Star Vigilante (Vigilante Series)

by T. Jackson King

  STAR VIGILANTE

  Book One of the Vigilante series

  By T. Jackson King

  King Novels

  Galactic Vigilante (forthcoming), Nebula Vigilante (2013), Star Of Islam (2013), Galactic Avatar (2013), Stellar Assassin (2013), Retread Shop (2012, 1988), Star Vigilante (2012), The Gaean Enchantment (2012), Little Brother’s World (2010), Judgment Day And Other Dreams (2009), Ancestor’s World (1996).

  Dedication

  To my son, Keith Eric King, Special Agent, Office of Special Investigations, USAF (ret.), who put his life on the line daily during three combat tours in the Middle East and in many other countries around the world which cannot be named due to security considerations.

  Acknowledgments

  First thanks go to my wife Cathy, who served as First Reader on this novel. Other First Readers who helped include Mia McLeod and Alicia Solomon. Second thanks go to William Dietz for a comment on the opening of Chapter One that I adopted. Finally, the military SF stories of David Drake, a true veteran of a major war, have been the inspiration for this book and its sequels.

  STAR VIGILANTE

  © 2012 T. Jackson King

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except for brief quotations for review purposes only. Prior publication: Chapter One as “Paladin” in Absolute Magnitude, Fall/Winter 1997

  Cover design by T. Jackson King; cover image of 30 Doradus Nebula courtesy NASA, ESA, F. Parescue, R. O’Connell, Hubble Space Telescope

  Published by T. Jackson King, Los Alamos, NM 87544

  www.sff.net/people/t-jackson-king

  ISBN 10: 978-1-61720-653-5

  ISBN 13: 1-61720-653-9

  Printed in the USA

  CHAPTER ONE

  A lizard-green laser beam hit Matt’s right shoulder and splintered into thousands of low-power sparkles as his combat suit’s sapphire crystal coating broke the beam into hundreds of pale green flares that filled a lonely corridor of Hagonar Station.

  Attack! screamed Suit’s onboard Combat Information System as it flooded his mind and nerves with multiple datastreams.

  One stream illuminated his attacker, a six-legged crab-like alien with natural chitin armor that it may have assumed would be protection enough against a two-legged humanoid who wandered the back corridors of the space station and wore only an armored lifesuit. The attacker had pretended to be a silvery-grey outcrop of the corridor, betting on the faint orange light to shield it from early detection by Suit’s sensors. A bad bet.

  Blinking his right eye twice, Matt approved Suit’s plan to hit the alien’s exoskeleton with six titanium penetrator darts, each dart carrying a biogel able to quickly kill any carbon-based lifeform. A squirt of the biogel was enough, but Suit believed in “Kill Thrice, Regret Never” —so a third counterstrike followed.

  “Surrender and—” the crab-like alien’s Comdisk began to say.

  Then it staggered as the penetrator darts hit its chitin shell-body, shuddered from the biogel neurotoxin, then it screeched in pain as Suit flashed ultrasonic beams against its shell, causing internal organs to liquefy as the resonance frequency for its flesh was reached and maintained by Suit’s feedback system.

  In three seconds a lifeless chitin shell rocked slowly on the corridor’s metal floor, its laser rifle long ago dropped, the six manipulator limbs unmoved by death throes. Death throes require nerves able to transmit bioelectric signals and muscle fibers able to contract. His attacker’s body possessed neither, thanks to Suit’s triple-kill counterattack.

  Matt turned away from the low-caste genome harvester, heading inward to the dive bar where he was to meet a possible Patron, someone who sought to employ his combat capabilities.

  His humanoid form, a rarity in the Anarchate galactic culture, made some aliens underestimate his capabilities. The crab-like alien had been the third effort by one of Hagonar’s freelance genome harvesters to collect Matt’s genetic code for sale to the highest bidder. A bidder who would then make copies of Matt, copies programmed to follow any order given by the bidder.

  In a galaxy ruled by the Anarchate, everything was for sale, from infants and children, to the genomes of defenseless species, even whole star systems were bought and sold. The fact that Matt sought to right the wrongs of a society millions of years old by serving as a Vigilante for hire did nothing to change the system. Still he had a promise to keep, a promise made to a dead love, the last person he had cared for . . . .

