“That’s right,” Turbo sneered. “He once had his buddies hold a guy down while he slipped on a leather glove. Then he beat the poor sap to death.”
“Well, at least that’s better than using bullets,” said Stick. “He’s doing it himself. That’s what counts.”
“I don’t see how that’s any better to the man getting beat,” said Turbo.
“Of course it is,” argued Stick. “It’s more personal. It’s between men.”
“Between a sadist and his victim, more like.”
“Maybe that too, but it’s personal.”
“So is rape,” said Ah Chen. “But I would rather be shot or run over by a car.”
Stick scowled until he brightened. “I’m only talking man to man. When you bring women in it’s an entirely different thing.”
Turbo threw up his hands and started pacing.
“You gotta admit it takes more balls to knife someone than shoot him,” Stick said.
“You’ve been in the slime pits too long,” Turbo muttered.
“That doesn’t have anything to do with it.” Stick turned to Omi. “Am I right?”
Omi shrugged.
“Come on,” Stick said. “You gotta admit beating a man with your fists is more manly than using a bat. I mean, you can break your hand doing it.”
“Then I’d rather use a bat,” Omi said dryly.
“Not me!” said Stick. He slapped his chest. “I’ll do it the old-fashioned way every time.”
“What are we going to do next?” Marten asked, trying to change the topic.
“Sneak out of Sydney,” Turbo said. “That’s my plan.”
“And how are you going to manage this feat?” Omi asked.
“Maybe she knows of some secret elevator to the surface,” Turbo said.
All four men glanced at Ah Chen. She shook her head and snuggled closer to Marten.
“You must know of a way out,” Turbo pleaded.
“Leave her alone,” Marten said. “She’s been through enough you don’t have to hound her.”
“Sorry,” muttered Turbo. He went back to pacing.
Omi glanced at the gauge. “Almost there,” he said.
Marten struggled to his feet and then he helped Ah Chen. She wore an oversized coat and still trembled from the abuse and the drugs they’d given her. Marten checked his carbine, then stood before the door, waiting.
Omi stepped near. “We can’t head to the lower levels with the mobs. Not if we plan to survive.”
“Maybe we can hide out the war in the slums,” said Marten.
Turbo snorted.
Marten glanced at him.
“You ain’t ever lived in the slums,” said Turbo.
“What are we going to do then?”
No one answered Marten.
“You’re a hero for saving the deep-core mine,” Ah Chen timidly said. “If we could reach Deep-Core Central, they would take care of you.”
Omi shook his head. “Forget about that. Marten broke a Directorate plan. There’s no hope for him with Social Unity.”
“I know one thing,” said Stick. “I’m sure not turning traitor.” The others gave him their attention. “You’re thinking about joining the Highborn,” he told Omi.
“Whichever gang is strongest,” said Omi.
“Don’t you have any loyalty?” asked Stick.
“Yes,” said Omi, “to my continued existence.”
The elevator slowed.
“Get ready,” said Marten, interrupting whatever Stick had planned to retort.
The others crowded around him, their weapons ready.
“We should have an emergency plan,” said Turbo. “Just stepping into danger every time and hoping for the best is…. It isn’t smart.”
The elevator pinged. The door swished open and a huge, nine-foot soldier in powered black armor turned to face them. Servos whined as the giant soldier aimed an auto-cannon that had an extremely pitted nozzle—his oversized weapon had obviously seen plenty of use. The combination plasteel/ceramic armor gave him a robotic, knightly look. Humming power packs supplied the energy and an exo-skeleton multiplied his strength so that if there had been enough room he could have leaped a hundred meters in a single bound. Shock absorbers and a Highborn physique allowed him to withstand the landing. A missile launcher was fixed to his slab of a back and the auto-cannon he aimed at their faces fired twenty-millimeter-sized shells.
“Drop your weapons!” boomed his helmet, the faceplate darkened so they couldn’t see his face.
