“It’s a risk he’ll have to take,” Blackstone said.
He had received a communication from Hawthorne an hour ago. The orders had been sketchy, but Commissar Kursk had helped the Commodore fill in the gaps. Blackstone knew what he needed to do now. If the Doom Star targeted the Vladimir Lenin, they were all dead. It was madness fighting another warship at such close range, especially a warship with collapsium shielding. Collapsium was an incredible advantage.
“Sir,” Kursk said. “An officer on the Julius Caesar is hailing us.”
Blackstone tapped his screen, putting the picture onto his portion of the module. It showed an angry Highborn. They all looked alike to him, big and volatile. This one had a scar on his forehead that disappeared into his hairline. Had this Highborn died before?
“I am Tribune Vulpus. You will lower your particle-shielding or face an immediate attack.”
“I’m sorry to report that Supreme Commander James Hawthorne is dead and so is Grand Admiral Cassius,” Blackstone said. “I suggest we call an immediate ceasefire until we can figure out why this happened.”
“You have broken the truce and caused the death of the greatest Highborn ever,” Vulpus said. “The penalty is death.”
“I have not broken any truce,” Blackstone said, struggling for a calm voice. “You have already fired a laser, killing men, and you have activated a missile, destroying an orbital station. I ask that you refrain from further destruction.”
“Highborn always act with swift assurance,” the tribune said. “We are unstoppable. You will immediately surrender your ship to me, preman.”
“No sir, I will not,” Blackstone said.
“Then you will die.”
“Yes, you have the capacity to destroy my ship,” Blackstone said. “Or we can continue to work together under the terms of our agreement. United, we can destroy the cyborgs. Divided, we fall. The choice is yours, sir. Do you speak for all Highborn?”
Tribune Vulpus glanced at someone off-screen. When he faced Blackstone again, he said, “You have acted treacherously, preman. You must surrender immediately or face annihilation.”
“May I remind you, sir, that you are in range of our proton beams from Eurasia,” Blackstone said. “I am in command of a Zhukov-class Battleship. It will last long enough to allow our lasers and missiles to fire. Combined with the Earth’s proton beams, we can severely damage your ship. Maybe we can even destroy it. The destruction of the Julius Caesar, one third of your Doom Stars, will likely ensure a cyborg victory. Do you wish to risk that?”
“You treacherously killed the Grand Admiral.”
“You have monitored us throughout the proceedings,” Blackstone said. “We have done nothing of the kind. I think our two leaders killed each other. Now we’re both in disarray. Maybe now it is time for soldiers like us to forget our differences as we band together to destroy the cyborgs.”
Tribune Vulpus stared at Blackstone. Then he glanced off-screen again.
“The cyborgs are the greater enemy,” some unseen Highborn said.
Vulpus glared at Blackstone. “I will maintain the temporary truce. The commanders will decide our next course of action. You have been spared.”
The screen flickered off.
Blackstone sagged as he leaned against the module.
“The Supreme Commander has activated his thruster-pack again,” Kursk said, as she watched the monitor.
“Radio him—” Blackstone said.
“That would be a mistake,” Kursk said. “Until he’s aboard, we must maintain radio silence with him. Let’s hope he does the same. Otherwise, the Julius Caesar will open hostilities with us.”
Blackstone nodded. What a mess. He was beginning to wonder if he should have gone back to Mars instead of returning to Earth.
-4-
“It was a mistake our landing on Earth,” Marten whispered to Nadia.
They walked through the second level of New Baghdad, hoping to speak personally with a transportation minister. From above sunlamps poured heat and light on them. Communal buildings towered seven stories high and small shops sold coffee and biscuits, provided one showed his ration card to the worker.
The sidewalks were full of pedestrians wearing the new severe cut of jacket and slacks. Everyone looked undernourished. They weren’t as thin as Martians, but they were much too thin for people living in the capital of Social Unity. Most of the passing crowd glanced sidelong at Nadia and frowned at Marten.
