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

by Vaughn Heppner

  Marten kept striding, but it felt as if he moved through water. His head started hurting and it was hard to concentrate. So he watched his feet, willing them forward one step at a time. When had control of them again, he looked up, hunting, searching. He hurried through a hatchway—and he tripped over a foot. Marten threw out his arms to catch himself. His weapon went spinning, but he landed without knocking out his teeth. When nothing more happened, he looked back.

  A red-suit pointed a laser at him. The man had razor-thin eyebrows and the deadly intent eyes of a pit bull. On his suit was the name: Ngo Drang. He was the second guard that had helped the major torture him in the interrogation room.

  Drang frowned. “I… I should shoot you.”

  Marten sagged in defeat. He didn’t know why Ngo Drang hadn’t already done it. Then he looked at the tight face, at the empty, odd stare in the killer’s eyes.

  “Hissss—splat,” said Drang. “A neat laser hole in your forehead.”

  “You should take me to the major,” Marten said.

  Drang shook his head. “No. I… I should kill you. I don’t know why I haven’t done it already. It’s…” He shook his head, frowning.

  “The major wants you to take me to her,” Marten said.

  “Yeah?”

  Marten rose slowly, noting how the laser tracked his forehead. Deep-core pressure was all he had between him and death. “We’d better go.”

  The intense frown left Ngo Drang’s face. “That way,” he said, gesturing with the laser.

  19.

  When Marten had first stepped off the elevator into the deep-core station, Major Orlov had been twining her thick fingers into the long dark hair of System Specialist Ah Chen. The Chinese technician was exactly the type the major passionately hated: Petite, pretty, with luxurious dark hair and eyes like a vid star. Ah Chen made her baggy brown overalls seem sexy and provocative. Major Orlov hated her on sight. So she gripped the system specialist’s thick hair and yanked her head.

  “You’re going to help us obliterate Sydney, my smooth-skinned harlot.”

  Ah Chen remained speechless. Tears welled in her fawn eyes and streaked her oval face. She’d squealed in terror until Orlov had forced her to watch the quick and efficient slaughter of her deep station colleagues. The major had grinned and made a running commentary as her killers had hosed the room with beams. Sobs still racked the tiny thing.

  “No crying!” Orlov shouted, jerking the small head from side to side.

  The little beauty sniffled and sobbed. So the major slammed her face against the wall, listening to the little button nose crunch and break.

  “Did you hear me!” roared Orlov, enjoying herself hugely.

  Ah Chen bowed her head. Her blood dripped to the floor.

  Major Orlov shoved the tiny system specialist ahead of her into the hall, and did so all the way to the main reactor room. It contained a bewildering array of computer screens and keyboards. Openmouthed, terrified technicians stared at them.

  Major Orlov shook Ah Chen’s head. Then she leaned low and whispered into her ear, telling her what was expected of her.

  The tiny Chinese technician turned in amazement. “No. I-I-I cannot do as you ask.”

  “Pity.” Major Orlov gestured to her killers.

  The little technician cringed as lasers beamed. More of her colleagues collapsed amid bloody butchery.

  She whispered, “You might as well kill me too. I’m no good to you.”

  Major Orlov barked harsh laughter. “Kill you? I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.” She indicated the room. “I know several of the steps for prepping the station for a geyser, but not all of them. No. You will help me destroy Sydney.”

  The small technician’s dread was palpable as color drained from her face. So very slowly, she shook her head.

  “Are you brave, my dear?”

  “No. But I cannot do as you ask.”

  “Conditioning?”

  “You are correct.”

  “Don’t you know that Political Harmony Corps can break conditioning?”

  “I must inform you that you cannot break Deep-Core’s.”

  “Oh yes, most certainly we can break Deep-Core’s.” Major Orlov snapped her fingers.

  A pot-bellied PHC officer, with thinning hair and droopy eyes, opened a black case. He had pudgy little hands with dirt under the fingernails. No laser pack was slung on his back. No pistol was cradled at his side. He was known simply as ‘the Doctor.’ He now took out a pneumospray hypo.

