Storm Over Saturn (3 page)

The spy nodded in agreement, but in truth, he was getting impatient. Everyone knew about Hunter's enormous talent for combat and intrigue. But rehashing such things couldn't possibly be the reason that Dazz had risked all to meet him here.

"So?" the spy asked him. "There is something else, I assume—besides this history lesson?"

Dazz sipped his drink again. "I have three things for you today," he said, getting down to business. "Here is the first: Where were you during the Great Flash?"

The man in the big floppy hat just stared back at him. It was an odd question to ask, only because the spy knew something else that Dazz and most people in the Galaxy did not: the Great Flash didn't just happen; the Empress's attack was not a random, spontaneous event, although it seemed that way. The truth was, it came at a crucial moment during the battle near Doomsday 212, disabling a number of ships belonging to the rampaging SG Rapid Engagement Fleet, thus swinging the fortunes back to that unlikely collection of weapons dealers and rebels, and allowing them to somehow defeat the hellish SG special ops troops. This begged the question: was the Empress in league with the rebels?

That, no one knew. Not even him.

But because very few people were privy to the exact timing of the attack on the Big Generator, the spy was certain this couldn't be the rebels' special help that Dazz was talking about. In reality, many things went right for the insurgents that day.

But to the question, where was the spy when the lights went out?

"I was asleep," he bed to the SG officer.

"So was I," the SG officer lied back.

The spy shrugged. "I hear they are repairing the damage though," he said. "That it really wasn't so extensive."

Dazz shrugged again. "But it is precisely those repairs that you and I and the rest of the Empire should be very concerned about…"

"And why is that?" the spy asked.

The SG officer lowered his voice again. "The Special

Solar Guards have taken over the repair of the Big Generator. This is a closely held secret. But as they are fixing it, they are trying to change it as well. Alter the way it works."

The spy was shocked to hear this. The Special Solar Guards were a quasi-secret detachment of the regular SG. While they were known for their ultrafanaticism in preserving the SG's ill-gotten power, they were actually little more than superthugs and perverts in uniforms. Why would these heavy-handed clowns want to fool around with the Big Generator? The sacred piece of rock was the lifeblood of everything in the Galaxy. Moreover, no one was sure where it came from or how it even worked, least of all the SSG.

"What is their motive for getting involved in such a thing?" the spy asked him. "That repair should be left to people who know what they are doing."

"I agree with you," Dazz said. "But the SSG believes, true or not, that they can tweak the Big Generator in such a way that it will provide power
only to things they own
. In other words, they want to be able to control who gets power and who doesn't. Can you imagine the ramifications of that? SG Starcrashers flying, SF 'crashers not? SG weapons working, SF weapons not? Even I know that's unfair."

The spy collapsed back into his seat. "This is nonsense!" he cried. "It has to be—"

But Dazz was shaking his head no. "I only wish it were," he said. "But I got this from a very high source back on Earth. Besides, why would I come all this way just to tell you something that wasn't true? No less than death would be my fate if I were caught talking to you like this."

He sipped his drink again. His cup was almost dry.

"I am not a genius, nor am I a hero," Dazz went on. "I'm just a soldier. I have no idea what the
SSG
is doing exactly, what gave them the idea to do it—or what might happen should they fail. But certainly it's a dangerous thing they are attempting."

"
Very
dangerous if they succeed," the spy half moaned.

At that moment, as if taking a cosmic cue, the lights in the room, in the bar, and all across the tiny planet, blinked. Outside, in the wind, the spy and Dazz heard the most frightful chorus of screams rise up. They were so disturbing, the SG man pulled his ray gun from its holster. The noise got louder. In seconds it seemed like an army of the dead was ready to burst through the door.

"Is it any wonder the entire Galaxy is going crazy?" Dazz screamed over the ghostly racket.

But then, just as suddenly, the noise calmed down. The lights came back to full power. And only the wind could be heard outside.