  An hour later he still sat in the bar Wiggles, wondering why the humanoid form so interested the exotic critters who filled the alien version of a booze-drug bar. It distracted him from thinking about her, Helen, the woman who had loved him, and whom he had loved. Until she died, leaving him to find a life purpose without her.

  He sighed, his breath filling the armored helmet of his Mitsubishi-Toshiba Cyborg Combat Suit.

  Work. That’s what he needed. That’s why he sat in a third-rate dive like Wiggles, stuck away in a corner of a backwater space station, waiting for his appointment with a possible Patron . . . and she was late.

  For a Vigilante like himself, hanging around one place too long isn’t smart. As the corridor episode showed, you can get killed by staying in place. The code of a Vigilante is simple: track ‘em, strike ‘em, and be elsewhere when the Anarchate Battleglobes show up.

  Matt squinted into the clinging shadows of Wiggles, searching for the woman who’d answered his Job Board listing.

  The listing had been brief enough: Vigilante for Hire; Have Starship, Will Travel. He smiled, recalling the ancient vidpic from which he’d stolen the words. He’d always liked the vidpic character Paladin. Their features were similar, though he was Amerindian/French by birth whereas Paladin had a strong Hispanic heritage. But the man had lived in a simpler time. A time when little Earth had thought itself the center of the universe.

  Once again he wished humans weren’t spread so thinly across a galaxy infested by thousands of alien species, with no justice, no law, and a soul-destroying culture called the Anarchate. Why did he live when whole species sometimes died in the far reaches of space? What could he do, a lone human, against a cultural system already ancient when homo habilis walked the African savannah? But wishing doesn’t change reality—such as the fact that Earth had been ‘found’ by alien genome harvesters in A.D. 2040, and had never been the same since. Nor had he, since Helen’s death. Matt yearned for her touch, her kiss, her warm embrace, the smell of her hair, the feel of . . . .

  He pushed away the memory pain. But once again, he felt exposed. Vulnerable. Weak.

  That was not how he felt when linked to his alter ego, the self-aware Dreadnought-class starship Mata Hari. Thanks to her rescue of him as he drifted among the stars in a lifepod, the two had become one entity. Matt had learned what it was like to think at computer speed, to sense scores of inputs simultaneously and to “wear” the starship like a suit of clothes, with each movement of his directing some function of Mata Hari.

  With a slow blink of his left eye Matt raised his faceplate. The odors of Wiggles entered. He wrinkled his nose.

  It stank. The air reeked of alien pheromones, rancid garbage, metal-scouring cleansers, disinfectants, and the acrid fumes from seven types of tobacco-analogues. Taste next hit him. The metallic bitterness of recycled air coated his tongue, telling him the dive’s titanium recycling filters hadn’t been cleaned in a long time. Next came sound. Screeching, squalling, heterodyning sounds filled Wiggles, as might be expected at a disreputable bar/restaurant/p
leasure dive in the CHON section of Hagonar. Matt winced, wishing he could shut his ears as easily as his mouth.

  Where the hell was that Patron?

  Sighing, he looked around.

  His neighbors were supposedly other lifeforms constructed of carbon, hydrogen, oxygen and nitrogen, who radiated at a moderate temperature and breathed oxygen. However, he counted four canister tanks encrusted with milky-white ice—it seemed the methane breathers were slumming tonight. But even stranger beings toured Wiggles. Not far beyond his alcove there glimmered the iridescent blue crystals of a barium titanate alien; its piezoelectric crystals fluxed and changed visibly, engaging in thought. In the middle distance, shapes moved about the circular, amphitheater-like room, its domed ceiling festooned with parallel bars for the avian and forest-evolved types.

  Distantly, among the shadows of the room’s far side, there moved a humanoid form, one vaguely suggestive of a woman. His Patron? Maybe. Maybe not.

  The humanoid form that resembled a woman spotted him and moved toward his alcove, still twenty meters away. Ummm. Not a hallucination.

  Time to go to work.

