Doom Star: Book 02 - Bio-Weapon (18 page)

It should have worked. The people had been well trained and loved the hum-a-longs.

Instead, in one hour, as if psychically connected as a mass organism, the hordes of Social Unity went mad with rage and grief. In the seventy major megalopolises, riots broke out. Billions smashed stores and looted. In some places, the peacekeepers fought back. Sometimes they were stripped of shock batons and beaten, elsewhere they joined the looting. The South American masses turned vicious. There the hordes wielded bricks and recklessly slew the police. In North America the opposite occurred. The peacekeepers went berserk and slaughtered thousands of rioters, thereby gaining temporary control.

Naturally, from their newly conquered Pacific Basin Stronghold, the Highborn gained wind of what occurred.

“Send in the FEC Armies,” urged several ground commanders. The FEC Armies: Free Earth Corps, composed of captured and reeducated Social Unitarians from Antarctica and Australian Sector.

“Nonsense,” said other Highborn. “This is a trap, crudely fashioned by the premen to get us to split our forces and be overwhelmed in detail.”

As the precious days slipped by, the SU peacekeepers regrouped, reinforced by army units and PHC shock squads. They waited for orders from the Directorate. The six surviving members of the Directorate were too busy jockeying for power in the absence of the late Lord Director Enkov. Into the vacuum stepped General James Hawthorne, the man who had almost destroyed the enemy Doom Star
Genghis Khan
. He steeled himself to issue savage orders. Control must be regained or the war was lost.

Then Highborn electronics broke into the world-wide datanet. If the premen had truly lost their grip, and this wasn’t a Social Unity trick, the HB psychologists said this broadcast would slip the masses over the edge. So Highborn Command beamed images of the former fighting that had gone on in the Japanese home islands, unedited shots of what had really happened on the battlefield before May 10 and the crushing asteroid attack.

Grown weary by several days rioting and thus returning to their cramped apartments, where there was little to do other than watch the holosets, almost the entire populace of Earth witnessed the Japanese Kamikaze assaults: men, women and children hurling themselves at the nine-foot tall, battle-armored Highborn and uselessly dying. The billions in front of their sets were already emotionally drained, fatigued and beginning to wonder what their wild behavior would cost them. They wept as they watched the merciless super-soldiers, the giants in their black battle-armor, butchering inept amateurs. They seethed with a gut wrenching hatred as space-borne lasers devoured transport after sea-transport trying to reach Japan Sector and help their brothers in need. 700,000 SU soldiers died in less than two hours. Thousands of SU fighters, bombers and space interceptors exploded on screen. The last of Earth’s navies were annihilated before their eyes in the blast furnace of 10 May 2350.

“Resistance is illogical. Surrender therefore and serve the New Order.”

Grand Admiral Cassius himself spoke on the holoset. For most of humanity this was their first close-in shot of a Highborn, a bioengineered soldier, originally fashioned to fight
for
Social Unity, not against it. The giant Grand Admiral had pearl-white skin, with harsh features angled in a most inhuman manner. His lips were razor thin and his hair, cut down almost to his scalp, was like a panther’s pelt. He had fierce black eyes, and an intense, almost pathological energy. He smiled, and to those billions it seemed that he mocked them.

“Come, let us end this useless war. Submit and live. Resist—”

The pirated link was cut at that precise moment, not in canny timing, but because the SU technicians had finally found the Highborn frequency.

Several hours later General Hawthorne gave the order. All over the planet the peacekeepers with army escorts and PHC shock squads reentered the riot zones and then onto the residential levels. They had prepared for bitter battle. Instead, they found a subdued and repentant populace. A chilling glance at Earth’s conquerors had sobered the billions out of their madness. After all, better the government you knew than the one who thought itself your genetic superior.

It should have been the moment of greatest unity. The army and PHC had worked together to save the State. Instead, the head of PHC and certain directors grew alarmed at the military’s newly gained powers. They feared General Hawthorne, and they hated the fact that they had so desperately needed him.

