Star Soldier (8 page)

“Well, Mr. Kluge?”

Marten stared at the agonizer. It moved closer, closer—

The door opened, and a guard said, “You’re needed, Major.”

Major Orlov hesitated. Then she tossed the agonizer to a thug. She glared at Marten and hurried out of the room.

After several moments, the red-uniformed PHC men moved to the door. They whispered urgently together. Somewhere outside a klaxon blared. Marten lay down on the bench. They didn’t say anything about it. So he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

9.

Months away from Earth in terms of space travel time—Tanaka Station orbited blue Neptune. Vast cargo ships circled this commercial clearinghouse. In the distance, a fat ice-skimmer worked its way up from the blue mass of the gas giant.

The Ice Hauler Cartel, which owned much of the Neptune System, also owed Tanaka Station. The habitat was run on strict capitalist lines. The general principle of the Solar System seemed to be that the farther one left the Inner Planets behind the purer became the capitalism. Unfortunately, for a first class-rated space pilot from Jupiter, this “pureness” came as a shock.

Osadar Di huddled miserably in a bar close to the docking bay where she’d berthed her ship. The owner of the vessel had just departed, leaving her in a dim cubicle. She held onto a beer, but she hadn’t sipped it. Around her in the packed bar mingled pilots, dockworkers, sex objects and gamblers. It was different from the Jupiter Confederation where she’d been born and raised, and only recently fled. The bar was like a caricature of an Old Asteroid Mining vid she’d watched as a child. The pilots and gamblers played cards, cheating, drinking and getting into fistfights. In other cubicles, shady deals were being hatched and nefarious plots conceived.

Osadar Di had short dark hair, dark worried eyes and an unremarkable nose. On the tallish side, she had long shapely legs in a tan jumpsuit. Along with her excellent piloting skills, she’d developed a deep-seated paranoia. Beginning at the orphanage, life had been out to get her. Now she was certain her bad luck had run out—from now on she’d have miserable luck.

Her friends had died in the Second Battle of Deep Mars Orbit. She remembered that time. The Jupiter Confederation had recognized Martian independence, and the rulers had sent a massive expeditionary fleet to the Red Planet. Social Unity had outfitted a reinforcing fleet, and the First Battle of Deep Mars Orbit had surprised everyone. The allied vessels of Mars and Jupiter won an annihilating victory. Back then, Osadar had wondered if she’d made a mistake, as she’d already fled the Jupiter system to escape service. Social Unity had outfitted a huge retaliatory fleet and sent it to Mars. The next battle with its grisly results had proven her wisdom. Ever since then, the Jupiter Confederation had scrambled to rebuild its fleet and had scoured everywhere for pilots.

Two months ago on a seedy hab in the Saturn system—still much too near Jupiter and its extradition treaties—Osadar Di had hired out to a disreputable ship owner who wished to travel to Neptune. Presently, Neptune orbited farther away from the Sun than even icy-dark Pluto with its eccentric orbital path. Now she waited for the ship owner to return from selling his cargo so he could come and pay her.

Osadar stared at the beer. What was the point of being alive anyway? She’d just suffer more. Maybe she’d be better off dead with her friends than sitting in this dump waiting for some sleaze ball who would probably run off with her wages anyway.”

“Osadar Di?”

Startled, she looked up. A beefy man wearing an armored vest and a visored helmet stared down at her. He held a computer slate and seemed to be studying it. A massive stunner rode on his hip.

“W-Who are you?” she stammered.

“Tanaka Station Security. Are you Osadar Di?”

“Yes. But how do you know me?”

He hooked the computer slate to his belt and drew the stunner. “Come with me, please.”

“What did I do?”

“Do you refuse to comply?”

“No, I—”

He waved the stunner. “Stand up and come with me.”

A dejected relief filled her. Here it was—the worst she’d been expecting. All her friends were long dead: space debris still floating around Mars. Why should it be any different for her? Only… she set her face into a grim mask as she marched out of the bar and into a tiny bubble-built vehicle on the street. She had to place her hands into the dash restraints and then they were off. Despite her paranoia, there was a spark within her, a willingness to resist. She was going to go down to some dark fate—she knew that with certainty—but that didn’t mean she had to like or accept it.

