Vaughn Heppner - Bio-Weapon

“That’s a good maxim,” said Lance. “Bet the HBs would like it.”

Marten kept staring at Vip, watching the man’s twitchy eyeballs, like little lead pips. They were always on the move. Yeah, like a weasel looking for a chicken to steal .

“What’cha grinning at?” asked Vip.

When Marten didn’t answer, Lance said, “You’ve been outvoted, Marten.”

Marten touched his holster. As maniple leader, his laser pistol could freeze their suits. So far, it had always trumped any of their arguments.

“Whatever we do we’re gonna take hits,” Marten said. “So—”

“Give me Omi’s laser tube and I’ll take out the pulse-cannon,” Vip said.

“Trade potshots with it?” Marten asked.

“You don’t think I can?”

“We have to move,” Kang said.

Omi nodded. “Immobility brings death.” He quoted an HB combat maxim. The genetic super-soldiers had hundreds of them, quoting them with dreadful regularity.

“Right,” Marten said. “Lance, Vip, at my signal you fly left.”

“We’ll get hit,” complained Vip.

“Correct,” Marten said.

“You and Omi fly left,” Vip said sullenly.

Kang hung onto a float rail with his left hand, reached out and grabbed Vip with his right and slammed him against the cube.

“Kang and I will take the wall-buster and go right,” Marten said, paying no attention to those two. “Omi, you take out the pulse-cannon if you can. Everyone ready?”

Vip shook his head from where his helmet had struck the cube. His upper lip curled as he stared at Kang. Lance settled between Kang and Vip as he glared at the massive man.

“Use your thrusters,” Marten said. “Make the pulse-cannon really have to swivel in order to hit us all.”

“What tactical brilliance,” Vip said. “By the time you brake for the wall—”

“Go!” Marten said.

Both Lance and Vip, who hung onto the float rail and had pushed up against the cube, thrust their legs. They sailed in the zero gravity, Lance in the lead. Both men thumbed the switch on the handle gripped in their right fists. Oxygen belched from their jetpacks, causing them to jerk and fly faster.

The pulse-cannon swiveled and tracked. S pat, spat. Twin shots flashed past the men’s feet. The cannon minutely adjusted for thruster-speed and fired again.

Washed with red light, Lance froze. His comlink cut out and sliced his groan in half. Vip fired his laser pistol, an ineffectual weapon against the cannon, but it made the HBs happy seeing aggressive gestures. Vip’s beam washed over the pulse-cannon a second before it froze him.

From the other side of the cube and in the other direction, Kang and Marten jetted. Between them, they held an imitation wall-buster. The pitted pulse-cannon swiveled. Omi peaked from behind the cube as he aimed the heavy laser tube.

The pulse-cannon beeped in warning, jerking hard toward Omi, who fired. His beam missed, splashing a foot from the armored cannon.

“Aim!” crackled Kang’s voice.

Another shot missed and then Omi froze, hit.

Marten and Kang sped at ramming speed toward the fast-approaching wall.

“Brake,” Kang said.

Marten laughed as his jetpack continued to hiss propellant.

The pulse-cannon swiveled onto them as it pumped red flashes like tracers.

Kang let go of the wall-buster. He twisted expertly as his thick thumb jerked the handle switch. His jetpack quit. Once in position—with his back to the wall—Kang jabbed his thumb down. Air hissed and he braked. All the while, his other hand drew his laser and fired at the hated cannon. Then Kang froze as the pulse-cannon triggered the lock on his bodysuit. Each punishment zap brought a muffled curse from in his helmet.

Marten crashed against the simulated space habitat wall. His teeth rattled and his right ankle twisted and popped. But the wall-buster stuck to the habitat and a loud siren shrieked. At this point, the wall-buster would explode and breach the enemy habitat. That was military success for this tactical practice, as one hundred percent casualties had been within the allowable limits.

Lights immediately snapped on all over the kilometers huge gym, destroying the illusion of a battle-strewn space-field. The bodysuits unfroze and shock troopers shivered, or groaned, or laughed, or did whatever was natural to them with the stoppage of punishment pain. One by one, the premen jetted toward the exit. From there they filed aboard the shuttles, which returned them to barracks.

A few of the shock troopers congratulated Marten. Others scowled. They were angry his maniple had won the competition. Everyone toweled off after showering. Then the winning maniple donned blue tunics, brown spylo jackets, civilian pants and boots and re-boarded a shuttle. Their victory reward was an evening in the famed Recreation Level 49, Section 218 of the Sun Works Factory, the Pleasure Palace.

Marten sat at a shuttle window, glumly peering at the mighty space station.

The ring-factory rotated in order to simulate Earth-normal gravity for those within. The gargantuan space station was a veritable world unto itself, a world now run by the Highborn. It was their furnace and incubation for continued greatness.

The Highborn had controlled it less than a year. Grand Admiral Cassius had made it second priority at the rebellion’s commencement. First priority had been capturing all five Doom Stars. The majority of the population had lived on the satellite for over ten years or more, formerly card-carrying Social Unitarians and in HB parlance: premen. After the native Sun Workers, in terms of numbers, were recently imported Earthmen: FEC soldiers, ex-peacekeepers and ex-SU Military Intelligence operatives. FEC was Free Earth Corps. Their single uniqueness was allegiance to the New Order. The bulk of them came from Antarctica and Australian Sector, although lately several shipments of Japanese had arrived. All had gone through HB re-education camps. The Earthmen comprised nearly one hundred percent of the space station’s guards, police and monitors. The Sun Workers provided the service techs, mechanics, software specialists, recreation personnel, factory coolies and the like.

With the switch from State-sponsored socialism under Social Unity to a quasi-form of capitalism under the Highborn came many new ills. The Highborn urged success of product over rigorous application of ideology. In other words, did a thing work? Monitors watched to suppress rebellion, no longer gauging every thought and action. Thus while before the Highborn a lackluster black-market had survived in the factory, now a thriving illegal drug trade together with greater theft and its accompanying rise in assault and murder rates plagued the giant space habitat. Some said it was the price of doing capitalism. A handful of people got richer quicker while many others died sooner. A few were spaced: shoved out the airlocks without any vacc suits. The Highborn, it was said, threw up their hands. This once again proved their superiority over the premen, who acted like beasts, like cattle. Then several new divisions of monitors hit the streets.

Marten held nominal leadership of the 101st Maniple, Shock Troopers. He wasn’t the toughest, strongest, nor quickest, and he was not the most brutal, savage or street-savvy. The HBs however had judged him to have the best tactical mind. And he had something extra, a deep inner drive.

Kang, a massive Mongol and sitting across from Marten, had black tattoos on his arms and a flat-looking face. He’d shaved his head bald. Before the war, he’d been a Sydney slum gang-leader, running the Red Blades, a vicious lot. During the Japan Campaign, he’d been a psychotic FEC First Lieutenant, personally killing hundreds of Japanese.

“Hey, Kang,” called Vip, standing in the isle. The shuttle was nearly empty, giving the 101st effective run of the passenger area.