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

by Vaughn Heppner

  General Hawthorne contemplated his future. How odd was fate, how twisted and bizarre. He glanced at the bionic captain, and said, “The Lord Director’s instincts are impeccable. He had to have fled Beijing only hours before its destruction. His survival skills are unrivaled, wouldn’t you say?”

  The bionic captain remained impassive. A massively built man, with artificial muscles and stimulant-powered reflexes, he sat ramrod stiff, eyes forward. His five trusted soldiers sat likewise, with the added feature of short, bullpup carbines held in their grimly powerful grips. Armor vests added to their invincibility.

  “Enkov does not intend me to survive the meeting with him,” Hawthorne mused. He seemed remarkably composed in spite of his statement. “I’m sure he’ll ask you to report on my comportment during the operation.”

  The bionic captain minutely changed position, so he stared impassively at the general.

  “I tried to do my duty as I saw fit,” said Hawthorne. “I of course will tell him that you were simply trying to do yours.”

  “I obeyed my orders.”

  “Of course,” said Hawthorne. “And like the Lord Director I too believe that obedience is the highest military virtue. Of course, not all virtue belongs to the soldier. Some must belong to the commander. Chief among the virtues he should possess is loyalty—Loyalty to one’s subordinates and to one’s own orders. Otherwise a commander is merely whimsical and therefore not worthy of obedience.”

  The bionic captain allowed himself the tiniest of frowns, and a faint downward twitch of the smallest portion of the left side of his mouth. “Lord Director Enkov does not plan your death to be a pleasant one.”

  “Such is my own belief.”

  “Yet you are calm.”

  General Hawthorne shrugged. Then he sat still, a tall gaunt general with wispy blond hair, bony features composed and a row of medals on his chest. The bionic captain had allowed him time to don his dress uniform, a considerate gesture.

  Soon the GEV stopped, settling onto the ground. The door opened and the bionic captain and his five soldiers escorted the general step into an underground bunker. The ultra-clean garage of the bunker held many tanks and GEVs and a company of black uniformed allegiance monitors aiming pistols at him. They wore black helmets with dark shaded visors. All of them were tense, ready for anything. .

  The bionic captain marched his five men and General Hawthorne past the allegiance monitors and into a sterile white corridor. More bionic men stood at attention along the corridors. No one said a word as General James Hawthorne’s heels drummed upon the tiles. Impassively, they watched. How carefully and zealously Enkov had built up this special Corps of new men, Hawthorne thought. Surely now the Lord Director had to rule with a greater severity than before. A purge would be in order, a cleaning out of the traitors in the military who had allowed such an unprecedented disaster. At least Hawthorne was certain this was how Enkov would be thinking. Today, Hawthorne himself would be the first scapegoat.

  They finally reached a steel door—the end of the corridor, end of the line. The door slid open, and the captain and his five most trusted men marched the general into a small room, interrogation sized. Lord Director Enkov sat behind a rather small desk. Flanking him stood his original bionic bodyguard.

  A plain wooden chair sat before the desk.

  “Sit,” wheezed the old, wrinkled man who held supreme power.

  General Hawthorne sat.

  With a trembling, palsied hand, Enkov stuck a stimstick between his withered lips. His eyes seemed to glitter with promised death for everyone who had failed him. As the stimstick glowed into life, the Lord Director pointed an accusatory finger at the general.

  “You failed.”

  “May I speak?” asked Hawthorne.

  The bionic captain shifted uncomfortably.

  Enkov noticed. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. He leaned back in his chair and eyed the captain of his guards at the military command center of all Earth. It had been a post of high rank, surely one of the Lord Director’s most trusted positions. The evidence of the captain’s five-man security team, still armed in his presence, showed the truth of this.

  Enkov asked, “Do you have something to report, Captain?”

  “He did his duty,” General Hawthorne said.

  The Lord Director lifted his bushy white eyebrows. Red smoke drifted out of his nostrils. “I don’t recall asking you a question, General.”

