“No, this is good,” Marten said. “Tally it please while we change.”
“Very well, sir,” said the salesman, a bit crestfallen.
Marten and Omi entered the dressing rooms and came out wearing the silky red shirts with billowing sleeves and floppy black pirate hats. Their shock trooper jackets and shirts were stuffed in the tote bags hidden and slung around their torsos. Each of them kept his projac tucked in the waist of his pants. The kerchiefs, tube of glitter and other needed items Marten carried in a third tote bag.
“Twenty-six credits, sir,” the man said at the counter.
Marten paid the sum with stolen plastic chips, and Omi and he sauntered onto the street.
“Flimsy disguises,” grumbled Omi.
“But better than strutting around in here-I-am shock trooper jackets.”
They started checking card rooms and game pits as they searched for Lance and Vip. They choked on narcotic stimstick smoke in Billy the Kid’s Card Room. Men and women sat hunched around Western Period wooden tables. Many drank. Others popped pills. The lights were dim and the constant sound of shuffling cards and “draw, hit me,” tinkling chips and scraping chairs as angry people left and eager gamblers took their place filled the place, and as the pounding piano provided backdrop noise. Sharper’s Place was quieter and more serious. Red stimstick smoke drifted lazily in the dim lighting. Men and women inhaled their narcotic cigarettes to life and examined their cards close to their vests. Roulette wheels spun and several black jack tables did brisk business.
“Aye, matey,” said a drunken masked man to Omi.
Later Marten chopped a thief’s wrist as he tried to rifle credits.
As they stepped outside, Omi spat. “I’m sick of those places, and I’m starting to feel lightheaded.”
They marched into Razor’s Den, one of the fish tank places. Bloodthirsty, cheering bettors surrounded the nearest octagonal-shaped pool. The pond had been sunken into the floor and contained tiny pens along the sides. Each contained a six-inch, colorful fish that seemed to be three-quarters teeth. They swam in furious circles, lashing their tail fins, which had been stamped with a tiny colored tag. As the throng cheered lustily, others crouched and studied the little monsters. People argued, or shoved credits into a slot and ripped out the paper ticket vomited in return. Finally, the first match ended. Then the doors in the little cages opened and out darted the fighting fish into the main tank. A furious, twisting battle engaged, those teeth biting, tearing and devouring similar fish. In a few moments, only one survived, and the winning bettors rushed to the pay-desk to collect.
“That’s what we are,” Omi said. “Little fish fighting for our masters.”
The comment startled Marten. He didn’t expect something like that from Omi. He nodded though, and they continued the search.
As they exited Razor’s Den Marten heard a new sound, one he’d been dreading. He put his finger in his ear and stood very still.
“What is it?” Omi asked.
Marten held up a hand for silence. Then he swallowed audibly. “It just got worse,” he said.
Omi waited.
“I planted my listening device on Hansen.”
“When?”
“When I put him to sleep on the toilet seat. But someone just shot him with wake-up stims. Shhh.” Marten shut his eyes, listening. “Hansen has ordered a hunt.”
“For us?”
“Let’s go.”
They half-ran into Galaxy Gold and then out, rushed through Sly Man’s Pit and finally found Lance and Vip in the Barracuda Barn. A large shark tank had been built into the south wall. Three-meter monsters fought, made savage through electrodes implanted within their tiny brains. People cheered so loudly that Marten had to shout in Lance’s ear. Lance gave him a wondering look. Marten motioned him and Vip toward the door.
“Here, put these on,” Marten said, opening the tote bag and handing each a red kerchief. “And take off your jackets.”
“Whatever for?” asked Lance.
“For a disguise,” Marten said.
Vip fingered Omi’s red silk shirt. “That must have cost.”
“You’re right,” said Lance. To Marten: “Where did you get the money?”
Marten glanced both ways and lifted his shirt to show them the projac tucked in his waistband.
“Are you insane?” asked Lance. “No wonder the monitors are after you.”
“What?” Vip said. “They are? How come, Marten? What did you do?”
