The Lost Swarm

by Vaughn Heppner

  “I said maybe,” Cook told her. “Maybe I have another reason.”

  She would not look up at him as long as she had to hold her traitorous hand.

  “I have a plan,” Cook said. “It’s risky. I need someone cunning to help me with it. But I can’t let you run free. I can’t risk our hidden foe getting hold of you, either.”

  “Where are we headed?” she whispered.

  He remained silent.

  “You’re not going to tell me?”

  “Not yet,” he said.

  She let go of her hand. It didn’t shake. She looked up. “What do you want me to do?”

  Cook leaned even farther toward her. “First, I need to make the enemy believe he’s succeeded with you.”

  “Meaning…?”

  “I have an old android Iron Lady I’ve been saving for a long time. Someone is going to ‘kill’ her so it’s seen by those with loose lips.”

  Mary said nothing.

  “That should cause the hidden agents to stop aiming beams at you, which ought to help you think more clearly.”

  “I thought we had shielding here against that beam.”

  “We do,” Cook said.

  “But I’m going to be somewhere else.”

  “Yes.”

  “So…you hope a dead android Iron Lady convinces the hidden agent…?”

  Cook nodded. “Yes. I hope that works.” His folded hands tightened. “Brigadier, Star Watch and the Commonwealth cannot afford a large set-piece space battle right now. It would be far better to win this one through cunning instead of brute force.”

  “Because of the bigger threat behind Thrax and Drakos?”

  “Thrax and Drakos—if they combine—are plenty of threat for us to face. But yes, there is something else out there.”

  “You mean something else besides the Emperor?” she asked.

  “In fact,” Cook said, “there are a couple of somethings that you don’t know about yet. That’s another reason why it would be better to win this one without heavy ship losses. No ship losses would be optimal.”

  “Playing deviously isn’t your style, Admiral.”

  “No, it isn’t. Which is why I need your help, but you’ve been compromised, making all of this much more difficult. Incidentally, I think that’s one of the reasons Maddox is so set on stopping Drakos. The hardliner chief is the key to you winning a clear mental bill of health. That’s also going to make it dangerous for Maddox, because he needs to capture Drakos rather than simply killing him. We need Drakos to talk, telling us exactly what he learned from you and how to stop more leaks from happening.”

  Mary’s right hand flew to her mouth. She hadn’t considered that. Oh, she did hope Maddox wouldn’t get himself killed for her sake. That would simply be awful. How could she live with herself if that happened?

  “Maddox,” she whispered so softly that not even she could hear the word. “Take care of yourself, my boy.”

  “What was that?” Cook asked. “Did you say something?”

  Mary looked up at him. “Tell me what I have to do. And please do tell me the instant you hear from Maddox.”

  Cook nodded somberly.

  PART II

  HUNTING

  -1-

  Lord Drakos, the “superior” or “dominant” in New Man terminology, was shorter than average. That did not make him short compared to a subhuman—a regular Homo sapien of the Commonwealth. But it did make him short compared to other golden-skinned supermen, as they liked to think of themselves. He also had a lighter golden hue to his skin than others, but that didn’t matter in the slightest—to him.

  It seemed to matter to others, though, that his hue was slightly different, slightly...off.

  Drakos examined the skin of his right arm. He curled his fingers into a fist, enjoying the ripple of muscles in his forearm. He had considered now and again using special skin treatments to “golden” his hue. The act would set tongues to wagging, however. Drakos well understood the whispering campaign that the Emperor and his cousin “Golden” Ural had set against him many years ago. Those two were tall and well colored—the very example of a superior par excellence.

  Drakos scowled. He was in a large chartroom aboard his triangular Star Cruiser Agamemnon. It was a stealth craft along the lines of Methuselah Man Strand’s specially fitted star cruiser. In fact, Drakos’s flagship led thirteen other triangular stealth star cruisers as they searched the Beyond.

