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

by Vaughn Heppner

  February 1

  To Paenus:

  Disaster was barely averted in Sydney. A court of Inquiry thus convenes on the Twenty-fourth concerning it and other anomalies regarding the Australian Campaign. Whether you are in the dock or on the bench remains to be seen.

  Luckily, for you, the suicide squadrons were able to breach stubborn city strongholds. Reports indicate that cortex-bomb-laden Earth troops preformed best in this regard. Surprisingly, renegade police personnel showed an avid bloodthirstiness when pitched against Social Unity security forces. Because of these specialist troops, Highborn casualties remained within the accepted limits during the underground city fighting. I am recommending a hundred and fifty percent increase in the number of suicide troops.

  That is, however, the only bright spot regarding your premen troops. The Hawk Teams and panzer crews—I wish to remind the Inspector General of staking his reputation upon them if they were given the right training. The Hawk Teams and panzer crews have failed miserably. They lacked adequate zeal and cunning, while the casualties among the Hawk Teams were simply staggering. The panzer crews were worse: timid in the attack and cowardly during exploitation maneuvers. Because of this, Highborn casualties exceeded the acceptable limits during the first half of the Australian campaign.

  I await your explanations and your plans in order to avoid this in the future, provided you have one, my dear Paenus.

  February 3

  To Cassius:

  Grand Admiral, please forgive my delay in answering. My training personnel are strained to the limit and I am overloaded. We badly need more Highborn drill lieutenants and captains. As it is, I have been forced to take veteran Earth troops off line to use as instructors. Their veteran status is dubious at best, as you indicated in your letter. Earthlings lack fiber and fighting ferocity—I had simply not realized the extent of their non-Highborn qualities. To instill this into them is daunting in the extreme.

  One might as well take sheep and teach them to be wolves. The best we can do is to find the rams among them. Unfortunately, we must comb through thousands in order to find one who has the fire. As might be expected, the former policemen have more fire than the rank and file Social Unitarians.

  Grand Admiral, despite these grave flaws, I believe the Hawk and panzer teams will improve from campaign to campaign. The very nature of their specialty takes longer to gain mastery than suicide troops. Suicide troops are not so much rigorously trained as highly motivated to make frontal charges. My records indicate that the best suicide troop results came after double doses of Shaker were force-injected. Some suggest we inject Shaker into all our troops. I highly recommend AGAINST this. Hawk and panzer personnel are seldom composed of former policemen, and I believe would become listless and inclined to apathy if faced with forced injections. The Hawk Team and panzer crews wish to live through the conflict and take up civilian occupations afterward.

  Rather than point fingers, Grand Admiral, I suggest we thank the Fates that the worst disasters were avoided and that we now take extreme measures to ensure they never occur again.

  February 3

  To Paenus:

  Request for extra Highborn denied.

  The Inspector General surely realizes that all troops are readying for the next campaign. Social Unity is on the run. We must maintain pressure. Nor do I accept your excuses for listless Hawk and panzer teams. What you’ve really said is that they are not properly motivated. Motivate them, my dear Paenus, and train them to fight!

  February 4

  To Cassius:

  I will comply as best I can, Grand Admiral. But the number of recruits has swamped my resources. I suggest we make thorough tests for aggressiveness and combat ability, skimming the cream, so to speak, and train the remainder as fire fighters and other emergency personnel.

  February 5

  To Paenus:

  I simply don’t understand you sometimes. War on this scale devours vast amounts of troops. Highborn casualties must remain within the accepted limits or we will lose. Anything else is superfluous. As it is impossible to advance without sustaining heavy losses, we must continue to absorb those losses among our Earth troops. Think of them as fodder, if it will clarify their true function.

  If you lack enough training personnel, I suggest you throw the recruits into battle and let the war train them.

  Yes, many units will break under the pressure, and yes, they will sustain excessive casualties. So you must rush them through basic training, discover the fighters and make them corporals and sergeants. The units that survive and perform above average will then be pulled out and retrained as Hawk and panzer troops. Use this promise of renewed training as a reward.

