Doom Star: Book 03 - Battle Pod

by Vaughn Heppner

  Marten grinned as he stared at the stars. He had beaten Hall Leader Quirn. He had beaten Major Orlov. He had slain mad Colonel Sigmir, the Highborn who had made his life hell during the Japan Campaign. Now he had beaten Training Master Lycon and owned a spaceship, the Mayflower.

  It was a small spaceship, a shuttle. But it was a spaceship just the same. It gave him liberty and freedom of movement. If he calculated it right, if he used his wits at Mars, he could reach the Jupiter Confederation yet. He could escape the Social Unity fanatics and the bigoted Highborn Supremacists.

  A klaxon wailed. It shattered the quiet peace that Marten had known for weeks. He whirled around and blinked five times before he realized the significance of the noise.

  “Omi!” he shouted.

  Marten fumbled at his buckles. He took a deep breath and told himself to calm down. With greater concentration, he unsnapped the last buckle and pushed himself toward the hatch. He floated through the Mayflower to the medical unit.

  Omi looked up through the clear cylinder.

  Marten grinned like a maniac. With practiced speed, he opened the cylinder and slid Omi out.

  “Take it easy,” Marten said.

  Omi frowned and opened his mouth, but no words came out. He was dreadfully thin compared to the muscled shock trooper he had been eight weeks ago.

  Daily, Marten had slid the unconscious Korean from the cylinder and massaged his muscles with a specially designed machine. The machine had worked on similar principles as their acceleration suits aboard the Storm Assault Missiles. It had massaged and moved the muscles so they wouldn’t deteriorate too much, wouldn’t atrophy altogether.

  “Where are we?” Omi finally whispered.

  “You’re aboard my spaceship,” Marten said proudly.

  Omi’s frown deepened. With methodical slowness, he turned his head, looking around.

  “Where…” Omi wet his lips. “Where are the Highborn?” His voice was hoarse and hard to understand.

  “Let’s get you set up first,” Marten said.

  Marten found him clothes, a one-piece jumper. He let Omi sip concentrates and had him float throughout the shuttle with him.

  “We’re alone,” Omi said at last.

  Nodding, Marten laughed.

  “I don’t understand,” Omi said.

  Marten pointed at the heavily polarized window in the pilot compartment. “Training Master Lycon is floating with the stars.”

  Omi’s eyes narrowed.

  With barely restrained glee, Marten told Omi how he’d spaced the three Highborn. A part of Marten scolded himself for his enthusiasm. He had killed three humans in cold blood. It was true the Highborn had treated him like an animal. They had caused the death of all his friends. Yet there was something too bloodthirsty about taking such inordinate joy in having spaced three of the Master Race.

  Omi stared at him, with that cold, hard smile playing along his lips. “I would like to have seen them die.” Then Omi closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  -2-

  Commodore Joseph Blackstone’s body ached most of the time from radiation poisoning. He sat before his vidscreen in his tiny wardroom aboard the Vladimir Lenin. It was a Zhukov-class battleship in far-Mars orbit.

  The Vladimir Lenin had taken hits from a Doom Star. The super-ship had previously been orbiting Mars. They had finally repaired the engine damage and stopped the radiation leakage, but his crew and he had been weakened by the ordeal. Now, everyone took anti-radiation tablets and tissue regeneration drugs.

  Commodore Blackstone was a short man, noted for his decathlon victories in his younger years. Once, he had been vigorous, a dynamo of energy and self-confidence. Unfortunately, he had seen better days. He had seen better years. The war, the extended voyage and the grim encounter with the Doom Star had caught him at the worst possible moment in his life.

  He had dearly loved his wife, had always looked forward to their time together during his shore leave. Then his wife had sent him a divorce decree through official channels. He’d discovered that she’d had a string of lovers for years. Worst of all, she had kept a careful dossier on his sarcastic comments regarding Political Harmony Corps and the Directorate of Inner Planets. Learning those things had been horrible enough. The fourth blow had arrived a month before the beginning of the Highborn Rebellion. His only daughter had been horribly mutilated in a flyer accident on Venus. For some inexplicable reason, she hadn’t taken to regeneration therapy. He desperately wanted to see her, to hold and comfort her as he had when she’d been a little girl after her hoverpad accident that had chipped her two front teeth.

