The Expanding Universe 4: Space Adventure, Alien Contact, & Military Science Fiction (Science Fiction Anthology)

by Craig Martelle

Straker opened his eyes to the face of the scratched Hok. “How do you feel?”

  “Confused.” The Hok stepped back as Straker slid his feet off the bunk to sit. “What the hell happened to me?”

  “What do you think happened?”

  The Hok—the man—examined his hands, turning them to see both sides as if they were new to him—and perhaps they were. “I don’t know. I feel like I’m waking from a nightmare.”

  “You are. Do you remember your name?”

  The man shook his head. “I can’t remember anything.”

  “Do you understand what the Hok are? That you’re one of them?”

  The man swallowed convulsively. “Yes.”

  “At some time in the past, you offended the government. Maybe it was political, or maybe you were a real criminal—or maybe you were just unemployed, or homeless, or undesirable in some other way. They took you, injected you with the Hok parasite, and you became a perfect slave.”

  “And now?”

  The man was sharp. A stupid one would be asking useless questions, or flailing, or railing against his fate. This one, with clear and lucid eyes, was absorbing what he was told and looking to the future. “And now, you’re free.” Straker held up his index finger, with its stealthy implant. “I injected you with a cure. A counter-phage—a vaccine.”

  “But I won’t go back to…my old self. To looking human.”

  “Regeneration therapy can fix that later. Today, there’s only one question. Do you want to stay free?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you have to risk your life. Help me take this ship.”

  The man licked his lips. “All right. What do I do?”

  “First, you have to pass your vaccine to the other Hok. Your whole body has it now—blood, tissue, saliva. You can put it in food or drink, or scratch them the way I did you.”

  “They’ll wake up.”

  “They will—but it’ll take a day or two. How soon do we arrive at Blackburn?”

  “Two days.”

  Straker nodded. “Then it’ll be close. And the Hok will become erratic. You fooled them, I think, because you instinctively realized deviating from slave behavior would reveal your freed mind. They won’t have any norm to measure themselves against.”

  “But they’ll have me. I’ll keep them in line. And when it’s time, they’ll either help, or…”

  “Or we’ll deal with them.”

  “I don’t want to kill them.”

  Straker stood to grasp the man’s forearm in his manacled hands. “You see, right there, that proves you weren’t a violent criminal before they turned you into a Hok. The parasite makes you obey, but it doesn’t change your nature. Now, though, it’s our lives on the line. You may not want to kill, but you have to be willing to. Or you’ll end up their slave again.”

  The man nodded slowly. “Okay.”

  Straker let go, but didn’t step back. “What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Name? I don’t remember.”

  “What was your Hok designation?”

  “37B.”

  “B, huh? Okay, let’s call you Bob.” Straker clasped hands with the man. “Bob, I’m Derek Straker. Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “Bob, here’s the thing. I have the Hok parasite in me. It’s growing, multiplying.”

  “What?”

  “I did it deliberately. I may need the strength, the speed, the healing. But in a day or so I’ll be losing my will to fight. So twenty-four hours from now, no matter what I say or do, take my index finger and jab me with the nail. Break the skin. The molecular injector will do the rest.”

  “I’ll do that.” Bob let go and moved toward the door. “I need to get back. Hang in there, Derek.”

  Straker grinned, rattled his chains. “I’ll be here, Bob.”

  When the door shut, he slept again.

  This time, the four Hok awakened Straker roughly, but not brutally. They let him eat a ration and use the toilet. Buttering up Lazarus last time appeared to have paid off.

  Bob gave him the tiniest nod. Straker silently breathed a sigh of relief, taking that to mean the other Hok were vaccinated now, and would slowly awaken from the parasite’s iron control.

  The interrogation session went much as the one before it. Lazarus was a brilliant conversationalist when he wanted to be, and Straker found himself agreeing with much of what the Inquisitor said. Lazarus’ viewpoints were sensible and rational, and Straker wondered why he was even arguing. Obviously, he was going to give in at some point, surrender the tiresome struggle against inevitable fate. It would be good to have his family with him and retire to a peaceful valley, raise some cattle and horses, watch his children grow.

