As the officers discussed various strategies and the coming run of the Bangladesh, the door opened, flooding the darkened room with light. Air Marshal Ulrich, a bull-shouldered German, wearing his immaculate blue uniform, stepped within. A weird look twisted his florid features. Sweat glistened his face and soaked his too-tight collar.
The whispers died as one member of the staff after another glanced up.
The Air Marshal used his heel to close the door. Then, in a jerky motion, he unsnapped his holster flap and drew a heavy .55 magnum revolver.
“Ulrich! What’s the—”
A deafening BOOM cut the question short. The slug tore through the holoimage of Earth and hit Space Commander Shell, a short, hawkish man standing on the other side. Shell flew backward, his chest a gaping cavity. BOOM. Colonel-General Green, formerly of Replacement Army East, lost his head. BOOM, BOOM. Admiral O’Connor ceased to exist and Commodore Tivoli slammed against the back wall, her right shoulder gone.
Stunned, with his eyes bulging and his ears ringing, the Supreme Commander of Social Unity Armed Forces watched Ulrich stalk around the table that contained the electronics that projected the holoimage above it. General James Hawthorne found that he was shaking, and that his limbs refused to obey him. His heart pounded and suddenly he drew an agonizing gasp. Something wet soaked his left sleeve and a horrible groan awoke him to the fact that he was about to die.
Air Marshal Ulrich, with sweat pouring off his face, lifted the heavy hand cannon.
“Please, Ulrich—no!”
BOOM.
General Hawthorne flinched. Then he blinked in amazement. He felt no pain. It finally penetrated that the groaning had stopped. He twisted leftward. Commodore Tivoli no longer had a face. Ulrich had put her out of her misery.
The Air Marshal now drew a deep breath.
Seeming to move in slow motion, General Hawthorne turned toward him. He wished he could think of something profound to say, or something coolly indifferent. Instead, he had to fight not to throw himself onto his knees and beg for his life.
A grimace twisted the Air Marshal’s lips. He re-targeted the smoking .55, while his other hand fumbled in his jacket pocket, finally drawing a rag. He mopped his brow and wiped sweat from his chunky neck.
“Ulrich—”
“They want you alive,” interrupted the Air Marshal, his voice compressed. He wiped spittle from his lips.
Hawthorne’s knees almost buckled, he was so grateful that Ulrich didn’t plan to butcher him. Then his mind kicked back into focus.
The Air Marshal squinted and minutely shook his head. “No, James. Don’t try it. They said to kill you if it looks like it won’t work.”
“Who are they?”
“Turn around.”
“The Highborn?”
“Turn around!”
Although in his fifties, Hawthorne shifted onto the balls of his feet. He hoped Ulrich would wave with that sickeningly heavy pistol for him to turn around. He was grateful now for the agonizing hours he took each week keeping fit.
Ulrich had short, blunt fingers, an even thicker thumb. He used it to cock the hammer. “I understand, General. In fact, maybe it’s better this way, more mercifully that they don’t get their hands on you.”
Panic caused Hawthorne’s heart to thud in his chest. He turned around, his throat suddenly raw. He was too much of a soldier not to look at his dead friends. Space Commander Shell lay grotesquely. Commodore Tivoli—
From behind Ulrich stepped closer. Fabric rustled. Hawthorne willed himself to move, to use his elbow and slam it into Ulrich and spin around for a death-fight. But before the thought could become action, the heavy gun-barrel poked his back.
“It’s harder to be a hero than you think,” said Ulrich, his breath hot on Hawthorne’s ear. Then something cool touched the back of his neck.
Ulrich shuffled sideways, out of range. “Face me,” he said.
Hawthorne reached for the back of his neck. He heard the click. Next thing he knew he was falling. He didn’t feel anything until his left cheek struck the floor. Pain exploded. He wanted to rub his cheek, but his arms wouldn’t move.
Click. His shoulder throbbed where it had hit the floor, but at least he could move again, and feel.
“Don’t touch your neck,” said Ulrich. “Now, get up slowly.”
Hawthorne did. “What is it?” he said. “What did you put on me?”
