Bio-Weapon ds-2

by Vaughn Heppner

  Marten broke free first. He wrestled through the tangled tubes attached to his suit and dropped heavily to the wet floor. On his hands and knees he panted, naked and trembling, his hair damp and a scraggly growth of beard.

  At the sound of hoarse breathing and desperate struggling, he looked up. Vip, his face bone-white and sweaty, his eyes wide and pupils jittering like rubber balls, fought against the masses of tubes around his suit.

  Marten forced himself up. He trembled, but he locked his knees. Willing himself, he lurched to Vip’s suit.

  “Vip.” Marten’s voice was scratchy. He cleared it. “Vip.”

  The small man stopped what he was doing and stared without recognition.

  Lance tumbled out of his suit, to lie gasping on the floor.

  Marten grabbed two tubes, yanking them out of Vip’s way. Vip continued to stare.

  “Leave him there,” Kang said.

  Vip’s eyes widened in fright.

  Marten turned. The massive Mongol, as naked as himself, stood to his left.

  “You can’t stay in there,” Marten told Vip. “You gotta come out and help me kill HBs.”

  Kang elbowed him in the side. “Shut up. I said leave him.”

  Marten ignored Kang as he helped Vip. Soon, Vip plopped to the floor as he made retching sounds.

  Marten knelt by him. “You’re okay, now, do you hear? You’re out of that thing forever.”

  “I can’t do that again,” whispered Vip.

  “I know.”

  “I’d go crazy.”

  “We’re all crazy,” said Lance, kneeling on the other side.

  Then the hatch cracked open as Kang twisted the wheel. “We got four minutes,” he told them, “and then it’s more acceleration.”

  Vip looked up, sick fear giving his skin a greenish tinge.

  “Let’s get dressed,” Marten said, helping him by the elbow.

  They filed out of the dreadful compartment and entered the other one. There they donned brown jumpsuits and climbed into the battlesuits. Marten still had the shakes, so he dialed up the suit’s medikit. It diagnosed him and shot him with a pneumospray hypo.

  In their battlesuits, they looked like mechanical gorillas, huge beasts with exoskeleton power and dinylon body-armor. They screwed on the helmets with the names KANG, LANCE, OMI, MARTEN and VIP, and they strapped on thruster packs. Oxygen tanks were already part of the battlesuits, while laser rifles and breach-bombs had been packed away for them in the separate torpedoes. For tiptoeing in here, the servomotors were geared way down to minimum.

  “No neurostims until we’re outside,” Marten said, speaking to them by helmet communicator.

  “I’m the maniple leader,” Kang said.

  “You’re third in command of the entire mission,” Marten said. “You don’t have time to lead our maniple as well.”

  “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your treachery,” Kang said.

  “We’re all gonna be killed,” said Lance, “and you’re worried about a few wrong words spoken during the hell-ride here?”

  “No defeatist talk from you either,” warned Kang.

  “Relax, okay,” Marten said.

  “I’m the maniple leader,” Kang said. “Training Master Lycon must’ve known you were a turncoat. So he put someone reliable in charge.”

  “Why don’t you shoot me now then?” Marten said, disgusted with the whole conversation. “You’re so ready to be their butt-boy, maybe that’ll earn you points.”

  Kang balled his exoskeleton fists. The suit’s engine whined as he revved it for combat power.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” said Lance.

  The five, battlesuited shock troopers faced each other, their suits purring.

  “We’re gonna need everyone we have in order to fight into the Bangladesh,” said Lance.

  “And we only have two minutes to enter the torps,” Omi said.

  The battlesuit with KANG on the helmet turned away first. He opened the hatch to a long torpedo. The others hurried to theirs. Each climbed into the torpedo’s mini-cockpit. They buckled themselves into the seats and flipped a switch.

  Slam, slam, slam, went the hatches, and the forward compartment of the Storm Assault Missile was devoid of men. Five sleek torpedoes, like bullets in a cartridge, waited near the single firing chamber.

  Thirty seconds later the SA missile leapt forward at eight Gs.