  When the session wound down, Lazarus shook Straker’s hand, evidently pleased. “Then it’s agreed.”

  “Of course.”

  The Inquisitor didn’t let go, but squeezed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to fool me.”

  “I’m not. I really do want to put an end to all this.”

  “You know what? I believe you. I’m a superb judge of people, and you’re not lying to me.” Lazarus leaned in under narrowed brows, eye to eye at a range of centimeters. “And that makes no sense at all. What are you hiding?”

  Straker shrugged helplessly. He was sincere when he said, “I don’t know what to tell you. You’ve convinced me, and I’m ready to cooperate.”

  “Yes…yes.” Lazarus let go. “Well, whatever your game is, it won’t matter. Once you’re on Blackburn we’ll strip you down to your personality core and we’ll find the truth. It’ll take more than your little mercenary army to free you.”

  “They won’t be coming to free me. That wasn’t in the plan.”

  “Yes, the plan. You still haven’t told me about the plan, and what’s in the box.”

  Straker wanted to tell him all about the plan, but something deep inside him held back. “Look, I’m cooperating, but I’m not going to give up all my secrets so easily. Not without guarantees for myself and my family.”

  “Fair enough. Think about this, though: if you give me a victory now, I’ll have more leverage to help you later. If I turn you over to the Blackburn facility without anything to show for it, they’ll start all over at the beginning with you—the beatings, the processing, everything—and they might not be as kind as I’ve been.”

  “I—I’ll think about it.”

  “Good. Sleep well, Straker. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Thanks. You too. Good night.”

  The Hok put him back in his cell. Where before they’d been a well-oiled team, now Bob had to issue firm orders to the other three, who seemed hesitant and unsure. As they manhandled him, Bob seized Straker’s index finger and jabbed it into the thin skin of his abdomen. It drew blood. The sting reminded Straker of the injector there. Should he tell Lazarus? He wanted to please the Inquisitor. But, when he opened his mouth to speak, Bob slapped him hard with a scaly palm. “Silence, prisoner,” he barked, and Straker complied.

  When they left, Straker found two rations. A reward from Lazarus for cooperation, no doubt. He ate them both, and felt full and strong for the first time since he’d been captured. The Hok parasite had sped his healing and strengthened his muscles. It was nice to be strong, to do a job he was fit for, and not to have to think too hard. It was good to have a place in society and let others bear the responsibility.

  With such soothing thoughts in his head, he drifted off to sleep.

  When he awakened, he was himself again. The strange, druggy compulsion to obey had cleared from his mind. Once more he was clear as vacuum, hard as crysteel, cold as ice.

  When they came for him, he stood and put out his hands in front of him to be shackled. Bob wrapped the cuffs onto his wrists, but left off the other chains. Straker cautiously tested them, and was pleased.

  The Hok marched him to the cargo bay where Lazarus waited with a thin smile on his hawkish face. “I trust you slept wel
l, Liberator?”

  “I did. Mind if I ask, when do we arrive?”

  “We’re due to drop out of sidespace within the hour. So, the time to secure my favor is now.” Lazarus gestured at the container bolted to the deck. “Open the case.”

  “Of course.” Straker ran his hand along its upper edge and pressed a stud he felt. A section of the top glowed in a circle, and he placed his left palm on it, lifting his ring finger from contact. This activated a grid of numbers. He punched in a sixteen-digit code.

  As he did so, the Hok stepped back and aimed their weapons at the case. Straker also stepped back.

  The six men waited.

  “What’s the game here, Straker?” Lazarus asked.

  “It has a thirty-second delay, that’s all.”

  Straker used the time to examine the Hok. The eyes of one darted at Bob, then to Lazarus. Lazarus didn’t seem to notice as he and the other two Hok remained focused on the box. Its lid unlocked with a snick.

