Unity.”
“I know one thing,” said Stick. “I’m sure not turning traitor.” The others gave him their attention. “You’re thinking about joining the Highborn,” he told Omi.
“Whichever gang is strongest,” said Omi.
“Don’t you have
“Yes,” said Omi, “to my continued existence.”
The elevator slowed.
“Get ready,” said Marten, interrupting whatever Stick had planned to retort.
The others crowded around him, their weapons ready.
“We should have an emergency plan,” said Turbo. “Just stepping into danger every time and hoping for the best is…. It isn’t smart.”
The elevator pinged. The door swished open and a huge, nine-foot soldier in powered black armor turned to face them. Servos whined as the giant soldier aimed an auto-cannon that had an extremely pitted nozzle—his oversized weapon had obviously seen plenty of use. The combination plasteel/ceramic armor gave him a robotic, knightly look. Humming power packs supplied the energy and an exo-skeleton multiplied his strength so that if there had been enough room he could have leaped a hundred meters in a single bound. Shock absorbers and a Highborn physique allowed him to withstand the landing. A missile launcher was fixed to his slab of a back and the auto-cannon he aimed at their faces fired twenty-millimeter-sized shells.
“Drop your weapons!” boomed his helmet, the faceplate darkened so they couldn’t see his face.
Marten dropped his carbine, then so did the others. It was questionable whether their slugs would have even been able to penetrate the armor. Maybe they could have shot out his faceplate if they had hit several times in quick succession. But by then they’d have been obliterated. They raised their hands.
A second Highborn stepped into view. His servos were geared to their lowest setting. He too towered nine feet tall. This one didn’t aim an auto-cannon at them. Instead, with his powered gloves, he reached up, twisted the helmet to the left and lifted it off his head. He had china-plate-colored white skin, with harsh features angled in a most inhuman manner. His lips were razor thin and his hair was cut down almost to his scalp. It was more like a synthetic rug than anything else. He had fierce black eyes, and there was an intense, almost pathological energy to him, a hysteria to slay, rend and destroy that was only kept in check by an inhumanly vital will.
“You are not PHC,” he said in a deep voice.
“We killed them,” Marten said matter-of-factly.
The fierce eyes tightened, as if the Highborn could judge the truth of Marten’s statement by an act of will. Perhaps he could.
Marten said, “They were going to blow the deep-core mine and destroy everyone in Sydney.”
The Highborn raised his brows. His eyes were sunken deeper into his face than a normal man’s. It gave him a skull-like appearance. “It is a worthy way to die, taking down your enemies.”
Marten wondered if the man was crazy.
The nine-foot tall Highborn took a deep draught of air, and he lifted his auto-cannon. “By decree of the Imperial High Command—since you showed resistance to your unlawful government—I am forced to offer you the chance to volunteer for the Free Earth Corps.”
“And if we don’t volunteer?” asked Turbo.
A wicked grin exposed perfect teeth, and a loud clack from within the auto-cannon told of its readiness. The first Highborn, the one who hadn’t removed his helmet, lifted a humming sword three times the length of Stick’s vibroblade.
“Hey!” Turbo told Stick. “That should you make you happy: a personal sort of death.”
For a moment, no one said anything. Then Marten took a step toward the pitted nozzle of the auto-cannon. “I wish to volunteer,” he said.
Part II
Recruit
1.
The tall, gaunt general in the green uniform and red piping of Directorate Staff Planning strode back and forth across the rug. His desk was huge. Behind it was an old-style bookshelf with books. He claimed turning pages helped him concentrate. But then most people thought of him as eccentric—and that was a bad thing this near the ruling power. The nine directors of the Social Unity Directorate appreciated men and women they understood. Eccentrics, which in their mind meant “unpredictables,” were distrusted. Even worse, they were hated.
Secret Police General James Hawthorne ran a bony hand through his blond, wispy hair. He pivoted and paced back over the worn trail he’d made in his carpet. He had a sure stride, and he clasped his hands behind his back. Pacing helped him think. The pacing didn’t indicate nervousness. That was another of his eccentricities. He was trying to decide between two momentous avenues for the further prosecution of the war.
Most people thought he had the emotions of a large slab of rock. The belief occurred primarily because of his patrician mannerisms. The directors disliked such mannerisms. Social Unity preached egalitarianism, not the ways of aristocracy. So Hawthorne strove to keep his true nature hidden.
He read voraciously, military history being his special love. Among the great captains of history, he believed he most resembled Douglas MacArthur of the Twentieth Century, a brilliant man.
Before Hawthorne could pivot and retrace his steps, a chime sounded from his desk. He frowned. Then he forced his features into the blank look that he wore around people in power.
The door swished open and unannounced an old man hobbled into the office. That spoke of the man’s power. He had breached Hawthorne’s security net without any alarms going off.
The old man seemed more caricature than real. He had uncombed white hair and a leathery face with a thousand wrinkles. He used a cane, and he shivered as he shuffled a few steps at a time.
Behind the old man followed a strange creature. Not quite an android, it was difficult to call him a man. The common phrase was semi-prosthetic or bionic. Specialists had torn down the bodyguard and rebuilt him with artificial muscles, steel-reinforced bones and nerves protected by sheathing. The bionic guard wore a black slick- suit and a senso mask to hide his face.
A barely audible whine emanated from the bodyguard as he took one step at a time behind his master. At a word from the bent-over director, the bodyguard could tear the office apart with his bare hands. Although the bodyguard wore no outer weapons, at least one of his fingers likely contained an embedded mini-laser. Wonder glands could squirt drugs into his bloodstream, dulling pain and adding speed and strength.
“Director Enkov,” Hawthorne said, “this is a surprise.”
The ancient man with a thousand wrinkles struggled to lift his head. He had pale blue eyes. They were the keen eyes of a killer more murderous than any blood-maddened shark. They stared into General James Hawthorne’s eyes. After fifty days of infighting, and two sudden deaths, this wicked butcher had proved himself the strongest force on the Directorate governing Inner Planets.
Director Enkov dropped his gaze and struggled to the nearest chair. General Hawthorne would have sprung to the chair and slid it closer. But a single look into the director’s eyes had rooted Hawthorne’s feet and caused his tongue to freeze.
Despite his best efforts over the past few months, General Hawthorne had only gained driblets of information concerning Enkov. This much he knew. Unless he pleased this withered old man, the bionic monstrosity behind him…. General Hawthorne regained use of his tongue. He moved it in his cotton dry mouth. One misstep today and the bodyguard would destroy him in an undignified manner.
Director Enkov laboriously maneuvered himself into the chair. He grunted painfully as he sank his crooked back against the rest. He set the cane on his knees. And with a trembling, wrinkled hand, he reached into his coat and