“Can you at least tell me what I’ve done?” she asked.

Upon entering the vehicle, he’d punched in the destination code and now watched the various pedestrians, centering upon the slinky women in outrageously revealing costumes. He glanced at her with his dark visor long enough to ask, “You were the pilot, right?”

“What do you mean?”

He snorted and went back to examining the skimpily-clad women who accosted the various dock and office workers along the street.

“Did… Did someone turn me in? Is that it?”

“Save it for the judge,” he said.

Thankfully, the ride was short. By the time they jerked to a halt in front of a squat gray building, Osadar was certain the ship owner had done something illegal, been caught and then spilled his guts in an effort to wriggle out of whatever he was in. In other words, he’d probably sold her out.

The security man released her from the dash restraints and marched her inside. A knot of security people stood to the side by a water dispenser. Other people in outlandishly long suits with enormous collars held onto computer folios and bantered together. Two men wore long red robes that reached the tiled floor. They wore large hats with three sprouting prongs and seemed older and graver than anyone else. Several burly-shouldered, combat-armored protectors hovered at their elbows. Everyone showed deference to the two robed men.

“In here,” said her security man, pointing to a door that had just swished up.

Osadar followed him into a tiny room—it seemed more like a closet—and sat down beside a bored old woman at a computer terminal. She wore a loose orange dress and wore silver bangles on her wrists that clashed as she typed on the keyboard.

“Name?”

“Osadar Di.”

The old woman typed that in and studied the screen. “From the Jupiter system, Taiping Hab?”

“Yes, but—”

“Pilot rated first class?”

“That’s right.”

“You piloted the
Manitoba
from the Saturn system, Winnipeg Hab?”

“Yes,” Osadar said with a sinking feeling.

“Do you freely admit to smuggling—”

“The owner lied to me about his cargo.”

The old woman glanced at Osadar. Then jangle, jangle, jangle went the bangles as she typed some more. “Your credcard number, please.”

“I don’t see what bearing that has on this.”

The old woman wouldn’t look up, but she said, “Dear, don’t be a trouble-maker. Just give me your card number.”

“MC: 3223-233-6776.”

The old woman typed that in, jangle, jangle, jangle, and she blinked at the screen. Her face tightened.

The security man noticed. He’d been leaning against the wall, watching. He groaned as he stepped near. “No credit?” he asked.

“None,” said the old woman.

“What!” said Osadar Di. “That’s impossible. I have over three thousand credits.”

“Deserters don’t carry credits out of the Jupiter Confederacy,” the old woman said sourly.

“That’s just great,” complained the security man.

“Why are you upset?” Osadar asked him.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her out of the room. The hall was empty now. She squinted. Far down the corridor, she saw the ship owner, a fat man with baby soft skin. He spoke urgently to one of those people with huge collars.

“Hey!” Osadar yelled.

The ship owner looked up and had the decency to blush. Then he turned his back on her and gently led the huge-collared man with the computer folio farther down the corridor.

Osadar tried to follow. The security man tightened his grip. “Forget it,” he said.

“He sold me out.”

“What did you expect?”

“Huh?” Osadar asked, looking into the security man’s dark visor.

“His fine was stiff. So he must have sold information to the court.”

“You mean about me?” Osadar asked angrily.

“You piloted the ship, didn’t you?”

“He hired me.”

“So you admit your guilt. I fail to understand your anger.”

Osadar shook her head. She knew this would happen. It was fated.

He marched her down a different hall. By a side door, they entered a larger room. In the front, a short man in a black robe and with thick gray hair sat behind a computer terminal. The rest of the room contained tables and benches. The two long-robed men with their three pronged hats sat apart in throne-like chairs. Their protectors stood behind them. The others sat at the tables, with computer styluses poised.

The black-robed man, the judge surely, studied his screen as Osadar entered.

“Osadar Di, a deserter from the Jupiter Confederacy Military Branch,” the security man said.

“That’s not right,” Osadar said.

“The smuggler?” asked the judge in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

“Yes, your Honor,” said the security man. “She piloted the
Manitoba
from the Winnipeg Habitat, Saturn system.”

“Look,” Osadar said, trying to use a reasonable tone, “I think there’s been a mistake.”