“It’s a long story,” Marten said.
“This doesn’t make sense,” said Lance.
“Maybe not,” Marten said. “But the monitors will kill us now.”
“Whoa,” said Lance. “Slow down. They’ll do what? Kill you? Is that what you said?”
“There’s no time to explain,” Marten said.
“I don’t want to get killed,” Vip said.
“You won’t,” Omi said. He patted his waist.
“You have a weapon too?” said Lance.
Marten put a finger in his ear, adjusting the tiny receiver. He cursed quietly and removed the receiver, a little black speck on the tip of his index finger.
“Hansen find it?” Omi asked.
Marten nodded.
Lance grabbed him by the arm. “Guns, bugs and credits, did the Training Master put you up to this?”
Omi snorted.
“Either we find Kang and get to the shuttle now or the monitors will kill us,” Marten said. “At this point it’s them or us.”
“Yeah?” said Lance. “So why don’t they pick you up at the barracks? All the monitors have to do is show cause, fill out a request and the Training Master will hand you over.”
Marten shook his head. “We stumbled onto a drug ring. These are corrupt monitors.”
“So report them,” said Lance.
Marten shoved the majority of his credits at Lance. “We robbed them.”
Lance squinted suspiciously. “That isn’t like you, maniple leader. What’s really going on?”
“Do you want your cut or not?” asked Marten.
Lance shoved the credits back. “Sorry, not my style.”
“Okay,” Marten said, almost trusting Lance enough to tell him the truth. But there wasn’t time. “You can report us and you’re safe. Or you can come with us. But you have to decide now. If you do nothing they’ll think you’re with us and kill you too.”
Lance studied the two of them. “What do you think, Vip?”
Small Vip said, “They’re 101st. The others are corrupt monitors.”
“Right,” said Lance. “We’re in,” he told Marten.
Ten minutes later, they found Kang in a dark bar where he sang quietly to himself. Marten dosed him with anti-drunk that he’d picked up at a pill shop. They dragged Kang outside and hurried down the street, brushing through the crowds.
“Shouldn’t we move more slowly?” asked Lance. “Try and catch them napping?”
“Speed and surprise,” Marten said.
“And savagery,” added Omi.
“Right,” Marten said. “That’s all we’ve got.”
“It probably doesn’t hurt then that we’re shock troopers,” said Lance.
They neared the lift building as Kang started blinking. He’d been in a near trance, eyes staring as he moved like a sleepwalker. “What’s going on?” he muttered.
“Hansen is double-crossing us,” Omi said.
“The little maggot?” Kang said.
“What—” Lance started to say.
“Sir!” said a policeman, stepping in front of Marten.
Omi used Vip to shield the projac from the crowd and shot the cop with two sleep needles. They pushed the falling policeman aside and hurried through an imitation, vine-covered archway.
“Stop them!” shouted a man on the street, a janitor who dropped his broom and pulled out a communicator and gun.
“Run!” shouted Marten.
The five-man team knocked people flying.
Kang bellowed in delight. Vip giggled. Omi, Lance and Marten concentrated with grim intensity. They skidded and almost tripped as they hit the lifts. Marten dug out his card. Omi twisted around and snapped off shots at three monitors running at them. Two fell. The last monitor, shorter than the other two and with wide shoulders—it was Ervil from Smade’s—threw himself prone, drew and fired back. Vip grunted and slammed against the lift as the door opened. Lance dragged him in and they all hugged the floor. The door slid shut as needles prickled the back wall.
“I’m hit,” Vip said, touching his thigh. Then his eyes drooped shut.
“This is too much,” said Lance. “Either way the HBs are gonna know about it.”
“Maybe not,” Marten said.
“In any case,” said Lance, “the monitors will be waiting for us.”
“Hansen can’t have that many crooked monitors,” Marten said. “Besides, he just woke up and must be trying to pull them all together.”
“Yeah, right” said Lance. He checked Vip and turned back to Marten. “Where did you get the bug?”
