She, uncertain about the outcome, had simply played the part of a terrified woman, standing with her mouth and eyes wide.
The suspicion left Hansen. He laughed sharply as he lowered the projac. “Brains over brawn,” he said. “Now to do it right.” He pulled a clip out of his pocket.
“You’re not going to kill him.”
Hansen shrugged, switching clips.
“Why not use Suspend?” she said.
“We don’t have any.”
“I have some,” she said.
He raised his head. “Only the military has access to Suspend.”
“Marten pilfered some. I brought it with my supplies.”
“Why shouldn’t I just kill him?” asked Hansen. “It’s much simpler and makes sure there aren’t any complications.”
“He was your friend once,” she said. “That counts for something.” She searched his eyes, giving him the doe-eyed look of an innocent.
“Certainly,” he said after a moment. “Yes, yes, of course. I’m not heartless.”
“Why don’t you put him in his vacc suit and I’ll get the Suspend. But we’ll have to hurry. This is the perfect moment to leave.”
Hansen nodded, holstering his weapon.
She strode to her belongings and took out a pneumospray hypo filled with a dose of Suspend. She waited as Hansen wrestled heavy Ervil into his suit. Then, as Hansen closed the magnetic seal, she stepped behind him and pressed the hypo to his neck. Air hissed. Hansen jerked upright, whirled and grabbed her. Suspend took almost a full minute to take effect. So she kneed him hard in the groin. He doubled over, gasping. She clutched her hands together and struck him across the back of the head. He slumped onto the deck, the Suspend making him sluggish, and soon he was out.
“Night-night,” she whispered.
She used a second dose and pumped Suspend into Ervil. Then she worked Hansen’s vacc suit onto him, donned one herself and dragged them into the hanger. The Suspend would keep them several weeks in their suits. Their biological functions were now slower than animals in hibernation. She set them beyond the pod’s hydrogen burn range and returned to the ship.
It would be a lonely voyage to Jupiter, but better than with those two.
Thus, as the thousands of pods and shuttles ferried aerogel and prismatic crystals from the Genghis Khan and to the growing space shield, a small and secret hanger in the Sun Works Factory opened. Out of it nosed the stealth pod. Using low power Nadia eased it from Mercury.
An automated tracker spotted it, studied it and decided that one of the pods had malfunctioned. Later a Highborn examined the tape and agreed with the analysis.
Several hours later Nadia dared give a little more thrust. Then the ultra-stealth pod began to coast once more.
11.
Endless monotony left Marten exhausted. The crushing pressure of three atmospheres gave him nightmares of choking to death. So as much as he needed and craved it he hated sleeping. Just as bad were the mind-numbing dramas on his Head-Up-Display, crudely rehashed Social Unity propaganda.
Apparently, the Highborn didn’t see the need for new dramas slanted to their philosophy, or maybe they simply hadn’t gotten around to filming them yet. Whatever the case, someone must have told them that SU propcorp played on everyone’s holos.
By law and technology no one living within Social Unity could switch off their set. The inane shows provided Inner Planets with its mass mentality. From Mercury to Mars people quoted the most popular slogans.
What the Highborn had done was take some of the old shows and ‘fix’ the endings.
SU morality shows, which made up about 90% of the holoset fare, came in two flavors. One, a wily villain out for himself succumbed to the mass suggestion of his hall-mates or hall leader and renounced his villainy. Or two a self-serving villain died hideously as socially aware folk tried to save him or as a socially conscious peacekeeper blew him away in order to save others from his self-centered madness. The HB video-tech had simply chopped the ending and computer-generated new ones. Now the villain working for himself turned out to have been the smart one. Everyone else had been a jerk. The villain lived while an insane hall leader ordered the hall-mates into slime pits where weird funguses rotted them to death. That had hit a little too close to reality for Marten. He more enjoyed it where the hall-mates were beaten to death by out-of-control peacekeepers. At the very end of the show the former villain hurried to join the HBs in order to keep his newly won rank of self-made-man, first step.