That had been six long months ago. Today… General Hawthorne paced in his office.

“General,” said Commodore Tivoli, “I wish you would look at these figures.”

“What’s that?” said the General, taking the proffered report and scanning it.

“MI has lost too many operatives lately.”

“Eh?” asked the General, as he sped-read the report.

“I think PHC is behind those losses,” Commodore Tivoli said. “They’re assassinating my operatives in a secret war against you, against the military.”

“Hmm.”

“They’re some of my best men, General. Keen agents. Slaughtered like pigs. PHC is poking out our eyes and making sure that we’re blind in intelligence matters.”

The General shook the report. “These aren’t the proton beam figures I asked for.”

“It’s a list of all the slain MI operatives in the last three months.”

“I can see what it is, Commodore.” Hawthorne handed her the report. “That’s your department, your worry. If you need more personnel just ask.”

“It isn’t that, General. PHC—”

“We’re late,” interrupted the General, checking his chronometer.

Commodore Tivoli frowned. “I believe this is critical.”

“Can’t it wait until after the meeting?”

“I—yes, sir.”

General Hawthorne put on his military cap and viewed himself in a mirror, tilting the hat, giving himself a bit of a rakish appearance.

“Sir, have you thought about my other suggestion?”

“Which one?” asked Hawthorne.

Tivoli said, “That any officer or soldier entering your presence should first surrender his sidearm.”

“Ridiculous.”

“But I have reports—”

“No, no,” said Hawthorne, waving his bony hand. “The officers would view it as an imperial gesture. It would alienate too many.”

“But it would make things much easier on your security detail, on keeping you alive from assassination.”

“That’s why I have the best.”

Commodore Tivoli’s frown deepened.

The General knew she had problems, worries, but so did he. He had to keep on conjuring up victories, at least until the cyborgs from Neptune arrived. His throat tightened. Few knew about that secret project, not even the Commodore. What would she think if she did know?

Hawthorne shook his head. It ached all the time. Problems everywhere, burdens dumped onto him. All the domes of Mars had re-rebelled. Terraformed Venus was under orbital blockade. Mercury. He didn’t even want to think about the armaments the Sun Works Factory churned out for the enemy.

Why couldn’t the Highborn gloat in their victory? Instead, they continued to move with their customary speed and brilliance. In six months of blitzkrieg invasions, they had snatched the rest of Earth’s islands. The Philippines, the Indonesian chain, Ceylon, Madagascar, the Azores, England, Ireland, Iceland, Greenland, Cuba and Haiti and the Hawaii Islands, all had fallen.

During the ensuing months since May 10, he had struggled to correct the strategy of the late Lord Director. But despite his best efforts, many blamed him for the loss of the islands. To his detractors he pointed out his lack of oceanic vessels, and that he’d saved three-quarter a million trained troops, desperately needed troops that now bolstered the Eurasian Continent.

The Directorate had fired back and told him that his statement was illogical. If he could slip troops out, surely he could have put enough in to hold somewhere.

“That is imprecise,” he’d written back. “Enemy laser stations ring the planet. Any of our military craft flying higher than fifty meters are targeted and vaporized. Meanwhile, Highborn orbital fighters routinely buzz any merchant marine we have left. If military men or material are spotted or analyzed to be aboard ship, the vessel is sunk.”

“How, then, did you extract the troops?” returned the query.

“Ah. Now you begin to understand the magnitude of my accomplishment.”

Several on the Directorate had bristled at his tone. He should have used more tact. He knew that now. But he had become so tired.

“General?”

“Hmm?”

The Commodore tapped her chronometer. “It’s time for your staff meeting.”

“The proton beam report?”

“Yes, sir.”

He nodded. Despite heavy PHC interference, he’d begun a crash proton beam-building program. Everyone feared to use them. They said the Highborn would simply drop more asteroids and take them out again. He disagreed. They needed many proton weapons and enough merculite missile batteries to support them. Fortress Earth was his new strategy.

