Cybership

by Vaughn Heppner

  THE FORGING

  -1-

  Officer Cadet Jon Hawkins was in the auxiliary control room when the three sergeants floated through the hatch.

  The heavy Gs no longer plagued them. The answer had been simple and direct. Shut off the engines. A few of the regiment’s survivors had known enough—with the mentalist’s help—to figure out the engine room controls. The derelict battleship presently floated with a shallow velocity toward the blue ice giant five million kilometers away and closing oh-so slowly.

  Jon was attempting to reactivate a teleoptic sensor so they could see exactly where the battleship was headed. He was beginning to think someone would have to go outside on the hull to rewire the teleoptic sensor.

  With the computer’s abortion—

  Jon looked up as his stomach muscles tightened. He’d been expecting this, but he’d thought he would have a few more days before a regimental council challenged his right to command.

  First Sergeant Stark led the way. Stark only had one name. He was a mountain of old-fashioned muscle with an almost nonexistent neck. Like Jon, Stark had grown up on Titan, but in Bristol Dome on the other side of the moon. He’d worked on Bristol’s police force, going down into the deeper tunnels to enforce city law. Stark had used a shield and baton back then, clubbing lawbreakers into submission. He’d clubbed the wrong person once. The slumlord had put out a hit on Stark and his family. The hitmen had missed the big man, but had killed his wife and kids. That night, Stark had gone down into the lower levels alone. He’d left his shield at the police station. In its place, he took a riot gun. Stark broke down the door to the slumlord’s drug house and killed everyone he found, showing no mercy. He made sure the drug kingpin himself took longer to die, with every major bone in his body shattered.

  First Sergeant Stark had been with the regiment for thirty years now. He was huge, with a shiny bullet-shaped head and scary eyes. He’d served the colonel with unquestioning loyalty, having saved William Graham’s life more times than any other soldier in the regiment had done.

  Floating behind Stark came a sergeant everyone called the Centurion. He was the opposite of Stark. The Centurion was small, with gangly limbs and sandy-colored hair. Most of the regiment swore the Centurion had no soul and no compunction about killing anyone. He was the ultimate professional soldier. Immediately after every battle or fight, he cleaned his weapons. He demanded perfection from his men, but never yelled, never raised his voice. He spoke in whispers when he spoke at all. No one seemed to know when he had joined the regiment or what he had done before joining. No one knew if he had another name. He was the Centurion, and he was among the deadliest soldiers in the regiment.

  Everyone called the last sergeant the Old Man. He was tall and thin, with thinning hair that he religiously dyed black. He smoked a pipe most of the time. The Old Man was puffing on one as he sailed toward Jon now. He was even-tempered, known to give sage advice and had never missed one of the chaplain’s sermons. The Old Man had been part of the regiment before William Graham had made it his. Some of the soldiers said the Old Man had been one of the regiment’s original soldiers over fifty years ago. They claimed he took rejuvenation treatments, had been taking them before he escaped from Earth as he fled the GSB. Out of all three sergeants, he was the only one of them that seemed as if he could have been an officer.

  Jon checked to make sure he had his gun at his side. The look on First Sergeant Stark’s slab-like features told him this could get nasty fast.

  Jon gently pushed off the chair, grabbing hold of the panel as he stood.

  The three sergeants grabbed various chairs or panels. They’d had plenty of practice at zero-G maneuvering. They weren’t space marines as such, used to fighting aboard spaceships. They’d merely traveled enough via freighter in the Saturn System back in the day to gain their space legs, as the saying went.

  “Give us a reason not to kill you,” Stark said in his low growl, as his scary eyes fixed upon Hawkins.

  Jon’s stomach muscles tightened so it felt as if they stretched almost to the breaking point. It seemed these three old dinosaurs had decided he had to give an accounting.

  “Is this about the colonel?” Jon asked.

  Stark cracked the knuckles of his right hand as if to get ready for a killing beating.

  “I already told you what happened,” Jon said.

