Bio-Weapon ds-2

by Vaughn Heppner

  “It, Praetor?”

  “Oh, do leave me my surprises, Training Master. It’s finally ready and you’re the first beside me to run through it.”

  Highborn prided themselves on snap decisions. Lycon wasn’t any different. “Yes, of course,” he said.

  He disrobed, folding his blue uniform. Beside him, the Praetor did likewise. Both were highly muscled and perfectly toned. Flab appeared nowhere on the Praetor, despite his protests of lack of exercise. Lycon was thinner and leaner, although compared to a preman he was massive and thick. Both donned skin-suits and went barefoot.

  “You’ll have to leave your sidearm behind,” the Praetor said.

  Lycon set his big gun on top of his uniform. Then he put them in a locker.

  “Take this,” said the Praetor.

  Lycon accepted gauntlets with small iron knobs on the knuckles. He watched the Praetor slip on his own pair.

  “Are we to spar?” asked Lycon.

  The Praetor’s weird pink eyes seemed to glitter. “Does such a prospect worry an infantry specialist?”

  “Only a fool ignores the odds,” Lycon said. “I do not like to think of myself as a fool.”

  “Well said, Training Master. No, it is not my wish to spar today. Rather, we hunt.”

  “What?”

  “That is an interesting question,” the Praetor said. “I haven’t yet thought of a formal name. Perhaps after today you can name them for me.”

  Lycon liked this less and less. He followed the Praetor out the locker room and through another sliding wall.

  14.

  They entered a huge room unlike any other in the Sun Works Factory, a former zoological area. It seemed endless. Sand, tall cacti and sagebrush was everywhere, together with rolling dunes and rust-colored boulders. Overhead, an undeterminable distance away, shined what seemed to be a sun. A breeze blew. Birds called.

  “Observe,” said the Praetor, pointing.

  Lycon frowned. A vulture wheeled overhead. “Is it real?”

  “A holo-image, but very convincing. Yes?”

  “Are there any real animals here?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “The ones we are to hunt?” asked Lycon.

  The Praetor said, “Perhaps hunt isn’t the correct word. Perhaps it is we who are the prey.” He slapped the wall. “We can’t get out this way. We have to cross the dunes to the other side.”

  Lycon dared put a hand on the Praetor’s forearm. “Am I to believe that you would allow yourself to be hunted, the Praetor of the Sun Works Factory, the Fourth Highest among us?”

  The Praetor stared haughtily at the hand.

  Lycon removed it.

  The Praetor considered the dunes as he expanded his massive chest. He exuded power and rank and something the Highborn referred to as excellence. “Yes. I allow myself to be hunted.”

  “Why? “To prove a point.”

  “Which is?”

  “Walk with me,” the Praetor said, with a harder tone.

  Lycon moved on the balls of his feet, listening, watching and ready for some insane beast, a wolf-tiger hybrid or some other monstrosity, to leap out and attack.

  The Praetor also watched, his head swiveling like a lion, his pink eyes alert and alive.

  “It would help if I knew what to look for,” Lycon said.

  “I will pose a question. How can two million Highborn conquer the Solar System?”

  Was this a complaint against the Grand Admiral’s strategy? Lycon didn’t think so, but…

  “Earth alone holds forty billion premen,” the Praetor said.

  “Our conquest of the Inner Planets moves strictly according to the Grand Admiral’s scheme,” said Lycon

  “Ah,” the Praetor said. “Therein is your reluctance, eh? Rest assured that I am not asking in a seditious manner. No. Think of it as a… as a philosophical question.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  The Praetor froze. His nostrils widened. Tension coiled with unbelievable urgency. Although motionless, a frenzy seemed to have gripped him.

  Lycon also tested the air, but he could detect nothing unusual. A whispery wind stirred grit against a nearby boulder. Before them rose a dune dotted with sagebrush.

  The Praetor minutely twisted his head. Then he set out in a half crouch. Lycon followed, wary, troubled and alert. They crested the dune. Before them, spread a tiny valley. Boulders rose here and there. Giant cacti held aloft their spiky branches. The breeze rattled grit in shifting patterns over the hardpan.

