Starship Liberator Page 14

“Black box burst?”

  “Yes. You’ll have to do it.”

  “Upload me, and I’ll find an open spot.”

  Straker told his suit to transfer all his accumulated data to Loco’s drive. Once done, his friend wormed his way through to the interior of the stadium. He’d aim at the clear sky and send an encrypted wide beam burst into the ether.

  Hundred Worlds warships and scout drones always had automated receivers listening for such transmissions. With a little luck, their last stand would be noted. Maybe Command would learn something from this disaster: the annihilation of First Regiment, the Hundred Worlds’ best ground combat unit.

  It’d been a masterful trap, Straker thought. The Hok had put the Hundred Worlds into a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t position by seizing Corinth, a heavy-industry planet located deeper into friendly territory than they’d ever attacked before.

  Then they’d conned Command into believing they were trying to capture the planet, to hold out the promise that a fragile but speedy fleet could mount a successful counterattack. The operation was made to seem tough but achievable, and one that couldn’t wait.

  In retrospect, all of this was done to assure Command would commit First Regiment to the battle, and then lose it to the Hok’s unexpectedly superior numbers. They must have kept part of their strength hidden, running silent and lurking behind moons or near asteroids, and brought it in late to close the trap.

  Straker’s military musings vanished when Loco returned. “Looked good, boss. Didn’t see any major jamming. It should get through. I couldn’t reach anyone else on the comlink, though. ”

  “Consolation prize.” Straker climbed carefully to an upright position on one foot. “Looks like we can use these reinforced concrete box structures to fire through, like windows. Move over three or four and wait. Once the shit hits the fan, change position frequently to break their locks.”

  “Roger that.” Loco shifted laterally. “Derek…”

  “What?”

  “I scouted below us. There’s some basements full of equipment, waiting on the next season, I guess. On the off chance our suits get disabled but we’re still alive…”

  “Okay, Loco. If we get that lucky, we’ll dismount and try to evade.”

  “Oh, I know I will. I wanted to make sure you do too.”

  “It’ll be like old times, hiding in the food warehouse. Now shut up and let’s kill some Hok.”

  “You got it, hero.”

  Straker turned his view briefly inside his cockpit, disengaging his hand from the suit systems to reach out and touch Mara’s Glory Girl action figure with a fingertip. He hummed a tune badly. “For the glory of the Hundred Worlds…”

  Loco joined him, a smile in his voice, and they recited the mantra of the old Mechsuiter Roundup show once more, together.

  Once they’d entered Academy it seemed cheesy.

  Today, not so much.

  “For the honor of the Hundred Worlds, I shall not yield. I shall never surrender. I defend the Good from the Evil that seeks to destroy it. I place my body, my weapons and my mechsuit between the Dark and the Light. I shall not yield.”

  “I shall never surrender,” Straker finished. He set himself, aiming his force-cannon through a corner of the concrete frame. “Come on, you bastards. Come see how a mechsuiter dies.”

  Part II - Traitor

  Chapter 14

  Location unknown, aboard a Hok ship.

  The battle was brief, and it didn’t go as expected. Straker groaned and rolled over on his hands and knees, feeling the cold of poured cryscrete. Against all expectations, he’d survived the battle for Corinth.

  The enemy had been heedless of losses, but they’d clearly had a clever goal: to capture two mechsuiters.

  Instead of targeting them directly, a barrage of fire from ground and space had collapsed the stadium structure on top of them, pinning them under hundreds of tons of rubble. The Hok had then hit the area with sustained EMP bursts that ate away at their major electronic systems until they went dead.

  Straker had tried to dismount as he’d promised Loco he would, but the damage and rubble collapsed above him prevented it. His last act had been an attempt to trigger a power overload, but even that failed. The best he could do was to initiate a core purge, denying the enemy all data and burning out the most delicate of his electronics.

  At the end, the Hok infantry had taken his mechsuit apart like they were opening a tin of meat. They hadn’t been gentle. He remembered burns, and the pain of links ripped out along with the sockets embedded in his body.

  Now his body shook as if with ague and he vomited a thin stream of bile onto the floor. Oddly, this made him feel better. Hunger pangs replaced the feeling of weakness, an improvement.

  He stared at his hands, still supporting him above the watery puddle of sick. Harsh white light made his eyes ache, and he squinted against the glare, sitting back against a wall and lifting his right palm close to his face. A damaged thing of bruised fingers and ripped nails, it barely looked like his own flesh—which according to his clear memory was elegant and perfect, suitable for the fine motor control of piloting a mechsuit.

  Slowly, painfully, his eyes adjusted to the brightness. They watered profusely, as if he’d been asleep for days before being suddenly shoved outdoors into a blinding field of snow or sand. Painted a dirty white gloss, the concrete surfaces of his prison dazzled him.

  He held his injured fingers over his eyes and peeked out between them like a child so he could see the room he occupied. A pallet and a bare toilet-sink fixture were all it contained. Oh, and a roll of crapping paper. Did the Hok normally use the stuff? He didn’t know. He’d never thought to ask.

  He examined the metal door to his cell. It contained a slot at eye level and another at the bottom, and was painted with the designation 4A. Or at least that’s what it looked like. Maybe the symbols were Hok letters that merely resembled 4A. Or perhaps it was marked for his benefit. A mystery.

  He listened there, pressing an ear to the door’s inner surface. He sensed a faint hum and received the impression of vibrations made by impact, clunks and clangs more felt than heard.

  By this, he intuited he was on a ship. A ship with cells made for holding involuntary guests. The only other possibility was he’d been dumped into a VR environment—in that case, he could be anywhere.

  He touched his brainlink sockets. They seemed intact. Usually, when in VR, the sockets disappeared, but if the enemy was really clever…

  After perhaps half an hour of recovery, Straker’s eyesight improved almost to normal. All the skin he could see that wasn’t covered by a thin yellow jumpsuit showed signs of abuse, just like his right hand and arm. Fresh bruises and cuts caused him to ache and left blood spots on his coverall.

  If this environment was all a sim, it was a damn good one. Usually, the training virtualities betrayed imperfections, conveying a dream-like feeling and lacking certain details.

  After lying on his back on the pallet, thinking, Straker decided to treat what his senses told him as real. If it wasn’t, then he was completely at the mercy of the Hok. But if it was, perhaps he could do something…

  Resist, maybe? Escape even? He’d love nothing more than to return to the Hundred Worlds.

  He fantasized about escape until he fell asleep. His overtaxed brain half-remembered and half-dreamed of a happier time.

  * * *

  “Nothing like a little R&R,” Loco said, sipping a rum punch and staring at the parade of bikini-clad women strolling down the beach as if for the troopers’ exclusive viewing pleasure.

  “Doubtless,” said Orset, standing and flexing his buff, cut torso and arms. “They can’t resist this prime rib, baby.” He ambled toward the strand and the legions of hotties.

  Chen rolled his eyes. “I’m going to play some volleyball,” he said, and strode off toward a nearby game.

  “And…let me guess,” Loco said, “Straker’s gonna sit here and brood. At least get a
beer and relax, man. We’ve only been on Shangri-La for twelve hours and you already look like you’re planning our next mission.”

  Straker shook his head tightly. “I’m not planning the next, I’m reviewing the last. My kill percentage is slipping. I’m trying to figure out why.”

  “We ain’t getting any younger, Derek,” Loco said. “Maybe by the time we retire, the war will be over. I’m saving my pay for a cabana right here.”

  “Here?”

  “Somewhere on this world. Half the planet is covered by tropical islands.” Loco waved at the perfect scene—a light breeze, clear blue water, surf and sun. “Maybe I’ll buy a bar. Bar owners get plenty of action.”

  “You’re never short of action, Loco. All you have to do is mention you’re a mechsuiter, and they jump into your bed.” Straker tried to keep the disdain out of his voice. He had no real objection to his comrades taking advantage of willing ’suiter groupies, but he’d moved past shallow one-night stands a long time ago.

  Well, mostly. A man had needs, after all. But over the last few years he’d felt like something was missing, and whatever that something was, he wanted it. Filling anonymous holes didn’t fill the hole in himself. Only killing Hok did that, and only for a while.

  “I have no shame about a shortcut to action,” Loco said, laughing. “I take the risks. I might as well get the rewards. You should, too, like you used to. I’m beginning to worry about you, buddy. You need to get your ashes hauled at least once every R&R.”

  Should Straker tell Loco he strongly suspected Command arranged for the groupie entertainment? That some or most might not even be volunteers but professionals instead? It was all too easy, and it felt worthless.

  But even if he could communicate that, why should Loco care?

  Why should I care, either? Straker wondered. He was young, fit, and relished his role as the defender of human worlds. Yet, he’d begun to feel old...

  He wasn’t sure why he felt this way. His comrades seemed to be able to slip easily from combat to carefree celebration, living for the day, shedding their stresses like clothing dropped on a bungalow floor.

  “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die,” he muttered.

  “Same old Derek,” Loco complained, “reading ancient books on a beach! Come on, man, find a girl and get laid. Hell, find two or three. They’ll share.”

  Straker grunted, pondering. “Loco, you ever had anyone turn you down here on Shangri-La?”

  Loco’s brow furrowed. “Oh, sure. I think. Maybe once or twice. Until I tell them I’m a mechsuiter. That always brings ’em around.”

  “And did any of your willing women ever say no to anything you wanted to do? Like, in bed? No matter how freaky?”

  “Hmm, not in bed, no. And I do get freaky. Sometimes they don’t want to go surf-sailing or scuba diving or something like that.”

  “Don’t you think that’s odd? That these hotties are catering to your every whim?”

  “Not really,” Loco said with a shrug. “This is an R&R complex. There are three categories of people here. Military on leave—which to the civpop means heroes. Civilians who come here to hook up with us heroes; and last of all, employees. Which is okay by me.”

  “You sure there aren’t only two categories of people?” Straker asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Think about it.”

  Loco appeared to consider. “You trying to say the civvies are really all employees?”

  Straker shrugged. “It crossed my mind.”

  Loco chuckled. “So what if they are? I can’t tell the difference. In fact, I don’t want to know. I’m going to go find a couple girls and have me some afternoon delight, eat a few dozen oysters and drink fruity drinks to regain my strength—then maybe I’ll find a poker game. You can sit here and wonder about what’s behind the curtain, brother. I’m gonna enjoy the show.”

  Straker watched Loco swagger off in search of fun. His eyes wandered to the firm young women parading by twos and threes down the beach, as if for him alone. When they saw him watching, they waved and giggled, and he felt a surge of interest.

  The first few years after he was commissioned, he’d availed himself of their charms with a teenager’s gusto, but now, a decade later… where was the challenge? Where was the depth? What did it matter, if everything was free?

  Or just possibly… not even real? He scratched at his brainchip port, wondering. How come they seldom let a mechsuiter go home, even to visit his family’s graves? Mandatory R&R was the ticket, they said. No time to go for long sidespace trips to Oceanus. Elite status had its privileges, and also its sacrifices.

  Yet Shangri-La didn’t feel real, or right. He wanted a connection with someone. Something more permanent.

  In years past he’d tried to establish a rapport with groupies, fishing for congruence to these civilian girls with their safe little hobbies and their perfect plastic dreams. Some of them professed to want to marry military and have children, but the ones who admitted to that seemed too eager for promises and rings on their fingers before the R&R was over.

  Were they looking to escape from their circumstances? The war meant that some parts of the Hundred Worlds lived in proud poverty, on minimum rations and without luxuries. Others were rich by comparison, especially the Central Worlds. Each planet had its peculiarities, and ships couldn’t be spared to carry massive quantities of goods to balance the circumstances of each.

