Admiral Sioux shifted on her couch, trying to relax her left shoulder. The horrible acceleration threatened to cramp her muscles. Nor could she lift her arm and massage her shoulder. Simply breathing, forcing her chest up in order to drag down another breath, was becoming hard.
She took short, small gasps and her thigh cramped. Despite that, she grinned hideously. The acceleration made it so.
They were finally going to hit back. After long months of inactivity, she would be allowed to hurt the enemy.
A week ago, they had picked up General James Hawthorne’s scratchy orders. It had taken computer enhancement to make sense of the Supreme Military Commander’s words. Because of the orders, she now used the Sun as a pivoting post, building up speed.
The Sun’s diameter was roughly 1.4 million kilometers, or 109 times the size of the Earth. The Bangladesh thus orbited or circled a greater distance than the Moon did in its orbit around the Earth. The diameter of the Moon’s orbit was approximately 770,000 kilometers.
The beamship’s huge engines increased power and changed the direction of their thrust, and the experimental Bangladesh broke free from its near-Sun orbit. It sped toward Mercury. In three weeks, the ship would fly past the planet by 30 million kilometers.
A second later, the awful acceleration snapped off. The G-forces shoving Admiral Sioux into the couch quit. She expelled air, and then she clamped her teeth together, forcing herself not to vomit. The sudden weightlessness always did that to her, a weakness she despised in herself.
She unbuckled her harness and sat up. So did the others.
The Bangladesh still hid in the Sun’s glare from anyone looking from Mercury. They coasted now and thus gave away no gravity-wave signatures. Just as importantly, they knew exactly where their target would be during the coming window of opportunity. Everything depended upon surprise, complete, utter and total surprise.
Behind her darkened visor, the Admiral flashed a wicked smile.
The Bangladesh had been built for just such an attack. In this one particular, it broke the “rules” of modern space warfare.
She pushed off the couch and floated to the First Gunner. Together and with ship’s AI, they would work out several attack patterns.
Admiral Sioux chinned on her suit’s outer speakers, and said to the Command Crew, “We must not fail.”
Several dark visors turned toward her.
Finally, they were going to hit back at the Highborn. No more hiding, no more cowering from the enemy. Her chest swelled with pride. “For Social Unity,” she said, thrusting her arm in the Party salute.
Only the First Gunner raised his hand in return. Two others turned away, another was coughing.
Admiral Sioux squinted thoughtfully. If they lived through the attack, she would mark this into their profile, this lack of zeal in face of the enemy. But there was no sense bringing it up now and ruining morale even more. Better if she didn’t have to bring Security onto the command capsule.
Rica Sioux reached the First Gunner, grabbed his shoulder and settled herself into the module beside him. She logged onto the targeting computer and rubbed her gloved hands in glee. Soon everyone would see the power of the Bangladesh. Then, yes, then her name would blaze as the visionary who had saved Social Unity.
4.
The Sun Works Factory rotated around the dead planet. A million lights glittered from this greatest of space stations. Thousands of system-craft darted into docking bays or launched outward. They went to or returned from other parts of the factory that were half a world away. They zoomed down to the planet or caught the billions of tons of ores catapulted from Mercury. Many circled the mighty Doom Star Genghis Khan. Others endlessly patched, fixed and mended the spinning satellite. Relentless work was the only way to keep the hated enemy—entropy—at bay.
Several military shuttles docked at a kilometers-huge Zero-G Training Room that drifted between the Sun Works Factory and Mercury. Training Master Lycon put his shock troops through their paces.
Within the kilometers-huge room floated cubes and triangles the size of barns. The geometric shapes had been made to look like portions of a blasted spaceship. Far in the background and all around appeared points of light, make-believe stars. The farthest wall shone brightly, the supposed sun-reflected side of an orbital habitat.
Floating thickest in the room’s mid-section were nearly fifty frozen shock troops. They wore stiff orange bodysuits that periodically buzzed. The sound was the suit’s generator releasing punishment-volts that zapped through the frozen victim. The enclosed helmets kept any grunting or groaning internal, although a detector within the helmet picked up the noise, causing the generator to add a few extra volts during the next charge.
