Star Soldier

1.

The tall, gaunt general in the green uniform and red piping of Directorate Staff Planning strode back and forth across the rug. His desk was huge. Behind it was an old-style bookshelf with books. He claimed turning pages helped him concentrate. But then most people thought of him as eccentric—and that was a bad thing this near the ruling power. The nine directors of the Social Unity Directorate appreciated men and women they understood. Eccentrics, which in their mind meant “unpredictables,” were distrusted. Even worse, they were hated.

Secret Police General James Hawthorne ran a bony hand through his blond, wispy hair. He pivoted and paced back over the worn trail he’d made in his carpet. He had a sure stride, and he clasped his hands behind his back. Pacing helped him think. The pacing didn’t indicate nervousness. That was another of his eccentricities. He was trying to decide between two momentous avenues for the further prosecution of the war.

Most people thought he had the emotions of a large slab of rock. The belief occurred primarily because of his patrician mannerisms. The directors disliked such mannerisms. Social Unity preached egalitarianism, not the ways of aristocracy. So Hawthorne strove to keep his true nature hidden.

He read voraciously, military history being his special love. Among the great captains of history, he believed he most resembled Douglas MacArthur of the Twentieth Century, a brilliant man.

Before Hawthorne could pivot and retrace his steps, a chime sounded from his desk. He frowned. Then he forced his features into the blank look that he wore around people in power.

The door swished open and unannounced an old man hobbled into the office. That spoke of the man’s power. He had breached Hawthorne’s security net without any alarms going off.

The old man seemed more caricature than real. He had uncombed white hair and a leathery face with a thousand wrinkles. He used a cane, and he shivered as he shuffled a few steps at a time.

Behind the old man followed a strange creature. Not quite an android, it was difficult to call him a man. The common phrase was semi-prosthetic or bionic. Specialists had torn down the bodyguard and rebuilt him with artificial muscles, steel-reinforced bones and nerves protected by sheathing. The bionic guard wore a black slick-suit and a senso mask to hide his face.

A barely audible whine emanated from the bodyguard as he took one step at a time behind his master. At a word from the bent-over director, the bodyguard could tear the office apart with his bare hands. Although the bodyguard wore no outer weapons, at least one of his fingers likely contained an embedded mini-laser. Wonder glands could squirt drugs into his bloodstream, dulling pain and adding speed and strength.

“Director Enkov,” Hawthorne said, “this is a surprise.”

The ancient man with a thousand wrinkles struggled to lift his head. He had pale blue eyes. They were the keen eyes of a killer more murderous than any blood-maddened shark. They stared into General James Hawthorne’s eyes. After fifty days of infighting, and two sudden deaths, this wicked butcher had proved himself the strongest force on the Directorate governing Inner Planets.

Director Enkov dropped his gaze and struggled to the nearest chair. General Hawthorne would have sprung to the chair and slid it closer. But a single look into the director’s eyes had rooted Hawthorne’s feet and caused his tongue to freeze.

Despite his best efforts over the past few months, General Hawthorne had only gained driblets of information concerning Enkov. This much he knew. Unless he pleased this withered old man, the bionic monstrosity behind him…. General Hawthorne regained use of his tongue. He moved it in his cotton dry mouth. One misstep today and the bodyguard would destroy him in an undignified manner.

Director Enkov laboriously maneuvered himself into the chair. He grunted painfully as he sank his crooked back against the rest. He set the cane on his knees. And with a trembling, wrinkled hand, he reached into his coat and drew out a stimstick. He stuck it between his dry lips and inhaled sharply. Stimsticks automatically lit with the first puff. He worked the stimstick to the left side of his mouth and let it dangle.

The bionic bodyguard flanked the right side of the chair. There, he froze into immobility.

“General Hawthorne,” wheezed the director. The old man’s voice was raspy, pained and still filled with deadly menace.

“Sir!” said Hawthorne, snapping to attention.

Red smoke drifted out of the old man’s nostrils. “Shall we spout pleasantries, you and I, or shall we hew to the meat of the matter?”

“I am at the Director’s pleasure, sir.”

“What is the term…? Ah, yes. At ease, General, at ease.”

General Hawthorn’s stance grew minutely wider and he snapped his hands behind his back. His features remained blank.

More red smoke trickled out of the director’s nostrils. “I deplore subterfuge, General.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you may forgo the military routine.”

“Sir?”

“You’re a pacer, I hear. That’s what my profile team told me. When you talk you walk, at least if left to your own devices. So by all means walk.”

“I, ah….”

“Walk,” growled Enkov, indicating the worn carpet.

General Hawthorne did as ordered, although his stride was no longer as sure as before.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, sir,” said Hawthorne.

“I deplore lying.”

General Hawthorne’s stride suddenly became surer. He was wondering how best to handle the situation, and when he thought he walked, just as Enkov had said.

Director Enkov’s eyes seemed to glitter and a tiny cruel smile appeared and then disappeared from his dry old lips.

“You asked for the truth, is that not right?” Hawthorne asked.

“Most certainly,” whispered Enkov.

“May I ask then why you are here?”

“Because we’re losing the war,” whispered Enkov.

General Hawthorne nodded, even as he considered Enkov’s presence here. Enkov had come with a single bodyguard into his office for a reason. Maybe it was to try to lull him, to put him at greater ease than otherwise. He would have to monitor his words with care. Yet it would be wise to pretend to be at ease, to let Enkov think his subtlety was working.

“During a war of this magnitude we must expect certain setbacks,” Hawthorne said. “I explained that during my Directorate interrogations.”

“Setbacks, yes,” whispered Enkov. “But we’ve received one defeat after another, and those defeats have come quickly.”

General Hawthorne shrugged as he pivoted and paced back the way he’d come. “New Zealand, Tasmania, Australia, Antarctica, we can well afford such losses.”

“Not in the swift manner we’ve lost them.”

General Hawthorne didn’t respond, even though Director Enkov was right. The Highborn had waged brilliant campaigns. They excelled at space combat. He had hoped land war would have stifled them just a little.

“Volunteers stream into their Free Earth Corps,” whispered Enkov.

“True. But it takes time to train good soldiers.”

“It takes less time to train garrison troops to hold what they’ve conquered. That frees the Highborn for further campaigns.”

Hawthorne nodded. It was the essential problem.

“Did you expect them to win so quickly?” the director whispered.

“No.”

“Then perhaps you’re not a traitor after all, merely incompetent.”

General Hawthorne stopped short.

“Or will you tell me that you miscalculated?”

“Miscalculated is too strong a word,” said Hawthorne. “I misjudged their timing.”

A dry chuckle escaped the old director. It made the smoldering tip of the stimstick bob up and down. “Whatever you call it, you were wrong.”

Cold fear settled in Hawthorne’s chest.

“A general who guesses wrong is useless.”

“But—”

Director Enkov lifted a trembling hand. “Swift, Highborn advances have demolished your estimated timeline. Even your little scheme of blowing Greater Sydney with a deep-core burst came to nothing. Worse, our propagandists have been working overtime to defeat the Highborn accusations that we planned such a thing. In all, General Hawthorne, your prosecution of the war leaves much to be desired.”

Sweat beaded Hawthorne’s upper lip. “I am to be relieved of command?”

“General Hawthorne, I believe you’re something of a historian. At least that’s what my briefing team told me.”

“They are correct, sir.”

“Splendid. Do you recall the history of an ancient city called Carthage?”

“Indeed.”

“I believe Hannibal marched from there.”

“Yes, sir, he did.”

“Yes….” Director Enkov shifted to a more comfortable position. “The Carthaginians had an interesting habit concerning generals.” The director’s features took on a more sinister cast, as he smiled cruelly. “If the Carthaginian general came back defeated or lost too many troops, the city fathers debated among themselves. If the judgment went against this general, they took the loser outside the city. There they stripped him of his rank and his clothes. Soldiers scourged him with whips. They nailed spikes through his wrists and his feet, hammering him onto a cross. That cross they propped upright. They crucified him, I believe is the term.”

“Yes, sir,” said Hawthorne, uneasily. “The Carthaginian’s invented the custom that the Romans later copied.”

“For the remainder of the war I wish you to consider yourself a Carthaginian general, and all it entails.”

Secret Police General James Hawthorne grew pale and found that he couldn’t speak. There was a hidden gun in the bottom left drawer of his desk. He wondered what his chances were of reaching it and killing these two.

“…Unless,” said Enkov.

“Yes,” croaked Hawthorne. He cleared his throat, hating his display of weakness.

“Surely you have a Plan B,” whispered Enkov.

“B, sir?”

“Something to implement in case your original theories proved false or misleading.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well?”

General Hawthorne thought once more about the hidden gun in his desk. Then he decided that Enkov’s briefing team surely knew about it. The bodyguard would undoubtedly kill him before he could open the drawer.

“Sir, there is a Plan B.”

“Splendid.”

“But it entails great risk.”

“I don’t like the sound of that, General.”

“I don’t see any other way out of our impasse, sir.”

“Not an impasse, General, but our defeat.”

“Yes, sir. Our defeat.”

General Hawthorne sat on the edge of his desk. He massaged his forehead and wiped the sheen of sweat from his upper lip. “Sir, to be blunt, the Highborn were a good idea that went bad.”

“A good idea?”

“Superior soldiers, sir. Or, to use a metaphor, a better sword than our foes in Outer Planets could wield. Only this sword has turned in our hand.”

“I see.”

“Actually, one could say it became a magic sword that turned and attacked us.”

“Yes, yes, quite colorful, General, but what is your point?”

“Our old swords, sir, break every time we try to defeat the magic sword. My first theory was to throw so many old swords against it that in time the magic sword would become nicked once too often and shatter. That doesn’t seem to be happening, or it’s not happening fast enough. What we need is a better sword.”

“You mean create more Highborn to throw at the first batch?”

“That’s not a bad idea, sir.”

“It’s lunacy. The first batch turned on us. Why not the second?”

“You’re probably right, sir.”

Enkov scowled. And by that, General Hawthorne believed that his time was limited.