The spy gasped. "That was frightening…"

The SG man nearly drained his drink. "Even more so, these aftershocks—these accursed blinks—are being made worse by the SSG's tinkering. That I know for a fact. The SSG is so crude, most of them, I close my eyes and see them pounding away on that rock with electron hammers and chisels!"

The spy stared into his empty wine cup. Suddenly, he wanted more.

"That's item number one," Dazz said now, wearily. "Here is number two: Along with this Big Generator thing, the SSG has also been up to some very unusual activity on

Saturn. As you know—as
everyone
knows—the regular SG has a lot of its administration centers there. Truth is, it's where you wind up when they don't need you anymore, pushing an electric pen.

"But the SSG has been paying a lot of attention to a certain part of the planet lately. A very dull place called Imperial Records Section 066. It's essentially a huge warehouse with billions of comm bubbles in storage. Only the cosmos knows why it is of sudden interest to them, but the rumor is there might be some kind of new weapon being built down there, one they are planning to use on a very specific target."

"Such as?" the spy asked.

Dazz thought a long moment, choosing his words very carefully. "The SSG may be brutes, but they aren't completely stupid," he began again. "They know something very unusual happened out near Doomsday 212 during that second battle. That the irregular forces that beat up the REF were not so irregular. Again, they are convinced Hunter and his rebels had some very special help."

The spy just stared back at the informant. "Go on," he said.

"The SSG also knows Hunter's rebels and their allies have started their own little star system out there around Doomsday 212," Dazz said. "They know they're still a threat, despite what's going on up in the Star Trench. So, once the SSG gets control of the Big Generator, their first order of business is to attack Doomsday 212—and I mean even
before
the war resumes with the Space Forces. And if this
is
a new weapon down in Warehouse 066, it's going to be used against Doomsday 212 and whoever is out there. The problem is, my sources tell me, this weapon may be
so 
powerful, it will affect not just Doomsday 212 but anyone within a thousand light-years of ground zero. That's a lot of innocent people, especially with all the war refugees wandering around the Two Arm these days."

The spy slumped back into his chair. "So much bad news," he moaned. "I'm not sure I can take any more."

"Well, you must," the officer told him. "For here is item number three: I've heard a lot of rumors that the SSG also has something else—something very secret, hidden away on Earth—that they are also hoping to use very soon. Not a weapon exactly. Though what it is, no one is sure. The SSG is calling it the
magilla
in their confidential bubble reports. That's a code word, I think. It might not be connected to the Big Generator repair or the 066 warehouse, not directly, anyway. But whatever it is, this magilla is something they've recently acquired, from persons or methods unknown. And they are being very smug about it, always a bad sign."

Dazz finally licked the last few drops from his empty cup. He was fairly drunk now but still wanted more. "So there you are," he said. "The Big Generator repair, the mystery in Warehouse 066, and the magilla."

The spy groaned. "They used to call this a triple whammy," he said. "Bad news times three…"

The SG officer got up to leave. "Call them whatever you like," he said. "Because now I pass these burdens on to you. I must get back before I am missed. Just promise me you will use this information wisely. Obviously, the attempt to manipulate the Big Generator is the most immediate concern, but the other items have the potential to be just as disturbing, simply by the amount of chatter I'm picking up on them. All three things are highly secret. And if anyone ever finds out I gave them to you, I'll have no other choice but to fall on my sword. So please, be very careful who you share them with."

The spy reached into his pocket and numbly came out with a bag containing thirty pieces of aluminum-silver. It was the standard payment for Dazz's information.

But the SG officer surprised the spy by pushing the bag back across the table.

"No thanks," he said, putting his skully cap back on. "With all that's happening around us, taking your money this time just doesn't seem right."

He started for the door, but the spy, startled that Dazz had refused his payment, had one last question for him.

"Why did you choose to do this in the first place?" he asked him. "Be my source, I mean? I checked your dossier way back when we first started. You've been a loyal SG officer for nearly three centuries. Yet many things you've told me over the years ultimately wind up hurting your own cause."

Dazz just shrugged.