  Ah Chen’s fawn eyes grew wide with fright.

  The Doctor explained. “Oh, it isn’t painful, I assure you. This is simply a hyperaesthesic.”

  The small technician appeared bewildered.

  “It heightens your senses,” he said, as he pressed the hypo to her arm, letting it hiss.

  She jerked her arm back, rubbing it.

  “No, I advise against that,” said the Doctor.

  Her hand shot off her arm as pain creased her features.

  “As I said, a fast-acting hyperaesthesic. Your heart rate and breathing will increase, and your senses will become many times more sensitive. For instance, the light in this room will soon hurt your eyes. The clothes you wear will begin to chafe unbearably. Certain odors you’ve never noticed will now become most pronounced. It’s possible that what you now consider an awful stench will make you vomit. In the quantity you’ve been given—a large dosage, believe me—these new sensations will become….” He exposed small teeth in a rather nasty smile, “...decidedly uncomfortable.”

  Major Orlov laughed. “You’ll never have felt pain like this.”

  Already the tiny technician twitched this way and that. But that only increased the obvious discomfort she felt from her clothes.

  “Let me help you,” said Major Orlov. She took hold of Ah Chen’s garment and ripped off the top half, exposing the petite Chinese technician from the waist up. “Not too well endowed, are you?”

  The little technician covered herself with her hands.

  The major took each tiny wrist and swung the arms behind Ah Chen’s back, snapping handcuffs onto her. The system specialist painfully sucked in her breath.

  “It hurts?” asked the Doctor.

  “Why are you doing this?” asked Ah Chen.

  The Doctor reached into his black bang, pulling out a wand. “The nerve lash,” he said professionally. “Notice, I position the switch at one, the lowest setting.” The wand purred evilly. “I then apply the tip to your belly.”

  Ah Chen screamed, her face twisting hideously.

  The Doctor popped a rubber ball into her mouth. The technician’s eyes widened in shock. “You’ll become quite a bit louder,” the Doctor told her. “We don’t care to wear ear plugs, so you must accommodate us.”

  Major Orlov giggled wickedly.

  “Examine your belly,” the Doctor said, taking away the nerve lash.

  Ah Chen did. There was no mark.

  “This is a marvelous instrument,” the Doctor said. “Now notice, I set it to level two. The pain will now increase.” He touched it to her left breast.

  Ah Chen collapsed into a thrashing heap onto the floor.

  Major Orlov cracked her knuckles in anticipation.

  20.

  Marten stumbled into the reactor room. A small, nude Chinese woman lay in a sweaty heap on the floor. A pot-bellied red-suit straightened, clutching a nerve lash in his dirty hands. Major Orlov sat back in a chair. Her big boots were propped up on a com-board. With obvious relish, she watched the Chinese woman.

  Marten took in the scene at a glance. More torture, more PHC brutality. Something snapped in him. This was his last chance anyway. He kept stumbling and allowed himself to trip over his own feet. He fell to the floor, and while lying on his stomach, he reached to his boot and drew the vibroknife. His thumb settled onto the on/off switch.

  “Marten Kluge?” the major asked, as if heaven had sent her the gift of a lifetime.

  “Can you believe
it?” asked Drang.

  “Where did you find him?”

  “In the halls.”

  “Amazing. No, shocking.” Major Orlov chuckled. “This… This is simply wonderful. Marten! Marten, dear, did you miss mommy?”

  “I thought you’d want to see him again,” said Drang.

  “Doctor,” said Orlov, “do you have any more hyperaesthesic left?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Doesn’t the system specialist need a rest?” suggested the major.

  “Your sense of timing is impeccable, as always,” the Doctor said. “I was just about to suggest a cooling off period. She’s reached the tertiary point, in any case.”

  “Gentlemen,” said Major Orlov, “I pronounce our deeds approved. For if there is any Higher Form after death—”

  “You can’t really believe that?” Drang asked.

  “Don’t interrupt me.” Major Orlov cleared her throat. “As I was saying, if there is any Higher Form after death, He can only be showing us His approval by gifting me with these two. Oh yes, Marten and a young pretty. This is splendid!”