He wore a gun and leather jacket, and there was something feral about Marten Kluge. The card-holding people of Social Unity must have sensed the difference, realizing that he wasn’t tame like them. He had bristly blond hair and gaunt cheeks, and there was something compelling about the way he held his shoulders. Nadia wore a cap, with long hair spilling out of it. Her slacks showed her trim figure and the cut of her blouse heightened the fullness of her breasts.
Behind them followed two peacekeepers in helmet and dark visor. The peacekeepers wore body-armor but lacked combat weapons. Shock-rods dangled from their belts.
“I wish they’d leave us alone,” Nadia said.
Marten glanced back and grunted. Hawthorne hadn’t returned from orbit. It made his—Marten’s—standing on Earth more problematic. He needed to get his space marines back, tell Omi to hurry here and then find passage back up to space to the patrol boats. He never should have let the marines go to Athens. His Jovians were crazy interested about ancient Greek ruins.
Marten scowled. He didn’t like the feel of the crowds. The two peacekeepers paced them. There was something going on. He—
“There he is!” a woman shouted.
Marten almost drew his gun, but he hesitated.
“You!” the woman shouted. She was hidden but nearby. “Push those people back. You, make sure to use zoom. I want close-ups of his face.”
Police whistles began to blast.
“What’s going on?” Nadia whispered.
Before Marten could answer, several dozen new peacekeepers in red riot-control uniforms stepped through the crowd. They wielded shock-rods as the weapons sizzled with electric power. People screamed, shoving and pushing one another to get away from the red-suited thugs.
“Stand back!” a peacekeeper shouted through his voice amplifier. “Make room for the Information Advisor.”
As the red-uniformed peacekeepers drove the crowd apart, a woman with glossy lips and a stylish pantsuit approached Marten and Nadia.
Nadia sidled closer to Marten, gripping his left arm with both of hers.
Behind the woman—Nancy Vance by the crowd’s whispers—came several men with video devices, followed by thick-limbed security personnel wearing black armor.
“I’m speaking today with Jovian Representative, Marten Kluge,” Nancy said toward the cameras. She smiled. It was a radiant thing. She had sparkles in her hair and wore a shimmering blouse.
Marten pried his fingers from the butt of his holstered gun.
“Hello, Marten Kluge,” Nancy said, turning to him.
“Try to smile,” Nadia whispered.
Marten did try. The hundreds of people staring at him, however, made his scalp prickle. The curious knot of humanity pressed toward the guarding peacekeepers and the busy cameramen.
“Have you enjoyed your stay on Earth?” Nancy asked.
Marten nodded.
“The Jovians are a taciturn people,” Nancy explained to the cameras. “They ponder philosophic insights as they struggle to engage themselves with the regular world.”
“You think I’m a philosopher?” Marten asked, bemused.
Nancy made an elaborate bow. “I do not wish to presume, sir. On Earth, social justice and a fair distribution of the wealth supersede airy notions of archetype and forms.”
“Both political systems are useless these days,” he said.
Nancy Vance’s eyebrows rose. “You do not believe in an equal distribution of wealth?”
“Be careful, Marten,” Nadia whispered.
Marten scanned the crowd, noticing how people listened for his answer. Years ago, he had endured the hall leaders prattling about their empty slogans. How he’d longed to speak his mind then.
“You should ask yourself a question,” Marten said.
Nancy nodded politely.
“Do the directors live as simply as apartment dwellers? You know the answer. Directors, hall leaders and other functionaries go to high-class parties, dine at the best eateries and receive top-grade medical procedures. Apparently, not even the lords of Social Unity believe their own slogans.”
Nancy turned to the crowd. “Notice the craft which Jovians frame a question, which they then answer. It is diabolically clever. Notice, too, the effort our Jovian Representative has gone to learning our norms. It shows great intellect and the belief in hard study.” Nancy turned back to Marten. “On Jupiter the philosopher-kings possess incredible mansions. There—”
“On Jupiter?” Marten asked.
Nancy Vance smiled more brightly. “You are the Jovian Representative, correct?”
“I am.”