  “Here we go again,” Marten said, via comlink. This time, however, he had a little display screen in front of him. He would have minimal control in the torpedo, once it was fired. But having just that little bit gave him a needed psychological boost.

  “Next stop, outer space,” said Lance.

  “Where we’ll be as free as eagles,” Marten said.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  8.

  “What are those missiles in the rear of their formation?” asked the Tracking Officer. “Why haven’t they done anything yet?”

  “Good question,” said Admiral Sioux. She’d been wondering that herself.

  “Particle Shield 5 rotated aft,” said the Shield Officer. “Shield 6 in place.”

  “Fire minefields at will,” said the Admiral.

  On the screens nearby flashes told of more enemy EMP Blasters igniting.

  “Rotary cannons down,” the First Gunner said.

  “Only launch tubes one and twelve are in working order,” the Second Gunner said.

  “Fire!” said the Admiral. “Fire everything we have before it’s too late.”

  “Aerosol levels in the red, Admiral.”

  Outside the beamship, HB lasers almost stabbed through Particle Shield 6.

  “Get ready to re-deploy Particle Shield 1,” the Admiral said.”

  “It can’t take more than ten seconds of those lasers,” said the Shield Officer.

  “Get it ready,” the Admiral said.

  “There are just too many of them,” an officer said with a sigh. “They are like a pack of dogs pulling down a lion.”

  “Those missiles in back are moving up,” the Tracking Officer said.

  “Particle Shield 6 rotated away. Shield 1 re-deployed into primary position.”

  “The aerosol tanks are empty, Admiral.” A heavy sigh. “That’s it then.”

  Admiral Sioux understood. The aerosol clouds kept the lasers at bay while they rotated particle shields. Without the aerosols, those lasers would probably breach the ship’s inner skin before the shreds of another particle shield could be put between the Bangladesh and the hated beams.

  She squinted at the VR-images in her goggles. They had destroyed an amazing number of enemy missiles, fully three-quarters of them. She ground her false teeth together. She wasn’t dead yet, so defeatist thinking was senseless. “Keep firing the proton beam,” she said.

  “Next target acquired,” said the First Gunner.

  Outside the beamship, it was a mass of confusion and beams and missiles and EMP pulses and torpedoes and exploding mines with depleted uranium shrapnel and wisps of aerosols.

  “Point defense cannons ready,” the Second Gunner said.

  “What are those missiles?” the Tracking Officer asked. “What is their function?”

  “They almost look like ships?”

  “Are they orbital carriers?”

  “What does analysis make of them?” the Admiral asked.

  “In this mess?” asked the Tracking Officer.

  “Admiral!” said the Shield Officer.

  “Is Particle Shield 1 gone already?” asked Admiral Sioux, a hint of resignation in her voice.

  “Yes. No. I mean—”

  “Talk to me, mister.”

  “The HB lasers stopped just before the particle shield was breached.”

  “Have we beaten them?” the First Gunner asked. “Have we actually held out long enough and taken all they can give?” He laughed in disbelief.

  “I don’t think so,” said the Tracking Officer. “Here come those mystery missiles. There’re a lot of th
em, too.”

  “But why did the lasers stop?” asked the Admiral. “Are they out of juice?”

  Just then the lasers re-energized, all the beams lancing at the proton beam cannon.

  “This is it!” someone shouted.

  “Long live Social Unity!”

  But the lasers snapped off again.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “It’s like they’re trying to disarm us,” the Admiral said.

  “Why would they do that?” asked the First Gunner.

  “I bet we’ll know in a minute,” said the Tracking Officer. “I’m picking up activity from those mystery missiles.”

  “What do we have left to fight with?” asked the Admiral.

  “A few point defense cannons,” someone said. “Maybe in time damage control could get one of the launch tubes fixed.”

  “Hold the PD cannons. Don’t fire just yet,” the Admiral said. “And get me an open launch tube!”

  “What is it?” asked the First Gunner. “What do you know?”

  “Is it a hunch, Admiral?” the Tracking Officer asked.

  “They’re playing their mystery card,” the Admiral said. “I just want to have something left in case…”

  “In case what, Admiral?”