  “You trusted a secret policeman with the regiment’s life,” Stark said in an ugly voice. “That was stupid. Why should we let a stupid boy tell the regiment what to do?”

  Jon inhaled slowly through his nostrils. The desire to explain his actions precisely was practically a physical need. He wanted these three dinosaurs to understand how much pressure he’d withstood to buy them their lives.

  Stark, the Centurion and the Old Man watched him closely. No doubt, they were judging his worth. He almost quailed. He respected these three. He yearned for their approval.

  And yet, Jon knew he could never get it by answering direct questions like this. He was the last regimental officer standing. The knowledge of what to do went deeper than that. In his youth, he’d watched as teenagers and thugs in their twenties had jockeyed for rank and power in the gang. Weakness in any manner had meant defeat. A leader led. A follower begged others to understand him.

  He also recalled some of Colonel Graham’s lessons on leadership. Arrogance would not help him here, although it would go farther than any type of whining. The sergeants wanted strength. They wanted someone to tell them what to do.

  The moment stretched until Stark glanced at the Old Man. The tall sergeant with his black-dyed hair sucked on his pipe, blowing smoke.

  “Well?” Stark demanded of Jon.

  “What’s your goal?” Jon asked suddenly.

  “I am not asking for fancy words,” Stark growled. “I want a reason to leave you alive. Otherwise, I’m going to kill you.”

  Jon almost doubled over at the pain in his gut.

  The small Centurion frowned, his left hand moving toward the sheathed knife on his belt. He’d skinned prisoners alive before. Each of those times had been ugly. The colonel had almost cashiered the Centurion for his psychotic episodes.

  “You afraid, boy?” asked Stark.

  Jon managed a shrug.

  “You stink of fear,” Stark told him. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

  Jon’s hands trembled. So, he put his right hand on his holstered sidearm; he put his left hand behind his back so none of them could see it shake.

  “Think you can quick-draw that gun fast enough to kill all three of us?” Stark asked.

  “Maybe,” Jon said.

  “If you fail, you’re going to die long and hard. You know that, right?”

  Jon forced himself to smile. He might die. He might even go screaming at the end if these old-timers got their way. But he might as well summon what courage he had and go out with a little flair. One thing he knew, he’d kill the Centurion first. The Centurion was the most dangerous and coldblooded of the three. Massive Stark would likely lose his temper and kill him fast.

  The Centurion nodded, almost as if he understood Jon’s decision to kill him first.

  Stark cracked his other set of knuckles. “You haven’t given me a reason yet. Do you want to die? Is that it? Have you lost your balls without the colonel around to tell you what to do?”

  Something cold passed over Jon’s features.

  “What do you want?” Jon asked as evenly as possible.

  “Your balls on a plate,” Stark said, “my heels crushing your face. I want to stomp the stupid bastard that let my colonel go into the dark night without a fight.”

  Jon drew a ragged breath. He might have looked away, but that would give these dinosaurs an opening. He couldn’t give them anything. He needed friends. He needed someone in the regiment to understand what he had gone through and continued to go through. But he saw that couldn’t be the case with these three. Colonel Graham had told him before that leading was lonely w
ork. A commanding officer needed a solitary streak. He also needed empathy for the soldiers under him. It was a difficult combination to balance. The colonel had told Jon he might have that balance.

  Jon’s head twitched quickly from right to left.

  “Look at him,” Stark sneered. “He’s freaking out. He’s practically pissing himself.”

  The head twitch hadn’t been nerves, but Jon shaking his head to himself. He couldn’t have any friends just yet. He had a job to do. If he failed, he would be letting the colonel down.

  A new feeling of fierceness welled up in Hawkins. He would not let these three old men bluster him. If they killed him, they would kill him as military mutineers.

  Jon drew his gun and slammed the butt against the panel three times like a gavel.

  Stark had a palm-pistol he’d concealed in his big hand. He aimed the pistol at Jon. The Centurion gripped a knife, holding it down low by his left leg. He seemed ready to hurl the knife at him, the point no doubt meant to sink into his throat. The Old Man still puffed on his pipe, watching Jon with a gleam in his dark eyes, although he aimed a heavy revolver at Jon with the other hand.