  Please note the attached New Free Earth Corps unit configuration schedule. High Command has agreed that we must use this influx of volunteers to push Social Unity. Train them to fire their weapons, the corporals and sergeants to attack. We must maintain pressure. First grade levies, as they are now officially termed, can sustain one hundred percent casualties as long as they inflict harm upon the enemy.

  February 6

  To Cassius:

  I hear and obey, and may I add, Grand Admiral, that as always your advice is flawless.

  I wish to add a note of caution, however. One hundred percent casualties, over time, will undoubtedly cause a decrease in Earth volunteers. I understand the logic of mass wave assaults with expendable troops, behind which our men can maneuver. But surely, Grand Admiral, we must consider what effect this will have later in the War for Earth.

  February 7

  To Paenus:

  Just train your volunteers into fighting troops, Inspector General. That’s all I ask.

  9.

  Marten hit upon the daring idea because he couldn’t think of anything else that would give him a reasonable chance of quick success. So the next time he came upon a police sweep, he halted them and snatched the hand computer from the sergeant. Then he punched in Molly Tan’s name. A few seconds scan and it gave her occupation as secretary to Highborn Government. Surprised, Marten noted her work place. It was very near the FEC barracks. How had Molly been able to enter government work? She hadn’t been a hall, block or ward leader, or…

  A troubled feeling spread in Marten’s stomach.

  “What’s wrong?” asked the police sergeant. He was the one Marten had taken the hand monitor from.

  “What? Oh.” Marten thrust the computer back. “I must report to Highborn HQ.”

  That shook the three policemen, who had turned suspicious. They hurried from the man that dared go to the bastion of Highborn power.

  Marten made his way up the various levels, wondering what he would do if Molly were living with Quirn. That was the only possible explanation for Molly getting a secretary’s job in the new Highborn government. As he walked, he thought about all the times they’d enjoyed together, how he’d wanted to marry her. He’d never taken her to bed. In retrospect he wondered if that had been a mistake. He kept telling himself that it was impossible she’d shacked up with Quirn. Blake would have brayed at him, he knew. Good old Blake the disembodied brain. He wondered if Tunnel Crawler Six was still operational. Blake had always told him, “Women follow the power, Marten.”

  In his daze and without being accosted, Marten made it near the surface levels. The data had said Government House Three. He lowered his helmet’s dark visor, drew the shock baton and patrolled in front of the government house. He periodically spoke into his sleeve as if making reports and he watched the arrogant, giant Highborn enter and leave the pseudo-marble building. Tanks were parked in front. Fortunately, the Highborn Military Police ignored him as beneath their notice. They tramped around in their bulky powered armor, immune to everyone.

  What kind of future did he have under the Highborn?

  Marten shrugged, and prowled. Two hours later, he saw Quirn. The former hall leader still wore a military cap, but he’d shed his block leader cape. He wore a black uniform and limped with his old arroga
nce. On his arm chatted Molly, just as she used to chat with him as they’d ridden the conveyers. She wore a business suit and a military style cap similar to Quirn’s.

  Marten stared, transfixed as they strolled near. He heard Molly say, “And then I told him, ‘but we must have the pits processing by nine tomorrow.’”

  “Maybe they’ll send criminals to work the pits,” said Quirn.

  “Quirn,” chided Molly, “that’s careless talk.”

  “Yes, you’re right.” Quirn gave her a quick kiss on the lips. Then he looked up to see a black-visored policeman staring at him.

  The former hall leader stopped. Molly did too, also looking up.

  “Trouble, officer?” asked Quirn.

  Marten simply stared at him, his fingers squeezing his shock rod so hard that his hand hurt. He wanted to beat Quirn to death. Then, minutely, he shifted his gaze to Molly.

  “Do I know you?” asked Molly.

  Marten had no idea what to say. He slowly shook his head.