Marten dropped his carbine, then so did the others. It was questionable whether their slugs would have even been able to penetrate the armor. Maybe they could have shot out his faceplate if they had hit several times in quick succession. But by then they’d have been obliterated. They raised their hands.
A second Highborn stepped into view. His servos were geared to their lowest setting. He too towered nine feet tall. This one didn’t aim an auto-cannon at them. Instead, with his powered gloves, he reached up, twisted the helmet to the left and lifted it off his head. He had china-plate-colored white skin, with harsh features angled in a most inhuman manner. His lips were razor thin and his hair was cut down almost to his scalp. It was more like a synthetic rug than anything else. He had fierce black eyes, and there was an intense, almost pathological energy to him, a hysteria to slay, rend and destroy that was only kept in check by an inhumanly vital will.
“You are not PHC,” he said in a deep voice.
“We killed them,” Marten said matter-of-factly.
The fierce eyes tightened, as if the Highborn could judge the truth of Marten’s statement by an act of will. Perhaps he could.
Marten said, “They were going to blow the deep-core mine and destroy everyone in Sydney.”
The Highborn raised his brows. His eyes were sunken deeper into his face than a normal man’s. It gave him a skull-like appearance. “It is a worthy way to die, taking down your enemies.”
Marten wondered if the man was crazy.
The nine-foot tall Highborn took a deep draught of air, and he lifted his auto-cannon. “By decree of the Imperial High Command—since you showed resistance to your unlawful government—I am forced to offer you the chance to volunteer for the Free Earth Corps.”
“And if we don’t volunteer?” asked Turbo.
A wicked grin exposed perfect teeth, and a loud clack from within the auto-cannon told of its readiness. The first Highborn, the one who hadn’t removed his helmet, lifted a humming sword three times the length of Stick’s vibroblade.
“Hey!” Turbo told Stick. “That should you make you happy: a personal sort of death.”
For a moment, no one said anything. Then Marten took a step toward the pitted nozzle of the auto-cannon. “I wish to volunteer,” he said.
Part II
Recruit
1.
The tall, gaunt general in the green uniform and red piping of Directorate Staff Planning strode back and forth across the rug. His desk was huge. Behind it was an old-style bookshelf with books. He claimed turning pages helped him concentrate. But then most people thought of him as eccentric—and that was a bad thing this near the ruling power. The nine directors of the Social Unity Directorate appreciated men and women they understood. Eccentrics, which in their mind meant “unpredictables,” were distrusted. Even worse, they were hated.
Secret Police General James Hawthorne ran a bony hand through his blond, wispy hair. He pivoted and paced back over the worn trail he’d made in his carpet. He had a sure stride, and he clasped his hands behind his back. Pacing helped him think. The pacing didn’t indicate nervousness. That was another of his eccentricities. He was trying to decide between two momentous avenues for the further prosecution of the war.
Most people thought he had the emotions of a large slab of rock. The belief occurred primarily because of his patrician mannerisms. The directors disliked such mannerisms. Social Unity preached egalitarianism, not the ways of aristocracy. So Hawt
horne strove to keep his true nature hidden.
He read voraciously, military history being his special love. Among the great captains of history, he believed he most resembled Douglas MacArthur of the Twentieth Century, a brilliant man.
Before Hawthorne could pivot and retrace his steps, a chime sounded from his desk. He frowned. Then he forced his features into the blank look that he wore around people in power.
The door swished open and unannounced an old man hobbled into the office. That spoke of the man’s power. He had breached Hawthorne’s security net without any alarms going off.
The old man seemed more caricature than real. He had uncombed white hair and a leathery face with a thousand wrinkles. He used a cane, and he shivered as he shuffled a few steps at a time.
Behind the old man followed a strange creature. Not quite an android, it was difficult to call him a man. The common phrase was semi-prosthetic or bionic. Specialists had torn down the bodyguard and rebuilt him with artificial muscles, steel-reinforced bones and nerves protected by sheathing. The bionic guard wore a black slick-suit and a senso mask to hide his face.