“Then Jupiter—”
“Jupiter is the gas giant,” Marten said. “No one can live on it. The people of the Jupiter System live on Europa and Ganymede, the moons orbiting—”
Nancy laughed in a delightful manner as she turned to the cameras. “Jovians are logicians, known for their lack of humor and rigorous attention to detail. It appears that Marten Kluge is no exception. I ask you,” Nancy said, turning back to Marten, “do all Jovians go armed as you do?”
“Don’t say anything else,” Nadia whispered.
Marten stared at the cameras, at Nancy Vance and then at Nadia.
“I apologize if I have touched upon a taboo subject,” Nancy said. She turned to the cameras. “Life is strange and unordered on the fringes of the Solar System. There, men and women must go armed to protect themselves from lawless behavior.”
“It’s not like that,” Marten said. “People should go armed so the government fears them more than the people fear the government.”
Silence swept over the crowd. Nancy Vance turned back to him, frowning in disbelief.
Nadia’s arms tightened around Marten’s bicep.
“We go armed so we can be free,” Marten said. “We have guns in case thugs in red-armor try to march us to the slime pits. We refuse to live beneath others who would attempt to tell us exactly what we can and cannot do.”
People in the front of the crowd began to murmur.
The tip of Nancy’s tongue touched her glossy lower lip. “Representative Kluge—”
“Once they take your guns, you’re no longer free,” Marten said. “Once you fail to speak your mind, you’re a slave to the system. I know. I once stood up for—”
“Marten,” Nadia whispered in his ear.
Nancy’s eyes brightened. “Please, be free with us, Marten Kluge. Tell us what we were about to say.”
Marten’s desire evaporated as he studied the crowd. People glared at him, some muttering angrily. His fingers twitched, and he longed to draw his gun.
“Give us your Jovian wisdom,” Nancy Vance said in a sugary voice.
“I’m late!” Marten declared. “I have an appointment with the Transportation Minister. Our two systems are working together so we may destroy the cyborgs and bring wealth and prosperity to Earth. If you will excuse me…”
Nancy Vance nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Kluge.” She turned to the crowd. “Make way for the Jovian Representative. He brings aid to our battered world.”
People glared at Marten, but they listened to Nancy Vance and slowly parted.
Nancy indicated several peacekeepers. “Escort the representative to the elevators. We don’t want the people to mob him.”
Marten glanced at her. Then he grabbed Nadia’s hand. Together they hurried for the elevators. It was time to get off the streets.
-5-
Half a world away in Australian Sector, a small man with narrow shoulders and thinning hair watched a holoset. He lived in Highborn territory and presently watched an illegal channel. He did so with impunity, however, because he was the Chief Monitor of Sydney.
The small man with vigilant eyes and a down-turned mouth fiddled with a tiny piece of paper, which sat on the glass table in front of the holoset. On the paper was the barest amount of dust, a highly addictive and illegal drug. Even though he was the Chief Monitor, he lacked immunity from the drug laws. Possession of dust brought an immediate death sentence.
Chief Monitor Quirn stared at the holoset, watching Nancy Vance interview the so-called Jovian. Quirn remembered Marten Kluge all right. Even these days, Molly spoke about him fondly. Quirn made a face as his right index finger hovered over the dust. He longed to snort the drug and let his fears vanish in a hazy dream.
He was sick of Molly and her complaining. The woman had become too sharp-tongued lately. The sex had been adequate in the beginning. Now it was horrible and she had become fat. Quirn shrugged, trying to tell himself it didn’t matter. Using his powers as Chief Monitor, he had found another woman, a better sex partner. She was small and Chinese, Ah Chen, a brilliant woman. In the beginning, he had enjoyed mounting Marten Kluge’s former girlfriend. Then she had spoken about him one night. Her tone had revealed much, and that had angered Quirn. Marten Kluge had plagued his life from the beginning and continued to do so.
What had happened several years ago? Yes, yes, there had been the ponderous Major Orlov. She had drawn a stunner and shot Marten Kluge for striking him. It had occurred at a Social Unity hum-a-long. Quirn grinned at the memory. He had been a hall leader in those days. That was before the Highborn had come, and before he’d switched his allegiance.