  “No,” agreed Hawthorne. “But it’s time we told the truth, you and I. And heard the truth, too,” he said to the bionic captain.

  Enkov glanced from the bionic captain to the general. A mixture of caution, suspicion and—was that fear?—mingled in the old man’s features. He noticed the port arms of the five trusted bionic soldiers. The Lord Director leaned toward his intercom.

  The bionic captain, the one who had stopped General Hawthorne from using nuclear weapons to stop the million-ton meteorites, gave his men a subtle finger-signal. They raised their carbines and riddled the Lord Director’s bodyguard with bullets.

  The Lord Director jerked back in his chair, surprised and bewildered at this sudden turn of events.

  “You are relieved of duty, sir,” General Hawthorne told Enkov.

  The stimstick dropped out of Enkov’s mouth. Then he snapped forward as his old, palsied hand reached for the intercom button. The hand never made it. The carbines spoke again. And the ancient, Lord Director fell to the clean floor, dead.

  ***

  A half-hour later, the bionic guards ushered the General into Director Blanche-Aster’s office. She sat in a wheelchair, a red plaid blanket over her useless legs and a bulky medical unit hooked into her and keeping her alive. Her face was drawn and old and she wore a turban because it was rumored that all her hair had fallen out. Her eyes yet shone with dangerous life.

  “General Hawthorne,” she said in a surprisingly strong voice.

  “Director.”

  “By killing the Lord Director, you have committed a horrible deed.”

  “I stand by it,” he said, determined to die with dignity.

  “Do you? Do you indeed?”

  “The Lord Director’s arrogance cost Earth too dearly,” General Hawthorne said. “He had a debt to pay and I merely helped him pay it.”

  “That’s claptrap, General. Your neck was on the block and you did what you had to in order to save it. Or do you think me so dull that I’d actually believe that you’re committed to saving Earth?”

  General Hawthorne clicked his heels together. “Director, I think of nothing else.”

  She studied him with those dangerously bright eyes, with those deeply knowledgeable eyes. “A single word from me, a nod even, and you’ll be dragged out and shot like a murderous junkie.”

  “Yes, Director.”

  “Don’t interrupt me, General.”

  He tilted his head in acknowledgement.

  “I could first have you tortured, lingeringly tortured, the scene saved on video for the world to watch.”

  His stomach knotted, but he kept the bitter emotions off his face.

  “Yet I need someone to run the war, General. I need someone who can hurt the Highborn. You’ve hurt them. Tell me, if you fought this war under my direction, could you win it?”

  He peered straight into her eyes. “I could.”

  “Director,” she admonished.

  “Director,” he said.

  “I’m reinstating you as the Supreme Commander of Social Unity. And I insist that you defeat the Highborn.”

  “I will do my duty, Director, to the very best of my ability.”

  “Hmm. Yes, I really do hope so.” A hard, wintry smile twisted her face. “So hadn’t you be off then, my General?”

  General James Hawthorne saluted smartly, turned on his heel and marched out of her office. He had a war to win.

  22.

  Transcript #42,124 Highborn Archives: an exchange of notes between Paenus, Inspector General, Earth, and Cassius, Grand Admira
l of Highborn. Dates: May 13 to May 17, 2350

  May 13

  To Cassius:

  Hail the Grand Admiral! Glorious! Victorious! The very Earth trembles at your audacious blow struck amidst treacherous sneak attacks and a startling new enemy beam weapon heretofore unknown. I salute you, Grand Admiral. Your strategic brilliance awes us in Training Army, Earth.

  I am pleased to inform you that ahead of schedule Australian levies E, F and G have been trained to competency and await FEC Army assignments. Alas, not all is perfect. We still await the Antarctica transshipments of the new Praetor Mark III panzers. Three battalions of veteran panzer crews have been assigned them, but until we receive the transshipment, training will continue to be delayed. Otherwise, Grand Admiral, excellence reigns in Training Army, Earth.