  Matt blinked to lower the faceplate, switched to Eyes-Up mode, and activated the virtual-reality display. Wiggles took form inside his helmet, the orange-lit room relegated to the faceplate’s right quadrant. He studied the circular room’s layout, the placement of lifeforms, energy sources, and motion vectors—all in three dimensions that rotated within a miniature graphics display. A great thing, the display. It could place his point-of-view at the ceiling, at either entrance to Wiggles, or in his own alcove. He switched focus to the faceplate’s left side as new data shimmered into being. A downlink from the feminine AI that was Mata Hari glowed like a red cloud. Within that cloud floated Hagonar Station, nearby ships, their classifications and weaponry ratings, unpowered asteroidal debris, gamma and beta radiation levels, solar wind fluxes from Theta Aurigae’s two stars, and a thousand other details. Too many details. But the flood had just begun.

  Matt went to gestalt focus, simultaneously seeing the faceplate images and the inner surfaces of his contact lenses. On those lenses flickered readouts from the twelve weapons systems of Suit. All showed green-light Ready status. Then, filled with an unnamable ecstasy, existing both within and outside Suit, he surrendered his will and underwent Systems Checkout by Suit’s CPU.

  Hundred megawatt laser pulse-cannons stirred to life on either shoulder, tracking around the room, seeking Lock-On. A thump-crump sounded from each bicep as ten rounds of High Explosive Discarding Sabot shells cycled into miniature rocket-guns; they made each bicep look like a bagpipes factory. On his chest, the pulse-Doppler radar whined on. Millimeter-wavelength pulses ranged out over the room, probing the inner composition of those lifeforms not wearing a stealth or radar-reflective body covering. Hard against his spine, the rocket launcher backpack grumbled down to Standby, told by Suit’s CPU the range was too close for a kiloton atomic. But on either hip, and snugged up against his belly, backup magnetohydrodynamic power units pulsed to life.

  We are ready! The MHDs screamed, sounding like little electron bees. They stood ready to feed surge-power to the shoulder lasers, to his fingertip lasers and to Suit’s tractor and pressor beam emitters. Other weapons systems flashed by, also powered on. Ultrasonic vibers. Fire-and-Forget Nanoshell launchers. Nerve gas dispensers. “Now? Can we go now?”

  God, they were so eager. Almost humanly eager. Then the ecstasy he called ocean-time eased off. Checkout done, Suit delivered a new display to his central faceplate, devoted solely to the approaching female humanoid.

  Fifteen meters away, Suit told him via his inbuilt PET sensors.

  Matt focused on that central image.

  Microwave sensors displayed clearly her skeletal structure. A subsidiary readout confirmed it as calcium-based, but with a titanium upgrade for strength. Infrared bio-sensors showed a body temp ten degrees above human-normal. Pulse-Doppler revealed a double-heart that beat steadily; that was a bioupgrade for a High Threat environment. Gas spectrometers documented the exact amount of carbon dioxide she exhaled. The heatmap glowed with thermal concentrations—at her head, both breasts, each heart, her hands, the groin, and her feet. Mech sensors showed she carried only a laser handgun, riding in a holster on her right hip. A machete rode on her left hip. Her black environment suit showed up as a vacuum-resistant monomolecular film, its oxygen reservoirs presumably strapped onto the woman’s back, buttocks or rear legs—and thus out of direct line-of-sight.

  Ten meters.

  A black-suited woman moved toward him, her long black hair fluttering slowly in the six-tenths gee gravity of Wiggles. Her arms swung casually at her side. Her eyes—her needful jade green eyes fixed on him.

  Eight meters.

  A serious look filled her pale white face. Her head canted forward a bit, implying determination. An almost human woman approached.

  Six meters.

  Was she really human? Or . . . was she an alien-constructed clone put together from stolen or bartered human cells, mind-programmed, emotionally neutered, and devoted solely to the Master who would periodically reward her brain’s pleasure center with impulses from a trickle current? Or punish her with sadistic lashes from a neurowhip?

  Perhaps she was the cyborg vessel for a self-aware, silicon-germanium supercomputer from a far star system, who figured it needed an organic form while slumming among organics?

  Or perhaps she was just a mindless biological Remote filled with plague spores, built according to a convenient bipedal form, and programmed to seek out and infect carbon-based lifeforms similar to the original genome pattern?

  Such things existed in the Anarchate. The options for Hunter-Killer weapons systems are not limited to the electronic, photonic and inorganic.

  Four meters.