  “We’re not defeated until we’re dead,” said Admiral Sioux. “Remember that. All of you.”

  There was silence again as they waited for the mystery to unfold.

  9.

  The 101st Maniple’s Storm Assault Missile nosed toward the mighty Bangladesh like a hound sniffing at the carcass of a bull elephant. Beside the missile sniffed other SAs. A hatch blew off the nose of the 101st’s missile, revealing a torpedo launch tube.

  Inside the missile, the firing chamber opened. Like a shotgun shell, the first torpedo slid into the breach. The chamber clanged shut, and the entire missile shuddered. Within the torpedo, Marten Kluge clenched his teeth. He knew the SA missile would fire his friends one after another.

  Open, slide, fire!

  Open, slide, fire!

  An invisible hand used the SA like a hunter shooting a rifle.

  Despite the intense Gs, with the battlesuit’s servomotors it was possible for Marten to lift his hand. He flicked on the torpedo’s screen. The huge Bangladesh leaped into view. The massive beamship was his world. Bright stars surrounded the ship, while the flame of the Bangladesh’s engines showed him that it still tried to run away.

  Good.

  Shredded particle shields hung around the vast beamship. Black holes showed where the lasers had pitted the rock.

  He literally rode a rocket sled toward the Bangladesh. He tried his comlink, but only got crackling static. ECM jamming filled the ether, making communication impossible at this point.

  He was the leader in the sense that he’d been shot first. He aimed at the nearest particle shield. Despite his speed, it seemed that he only inched toward it. This was the most dangerous time. Almost anything could destroy the torpedo. It had solely been built to withstand the shock of impact and burrow deep. A ship’s primary lasers would crisp it in a second. Maybe it could shrug off a few point-defense rounds, but military spacecraft usually spewed thousands of such rounds a second.

  Something blossomed brightly to his left.

  He hoped it wasn’t anyone he knew.

  Then more blossoms flickered all around him.

  He cursed the Highborn, for having put him in this position.

  Pinprick flares dotted the Bangladesh. He was certain it was point defense cannons firing at them.

  Chaff would have been fired from some of the SAs, he knew. Radar jammers were blaring. EMP blasts hopefully had made the beamship stupid. And HB lasers—even to his untrained eye the massive beamship looked badly scarred. So why did he feel so naked? He shivered in dread. He wanted to live. To really live! To run again, to eat steak while sitting at a table, to read a book and to kiss a girl. Maybe he should have slept with Nadia when he had the chance what seemed eons ago. Was it reactionary to want to marry a woman before you slept with her? That’s what Social Unity taught, that his ways were old fashioned and out of style. He flinched as a blossom closer than the others flared beside him. He swore he could feel the torpedo shudder—although he knew that was impossible, unless something actually hit his torp. Then he would be dead, not thinking anymore.

  He shouted in an effort to release his stress. The sound was loud in his helmet. He felt naked and vulnerable. He wanted to smash his screen. Instead, he chinned his suit for neurostim. The hypo hissed. Ah! Beautiful.

  Chemically induced anger washed over him. It covered his feeling of nakedness. Now he wanted to kill.

  He veered more sharply for the pitted particle shield.

  The rocket-ride was almost over. The pitted particle shield grew dramatically in front of him. He roared and raved, and at the last minute, he remembered to clench his teeth together. During practice runs, shock troopers had bitten off their tongues. The shock could click one’s teeth together like a guillotine.

  The pitted particle shield grew mammoth-sized. Then it was all he could see. Blackness! Shock! And he knew nothing more as he passed out.

  10.

  “They aren’t exploding!” shouted the Shield Officer.

  “I don’t understand,” Admiral Sioux said.

  “This doesn’t make sense.”

  “Admiral,” said the Tracking Officer.

  “What?”

  “I…”

  “Do you know what those torpedoes are?” asked Admiral Sioux. “What they do?”

  “I’m picking up life readings.”

  “Are you sure?” asked the Admiral. “Command told us that the HBs hate biocomps.”