  Tension oozed from the Praetor, although his pink eyes seemed to shine as he regarded Lycon. “Two million, Training Master. Just a mere two million Highborn to conquer billions of premen. Oh, we have replacements as you’ve just seen. But a handful, really, a hundred thousand each year. Say we do conquer the Solar System. How can we control them?”

  Lycon grew even more wary. “You are Fourth, Praetor. I am certain such questions engage your energies. As for me, I train the shock troopers.”

  “Which is exactly why I pose you the question. Come. This way.”

  The Praetor started down the hill. His eyes roved everywhere. He paused once to test the wind. Lycon followed. At a boulder the Praetor stopped. He touched the towering rock. “Take a look around.”

  Lycon scrambled up the boulder. He peered at every shadow. Then he jumped down and shook his head.

  The Praetor appeared puzzled, and a twitch of annoyance crossed his features. He strode several steps before he froze. He turned back. A strange ecstasy now softened his features. When he spoke, it was with husky overtones.

  “I’ve read your paper, Training Master.”

  Lycon tested the wind. He smelled nothing unusual. Were the Praetor’s senses so much sharper than his? He disliked the idea.

  “Janissaries in 2350,” the Praetor said.

  “Oh.”

  “Please, no false modesty. We both know the Grand Admiral fawns on historical anecdotes.”

  “I might phrase it differently.”

  “Finally!” the Praetor said. “We see the Janissary Lieutenant-Aga speaking, not simply the meek Training Master of Shock Troopers.”

  Lycon debated with himself. The Grand Admiral had sponsored him. To the Grand Admiral lay his loyalties, while the Praetor had perhaps already mocked him with Chief Monitor Bock, perhaps mocked him even now.

  “You have addressed a profound problem,” Lycon said. “Two million of us, billions of them. There may be many answers. One of them, I believe, has been supplied by history.”

  “By your Janissaries?”

  Lycon nodded.

  The Janissaries had been an extraordinary invention of the Ottoman Turks of the Middle Ages. Yeni-Tzeri or “New Soldiers,” had become the corps d’elite of the conquering Ottomans. “Send in the Janissaries” became a cry to terrify the world. An empire had been carved with them. Yet not one soldier in the Janissaries had been Turkish. All had been the children of Christian parents who had lived within the Muslim Ottoman Empire.

  Every five years the Muslim Sultan levied the Christians parents with a general conscription. Seven-year-old sons—of the Christians only—were inspected. Those of promising physique and intelligence were taken, never to return home or see their parents again. In the Muslim capital, they were given further tests. Those who seemed destined to strength and endurance went to special camps. Harsh training, enforced abstinence, countless privations and strict discipline turned them into hard professional soldiers. They were forbidden to marry or have families. Rather, pride in their order was taught. Pride in their privileges and battle skills.

  Christian by birth, Spartan by upbringing and fanatical Moslems by conversion, the Janissaries combined the arrogant militarism of the West with the religious fanaticism of the East. With scimitar, arquebus and round shield they had carved an empire for their Ottoman overlords. More than simple slave-soldiers and much greater than mere mercenaries, the Janissaries had been unique.

  “You�
�ve modeled your shock troopers on them,” the Praetor said.

  Lycon agreed.

  The Praetor sneered. “Slave soldiers, Training Master, that’s all they really are. The same as the Free Earth Corps fools who enlisted under the Grand Admiral’s banner.”

  “You speak of Mamelukes, Praetor.”

  “I said slave soldiers.”

  “So the Mamelukes were, at least originally. Enslaved horse-archers sold in the Egyptian slave marts. They became the first warriors to defeat the conquering Mongols.”

  “Ah. You spout historical anecdotes. Illusions propped up by official lies that we dare say is the truth.”

  “You are wrong to spurn facts, Praetor. History is simply race experience. A wise man studies past errors so he can avoid the obvious pitfalls before him.”

  The Praetor’s weird pink eyes narrowed.