  “You seem familiar,” she said.

  “Humph!” said Quirn. “Come, Molly, we don’t want to be late for tonight’s meeting.”

  Molly agreed, and they moved on, although Molly looked back once with a worried frown.

  Marten wanted to howl, to beat his head against a wall. Molly… despair filled him. How could she? Marten finally swallowed the lump out of his throat. What was left? Nothing in Greater Sydney. He stood there for five minutes, rooted. Then he turned abruptly and headed for the FEC barracks. He was going to slip back among his friends.

  10.

  In the morning, training began. Marten viewed the training as the descent of man, even though Highborn theories proved antithetical to Social Unity. Marten’s awareness of the change of basic assumptions didn’t come right away. First, the volunteers from Greater Sydney took a medical examination. Marten endured the probes and pinches, but he hated it.

  He donned his clothes afterward and exited through the door the doctor told him. Marten walked down a hall and entered a small room. A huge, uniformed Highborn, an angry-looking giant without any front teeth, scowled down at him. Like all their kind, this man radiated intensity and a heightened vitality. He seemed an auto-trash compacter, eager to crush and destroy. This close to him and in such tight confines, Marten grew tense and worried.

  “You believe yourself capable of combat?” the Highborn rapped out angrily.

  Marten nodded.

  “Speak up, man! Don’t cower!”

  “Yes,” Marten growled.

  The Highborn sneered. And he rapid-fired a bewildering set of questions, edging closer the entire time.

  After the first few questions, Marten refused to be drawn into a debate. He answered as best he could, and he tried to ignore the superior attitude and the too-close proximity. The giant made it difficult. He was towering, and he was probably three times Marten’s weight and was undoubtedly four or five times as strong. His uniform, some type of synthetic leather, crinkled at his movements and showed his lethal muscularity. The snow-white skin seemed much too bright, the face formed of sharp angles and rigid planes. Decidedly inhuman, Marten thought to himself. He didn’t like the arrogance. It was more than just the giant’s position and power. It reminded him of Major Orlov. The Highborn exuded superiority, as if he, Marten, were simple and cowardly. Despite his best resolve, Marten found himself getting angry at the man’s attitude. The Highborn giant loomed closer now and practically yelled down at him.

  “No, no!” the Highborn shouted. “Wrong!” And he slapped Marten across the face.

  Marten reacted before he could check himself. He lunged at the giant. Then he found himself grabbed by the arm, flipped and slammed onto the floor, hard. It knocked the wind out of him. As Marten struggled to rise, the Highborn picked a marker off the table, held Marten’s right hand firmly and stamped the back of his hand. Then the giant picked him up, set him on his feet and propelled him stumbling out of the room and into a new corridor.

  The door slammed behind him as Marten’s lungs unlocked. He blinked in bewilderment and thought about going back. Then he heard the Highborn holler a question at what sounded like the next recruit. What had just happened? Marten checked the back of his hand. A large number 2 had been stamped there. He touched it.

  “Move along,” a voice barked through a hidden loudspeaker.

  Marten scowled, but he followed the arrows painted on the floor. He came to a holding area, looked for and found Omi, Stick and Turbo. Before they could say much, Highborn herded them toward a parking lot filled with sealed vans. They were hustled onto the vans according to familiarity. Thus, Marten found himself packed with a hundred odd slum dwellers. But not just any slum dwellers, but the gang-members that lived by the fist, blade and gun. Stick and Turbo greeted several old friends. Two drug-running gunmen shook Omi’s hand.

  Aboard the bus, most of the talk was about the numbers on the back of their right hand. Turbo wore a four. Stick a three. Omi also had a two. They couldn’t see anyone with a one. Of fives, sixes and sevens, well, that’s what the majority wore.

  “What’s it mean?” Turbo said, as he rested his head along the side of the van.

  The huge vehicle hummed smoothly. The benches on the sides and down the middle were packed with gang members. Each wore the clothes he’d joined with and nothing else, no suitcases, no personal items, nothing.