A barely audible whine emanated from the bodyguard as he took one step at a time behind his master. At a word from the bent-over director, the bodyguard could tear the office apart with his bare hands. Although the bodyguard wore no outer weapons, at least one of his fingers likely contained an embedded mini-laser. Wonder glands could squirt drugs into his bloodstream, dulling pain and adding speed and strength.
“Director Enkov,” Hawthorne said, “this is a surprise.”
The ancient man with a thousand wrinkles struggled to lift his head. He had pale blue eyes. They were the keen eyes of a killer more murderous than any blood-maddened shark. They stared into General James Hawthorne’s eyes. After fifty days of infighting, and two sudden deaths, this wicked butcher had proved himself the strongest force on the Directorate governing Inner Planets.
Director Enkov dropped his gaze and struggled to the nearest chair. General Hawthorne would have sprung to the chair and slid it closer. But a single look into the director’s eyes had rooted Hawthorne’s feet and caused his tongue to freeze.
Despite his best efforts over the past few months, General Hawthorne had only gained driblets of information concerning Enkov. This much he knew. Unless he pleased this withered old man, the bionic monstrosity behind him…. General Hawthorne regained use of his tongue. He moved it in his cotton dry mouth. One misstep today and the bodyguard would destroy him in an undignified manner.
Director Enkov laboriously maneuvered himself into the chair. He grunted painfully as he sank his crooked back against the rest. He set the cane on his knees. And with a trembling, wrinkled hand, he reached into his coat and drew out a stimstick. He stuck it between his dry lips and inhaled sharply. Stimsticks automatically lit with the first puff. He worked the stimstick to the left side of his mouth and let it dangle.
The bionic bodyguard flanked the right side of the chair. There, he froze into immobility.
“General Hawthorne,” wheezed the director. The old man’s voice was raspy, pained and still filled with deadly menace.
“Sir!” said Hawthorne, snapping to attention.
Red smoke drifted out of the old man’s nostrils. “Shall we spout pleasantries, you and I, or shall we hew to the meat of the matter?”
“I am at the Director’s pleasure, sir.”
“What is the term…? Ah, yes. At ease, General, at ease.”
General Hawthorn’s stance grew minutely wider and he snapped his hands behind his back. His features remained blank.
More red smoke trickled out of the director’s nostrils. “I deplore subterfuge, General.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you may forgo the military routine.”
“Sir?”
“You’re a pacer, I hear. That’s what my profile team told me. When you talk you walk, at least if left to your own devices. So by all means walk.”
“I, ah….”
“Walk,” growled Enkov, indicating the worn carpet.
General Hawthorne did as ordered, although his stride was no longer as sure as before.
“Comfortable?”
“Yes, sir,” said Hawthorne.
“I deplore lying.”
General Hawthorne’s stride suddenly became surer. He was wondering how best to handle the situation, and when he thought he walked, just as Enkov had said.
Director Enkov’s eyes seemed to glitter and a tiny cruel smile appeared and then disappeared from his dry old lips.
“You asked for the truth, is that not right?” Hawthorne asked.
“Most certainly,” whispered Enkov.
“May I ask then why you are here?”
“Because we’re losing the war,” whispered Enkov.
General Hawthorne nodded, even as he considered Enkov’s presence here. Enkov had come with a single bodyguard into his office for a reason. Maybe it was to try to lull him, to put him at greater ease than otherwise. He would have to monitor his words with care. Yet it would be wise to pretend to be at ease, to let Enkov think his subtlety was working.
“During a war of this magnitude we must expect certain setbacks,” Hawthorne said. “I explained that during my Directorate interrogations.”
“Setbacks, yes,” whispered Enkov. “But we’ve received one defeat after another, and those defeats have come quickly.”
General Hawthorne shrugged as he pivoted and paced back the way he’d come. “New Zealand, Tasmania, Australia, Antarctica, we can well afford such losses.”