  “I’m calling the meeting to order,” Jon said.

  “What meeting?” Stark sneered.

  Jon gave the big man the coldest look he could manage under the circumstances. “This is a regimental council meeting per the Mercenary Code as we practiced in the Saturn System. Without rules and discipline, we’ll become a mob. I refuse to let that happen. I am the present commanding officer, as I am the only officer left. You three will represent the men.”

  Jon stopped himself before asking if that would suit them.

  Stark glanced at the Centurion. Both of them looked at the Old Man.

  The Old Man holstered his sidearm and took the pipe out of his mouth. “We’re here to judge you, son.”

  “Fine,” Jon said. “But you’ll do it under the regimental council meeting as per the Mercenary Code. If you insist on mutiny…well, that’s something you’d better tell me right off.”

  “Who said anything about mutiny?” growled Stark.

  “You’re holding a weapon as if to shoot your commanding officer.”

  “You think you’re the commanding officer?” Stark jeered.

  “Until otherwise notified, yes,” Jon said. “I might add that you can make such a notification during the regimental meeting, if you follow the proper procedures.”

  “Screw the procedures!” Stark snarled.

  “I see,” Jon said, as he shoved the gun back into its holster. “You blacken the colonel’s memory with your actions—”

  Stark hurled himself at Jon, sailing the short distance, grabbing the gun hand and Jon’s throat. The First Sergeant squeezed enough to make breathing difficult.

  “Don’t play games with the colonel’s name,” Stark said in a menacing way. “I’ll kill you deader than you can believe if you do that.”

  Jon managed the barest of nods.

  The pressure around his throat relaxed. A second later, Stark shoved Jon toward the nearest bulkhead.

  Jon struck the bulkhead with a grunt. He bounced off, floating back toward Stark.

  The First Sergeant grabbed him, shoving him onto the chair. The mountain of muscle floated back afterward, taking up his former position.

  “Alright,” Stark growled.

  The Centurion nodded.

  The Old Man puffed on his pipe, before saying, “I hereby bring the regimental meeting to order. The first order of business is the commanding officer’s fitness to run the regiment. Does anyone second the motion?”

  “Second,” Stark said.

  “Sir?” asked the Old Man.

  “Yes,” Jon said. “Let’s start the meeting.”

  -2-

  The Old Man puffed harder, finally taking the pipe out of his mouth, examining the bowl. He weighed the pipe in his hand, finally setting it beside him so the pipe floated near his head.

  “Due to your decision,” the Old Man said solemnly, “the colonel died in a cryo unit. Over half of the regiment perished as well. What do you have to say in your defense?”

  “What is your precise accusation?” asked Jon.

  “Your decision,” Stark snarled. “It was a lousy one. You trusted a GSB agent. Can we let a stupid boy run the regiment? All you had to do was go into the cryo chamber and thaw us out.”

  “I…made a bad choice,” Jon agreed. “It cost us.”

  “So you agree that you’re stupid?”

  “No… I agree I made one wrong choice. At the time, it seemed important to get everyone awake as quickly as possible. The arbiter had agreed to help us—”

  “The GSB is full of liars,” Stark said. “Everyone knows that.”

  “Yeah…” Jon said, working to keep his voice from cracking.

  “I’ve heard enough,” Stark told the others. “He’s stupid, and he’s weak. Kill him. That’s my vote.”

  “You followed the arbiter into the control room,” the Centurion whispered in his terrifying way.

  “Because I didn’t trust him,” Jon said.

  “Then why did you agree to his method?”

  “I told you. Time. Aliens had attacked the battleship through the computer. The evidence suggested that the aliens were attacking the entire Neptune System this way. I wanted the regiment up and running as quickly as possible.”

  The Centurion glanced at the Old Man.

  “Why didn’t you try to save the officers first?” the Old Man asked.

  Jon told them what the mentalist had said. “My goal was to save as many men as possible,” he added.