  “If I’m to inject him I want him standing,” said the Doctor.

  “Marten. Oh, Marten,” called Major Orlov.

  Marten lay on his belly, waiting, willing them closer.

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked the major.

  “Perhaps he’s finally succumbed to deep pressure,” the Doctor said.

  “Well, get him up!” snapped Major Orlov.

  Drang approached Marten.

  “Be careful,” said the major.

  Drang grabbed Marten by the shoulder, the pistol digging into his back. “On your feet, slum-dog.”

  Marten groaned, but he allowed himself to be pulled up. Then he twisted around, flicked the knife on and drove the vibroblade into Drang’s belly. The blade dug in with ease, singing all the way. Marten sidestepped and jerked the blade out sideways, slicing the laser coil just as Drang clicked the trigger. Substance spilled from the coil, burning Drang, who howled. Marten chopped at the man’s head. He had no idea of the blade’s power. It sawed through part of the skull, spraying brain and gore. The corpse pitched forward.

  Ah Chen screamed.

  Marten turned. The Doctor thrust at him with the nerve lash. Marten parried, cutting the lash in two. With a croak of dismay, the Doctor drew back his ruined torture device. Marten snarled, hewing at the Doctor’s chest. The knife whined in high glee, punching into the chest. Blood sprayed and drenched Marten. The vibroblade was a messy weapon.

  Major Orlov had leaped to her feet and clawed at her holster.

  The small Chinese technician, still lying on the floor, used her tiny foot to kick the major’s boot at the ankle. The major cried out and momentarily lost her balance. She both drew her pistol and let go at the same moment. The pistol clattered to the floor. Marten whooped savagely, attacked and thrust. Major Orlov, for all her bulk and unbalance, twisted and dodged the singing, bloody blade. She then pivoted on her heel and swung a ham-like fist. Marten heard a rib crack as the air whooshed out of him. The major’s touch hurt horribly. She followed with another smashing blow. It rocked him backward and stole his breath. She was incredibly strong, with more than twice his mass.

  “Little man!” she snarled.

  Marten backpedaled to give himself time, and almost slipped on all the blood and gore.

  Orlov checked herself, then turned and lunged for her gun.

  Wildly, Marten threw the vibroblade. Orlov dodged. It hit a panel, singing loudly as it buried itself into it. Marten followed. Major Orlov laughed and crashed upon him like an auto-sweeper. They wrestled on the floor. The slick of blood made it hard for either of them to get a good hold. Orlov had size, strength and weight. Marten was faster. She tried to twist his head around, but her hands keep slipping off. He dug his fingers into her nose. She moaned, and bit his wrist. He jabbed with his other hand, using his thumb like a pick. Bone, bone, he jabbed deeply into an eye, digging until Major Orlov shrieked, using her hands and feet to hurl him away. He landed heavily and rose off the floor. So did she, with ichor dripping from her ruined left eye.

  “Hey!” cried Ah Chen. Marten glanced at her. The small Chinese woman handed him the vibroblade. It was turned off.

  “No!” howled Major Orlov, charging.

  Marten sidestepped to her blind side, flicked on the blade and chopped. Like a thing alive, the blade hummed. It seemed satisfied beyond measure. Major Orlov’s head separated from her body and thumped onto the floor. The huge torso jetted blood everywhere. Then it crashed onto the deck, spent, finished, ended forever.

  Ah Chen clutched Marten, burying her face in his chest and crying.

  He couldn’t believe it. He stood there dazed, looking at the carnage. Finally, it came to him that he held a naked woman in his arms and that they were both covered with other people’s blood. He flicked off the knife and pitched it aside.

  Sydney had been saved from annihilation. Marten wondered if he’d be able to do the same for himself.

  21.

  Transcript #30,499 Highborn Archives of an exchange of notes between: Paenus, Inspector General, Earth, and Cassius, Grand Admiral of Highborn. Dates: December 15 to December 20, 2349.

  December 15

  To Paenus:

  The training schedule must be accelerated. Hawk Assault Teams and panzer crews are especially needed for the pending Australian Sector Campaign.