The Highborn firmly believed in the virtue of suffering in silence. Premen training theory also stated that failures should be instantly punished. Furthermore, these pain procedures accustomed premen to pain endurance, another virtue. Also, the fear of training failure made the exercise “real” in the subjective sense of the zapped trainee. Finally, at least so the theory went, how could an instructor train premen to overcome pressure unless pressure was vigorously applied?
On the simulated space-habitat wall watchdogged a single remaining laser pulse-cannon, this one ready to emit a low-watt beam. The pitted nozzle rotated back and forth, hunting for motion and the color orange.
The last five-man maniple hid behind a nearby cube, out of sight of the cannon. They were all that was left of the attackers. These five knew that if one of those pulses touched their suit they would freeze, giving a practice kill to the enemy for this satellite storming drill.
One of the floating, orange-suited men peeked around the cube’s corner and at the pulse-cannon. On the top of his helmet was stenciled OMI.
The other four floated behind him, holding onto rails. Their helmets read MARTEN, KANG, LANCE and VIP. Kang was a massive man and dwarfed the others. Vip was the smallest. Otherwise, their bodysuits and helmet seemed identical.
Omi jerked back as a low-watt pulse grazed the cube’s corner. He held a heavy laser tube, his image glowing in the momentary red beam.
“A good leader leads through example,” Vip said, peering at Marten as he spoke via comlink. Through Vip’s faceplate showed the little man’s hair-lip scar and a pulp nose, all mashed about his narrow face.
“That’s a good maxim,” said Lance. “Bet the HBs would like it.”
Marten kept staring at Vip, watching the man’s twitchy eyeballs, like little lead pips. They were always on the move. Yeah, like a weasel looking for a chicken to steal.
“What’cha grinning at?” asked Vip.
When Marten didn’t answer, Lance said, “You’ve been outvoted, Marten.”
Marten touched his holster. As maniple leader, his laser pistol could freeze their suits. So far, it had always trumped any of their arguments.
“Whatever we do we’re gonna take hits,” Marten said. “So—”
“Give me Omi’s laser tube and I’ll take out the pulse-cannon,” Vip said.
“Trade potshots with it?” Marten asked.
“You don’t think I can?”
“We have to move,” Kang said.
Omi nodded. “Immobility brings death.” He quoted an HB combat maxim. The genetic super-soldiers had hundreds of them, quoting them with dreadful regularity.
“Right,” Marten said. “Lance, Vip, at my signal you fly left.”
“We’ll get hit,” complained Vip.
“Correct,” Marten said.
“You and Omi fly left,” Vip said sullenly.
Kang hung onto a float rail with his left hand, reached out and grabbed Vip with his right and slammed him against the cube.
“Kang and I will take the wall-buster and go right,” Marten said, paying no attention to those two. “Omi, you take out the pulse-cannon if you can. Everyone ready?”
Vip shook his head from where his helmet had struck the cube. His upper lip curled as he stared at Kang. Lance
settled between Kang and Vip as he glared at the massive man.
“Use your thrusters,” Marten said. “Make the pulse-cannon really have to swivel in order to hit us all.”
“What tactical brilliance,” Vip said. “By the time you brake for the wall—”
“Go!” Marten said.
Both Lance and Vip, who hung onto the float rail and had pushed up against the cube, thrust their legs. They sailed in the zero gravity, Lance in the lead. Both men thumbed the switch on the handle gripped in their right fists. Oxygen belched from their jetpacks, causing them to jerk and fly faster.
The pulse-cannon swiveled and tracked. Spat, spat. Twin shots flashed past the men’s feet. The cannon minutely adjusted for thruster-speed and fired again.
Washed with red light, Lance froze. His comlink cut out and sliced his groan in half. Vip fired his laser pistol, an ineffectual weapon against the cannon, but it made the HBs happy seeing aggressive gestures. Vip’s beam washed over the pulse-cannon a second before it froze him.