“A neural inhibitor. I press my switch and it cuts off your nerve impulses from the neck down. Adhesive bonding keeps it in place.”
Hawthorne noted the thumb-sized switch in Ulrich’s free hand.
“Oh, one more thing. I have a second button. If I press it a mini-bomb detonates and your head detaches from your body.”
“What?”
“You’ll walk in front of me all the way out of here, General. If anything happens to me along the way—boom. No more head.”
“Then my security team kills you.”
Ulrich nodded as he wiped sweat from his face.
“Are you really willing to die?” asked Hawthorne.
Ulrich stuffed the rag in his jacket pocket.
Hawthorne indicated the dead officers. “Shooting them like pigs is one thing. Dying—”
“I’m ready to die, General, I assure you of that.”
“It’s worth that much to you, what they’re offering?”
“James…” Pain flickered in Ulrich’s eyes. He shook his head. He checked his watch, and said, “Take off your jacket. There’s blood on the sleeve.”
Hawthorne hesitated. Then he slipped off his green jacket, tossing it aside. He wore a white shirt with a green tie and green trousers with red piping along the creases.
Ulrich eyed him critically. “We walk all the way out. Your security team will not join us because you will forbid it. Further, you will give the needed codes and commands to insure our safe arrival outside. James.” Ulrich peered closely at his former commanding officer. “I will not hesitate to kill you, even if it means my death. If you doubt my seriousness, look at your friends lying around you.”
“They were your friends, too, Air Marshal.”
“Look at them!”
Hawthorne did. He shivered.
“Ready?”
Hawthorne opened his mouth to say more, and he shut it.
“Good. Walk ahead of me.”
Hawthorne squared his bony shoulders and stepped forward. Ulrich trained the revolver on him and dropped his other hand into his jacket pocket. As Hawthorne passed, Ulrich’s hand jerked up. It held a coin-sized capsule. He pressed it against Hawthorne’s forearm. A jet of air shot the tiny pneumospray hypo, pumping a drug into the General’s bloodstream.
“What?”
Ulrich shoved Hawthorne, hard. Caught by surprise, he staggered sideways and struck the wall, then straightened angrily.
“Wait,” said Ulrich.
Hawthorne checked himself from lunging. After a moment, he rubbed his forearm. “What did you put into me?”
Ulrich smiled bitterly.
A cool, numbing feeling clouded the General’s thinking. He wanted to stay enraged. Air Marshal Ulrich, a professional colleague for more than twenty years… How could he have trusted such a monster? But the rage slipped away. It was getting harder to think.
“You’re ready,” said Ulrich. “Let’s go.”
“But…”
“Go!”
Hawthorne adjusted his tie and moved to the door, opening it. He glanced back. The beefy Air Marshal slid his hand cannon into its holster, clicking the flap shut. Noticing the appraisal, Ulrich held up the black switch, his thumb ready to press.
“Go,” he repeated.
Hawthorne stepped into the outer office. The consoles were empty, the entire room devoid of personnel. No doubt, Ulrich had ordered everyone out before he’d entered the inner sanctum.
Then it became difficult to concentrate as they strode through the vast underground bunker, a massive complex. Faces merged,
worried and wondering, but comforted by Ulrich’s explanation that the General needed to relax topside, grab some fresh air and stretch his legs for a brisk walk under the sun. In time, and as the drug lost its edge, Hawthorne found himself riding a seldom-used conveyer. He rubbed his forehead.
“Try not to dwell on it,” said Ulrich.
Hawthorne faced the traitor, who had a shiny face and a foul, damp odor. Sweat stains soaked the armpits of Ulrich’s blue uniform.
“In another few minute it’s over, General. Then you’ll never have to look at me again.”
Hawthorne realized that he sneered at Ulrich. He turned toward the approaching entrance. He’d been given an obedience drug, but he hadn’t been completely obedient. There was one word he should have given to cancel secret surveillance. He had implemented this particular procedure after the late Lord Director’s assassination. He was certain the Air Marshal didn’t know about it.
“Step off,” said Ulrich.