“Not in the swift manner we’ve lost them.”
General Hawthorne didn’t respond, even though Director Enkov was right. The Highborn had waged brilliant campaigns. They excelled at space combat. He had hoped land war would have stifled them just a little.
“Volunteers stream into their Free Earth Corps,” whispered Enkov.
“True. But it takes time to train good soldiers.”
“It takes less time to train garrison troops to hold what they’ve conquered. That frees the Highborn for further campaigns.”
Hawthorne nodded. It was the essential problem.
“Did you expect them to win so quickly?” the director whispered.
“No.”
“Then perhaps you’re not a traitor after all, merely incompetent.”
General Hawthorne stopped short.
“Or will you tell me that you miscalculated?”
“Miscalculated is too strong a word,” said Hawthorne. “I misjudged their timing.”
A dry chuckle escaped the old director. It made the smoldering tip of the stimstick bob up and down. “Whatever you call it, you were wrong.”
Cold fear settled in Hawthorne’s chest.
“A general who guesses wrong is useless.”
“But—”
Director Enkov lifted a trembling hand. “Swift, Highborn advances have demolished your estimated timeline. Even your little scheme of blowing Greater Sydney with a deep-core burst came to nothing. Worse, our propagandists have been working overtime to defeat the Highborn accusations that we planned such a thing. In all, General Hawthorne, your prosecution of the war leaves much to be desired.”
Sweat beaded Hawthorne’s upper lip. “I am to be relieved of command?”
“General Hawthorne, I believe you’re something of a historian. At least that’s what my briefing team told me.”
“They are correct, sir.”
“Splendid. Do you recall the history of an ancient city called Carthage?”
“Indeed.”
“I believe Hannibal marched from there.”
“Yes, sir, he did.”
“Yes….” Director Enkov shifted to a more comfortable position. “The Carthaginians had an interesting habit concerning generals.” The director’s features took on a more sinister cast, as he smiled cruelly. “If the Carthaginian general came back defeated or lost too many troops, the city fathers debated among themselves. I
f the judgment went against this general, they took the loser outside the city. There they stripped him of his rank and his clothes. Soldiers scourged him with whips. They nailed spikes through his wrists and his feet, hammering him onto a cross. That cross they propped upright. They crucified him, I believe is the term.”
“Yes, sir,” said Hawthorne, uneasily. “The Carthaginian’s invented the custom that the Romans later copied.”
“For the remainder of the war I wish you to consider yourself a Carthaginian general, and all it entails.”
Secret Police General James Hawthorne grew pale and found that he couldn’t speak. There was a hidden gun in the bottom left drawer of his desk. He wondered what his chances were of reaching it and killing these two.
“…Unless,” said Enkov.
“Yes,” croaked Hawthorne. He cleared his throat, hating his display of weakness.
“Surely you have a Plan B,” whispered Enkov.
“B, sir?”
“Something to implement in case your original theories proved false or misleading.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well?”
General Hawthorne thought once more about the hidden gun in his desk. Then he decided that Enkov’s briefing team surely knew about it. The bodyguard would undoubtedly kill him before he could open the drawer.
“Sir, there is a Plan B.”
“Splendid.”
“But it entails great risk.”
“I don’t like the sound of that, General.”
“I don’t see any other way out of our impasse, sir.”
“Not an impasse, General, but our defeat.”
“Yes, sir. Our defeat.”
General Hawthorne sat on the edge of his desk. He massaged his forehead and wiped the sheen of sweat from his upper lip. “Sir, to be blunt, the Highborn were a good idea that went bad.”
“A good idea?”
“Superior soldiers, sir. Or, to use a metaphor, a better sword than our foes in Outer Planets could wield. Only this sword has turned in our hand.”
“I see.”
“Actually, one could say it became a magic sword that turned and attacked us.”
“Yes, yes, quite colorful, General, but what is your point?”
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