  “Open it,” Lazarus said. Straker lifted the lid with his manacled hands and let it drop, open. Lazarus craned his neck, and then took a cautious step forward. “It’s empty.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Lazarus’s face twisted with fury as he reached for Straker’s pain-belt control, but Straker was already moving. He flexed and grunted as he twisted the manacles with his full strength. They separated, leaving him with two heavy, unconfining bracelets. Continuing his motion, he slammed one metal band into Lazarus’ jaw as the other hand chopped at the control, which went flying across the deck—but not before it delivered a jolt of stunning pain.

  Straker staggered, his vision clouding with the shock of overloaded nerves. He heard weapons fire behind him as he followed Lazarus to the deck, grappling with him for the needler he was trying to draw. The clone was strong, designed that way just as Straker was, but the remnants of the fading Hok biotech gave him the edge as he slowly twisted the weapon from Lazarus’ hand.

  As soon as he had it, Straker pointed the handgun at Lazarus’ left eye, and he froze. “Call them off!”

  “Stop!” Lazarus croaked. “Hok, stand down!”

  When Straker struggled to his feet and stepped back, he saw three Hok dead on the deck, victims of a vicious, close-in firefight. Bob stood alone, chest heaving, clutching his blaster with shaking hands.

  “What the hell is this?” Lazarus said, staring. “My Hok…”

  “He’s not yours anymore,” Straker said as he retrieved the pain-belt control and used it to remove the device from his waist. “He’s free.”

  “You…you turned him somehow.” Lazarus hissed, rueful and admiring. “Well done, Liberator.”

  “A suck-up to the last, eh, clone?”

  “I’m a realist, that’s all—and I appreciate a good gambit, even in an enemy. How did you do it?”

  It occurred to Straker that Lazarus was once again stalling for time, perhaps hoping the ship’s crew would notice the events of the cargo bay. “Bob, take charge of the crew. Disarm them and keep them out of trouble, but let them pilot the ship. I want to arrive as planned.”

  “Okay, Derek.” Bob hustled down the passageway toward the cockpit.

  Straker gestured with the needler. “Get in the box.”

  “What?”

  “I said—”

  Lazarus moved to stand beside the case. “I heard what you said. Why? Are you going to suffocate me?”

  “It’s a hibernation box. Full life support, made for transporting one human—or a clone. When you wake up, we’ll be back with my Breakers. You’ll be on the other end of an interrogation.”

  Lazarus spread his hands in disbelief. “All this just to capture me?”

  Straker barked a laugh. “No.”

  “Then why?”

  “It burns you not knowing, doesn’t it? Which is exactly why I’m not telling you. Now get in the box.”

  Lazarus scowled and got in the box. Straker slammed the lid and activated the sedation sequence. Thirty seconds later, the telltales showed the man inside was unconscious and on his way to hibernation.

  He’d told Lazarus the truth. Capturing him was a secondary objective. One might even say it was a diversion, a red herring, to cover the real mission—but in a covert operation, giving the enemy a plausible false answer was always wise.

  Straker headed for the cockpit. There, he found Bob guarding the pilot and copilot, a man and a woman, who sat at the controls.

  “Listen up, you two. I’m Derek Straker, and you’re my prisoners. Cooperate, and you won’t be hurt.”

  “Derek Straker? The Liberator?” the woman said.

  “Yours truly. How long to emergence from sidespace?”

  The man pointed at a chrono, which was counting down past eight minutes.

  “Is anyone waiting for us at the emergence point?”

  “Probably.”

  “Come out somewhere else, but not too far away. Say, ten light-seconds.”

  The man reached out slowly to reprogram the controls. “Done.”

  “Good. Now don’t move a muscle.” Straker backed up into the passageway, maintaining his view of the pilots. He motioned Bob to follow him. He spoke quietly. “I’m going to have these two turn this ship around and fly me and the Inquisitor back to my base. I can’t let them be debriefed on what happened here. There’s a lifeboat, though, that we can drop off for pickup by whoever’s waiting. You now have a decision to make.”

  Bob nodded slowly, thoughtful. “Go with you—or go back.”

  “You get it.”

  “My blood carries the vaccine that can free all the Hok.” Bob lifted his face to Straker’s. “That was your plan all along, right? Find someone like me to spread it?”