"Not all of us in the SG are bad, my friend," he replied, adding sadly, "just most of us are…"

Somewhere on Doomsday 212 Mid-Two Ann

Point Zero?

Zero Point?

Hawk Hunter, alleged superman, woke up in Purgatory, spitting these words out like broken teeth.

At least he
thought
it was Purgatory. He'd had a glimpse of Hell before, and this was not quite it. But it was damn close.

It was hot here. Very hot. And he was perpetually drenched in sweat. Lying on his back, sharp rocks sticking like knives into his spine, a strange red fog surrounded him. He thought he could see flames crackling somewhere beyond. In his ears were the sounds of people crying. In his nose, some very nasty smells. Burned metal. Burned flesh. Burning souls…

Zero Point?

Point Zero?

God damn, where the hell am I?

He raised himself up on one elbow and tried to get his bearings. He was atop a very steep plateau. It rose above a high, cratered plain that, in turn, topped off the flattened peak of a dark, hideously twisted mountain. Volcano-type ash was falling all around him. Streams of smoke and fire were rising up from below. The crying got louder. All this craziness—hearing it, smelling it, tasting it! He wiped his eyes and thought,
This isn't where I went to sleep
…

Point Zero
. ..

Zero Point
…

He collapsed back down to the hard ground and tried to shut his eyes again. But they refused to close. There was something else he had to see. Even though it was daybreak, billions of stars in grand formations were passing overhead. He could almost reach out and touch them, they seemed so near.

This might be the closest I'll ever get to the stars again
, he thought.

Zero Point
...

Point Zero
…

Why these two words
…
and not two others
?

He couldn't remember the exact moment he went mad. Maybe it was during the battle against the ghostly ships of the Solar Guards' REF, blasting mem as they flew out of a rip in space that led directly to Hell. The
real
Hell. Or when he found himself tumbling out of control and falling among those same SG Starcrashers, like them, his Flying

Machine's power systems failing because of the Great Flash. Or maybe he cracked his head when he ejected from his stricken vessel, opening his brains and allowing the insanity to seep in. Or maybe it was when he saw his beloved craft going down in flames, lost in the smoke and fog of battle.

Or maybe… maybe it was after he hit the ground that fateful day, nearly smothering in his parachute, when he lay dazed and injured, and of all the things running through his mind, realizing just one thing: that he would never see Xara again, the love of this, his very crazy life. How beautiful was she? Well, how does one describe the indescribable? What words can possibly be used? As soft as the glow from a neutron star? As warm as the colors of a rainbow nebula? As light as the kiss of Venusian rain upon the face? Or the touch of a hand on a dark night? Sweet. Gentle. Erotic. Intelligent. Big eyes, big smile. She was cosmically gorgeous. At least that's how Hunter remembered her now.

He'd played in the fields of Heaven with her no less. The
real
Heaven, for it existed as surely as Hell did. It was the place where nothing ever went wrong. Where departed souls were happy for eternity. Where love, and peace, and harmony and all that good stuff ruled, and the sky shimmered like jewels. It was also the place Hunter had managed to escape to—only to leave to take on the evil empire once again. And Xara? She had no choice but to stay behind, stranded forever in Paradise, while he went off to fight his impossible war and be the only thing he really knew how to be: a hero. And while he did that almost too well, life for him, without her, had become insanely lonely.

If madness had set in then at that dark moment, knowing he could never be with her in this life again, his condition was surely not helped when he realized all his brave and loyal friends had been so suddenly lost as well. Erx and Berx, the two spacemen who'd first brought him to Earth. Calandrx, the famous warrior-poet. Steve Gordon, courageous CIA agent from Planet America. The Great Klaaz, a man renowned by nearly a quarter of the Galaxy for his heroism. Zarex Red, celestial explorer and freedom fighter. All gone… fallen in battle.

