Click.
The edge of the Sun filled one end of the screen, Mercury the other.
Click.
A bright dot appeared a bit over a third of the way from the Sun to Mercury.
“The Bangladesh’s present location.”
Click.
A dotted line went from the Bangladesh to past Mercury.
“As is well known, effective beam range is one hundred thousand kilometers. During a recent wargame, however, the Doom Star Napoleon Bonaparte hit with lasers at ranges exceeding a million kilometers. The proviso was that a stable target, like the Sun Works Factory, was selected. Perhaps Social Unity could do likewise, although High Command gives this a low probability. A million kilometers would be a revolution in space beam warfare. Let us then note once more that this X-ship approaches Mercury no nearer than 30 million kilometers.”
The Training Master let that hang. Then he smiled, the way a tiger might as it appraised a baby deer.
“Men, Social Unity is getting desperate. Command believes this new ship to be a missile carrier of unique capacity. To try to sneak past us as near as 30 million kilometers—no, the SU Fleet is much more cautious than that. The nearness can only signal one thing. This must be another attempt to duel via missile. They hoped to slip this X-ship very near the Sun Works Factory and launch a surprise attack. Normally a quick spread of our missiles would take care of such folly. However, this is no ordinary ship. This is perhaps the most secret and modern weapon developed by the former lords of Inner Planets.”
Training Master Lycon fixed the shock troopers with an eagle-like stare.
“Grand Admiral Cassius wants this X-ship.”
Click.
A squat sort of missile-ship hybrid filled the screen.
“The Storm-Assault Missile,” Lycon said.
Clothes rustled in the darkness as shock troopers squirmed. They’d heard about this missile, none of it to their liking.
Click.
On screen, a swarm of missiles flew in perfect formation. In front were EMP Blasters and X-ray Pulse Bombs. Behind them came ECM drones, used to jam enemy radar and optics, and finally followed twenty Storm-Assault Missiles.
“There are those on the Grand Admiral’s Command Staff who don’t believe that… that Homo sapiens are capable of combat-precision feats. I argued otherwise. Highborn of exalted rank were swayed by my impassioned pleas, to let this be a test of the shock troopers. Men.”
Lycon’s eyes shone with brilliance.
“The honor of the shock troops rides upon this performance, this chance granted me. Your mission will be to fly out to the Bangladesh, storm aboard and capture it before the X-ship escapes out of range.”
24.
Marten stared at his feet. From the auditorium, they’d marched in formation to the shuttles. All shock trooper-Highborn with their weapons had marched with them. He’d had no chance to break and run. He’d had no way to slip out and scurrying into hiding. What would Nadia think when he didn’t show up? How could he warn her about Hansen? Marten peered past the pilot’s window. He saw orbital fighters flying with them. Even if he overpowered the pilot and took control of this craft, it was all senseless.
A void within stole his strength. He was so tired. He was only vaguely aware of people speaking.
“What?” Vip said. “Are you crazy?”
“It’s perfectly safe,” the young tech said. He had slick black hair and wore an air of bored superiority. He kept pursing his thin lips and tapping his chin as he made his pronouncements. He slouched in his crash-seat as if he didn’t care what they thought about what he said.
“I ain’t no vampire,” Vip said, his eyeballs jittering. “Weeks of sleep, no, sorry, that ain’t for me.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” the tech said. “You’ll be awake most of the time.”
“What?” Vip asked.
“Drugged, though.” The tech tap-tapped his chin. “Some of the testers said it felt like being buried alive.”
Vip’s eyeballs slued around.
They rode in a tiny shuttle, a teardrop-shaped van. The pilot was crammed low up front so they could barely see the top of her head. The maniple sat on a U-shaped padded couch and faced the tech in his white coat. He explained the particulars of the Storm-Assault Missile they shuttled to.
“But you’re not mere test subjects,” the tech said, grinning, “you’re the military elite. You could probably do this whole, three-week trip while standing on your head. This’ll be nothing for you guys.”
With the twitch now in his voice, Vip asked, “What do mean: buried alive?”
The tech pursed his lips.
Marten, although sunk in gloom, shook his head at the young tech. Vip more than any of them was freaking out about the particulars of the SA missile.
“A smothering sensation,” the tech said, ignoring Marten. “Like being several kilometers deep in the ocean.”
Vip moaned.
“What’s the matter with you?” Marten said.
“Me?” asked the tech. “Just answering questions as ordered.”
“Did you see me shake my head?” asked Marten.
“I can’t help it if you have a nervous tic,” the tech said. “I thought it was better to pretend I didn’t notice.”
Kang raised his head. He’d been resting his chin on his massive chest. Omi also peered at the tech.
“You could put me under though, couldn’t you?” asked Vip. “As a favor? Just shoot me full of Suspend or something, timed until we’re almost there.”
The tech shrugged.
“I’m talking to you,” Marten said, now fully alert to his surroundings and deeply angry.
The young tech frowned, maybe realizing how close he was to these shock troopers. With a sudden move he swiveled his crash-seat and said to the pilot, “How much longer, Kim?”
“Ten minutes,” said the pilot, the Sun Works Factory passing outside her view-screen.
The tech swiveled back. His bored grin had returned, as if the pilot’s proven nearness had reinforced his confidence. He told Vip, “Really, it’s best not to think about it.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” asked Vip, his left cheek twitching.
“Sure wish I knew,” said the tech. He pursed his lips. Tap-tap to the chin. “Maybe if you pretended you’re a worm. You know, digging your way to the bottom of the Earth. Then the buried feeling will seem natural.” He chuckled as Vip paled, jerked around and stared dull-eyed at the shuttle’s low bulkhead.
Marten put his left hand on the tech’s knee. In his right hand, under the tech’s nose, he held a knife, a wicked little blade.
The tech with the dark, slicked-back hair stopped chuckling. His lifted his eyebrows, trying to appear nonchalant, as if he had angry shock troopers pull knives on him all the time.
“I’m talking to you,” whispered Marten.
“It’s the pain booth for sure if I report this,” said the tech.
Marten stared dead-eyed.
“He’s right, Marten,” said Lance, sounding worried.
“What about this?” Omi asked. “The little prick isn’t alive to report it?”
“That would make it harder,” Kang rumbled.
“Not if the HBs resurrected him,” Lance said.
“Maybe,” Kang said. “But there isn’t any Suspend aboard. So he’d stay down.”
“Look here,” said the tech.
Marten pressed the razor-point against the smooth skin.
“Do you see what you did?” Omi asked the tech. “Now he’s mad.”
“Hey, you’re right,” said Lance. He turned to the tech. “That was pretty stupid of you.” Then, in a perfect imitation of the tech, Lance pursed his lips and tapped his chin. “Maybe if you unbuckled yourself and bent down and kissed Marten’s boots. That might mollify him.”