  “Yes. You’ll have to be careful, Bob. Every Hok that wakes might give you away, intentionally or not. You can’t do it all alone. You’ll have to convince enough to do the same—to spread it and spread it until there are no more Hok.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Bob. “I’ll take the lifeboat.”

  “I knew you would. When you get picked up, tell them a story about how the Liberator grabbed a blaster, killed the other three Hok. I took the Inquisitor prisoner and made him order you to stand down and get in the lifeboat. Keep it simple. Give the bare facts. Act like a Hok. They’ll have no reason to question you if you just stick to the story.”

  Bob licked his lips. “They’ll come up with a different biotech, you know. Make more Hok, better Hok.”

  “And we’ll come up with a different cure. The war between tyranny and freedom never ends, Bob.” Straker’s mouth twitched. “That’s why they call me Liberator.”

  Author David VanDyke

  David VanDyke is a Hugo Award finalist, Dragon Award finalist, and bestselling author of the Plague Wars, Stellar Conquest, and Galactic Liberation sci-fi adventure series, which together have sold more than 500,000 copies to date, and he’s co-author of three of BV Larson's million-selling Star Force Series books. He's a retired U.S. military officer, veteran of two branches of the armed forces, and has served in several combat zones. He lives with his amazing wife and business partner Beth near Tucson, Arizona, USA. Find him on the web at http://www.davidvandykeauthor.com.

  Endpoint

  by Michael Campling

  One mission will make or break Sergeant John Chapman’s career; it’s just a damned shame nobody told the enemy

  Squad Transport Shuttle Bravo-Three-One

  Two hours out from Earth, Sergeant John Chapman glared at the message on his helmet’s HUD, his gaze lingering on the final line: Not everyone has what it takes to be a Cutter. He rubbed his thumb across his gloved fingertip, swiping the message away. Thanks for the pep talk. There’d be more messages from the Colonel during the exercise, and whether the team passed or failed, the debriefing session afterward would make root canal treatment seem like a holiday. It was almost reason enough to make it through this task: succeed and he’d get to walk away from Camp Echo, and Colonel Blende’s tender
mercies, once and for all. And the only obstacle between him and that golden day of deployment was an eighty percent score on this exercise: the culmination of three months of blood, sweat, and finely honed aggression. I’ll do it, he told himself. If it takes my last breath. He focused, running through the mission in his mind, recalling his preparatory research: enemy capabilities, theater parameters, threats, and opportunities. It was all in there, waiting to be put to good use.

  Sitting next to him in the cramped compartment, Corporal Nate Parker nudged his arm. “Hey,” he said, raising his voice instead of using comms. “You read the love letter from our favorite officer?”

  “Oh yeah,” Chapman replied. “Only two threats to send us all back to basic. I think he’s starting to like us.”

  Parker grinned. “No worries for you, man. Your sim scores are through the roof. The son of a bitch bots won’t know what’s hit them.”

  “This is no sim,” Chapman said, and as if to prove his point, the shuttle swayed and shook, a hollow thud thrumming through the steel deck. Six men and women stiffened their spines, exchanging meaningful glances, game-faced behind their tinted visors, ready to rock.

  “There she is,” Parker said, pointing to the viewport. “Our home for the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Forget twenty-four hours. We’ll be done long before then.” Chapman peered out through the grimy glass, watching as the gray hulk of a battered destroyer slid past the oblong viewport. The Pride of Titan, a legendary ship in its time, now serving out its days as a training ground for all those driven enough to try out for the Cyborg Tactical Response Regiment: the Cutters.

  Chapman searched The Pride’s flank. He’d spent many hours studying the destroyer, learning its specs inside and out, and he soon found what he was looking for: the gash in the ship’s hull, scorched metal curling outward in ragged shards of twisted alloy. The place where it had happened. The place where his sister Elizabeth had drawn her last faltering breath.

  “Are you okay?” Parker asked.

  Chapman fixed him with a look. “Never better.”

  “That’s cool.” Parker’s eyes flicked to one side, distracted by his HUD, and Chapman focused on his own display: