The Lost Starship

by Vaughn Heppner

  Maddox frowned. The marines had taken Sergeant Riker to a detention center deep underground. Likely, that was for Riker’s immediate protection.

  The Nerva security personnel would have already informed Octavian Nerva about his son’s death. The tycoon might demand a trial. It was more likely his magnificence would want a bloodier solution.

  The Methuselah Treatment was greatly extending the age of those who took it. Some recipients had already reached three hundred years of age. Such elders were rare, as the process was ongoing and incredibly expensive. The treatment had its drawbacks, as well, at least according to certain psychologists.

  Those who reached such extended ages often experienced stagnation and magnification of character traits and behaviors. In Octavian Nerva’s case, he’d been punishing those who angered him for so long that nothing short of torture satisfied him. Thus, to avenge his son’s murder, he would undoubtedly hire man-hunters to kidnap Sergeant Riker, and the magnate would probably come after Maddox, as well.

  He and the sergeant could conceivably face a prolonged existence on a hidden habitat orbiting Saturn or Neptune. Certainly, Octavian Nerva would visit them to test new forms of agony against their persons.

  Because of this, Sergeant Riker was in the deepest cell possible. The marine guards were supposedly incorruptible, but Nerva might go to considerable lengths to investigate the truth of this belief.

  Captain Maddox could not afford to consider these details as he waited before the desk. Instead, his mind had fixated upon news of the New Men.

  Behind the large synthi-wood furniture, Brigadier Mary O’Hara of Star Watch Intelligence massaged her forehead. Many called her the Iron Lady. She had gray hair, a matronly image and never lost her temper. It was possible Maddox’s duel had tested her famous calm. A sigh escaped from her compressed lips.

  Believing it was time to explain, Maddox cleared his throat.

  Brigadier O’Hara looked up sharply, her glare like whips.

  The words died on Maddox’s lips.

  She blinked several times. Each flicker of her eyelids seemed to lessen the intensity of her stare. Finally, she appeared to have regained the composure of the Iron Lady.

  “This is a fine mess you’ve dumped into my lap,” she said.

  Maddox nodded, saying, “I take full responsibility for it, ma’am.”

  “First, Captain, let me say that your words are meaningless. Like it or not, Sergeant Riker will soon be leaving for Loki Prime.”

  The extreme jungle world was the worst of the prison planets. Sentencing to such a habitat had replaced the old-fashioned death penalty.

  “Given that,” the brigadier continued, “I fail to see how your so-called responsibility comes into play.”

  “Sent into exile? Ma’am, that is ridiculous.”

  “Is it, Captain?”

  “Quite,” Maddox said. “Caius Nerva had a prosthetic arm.”

  “No,” the brigadier said. “Now, you’re being ridiculous.”

  Maddox appeared not to hear. “During the duel, I struck the top of his right hand with the viper stick, ma’am. The discharge had no visible effect.”

  “Captain, I expect my people to maintain greater awareness during a mission. I would also appreciate more mental acuity than you’re currently showing.”

  The faintest of frowns appeared on Maddox’s face.

  “Caius Nerva had huge muscles,” the brigadier said, “did he not?”

  “He did indeed, ma’am. In truth, that surprised me. Nerva didn’t seem like the type to train rigorously. It’s clear he ingested muscle-enhancers, but he would have still needed to lift several hours a day.”

  “Those taking the Methuselah Treatment do not have their limbs lopped off to attach bionic appendages,” the brigadier said. “They have regrows…like a lizard developing a new tail.”

  “The top of his hand—”

  “Captain,” the brigadier said in a warning tone.

  Maddox fell silent.

  “I expect my people to listen when I speak,” she said.

  He stared at her.

  “Caius Nerva had big muscles. You admit as much.” When the captain refrained from commenting, the brigadier said, “Look at this.” She lifted a clicker from the desk and pressed a switch.

  A holoimage appeared between them. It showed Caius Nerva in a swimsuit at what must have been a beach party.

  Maddox frowned. The man looked much slimmer than he remembered. He glanced around the image at the brigadier.

  “For your duel,” O’Hara said, “for the entire night, he more a bodysuit.”

  Maddox’s frown deepened.

  “If you look closely enough,” she said, “there are certain telltale signs.”

  “But—”

  The brigadier held up a single hand.

  Maddox ignored it. “Ma’am, I’ve seen bodysuits. He wasn’t wearing one.”

  “I don’t believe you’ve seen the newest model from Tojo 5, the Samurai Deluxe. It hasn’t hit the market yet. It is totally lifelike, as you can attest.”

  “The stunner shot proves you wrong, ma’am. Such a bodysuit as you’re implying would protect the wearer from the stun.”

  “It did,” she said.

  “I saw the man fall.”

  “Yes, because Sergeant Riker wisely set his weapon at the kill setting. The stunner hit didn’t injure Caius Nerva. The force of it knocked him down. The viper stick did the rest when it struck his face.”

  “Why would Sergeant Riker set his stunner for kill?”

  “For the best of reasons,” the brigadier said. “He suspected that Nerva wore a bodysuit. Realizing that, the sergeant knew the stun wouldn’t harm your opponent. Your man was trying to knock Nerva away from you. Rest assured, none of this is conjecture. I’ve already spoken to Riker. He has admitted everything.”

  Captain Maddox drummed his fingers on the armrests. “The sergeant didn’t say anything to me about this.”

  “Don’t blame him for that. Your man deduced it during the duel. Your impetuousness uncovered that much, I suppose.”

  “The suit sweated,” Maddox said.

  Brigadier O’Hara sighed.

  “Ah,” Maddox said, realizing that was part of the deception. He turned his head, staring at a model starship inside a glass case. “The sweat fooled me, as it was meant to do. The designers intentionally made a skin-perfect bodysuit.”

  “That it fooled you, Captain, is a testament to the designers. Usually, you are more observant. This time, your emotions blinded you.”

  Squinting, Maddox continued to stare at the starship model.

  “Despite your youth, I expect much more from you, Captain,” she said.

  Maddox appeared not to hear.

  “The part I don’t understand,” the brigadier added, “is how you managed to fend off Nerva’s attacks. I watched a rerun of the duel. Your sergeant’s bionic eye under his patch recorded everything. I had a specialist study Nerva’s reaction times. In his bodysuit, Caius Nerva’s speed was beyond phenomenal. You should not have been able to parry every strike.”

  Maddox stopped breathing. He had tested himself because of his possible secret, to see if it could be true. Here was conclusive proof, was it not?

  No, no, this cannot be. There must be another explanation. Disguising his unease, Maddox spoke casually, “I practice, ma’am.”

  “Please,” she said. “Do not insult my intelligence.”

  “I have a dueling bot at home. Extended bouts help keep me toned.”

  She studied him.

  Inwardly, Maddox readied himself for the accusation. Outwardly, he appeared serene.

  She pursed her lips before pressing the control, making the holoimage disappear. Opening her desk, she deposited the unit in a drawer and shut it with a click.

  “I imagine Octavian Nerva’s man-hunters will be coming for you as well,” the brigadier said. “You uncovered the fraud and helped to kill his son. His money and influence gives hi
m reach into the Star Watch, perhaps even into Intelligence. You must leave Earth, leave the Solar System.”

  “Not without Sergeant Riker,” Maddox said.

  “That is out of your hands, I’m afraid.”

  Maddox hesitated. He couldn’t believe the brigadier had dropped her inquiry about his ability to defend himself against Caius Nerva. Why had she said anything then? He would need to think about this, but not right now.

  “Why did you send the combat cars for me, ma’am?” he asked.

  She put both hands on the desk as if to brace herself. A diamond wedding ring glittered on a finger, reminding Maddox that the Iron Lady was married. The ring was her only indulgence, a huge diamond, almost garishly so. Rumor said she was deeply in love with her husband of many years.

  “There’s been another attack,” she said.

  “You mean the New Men?”

  She scraped back her chair as she stood. “I’m attending an emergency meeting of the Admiralty. You will accompany me, Captain, as my aide. I will desire your input afterward.”

  “You flatter me, ma’am.”

  “I do no such thing,” the brigadier said. “The Commonwealth and the entire breadth of Human Space will require every advantage we can muster in this emergency. Under normal circumstances, I appreciate your unique outlook, and I wish to make use of it. However, this last indulgence with the viper sticks doesn’t do you any credit, Captain.”

  He’d stood when she did. “When does the meeting begin?” he asked.

  “In fifteen minutes.”

  “Will Admiral Fletcher be there?”

  “I don’t want you to talk, Captain. Stay in the background. Listen. There’s no need for Fletcher to notice you. You’re in enough trouble as it is. So am I for this mess you’ve given me.”

  Maddox said nothing.

  “Now, follow me,” she said. “We’re taking a combat car so we can get there on time.”

  -3-

  Captain Maddox mingled among those standing against the back walls of the spacious chamber. He positioned himself in such a way that Admiral Fletcher or one of his people couldn’t spy him.

  The massive conference table seated over fifty admirals, commodores, commanders and marine generals. Behind them was twice that number in aides. Everyone here belonged to the Star Watch except for three envoys in the center area.

  One of the representatives wore a long robe and a scarlet headscarf, a sheik-superior from the Wahhabi Caliphate, a Muslim star empire. The second envoy, with a great handlebar mustache, represented the Windsor League, a combination of British, Canadian, Australian and Indian colony worlds. The last was a Spacer, a small woman with dark features and short hair. She symbolized the confederation of traders and industrialists with no fixed abode other than their starships.

  There were other human worlds without a representative here, but they were in the minority. The men and women seated at the great table had at their disposal—if one counted the envoys—three-quarters of the military strength in what people commonly referred to as the Oikumene or Human Space. Over two centuries since the discovery of the Laumer Drive, mankind had colonized many star systems with an Earth normal or terraformed planet. The number grew if one counted every star system with a mining colony or scientific research center.

  The majority of those worlds belonged to the Commonwealth of Planets. Before the advent of the New Men, there had been interplanetary wars, revolutions, coups, rebellions, insurrections, all the old ills of the Pre-Interstellar Age. Before the creation of the Commonwealth of Planets fifty years ago, the nations on Terra had fought each other, often using colony world strength. After a space bombardment with hell-burners smashing Greenland out of existence, the surviving nations started a process that led to the stabilizing Commonwealth, a union of sovereign star systems. A few years later, to give the Commonwealth teeth, they created the Star Watch to patrol the space lanes and protect the frontier worlds.

  In all that time, no one had encountered aliens, although explorers had discovered several non-human artifacts. According to the best guesses, the alien societies had guttered out when humanity first mixed tin with copper to produce bronze.

  The Oikumene was civilized space. Once one traveled farther, he entered the Beyond. Many voyagers had done just that: explorers, locators, Laumer technicians, bounty hunters in search of lost men or treasures and those wanting to begin again. There were known colonies in the Beyond and those hidden from sight. Fanatics of all stripes had left civilization, traveling in every direction. What grew to fruition on those hidden worlds? A few worriers fretted about it. Most people shrugged.

  As a great philosopher had said, “People are most concerned about the pebble in their shoe.” They fretted about their mundane worries instead of troubling themselves on cosmic matters.

  In such a manner, events had matured as the Oikumene or Civilized Human Space slowly expanded. Now, the New Men had appeared from the Beyond. Two still shots showed they looked human enough, if a little taller and thinner than the norm, with golden skin. No one who had encountered one of their warships had survived.

  Already, Odin, Horace and Parthia had fallen before the New Men. Each was an independent star system. No one had heard a word from those planets since. The Commonwealth had sent envoys. They had yet to return. Maddox knew that several months ago the Star Watch had sent various battle groups to strategic systems, guarding the direct path from those conquered regions into Commonwealth territory.