“Sir, what about a new and better sword, even better than the first sword? This new sword we shall be able to control?”

“What are you trying to say?”

“That in deep space a habitat orbits Neptune. Actually, it’s in deep-Neptune orbit. It appears to be like any other of the hundreds of habitats orbiting the gas giant. In actuality it’s the home to a secret and special project.”

“What project?”

“The creation of a new and better sword, sir.”

“Men, General?”

“Soldiers, sir, who can outfight Highborn.”

“Are you mad? What’s to stop them from turning on us like the Highborn have?”

“These are quite different creatures, sir. Their very makeup allows us to implant deep controls.”

“Out with it, man! What are they?”

“Cyborgs.”

The old withered eyes narrowed. Enkov glanced at his bodyguard. “You mean like him?”

“No, sir. Infinitely more deadly. And if I may say so, sir, most inhuman in their efficiency.”

“You’ve actually made enough of these… these cyborgs to change the war?”

“Not yet, sir.”

Director Enkov spat the stub of his stimstick onto the carpet. There it smoldered until the bodyguard crushed it with his foot. “What do you mean ‘not yet’?”

“I need the go ahead for phase two, sir.”

“What is phase two?”

“If the Director would be so kind as to glance at the holochart on my desk….”

For a second they stared eye to eye. Hawthorne wondered if the old man was going to order the bodyguard to kill him. He began to judge how fast he could jump for the gun in his desk.

Then, with a wheeze, ancient Director Enkov began to work his way to his feet to come and look at the holochart.

2.

Far from the raging civil war—past Jupiter, Saturn and Uranus—orbited blue Neptune. Hundreds of habitats orbited it, and many colonies had sprung up on its various moons. The majority of the space habs had been constructed out of weird ice, making them glittering, colorful motes in the eternal night of space. It insured that the Ice Hauler Cartel was one of the major powers in the Neptune System.

The continuing, growing thirst for weird ice and the constant need for new sources of water had finally led the cartel into experimental ship construction. IH-49 was the third of its kind. It was being readied for a long and hopefully momentous journey. However, within the command module things had already started to go wrong.

“That’s impossible.”

“What?”

“My game froze.”

Osadar Di frowned, not sure that she’d heard correctly. Paranoia came easily to her. Thus, she always checked and rechecked everything that could possibly go wrong. It made her an excellent space pilot.

Osadar shut down her scanning program and pushed VR goggles onto her smooth forehead. She had short dark hair, dark worried eyes and a scratch on her nose. A bit too tall for an ice hauler, she had long shapely legs highlighted by her blue-colored jumpsuit. The suit had a red IHC tab on the left shoulder. The cramped command module held screens, consoles and claustrophobically close bulkheads. The commander sat in the middle of this mess, the pink-faced life support officer to his left and Osadar to his right.

The commander, a tough old man with short silver hair, experimentally tapped his VR monocle.

“What game could you possibly be playing at a time like this?” asked Osadar.

“Antiquity.”

”The Antiquity Game?”

“Not Earth’s. Neptune’s.”

Because light moved so slowly, three hundred thousand kilometers a second, each planetary grid only linked with computers in its near vicinity. The time lag of say from Earth to Mars—something over five minutes—was too much for players of a complex game like Antiquity to react successfully to each other’s moves.

Osadar checked a screen. The commander used ship’s AI (Artificial Intelligence) to run his ultra complex character. A laser lightguide system hooked him into the nearby Neptune III Net.

“What’s wrong with this thing?” he complained.

“Explain.”

“I just ran a diagnostic, and Ajax checks out.”

“Who?”

“Ajax!” He scowled. “My character in the Trojan War.”

Osadar shook her head.

“The Greeks and Trojans, Achilles and Hector? Didn’t they teach you anything in the Jupiter System?”

“Give me the code,” Osadar said.

“Eh?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Oh. Thanks. The code word is Asimov.”

Osadar put her goggles back on and manipulated her gloves. “There isn’t anything wrong with your character.”

“That’s what I said!”

“So what’s wrong?”

“Ah ha! Found it. The laser-link is down.”

Osadar frowned. It was her habitual look. She tried to squeeze off a message to the nearest IHC station. Zero. She ran a diagnostic on communications. Check. So she sent another flash. Another zero. Either the diagnostic lied or IHC had gone off-line, which wasn’t possible. For that would mean IHC no longer existed. The Ice Hauler Cartel owned communications out here—they even owned her at present. Any space hab orbiting Neptune or one of its moons used their patented lightguide net-web.

The commander cursed in old Angelic. Sometimes he took his historical excesses to extremes.

“Now what?” Osadar asked.

“Ajax crashed! Do you know how much time I put into him?”

“Ask the AI why he crashed.”

“AI isn’t responding.”

Osadar’s stomach clenched. She tried the AI. The ill feeling grew, producing a touch of nausea. Then her eyes, those worried dark orbs, glistened with fear. The AI couldn’t answer because its entire ram was being used. What in the devil was going on?

“Ask computing what’s wrong with the AI,” the commander told the LS officer.

“…Can’t, Commander. Something’s jamming inter-ship communication.”

Fear stabbed Osadar’s heart. She tore off her VR goggles and shucked off the gloves. Breathing deeply, she tried to control her panic. Then she unbuckled herself and floated to a portal.

“What are you doing?” asked the commander.

Osadar grabbed a float-rail and pressed her palm on the lock. Nothing happened. She floated to the other portal. It, too, refused to open. She bit back the moan that tried to rush past her teeth. As calmly as possible, she flipped a terminal-head and punched in override. Then she cranked open the portal by hand. On impulse, she set the locks so it couldn’t slide shut on her.

“Commander, I’m getting a red reading in computing.” The pink-faced LS officer looked up in confusion.

“Osa?” asked the commander.

“I’m going outside to manually override the laser-link. I want Dominie Banbury to hear about this.”

“Do you really think that’s warranted?”

“Don’t you?” she asked.

The commander pondered a moment and nodded. “Wait a minute, though. I’m going with you.”

3.

Toll Seven allowed himself a faint smile. Ship’s AI had succumbed to his program. The Master Plan went forward with flawless precision.

He shook his bald head—he looked like a robot with plastic flesh, with a shark’s dead eyes. He used inner nanonics to dump chemicals into his brain’s pleasure centers to dampen his joy. Neither fear nor happiness must mar the smooth working of the plan. Clean concentration was paramount. That blood globules floated past him, under him, over him and behind him meant nothing. The raw stench of gore influenced him not at all. Even more importantly, the adrenaline that had surged through his body when he’d fought ship’s security had been carefully drained away by his inner nanonics. The enemy bio-form floated head-down behind him, a trickle of blood still oozing from the torn throat and adding to the floating hemoglobin.

Toll Seven issued the next command through the leads in his fingertips. He’d plugged his first three fingers into computing slots. The converted AI obeyed and locked all inner ship’s doors. Toll Seven then slipped a computing cube into the security key. He checked his inner clock. Nine seconds to gassing. Once the IH-49 crew was immobilized, all eighteen of them, he would begin transferring their bodies to his stealth pod. Nothing would be wasted.

“Attention, First Rank,” said the AI.

“Yes?”

“Three crew members have exited the ship.”

With his broad, seamless face as smooth as ever, Toll Seven slipped a VR monocle over his eye. “Transmit image.”

Through virtual reality imaging, he saw the bulky vacc-suits and the twinkling stream of hydrogen spray that propelled them. With a flawless knowledge of the ship’s layout, both inner and outer, he realized that they jetted to the laser-link.

His nanonics dumped extra chemicals into his brain and throughout his body. Anger and bewilderment weren’t allowed. He considered his options. Gassing would commence in two seconds.

He gave the AI its instructions. Then he pushed off, floated through Homo sapiens blood and headed for an airlock. He would have to dispose of these three personally.

4.

Despite the gnawing uneasiness in her gut, the near certainty that Fate had given her this pilot position only to shaft her more deeply, Osadar was awed once again by the sheer gall of her job—no one traveled farther out of the Solar System.

The vast bulk of IH-49 contained fuel for the ion engines. Huge magnetic fields were needed to contain the reaction mass. Thus, fully eighty percent of the ice hauler was fuel tanks and thrusters. It was a long trip into the Oort Cloud to plunder ice comets. The majority of those comets coasted slowly one hundred thousand AU from the Sun. Earth was one AU from the Sun. Neptune was 30.06 AU away. Of course, most of the journey to the Oort Cloud would be made while asleep. Once there and in the name of the IHC, they would crawl over the space debris like a virus, attaching engines, setting up fuel feeders and placing automated missile launchers. It would take many years for the comets to arrive at IHC Pluto Receiving Station. The long history of inter-solar commerce (and piracy) demanded the automated missiles. It was tough work, lonely work, but it would pay well.

The forward part of IH-49 contained the spherical crew hull. To Osadar it seemed as if someone had magnetized the hull and run it over a junkyard. Landers, pods, jacks, missile tubes, coil lines, thruster modules, endless bundles of Wasp 1000 Missiles and a host of engines that would be frozen into the comets had all been attached to the outer hull.

Far to her left winked a green light atop the laser-link. Behind it, dominating space, hung blue Neptune with its few, wispy white cirrus clouds. Triton, the biggest moon, was a black speck against the blue gas giant. The endless space habitats, the majority of them built out of weird ice, weren’t visible against Neptune’s bulk. Even so, in 2350 A.D. this was humanity’s newest frontier, unless one counted the few commercial and scientific outposts on Pluto and Charon.

“Commander!”

“Yes, yes. Spit it out.”

Osadar heard both the commander and Technician Geller in her headphone.

“I just lost contact with the LS Officer,” Technician Geller said. The LS Officer had remained within the ship.

“What? Impossible.” Hysteria edged the commander’s gruff voice.

Osadar tried the channel. Zero. She squeezed shut her eyes and forced herself to remain calm. She was gladder than ever she’d taken time to don a zero-G worksuit. Back at the airlock, neither the commander nor Technician Geller had wanted to take the extra effort to get into one. They had donned simple vacc-suits, no doubt figuring a quick look and a wrench could fix what was wrong.