“What about my meeting with Yezhov?” he asked.

“I hadn’t heard about that,” she said. “When was it supposed to take place?”

“Tomorrow, I think.”

She shook her head. “I doubt it will happen now. The Chief of PHC is in New Baghdad. There have been riots in the capital.”

Hawthorne swung open the door.

The Commodore followed, saying, “I still suggest that you should order anyone entering your presence—”

“Please, Commodore, save it until after the meeting.”

Surprise was complete.

The Supreme Commander of Social Unity Armed Forces stood with his staff around a holoimage of Earth. The dark headquarters deep in the Joho Mountains of China Sector provided a safe haven from the space-borne invaders. There the officers studied the red dots circling the softly glowing, blue-green image of the planet. The dots indicated enemy space-laser platforms, orbital-fighter stations and two enemy Doom Stars, one of which orbited the Moon. Grimly, they pointed out to one another the much fewer yellow dots on the Earth: the proton beam installations and the merculite missile batteries.

As the officers discussed various strategies and the coming run of the
Bangladesh
, the door opened, flooding the darkened room with light. Air Marshal Ulrich, a bull-shouldered German, wearing his immaculate blue uniform, stepped within. A weird look twisted his florid features. Sweat glistened his face and soaked his too-tight collar.

The whispers died as one member of the staff after another glanced up.

The Air Marshal used his heel to close the door. Then, in a jerky motion, he unsnapped his holster flap and drew a heavy .55 magnum revolver.

“Ulrich! What’s the—”

A deafening BOOM cut the question short. The slug tore through the holoimage of Earth and hit Space Commander Shell, a short, hawkish man standing on the other side. Shell flew backward, his chest a gaping cavity. BOOM. Colonel-General Green, formerly of Replacement Army East, lost his head. BOOM, BOOM. Admiral O’Connor ceased to exist and Commodore Tivoli slammed against the back wall, her right shoulder gone.

Stunned, with his eyes bulging and his ears ringing, the Supreme Commander of Social Unity Armed Forces watched Ulrich stalk around the table that contained the electronics that projected the holoimage above it. General James Hawthorne found that he was shaking, and that his limbs refused to obey him. His heart pounded and suddenly he drew an agonizing gasp. Something wet soaked his left sleeve and a horrible groan awoke him to the fact that he was about to die.

Air Marshal Ulrich, with sweat pouring off his face, lifted the heavy hand cannon.

“Please, Ulrich—no!”

BOOM.

General Hawthorne flinched. Then he blinked in amazement. He felt no pain. It finally penetrated that the groaning had stopped. He twisted leftward. Commodore Tivoli no longer had a face. Ulrich had put her out of her misery.

The Air Marshal now drew a deep breath.

Seeming to move in slow motion, General Hawthorne turned toward him. He wished he could think of something profound to say, or something coolly indifferent. Instead, he had to fight not to throw himself onto his knees and beg for his life.

A grimace twisted the Air Marshal’s lips. He re-targeted the smoking .55, while his other hand fumbled in his jacket pocket, finally drawing a rag. He mopped his brow and wiped sweat from his chunky neck.

“Ulrich—”

“They want you alive,” interrupted the Air Marshal, his voice compressed. He wiped spittle from his lips.

Hawthorne’s knees almost buckled, he was so grateful that Ulrich didn’t plan to butcher him. Then his mind kicked back into focus.

The Air Marshal squinted and minutely shook his head. “No, James. Don’t try it. They said to kill you if it looks like it won’t work.”

“Who are
they
?”

“Turn around.”

“The Highborn?”

“Turn around!”

Although in his fifties, Hawthorne shifted onto the balls of his feet. He hoped Ulrich would wave with that sickeningly heavy pistol for him to turn around. He was grateful now for the agonizing hours he took each week keeping fit.