“What bug?” Kang said.
“He stole it from Hansen,” Omi said.
“We’re slowing down,” Marten said.
They braced themselves, projacs drawn as they knelt on either side of the door. It opened—the hall was empty.
“Go, Kang,” whispered Marten. “Take Vip. Use him as a shield.”
“Hey,” said Lance. “That’s—”
Kang charged with the unconscious Vip in his arms. Two big men in black suits stepped from around a corner, firing. It was Dalt and Methlen, the original duo from Smade’s. One had a bloody mouth and he was missing two front teeth. Someone must have found the sleeping due, reported it and medics had probably given them wake-up and stims.
Omi and Marten began to fire.
One of the monitors slid to the floor. The other, who was missing his teeth, must have been wearing a vest.
Kang roared as he charged.
The last monitor snarled, lifted his projac—
Marten dove out of the lift for a better angle, firing, hitting the man’s arm. The man dropped his weapon. Then Kang was on him.
“Go,” Marten said, jumping off the floor.
“Is he hit again?” Lance asked Kang as they sprinted down the corridor.
“He’s still breathing. Here.” Kang tossed little Vip. Then the four ran even harder. Behind them, lift doors opened and angry men shouted. Pounding feet told of a hotly contested chase.
“Kang!” shouted Hansen, probably using an amplifier. “This isn’t the end of it, Kang!”
Kang laughed. “We can take them,” he said.
“Go, go,” Marten said.
They raced toward the docking tube, Marten in the lead. He forgot what Lycon had told them about shuttle procedure. He didn’t know if the tube doors would only open when their leave was over or whether they could come back early and get in.
“Here we go,” Marten said, pitching his projac to Kang. Marten hit the tube door with a grunt, fumbled with the slot and slid the card through. “Open,” he pleaded.
“Here they come,” Omi said.
“Try it again!” snarled Lance.
Marten slid the card again, and again. He cursed, turned the card and slid it through a last time. The door opened. They piled through, Marten last of all. He glanced back. Three monitors with guns raced into view, one of them short wide-shouldered Ervil together with his taller, dark-haired companion. Hansen, his thin hair disheveled and his face flushed and sweaty, came up behind them.
“Stop!” shouted Hansen.
The door closed and Marten raced up the boarding tube to catch up with the others. Finally, he passed the airlock and entered the military shuttle.
“What are you going to do about your weapons?” whispered Lance. “We can’t take them to the barracks.”
“Wait,” Marten said, who took his projac from Kang.
A minute went by, two, three and four more.
“We made it,” Omi said. “We’re safe—for now.”
Marten heaved off his knee where he’d hidden beside the airlock. He slid into a seat and grinned. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.” He raised his projac. “We’ll break them apart and flush them down the toilet once we take off.”
Lance shook his head. “Sure hope it works.”
“Yeah,” Marten said. “Me too.”
11.
Earth—Joho Mountains, China Sector
Taking a billion civilian casualties hardly seemed like a victory, especially when added to the loss of the Japanese home islands, the evaporation of 700,000 trained soldiers and the destruction of Earth’s naval and air fleets. In return, they had only bled the Highborn by several thousand personnel, a couple hundred orbital fighters and a nearly crippled Doom Star, the Genghis Khan. Still, to date, it was the best Social Unity had been able to achieve against their genetic superiors, and the tactics that had allowed it were the brainchild of General James Hawthorne.
Thus the Earth government’s propaganda mills proclaimed him the Savior of Social Unity, and the Directorate of Inner Planets, led by Madam Director Blanche-Aster, granted him vast powers for the further prosecution of the war.
That had been six months ago. Now General Hawthorne paced in his office in China Sector as he spoke via comlink with Director Blanche-Aster. The tall, gaunt Supreme Commander with his wispy blond hair and aristocratic bearing had worn a long path in his carpet. He thought best while pacing, a nervous habit. He wore a green uniform with red piping along the crease of his trousers.