  May 14

  To Paenus:

  The Japanese furnace all but devoured our FEC Divisions. Despite overwhelming losses, however, they held. You are to be congratulated on your training procedures, my dear Paenus. The panzer crews proved disciplined, although yet lacking in true exploitation zeal. Still, under the circumstances of narrow, built up fronts and mountainous terrain, I am not displeased with their performance.

  Paenus, our glorious victory of 10 May moves the Campaign for the Solar System into its next phase. I must ask that you scour the FEC Divisions recently thrown into the Japanese cauldron and designate several “hero” units. At once, contact Commander Brutus of Ninth FEC Army so he may award honors to the deserving premen. The numbers need not be large, but only “heroic” formations must be chosen. Said troops will be transferred to Training Commandos, Space. I regret your loss of these trained soldiers, but we are stretched everywhere. Your quick compliance is appreciated.

  May 15

  To Cassius:

  Long live the Grand Admiral! To hear is to obey. My inspection officers fly to the Japanese Islands even as I write this missive. They will scour the FEC formations and present you with heroes or with premen with enough savagery, skill and battle luck so they will not sully the reputation of the Commandos.

  May 16

  To Paenus:

  Your choices, I know, will be excellent. And ensure, too, proper pomp and circumstances during the honor ceremonies in order to heighten FEC morale. As you know, the premen are a touchy species, given to dramatic emotional displays. But then you know this better than I, my dear Paenus. Are you not the architect of our valorous FEC formations?

  Salutations and Congratulations on a duty well preformed.

  23.

  The 93rd Slumlord Battalion, all seventeen survivors, wore dress uniforms as they waited on parade to be pinned with medals by the Inspector General of Training FEC Army, Earth. Highborn Superiors were here along with some of the older Lot Six specimens. Mostly FEC soldiers stood at attention, panzers roaring past and orbital fighters zooming in a thunderclap across the sky.

  “They honor us,” said Kang.

  “Are you so easily impressed?” Marten asked.

  The big Mongol scowled. “Look at the orbital fighters, the panzers, the battle-suited drop troops.”

  “So what. A little razzle to dazzle us into obedience. I’m unimpressed.”

  “Then you’re a fool,” said Kang. “Paenus himself honors us. And we’re to be transferred to Training Commandos, Space.”

  Marten glanced at Omi, who stood on the other side of him. The ex-gunman kept his face impassive. Marten turned back to Kang. “We’re leaving Earth, that’s all I care about.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” growled Kang.

  Marten merely grinned. He stood at attention, waiting for Paenus to come and pin him with a bit of tin. The decoration was meaningless. Turbo and Stick were dead. Almost everyone he’d trained with in Australia was dead. He wondered how Molly and how Ah Chen fared. He’d probably never know. But one thing he did know: He would be free, somehow, whatever it took. And now the Highborn were sending him off-planet. Well, he’d only come to Earth in order to escape the Sun-Works Factory. From orbit around Earth it would surely be easier to escape to the Outer Planets and be free than from deep within this gravity well.

  “Here he comes,” growled Kang.

  Marten stiffened to ramrod attention. He hoped Social Unity and the Highborn killed each other off. Then maybe men would be able to live as they’d been meant to live. He knew that once he escaped from the Commandos that he’d make his dream into reality. But first, he must survive this bit of frippery. He pasted a look of awe on his face, trying to think how a dog would feel being petted by its master. Let them think what they wanted, for now. Soon enough they’d find out the truth, and then let both sides beware.

  24.

  Meanwhile, in deep space between the orbital paths of Neptune and Uranus, the first, ultra-stealth cyborg pods continued their journey to Earth.

  The End, Book #1

  The war-torn adventure continues with

  Bio-Weapon

  (Book #2 of the Doom Star Series)

  Read on for an exciting excerpt from the next book in the Doom Star Series.

  1.

  “We’re hunting dogs, Omi, nothing more.”

  The Korean ex-gang member shook his bullet-shaped head, clearly not liking that kind of talk.

  Marten Kluge rolled back his sleeve to show the meaty part of his forearm and a bluish-purple barcode tattoo.