She looked back. Both men dangled in space in their silver vacc-suits. Geller had strapped on a propulsion unit and a tool kit, the commander only a tether. Both men allowed themselves to be dragged by her. Which was simply common sense.

Her worksuit was practically a miniature spaceship. She wore a rigid pressurized cylinder and a transparent helmet dome. The worksuit had an integral thruster pack that contained three hundred seconds of acceleration. Perhaps as importantly, three waldoes—remote-controlled arms—were attached for heavy-duty work. The third waldo mounted an integral laser torch, the other arms had power-locks made to grab onto a ship’s hull.

She was beginning to wonder if the worksuit’s two weeks of life support wasn’t going to be its most important feature.

“Try again,” shouted the commander.

Osadar winced, chinning down her speaker’s volume. Carefully, she gave a bit of thrust, slightly changing their flight pattern. The two men tethered to her upset the computations. She readjusted and squeezed out a bit more hydrogen. White particles sprayed out of her thrusters. She wasn’t rated pilot first class for nothing.

“Is this sabotage?” asked the commander.

“What else could it be?” Osadar asked.

“But how?”

“Or maybe even why?” asked Osadar.

“What?”

“Why bother? All we’re doing is getting water for Mars. At least I think that’s what Dominie Banbury contracted for.”

“Maybe someone wants IHC to renege on its contract,” the commander said.

“No,” said Technician Geller, “this is inside work. I bet this is part of a takeover.”

“Who in the Cartel has the muscle to take on Dominie Banbury?” the commander asked.

“Dominie Yamato—”

“Knows better than to try any of his ninja tricks on Dominie Banbury’s projects,” the commander growled.

“This does have the feel of something the ninjas would try,” Osadar said. During her first weeks of training, they’d pumped her full of Cartel history.

“That’s what I’m saying,” said Technician Geller.

“Nonsense,” said the commander. “The Cartel Dominies aren’t fools. To outbid or try a takeover now would be lunacy. There’s too much money to be made.”

Osadar knew the truth of that. Ever since the Social Unity Government had broken apart in civil war there had been bonanzas of credits to be made supplying both sides. She’d heard the Highborn were winning. Maybe the Highborn didn’t want Mars to feed its Atmospheric Converters with trillions of tons of comet-water. For that matter, maybe the Social Unitarians wanted to nix the deal, too. She shrugged. She had no idea what either side really wanted. Thinking about military and political matters only reminded her of all the dead friends she’d lost in the Second Battle of Deep Mars Orbit. And that was something she avoided as much as possible.

What was that buzzing? She checked her headphones, raised gain. The buzzing increased. She lowered gain. Then she raised her eyebrows and turned back toward the commander. He waved frantically and touched his helmet. She waved a waldo arm to show she understood.

Someone jammed communications.

Now what?

Now keep going, she realized, as she stared at the millions of stars around her. In the loneliness of space you don’t stop and conjugate, you think and DO before your air runs out. Whomever their enemy was—and this was feeling more and more like creepy ninja work—the enemy knew they were out here. So she had to get to the laser-link and inform IHC what was going on. But if Dominie Yamato was behind this… a cold prickly feeling gnawed her guts. Once she sent the message, well, in her worksuit she would accelerate toward the nearest IHC station and request a pick up from a Dominie Banbury crew. Two weeks of life support would be plenty of time for someone to come and get her. But what about the commander and Technician Geller?

Maybe… she licked her lips. Maybe she could convince them to inject themselves with Suspend. Sure, that was a long shot. But they couldn’t go back into IH-49 and survive.

Suspend slowed biological functions. It could keep a badly injured person alive longer. If injected into a dying person, it retarded cell death, but only if injected before the heart stopped. That could be critical these days. There was resurrection-after-death with Suspend. Brain thieves used it all the time, supplying black-market chop shops with the needed brain tissue to construct bio-computers.

Osadar tried to calm her jack-hammering heart, but the need for speed compelled her to squeeze more thrust. She held onto the trigger too long. They accelerated away from the hull. She readjusted. Thrust again. They went toward the hull too fast.

“Easy, Osa,” she whispered. She concentrated, trying not to listen to the heavy breathing in her ears. Carefully, she squeezed another burst, braking.

She looked back. The commander and Technician Geller gained on her. The tether line was flexible and just because she slowed, didn’t mean they did. The commander gathered the extra line, looping it. Good. Smart. He was thinking. But then he was a crusty old space dog. He probably had a plan, would tell her things she should have thought of. Twinkling exhaust sprayed out of Geller’s pack. He braked and kept the tether between him and the commander taut.

Osadar shivered. She raised the worksuit temperature. In another few seconds, the commander grabbed her. She had greater bulk in her zero-G worksuit. Still, the shock of the collision jolted her. He clanked his helmet against hers.

“Osadar, can you hear me?”

His voice sounded small and far away, and it was the most glorious sound she’d ever heard. Leave it to the commander to realize they could still talk.

“I can hear you.”

He patted her shoulder, then maneuvered so they saw eye to eye. His skin looked pale, and his fear added to hers. She almost asked him if he had any Suspend. Of course, he did, but then he’d have to ask her why she asked. As he attached his vacc-suit to her, she eyed the nearing beacon. Soon they would know the worst. She turned to Technician Geller—

Something caught her eye, something dark and fast, hard to see. Geller must’ve seen it too. Hydrogen spray billowed out of his tanks. It was too late. He jerked sharply at the waist. Mist blew out of his vacc-suit, and then blood and the gory innards of what had once been Technician Geller. The vacuum of space was ruthless.

Osadar shuddered in terror.

With a jerk, the commander unhooked Geller’s line from him. Then he clanked his helmet against hers.

“To the right, by the exhaust port.”

Osadar scanned the area. She was going to be sick. Then her eyes narrowed as something moved. She shrieked.

A man with a skintight, almost rubber suit leaped in their direction, even though he had to be over three thousand meters away. He sailed for them, gaining fast.

“Hang on!” she screamed at the commander.

She squeezed thrust in controlled bursts when what she really wanted was to hold the trigger down and blast off. But she was too much a pilot for that; too trained in ways she couldn’t change. The man cradled something in his arms that looked like a spear gun. He aimed it at them.

Osadar swung the waldo laser around. It was meant for repair work, but in a fix could double as a close-quarters weapon.

“You think he’s a robot?” the commander asked.

“He doesn’t look like a bot.”

“Not even a Highborn is powerful enough to accelerate that fast in a single bound.”

Osadar should have thought of that. The man came on fast nonetheless, his weapon tracking them. The tip of the “spear” was a half-moon blade, as if it was meant to rip open spacesuits and let vacuum do the dirty work.

Osadar understood none of this as she moaned dreadfully. Leaping men with spear guns didn’t make any kind of sense in space. He would pass harmlessly underneath them by fifty meters—she’d easily maneuvered out of his flight path. She rotated her zero-G suit to keep the commander away from the gun. Her worksuit couldn’t be breached by something as primitive as a spring-driven spear.

The man—if man he was—removed the half-moon crescent blade and attached what looked like an adhesive pad. He aimed and fired, and a filament line trailed the pad. It attached to the foot of her suit. He pressed a stud and reeled himself toward them.

Osadar shrieked again and swung the laser arm. It couldn’t reach the spidery line! Her stomach went hollow as she readjusted the laser, aiming it at… what was he?

Through his faceplate, he looked like a robot with shiny flesh, with fake human eyes. He neither smiled nor grinned nor scowled nor frowned. He watched them impassively as he approached, the way a lizard might watch as it sunned itself on a rock.

Osadar clenched her teeth and turned on the laser. It harmlessly beamed past him. For with his arms alone, on the rifle that reeled him in, he swung his body forward, out of the way of the laser, and let go. He propelled himself through space. He wore no security line or any pack other than a slim breathing tank. If he missed them, he’d sail off into space. The risk—no spacer could do that so effortlessly and without a change of expression.

With a pry bar that he’d taken off her suit, the commander jabbed at the man’s faceplate. Their enemy latched onto the bar and pulled himself upon the commander. He slid something thin and bright into the commander’s suit.

Osadar twisted within her rigid cylinder to see what was happening. The commander’s face grew slack. His eyes fluttered.

Grimly, she swung the work-laser.

The man pulled another of his uncanny maneuvers, and sailed upside down over the laser-arm and above her helmet. She craned her neck to look up at him. His fingers were long and spider-like. He reached out. She flinched away from his fingers. Then she grinned tightly. His would be an effort in futility to try to latch onto her bubble helmet. Then, to her horror, small adhesive pads on his fingertips pressed onto her helmet top. With a jerk, it stopped his flight. Gracefully, like a perfect killer, he brought himself parallel with her as if they were lovers. He stared at her. There was no gloating or triumph, no ‘Did you see that?’ in his eyes. He stared impassively. Anyone but this obvious non-human would have crinkled up the corners of his lips. She’d never see such flawless, uncanny, zero-G maneuvering, and she’d been around plenty of hardened space-hounds.

Although vomit burned the back of her throat, although she knew it wouldn’t matter, she brought up a waldo clamp to try to crush him. It wasn’t in her to go down without a fight.

He shoved a gleaming steel needle into her elbow. She yelled. Then a great weariness settled over her. Why, she wondered. Why go to so much trouble when a simple plasma rifle could’ve taken care of everything? It didn’t make any kind of sense.

5.

Like some obscene, overgrown monkey, Toll Seven rode the zero-G worksuit, braking with particles of hydrogen spray as he brought both captives to his ultra stealth pod. The vessel was as black as night and spherical, and only a little larger than an old-style garbage Dumpster of the Twentieth Century. The ceramic hull gave the lowest sensor signature of any vessel in human space, and it was crammed with the latest Onoshi Electronic Counter-Measure equipment and decoys.

He floated them into the cargo bay. The Suspend would keep them in the suits, so he simply latched them to a rack and then went back for the others in the ship.