  “Yeah,” Stick was saying, “is it better to have a low number or a high one?”

  “Marten and I have twos,” said Omi.

  “So?”

  The bullet-headed Korean regarded his hand. At lot of other people were doing the same things. So far, no one had been able to rub out the number, even though many spat on the back of their hand and scrubbed vigorously.

  “It’s under the skin,” growled Marten, who hated the tattoo.

  “Seems like most people have higher numbers,” Stick said. He’d scanned those around him and across the narrow aisle at those in the middle.

  Turbo grunted and rubbed his cheek. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but that guy sure clocked me a good one.”

  “He hit you too?” asked Stick in surprise.

  That’s when they discovered they’d all been face-slapped.

  “Do you think that has anything to do with our number?” Marten asked, wondering if the Highborn’s anger hadn’t been at him but merely routine. Had it been a test?

  Omi arched his eyebrows. “What did you do after he hit you?” he asked Marten.

  “Attacked the bastard.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Turbo. “He was huge.”

  Marten shrugged. He was still a bit bemused by what he’d done. “I didn’t really think about it. I just found myself lunging at him.”

  “Not me,” said Stick. “I figured he was just waiting for me to do something stupid so he could beat me to death. I figured he was testing for obedience, whether I could take orders I didn’t like.”

  “So what did you do?” Turbo asked.

  “Hey, what could I do? The guy towered over me, and he was deciding my future, right? I told him give me my knife to even the odds and let’s try that again.”

  “What did he say to that?” asked Turbo.

  “Nothing. He just grabbed my hand and stamped a three on it.”

  “Huh.”

  “What did you do?” Marten asked the lanky junkie.

  “I told him that was a lousy thing to do. Here they wanted me to fight for them and first thing they did was abuse me. How did he expect me to go all out for them if that’s what they were gonna do?”

  “And he stamped your hand with a four?”

  “Sure did,” Turbo said, restudying the big number four on the back of his hand.

  “Omi?” asked Stick.

  “I tried a chop at this neck.” Omi asked Marten, “What did he do when you attacked him?”

  “He flipped me onto my back.”

  The ex-gunman nodded sagely.

  “He
do the same thing to you?” Turbo asked.

  Ignoring the question, Omi regarded his tattoo. He looked up. “It would be interesting to know what a number one did.”

  “If there is such a number,” Marten said.

  Stick scanned the crowd. “Might be dangerous to try to find out.”

  “How come?” Marten asked.

  “Couple different gangs in here,” said Stick. “Kwon’s Crew is over there. And I see Slicks and Ball Busters.”

  “Yeah,” said Turbo, jutting his chin toward the front, “and over there is Kang of the Red Blades.”

  Marten saw a massive Mongol with black tattoos on his arms. No one sat too close to him. He had flat, evil-looking features, with eyes almost slit shut.

  Omi stood and started walking there.

  “Idiot!” hissed Stick. “Come back before you start a rumble.”

  Omi ignored the advice.

  “Them gunmen are all alike,” Turbo whispered to Marten. “They think they can do whatever they want.”

  They watched Omi wade past the other gang members, who glowered uneasily. Omi ignored them, moving slowly and deliberately toward Kang of the Red Blades. When he reached the forward area, Omi bowed his head. Massive Kang simply stared at him with his almost closed eyes. His flat, blank-looking face was unreadable. Omi showed him his hand, and then he bowed again and seemed to ask a question. Everyone in the van watched what Kang would do, some in anticipation. Finally, the huge killer showed Omi his hand. Omi bowed his head again and turned. A sigh, a release of tension, drained from everyone. Soon Omi took his place back between Marten and Turbo.

  “Well?” whispered Turbo. “What was his number?”

  “One.”

  “What he do when slapped?” asked Stick.

  “He said he waited. And when the Highborn reached for his stamp he slapped him across the face.”

  “You’re kidding?” Stick said in awe. “Then what happened?”