  His once smooth features had become slack as he lost weight. He had bags under his eyes and too often forgot to shave. He was listless and thin, never smiled, and lived far too much in his memories of happier days.

  Blackstone doubted that Supreme Commander Hawthorne was aware of any of his personal problems. Hawthorne had been an old friend from Academy days. Blackstone suspected that he knew nothing of the attributes of the political officer assigned to the Vladimir Lenin. Because of his ex-wife’s files, the political officer had boarded the battleship with a company of PHC enforcers and with extra-military authority. She was a three-star commissar, a daunting woman with a bruising personality and heavy-handed attention to protocol.

  Commodore Blackstone lifted a shaking hand and turned on the vidscreen. The Vladimir Lenin had a task to perform. He’d never failed before. He studied the Supreme Commander’s operational plan for the reduction of the Rebel Mars Planetary Union orbital defenses.

  “Destroy Doom Stars,” Commodore Blackstone whispered later. He was supposed to take Mars in order to lure Doom Stars here. The ache in his bones told of the danger of attempting any engagement with the super-ships.

  Blackstone tapped at his desk screen. A simulation of the Mars System appeared. Mars’ average distance from the Sun was 1.52 AU. (An AU was an Astronomical Unit, the average distance of the Earth from the Sun.) The Earth and Mars were on the same side of the Sun presently, so it should have been a short journey for the convoy fleet. The closest the Earth ever came to Mars was 56 million kilometers. Now, however, Mars was nearing its farthest orbital distance from the Sun. It was also 100 million kilometers from Earth and made the convoy fleet’s journey nearly twice as long.

  Commodore Blackstone rubbed his bristly chin. He needed a shave. He had forgotten that daily ritual for two mornings now.

  He began to read the bulletins and study spaceship velocities. He read deceleration schedules and reports concerning the structure and position of the battle pods these cyborgs from the Neptune System came in. Blackstone had seen bionic soldiers before and assumed the cyborgs must have advanced prosthetics. How the cyborgs could benefit the coming assault, he had little idea. Hawthorne’s plans for them were patently absurd.

  The scattered units gathered here in far-Mars orbit simply couldn’t do what the Supreme Commander fantasized they could do. Blackstone had toured a missile-ship yesterday that had escaped the Venus System. He had been appalled at the sloppy uniforms, the lackluster salutes and the depleted ship’s supplies. If the other warships were in similar shape, he doubted there would be enough firepower left in his growing fleet to give the Highborn much worry.

  How was a commander supposed to gather a dispirited fleet in the far orbit of any planet? Then he was supposed to re-supply them, ship-to-ship, without any base facilities. Then he was supposed to effect repairs, erasing previous battle-damage.

  James Hawthorne had always been far too prone to try risky endeavors. It meant that if his plans worked, they were brilliant. But if they failed, they were disasters. Who would be blamed for the disaster this time? Not Supreme Commander Hawthorne. No, it would be Blackstone, Hawthorne’s old comrade from the Academy days.

  The thought brought a spark of anger to Commodore Blackstone. The spark showed in his eyes and replaced the sadness that usually dwelled there. It momentarily tightened the sagging flesh on his face.


  A loud rap against the wardroom door startled Blackstone out of his anger. He flinched as he looked up. The rapping sound came again, and there was a muffled voice that demanded he unlock the door immediately.

  The Commodore was hardly aware that he had locked it. He realized belatedly that the Commissar had ordered every door aboard the Vladimir Lenin remain unlocked. Comrade soldiers of Social Unity had nothing to hide from each other. Locked doors implied privacy and that hinted at property and capitalist possessions.

  “Enter,” Blackstone said.