  “Describe what happened after you first woke up in the cryo unit,” the Old Man said.

  Jon told them everything.

  Afterward, the Old Man regarded Stark. “The officer-cadet isn’t stupid, nor is he a coward. I detect plenty of fire in him.”

  “The colonel’s dead, ain’t he?” Stark asked.

  “All men die,” the Old Man said.

  “The boy doesn’t deserve the chance to lead us.”

  “Because of him, you’re awake,” the Old Man said. “Because of the cadet, the regiment still exists.”

  “He could have done better,” Stark growled.

  The Old Man took his pipe out of the air. He opened a small pouch of tobacco, stuffing some into the bowl. Then, he tamped it and lit it, puffing harder to get the tobacco burning.

  “The colonel trained him,” the Old Man finally said.

  Stark smacked a huge fist into his other palm, muttering darkly.

  “Do you read books?” the Old Man asked Stark.

  “What kind of question is that?” the mountain of muscle asked.

  “He reads books. He studies tactics and strategy. You know the colonel taught him military history.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Stark said. “Why does that matter?”

  “If you kill him,” the Old Man said, “who will do the regiment’s thinking?”

  “You should take over,” Stark said.

  The Centurion nodded silently.

  “You’re a cagey old dog,” Stark added. “I’ve seen that enough times on the battlefield.”

  “The cadet is hungry,” the Old Man said. “He’s young, and he’s full of fire.”

  “He’s stupid,” Stark said.

  “No,” the Old Man said. “He isn’t stupid. He did make a mistake with the arbiter. He has courage, though, and he stands on the traditions.”

  “To hell with the traditions,” Stark said.

  “You’re wrong,” Jon told him.

  Stark turned his bullet-shaped head at Jon. “You think you can take me, boy?”

  Jon didn’t answer, but stared into those scary eyes. If he pushed the first sergeant too much, the big man would try to kill him. The longer he stared, the angrier Stark became. Jon wanted to look away, but he forced himself to keep staring.

  “That’s it,” Stark said, as he gathering himself to attack.


  “There’s an alien vessel out there,” Jon said.

  “You don’t know that,” Stark said.

  “The mentalist believes it too,” Jon said.

  “Bah!” Stark said. “The mentalist. She’s a Martian with fancy ideas. What do I care what she thinks?”

  “Do you have any idea what being a mentalist means?” Jon asked.

  Stark grew red-faced as his big hands opened and closed. The moment lengthened until the first sergeant finally said, “Why don’t you tell me what it means, boy.”

  “The mentalists are trained as coldly logical thinkers. Some stories even say that some of them take drugs in their adolescence to mute their emotions. Only genius-level people are accepted as mentalists. Their training is intensely rigorous.”

  “So what?” Stark said.

  “So we should listen to her reasoning. Or do you think we should try to head back to Saturn?”

  Stark blinked several times. “I don’t know about that.”

  “That’s right. You don’t know,” Jon said, “because you haven’t thought that far. You’re good at what you do, but you’re no thinker.”

  “I want to hit him,” Stark told the others. “I want to see his face puff up. I want to wipe that smirk off his face.”

  “Hitting the commanding officer is a serious offense,” Jon said.

  “Commanding officer?” Stark shouted. “You’re just a punk who let the colonel die. You’re—”

  “First Sergeant Stark,” Jon said. “You are out of line. I will not permit that while I’m leading the regiment.”

  Stark’s eyes seemed to bulge outward as he stared at Jon. Finally, the huge man laughed. “What are you going to do about it, boy? Think you can discipline me?”

  “It’s time to vote,” Jon said. “If you three vote ‘no’ unanimously, I’ll relinquish my command. Then you can beat or kill me if you still desire. Until then, Sergeant, you will respect my position or I’ll draw my gun and shoot you down as a mutineer.”

  “I vote him out,” Stark said, as he grinned evilly at Jon.

  The others did not speak.

  Finally, Stark tore his gaze from Jon and glanced at them. “Well? How are you two voting?”