After the third show, Marten decided that old or new, they were all swill. So to keep from going stir-crazy he kept his HUD on the stars, at least as routed through the missile’s nose-cone camera.
Space, and a million stars, it was beautiful. If only there were things like starships so he could travel to distant worlds. Or maybe if he could just get out of this suit and somehow head to the Neptune System. Instead, he raced closer toward a suicide ship-assault. Or worse, there would be no assault because the missile missed. Then they would die, buried in glop, and for a million years, five dead men would serenely sail through the interstellar voids.
BUMP.
“Did you feel that?” asked Vip, via comlink. He sounded scared.
“I felt it,” Marten said.
“Were we hit?”
“No, the outer pressure would’ve dropped and we would have exploded, turned into red smears in the bulkhead. Until the drugs wear off, we’re like deep-sea creatures, kept intact by the three atmospheric pressures holding us in.”
Marten’s headphones crackled. A Highborn cleared his throat.
“Men.”
It was Training Master Lycon, speaking via laser-link, no doubt, all the way from Mercury.
“As you may have surmised, each missile has just changed vectors, some of you rather sharply. With greater incoming data, we have discovered that each had enough fuel to re-target. You will now engage the Bangladesh en mass. I repeat: it will be a mass assault. Battle-files of Assault Formation 42 have been beamed into your AI’s for your study and implementation. Vladimir of 83rd Maniple is promoted to Hauptsturmfuhrer of the 42-type Assault. Second-in-Command will be Wu of 192nd Maniple. Third in Command will be Kang of 101st Maniple. Remember, men, excellence brings rank. That is all.”
The crackling in the headphones quit, and for a moment, there was silence as each absorbed the news. Then:
“Congratulations, Kang,” Marten said.
A grunt was the reply.
“That should have been you who was promoted, Marten,” said Lance. “What a sham. Mad Vlad in charge and our own murderer as the third runner up.”
“Kang knows his business,” Marten said.
“He’s a psychotic killer,” said Lance.
“Isn’t that what Marten just said?” asked Omi.
“What?” asked Lance. “Are you saying we’re all psychotic?”
No one answered.
“Oh, right,” said Lance. “We’ve all killed people. We all survived Japan Sector. What a hellhole that was. What I’m saying is that Kang loves it. The thrill of pulling a trigger and watching the bullets rip into flesh, releasing the spirit.”
“I didn’t know you’re religious,” Vip said.
“How do you figure religious out of that?” asked Marten.
“The spirit part,” Vip said.
“Oh,” Marten said. “So, Lance, are you religious?”
“Of course. The whole thing is self-evident.”
“What do you mean?” asked Vip.
“Look, there’s God and the devil, right?” said Lance.
“Right,” Marten said, when no one else answered.
“Well, look around you,” said Lance. “The devil is supposed to be the Lord of Evil, and I see a lot of evil around this solar system. It proves beyond a doubt that the devil is alive and well.”
“Okay,” Vip said. “But that doesn’t mean God is real.”
“Oh yes it does,” said Lance. “Because how did the devi
l get here unless God made him? For evil to be around there has to be God.”
“God made evil?” Marten asked.
“No!” said Lance. “Without God there’s no conception of evil. You don’t know something unless you see its opposite. And since we’ve seen so much evil, well, that proves God is real.”
“I’m not psychotic,” Kang said.
Lance guffawed.
“Am I psychotic, Omi?”
“No,” Omi said.
“Oh, right,” said Lance, “he has to say that ‘cause he knows you’ll kill him if he doesn’t.”
“Maybe you’re not psychotic, Kang” Vip said. “But you’re a bastard. I’d rather have Marten as maniple leader.”
“None of that,” Marten said. “Kang is in charge.”
“But you know that you’re a better tactician than Kang,” said Lance. “You’re better than Mad Vlad, too. Hauptsturmfuhrer. I thought the Highborn always made logical choices, especially in matters of combat. This time they screwed up.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Marten said.