  “Branded like cattle,” Marten said.

  “In case you die,” Omi said. “So they know your blood-type when they resurrect you.”

  “You believe that?” Marten was a lean, ropy-muscled man with bristly blond hair. He wore a brown jumpsuit, the shock-trooper training uniform. It had patch of a skull on his right shoulder and another on his left pectoral pocket.

  Omi wore a similar shock-trooper jumpsuit. Both uniforms showed sweat stains and both men had circles under their eyes. Their grueling training surpassed anything they’d ever known, and they’d known plenty of bad.

  “They also use the barcode to track you,” Omi said. “We’re little blips in the station computer.”

  Marten’s expression didn’t change as they strode down an empty corridor, a utilitarian steel hall with emergency float rails on the sides. This was sleep-time, but Marten had convinced Omi to slip from the barracks so he could show him something.

  “Watch,” Marten said. He unlatched a secret wall panel and withdrew a recorder.

  Omi frowned before leaning near. The recorder was small, square and compact, voice activated. It was something HB officers used when watching their drills.

  “Is it stolen?”

  A wild light flashed in Marten’s eyes. Then it was gone, giving him the sleepy obedient look most of them wore around the Highborn. “Admitting a theft gets you five in the pain booth.”

  Omi glanced about the deserted corridor.

  “It’s clean,” Marten said. “No listening devices.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I searched until I found them.”

  Omi lifted a single eyebrow.

  “I borrowed a bug and set it in a different corridor, one the HBs use. Then I piped it here.” Marten tapped the recorder.

  “Dangerous.”

  A hard smile was Marten’s only reply.

  “You might as well play it,” Omi said.

  Marten set the recorder on the steel floor. Then he sat cross-legged and looked up. Omi raised an eyebrow, a trademark gesture he’d perfected in the slums. Finally, he shrugged and sat on the other side of the recorder.

  Marten reached out. Click.

  There wasn’t anything at first. Omi leaned closer, so did Marten.

  “I thought—”

  “Shhh,” Marten said. He glanced at the recorder as the sounds started.

  There were footfalls in a corridor, someone wearing boots.

  “It’s hard to hear at first,” Marten said, an edge to his voice.

  Omi closed his eyes. The sounds of boots striking metal grew louder. He imagined
huge Highborn. They always radiated a weird vitality and had eyes like pit bulls about to pounce. Their skin was pearl-white, their lips razor thin, almost nonexistent. Any Highborn could take out a five-man maniple. An HB, he was.... Omi didn’t hate their superiority the way Marten did, but he couldn’t say he liked it either.

  A hard voice, authoritative, full of vigor, spoke. But the garbled words were still too far from the hidden mike.

  “I can’t hear him,” Omi said.

  “Shhh,” Marten said, scowling.

  Then out of the recorder: “…can’t agree, Praetor.”

  “The Praetor?” Omi asked, fear twisting his belly.

  “Listen!” Marten said. “It’s him and Training Master Lycon.”

  LYCON: Yes, gelding has its virtues. It would make them docile, tractable and more prone to obedience. But what about their fighting spirit?

  PRAETOR: Of premen?

  LYCON: Not just premen, but trained shock troopers.

  PRAETOR: There’s no difference. Their sex drive compels them to wild, unpredictable behavior. In space, we must know exactly how they will react. This thing called fighting spirit…. I’ve never really seen premen with it. Let us rely on fierce hate conditioning, combat drugs and hypnotic commands.

  LYCON: They are premen and they are inferior to us. But they are still capable of fighting spirit. The shock troops have been trained to a fine pitch. Why ruin it with gelding?

  The voices in the recorder had grown stronger. Now they reached apogee and grew fainter again, their footfalls ringing in the background.

  PRAETOR: Perhaps as you say, well-trained, some of them even simulate an apparent viciousness.

  LYCON: All heel to my command, I assure you.

  PRAETOR: Yes, you are to be commended on your work, Training Master. It’s just that…”