“I can’t help you there, General,” said Madam Director Blanche-Aster. The holo-screen was blank. She had been operated on yesterday, and had said she didn’t feel like having people stare at her, gauging her health.
“Political Harmony Corps chips away at my authority,” said Hawthorne. “Six months ago PHC worked hand in glove with me. Now they’ve thrown a blizzard of red tape and bad will in my face.”
“You’ve scared them, General. You’ve shown them a Social Unity world where they wield diminished power.”
“Nonsense!”
“General Hawthorne,” she said. “For the last time. I can’t help you there. You must accept the reemergence of PHC hostility and concentrate on military matters. I hesitate to tell you this, but the other directors—Director Gannel has gained a following. I must tread carefully when arbitrating between you and PHC. There’s nothing more I can say.”
Hawthorne swung his long arms behind his back. So it had come to this. It was going to make everything that much harder.
“About the Bangladesh,” said Blanche-Aster. “The attack must not fail.”
“No military endeavor is without risks.”
“But you assured me we would catch the Highborn by surprise.”
“I still believe we shall,” said Hawthorne. “Yet a good commander has contingency plans. I cannot simply point my finger and say: Here I will win.”
“Don’t be fatuous, General.
“That wasn’t my intention.”
“We must win somewhere,” said Blanche-Aster. “We must hurt the Highborn. Make them bled.”
“The Sun Works Factory is such a place,” Hawthorne said. “It is their supply base and headquarters. It is their vulnerable point. The Bangladesh is the best tool we have to hit them, to hurt them, to surprise them—which is probably the only way we could do this.”
“Then… Do you think we will catch them by surprise?” asked Blanche-Aster.
“I wouldn’t have ordered the attack unless I thought so.”
“So it isn’t a gamble?” she asked.
“Director. War is always a gamble. It is the nature of the beast. We have weapons and will, they have weapons and will. Each side reacts to the other.”
“Yes, yes, but—”
“I urge you to relax. To wait patiently.”
“How can I wait?” asked Blanche-Aster. “How do you propose I sit patiently wh
ile Director Gannel rouses the others with his militant speeches? General, I don’t think you understand the precariousness of our position.”
“Social Unity is strong,” said Hawthorne. “We are all bound together as one: humanity against the Supremacists. In time our sheer numbers will tell against the genetic freaks.”
There was a pause before Blanche-Aster said, “I was speaking about our positions, General, yours and mine as Supreme War Leader and Madam Director. We can be replaced. Neither of our posts is as secure as only six months ago. The Bangladesh must be victorious.”
“I see,” said Hawthorne.
“I sincerely hope you do, General. PHC wants your head. Director Gannel is after my chair. Only victory somewhere will secure our posts. Now, my doctor has arrived. I must go.”
“Thank you for your time, Director.”
“Yes. Good-bye.”
The link closed.
General Hawthorne continued to pace. The Bangladesh sped toward Mercury, toward its destiny with the Sun Works Factory. Would they catch the Highborn by surprise? He wondered what the space hab’s defenses were like. How did the stationmaster spend his time? If the stationmaster should guess how the attack would be made…
General Hawthorne exhaled sharply. Much rested upon this attack. It was a wild gamble. He knew that. But the Highborn were winning the war and they had to hurt them somehow. He hoped the Bangladesh was the answer, or at the very least, that it would buy him some time until the Cyborgs from Neptune arrived.
12.
Training Master Lycon of the shock troops hurried to his appointment with the Praetor of the Sun Works Factory. Like all Highborn, the Training Master seethed with plans and programs, and never seemed to have enough hours in the day to see them through. Unlike a preman, however, what he did have was endless energy, boundless enthusiasm and a grinding work ethic.
He hoped the Praetor didn’t bring up that wild idea again of castrating his shock troopers. What a preposterous scheme!
Lycon strode down a “street”-sized corridor bustling with harried-looking aides and monitors. They were all premen, the hardest-working and most ambitious among them. Their very rank and unbelievably close access to their genetic superiors proved it.
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