“I don’t want to have to shoot you, Marten,” Kang said.
“No, not about you being maniple leader,” Marten said. “You’re welcome to it.”
“Are you saying that you don’t want to be maniple leader?” asked Kang. He sounded dubious.
“Forget about that, will you?” Marten said. “I’m talking about the Highborn.”
Omi spoke quietly. “These comlines might be bugged, Marten.”
After Marten stopped laughing, he said, “That’s good. We’re traveling at twenty-five-Gs into oblivion and you’re worried that the HBs might be tapping us. Screw them.”
“That’s insubordination,” Kang said.
“So what?”
“So once we’re out of here the discipline codes state that—”
“Kang,” Marten said. “What if we don’t get out of here?”
Silence.
Finally Vip said, “Don’t talk defeatist.”
“Why don’t you switch your HUD to the stars instead of all that porn you’ve been watching,” Marten said.
“Yeah, so,” Vip said a few seconds later.
“Aren’t the stars beautiful?”
“Marten’s cracking up,” Vip said.
“No,” Marten said. “I’m facing the fact that this might be it. And that’s thanks to the HBs. So like I said before: Screw them.”
“You have a point,” said Lance.
“No he doesn’t,” Kang said. “You live by the rules given you. You survive.”
“Screw the rules,” Marten said. “You live by being who you are.”
“Or you die if that’s too far out of whack with everyone else,” said Lance.
“Maybe,” Marten said. “Or maybe you find somewhere else to go, somewhere sane.”
“Like where?” asked Lance.
“The Outer Planets.”
“Enough of that,” Kang said. “While I’m leader, you’ll can that kind of talk.”
“Doesn’t it bother you being shot at the Bangladesh?” asked Marten. “The fact that you’re nothing more than a biological bullet?”
“Ain’t nothing I can do about that,” Kang said.
“Isn’t there?”
A heavy sigh. “Your problem, Marten, is that you’re a dreamer. The world chews up dreamers and spits them out.”
“Or we change the world,” Marten said.
“One time out of a thousand,” Kang said. “The way I count, those are poor odds.”
“Okay,” Marten said. “You want to let them hook you to the harness like a horse, you go ahead. You want to let them stuff you into a missile and fire you into a frozen void, you do that.”
“You’re letting them do it to you too,” Kang said.
“What I’m saying,” Marten said, “is that maybe we should rethink that.”
“Rethink it how?” asked Lance.
“Maybe by declaring our independence,” Marten said.
Silence.
“If I’m psychotic,” Kang said, “you’re a nut.”
“Omi, tell them about the gelding.”
Quietly, Omi did just that. When he was done, there was more silence.
“Yeah,” said Lance. “A rotten deal if I ever heard of one. But this independence… I don’t get it.”
“I’ll shoot the lot of you,” Kang said. “You get that, don’t you?”
“All I’m saying is that we have to be ready to play our chance,” Marten said. “If we see it—I’m going for it.”
“First we have to get onto the beamship,” Omi said. “Tell me how we’re going to do that.”
“Well,” Marten said, “by first hoping that our masters have outsmarted the enemy, and that our missile reaches the Bangladesh, and then that the beamship doesn’t kill us. Then we can worry about whether we fight our way aboard or not.”
They thought about that.
“I’ll shoot anybody that does something stupid,” Kang said. “And if you’re thinking about fragging your maniple leader, then I’ll shoot you even sooner.”
Marten sighed. “Look at the stars for a while, will you? And then think about your life, what it means, what it is worth and what it’s all about. Maybe while you’re at it you can think about Lance’s God, too.”
“Or the devil,” Vip said.
“Sure,” Marten said. “Why not? It seems like he’s making the rules these days.”
12.