An hour later, he closed the cargo bay. Except for the slain security officer and the technician he’d let vacuum explode, all of IH-49’s crew lay like wood in his ship. He entered his command module and set course for home. He timed his burst with the first long burn of IH-49’s famed ion engines. The ice hauler would make the trip to the Oort Cloud, but without any crew.

Toll Seven shut off his engine. He would coast for a week. He shut down contemplation mode and instantly entered deep sleep.

6.

Much of Greater Sydney burned out of control. The rest was shambles. Millions wandered the tunnels and ruined levels. Millions more hovered on the brink of dehydration, ready to join the hundreds of thousands of dead. To rebuild Sydney would take months. The Highborn presently fought a cunning campaign to save what they had.

First, they accessed the city’s backup computers. Then they declared a general amnesty. Surviving police and SU bureaucrats could keep their old jobs, provided they came to Highborn Mobile HQ in the next two days and declared themselves. Most did, thankfully. It was so much easier to plug trained personnel back into their old jobs than to train someone else who had no idea how to lead. The returning police officers were immediately put in charge of the clean-up crews: which consisted of any able-bodied person healthy enough to work. The former ward, block and hall leaders found themselves given a day’s stiff indoctrination, and then set in charge of fabrication and housing. Superintendents and all former SU secretaries ran the new government under Highborn dictates. “Excellence brings rewards,” was the first basic slogan, “Life goes on,” the second.

The Highborn divided Sydney’s populace into three categories. Category one, the highest ranked, was all Free Earth Corps (FEC) volunteers, munitions workers and deep-core personnel. Category two was police, housing, clean up and transport. Category three was everyone else. Rations and chits were given accordingly.

After several days, a semblance of order settled over Greater Sydney. That’s when Marten slipped out of the temporary FEC barracks. It happened after the Highborn took Ah Chen. They’d found out she was deep-core. The new rulers only had a few of those and they desperately needed to keep the deep-core mine running.

“You’ll be shot,” said Stick, after Marten told them he was leaving.

“I’ve got to find her,” Marten said.

“Why?” asked Turbo.

“They didn’t ask her if she wanted to go,” Marten said angrily. “They just took her.”

“So?” asked Turbo. “What can you do about it?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out,” Marten said.

Omi held out his hand. “Luck.”

Marten solemnly shook the ex-gunman’s hand. After that, Stick and Turbo shook his hand.

“Stay alive,” said Stick.

Marten nodded, and then he turned and walked out of the barracks. It had been as easy as that. The Highborn had posted all the names of the FEC volunteers. They had warned the volunteers that if any of them were caught outside the barracks they would be shot. But Marten had a plan. It was tested two hours later when a police sweep caught him in the middle of a rubble-strewn street, four levels down from the barracks.

“Name?” growled a heavyset, sweating cop. He had a shock rod on his belt, but no stunner or needler. Those had been deposited in Highborn vaults. Two other cops waited behind the older, bald man. They had large plastic shields, batons and wore riot helmets and grim scowls. Dust and sweat slicked their faces. Their uniforms smelled like smoke.

Marten hesitated.

“Give me your name,” repeated the heavyset cop as he wiped his sleeve across his forehead. The main air-conditioners worked at ten percent power. From level ten down, the air was stale and much too warm.

“I’m in maintenance,” Marten said, and he tried to stroll away.

The two cops with the plastic shields stepped in his path, one of them shoving him back.

The sweating, heavyset cop scowled and took out a rag to mop his face. “Are you a troublemaker?”

Marten shook his head.

“Then give us your name,” said the cop who’d pushed him with his shield.

Hoping this worked—it had better—Marten gave then a fictitious name, from one of his mother’s forged passports from the Sun-Works Factory. The Highborn had downloaded Sydney’s computers and those computers had been linked throughout the Inner Planets.

The older, sweating cop stuffed his rag in his back pocket and unhooked a hand computer, punching the fictitious name into the database. He squinted at Marten as it processed.

Realizing suddenly that this might not work, Marten sidled near the cop who had pushed him. His heart beat faster as he tensed.

The unit beeped and the sweating cop examined it. “This is odd. It says you work in food processing, not maintenance.”

Marten went limp. The old names still held.

The other cop said, “You’re a liar. They should send you to the slime pits for that.”

“Quiet!” snapped the heavy, sweating cop. “That’s… that’s old-style talk.”

The other cop suddenly looked scared.

The heavier cop faced Marten. “Maybe later they’ll put you in maintenance. For now head east two blocks until you reach Work Gang Twenty-seven. Tell the foreman Sergeant Jones sent you. And don’t skip out, boy. Otherwise it’s the firing squad for you.”

Marten walked briskly east. But once out of their sight, he turned north. If he were picked up again, he’d have to use a different forged name.

Yet for all his vigilance, another police sweep picked him up two levels down. He used another fake name—he only had two more—and this time couldn’t get out of clean up. So for the next few hours he loaded broken concrete and plasteel onto a lifter. It was hard, sweaty work, done under the watchful eye of a former block leader. At the end of the shift, they received a ration of water and a crust of algae bread.

Marten sat with a group of other tired men. They either sprawled on the ground or sat on broken concrete blocks, guzzling the water and chewing the week-old bread.

“Back to work!” said the foreman, clapping his hands to show that he wanted them to move quickly.

Marten rose. Nothing had changed. These men were still ready to bleat to whoever was in charge. The only ones who seemed willing to fight… were the slum dwellers, he realized in surprise. Maybe he would be better off rejoining Turbo, Stick and Omi.

No. He wanted to see Ah Chen again and hunt for Molly. So he worked along the fringe of the group, and then a little farther away yet. The former block leader glared at him, his moist eyes shining. Then the foreman stamped elsewhere. Marten edged a little farther from that spot, checked and saw that no one watched. He strode away briskly.

“Halt!” shouted a cop, who stepped from behind a standing half wall.

Marten broke into a sprint.

“Stop!” roared the cop, and others gave chase.

Marten found it difficult to breathe in the stale, hot air. He was glad the police didn’t have any stunners or needlers.

Gasping, he stopped a level later, his throat and chest aching because of the polluted air. How in the world was he going to find Ah Chen or Molly like this?

7.

Marten thought up a strategy thirty minutes later. It happened as he stumbled upon a snoozing cop. Marten had slunk careful through a rubble-strewn street, and ducked behind a building when he heard voices. Then he heard snoring, and to his amazement, he saw an overweight old man sleeping on a cot. It was hot, and the old man had taken off his police shirt, helmet and heavy utility belt. Inspired, Marten took the three items, hurried away and a few blocks later donned the old man’s garments.

He tested his plan several blocks later. A squad of three police doing a routine sweep marched toward him. With his helmet on, dark visor lowered, and with his hand on the shock baton swinging at his belt, Marten swaggered toward them. It brought back haunting memories of how his father had once tricked Sun-Works personnel.

“You!” he bellowed. “Report!”

The three men stiffened to attention.

“I said report!” Marten shouted in his best imitation police voice.

“We’ve rounded up four stragglers, sir,” said the sergeant.

“Just four?” Marten asked angrily. “This area crawls with refugees. Find them. Or soon you’ll be busting rubble.”

They hurried off. With his hands on his hips, Marten watched them go. When they were out of sight, he sighed with pent-up fear and went his own way. Just like in the old days on the Sun-Works Factory circling Mercury, the very audacity of the ploy had protected him. No one would dare impersonate a police inspector; at least no one raised on Social Unity credos.

He reached the Deep-Core Station that he’d entered what seemed a lifetime ago, and he waited until he saw a brown-uniformed deep-core worker strolling home. The man looked young and wore shiny black boots. He smoked the stimstick that seemed habitual with deep-core workers and had an arrogant way of holding his shoulders. Marten trailed him, waiting until no one else was in sight. Then he strode quickly, catching the man unawares.

“You!” Marten said, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him around.

The man glowered. “Don’t you know who I am? Take your grubby hands off me this instant.”

Marten drew the shock rod and touched the man’s neck.

With a scream, the deep-core worker fell to the ground, twitching.

Marten felt sorry for him but was certain this was the only way he could gain the needed information. He kicked the deep-core worker in the side, but not too hard.

“You’re a straggler!” Marten shouted.

“No!” howled the man.

“Liar,” Marten shouted, kicking him again.

The worker covered up. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

Marten hauled him to his feet, the shock rod poised for a beating.

“I’m a Deep-Core Worker,” the man wailed.

“Prove it.”

The man dug a wallet from his pants pocket.

“Bah,” Marten said, knocking it out of the man’s hands. “Fake IDs don’t interest me.”

The man’s eyes boggled. “No one fakes Deep-Core IDs.”

“Who is Ah Chen?” Marten barked.

“What?” the man asked, bewildered.

“So you don’t know.”

“Wait. Yes, yes, I know Ah Chen. S-She’s Deep-Core.”

Marten barked harsh laughter.

“She’s a Third Grade Engineer. They sent her down this morning.”

“Down?”

“To the deep station.”

Marten’s stomach knotted. “For how long is she down?”

“Why do you want to know that?” asked the man, suddenly suspicious.

Marten slapped him across the face instead of using the shock rod again. “You’re a straggler.”

“She’s down permanently, or until they train her replacement. Please, you’ve got to believe me.”

A cold sinking feeling filled Marten. Ah Chen had told him that Major Orlov had slain almost all the deep-core personnel in Sydney. The Highborn would dearly need the deep-core running if Sydney and the outlying areas were to have power. She’d feared the Highborn would take her and send her down-station for a long time, and she’d been right. There was nothing Marten could do for her now.

Marten shoved the man away. “Run.”

“What?” asked the bewildered man.

“Run!” roared Marten, raising the baton as if to swing.

The man took off running, slipping and stumbling until he ran out of sight.

Disgusted with his methods and depressed that Ah Chen was gone from him for a very long time, Marten stalked off in the opposite direction. How long could he keep on running and pretending? Maybe long enough to find Molly, he decided.

8.

Transcript #30,512 Highborn Archives: of an exchange of notes between Paenus, Inspector General, Earth, and Cassius, Grand Admiral of Highborn. Dates: February 1 to February 7, 2350.