  This thought brought a sharp guilt to mind. He thought of himself living in the midst of plenty, sitting here on a perfect beach while less fortunate citizens toiled every day in the war industries. He figured that feeling also played into his reluctance to take advantage of people who might have no other way out of misery than volunteering to be a paid concubine.

  “Hey, Straker. Mind if I join you?”

  He looked up to see a comely female face and body, though she was unlike the others within his sight. Late twenties, well formed… he couldn’t quite put his finger on the difference. Maybe she was on the fitter side, without the usual voluptuousness of the groupies.

  High, exotic cheekbones, olive skin, short black pixie cut, little makeup. That was also unusual. Most—all?—of the girls around here had long hair and looked like they’d just stepped out of the salon. And her eyes… not young at all. In fact, they seemed aged, radiating a knowing stare.

  “We’ve met before?” he asked.

  “Of course we have.”

  Suddenly, he realized this was Carla Engels. He didn’t know how he knew. Just as suddenly, he recognized he was dreaming, though in the manner of dreams it didn’t seem to matter that he held two realities in his head simultaneously.

  Yet at some level he remained aware that this was not how he and Carla had really met: not on a beach, not on R&R. He’d met her at Academy Station and crushed on her right away. She’d been the older, more experienced girl, although he’d never done anything about it. After all, fraternization among cadets was prohibited, and Derek Straker… he always followed the rules.

  Later on, as a junior officer aboard ship, such relationships were strongly discouraged if not outright forbidden. Sex, maybe love, was for R&R, not to distract during mission deployment. Straker was determined not to put his effectiveness as a mechsuiter in jeopardy by bending or breaking any rules, written or unwritten.

  Until now. They were on R&R, and what happened on Shangri-La, stayed on Shangri-La.

  He smiled. Maybe this dream represented how he wished things could have happened.

  Straker’s heart pounded suddenly in his chest, and he felt lust surge from somewhere south of his abs. Perhaps only in a dream could he have what he desired, with no consequences, and somehow it would all work out.

  He was reaching for Carla when the vision shattered, leaving him groaning on the deck, clutching himself with disappointment and frustration.

  A plastic emergency ration pack lay on the floor of his cell, near the door’s bottom slot. It wasn’t exactly like any he’d
ever had before, but it was edible. Maybe something the Hok made specifically for humans they captured, or maybe other aliens could eat it too.

  Straker ate with his fingers, for the usual plastic spoon was absent. The food had even less flavor than survival rations he’d tasted. Perhaps it was old. To wash it down, he drank metal-flavored faucet water from his hand. Then he slept some more, feeling his aches and pains recede as his bruises and pressure cuts healed.

  Nineteen more meals passed. Each “night” the lights dimmed for about a third of the time. If they fed him three times per standard day, and he guessed he’d been in the cell almost a week. Once, a new roll of toilet paper had appeared. Variations in the food itself, in the sounds he could faintly hear, and in his healing body convinced him he didn’t occupy a VR sim.

  Sadly, his predicament was evidently real.

  To pass the time he exercised. He performed every manner of push-up he could: standard, inverted, diamond-hand, handstands against the wall, one-handed, clapping. He stretched too. He punched and kicked the air, recalling the martial forms he’d been taught but had little time to practice between battles lately. He did squats and thrusts, jumps and flips, working himself to exhaustion. Whatever the next stage of captivity turned out to be, he resolved to be ready.

  The seventh night things changed.

  He awoke to an earsplitting klaxon. Figures in Hok battle armor flung his door open and seized him, dragging him into the brightness of a corridor.

  He fought them as they battered him with truncheons. With desperate dexterity and strength he took a billy club from one and struck him down, then another.

  But there were too many, and there was nowhere to go, no room to maneuver in the tight passageways. They shocked him with electric prods that doubled him up in helpless agony, and then beat him senseless. They shackled him and dragged him in a daze through cryscrete corridors, leaving skin and blood along the way.

  They flung him into a larger room, with perhaps a hundred others. Humans, like him, not Hok. Two women with near-shaved heads huddled near each other in a corner as if to defend themselves from abuse.