  She slowed, blinking long black eyelashes. She spoke. “Are you Matt Dragoneaux, Human, Work Sigil—Vigilante?”

  His comdisk translated a weird language full of polytonal phonemes. Ancient Greek.

  Three meters.

  “Stop!” he said, using Suit’s external speaker.

  She stopped, swaying slightly in the weak gee-field of Wiggles. Bare hands stayed at her side. His displays keened with Threat Readiness signals. Suit hungered to attack her!

  Matt blinked a code sequence. Suit Locked-On a single laser pulse-cannon, centering it between her eyes. They were deliciously green—as nearly as he could see in flickering orange light of the dive. Her hair glimmered with an ebony black luster. And her skin shone alabaster white—where it showed outside her vacsuit.

  An albino! Or, a partial one since her hair and eyes were naturally colored. “You’re late. Identify yourself.”

  She looked irritated. His faceplate display tracked an increase in double-heart pulse rates. Carbon dioxide exhalations increased slightly. Muscle tension changed a bit. Cheek muscles tightened. Minor facial tics showed on her right jaw. Under the vacsuit, full breasts rose and fell regularly, not yet showing the rapid breathing of worry-threat-danger.

  “I am Eliana Antigone Themistocles, Derindl/Human genetic mix, Sigma Puppis star system, planet Halcyon—a Third Wave colony. My Work Sigil is Molecular Geneticist.” She frowned. “And I am not late!”

  Ahhh—a Derindl/Human crossbreed! That explained the albino skin that happened when species crossbred. But what was her purpose? And would she, like everyone else he’d met, lie to him? “Turn around.”

  She looked confused, then exasperated, finally resigned. “If you insist.” She turned, presenting her back to him.

  Each shoulder blade was covered by a cylindrical lump. Lower down, and just above the trim buttocks, lay a coiled bulge. Was it the vestigial tail of the Derindl arboreal dwellers? Either that, or a clever imitation to fit a totally false story. Matt double-blinked and took a Threat assessment of her back. His faceplate’s Eyes-Up display changed. The right quadrant showed only small, pressurized oxygen canisters riding over her shoulder blades, a heat si
gnature denoting both hearts and the groin, and no weapons other than the laser handgun and machete. Curious. She was remarkably under-weaponed for a place like Hagonar Station. Did she have capabilities unknown to him? Or was she an innocent abroad, unaware of the dangers at Hagonar? And the risk she’d exposed him to by being late . . . .

  “Face me, please.”

  Storm clouds gathered in her eyes as she finished pirouetting. “I, I—”

  “Do not touch your weapons, Themistocles-person.”

  “What!” Her mouth gaped. A vein on her forehead pulsed angrily. “You, you—”

  “Yes?”

  “You clone!” Anger made her beautiful—far too beautiful. “How dare you speak to me as I were only a cipher!”

  Matt’s bicep rocket-guns locked onto her midbody, activated by her Threat tones. Both shoulder pulse-cannons now aimed between her eyes, their pinhead sighting lasers putting green dots between black eyebrows. Damn. That’s the trouble with staying in neurolink with one’s weapons systems—integration with them becomes second nature, like breathing, sleeping, eating . . . and fighting.

  She was definitely a naif. Naive to a fault. Certainly not stupid considering her molecular geneticist training. But how trustworthy?

  Matt sighed. “Lower your voice, please. My Suit systems detect Threat.”

  Her jaw muscles jumped again. Eliana Themistocles eyed the bicep rocket-guns and shoulder cannons bristling from Suit like needles on a cactus. If she even remembered what a cactus was. Had been, once—long ago. Before the deserts were flooded to grow rice for too many people.

  “Can you converse?” she asked, attempting sarcasm. “Or do you only sit on that bench like an overweight Bal-lizard, too brainless to do more than posture Threat at anything that comes within your sensory zone?”

  “I talk.” Her tone declared her a small frog from a smaller pond who thought herself important. In the Anarchate, of all places. Maybe she was just provincial and parochial. Matt inner-focused on Suit. All readouts confirmed Themistocles as a Derindl/Human crossbreed: sex, female; age, about 30 Sol-years; and with no sign of malnutrition or iron-deficiency diseases. Food must be plentiful on her planet. “Your purpose?”