  The term Beyond was subman-derived. It meant anything beyond their precious Human Space. Human. The submen thought of themselves as the lords of creation. What a crass joke. What a vain conceit. They were mere proto-humans, precursors to a better and fitter race. Did that mean superiors should worship the submen? Did submen worship chimpanzees? Of course not.

  As submen were above chimpanzees, so superiors were above submen.

  Drakos’s nostrils flared as he exhaled sharply. He was a short and stocky superior with broader shoulders and greater strength than average. He wore a silver suit and had a wide face with the arrogant features of a master warrior. His gaze could wilt almost anyone he stared in the eyes. Other superiors rightly feared him.

  Even Methuselah Man Strand feared him.

  Strand… Drakos’s eyes narrowed. Then, he hunched over the computer controls and began to input data. He worked at an almost frenzied pace, his fingers moving faster than seemed human. Of course, that was the case, if by human one meant a subman. He was superior. He was greater than most dominants, in fact.

  Drakos worked at his frenzied pace for several hours. He made many computations and ran several scenarios in order to help him make a critical decision.

  He had risked everything to follow Commander Thrax Ti Ix’s path several years ago after the initial Swarm Invasion. He needed to find the bug and make him an offer the other could not refuse. He needed Thrax and the one hundred and sixty Swarm saucer-shaped ships the bug commanded in order to achieve his dream.

  By leaving Human Space, Drakos had undoubtedly left the Rebel Organization embedded in the Commonwealth at the mercy of Star Watch. That organization had been fomenting rebellions, piracies and other societal ills upon the creaky submen’s institutions. Through the Rebel Organization, Drakos had introduced cracks intended to turn into splits, and then political splinters. The dominants could charge into the civil-war carnage afterward, creating a new empire of superiors.

  Could the Emperor of the Throne World see the wisdom of doing that?

  Drakos shook his sweaty features. The softliners were weak. They believed in coexistence. What a pathetic concept. In any group of intelligent beings, there was the leader and the followers. There was the head and the body. Two struggling species could not coexist for long. One must win. The other would lose. The Emperor had grown soft with his endless harems of beauties as he sired one batch of sons after another. If he thought Drakos would grow soft by laying with hundreds of selected beauties—

  Alone in the chartroom, Drakos laughed harshly. It was so easy to see. The superiors must not let the subhumans outbreed them. That would be grossest folly. Yes, there were presently more submen in the universe. But a superior could impregnate thousands of women each year. Swarms of sons would grow up, eager and ready to enter the Darwinian war for existence, survival of the fittest. Soon, millions upon billions of fitter superiors would swamp the frail submen out of existence.

  Surely, that was what had happened to the Neanderthals during the last ice age on Earth, why they had gone extinct. The evidence showed that Cro-Magnon men must have also hunted Neanderthals, perhaps even for sport in the last days.

  Drakos nodded. He would build several vast preserves on various planets, once they won the greater war. He would keep millions of submen alive for sport, for hunting.

  He smiled. It was a cruel thing. Then, he shook his head. First, he must win. First, he had to actually find Thrax and his disgusting bugs.

  Clone Strand had assured him this was the right section of the Beyond to s
earch.

  Drakos leaned back in his chair.

  He’d spoken to the Emperor’s special prisoner once. There, Drakos had promised the Methuselah Man the stars in exchange for one small item of knowledge. The original Strand had been desperate at the time. Drakos had seen it in their creator’s eyes. And Drakos had known that the original Strand, Methuselah Man Strand, was one of the most cunning men alive. Surely, Strand had believed that his last clone could outwit Drakos in time.

  “That won’t happen,” Drakos said softly in his chartroom.

  Using the Methuselah Man’s information, Drakos had found the last clone chamber and broken into it—although Clone Strand had proven cunning, destroying the reservoir of knowledge that had poured into his receptive Strand mind at his “birth.” Afterward, the clone had learned bitter lessons in servitude to Drakos.

  The superior paused at his task. Why had the original Strand ever wanted to create lab-grown clones of himself? Drakos shuddered in revulsion.