  It was one thing to smash an independent system’s handful of ships. It was another to face the might of the Star Watch.

  As an Intelligence officer, Captain Maddox was privy to more knowledge than the average person about the New Men. The golden-skinned invaders had uttered only three words to the Odin fleet before its destruction and to the planet Parthia before its conquest. Presumably, the New Men had said the same thing to the others, too, but no one else had managed to get out a recording of those encounters.

  Those three words were, “Surrender or die.”

  Had the invaders slain everyone on Odin, Horace and Parthia? That seemed inconceivably barbaric. No one had practiced such planetary genocide before. Yet, what did anyone know about the New Men? Almost nothing. Were they Homo Sapiens or did they simply look humanoid enough to fool everyone? No one had interviewed one of the invaders regarding their philosophy or religion.

  “Surrender or die.” No linguist had been able to detect an accent in those words to give a clue as to possible origins. What spaceship of colonists could have produced the New Men one hundred and fifty years ago, say, after disappearing into the Beyond? How large of an empire or star union did they possess in the Beyond? Or, were the New Men like the ancient Huns, perhaps, who moved en masse as nomads from one place to another? What technology made their starships so effective?

  A few strategists had speculated advanced aliens as being behind the New Men. The theory was simple. Aliens had bred these New Men as assault troops for a larger invasion into Human Space. It was as good an idea as the rest, given the number of facts was the same as any other concept: zero.

  There were many questions about the golden-skinned invaders, but no concrete answers.

  The coinage of the phrase New Men had come from an Odin newscast showing the only known footage, which had been several seconds long. A tall golden-skinned man with dark hair wearing a silver bodysuit had bounded with incredible speed at elite space marines in the spaceport of Garm. The defending squad occupied a building. They wore exo-powered armor and fired shock rifles.

  Due to the brevity of the footage, it had been difficult to get an accurate idea of the battle. Seen in extreme slow motion, two shock rounds passed the invader. Some experts believed the silver suit had interfered with the targeting computers in the rifles and the homing devices in the ammunition. While the Odin military had been small, they had used the latest export technology.

  For a fraction of a second, one could see the New Man’s face. It h
ad not been screwed up with controlled fear or even rage. Instead, he looked calm.

  The brief recording also showed his weapon. Pistol-sized, it shot an energy blot. In a fast jerk, the recording had switched directions. The energy hit caused blue web-lines to short-circuit heavy armor and fry the Odin marine inside.

  Then the footage ended. No one knew if the surviving marines had won that round or if the lone New Man had slain them.

  Afterward, the Odin newswoman’s voice had trembled as she spoke about the New Man, an innovative breed of human who had invaded civilization from the Beyond. Her observation had stuck.

  “Surrender or die.” No one knew what had happened to the defeated populations. That by itself had given rise to the worst fears. Surely, though, New Men would practice advanced forms of mercy toward the defeated. Or, would they believe themselves so superior to old-style humans that the losers needed extermination?

  Whatever the case, until someone thought up a better name or the invaders gave humanity one of their own, they were the New Men, and their initial assault had sent a shockwave through every government in Human Space.

  In the large conference chamber, Captain Maddox looked up as the whispering died away.

  Lord High Admiral Cook in his white uniform and rows of medals walked in. A young lieutenant trailed him. Cook was large and red-faced. The woman behind him was beautiful, with brunette hair. She had athletic grace but appeared tired and nervous.

  The Lord High Admiral came to the front of the conference table, placing his thick fingertips on the glossy top. He scanned the assembled throng, and he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to sit down. The lieutenant standing to his left and a little behind wore her officer’s cap. Cook didn’t. He had a thick wave of white hair and a seamed face.

  “We face a grave challenge,” Lord High Admiral Cook said in his deep voice. “Because of its intensity, I will come straight to the point. As many of you know, we have moved seven battle groups into these various star systems.”