February 1

To Paenus:

Disaster was barely averted in Sydney. A court of Inquiry thus convenes on the Twenty-fourth concerning it and other anomalies regarding the Australian Campaign. Whether you are in the dock or on the bench remains to be seen.

Luckily, for you, the suicide squadrons were able to breach stubborn city strongholds. Reports indicate that cortex-bomb-laden Earth troops preformed best in this regard. Surprisingly, renegade police personnel showed an avid bloodthirstiness when pitched against Social Unity security forces. Because of these specialist troops, Highborn casualties remained within the accepted limits during the underground city fighting. I am recommending a hundred and fifty percent increase in the number of suicide troops.

That is, however, the only bright spot regarding your premen troops. The Hawk Teams and panzer crews—I wish to remind the Inspector General of staking his reputation upon them if they were given the right training. The Hawk Teams and panzer crews have failed miserably. They lacked adequate zeal and cunning, while the casualties among the Hawk Teams were simply staggering. The panzer crews were worse: timid in the attack and cowardly during exploitation maneuvers. Because of this, Highborn casualties exceeded the acceptable limits during the first half of the Australian campaign.

I await your explanations and your plans in order to avoid this in the future, provided you have one, my dear Paenus.

February 3

To Cassius:

Grand Admiral, please forgive my delay in answering. My training personnel are strained to the limit and I am overloaded. We badly need more Highborn drill lieutenants and captains. As it is, I have been forced to take veteran Earth troops off line to use as instructors. Their veteran status is dubious at best, as you indicated in your letter. Earthlings lack fiber and fighting ferocity—I had simply not realized the extent of their non-Highborn qualities. To instill this into them is daunting in the extreme.

One might as well take sheep and teach them to be wolves. The best we can do is to find the rams among them. Unfortunately, we must comb through thousands in order to find one who has the fire. As might be expected, the former policemen have more fire than the rank and file Social Unitarians.

Grand Admiral, despite these grave flaws, I believe the Hawk and panzer teams will improve from campaign to campaign. The very nature of their specialty takes longer to gain mastery than suicide troops. Suicide troops are not so much rigorously trained as highly motivated to make frontal charges. My records indicate that the best suicide troop results came after double doses of Shaker were force-injected. Some suggest we inject Shaker into all our troops. I highly recommend AGAINST this. Hawk and panzer personnel are seldom composed of former policemen, and I believe would become listless and inclined to apathy if faced with forced injections. The Hawk Team and panzer crews wish to live through the conflict and take up civilian occupations afterward.

Rather than point fingers, Grand Admiral, I suggest we thank the Fates that the worst disasters were avoided and that we now take extreme measures to ensure they never occur again.

February 3

To Paenus:

Request for extra Highborn denied.

The Inspector General surely realizes that all troops are readying for the next campaign. Social Unity is on the run. We must maintain pressure. Nor do I accept your excuses for listless Hawk and panzer teams. What you’ve really said is that they are not properly motivated. Motivate them, my dear Paenus, and train them to fight!

February 4

To Cassius:

I will comply as best I can, Grand Admiral. But the number of recruits has swamped my resources. I suggest we make thorough tests for aggressiveness and combat ability, skimming the cream, so to speak, and train the remainder as fire fighters and other emergency personnel.

February 5

To Paenus:

I simply don’t understand you sometimes. War on this scale devours vast amounts of troops. Highborn casualties must remain within the accepted limits or we will lose. Anything else is superfluous. As it is impossible to advance without sustaining heavy losses, we must continue to absorb those losses among our Earth troops. Think of them as fodder, if it will clarify their true function.

If you lack enough training personnel, I suggest you throw the recruits into battle and let the war train them.

Yes, many units will break under the pressure, and yes, they will sustain excessive casualties. So you must rush them through basic training, discover the fighters and make them corporals and sergeants. The units that survive and perform above average will then be pulled out and retrained as Hawk and panzer troops. Use this promise of renewed training as a reward.

Please note the attached New Free Earth Corps unit configuration schedule. High Command has agreed that we must use this influx of volunteers to push Social Unity. Train them to fire their weapons, the corporals and sergeants to attack. We must maintain pressure. First grade levies, as they are now officially termed, can sustain one hundred percent casualties as long as they inflict harm upon the enemy.

February 6

To Cassius:

I hear and obey, and may I add, Grand Admiral, that as always your advice is flawless.

I wish to add a note of caution, however. One hundred percent casualties, over time, will undoubtedly cause a decrease in Earth volunteers. I understand the logic of mass wave assaults with expendable troops, behind which our men can maneuver. But surely, Grand Admiral, we must consider what effect this will have later in the War for Earth.

February 7

To Paenus:

Just train your volunteers into fighting troops, Inspector General. That’s all I ask.

9.

Marten hit upon the daring idea because he couldn’t think of anything else that would give him a reasonable chance of quick success. So the next time he came upon a police sweep, he halted them and snatched the hand computer from the sergeant. Then he punched in Molly Tan’s name. A few seconds scan and it gave her occupation as secretary to Highborn Government. Surprised, Marten noted her work place. It was very near the FEC barracks. How had Molly been able to enter government work? She hadn’t been a hall, block or ward leader, or…

A troubled feeling spread in Marten’s stomach.

“What’s wrong?” asked the police sergeant. He was the one Marten had taken the hand monitor from.

“What? Oh.” Marten thrust the computer back. “I must report to Highborn HQ.”

That shook the three policemen, who had turned suspicious. They hurried from the man that dared go to the bastion of Highborn power.

Marten made his way up the various levels, wondering what he would do if Molly were living with Quirn. That was the only possible explanation for Molly getting a secretary’s job in the new Highborn government. As he walked, he thought about all the times they’d enjoyed together, how he’d wanted to marry her. He’d never taken her to bed. In retrospect he wondered if that had been a mistake. He kept telling himself that it was impossible she’d shacked up with Quirn. Blake would have brayed at him, he knew. Good old Blake the disembodied brain. He wondered if Tunnel Crawler Six was still operational. Blake had always told him, “Women follow the power, Marten.”

In his daze and without being accosted, Marten made it near the surface levels. The data had said Government House Three. He lowered his helmet’s dark visor, drew the shock baton and patrolled in front of the government house. He periodically spoke into his sleeve as if making reports and he watched the arrogant, giant Highborn enter and leave the pseudo-marble building. Tanks were parked in front. Fortunately, the Highborn Military Police ignored him as beneath their notice. They tramped around in their bulky powered armor, immune to everyone.

What kind of future did he have under the Highborn?

Marten shrugged, and prowled. Two hours later, he saw Quirn. The former hall leader still wore a military cap, but he’d shed his block leader cape. He wore a black uniform and limped with his old arrogance. On his arm chatted Molly, just as she used to chat with him as they’d ridden the conveyers. She wore a business suit and a military style cap similar to Quirn’s.

Marten stared, transfixed as they strolled near. He heard Molly say, “And then I told him, ‘but we must have the pits processing by nine tomorrow.’”

“Maybe they’ll send criminals to work the pits,” said Quirn.

“Quirn,” chided Molly, “that’s careless talk.”

“Yes, you’re right.” Quirn gave her a quick kiss on the lips. Then he looked up to see a black-visored policeman staring at him.

The former hall leader stopped. Molly did too, also looking up.

“Trouble, officer?” asked Quirn.

Marten simply stared at him, his fingers squeezing his shock rod so hard that his hand hurt. He wanted to beat Quirn to death. Then, minutely, he shifted his gaze to Molly.

“Do I know you?” asked Molly.

Marten had no idea what to say. He slowly shook his head.

“You seem familiar,” she said.

“Humph!” said Quirn. “Come, Molly, we don’t want to be late for tonight’s meeting.”

Molly agreed, and they moved on, although Molly looked back once with a worried frown.

Marten wanted to howl, to beat his head against a wall. Molly… despair filled him. How could she? Marten finally swallowed the lump out of his throat. What was left? Nothing in Greater Sydney. He stood there for five minutes, rooted. Then he turned abruptly and headed for the FEC barracks. He was going to slip back among his friends.

10.

In the morning, training began. Marten viewed the training as the descent of man, even though Highborn theories proved antithetical to Social Unity. Marten’s awareness of the change of basic assumptions didn’t come right away. First, the volunteers from Greater Sydney took a medical examination. Marten endured the probes and pinches, but he hated it.

He donned his clothes afterward and exited through the door the doctor told him. Marten walked down a hall and entered a small room. A huge, uniformed Highborn, an angry-looking giant without any front teeth, scowled down at him. Like all their kind, this man radiated intensity and a heightened vitality. He seemed an auto-trash compacter, eager to crush and destroy. This close to him and in such tight confines, Marten grew tense and worried.

“You believe yourself capable of combat?” the Highborn rapped out angrily.

Marten nodded.

“Speak up, man! Don’t cower!”

“Yes,” Marten growled.

The Highborn sneered. And he rapid-fired a bewildering set of questions, edging closer the entire time.

After the first few questions, Marten refused to be drawn into a debate. He answered as best he could, and he tried to ignore the superior attitude and the too-close proximity. The giant made it difficult. He was towering, and he was probably three times Marten’s weight and was undoubtedly four or five times as strong. His uniform, some type of synthetic leather, crinkled at his movements and showed his lethal muscularity. The snow-white skin seemed much too bright, the face formed of sharp angles and rigid planes. Decidedly inhuman, Marten thought to himself. He didn’t like the arrogance. It was more than just the giant’s position and power. It reminded him of Major Orlov. The Highborn exuded superiority, as if he, Marten, were simple and cowardly. Despite his best resolve, Marten found himself getting angry at the man’s attitude. The Highborn giant loomed closer now and practically yelled down at him.

“No, no!” the Highborn shouted. “Wrong!” And he slapped Marten across the face.

Marten reacted before he could check himself. He lunged at the giant. Then he found himself grabbed by the arm, flipped and slammed onto the floor, hard. It knocked the wind out of him. As Marten struggled to rise, the Highborn picked a marker off the table, held Marten’s right hand firmly and stamped the back of his hand. Then the giant picked him up, set him on his feet and propelled him stumbling out of the room and into a new corridor.