  Yes, breed a million sons into existence and through them live forever, but to create a clone of oneself seemed like blasphemy. Drakos knew himself as unique. There was only one of him and there would only be one. He would instantly destroy any clone of himself. Why, that would—

  Once more, revulsion twisted across his handsome features. Then, Drakos concentrated, spending several hours more on his computations. Finally, he read the combined results, and they were negative.

  Drakos sat perfectly still, absorbing that. Could he have made a mistake by heading deep into the Beyond to find Thrax and his bug ships? He’d left his huge underground organization to fend for itself. Without superior guidance and protection, Star Watch would surely ferret out the spies in their ranks. That wouldn’t matter if he smashed Star Watch with Swarm warships and followed up with his stealth star cruisers. But if he couldn’t even find Commander Thrax Ti Ix…

  “Strand,” he whispered.

  It was possible the clone played a more devious game than even he, Drakos, had been able to understand. The idea seemed preposterous. But he was a superior, meaning he could face unpleasant facts if he had to.

  “Strand,” he said, standing.

  Drakos whirled, heading for the hatch.

  -2-

  Drakos studied the clone sitting across the table from him.

  The Strand clone was young and small in comparison. He had an overlarge head with a harsh surgery scar on the left side of his forehead. The surgeon had removed pieces of the clone’s brain to make room for a nasty device inserted into the clone’s head. The clone had trouble moving the left side of his face, and he had complained before that the left side of his body was numb most of the time.

  The clone wore a long gray tunic that came to his bony knees. He had been given no other article of clothing to wear.

  The room was small, but not tiny. There was a computer terminal to the side. In the other room attached to this one was the clone’s cot and toilet.

  Like all New Men, Drakos secretly feared Strand and even his clones. Once, the original Strand had ruled them harshly. That must never be allowed to happen again.

  “I don’t understand it,” the clone said in a quarrelsome voice. He had been listening to Lord Drakos for some time. “I’ve already told you all I know about Thrax and his whereabouts.”

  “It wasn’t good enough,” Drakos said.

  “Then you shouldn’t have done this,” the clone said, touching the scar on his forehead. “You damaged my intellect by tampering with my wonderful mind.”

  “Untrue,” Drakos said calmly. “The surgeon assured me—”

  “Assured!” the clone shouted, interrupting. “That clod had no idea what he was doing. The brain surgery was a terrible mistake. Now, you’re reaping the rewards of your stupidity.”

  Drakos’s eyes burned as his features stiffened.

  “Did that hurt your pride?” the clone asked. “If it did, it was only because there was truth in what I said. False accusations don’t sting half as much as true ones.”

  “You have grown overbold,” Drakos finally said.

  “Bah! You can’t refute what I’ve said so you fall back on mere power, which shows your insecurity. And I understand better now how much you depend on my intellect. Can’t find Thrax, can you? You have all the clues I do, probably more. Surely, you hide half the clues from me because you think I could derive power from them somehow. Well, I don’t blame you for your caution. I am a genius despite your clod’s surgery. You’re just clever with quick reflexes. Mentally you’re my inferior.”

  Drakos drew a device from his jacket, aimed it at Strand and pressed a pain button. That sent a signal to the control device in the clone’s brain tissues.

  Strand crumpled from his stool to writhe on the floor as if he was having an epileptic fit. Sweat pooled on his twisting features and he moaned pitifully.

  Finally, Drakos pressed the button again. The writhing stopped and Strand began breathing normally, if in utter exhaustion.

  Drakos put away the device and waited. He was a hunter, a superior. He could wait as long as needed.

  In time, the clone dragged himself from the floor and slouched on the stool. He used part of his tunic to wipe his sweaty features. He was pale and seemed even weaker than earlier.

  “You’re proving my point. Only a weak man indulges himself in torture for no purpose. Also, it was a mistake,” the clone wheezed. “By doing that, you could have damaged what is left of my intellect.”

  Drakos shrugged as if indifferent.

  “You’re more of a fool than I thought if willing to lose me like that, given all the trouble you took to find me.”