Hawthorne hopped off the conveyer. Ulrich followed. Hawthorne strode to the door and punched in the security code. A green light flashed and the thick titanium door slid aside. They climbed the stairs and went out the last door, to a blustery park rich with evergreen odors. Pinecones littered the needled ground. A gravel path led to a hanger in the distance. Evergreens swayed all around, and surrounding the trees rose snow-capped mountains.
“Head away from the building,” said Ulrich. “South.”
Their shoes crunched over needles. The wind howled. Dark swirling clouds raced overhead. Higher then the stratosphere orbited the enemy’s space platforms. The Highborn besieged Earth.
Ulrich made an angry sound, and said, “What’s he doing here?”
General Hawthorne turned.
From behind a tree, strode a strange man. The common phrase was semi-prosthetic or bionic. Specialists had torn the man down and rebuilt him with synthetic muscles, titanium-reinforced bones and sheath-protected nerves. The bionic captain wore a loose military tunic and slacks. He had heavy features, giving him the image of a Twentieth Century gangster who broke bones for a living. He wore a peaked cap low over his eyes, while a barely audible whine emanated from him. Special wonder glands had been grafted into him and if the need arose would squirt drugs into his bloodstream and dull any pain he might receive or stimulate him to even greater strength and speed.
Ulrich stepped near the General. “It’s your head unless you get rid of him.”
Hawthorne could barely speak, but he managed to stutter, “C-Captain.”
The bionic captain strode up and saluted sharply. “Is everything all right, sir?”
Hawthorne glanced at Ulrich, who sweated even more than before, although it was cold here.
“We… we needed air,” said Hawthorne.
“Very good, sir.” The bionic captain turned toward the Air Marshal.
Ulrich peered past him, and his eyes widened in fear.
Both Hawthorne and the bionic captain turned.
Out of the woods loped six men. They wore the red body armor of Political Harmony Corps, with black helmets, boots and silver packs. A wire from the packs ran to the slim laser pistols clutched in their gloved fists.
The bionic captain moved like liquid death. He leaped and shoved Hawthorne down. Then he drew his sidearm and knelt on one knee, snapping off rapid-fire shots.
Hawthorne spit pine needles out of his mouth.
The captain fired a huge gyroc pistol, the heavy slugs igniting in mid-flight, assisted by internal rockets. The armor-piercing bullets penetrated the intruders’ protective shells and exploded. Three of the PHC squad already lay dead. Two fired lasers. One beam hissed over the General, the heat hot on his cheek. The other beam touched the bionic captain’s non-firing arm, frying flesh and bio-metal. The captain grunted, but drugs clamped down on the pain and kept him lucid. He fired twice more and two more red suits went down.
Hawthorne froze, and he realized Ulrich had pressed the inhibitor switch. But his mouth wasn’t frozen. “Behind you!” shouted Hawthorne.
BOOM.
General Hawthorne closed his eyes in sick defeat. Then he heard a familiar grunt, Ulrich. The Air Marshal pitched onto the needles beside him. The last PHC killer died under a hail of gyroc rounds.
Click.
General Hawthorne slowly rose. A moment later, the captain had his hand on his elbow. Blood dripped from the bionic shoulder.
“Are you all right?” asked Hawthorne.
“Never mind me, sir.” The captain scanned the forest. “Let’s get you below.”
“Yes,” said Hawthorne. He glanced at Ulrich, at the crushed windpipe. The bionic captain was brutally strong. He wondered then what the cyborgs were like, if they were that much superior to the bionic men?
As the captain hustled him to the door, he realized that it had almost ended for him. His stupidity bade him recall an ancient piece of prose.
Thucydides, the historian of the Peloponnesian War between the ancient Greek city-states of Athens and Sparta, had written it. It had concerned the various factions of various feuding city-state allies. Thucydides had written about people plotting and jockeying for political power within those states.
As a rule, those who were least remarkable for intelligence showed the greater powers of survival. Such people recognized their own deficiencies and the superior intelligence of their opponents. Fearing that they might lose a debate or find themselves outmaneuvered in intrigue by their quick-witted enemies, they boldly launched straight into action. Their opponents, over-confident in the belief that they would see what was happening in advance, and not thinking it necessary to seize by force what they could secure by policy, were the more easily destroyed because they were off their guard.