And Pater Tomm, the monk who was as fierce in battle as he was in prayer. He was gone, too. Along with Erx and Berx, Hunter probably missed the holy man most. Tomm had guided Hunter on his journey to the Home Planets, the prison camp in the sky inhabited by the long-lost descendants of Earth. It was for these people—the Last Americans—that Hunter had vowed to topple the Fourth Empire and return the Galaxy to its rightful owners. Indeed, a fleet of ships from the Home Planets had fought in the initial assault on the Empire. Then a second fleet from this lost star system magically appeared during the Battle at Zero Point just in time to help defeat the rampaging REF.

But even this great victory could not replace losing both his love
and
all his friends.

Point Zero?

Zero Point?

Lolita Island? Is that a clue?

When he looked down at his hands these days, he saw the hands of a madman, bloody and gnarled. His clothes were tattered, his flight boots creased and dirty. The X-Forces cape, once worn so proudly, was now ripped and full of holes after being dragged behind him for so long. His hair, nearly down to his shoulders, was spiked from neglect and abuse; his face was bearded and burned. No longer was he the deep-space hero with the star-idol looks. Just the opposite. Were there any string mirrors around, he would have probably scared himself.

Zero Point?

Point Zero?

Oh God, what do they mean?

Since finding himself stuck in the seventy-third century, he'd acquired a habit of obsessing on whatever strange item bubbled up from his past life. Now it was these two words, spoken two different ways. As inconsequential as they might have seemed, he believed any memory, any reminiscence, any flash of recognition might provide him another clue to his past. And if he was able to figure them out, another little piece of his memory might come back.

But this? This was tough…

Point Zero
…
Zero Point
…

Target Point Zero?

Wait! Maybe it was trying to decipher these two words that had driven him insane. Maybe it was
that
simple.

But insane he was…

There was no doubt about that.

This planet, Doomsday 212, was once a little bit of Hell itself.

A former ringed gas giant, it had been first terra-formed thousands of years before by the original Ancient Engineers. Made ailing by centuries of neglect and royally cursed by all the terrible things that had happened here, it had been Hunter's mysterious allies from the Seven Arm who'd puffed it again right after the Battle at Zero Point.

The problem was, large parts of the planet did not take to this new terra-forming. Vast stretches of land north of the equator had resisted the fantastic technology that could make a dead planet come alive again. Why? No one knew. Sometimes the presence of an ancient pyramid could affect the terra-forming process. The mysterious, billion-year-old monuments could be found all over the Galaxy, and they were fanatically avoided by just about everyone, so steeped in bad luck they were supposed to be. Perhaps one was buried on the planet somewhere. Or maybe something even stranger was at work here.

Whatever the reason, while two-thirds of Doomsday 212 now flowed with grass and trees and streams and held fresh, clean air above the surface, the remaining third was still haunted ground. Grotesque rock formations, perilous ledges and cliffs, bottomless ravines, mile-high mountains shooting off at nearly impossible angles. Any rivers that ran here now were thick with bloodred hydraulic fluids or even real blood.

And Hunter had been adrift in this nightmarish landscape for what seemed to be an eternity. Not talking to anyone, not seeing another human being. Not knowing what else was happening in the Galaxy.

He was beginning to feel at home.

Lost as he might have seemed, though, this was no idle wandering, this trek he'd undertaken through these forbidding lands. This was a search mission he was on. He'd lost Xara. He'd lost his friends. He'd lost his mind. He only had one thing left that he hadn't lost completely: his Flying Machine.

What good was he without it? The Flying Machine was as weirdly wonderful as he used to be. Designed from a dream and faster than anyone could comprehend, at cruising speed it could go two light years a second. It had taken him to places that existed only in the wildest of imaginations. It had vanquished many a foe, saved many a friend. If losing Xara and his compadres had torn out his heart, then losing his aircraft had ripped out his soul.

So he was out here, searching for that one last thing that might restore just a bit of what he once had. True, he'd seen it go down, seen it fall into the clouds of war as surely as he'd fallen into those of despair. But he never saw it crash, never heard the impact. So where was it now? Still burning at the bottom of a crater someplace? Scattered in microscopic fragments over a stretch of this phantasmic horizon?