From the other side of the cube and in the other direction, Kang and Marten jetted. Between them, they held an imitation wall-buster. The pitted pulse-cannon swiveled. Omi peaked from behind the cube as he aimed the heavy laser tube.
The pulse-cannon beeped in warning, jerking hard toward Omi, who fired. His beam missed, splashing a foot from the armored cannon.
“Aim!” crackled Kang’s voice.
Another shot missed and then Omi froze, hit.
Marten and Kang sped at ramming speed toward the fast-approaching wall.
“Brake,” Kang said.
Marten laughed as his jetpack continued to hiss propellant.
The pulse-cannon swiveled onto them as it pumped red flashes like tracers.
Kang let go of the wall-buster. He twisted expertly as his thick thumb jerked the handle switch. His jetpack quit. Once in position—with his back to the wall—Kang jabbed his thumb down. Air hissed and he braked. All the while, his other hand drew his laser and fired at the hated cannon. Then Kang froze as the pulse-cannon triggered the lock on his bodysuit. Each punishment zap brought a muffled curse from in his helmet.
Marten crashed against the simulated space habitat wall. His teeth rattled and his right ankle twisted and popped. But the wall-buster stuck to the habitat and a loud siren shrieked. At this point, the wall-buster would explode and breach the enemy habitat. That was military success for this tactical practice, as one hundred percent casualties had been within the allowable limits.
Lights immediately snapped on all over the kilometers huge gym, destroying the illusion of a battle-strewn space-field. The bodysuits unfroze and shock troopers shivered, or groaned, or laughed, or did whatever was natural to them with the stoppage of punishment pain. One by one, the premen jetted toward the exit. From there they filed aboard the shuttles, which returned them to barracks.
A few of the shock troopers congratulated Marten. Others scowled. They were angry his maniple had won the competition. Everyone toweled off after showering. Then the winning maniple donned blue tunics, brown spylo jackets, civilian pants and boots and re-boarded a shuttle. Their victory reward was an evening in the famed Recreation Level 49, Section 218 of the Sun Works Factory, the Pleasure Palace.
Marten sat at a shuttle window, glumly peering at the mighty space station.
The ring-factory rotated in order to simulate Earth-normal gravity for those within. The gargantuan space station was a veritable world unto itself, a world now run by the Highborn. It was their furnace and incubation for continued greatness.
The Highborn had controlled it less than a year. Grand Admiral Cassius had made it second priority at the rebellion’s commencement. First priority had been capturing all five Doom Stars. The majority of the population had lived on the satellite for over ten years or more, formerly card-carrying Social Unitarians and in HB parlance: premen. After the native Sun Workers, in terms of numbers, were recently imported Earthmen: FEC soldiers, ex-peacekeepers and ex-SU Military Intelligence operatives. FEC was Free Earth Corps. Their single uniqueness was allegiance to the New Order. The bulk of them came from Antarctica and Australian Sector, although lately several shipments of Japanese had arrived. All had gone through HB re-education camps. The Earthmen comprised nearly one hundred percent of the space station’s guards, police and monitors. The Sun Workers provided the service techs, mechanics, software specialists, recreation personnel, factory coolies and the like.
With the switch from State-sponsored socialism under Social Unity to a quasi-form of capitalism under the Highborn came many new ills. The Highborn urged success of product over rigorous application of ideology. In other words, did a thing work? Monitors watched to suppress rebellion, no longer gauging every thought and action. Thus while before the Highborn a lackluster black-market had survived in the factory, now a thriving illegal drug trade together with greater theft and its accompanying rise in assault and murder rates plagued the giant space habitat. Some said it was the price of doing capitalism. A handful of people got richer quicker while many others died sooner. A few were spaced: shoved out the airlocks without any vacc suits. The Highborn, it was said, threw up their hands. This once again proved their superiority over the premen, who acted like beasts, like cattle. Then several new divisions of monitors hit the streets.
