Vaughn Heppner: Battle Pod

“Respectfully, sir,” Captain Mune said, “I must decline. I just heard over Colonel Diego’s data-net that more battleoids are coming. I think the Highborn know you’re here. I think this is a trap to capture you, sir.”

Hawthorne endured the indignity of being carried until Captain Mune reached a tracked infantry carrier.

After setting him down, Captain Mune said, “It’s time we left the battle zone, sir.”

Hawthorne counted bionic men. About half were missing. Had they died so he might live? Was seeing the jetpack infantry killed worth half his security team?

“We must defeat the Highborn,” Hawthorne said.

Captain Mune hustled him toward the infantry carrier.

“There has to be a way to stop them,” Hawthorne said.

“Right now, sir,” Captain Mune said, “I’d just worry about surviving the afternoon.”

The hatch clanged shut. The engine fired into life. As it roared for Colonel Diego’s headquarters, General Hawthorne was sunk deep in gloomy thought.

Time ticked away for Marten as he sweated outside the shuttle, and his vacc-suit smelled like fear.

He adhered magnetically to the hull. At its present velocity, the shuttle sailed serenely for the Earth System. The stars shined their beauty, but Marten had no interest in them now. He’d worked hard the past half-hour to remove the final plate and gain access to the sensor system.

He checked his air supply. He had another twenty minutes left. The vacc-suit’s tanks hadn’t been fully charged before he gone outside. Marten shook his head. He couldn’t believe the mistakes he’d made these last few hours. For years, he’d dreamed of freedom. For years, he’d labored under rules set by others. With freedom, came responsibility. He could no longer afford the luxury of thinking some of the time. He needed to engage his wits all of the time.

If he survived this, he vowed to plan each move with care. Maybe he had spent too many dreadful weeks lost in space. Maybe that had played havoc with his senses and dulled his mind. He would now sharpen his mind.

There, he finally had it. Marten licked his lips, clipped his tools back onto his belt and pried the plate loose. He used a magnetic bolt to keep the plate fixed against another part of the hull.

Now came the tricky part. He hooked his suit to the sensor net so he could use the ship’s computer. In five minutes, he’d established a link. If there were some Highborn code—

No, no code was needed. That was a mistake on the part of the Highborn, a lack in their security details. They had probably never envisioned someone else gaining control of their shuttle, with the killer locked outside.

Blinking sweat out of his eyes, Marten used voice activation. He wasn’t used to this, and he had little time left, but he managed to override the airlock controls.

The computer told him the outer hatch was open. Marten swallowed hard and clanked along the shuttle’s hull, hurrying now. Time was running out.

He made it to the hatch with five minutes of air left. He closed the outer hatch, pressurized the chamber and opened the inner one. He only had two minutes left as he cracked the seal and twisted off his helmet inside the shuttle. He stood staring at the wall. That had been far too close.

Taking a deep breath, Marten began to open the vacc-suit. He needed to go outside later and reattach the sensor plate. But he couldn’t go now. He was too paranoid to go now. He had to first figure out why the outer hatch hadn’t opened properly. Maybe Lycon done something to it as he’d fought to remain aboard.

There was a lot to do to make this shuttle his and to make sure it was shipshape for a longer voyage to Mars. Marten floated to the oversized pilot’s chair and he reconfigured the flight path.

“Think,” he whispered to himself.

Once he changed heading… would that bring him to the notice of any Doom Stars or to SU warships? A spaceship was difficult to spot. It was such a tiny mote compared to the vastness of space. A shuttle was even harder to see than a warship. Once he fired up the engines, however, that all changed. In the voids, an engine’s heat signature stood out like a beacon. The trick was to be out of range of any warship’s weaponry. A Doom Star had the longest range and any warship could launch a missile.

“You have to tiptoe, Marten,” he said.

For the next hour, Marten studied his radar and teleoptic scopes and all known positions of all warships. The time came when he had to choose. He was nervous. He wondered what he had forgotten. This was the moment. Once he engaged the engines and used up precious fuel, he wasn’t going to be able to change his mind. What he decided now would affect what happened to him months from now.

He first floated to Omi and rechecked everything. Then he returned to the pilot’s chair, reconfigured his course yet again. His stomach was queasy. This was crazy. He was free and that meant he had to be brave.

Finally, he reached out and engaged the thrusters. The one-G of acceleration returned. It brought back gravity, or pseudo-gravity. Marten laughed. He couldn’t believe it, but he laughed with relief. He had made his decision, his biggest yet as a free man.

Now his destination was Mars.

General James Hawthorne paced with his thin hands clasped behind his back. He was in a bullet train, a magnetic railcar, and speeding in excess of five hundred kilometers per hour. He was crossing through Peru Sector, he believed, the northeastern corner of it. It was dark outside his window, as the train barreled through tunnels most of the way. Because the Highborn owned the air and owned space, this was the safest and presently the fastest transportation on Earth.

He had left the battle zone some time ago. His ribs were still sore where Captain Mune had thrown him onto the ground.

Hawthorne paced before a desk. On the desk was the gun Ulrich had used to murder so many good people. It was made of nickel-plated steel and shone like a polished mirror. Hawthorne bent close and saw himself in the shiny barrel. He kept the gun as a reminder of the treachery that lurked around him.

He believed himself cagier these days. He’d learned from his political mistakes, and he’d vowed never to be taken unaware again. There had been several attempts on his life. He now knew that more assassins would likely come for him.

It was the message that lay on the table beside the slivery pistol that made him paranoid. Madam Director Blanche-Aster had requested an emergency session with him. She was in Central American Sector, waiting for him. That was strange. She should be safely in New Baghdad, not in Central America. Had she engineered a coup attempt in his absence?

Officially, Madam Director Blanche-Aster ran Social Unity. In reality, she was his figurehead. It suited them both. He needed the pretense of her rule to pacify Political Harmony Corps and thirty-eight billion citizens. She needed his skill and military muscle to survive the other scheming directors and to survive Chief Yezhov of PHC.

Why had she come to Central America?

Hawthorne checked his chronometer. Soon, he would find out.

Two hours and fifteen minutes later, there was a heavy rap at the door of General Hawthorne’s railcar.

“Come in,” Hawthorne said. He sat at his desk, reading Julius Caesar’s Commentaries on the Gallic War. He felt as if the Highborn were like Caesar’s Roman Legions and the SU Military like the many Gallic warbands that had suffered endless butchery. Hawthorne kept wondering how the Gauls could have defeated Caesar’s crack legionaries. If he could discover the answer, it might help him against the Highborn.