  “You think wrong,” Drakos said.

  Strand hung his head. He did so to hide a secret grin sliding onto his face. He had endured the pain, and he had goaded the short New Man for a reason. No one believed a prisoner if he gave in too easily. But if one kicked and beat a prisoner and finally broke him, then one would believe the words. That was what all this was about. Drakos was a dangerous New Man, but he wasn’t Strand the Genius. His plan would turn the tables yet, and he would begin his revenge against everyone by starting with this stocky New Man.

  “Just remember that there’s more where that came from,” Drakos said. “I want answers, real answers, not the fakery you’re trying to give me. I know you. Even as a clone, you believe that you are the chosen one of destiny. That is patently false. While you are full of guile, you are being left far behind in the Darwinian struggle for survival. I finally understand why the original made clones. He has no children. Thus, he created copies of himself. But that way lies stasis, not growth. I will rule the universe through my genes as they expand with greatness as they continue to evolve and grow into something higher.”

  The clone looked up. “Ludendorff and I created you superiors. We did it in the laboratory, not through evolution.”

  “You merely speeded up the process.”

  “Do you understand nothing?”

  Drakos reached inside his jacket.

  “No,” the clone pleaded, cringing on his stool. “Don’t do that again—please.”

  A wolfish smile stretched across Drakos’s face, even though he recognized that Strand merely pretended to fear. Did the clone think himself so superior that he thought he could fool him? What game did the clone play?

  “I-I thought I knew where Thrax would go,” Strand stammered. “Remember, I knew him on the Builder Dyson Sphere.”

  “The original knew Thrax, not you.”

  “And I have all the original’s memories.”

  Drakos nodded curtly.

  “I know more about Thrax than anyone else,” the clone added.

  “Professor Ludendorff knew Thrax, too. According to my data, Maddox rescued Ludendorff from the Dyson Sphere, and that rescue caused the sphere’s destruction and Thrax’s original escape.”

  “All true. But remember this: Ludendorff doesn’t have the stomach for what needs doing like I do.”
>
  “What does that have to do with anything?” Drakos asked.

  Strand dropped his head.

  Drakos recognized the subterfuge. Hmm…he would play along for the moment. “Clone,” he said.

  The small man looked up.

  Drakos aimed the pain device at the clone. Strand trembled and began to stammer abjectly.

  “Stop that,” Drakos said.

  The clone shut his mouth and cowered.

  “You said Ludendorff doesn’t have the stomach to do what needs doing. What does that mean?”

  “Nothing,” the clone said in a sulky voice.

  Drakos sighed, and he pressed the pain button.

  After a lengthy process, and after Drakos relented, an even more exhausted clone climbed back onto the stool.

  “Do you wish for more?” Drakos asked.

  Strand shook his sweaty head.

  “What did you mean earlier about Ludendorff?”

  “There…there is a secret Builder base nearby,” the clone whispered. “There are tools in the base that could…that could aid us in finding Thrax.”

  “Ah,” Drakos said, realizing this was the trick. The clone wanted to get to the base in order to pick up some secret weapon and regain his freedom, perhaps regain his position of power over the Throne World. What kind of weapons would be on such a base? Surely, powerful weapons or tools would lie there.

  Perhaps a little detour was in order, then. He would pick up ancient Builder weapons while making sure the clone did not regain his freedom. Then, he would proceed to Thrax’s world in an even stronger position.

  “Start talking, clone. Tell me about this base and tell me where it is.”

  “You won’t use the device against me anymore?” the clone whimpered.

  “Not unless you force me to.”

  “Yes,” the clone said in a pitiful voice. “Here’s what I know…”

  -3-

  Starship Victory was deep in the Beyond in the same general area as the fourteen hardliner-crewed star cruisers. The ancient Adok vessel drifted uselessly in an asteroid belt of the system of an older main sequence star. The asteroid belt in this case was far from the solar ball of nuclear energy, in a similar range that Neptune was from the Sun.