  “Not that kind of life readings, Admiral. Men.”

  “Men? Do you mean like us?”

  “Yes, Admiral. Men, humans—soldiers, I should think.”

  “They fired soldiers at us?” Admiral Sioux asked in disbelief.

  “How could regular men withstand twenty-five gravities acceleration?” asked the Shield Officer. “The say the Highborn can take sixteen. But twenty-five! That’s impossible for anybody.”

  “They’re there,” the Tracking Officer said.

  “Are you certain the ECM blasts didn’t distort your sensors?” asked Admiral Sioux.

  “I’ve picked up life readings, Admiral, of Homo sapiens. And there’s not a thing wrong with the sensors. I already ran two diagnostic checks.”

  “So what are soldiers doing on the particle shield?” asked the First Gunner.

  Admiral Sioux’s old eyes suddenly widened. Her heart beat hard. “They’re trying to capture my ship.”

  “Admiral?”

  She scowled, and she thought furiously. They’re not going to capture my ship.

  “The soldiers are storming us?” the First Gunner asked. “Like pirates?”

  “But…”

  “Does that mean we can surrender?” asked a suddenly hopeful officer.

  “Who said that?” snapped Admiral Sioux.

  No one volunteered to say.

  “We’re not surrendering,” Admiral Sioux said. “We’re fighting to the last round, to the last bullet.”

  “Bullet, Admiral?”

  “I’ll blow the Bangladesh before I let the HBs get their hands on her.”

  The sudden and profound silence around Admiral Sioux made her wonder if the beamship’s officers would let her carry out such a threat.

  “Here comes another volley,” the Tracking Officer said.

  “Damage control!” shouted Admiral Sioux. “Get me a working launch tube.”

  “We’re trying, Admiral.”

  “Then try harder, dammit!”

  “Look at that,” said the Tracking Officer.

  Admiral Sioux did. It made her snarl. They weren’t going to get her ship. No, sir. That wasn’t going to happen.

  11.

  Pain throbbed in his head. Marten tasted blood in his mouth. He smacked his lips as
klaxons wailed for his attention. Kill, kill, kill, beat somewhere deep within him. He stirred. Then he blinked. His eyelids felt gluey, almost stuck together. He wondered if he had a concussion. Then the fog over his thought lifted and he knew that his torpedo had burrowed into the particle shield. Marten Kluge slapped the torp’s ejection button.

  His seat moved backward, picking up speed as it slid out the rear of the torpedo. Buckles unsnapped and the battlesuit’s servomotors roared into life. Eight Gs of the Bangladesh’s acceleration pulled at him. But the battlesuit had exoskeleton power. He used his muscles and the suit amplified it many times over. With such suits on Earth, the Highborn could make 100-meter leaps. Here it allowed him to crawl out the hole made by the torpedo.

  Over his gloves, he wore special pads. Every time he put his palm down nine-inch curved spikes thrust out and held on tight. Little barbs jutted out the nine-inch nails, helping the spikes hold onto the particle shield rock. He had the special curved spikes in his boot-toes as well. To withdraw them he had to chin a switch in his helmet. It was hard getting the hang of it. Slap your hand down, slam, the spikes thrust into the rock like explosive pitons, and then out shot the barbs. Chin for the left hand to pull in the barbs and then the claws, lift up the hand, move it, thrust in those spikes again, chin for the right hand, move it, thrust down, chin for the left foot. It was slow work climbing out this hole. He felt the Bangladesh’s high acceleration tugging at him the whole time. So he decided to take his time and do it right.

  Soon, like some bizarre space gopher, he popped his head out of the hole. The pitted particle shield spread in all directions. Motion caught his eye. Out of a nearby hole, as if shot by cannon, a shock trooper flew away. The man’s arms flailed in a tragic-comic way, as if he could climb back to the particle shield with an invisible rope.

  That man hadn’t been careful enough. The Gs had ripped him off the rock and hurled him into space.

  Marten swallowed hard.

  The shock trooper became a dot and disappeared because he was too far to see now. His oxygen would last several hours, several lonely hours with absolutely no hope of rescue.