He had to find out. For even if he was able to recover just a tiny piece of it, something to always carry in his pocket along with his battered American flag and the faded, well-worn picture of Dominique, the stunning beauty in his other life, then maybe the rest of his days could be saved from complete madness.

But searching for it was like searching for a loved one's body. You want to go on looking forever, but always in fear of what you might find.

Sleep came fitfully in this place, these miles of cosmic badlands that after so many days seemed vaguely familiar to him now. And frequently, where he lay down to rest here was not the place he woke up, another symptom, he supposed, of his mental drift.

Fully awake now, he crawled to the edge of the plateau and looked out over the precipice, expecting to see another stretch of ravaged land. But wait—something was different. The landscape below him was idyllic. Fields and valleys with gentle rivers curving through them. Small gatherings of trees, long grass swaying in the gentle breeze. A girl below, familiar in her cosmic beauty, was waving up at him… calling to him…

But then he blinked—and when he opened his eyes again, the girl and the trees and the fields were gone, and the landscape below had returned to something from a very bad dream. Hunter felt his stomach turn inside out. His head began to spin.
Not again
, he thought.

He'd been seeing visions like this for weeks now. The day before, he'd imagined a barrage of old-fashioned nuclear missiles crashing down on top of him, only to see them hit the ground like raindrops and disappear into tiny puddles. The day before that, a strange aircraft with a propeller and stubby wings and red ball insignias on its fuselage and tail dove out of the rising sun and tried shooting at him, only to have its bullets turn into flower blossoms the moment they touched his skin. And the day before that, he imagined he was trudging through deep snow, firing his gun at a huge moving structure that might have been an ancient radar station—on wheels. And the day before that, he thought he saw a huge battleship floating on what should have been a gently flowing stream. On and on, so many, he couldn't remember them all. Some lasting a mere second or two, others going on for hours. The common thread? Each hallucination began with a flash and ended with a blink.

Madness. What else could it be?

He looked back down into the valley now. Fires roaring out of control. Cracks in the surface spewing unimaginable vapors. Gigantic rocks shooting up like monster's teeth, saw blade sharp and black as a night without stars. Badlands, indeed. So much so, a sane man would have turned back long ago.

But staring into this particularly horrid part of 212's netherworld, Hunter knew it was where he had to go.

He found wreckage two hours later.

It was halfway across the killing plain, still smoking, surrounded by blue flames exploding up into violent flares, blinding his bloodshot eyes even from a mile away. The smell was awful. Burnt subatomics, scorched superglass, white-hot electron steel—but another smell, too. Again, burned flesh… And it was this stink that told Hunter this was not the holy grail he was seeking. This, and the fact the wreckage stretched on for nearly a half mile.

Not his cherished, lost Flying Machine, these were the remains of an Empire starship, one that had been driven by a prop core. It was dispersed, in pieces, around a huge crater. This was where the nuclear singularity had gone off, once the prop core died its quick, nasty death.

After much climbing and trudging through the smoky muck, he finally reached the largest piece of the wreck: the hind end of what had once been a Space Forces cargo ship. It towered over him. Hunter took out his quadtrol, the know-it-all device carried by just about everyone in the Galaxy. He asked it a simple question: what ship was this? The answer came back right away:
JunoVox
. Hunter knew the name; it was one of the first vessels shot down in the opening minutes of the war between the SF and the SG, the mighty conflict that had started here, above this hellish place.

"Fucking great…" he mumbled as he felt a little more mind juice run out of him. This was the thirty-third wreck he'd come upon in his quixotic search. Just his luck that Doomsday 212 had been a graveyard for crashed spaceships in the centuries past. There were wrecks everywhere.

In sheer frustration, he took out his ray gun and began firing at the carcass. Pieces of fuselage and pipes and su-perstrings and electron steel suddenly went flying in all directions. His barrage created more flame, more smoke, more stink, but it unleashed something else as well.