“Silence,” said her security man, shaking her. “Stand over there.” He pointed to a red square near the judge.

Osadar debated refusing. She shrugged and stepped deliberately into the red square.

The small judge read from his screen. “Pilot rated first class. Induced into the Jupiter Confederacy Military Force for orbital fighter duty, Two-Five-Twenty-three Thirty-nine, went AWOL the same year. Pilot of the
Manitoba
, Winnipeg Habitat. Charge: smuggling dream-dust onto Tanaka Station. Status: Vagrant.”

“No credits?” asked a huge-collared woman.

“None,” said the judge.

Another of the huge-collared people, a man, raised his hand.

“Yes?” asked the judge.

“I’d like her to disrobe.”

The judge nodded to Osadar.

She frowned in disbelief, certain that she hadn’t heard correctly.

“Disrobe,” the judge told her.

“What do you mean?” Osadar asked.

“Mean?” asked the judge. “I mean take off your clothes. All of them.”

“B-But why?”

“So the gentleman over there can assess your worth.”

Osadar stared at the man. Between his purple suit and orange hair, his face looked pasty. His small eyes burned hotly as he licked his lips at her.

“No,” Osadar said, disgusted.

The judge raised his bushy eyebrows.

“Contempt of court?” he asked. “That’s a stiff fine. I’m afraid your former employer sold us all the information we need. If you can’t pay, and I don’t see how a creditless person can, that means immediate spacing.”

Outrage filled Osadar. “For not taking off my clothes?”

“Of course not,” said the judge, “for your contempt of court.”

Blank incomprehension filled Osadar.

“Come now,” said the judge in a reasonable tone. “Why the surprise? You have no funds for accommodation. As a deserter, no one will hire you as a pilot. Who would dare with your history? You might simply mutiny and sell the ship cargo elsewhere? Your only hope is indenture status with one of the services.”

“I’m to become a slave?”

“No, of course not,” said the judge. “Indenture status. We in the Neptune System allow anyone to advance if he or she is willing to work. I imagine the gentleman from Sex Objects Incorporated merely wants to see if you have the, er…” the judge coughed into his fist. “If you qualify as a possible… employee.”

“You mean as a prostitute?”

“A crude reference,” said the judge, “but close enough to the mark.”

Osadar Di glanced in horror at the huge-collared man with the hot eyes. She began shaking her head.

“Very well,” said the judge. “Contempt of court. Because of your vagrant status that means immediate spacing.”

“Wait,” said one of the long-robed men from his throne.

“Yes, Dominie Banbury?” the judge asked in a reverent tone.

“You said the rulers of the Jupiter Confederation had inducted her for orbital fighter duty?”

The judge checked his screen. “Yes, Dominie.”

“Yet she piloted a Class II space vessel?”

“That is correct, Dominie.”

The long-robed man pursed his lips. He was a large man with a high forehead and shrewd eyes. “Young lady,” he said, “why did you desert?”

Osadar shrugged. “I didn’t want to die.”

She scanned the seated throng, noticing that some of them looked at her with contempt and haughtiness. “All my friends died in the Second Battle of Deep Mars Orbit. Social Unity killed them, but at least I’m still alive.”

“Just so,” said Dominie Banbury. “Tell me. Would you like the chance of piloting an experimental space craft for the Ice Hauling Cartel?”

That sounded better than being spaced. “I would.”

“What is the bid?” Dominie Banbury asked the judge.

“Five hundred credits, Dominie.”

“So much?” he asked.

The judge swallowed hard and spread his hands.

Dominie Banbury whispered with a huge-collared woman at a nearby table. A moment later, he looked up. “Yes, done.”

The judge typed that onto his keyboard. In a moment, he said, “Next case.”

“You’re lucky,” said the security man, who grabbed Osadar by the elbow. “And so am I,” he said with a laugh. “I get my finders-fee after all.”

Osadar Di wondered what ‘experimental space craft’ really meant. Maybe it was merely a paranoid premonition, but working for Sex Objects Incorporated would probably have been a better option than the one she’d just chosen.

10.

Marten opened his eyes in terror. Then he squinted against the bright light…. This wasn’t the cylinder. Ah, he’d been having a nightmare.