Star Soldier

these space deviants off the good old Earth.

Cued, Hall Leader Quirn stepped onto stage. His community persona was utterly different from his office presentation. Today he wore attire similar to the men but with the added features of a short “block leader” cape and his military style cap. He clapped loudly as he limped toward the major. The crowd leaped to its feet, clapping and shouting approval for the major’s speech. As Marten rose, Molly cheered beside him.

Quirn motioned them down as his voice came over the speakers.

“Thank you, Major Orlov, thank you. That was very informative. Yes, I understand now how in the end our military will defeat the Highborn. Their very… evil gives them a certain advantage over good folk like us, trusting folk that we are. How vile it was of them to have taken advantage of our good nature. But soon, very soon they will be defeated.”

“Correct!” barked Major Orlov.

Quirn and she vigorously shook hands on center stage. She dwarfed him like some medieval monster. Then he faced the crowd again. “Major, I’m sure that many, many of the folk of Hall C-Two hundred and seventeen have questions for you, burning questions that I’m certain only you have the expertise to answer.”

From her spot on the floor, Molly hissed at Marten, who swayed on his feet, not having yet sat down again like everyone else.

“Yes, that man over—why, it’s Marten Kluge,” said Quirn in surprise. “Dearest Marten, do you have a question for the major?”

A thin man in a yellow zipsuit hurried toward Marten. The man excused himself as he stepped over seated people until he shoved a mike under Marten’s nose.

“Uh…” said Marten, and it came over the wall speakers.

People laughed.

Quirn held up exquisitely clean hands—they shone as if lacquered. “There are no bad questions. Only questions that haven’t yet been asked.”

“Quite correct!” barked the major.

“Yes, I do have a question,” Marten said.

“Splendid!” cried Quirn. He nodded for Marten to go ahead and ask it.

“Don’t you say anything silly, Marten,” Molly said from the floor.

The mike picked that up and broadcast it throughout the room. Nervous laughter greeted her words.

“A woman’s wisdom,” shouted Quirn.

Clapping erupted everywhere from the women.

Marten growled into the mike. “Yeah, I got a question. How many times can the Highborn retreat to their drop zone? The news said three times already. That seems two times too many to me.”

Silence greeted his words.

Licking his lips in a nervous gesture, Quirn glanced at the major. She stared at Marten with obvious hostility.

Marten leaned his face toward the mike. “I know there aren’t any bad questions.”

As if pricked, Major Orlov snarled, “Far better to die fighting for political equality and social equity than to fall into the hated hands of the Supremacists! Humanity stands shoulder to shoulder against these caste masters, against the peerage of supposed genetic superiority. I for one refuse to buckle under these grandees, these supposed lords of creation. United together and no matter the cost, we will hurl these interlopers into the depths of space.”

Major Orlov’s pin-dot eyes shone. “How many times can the Highborn retreat to their drop zone? That, my arrogant friend, is a matter of state security and only told to those who need to know!”

“Ahhh,” went throughout the room.

Marten allowed Molly to drag him down beside her.

“How could you, Marten?” she said, tears brimming.

Marten might have been worried, but good old synthahol came to his rescue. He blanked out and time seemed to leap forward. The next thing he knew they mingled among the crowds, discussing what had been said. No one asked him about his question. Molly fidgeted and she kept touching his jacket until he zipped it.

Hall Leader Quirn limped up, a glass of punch in his hand. His eyes appeared glassy. Rumor said he sniffed dream dust, but surely, he’d not slipped a dose here. Beside him strode Major Orlov.

“Be careful, Marten,” Molly hissed into his ear.

“Ah, dear fellow,” said Quirn, slapping Marten on the shoulder. “What possessed you to ask such a question?”

“Sorry,” Marten mumbled. Beside him, Molly heaved a sigh of relief.

“Ah, well, must have been a hard day at work,” said Quirn, his right eye fluttering, a sure sign of dream dust usage.

PHC Major Orlov wasn’t so gracious. She planted herself in front of Marten, her burly arms akimbo. “I never believed there were alarmists. Not until I saw you.”

“Asking questions is wrong?” Marten meekly asked.

“Certain questions are. Any patriot knows that.”

Tears leaked from Molly’s eyes as people turned and stared.

“Molly!” cried Quirn. “Please don’t cry.” He moved forward as if to console her.

But Molly turned away and fled toward the nearest Lady’s Room. Marten took a step after her. A hard grip on his arm jerked him to a stop and spun him around.

“I’m speaking to you,” said the major.

Marten scowled, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Quirn limping after Molly.

“Can you comprehend the odds our soldiers face?”

“Huh?” said Marten.

People moved closer, interested in the information and wondering if Mad Marten would give this political policewoman something to think about.

“The odds, the difficulties, the danger.”

Marten eyed the major, and he wondered how much real information she was privy to. Certain that it would annoy her and maybe loosen her lips, he shrugged.

“Are you dense?” the major asked outraged.

“These are Supremacists we speak of,” Marten said, “deviants, I believe you said.”

“Yes, yes, of course they are. But surely you would agree that a rabid dog is dangerous.”

“Surely.”

“Then think of a dog bred for battle, and that dog rabid and running loose.”

“So the odds are bad?” Marten asked innocently.

The monstrous major decisively chopped the air.

“Orbital Highborn fighters scour the skies until nothing of ours can move. Powered troopers land behind any fixed positions we try to hold and in hours the surrounded units are annihilated.” She shook her head so her jowls wobbled. “They have complete fluidity, we die in…”

The faces around her had turned ashen, silent, still.

“Please,” said Marten, “continue. Your information is absorbing”

Major Orlov turned crimson and shot him a venomous glance. Then she turned and ponderously marched elsewhere.

Marten glanced around for a sign of Molly. Then his features hardened as he failed to spy Hall Leader Quirn. Marten strode to the nearest Lady’s Room as he considered the major’s revelations. It was as he’d suspected. The Highborn were winning, at least in Australian Sector. Rumors said they’d already taken Antarctica, New Zealand, Tasmania, New Caledonia, the Solomon Islands and New Guinea. Their strategy didn’t seem difficult to decipher. Grab Earth’s islands first, because except for submarines the islands would be impossible to re-supply with Social Unity troops. The rumors he’d heard said that Earth’s surface vessels had all been destroyed—only the submarines had survived and could survive the Highborn orbital laser platforms that burned anything that moved. Other rumors said the Directorate’s high scientists devised new beam and missile batteries to drive the hated enemies away from Near-Earth Orbit. The news shows ominously stated that Political Harmony Corps intended the Highborn to gain no useful victories.