  The door automatically unlocked itself and swished open. Three-Star Commissar Kursk strode in. She was a fierce woman in an overly tight, brown uniform. She had severe Slavic features that would have appealed to those who lusted after a latex-fetish dominatrix. She wore her cap so the brim was low over her eyes. Those eyes were black, intense and demanding. Surprisingly, she had a flat chest. The rest of her was lean, with just enough curvature to her hips so men turned to watch her walk away. She wore her Order of Solidarity Badge, Second Class. It was big, shiny and pinned on her chest. She’d won it several years ago suppressing individualist mania among the space-welders of the Sun-Works Factory.

  Behind her followed two enforcers in red PHC uniforms, natural sadists with agonizers clipped to their belts. Their long-fingered hands never strayed far from their stun guns. These two had strange stares.

  Blackstone suspected their stares were from post-hypnotic commands and an over-indulgence of glaze. Blackstone had heard rumors that some Political Harmony Corps enforcers and slime pit operators developed strange psychosis after eliminating too many enemies of the State. Many of them turned to glaze, which helped for a time but eventually made most users paranoid.

  “Your door was locked,” Commissar Kursk complained. There was a hint of the agonizer in her voice. It made Blackstone wince.

  “Having you been taking your tablets?” Commissar Kursk asked.

  The Commodore nodded his bald head.

  “You are not above discipline.” Kursk unclipped a keypad and typed until a warning beep sounded. “I have added a mark to your profile. I am also duty-bound to inform you, that another three marks will result in a half-minute of agony.”

  Blackstone blinked at her. Could she be so rash? With Supreme Commander Hawthorne’s rise to power, the authority of the political officers had dwindled. It was true that Commissar Kursk commanded an abnormal number of enforcers. She also had a formidable personality. But to use an agonizer on him as the commanding officer of the assault….

  Blackstone opened his mouth to protest.

  Commissar Kursk planted herself before his desk, putting her hands on her hips. “Forget about that for now. I have something more important to discuss. I have toured three of the newest warships and have spoken with their political officers. What I found amazed me. I know you’ve also toured two vessels. Surely, you have seen the same thing.”

  “Everyone needs shore leave,” Blackstone said.

  Kursk scowled. “Social Unity is fighting for its life! Shore leave is the least of anyone’s concern. This fleet represents one of the most potent forces left to us. Yet what do I find? There is a sullen quality to shipboard ideological fervor. For too many months now, these warships have sulked like isolationists in dark corners. Instead of yearning to come to grips with our bigoted enemies, they plot how to survive what they see as a catastrophe.”

  “The Highborn aren’t a catastrophe?” Blackstone asked.

  “Your tone is defeatist. I’m tempted to add another mark against your profile. You are the chief officer of this endeavor. You must exude confidence in order to pour it into your underlings. They in turn must motivate the crews with fierce ideological certainty of our coming victory. Anti-cooperative supremacists cannot defeat a socially aware humanity. I demand that you hold immediate court-martial proceedings and weed out the defeatists. You must stiffen everyone’s spine, Commodore.”

  “Yes,” Blackstone said listlessly.

  Commissar Kursk’s features turned glacial. “I have been timing the extended periods that you spend alone in here. Your personal misfortunes can no longer be allowed to interfere with your responsibility to Social Unity. The Directorate of Inner Planets has thought fit to use your martial abilities for the betterment of humanity. I recognize that human frailty sometimes worms into our responsibilities. At this critical juncture, however, I will not allow that to happen to you. Commodore Blackstone, the Directorate sent me to instill socially responsible behavior into you. I would be derelict in my duty if I failed to prod you to maximum efficiency in this grave hour.”

  “If it’s any consolation,” Blackstone said, “I have been studying the attack plan.” He turned the vidscreen to show her the orbital positions of moons and satellites.

  Kursk scowled. “You surprise me, Commodore. You molder in here like an isolationist, thinking that some revelation will elevate you above the rest of us and give you military insights. You should be with your staff, debating ideas and formulas and obtaining a group consensus.”

  “No doubt you’re right,” Blackstone mumbled.

  Commissar Kursk made an explosive sound as she blew out her cheeks. She leaned toward him, putting her hands on his desk. Her black fingernail polish seemed to suck the light from the room like mini-black holes.