The door slammed behind him as Marten’s lungs unlocked. He blinked in bewilderment and thought about going back. Then he heard the Highborn holler a question at what sounded like the next recruit. What had just happened? Marten checked the back of his hand. A large number 2 had been stamped there. He touched it.

“Move along,” a voice barked through a hidden loudspeaker.

Marten scowled, but he followed the arrows painted on the floor. He came to a holding area, looked for and found Omi, Stick and Turbo. Before they could say much, Highborn herded them toward a parking lot filled with sealed vans. They were hustled onto the vans according to familiarity. Thus, Marten found himself packed with a hundred odd slum dwellers. But not just any slum dwellers, but the gang-members that lived by the fist, blade and gun. Stick and Turbo greeted several old friends. Two drug-running gunmen shook Omi’s hand.

Aboard the bus, most of the talk was about the numbers on the back of their right hand. Turbo wore a four. Stick a three. Omi also had a two. They couldn’t see anyone with a one. Of fives, sixes and sevens, well, that’s what the majority wore.

“What’s it mean?” Turbo said, as he rested his head along the side of the van.

The huge vehicle hummed smoothly. The benches on the sides and down the middle were packed with gang members. Each wore the clothes he’d joined with and nothing else, no suitcases, no personal items, nothing.

“Yeah,” Stick was saying, “is it better to have a low number or a high one?”

“Marten and I have twos,” said Omi.

“So?”

The bullet-headed Korean regarded his hand. At lot of other people were doing the same things. So far, no one had been able to rub out the number, even though many spat on the back of their hand and scrubbed vigorously.

“It’s under the skin,” growled Marten, who hated the tattoo.

“Seems like most people have higher numbers,” Stick said. He’d scanned those around him and across the narrow aisle at those in the middle.

Turbo grunted and rubbed his cheek. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but that guy sure clocked me a good one.”

“He hit you too?” asked Stick in surprise.

That’s when they discovered they’d all been face-slapped.

“Do you think that has anything to do with our number?” Marten asked, wondering if the Highborn’s anger hadn’t been at him but merely routine. Had it been a test?

Omi arched his eyebrows. “What did you do after he hit you?” he asked Marten.

“Attacked the bastard.”

“You’re kidding,” said Turbo. “He was huge.”

Marten shrugged. He was still a bit bemused by what he’d done. “I didn’t really think about it. I just found myself lunging at him.”

“Not me,” said Stick. “I figured he was just waiting for me to do something stupid so he could beat me to death. I figured he was testing for obedience, whether I could take orders I didn’t like.”

“So what did you do?” Turbo asked.

“Hey, what could I do? The guy towered over me, and he was deciding my future, right? I told him give me my knife to even the odds and let’s try that again.”

“What did he say to that?” asked Turbo.

“Nothing. He just grabbed my hand and stamped a three on it.”

“Huh.”

“What did you do?” Marten asked the lanky junkie.

“I told him that was a lousy thing to do. Here they wanted me to fight for them and first thing they did was abuse me. How did he expect me to go all out for them if that’s what they were gonna do?”

“And he stamped your hand with a four?”

“Sure did,” Turbo said, restudying the big number four on the back of his hand.

“Omi?” asked Stick.

“I tried a chop at this neck.” Omi asked Marten, “What did he do when you attacked him?”

“He flipped me onto my back.”

The ex-gunman nodded sagely.

“He do the same thing to you?” Turbo asked.

Ignoring the question, Omi regarded his tattoo. He looked up. “It would be interesting to know what a number one did.”

“If there is such a number,” Marten said.

Stick scanned the crowd. “Might be dangerous to try to find out.”

“How come?” Marten asked.

“Couple different gangs in here,” said Stick. “Kwon’s Crew is over there. And I see Slicks and Ball Busters.”

“Yeah,” said Turbo, jutting his chin toward the front, “and over there is Kang of the Red Blades.”

Marten saw a massive Mongol with black tattoos on his arms. No one sat too close to him. He had flat, evil-looking features, with eyes almost slit shut.

Omi stood and started walking there.

“Idiot!” hissed Stick. “Come back before you start a rumble.”

Omi ignored the advice.

“Them gunmen are all alike,” Turbo whispered to Marten. “They think they can do whatever they want.”

They watched Omi wade past the other gang members, who glowered uneasily. Omi ignored them, moving slowly and deliberately toward Kang of the Red Blades. When he reached the forward area, Omi bowed his head. Massive Kang simply stared at him with his almost closed eyes. His flat, blank-looking face was unreadable. Omi showed him his hand, and then he bowed again and seemed to ask a question. Everyone in the van watched what Kang would do, some in anticipation. Finally, the huge killer showed Omi his hand. Omi bowed his head again and turned. A sigh, a release of tension, drained from everyone. Soon Omi took his place back between Marten and Turbo.

“Well?” whispered Turbo. “What was his number?”

“One.”

“What he do when slapped?” asked Stick.

“He said he waited. And when the Highborn reached for his stamp he slapped him across the face.”

“You’re kidding?” Stick said in awe. “Then what happened?”

“Then Kang said the Highborn set down the stamp he’d picked up and chose another one, the one.”

“Did the Highborn flip him?” asked Stick.

“I didn’t ask.”

“Yeah,” Turbo said, “that was probably smart.”

Marten thought about the numbers and why they’d been given different ones. He spoke to several other men sitting nearby. They had sixs and sevens. He found they hadn’t done much of anything when slapped. What were they going to do to a killer giant anyway? Marten had agreed. A two, was that bad or good? He glanced at the huge, flat-faced Mongol Kang who held court in his part of the van. A two was almost a one. So the Highborn thought he was a lot more like a vicious gang leader than the more harmless sixes and sevens. He wasn’t sure he liked the implications.

After several hours, the smooth van came to a halt. The doors swung open and two towering Highborn in powered battle armor gestured for them to hurry out. They did, forming two long lines around a parade ground as more vans disgorged their occupants. All of the recruits were Sydney slum-dwellers.

They were in the desert, several low-built concrete buildings around them. Barracks, no doubt. In all directions stretched a red sand desert. Here and there, gusts of wind stirred up sand. Marten noticed most of the recruits squinted at the harsh overhead sun just as he did. Most of them had probably never been in sunlight before. It was hot—nothing like being underground in carefully selected temperatures. Sweat prickled Marten’s underarms.

“This is great,” Turbo whispered, who tugged at an already damp collar.

With servos whining, the two Highborn clanked to the center of the parade ground as the convoy of empty vans roared away along the single ribbon of road. Marten figured that maybe six hundred other men stood under the sweltering sun. A squad of beefy Earth soldiers in combat vests and armed with machineguns jogged out of the nearest building onto the edge of the field.

“Regular men,” whispered Turbo. All around the field slum-dwellers whispered likewise.

“Silence!”

Everyone fell silent. One of the Highborn had spoken.

Finally, a huge man strode out of barracks. He had to be at least seven feet tall. He was shorter than the Highborn and not quite as muscled. He wore a black cap, uniform and combat boots, with a knife and pistol on a heavy belt. His face was hawkish, with a long, knife-like nose. He didn’t really walk, Marten decided, but strutted, knowing that he was putting on a show. There was something odd about his features; something twisted, out of kilter. Maybe it was his eyes, too focused, or the little superior grin that kept twitching into place.

He took his place in front of the squad of armed Earthlings. He clasped his hands behind his back and scanned the slum dwellers. There was some of that strange vitality to him that all Highborn seemed to have. Yet….

“Greetings, premen. I’m Captain Sigmir of Training Camp Ninety-three C. I will drill you into competent combat soldiers within six weeks or I’ll see you dead. On the seventh week, you will undoubtedly enter combat of the most ruthless sort. Whether I learn to like you or not is meaningless. You are in an army run by Highborn. I wish therefore to reassure you about nothing. What I will say now is perhaps the most important aspect of Highborn philosophy that you will ever learn,” he said, pausing to look at them all. “Remember this: Excellence brings rewards.”

Captain Sigmir paused as he inspected the recruits.

Marten noticed that twitching smile again, and the almost hungry way Captain Sigmir watched them. There was something strange going on here.

“Let me say again,” said Captain Sigmir: “Excellence brings rewards. In terms of your enlistment, the ability and willingness to kill the enemy is what counts. Little else matters. Neither the….” He seemed to choose his words with care. “Neither the ‘end product’ Highborn nor I care about your opinions. Think what you like, as long as you kill the enemy. As long as you are proficient at arms, as long as you obey orders on the instant, yes, then you may say or think what you like. Oh, but if you are not excellent, if you are not proficient at arms…”

Captain Sigmir shook his head. Then he removed his cap. He was bald, and an ugly, twisted red scar slashed across his upper forehead. He touched it.

“You notice this, I’m sure. I received it in combat. It killed me.” He laughed a little too shrilly as they stared and gaped. “Yes, yes, I assure you I died. Enemy shrapnel tore through my helmet and into my brain. Fortunately, I didn’t die on the instant. A fellow officer shot me full of Suspend. I’m sure you’ve heard how the Highborn are very careful to….” He laughed in that weird way again. “They call it revive, but really it’s resurrection from the dead. They fixed my brain as best as possible, restarted my body and—” He leered at them, his grin transfixed. “Here I am, alive again so I may fight again and possibly die again. My reflexes and thinking aren’t quite what they used to be, but who am I to complain? I assure you I’m not that sort of ingrate. Yes, I can still train. Thus, I am proficient at something. Thus, the superiors still give me rank as well as life. You too can gain rank by excellence. Now, an example is in order.”

Captain Sigmir put the cap back on and began to strut down the line of recruits. Most averted their gaze. A few dared look into his strange eyes, Marten being one of them. One fellow shivered in dreadful fear. The captain stopped in front of him.

“Show me your hand,” the captain said softly.

Trembling, the lad did. He was skinny and shallow-faced, with rounded shoulders.

“A nine,” said the captain. He tugged the lad with him into the center of the parade ground. Every eye was riveted upon them. The two armored Highborn clanked to the opposite end of the field as the squad of normal soldiers.

