Vaughn Heppner - Bio-Weapon

Hawthorne appeared thoughtful. “Maybe the enemy gave them generous terms. They have after all become adept at turning captured soldiers into their own creatures.”

“That’s what I’m saying. How could an officer steeped in social responsibility possibly consider surviving the capture of his ship?”

“The will to live is strong,” Hawthorne said philosophically. “It may be that not all the officers were up to the task.”

“Treachery piled upon treachery. This is a terrible blow, unfathomable, mysterious and sinister. We can’t allow the Highborn to tow the Bangladesh to the Sun Works Factory.”

Hawthorne began to pace. “If you’ll excuse me, Madam Director, I must see the new Space Commander and get his recommendations on how to achieve our goal.”

Blanche-Aster motioned to her guard-clone. “I’m sorry to have brought this news, General. My recommendation is to look into each of the officer’s records. Somewhere is the clue as to who sold his comrades to the Highborn.” The guard-clone wheeled the Madam Director away.

Hawthorne turned to Captain Mune.

For the first time during the conversation, the hulking bionic soldier seemed other than a statue. His steely eyes flickered over the hunch-shouldered General. “It has to be done, sir.”

“You’re right, Captain. But it’s a filthy business.” Hawthorne knew he had to order the Bangladesh destroyed, to kill his own people, those who had survived the storm assault.

“That’s why they pay us, sir, to do the dirty work the civilians won’t.”

Hawthorne smiled painfully, putting his hand on Captain Mune’s shoulder. “Let’s get this over with, shall we.”

“Yes, sir.”

The two men headed down the corridor to Space Command.

With his battlesuit powered on low Marten crept through a corridor.

For 72 hours, he had won the cat and mouse chase. First, he’d modified his battlesuit, removing its electronic ID tag and switching the setting of his Friend or Foe selector. Then he’d jury-rigged Bangladesh damage control crawlers, setting them on automated hunt and fix. The massive inner destruction to the beamship kept them busy. They thus constantly moved, which showed up on the Bangladesh’s motion detectors. Said detectors Marten destroyed with religious fervor, along with destroying ship’s cameras. Then a virus—preset by Admiral Sioux—shutdown the beamship’s computers and engines. From their comlink chatter Marten learned that the shock troops gave first priority to restarting the engines, then to hunting him and finally to inserting new Override software.

For the past 72 hours Marten had lived on stims, Tempo and by drinking plenty of water. He had debated about walking into of group of his old comrades and explaining reality to them. They could listen or gun him down. He’d abandoned the idea when he couldn’t think around the fact that they would simply capture him and leave him for the HBs. Then in a recreation room he’d found several recorders. He went outside the ship and carefully thought out his options. After a half-hour, he recorded a message.

MARTEN: I’ve given this a lot of thought, longer probably than any of you realize. The Highborn mean to rule us, the premen herds. They won’t stop with the premen herds of Earth or Venus, but go on to the Jupiter, Saturn, Neptune and Uranus herds. At least that’s how they think of us, as cattle. If Omi were awake, he’d confirm the story about their gelding plan. Think about that: cutting your balls to make you more docile. That’s what Training Master Lycon said. I heard it and so did Omi. Sure, we’re the shock troopers, the elite, the purebreds, I suppose. But what kind of future is it if we’re the premen, the Pre-Men?

He’d switched off and thought more. Finally:

MARTEN: Kang and others will tell you it is the best deal we can get. They’re probably right. The HBs won’t give you a better deal than what you already have. The truth is I’m not promising you anything new, the fact of your manhood. What I’m suggesting is to use it, to make your manhood count. Stand up like a man and take action. Or play it safe and remain a slave as you are. I heard Omi say a few weeks ago that we’re nothing more than those five-inch fighting fish at the Pleasure Palace. If that’s all you want to be, then you deserve castration. Only I don’t think that’s true, either. No one deserves that. So that’s what I think, I, Marten Kluge the Man. What do you think?

Marten turned off the recorders and played back the message. Maybe he could refine it to something perfect, but it said what he felt. When he returned inside the ship, he left the recorders in various open spots he knew they would come through. He hoped it would sway them, but he didn’t think it would. He just wanted somebody to know what he thought. Besides, it felt good to speak his mind.

Now, after 72 hours, he realized that as good as he was he couldn’t keep ahead of thirty or so expert shock troopers forever. That’s how many they kept in rotation hunting him. It was a big ship with kilometers of open corridors and spaces, but they were good and learning fast. So as little as he had in way of supplies and without Omi, he crept for the escape pods. Earlier there had been too much fighting around them. Now the escape pods would be rigged, he knew, but he had to get off the ship while there was still time. He paused, extreme fatigue pulling at his eyelids. Every part of his body ached. At times he found himself blinking, wondering how he’d walked so far. He realized he was falling asleep on his feet. Soon he’d simply keel over snoring. Then he’d probably wake up, with Kang holding a vibroknife under his chin.

The corridor was dark. Blasted utility units lay like junk on the floor. Dried blood was smeared everywhere. The corpses had been removed, whether by busy damage control vehicles or shock troopers he didn’t know or really care. To ping his radar might give away his position, so his visor was up and he washed the corridor with a helmet-lamp on low.

The Bangladesh was a cocktail of strange odors. He picked out blood, the stench of laser-burns, plasma and hot grease. The tread of his half-ton battlesuit was loud, the servomotors a constant reminder that eventually his suit might break down.

A loud click made him freeze. It came from around the corner.

He switched off the helmet-lamp and waited in darkness. No one washed radar over him and no motion detector could see what didn’t move. His eyes couldn’t adjust to complete darkness, but his fatigue caused splotches and imaginary images to dance before him. So he finally turned his beam back on. The weariness made his skin sag and his limbs tremble.

On ultra-low power, he shuffled toward the corner. He listened, but all he heard was his suit’s whine. Finally, he snarled to himself and bounded around the corner, to see two shock troopers aim heavy lasers at him.

When they didn’t fire, he washed his headlight over their helmets. Stenciled on the foreheads was LANCE, VIP.

Vip’s visor opened, although Lance’s remained shut.

Marten wanted to tramp the last few meters between them and hug the rat-faced little Vip. The crazy eyes jittered and the mashed nose was the same. Vip even managed a grin.

“Hey, Maniple Leader.”

“Hey, Vip.”

“I listened to your tape. Made some sense.”

“What about Lance? What does he think?”

“He thinks you’re crazy.”

“Is he going to shoot me?” asked Marten.

“I don’t think he’s made up his mind.”

“Where are the others?”

“Around.”

“How come you’re here, Vip?”

“Doesn’t this seem like the obvious place for you come?”