His gaze strayed back to the holoset, and he frowned. Listen to Kluge spout his nonsense. Quirn shook his head and wondered how Marten of all people could be mistaken for a Jovian philosopher. What did SU propaganda wish to achieve with this little hit piece?
What do the Highborn have on file concerning Marten Kluge? It might be interesting finding out.
Quirn licked his lips. He was supposed to meet Ah Chen tonight. The thought of her supple little body twisting under his—Quirn’s hands shook with anticipation. He banged his knuckles on the glass in his haste to pick up the small piece of paper with dust.
The Controllers would kill him if they knew the Chief Monitor of Sydney was a dust addict. Thus, he went to great lengths to make sure they never learned.
He carefully folded the paper over the dust. It would be a joy to inhale the drug and hold his breath. He shivered in delight just thinking about it. Then he would lie back on his sofa. His eyelids would flutter as he began to dream in a dust haze.
If he did that, however, he would miss the sex and conversation with Ah Chen tonight. He wished she loved him. He shrugged. Sometimes it paid to be Chief Monitor as he collected dirt on everyone in Sydney. Ah Chen needed him to keep quiet about her past, and about certain activities she engaged in now. Imagine rebelling against the Highborn. What folly.
Quirn shook his head. As long as she pleased him, she would be allowed to live and to perform her duties in the deep-core mine. No. He wouldn’t miss his chance of using her tonight. He imagined her pleading with him to be gentler. He imagined her squirming under him. With a grunt, Quirn stood and limped for the door.
Outside, the sunlamps were dim, simulating twilight. It would be dark soon, and then the curfew would be enforced by immediate execution for those who lacked a special pass like him. After all these years, the Highborn still practiced martial law.
Quirn noticed that several of the big lamp-sockets up in the ceiling were empty. Work-crews unscrewed broken or damaged bulbs but none of them had replaced any yet. Sydney had fallen into disrepair since the conquest several years ago when the Highborn had invaded. Labor crews cleaned wreckage, swept the streets or removed broken pipes but they seldom built or installed anything new. Even worse than the disintegrating city were the recruitment raids for
military and labor personnel. The pressgangs stopped people on the streets and demanded to see their cards. Those below a certain category were tested on the spot. If they passed, they entered a van, which roared away, taking them to their new life. Most went to the labor battalions. The best people went to the Free Earth Corps and the rest became farm workers. That was a nice way to say they went down to the slime pits to harvest algae.
The raids had emptied Sydney, but not enough to assuage the hunger, the borderline starvation. Quirn knew that certain rumors were very true. Useless mouths went to the bottom levels, there to die a lingering, painful death, as they were no longer given rations. Down there, people practiced cannibalism to eke out a few more months of life.
The Chief Monitor shivered as he shoved his hands in his coat pockets. It was better not to think about such things. He didn’t make the rules. He just enforced the ones that kept him alive and kept him in the Highborn’s graces.
Quirn held the packet of dust in his clenched palm. His bad leg hurt tonight. Maybe he should have stayed home and enjoyed his dreams. He could use Ah Chen later.
He scowled. It was hard work ferreting out people’s secrets. He had few joys with a harpy wife. Who would have ever suspected that Molly would get fat and argumentative? He would have sent her out into the streets long ago, but her job was in the Records Department. It would be easy for her to alter critical pieces of his biographical data and help bring it to the attention of the Controllers. Molly was good at altering records. He had taught her his secrets, learned many years ago as a hall leader for Social Unity. No. he would endure Molly for a little while longer. In the meantime, he would inhale the precious dust and punctuate those glory moments by blackmailed sex. These days, it was hard for him to enjoy any other kind.
I’ve become a deviant.
His scowl intensified. He needed help. He would like help with his problems. He didn’t like the person that he’d become. Sometimes he used to wonder what small choice in his early years had led him down this path. He had a theory about that. He now believed that a person made small choices in their youth. Those choices set a person onto various paths. One path didn’t seem very different from the other in those early years. But later, as one walked down the chosen path, it took him far, far away from what he had envisioned as good or proper.
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