Captain Sigmir let go of the lad’s hand and took several steps away from him. “What is your name?”

“Logan,” whispered the lad.

“Say it louder!”

“L-Logan.”

Captain Sigmir nodded as he scanned the throng around him. The twitchy smile was now firmly in place. “Logan, do you know how to fight?”

The lad looked up at that. He was red-faced and obviously scared. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Good. I want you to defend yourself.”

“What?”

Captain Sigmir tossed his hat aside and unbuckled his belt, dropping his pistol and knife. “I said defend yourself.” He stepped toward the boy, towering over him.

Logan backed up, confused and more scared than ever, although he lifted his fists. Against the huge captain, it was a pitiful gesture.

“In this army, Logan, if you can’t fight then you’re worth nothing at all.”

Logan shook his head.

The captain shouted and kicked. His booted foot swept through Logan’s two fists to strike the center of his chest. Logan crashed to the ground. Captain Sigmir calmly walked to him and proceeded to kick young Logan to death. The boy tried to knock the iron-toed boots aside, until several of his teeth went flying. Then small Logan curled up into a fetal ball, whimpering and pleading through bloodied lips. Sweat glistened on Captain Sigmir’s face. His scar shone bright red, his strange eyes gleamed and a smile jumped into place every time his boot connected.

During the beating, several men in line grew very tense. One of them finally roared with rage and sprinted at Captain Sigmir, who had his back to the man while he kicked Logan across the side of the head. One of the Earth soldiers smoothly bent to one knee, lifted his carbine and fired a single shot. The enraged man grunted and slammed onto his back, his chest exploding in gore and blood.

Captain Sigmir didn’t bother turning around. Instead, he gave Logan a few more kicks until the frail boy relaxed onto his back, dead.

Two soldiers handed their carbines to another in the armed squad. Then they jogged to Captain Sigmir and saluted crisply. The captain nodded as he dabbed his face with a rag. He lifted an eyebrow as he saw the other dead man, but he made no comment. Each soldier grabbed a dead man by the feet and dragged them away.

The recruits, the majority of whom had grown tense, were clearly terrified of huge Captain Sigmir. They whispered their fear, eyeing the two armored Highborn and the watchful soldiers.

“He’s insane,” Stick hissed to Marten.

“Poor Logan,” whispered Turbo.

Marten noticed that Omi and Kang seemed unconcerned, almost as if they understood what had happened. A few others like them, hard-faced recruits, also watched impassively. Marten wondered if they too had once been gunmen like Omi. He shook his head. Here was the primary lesson. Killers ruled among the Highborn. Become excellent killers and they’d pat you on the back. Suddenly he wanted to be far away from here. But that wasn’t an option. He was trapped again. He felt that turmoil in his gut again. He could sure use a bottle of synthahol.

Captain Sigmir tucked away his rag. “It may interest you to know that I originated from Lot Six. I was one of the experimental firsts. They called us beta Highborn. At the time, it was said that the eugenicists were quite pleased with their efforts. But….” Captain Sigmir glanced at the armored Highborn across the field. “Alas, beta is not superior. Still, a few of us are around; and now they’ve found a place for us—for us… misfits.” He peered at the two, nine-foot tall, armored Highborn. Then he shrugged and faced the men. “Perhaps I am not a superior, but here, as long as I produce well-trained recruits, I may indulge myself in life’s little pleasures. Providing, of course, I avoid unnecessary wastage.

“Now, let me assure you that poor young Logan would never have made a good soldier. His hand had been stamped a nine, the only nine among you, I might add. It meant that he was extremely passive with little to no cunning.” The captain shrugged. “What kind of soldier is passive and without cunning? A soon to be dead soldier. So you see that Logan would have been useless in combat terms. But he still provided use as an example. As such, let us remember Logan. Uselessness brings death. Excellence, well, it provides rank and higher training. Your training here will be hard. Many of you will die, never to rise again. My advice is to make certain you don’t become a useless Logan—or don’t lose your balance and attack a superior officer. That isn’t merely useless, that is rank insubordination. Death is the only reward for that sort of lunacy.

“Also, I wish to address one more issue before you’re assigned barracks. Each of you volunteered to the Free Earth Corps. Second thoughts are bad thoughts. The reason why, is that all volunteer lists are sent to the other side. Unfortunately for you, the leaders of Social Unity consider you traitors. The reason that is unfortunate is that should you be captured….” Captain Sigmir grinned. “Don’t allow yourself to be captured and don’t run to the other side. Torture is what you’ll receive. Believe me, I know, for I’ve seen what they did to my comrades. We overran the enemy holding pens where a few betas had been captured.” The captain shook his head.

“Ripped out balls was the least of it. So! Here you are. Here, as Free Earth Corps, you will live or die. Only victory brings rewards. Defeat…. That brings hideous death, if you’re not already dead by then. Thus, you must learn to fight. Fight, fight, fight, nothing else matters, men. You must learn to fight.”

11.

Marten knew this kind of exhaustion too well. It reminded him of the water tank in the Reform through Labor Auditorium. Pump, pump, pump or you die. But here they switched tasks on you with bewildering rapidity. Knife combat, running, rifle range firing, running, plasma cannon sighting, running, map reading, running, squad tactics to take a hill, running, squad tactics to take a trench line, running, squad tactics to breach a pillbox, running. Day or night, it didn’t matter. Stim-shots came constantly. And they ran and ran and ran.

True, he’d never eaten better than here. Muscles on his legs swelled, his already narrow waist became leaner. Run here, run there, it was endless. He sweated almost every minute of the day and drank water like an auto-digger after a long day of drilling. They never let you sleep long enough, either. Bugles blared you to the parade ground. A kick in the side brought you alert on a desert trek stop. More stims, more food, more training, on and on it went. He climbed ropes, rocks and trees and jumped out of buildings, choppers and moving tanks. He dug trenches, used grenades to blast holes into rock, bayoneted dummies and karate kicked three men into the infirmary. What made it worse was that glaring number two tattooed onto the back of his hand. They sweated him harder than most of the other recruits. They demanded he remember tactics, ploys, tricks and how to call down mortar, artillery and orbital fighter strikes. He could set a bone, start a fire with sticks, and poke out a man’s eye with a stiffened finger. Run, run, run, crawl under barbed wire, zigzag across a field as shock grenades blew. He didn’t dream anymore. The instant his head lay on anything he snored in a coma-like sleep. Catnaps became a way of life.

Some men mutinied. They died. One man foolishly attempted to kill Captain Sigmir. He died, too. A few tried trekking across the desert to anywhere but Training Camp Ninety-three-C. Marten led the unit chasing the deserters. Turbo, Stick, Omi and three other slum dwellers cradled laser rifles as they jogged after Marten. He wore the infrared goggles that saw the fleeing footprints as easily as if they’d been painted in red. Perspiration poured. Their brown uniforms were dark with sweat. Marten especially hated how damp his socks had become.

“Why couldn’t they have just cut their own throats,” Stick muttered as he wiped his forehead. “I’m dying out here.”

“Yeah,” Turbo complained, “my feet are blistering.”

Marten’s gut churned. They were remaking him as a killer. In Sydney, it had been different. They tried to bend you. A brave man could resist. Back at the Sun Works, he’d only used a tangler, although his father had killed. Disobey a combat order here and you died.

The Highborn had lied, he decided. Sure, you could say what you wanted, and that was different than it was in Social Unity. But now he was becoming like Ngo Drang the red-suit, the personal butcher of Major Orlov. His gut churned and roiled. The Highborn had him trained like a good little boy. It was more blatant and subtler all at once.

Marten licked his lips, and he veered from the tracks.

“No!” came over the voice-link clipped to his ear. “Follow the track and slay the deserters or you will all be marked as AWOL and immediately eliminated.”

Marten glanced back. Omi and the others didn’t have the voice-link. But they would be killed just the same. Sure, they had these lasers. They’d all been shown how useless they were against battle armor.

“Warning number two has now been issued,” came over the voice-link.

Warning number three would be auto-cannon fire in their backs. Cursing under his breath, Marten veered back onto the track.

“What’s wrong with these guys?” asked Stick. “Are they drunk?”

Omi jogged faster until he was even with Marten.

“They earned this,” the ex-gunman said. “They knew the rules and they broke them.”

“Yeah?” asked Marten.

“Do not throw our lives away,” Omi said.

“Don’t worry.”

“Ah, you’re correct,” Omi said, as he spotted the fugitives.

Omi barked a command. The ragged hunters, with sweat pouring off them, their chests heaving, halted. One by one, they lifted their laser rifles.

“Do it,” Omi hissed at Marten.

Reluctantly Marten lifted his. He saw the four running shapes in his scope. His knuckles tightened. A harsh red beam stabbed across the desert. The others fired, and the beams touched the deserters. The four fell onto the sand, dead.

That’s how the days went. But not all of the training was practice. They also taught Marten a little theory. He found out why all the volunteer slum dwellers had been packed into the same camp, why Ball Busters, Kwon’s Gang and Red Blades went into platoons of their own kind. Men fought better with their buddies, with other men who knew and cared if they turned coward or not. No one loved the Highborn, but you might stick around and fight when things really got hot if it was your buddies who were on the line. So he, Stick, Omi and Turbo were left together. Nor were his exploits in the deep-core mine overlooked. It was one of the reasons they pumped him full of combat information. And made him an offer.

It happened on the desert target range, during mortar fire training. Captain Sigmir adjusted his scanscope as he looked into the distance.

Marten and his squad waited by their three mortars, two men to each. Marten stood behind them watching, correcting and calling ranges.

In the distance appeared three puffs of smoke, seconds later the sounds of their dull thuds reached them.

“Excellent!” said the captain. “Direct hit, direct hit, eighty-nine percent nearness. The best score so far.”

“Pack up,” Marten told his squad.

Efficiently, his squad dismantled the mortars, tube to one man, the tripod and base to another. Then they waited for directions. They didn’t wait standing at rigid attention, but slouched here or crouched on the ground over there.

