s Room. Marten took a step after her. A hard grip on his arm jerked him to a stop and spun him around.

  “I’m speaking to you,” said the major.

  Marten scowled, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Quirn limping after Molly.

  “Can you comprehend the odds our soldiers face?”

  “Huh?” said Marten.

  People moved closer, interested in the information and wondering if Mad Marten would give this political policewoman something to think about.

  “The odds, the difficulties, the danger.”

  Marten eyed the major, and he wondered how much real information she was privy to. Certain that it would annoy her and maybe loosen her lips, he shrugged.

  “Are you dense?” the major asked outraged.

  “These are Supremacists we speak of,” Marten said, “deviants, I believe you said.”

  “Yes, yes, of course they are. But surely you would agree that a rabid dog is dangerous.”

  “Surely.”

  “Then think of a dog bred for battle, and that dog rabid and running loose.”

  “So the odds are bad?” Marten asked innocently.

  The monstrous major decisively chopped the air.

  “Orbital Highborn fighters scour the skies until nothing of ours can move. Powered troopers land behind any fixed positions we try to hold and in hours the surrounded units are annihilated.” She shook her head so her jowls wobbled. “They have complete fluidity, we die in…”

  The faces around her had turned ashen, silent, still.

  “Please,” said Marten, “continue. Your information is absorbing”

  Major Orlov turned crimson and shot him a venomous glance. Then she turned and ponderously marched elsewhere.

  Marten glanced around for a sign of Molly. Then his features hardened as he failed to spy Hall Leader Quirn. Marten strode to the nearest Lady’s Room as he considered the major’s revelations. It was as he’d suspected. The Highborn were winning, at least in Australian Sector. Rumors said they’d already taken Antarctica, New Zealand, Tasmania, New Caledonia, the Solomon Islands and New Guinea. Their strategy didn’t seem difficult to decipher.
Grab Earth’s islands first, because except for submarines the islands would be impossible to re-supply with Social Unity troops. The rumors he’d heard said that Earth’s surface vessels had all been destroyed—only the submarines had survived and could survive the Highborn orbital laser platforms that burned anything that moved. Other rumors said the Directorate’s high scientists devised new beam and missile batteries to drive the hated enemies away from Near-Earth Orbit. The news shows ominously stated that Political Harmony Corps intended the Highborn to gain no useful victories.

  “Marten!” said a woman.

  Marten turned. “Oh, hello Beth.”

  Beth was Molly’s best friend. She constantly urged Molly to see someone else. Beth worked in records, wore her dark hair short and never smiled except during hum-a-longs when it was considered bad manners not to.

  Beth eyed Marten’s leather jacket with distaste, hesitated and then moved closer.

  “Really, Marten, don’t you ever think of anyone but yourself?”

  He didn’t want to argue with Beth. So he said, “Sometimes. Have you seen Molly?”

  Beth took another step. “Marten… why do you have to make it so hard for Molly?”

  “Beth, please, not now.”

  “No, listen for once. She’d like you to move in with her. But your insistence that you get married first, Marten! That’s so....”

  “Reactionary?”

  “It’s worse than that. What if she wants to see other people?”

  “What?” he said. “Like who?”

  “See. That’s what I’m talking about. We all belong to each other. To insist upon marriage—you don’t own her, Marten.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you?”

  Maybe it was the synthahol, because he wasn’t sure why he asked, “Haven’t you ever wanted to belong solely to one person? To be a team, you and your partner, against the world?”

  Beth drew back in horror. “We’re all one, Marten. No one is better than anyone else.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “How dare you want to be...” she sputtered for the right word “...elitist!”

  “No, that’s not what I mean.”

  “Do you think you’re the only one good enough for Molly?”