  “Slave soldiers or Mamelukes can under the right conditions prove to be excellent warriors,” Lycon said. “As I would argue our FEC Armies are now worthwhile. But Janissaries, that is another type of soldier. Ideas, even more than force or simple rewards, motivated them.”

  The Praetor exploded with passion. “Do you believe your shock troopers to be loyal?”

  “I stake my reputation on it,” said Lycon.

  “So we must put all our trust in you then?”

  “Praetor, each shock trooper is a proven soldier, a FEC Army hero from the Japan Campaign. Each of them has already fought hard in our cause.”

  “So you base such assumptions on bits of tin?” asked the Praetor.

  “I base it on past actions and performances.”

  The Praetor ran massive fingers through his hair. Blood flushed his features. He turned away and in a half crouch slid toward a new boulder.

  “Battling on a planet is one thing, Training Master. War in space… we must be doubly and triply certain of premen loyalty there.”

  “If we can’t trust the shock troops, who can we trust?” Lycon asked.

  The Praetor stopped, and straightened. A strange smile played on his lips. “You state my own worry. Two million of us, as you’ve said, billions and more billions of them. If they ever learned to fight, even a little bit… How can we defeat them all, and then rule them?”

  “Increase the number of Highborn,” Lycon said.

  “Are you certain that’s wise?”

  “I don’t understand,” Lycon said carefully.

  “Come now, Training Master. You, a beta, don’t understand?”

  Lycon stiffened.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I meant no offense. But surely it’s clear to you that our bio-geneticists will keep improving us.”

  Lycon kept his features immobile. “You are Fourth, Praetor, and are surely privy to policies and questions that if spoken or thought of by someone like me would be considered treasonous.”

  “Meaning?”

  “That I am under-qualified to consider such things.”

  The Praetor tapped his muscled thigh. “Then… I should throw out your paper?”

  “Might that not be hasty, Praetor? Why not let the shock troopers prove themselves. Actions after all speak louder than boasts.”

  The Praetor twisted his lips. “So if your shock troopers proved treasonous…”

  “Do you have any evidence of treason?”

  “Not yet.”

  Lycon considered the holo-clouds. He couldn’t understand the Praetor’s dislike of the shock troops. Yet clearly, it was there, as well as threats.

  “I have a counter-proposal for you, Training Master.”

  “You merely need order me,” said Lycon.

  “I do not want automatons. I want believers.”

  “Believers in what way?” asked Lycon.

  “Your Janissary idea has certain promise. Take and convert is right. But ideas—we cannot trust premen to hold to mere ideas. Look how easily we’ve shifted these socialists and turned them into capitalists.”

  “The upper crust has shifted,” Lycon said.

  “They are the only ones that matter. In any case, take and convert, change, in other words.”

  “My shock troopers—”

  The Praetor waved that aside. “Sometimes they will fight as trained, for even the FEC soldiers fought. But what if I produced men who will always fight and do exactly what I train them to do?”

  “Why not use both our ideas?” asked Lycon.

  The Praetor’s nostrils twitched. He grinned. “Let me show you why not.” He moved sideways toward the nearest boulder.

  And now Lycon noticed a new odor. It was subtle and musty.

  The Praetor hissed. Lycon hurried beside him. “Look,” whispered the Praetor, as he knelt beside the boulder. Lycon saw the footprint, man-sized, preman. He frowned at the Praetor, who rose and scanned the small valley. “Ah. There.” Lycon followed the Praetor’s gesture. He caught a glimpse of deep blue. The color stood out in this stark landscape.

  “They’re hiding,” whispered Lycon.

  “No. They’re flanking us.”

  Lycon stared at the Praetor, who kept watching the dunes. “How many of them are there?” asked Lycon.

  “Six.”

  Lycon frowned. “Why all this caution, Praetor? Do the premen have weapons?”

  “Indeed.”

  Lycon dropped to a crouch and scanned all around. “Lasers or carbines?” he snapped.

  “Knives.”

  “Knives?” asked Lycon, wondering why he’d been worried.

  “Meter-long knives”

  “Six premen with knives?” Lycon asked, as he rose from his crouch.

  “Too few do you think?”