Captain Sigmir looked up from his watch. “Marvelous. Marten, walk with me.”

Marten fell one step behind as the captain strode into the desert. Training Camp Ninety-three-C lay beyond the horizon in the other direction. Overhead the sun beat down, but Marten no longer noticed the heat—it had been five weeks since induction. He wore rumpled brown combat fatigues and well-worn boots, a helmet, a vibroknife and a simulation pistol. Spit and polish and other parade ground fetishes mattered not at all to the Highborn or to the drill instructors. The only questions that mattered were could you kill and how fast?

“Walk with me, Marten.”

Marten jogged beside the massive captain, trying to match his long strides. Perhaps the captain was a beta, much smaller than the superior Highborn, but compared to a normal man Captain Sigmir was still a giant.

“Your squads always perform well.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yet…. There is a lack in you, Marten.”

He said nothing to that.

“There, that’s exactly what I mean.”

“Sir?”

“You’re a brooder.”

“Yes, sir.”

“More than that, you’re a loner.”

The five weeks of training had taught Marten one thing, to control his temper, the rage that boiled within him, even as his sense of despair increased. He hated Captain Sigmir, but he felt he masked it so no one knew.

“You use your leadership skills for your own benefit, to think as you wish, to do what you want even if the crowd likes or dislikes it. What I mean is that you aren’t using your leadership skills to drive ahead, to make others march to your will.”

“Sir?”

“Marten, leadership is a gift. I believe you’re squandering yours in isolation. Yes, you are a rock. You stand and do whatever you think is right. Those are all good things, I suppose. But in this war you can rise high if you’ll learn to strive to make others obey your will.”

“Yes, sir.”

They exchanged glances.

Marten didn’t allow himself to shiver. Looking into that strange face, so filled with vitality and a strange lust, reminded him that the captain had been dead once. Marten felt it showed.

Captain Sigmir sighed. “I haven’t convinced you. But Marten, I’m still going to recommend you as the lieutenant of Second Platoon.”

“Sir, I…”

Captain Sigmir held up a powerful hand. “Kang will run First Platoon. Now there’s a preman who understands leadership. But you’re a much better tactician than Kang. Yes, you’re a splendid tactician. Oh, we’re quick to note such things. You lack something of Kang’s ferocity, or so the superiors believe. I’m not so certain, though. Your rage—” Captain Sigmir laughed. “Oh, yes, Lieutenant, I know very well that an inner rage seethes within you. I can feel it. At times I even think that it’s directed at me.”

“Sir, I ah—”

“But that’s neither here nor there, Lieutenant. Hate me all you wish just as long as you obey me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you agree to your lieutenancy?”

“Agree, sir?”

“Unless you agree to your new rank you will not receive it. Such is the Highborn dictate regarding rank.”

Marten thought about that. Clever on their part, he decided. They wanted him to take some of the blame, to smear on the guilt. What would happen if he refused? Probably Captain Sigmir would post him to Kang’s platoon. If that happened, he’d have to kill Kang fast or be the slain one. The ex-Red Blades boss was a sadist almost as bad as the once dead, Lot Six beta Highborn strutting beside him. He finally decided it was easier to revolt—when the chance came—if he was one of the guards carrying a gun than if he was one of the prisoners the gun was trained on.

Marten nodded. “I agree.”

“Splendid, Lieutenant. I’m overjoyed to hear it.”

“One question, sir.”

“Hmmm?”

“Who are my sergeants?”

“Your Top Sergeant will be Omi, of course, with Stick and Turbo as the regular Sergeants.”

“Very good, sir.”

Captain Sigmir stopped, reaching down to put a hand on Marten’s shoulder. “One more week of training, Lieutenant, then we will be shipped into battle.”

“We, sir?”

“I’m to be the Captain of Tenth Company.”

Marten blanched in spite of his best efforts not to.

“Problem, Lieutenant?”

“Begging the Captain’s pardon, sir, but I suggest you have a well-trained group of bodyguards.”

Captain Sigmir grinned evilly. “Lieutenant, that is well-spoken. Now, back to your squad, my boy, and on the double.”

12.

Unknown to the Highborn or to Marten, the civil war entered a new and vastly more dangerous stage when Secret Police General James Hawthorne ordered code A-927Z beamed into deep space via a special laser lightguide flash. As per his orders, and without Director Enkov’s knowledge, Beijing HQ started the process by regular e-mail.

On a rather ordinary fish farm orbiting Earth, as yet untouched by Highborn suicide commandos, a communication technician read his e-mail with surprise. As ordered, he pulled up a standard production report and typed in the e-mail’s command. To the technician’s surprise, a secret computer file embedded in the report scrolled onto his screen. He read it and raised his eyebrows, but he knew better than to question an apparently senseless order when given under such strict conditions. So he aligned the lightguide flash-emitter to the dictated coordinates and typed the send sequence on his keyboard. Then he picked up his container of instacaf and took a sip.

On the outside of the space habitat a special laser lightguide tube popped up, adjusted with canny precision and shot a tight beam of light bearing the coded string: A-927Z. The tube then zipped back into its holder and triggered an unfortunate sequence of events, at least regarding the signal officer.

Vents opened in the communication module’s ceiling and sprayed a fine mist of combustibles. The officer, with his container halfway to his lips for yet another sip, had time enough to say, “Hey,” as his computer files self-deleted. And a pre-timed spark ignited the mist. The explosion shook the entire space hab and demanded the full attention of all fire-fighting personnel and auto-equipment. The signal officer, his computer and various personal effects disappeared in the ball of explosive flame.

Meanwhile, the communication laser flashed through space at the speed of light, three hundred thousand kilometers a second. The lightguide system had a singular benefit over a regular radio message. A tightly beamed communications laser could only be picked up by the receiving station it hit. That, however, demanded precision, and the farther the target, the greater the precision needed. This flash had a long journey in terms of solar system distances, thirty AU or 4,347,400,000 kilometers. Thus, traveling at the speed of light, the message reached the selected target, Neptune habitat, roughly four hours after it had been sent.

The personnel there decoded the flash and read A-927Z. It had an effect similar to a spade overturning an ant colony: boiling activity erupted.

Toll Seven had docked his ultra-stealth pod some time ago, his cargo discharged and stored in deep freeze along with a thousand other carefully stolen people. Workers with hand trolleys entered the locker. Osadar Di, stiff as a log and almost as dead, found herself propped upon one of the first trolleys and rolled to the beginning of a process which would grant her new life but at the cost of her humanity.

Thankfully, for her and her sanity, she had no awareness of the first steps. Set on a conveyer, she traveled to a thawing tank. Immersed in aquamarine liquid, her frozen limbs and torso grew supple. The analyzers attached to her beeped at the right moment and a lifter set her on a new conveyer, where she received a shock of life. Her entire body jerked so hard that she tore several muscles, a minor but not unnoticed matter to the monitoring AI. With an agonizing wheeze, Osadar took her first new breath and her eyelids fluttered. A fine mist rained upon her, killing all bacteria and other biological infestations. In that instant, she awoke to excruciating pain. The torn muscles brought her up sooner than anticipated. Somewhere an alarm rang. At this phase of transformation, her awareness was an unwanted anomaly.

Despite the pain, Osadar felt a great lethargy. Then it came to her that the robotic-looking man who had slain Technician Geller had shoved a needle into her. How long had she been out? She moved her head to the side, and screamed. Staring at her wide-eyed like a deader was the commander of IH-49. Others lay beyond him and they moved on an assembly line. Horror screwed up her face. She bit back a second scream, knowing that her worst fears had all along been right. Life was a rigged crapshoot meant to shaft you in the end no matter what you did.

Osadar tried to move her limbs, but they were so sluggish, and the torn muscles sent mind-rending pain messages to her brain.

Then emergency hypos shot her full of drugs and numbed her nervous system.

“No,” she whispered, struggling to rise before she slumped back into unconsciousness. A few moments later she entered the choppers, as the technicians there called them. In actuality, tiny vibroblades sliced the top-most layer of her skin, which was peeled away and discarded into a burner.

The entire process proved grim in the extreme. Director Enkov’s bodyguard had in many ways been rebuilt. But compared to what they did to Osadar Di he had merely had his toenails trimmed. They tore her down, removing her heart, lungs and kidneys. Finally, her brain was detached from her spinal column and placed into pink programming gel. The combination entered an accelerated life situation computer. Her brain along with others was electronically force-fed millions of pieces of new data. It was mostly tactical military information and how to use what would soon be her new cyborg body. The program then ran her through thousands of simulated situations:

She dropped Earthward in an attack pod. The pod peeled away and she floated on chutes. Two hundred meters above the ground the lines detached and she plummeted and landed in a crouch. Experiencing events within the simulator as if they were reality, she bounded in hundred meter leaps at the enemy, her thermonuclear slug-thrower chugging in controlled bursts. Within the simulator she target-practiced with dart guns, lasers, regular carbines, knives, spears; hurled grenades at super tanks, manned a laser battery and more. The events played until they became second nature. Within those events command words, obedience conditioning, how to use inner nanonics and other sundry cyborg functions were drilled into her.

At last, the data processing ended. Her brain emerged very different from when it had entered. Something of the old Osadar Di remained, but it lay submerged in the new cyborg personality, or the lack of it.

The reattachment of her brain to a new and improved spinal column was a delicate operation. The scientists and technicians on the secret Neptune habitat had learned to marry genetic human material to machinery like seamless cloth. An armored brainpan was only the beginning of it. She now had power-graphite bones, artificial muscles, millions of micro-nanonics in her bloodstream, an armor-plated body and eyes that could never be mistaken for human. Little was left of the old Osadar Di. And to make sure that that little part could never rebel, obedience chips were liberally sprinkled throughout her nervous system. A tiny powerful governing computer was linked to her brain and embedded within the central mass.

The process from Suspend-dead human to cyborg took two weeks. Training her to use her new body would take another three. Then Cyborg Osadar Di— better known as OD12—would enter the first ultra-stealth pod to make the many-months long journey from Neptune to Earth.

Then maybe Social Unity could finally regain the initiative against the Highborn.