Hawthorne was on his guard now against PHC plots. He just hoped it wasn’t too late.
3.
Nadia lowered the headphones and stared at the bulkhead. She hid in a tiny crawl space, her home away from home. She had a folding lounge chair that served as her bed, several boxes of concentrates, a wall stacked with five-gallon jugs of water and a horde of tech equipment and tools. All this left her about ten square meters of floor space. Her vacc suit and helmet lay on a box and an oxygen re-charger stood beside the porta-pot. The only way out was the airlock. Marten had said that this had been one of his parents’ former bolt holes.
Now…
Nadia shook her head in denial of the latest catastrophe. It simply couldn’t be happening. They had come so close, too close for this to happen. When Marten hadn’t shown—she had waited a half-hour over the limit. Then she’d fled and come here to hide and wait and try again. And he hadn’t shown the next day, at the new location. That’s when she became frightened.
Now…
She dropped the headphones onto the floor. Marten was gone. Everyone in the Sun Works was in a panic. Repair pods to the docks, shuttles scurrying all over, the Doom Star Genghis Khan hiding behind Mercury. Those five boost ships now made sense, and all those missiles lifting from the boost ships. Marten had been in one of those. That’s what the military code said, the one she’d just been listening to. The shock troops were on bearing as targeted.
Nadia sat motionless on the lounge chair, her mind blank. Finally, she forced herself to suck from a food-tube and sip water. “Marten,” she whispered. Tears trickled. She would never see him again. She sank into the lounge chair and cried. Later she wiped away the tears. Then she fiddled with the various pieces of equipment. Maybe he would return home from a successful mission, but she couldn’t believe that, didn’t dare trust it to happen. She had to think and be hardheaded.
The answer finally came. She could see no other way around it.
Nadia donned the vacc suit and boots, entered the airlock and made the long walk to the observation dome where they had first found the pod. She entered the hab and warily studied the bare area. Then she pulled a bug detector from her pocket, scanning her surroundings. Spy-sticks watched the corridor. Well, that couldn�
��t be helped. Hopefully the operator wouldn’t understand what he saw. She wasn’t a shock trooper, and that’s what Marten had told her they watched for.
She put the vacc suit in the locker and hurried down the corridor. A tangler was strapped to her thigh. It was the one Marten had said he’d used over four and half years ago. It had been exactly where he’d said he had hidden it. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use it.
4.
Hansen chortled in glee. He had her. He sat in his office and watched a screen with Nadia Pravda as its subject. He had re-routed certain spy-sticks so they only played at his desk screen. He watched Nadia stride down a utility corridor and to an empty hanger door. He wasn’t sure what she was doing in there. As he waited, he typed on a special keyboard newly installed in the desk. He loved being Chief Monitor. He loved all these gadgets. Watching people when they didn’t know they were being watched, he couldn’t compare the feeling to anything he’d known before. It was power.
He switched back to the hanger door. What was she doing in there? Too bad, he hadn’t been able to get clearance for spy-sticks in the hangers. He shrugged, waited and then checked his credit account. Oh, lovely. He bobbed his head. Dust sales had skyrocketed since he’d taken over.
A red light blinked.
He switched back to the hanger door, watching Nadia close it, glance both ways and hurry down the corridor with a heavy duffel bag slung over her shoulder.
Hansen leaned forward to examine the bag. It seemed to be full of little baggies. “Beautiful,” he whispered. At last, he would recover the stolen product. He needed it more than ever in order to fill several orders. Patience did pay off.
He turned to his intercom to summon his special team: Ervil, Dalt and Methlen. But his door opened and two Trustees entered unannounced. They were beefy, sneering men in brown plastic armor, the personal servants of Highborn. The Trustees as a group displayed big bushy sideburns. These two seemed too young to have them. Theirs were probably glued on. They stood in the doorway, arrogantly peering at his cluttered office and then at him.
Doom Star: Book 02 - Bio-Weapon Page 14