At first, General Hawthorne was dazed. The chief members of his staff were dead, blown away by Air Marshal Ulrich. A PHC-squad in Joho Park had come to whisk him away to who knew where and for what nefarious reason. And that neural inhibitor on his neck—the bionic captain had noticed it while they descended the stairs. He’d peeled it off, and later had said that he’d felt its vibration. Reflexively the captain had clutched the neural inhibitor in his hand, and watched his hand explode a second later.
The captain was in surgery even now, as they grafted a new and better bionic hand onto him.
General Hawthorne had been dazed by the audacity of the attack, the bloody-handedness and slyness of it. It smacked of Chief Yezhov.
Right away, he noticed the rest of Bunker Command turning restive, wary, as if he had an incurable disease. Oh, at first, they made protesting noises about the immorality of the attack, but it seemed more as a matter of form than genuine passion. They soon checked themselves, and seemed to calculate their words, as if they were being recorded for posterity. Or maybe for some PHC officer later who tested their loyalty to Social Unity.
An unasked question seemed to hover on everyone’s lips. If PHC could reach the General and his staff, whom couldn’t they touch?
Fortunately, his dazedness didn’t last.
A march to his private office, throwing open the bottom drawer and lifting the bottle of vodka there and a tumbler had begun the healing. He poured himself a stiff jolt and tossed it down. His eyes bulged as the warmth blossomed in his gut. He poured himself another. He blinked several times, the dazed, unreal feeling draining from him. In its place came a cold clarity.
He set the tumbler and bottle on the desk. He went to his private closet, rummaging in the back until he found his old belt and holster. He strapped it on, looping the one belt over his right shoulder and hooking it to the belt around his waist. He slapped the holster. In it was a small gun, but brutal, a short-barrel .44 that shot exploding slugs.
He marched to the command center. People grew quiet. A few noticed the holster, although no one commented. He stalked about until they went back to work. Then he eavesdropped, trying to gage how far they would step out for him, for him personally.
With his new clarity, he was shocked to realize that it wasn’t very far at all. Maybe six months ago right after the asteroid attacks they would have. Today… some muttered about PHC’s latest purge. It was called the Anti-Rightist Purification. Rightist in SU jargon usually meant capitalists when referring to Outer Pl
anets people or the military when talking about Inner Planets. It came to him that he’d been so concerned about his proton beams and merculite missiles that he’d forgotten to worry about the home front.
Theoretically, of course, all power in Inner Planets stemmed from the Directorate, the nine that guided the people through the principles of Social Unity. Also in theory, each director was equal. In fact, some were more equal than others were. Since the dictatorial days of the late Lord Director Enkov, Blanche-Aster had taken the mantle of leadership. In deference to her position, she bore the title: Madam Blanche-Aster. She deemed the title inoffensive but still original to her and signifying the manner of her guidance. “I am the mother of humanity,” she was fond of saying. “And as a mother I wish to be gentle but firm, unwavering as I uphold Social Unity.”
She backed him, and she forced the rest of the Directorate to do likewise.
A call two hours later showed him yet another crack in his position. Fortunately, he took the call in a side room, a communications center.
“General Hawthorne?”
“Yes, Director.”
The man in the wavering holo-image sat in a chair. He was a big man, a Venusian, and he wore an old-fashioned bond lord uniform. He had a square face and a blunt nose, with sagging jowls that wobbled as he spoke. He was seventy-five and he was therefore the youngest and most physically active of the Directorate.
Director Gannel swept a big beefy hand in a theatrical gesture. Heavy brass rings encircled each finger. He loved to strike poses as he spoke. It was an old habit from his hall leader days in the thorium mines.
Director Gannel had arrived several months ago from Venus. His was a daring tale of braving the Highborn space blockade of his terraformed planet and slipping onto an “open” farm hab orbiting Earth. From there he’d taken a grain transport down to Australia Sector and slipped aboard one of Earth’s last submarines and to India. In the readjustments that had occurred after the late Lord Director’s death, Gannel had skillfully maneuvered his way onto a director’s chair.
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