  To Cassius:

  Your Excellency is surely aware of the lack of qualified recruits. Combined with enemy sleeper agents, worldwide anti-Highborn propaganda and terrorist assassinations makes the accelerated training program, especially for these elite units, a daunting, perhaps a hopeless task.

  December 17

  To Paenus:

  Surely not hopeless my dear Inspector General.

  To Cassius:

  Your Excellency must know that most of my recruits are herded to me at gunpoint. As fodder for bombs and lasers, they excel. As warriors, they are sadly lacking. Hawk Assault Teams and panzer crews require a certain élan for maximum effectiveness. Still, I shall comply with your wishes to the best of my ability.

  December 18

  To Paenus:

  I thank the Inspector General for informing me of the need for élan in certain shock and exploitation troops. Such graciousness should be returned. Thus, I have decided to solve your training problems as way of reward.

  The easiest expedient to help instill fervor in recruits is to show them the folly of lacking it. For instance, a bullet in the back of the head, preferably where many recruits can witness the event, will help energize the others. Every recruit must learn that orders are to be obeyed. Sleeper agents abound, you say. I recommend strenuous mind-probing. When an offender is found, brain-wipe him and send him to a penal battalion. These battalions should be highly visible as deterrents to the others. Therefore, all penal battalions must be designated as suicide troops. All suicide troops must have a mini-explosive implanted in their cortex. Detonation devices will be in the control of the battalion’s colonel, captains and lieutenants. I believe that all our Earth draftees should have a cortex bomb, but at some point, the enemy will learn the code and frequency of various sets and they will explode them before it is desirable.

  Let me point out to the Inspector General the very urgent need of these soldiers for the coming Australian campaign. Actual Highborn deaths took an alarming turn in the New Zealand and Java Island Campaigns. Yet we cannot afford to slacken the speed of our advance, thus the need for your Earth levies at the earliest possible date.

  I surely do not need to point out to the Inspector General that victory in the field automatically diminishes the effectiveness of enemy propaganda. We must strike hard and fast NOW, but we must keep Highborn losses to a minimum. I cannot overstate this need for trained Earth soldiers who can fight. Brutality, my dear Paenus, done in calculated doses, will save lives and ensure us a golden future sooner rather than later.


  December 19

  To Cassius:

  I hear and obey you, Grand Admiral.

  To Paenus:

  I know you too well, my dear Paenus. You held back. I know, because your curt reply plays repeatedly in my mind. Please, share with a fellow warrior what ails you.

  December 20

  To Cassius:

  I am indeed troubled, Grand Admiral. I feel that we are somehow going about this the wrong way. I realize that brutality and hard training can make soldiers of civilians in short order. And yes, our technology allows us a certain leeway that warriors in the past never had. I refer to brain scans, wipes and cortex bombs. I ask myself, however, will we have to garrison our conquests forever? Our enemy blares on the vids and holos against us, and on the airwaves and in the streets.

  Grand Admiral, to a space battle we bring Doom Stars, tac-craft and long-range lasers. To a land assault, we brings orbital fighters, heavy panzers and drop troops. My question, Grand Admiral, is what does one bring to a propaganda war?

  To Paenus:

  My brilliant friend. You are quite right. You fight an idea with a better idea.

  22.

  The elevator sped toward the surface, bearing its cargo of five survivors. As the horrible pressure of the great deep lessened, Omi repackaged the cartridges littered around him, until his carbine clips brimmed with shells. Turbo wiped spittle from his chin and tried to make conversation with Ah Chen. She huddled beside Marten, who rested his head against the vibrating wall. Stick reclaimed his knife and wanted to hear again how Major Orlov had lost her head.

  A tired smile touched Marten’s lips.

  “That’s right,” Stick said. “A knife’s better than anything else. You feel them die. You don’t stand back and let technology do your dirty work. Not like gunmen do it.”

  “Meaning what?” asked Omi from his side of the elevator.

  “Meaning shooting out kneecaps,” said Stick.

  “And your knife isn’t technological?” the muscled Korean asked.