  “What is wrong with you? The cyborg battle pods are near, the supply convoy is less than four weeks away and twelve major warships have matched orbital velocity with the Vladimir Lenin. You should have visited each ship, counted supplies and demoted the inefficient. Your malaise is close to criminal sentimentality.”

  A flicker of annoyance entered the Commodore’s sad eyes. He sat up, jerked once on his uniform to straighten it and almost lurched to his feet. “You overstep your bounds, Commissar.”

  “I’ll trample well outside my bounds to save Social Unity,” she said. “My allegiance is to humanity’s future greatness. That can only be achieved through realizing the perfection of equality, the core of the human spirit.”

  She unclipped her keypad and began to type. “You will join the scheduled hum-a-long at 1400 hours and tomorrow at 2600 hours.”

  Commodore Blackstone frowned, and he opened his mouth to protest.

  “Your malaise increases in direct proportion to your time spent in isolation,” she said. “You must mingle with the soldiers and derive your solace from unity. That will charge you with renewed zeal for victory. I am adamant on this and I will brook no disobedience. Have I made myself clear?”

  Blackstone barely nodded.

  “I demand an audible affirmation.”

  “This is really too much,” he said.

  “Commodore, it will pain me to apply it, but I will order my enforcers to use the agonizer on you. You are not alone, either in your pain or in exclusion from punishment. I am your conscience, and I refuse to fail in my duty to you and to Social Unity.”

  “Very well,” Blackstone said. “I will join the hum-a-longs.”

  “Excellent!” Kursk turned to go, but paused and looked back. “I think you shall be surprised at the hum-a-longs’ efficiency in soothing your pains.”

  “No doubt true,” he muttered.

  Commissar Kursk snapped her fingers and pointed at one of the enforcers. “See that the Commodore remains here no longer than another twenty minutes. Then call me and we shall implement the punishment.”

  Commissar Kursk thereupon marched out of the wardroom in the company of her second enforcer. Despite her severity, Blackstone watched her hips sway and knew a stab of longing. He would like to run his hands over her butt, and give it a good squeeze. As the door swished shut, the second enforcer moved around the desk so he stood behind the Commodore and could see what he looked at on the vidscreen.

  If Commissar Kursk had planned to irritate the Commodore until he exited his wardroom, she was successful. Blackstone remained in his wardroom only long enough to turn off the vidscreen. Without acknowledging the enforcer’s pres
ence, he left to go to his sleep cubicle and shave.

  -3-

  Transcript #17 of SU Directorate-Mars Planetary Union talks: an exchange of messages between Director Danzig representing Inner Planets and Secretary-General Chavez representing the Martian Rebels. Dates: February 7 to February 11, 2351.

  Note: the messages were exchanged via the Larson-Rodriguez Lightguide System, with an approximately five and half minute time lag between the sending and receiving of the priority messages.

  February 7

  From Secretary-General Chavez:

  Our core memories store pleasant and unpleasant data with equal facility. We have therefore not forgotten Social Unity’s trickery prior to the 2339 Sneak Attack. Then as now, Mars had to be ever vigilant to maintain its freedom from the tyranny of Social Unity. We were foolish enough to believe the Directorate’s stated policy of joint peace between our sovereign entities then and sent our representatives to Earth. After twelve years, their flesh still rots in the slime pits of your injustice and insincerity. I ask the director to forgive me my passion, but such savagery and double-dealing is difficult to expunge from our collective hearts.

  It will thus surely not surprise you to realize our qualms concerning the continued rendezvous of SU warships in far-Mars orbit. The numbers exceed reason and we can only conclude that after twelve years Social Unity plans another assault against our native planet.

  February 7

  From Director Danzig:

  Need I remind the honored Secretary-General of the true historical record? More than thirteen years ago, the mass Martian assaults against SU Peacekeeping personnel brought a wave of terror and butchery to thousands of innocent people. The notorious 2334 assassinations of SU fleet personnel in Martian jurisdiction left a scar that still poisons relations between us. Now the recent Martian wave of planetary terror-attacks on SU space-defense facilities has left us shocked at your perfidy. Worse, your joint tactical campaign with the Highborn supremacists has deeply wounded our belief that you possess any social consciousness worthy of the name.