Marten held nominal leadership of the 101st Maniple, Shock Troopers. He wasn’t the toughest, strongest, nor quickest, and he was not the most brutal, savage or street-savvy. The HBs however had judged him to have the best tactical mind. And he had something extra, a deep inner drive.
Kang, a massive Mongol and sitting across from Marten, had black tattoos on his arms and a flat-looking face. He’d shaved his head bald. Before the war, he’d been a Sydney slum gang-leader, running the Red Blades, a vicious lot. During the Japan Campaign, he’d been a psychotic FEC First Lieutenant, personally killing hundreds of Japanese.
“Hey, Kang,” called Vip, standing in the isle. The shuttle was nearly empty, giving the 101st effective run of the passenger area.
Kang ignored the little man as he penciled a crossword puzzle. He didn’t fill in the blanks with letters, but shaded heavy lines in ninety-degree triangles.
Vip nudged Lance, the rangy Brit sitting in an isle seat. Lance counted his pathetic supply of plastic tokens—credits.
“Hey, Kang,” Vip said. “How come you didn’t hit the wall like Marten did?”
Kang stopped his doodling and ponderously raised his head.
“You ever hope to take maniple leadership from Marten you’re gonna have to do stuff like that,” Vip said.
Out of the corner of his eye, Marten watched the silent Mongol. Kang had probably killed more men in combat than the rest of them put together. They were all FEC Army heroes, having all fought in the Japan Campaign six months ago.
“You want to know why?” Kang asked.
“I asked you didn’t I?” Vip said.
Kang scratched at his crossword puzzle. Then he held it out for Vip. “I wrote out the reason.”
Vip winked at Lance before stepping near to grab the journal.
For all his bulk, Kang could strike quicker than a mongoose. He dropped the crossword puzzle and latched onto Vip’s wrist. Then he stood, yanked Vip against his chest and with one hand grabbed the little man by his jacket collar. He lifted Vip off his toes.
“Dance, boy,” Kang said. He jerked Vip up and down until Vip slapped the vast forearm with something that sizzled.
Kang hissed as his hand opened reflexively.
Vip jumped back into the main isle. Metal glittered in his palm. It was a stolen agonizer, a PHC tool, probably dropped somewhere when the Highborn had killed the Social Unitarians at the start of the rebellion. The stubborn PHC people had refused to surrender.
Kang tested his hand by flexing it several times. Then he glared at Vip.
Lance took that moment to stand, pocket his plastic credits and block Kang’s way out. Although as tall and broad-shouldered a
s Kang, the Brit with his sweeping dark hair probably weighed only half as much. But then he was mostly gristle and whalebone, as he liked to say.
Kang’s upper lip twitched.
“Vip!” Marten said. He desperately wanted to avoid a forbidden shuttle fight that would cancel the trip.
Kang, Lance and Vip glanced at him, as did Omi, who sat beside Marten.
“Give me the agonizer,” Marten said.
“It’s mine,” Vip said.
“Yeah,” Marten said. “But I don’t want you carrying it during leave and getting yourself in trouble.”
“If I don’t have it,” Vip said. “Then you’ll have it, and then you’ll get in trouble. Bet you hadn’t thought of that.”
“Gimme,” Marten said, holding out his hand.
Vip weighed the tiny torture device.
Lance turned from Kang, giving his friend Vip a significant glance before he jerked his head at Marten.
Vip whined, “But I want to fix the dealer who thought he could—”
Lance cleared his throat and shook his head. “Give it up,” he said.
Vip pouted a moment longer, then shrugged and tossed it to Marten. He put the agonizer in his jacket pocket.
Marten now regarded Kang, who still flexed his hand. “You ought to relax. In a few more minutes we’re at the Pleasure Palace and we can all get drinks.”
“Are you buying me a round?” Kang asked.
Marten calculated his slender supply of credits—a few less than Lance because he’d played poker with him last night. “Sure,” he said, knowing he needed every plastic token he had. “One round.”
Kang grunted. Then he picked the crossword journal off the floor and sat down. He used his pencil to trace heavy lines one tiny box at a time.
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