  “Praetor…” Lycon frowned more deeply than before.

  “No, I am not so soft that six premen frighten me. But these aren’t premen.”

  “What are they then?”

  “You tell me,” the Praetor said. “Here they come.”

  Lycon saw five blue-colored men march down the dune toward them. Despite the strange color, they were normal-sized. Their eyes bulged, although not in fear but intense hatred. Their taut muscles quivered. They wore loincloths and wielded glittering meter-long knives. A strong odor exuded from them.

  “Are they combat-trained?” Lycon asked.

  “No.”

  “Why do you consider them so fearsome?”

  “Tell me, Training Master. Do they look afraid?”

  Lycon observed no fear. Strange, unless…

  “Do they cower as most premen would against two such as us?” asked the Praetor, the way a father might ask another about his son.

  “Are they familiar with Highborn?” asked Lycon.

  A harsh laugh and a nod told him the answer.

  “You said there were six of them,” said Lycon. “I count five.”

  A startling cry, from behind, surprised him. Lycon spun around. A blue man sliding toward them sprang at him. The man moved fast. His knife flashed. Lycon twisted minutely. His gauntlet smashed the leering face. Lycon picked up the knife. He turned and raced to help the Praetor, who set himself against five sprinting, snarling, bestial premen.

  Only a Highborn could have followed the swift moves. These premen had uncanny reflexes. They circled the Praetor, and together lunged at him. A knife slashed skin. Blood spurted. The Praetor roared, kicked and punched. Two blue men flew backward. Knives stabbed again. One blade now stuck from the Praetor’s thigh like a growth. Then Lycon jumped among them, a whirlwind of thrusts and blocks. Seven seconds more and it was over. Six blue corpses lay bleeding and broken on the sand.

  Lycon turned toward the Praetor, who jerked the knife from his thigh. He ripped a strip of buckskin from his garment and tied it around his wounded leg.

  “Is it bad?” asked Lycon.

  “Lucky for us I didn’t give them poison.”

  It was only then that Lycon realized he had a cut under his ribs. It was shallow, but it was there. That was amazing.

  “You said they weren’t combat trained,” Lycon said.<
br />
  “They weren’t,” said the Praetor.

  “Why were they so fast and clever?”

  “Faster than any normal man, yes?”

  “Unless a soldier took a dose of Tempo,” Lycon said. But even then he wouldn’t be so fast.”

  The Praetor limped to the nearest blue corpse. “Let me show you this.”

  Lycon went to the other side.

  The Praetor ripped away the loincloth.

  Lycon saw it immediately. The man’s genitals had been removed.

  “Gelded,” the Praetor said.

  Lycon stared up sharply. “Surely the removal of his sex organs didn’t grant him such speed.”

  “Each was given a new internal organ. Said organ seeps Tempo and other drugs directly into their bloodstream.”

  “What?” said Lycon. Direct tampering?

  “Naturally, they must eat certain foods for the new organ to manufacture these drugs. But the toxins in their skin cause them to crave these foods.”

  “Toxins?”

  “They are tattooed into the skin.”

  Lycon studied the altered men. Part of him considered this monstrous. Another part—“They’re Neutraloids,” he said. “You’ve neutered them, but made them…” Lycon shook his head in wonder.

  “What did you call them?”

  “Neutraloids.”

  The Praetor clapped his hands. “I accept the name. They are Neutraloids. And these are what we must have in space with us.”

  “Instead of the shock troopers?”

  “Can you think of any reason why not?”

  Lycon pondered the six corpses. Gelded. Implanted with a new organ. Tattooed over their entire body, and that a deep blue color. “Yes, Praetor, I can think of several reasons.”

  “Please enumerate them.”

  “Perhaps once I have pondered—”

  The Praetor limped beside Lycon. “I picked you, Training Master, because you’re unbiased. You hope to ride your shock troopers. I’ve read your paper and understood that immediately. Yet here I’ve shown you a new and better way to rise.”

  “Certainly they fought savagely,” said Lycon.

  “Which is exactly what we need.”

  “But why are they castrated?”