Bio-Weapon

woodsman had taken an axe to hew him cheeks and a forehead.

“Training Master Lycon?”

Surprised out of his reverie, Lycon glanced about to see who had addressed him. Aides hurried by, their eyes downcast. It was inconceivable that any of them had hailed him. These premen knew better. Then he noticed an older, heavier man in a black uniform and hat. The fool peered up at him, stared at him, in fact, and seemed on the verge of addressing him.

“Sir,” said the man.

Taken aback, Lycon could only raise his hand.

The black-uniformed man paused.

Lycon didn’t recognize him, and he prided himself on being able to distinguish premen. To most Highborn, premen looked alike: dull, gapping stupidity stamped on their features, slow of wit and speech and sluggish almost beyond conception. His work among the shock troopers had allowed Lycon to penetrate the subtle differences, the ones the sub-species found so fascinating among themselves. Still, he didn’t recognize this monitor.

The man blinked anxiously—a much older man, fat instead of merely heavy. The man blinked as if he would gush out with a torrent of words.

Many, actually, most Highborn would have slapped such an impertinent fellow hard enough across the face to knock him down, perhaps even hard enough to break his neck. But Lycon was more tolerant than most Highborn. Perhaps it was because he was beta. His eyes tightened. He loathed that word, beta. He hated any indication that he was less than a superior.

“Yes?” asked Lycon, in a voice as deep as a bear’s.

The old man dipped his head, although he continued to stare upward. “The Praetor asks you to join him in the Gymnasium.”

“Who are you?” said Lycon.

“Chief Monitor Bock, Training Master. I would also like a word with you, if I may.”

“You dare to address me without proper protocol?”

A minute widening of the man’s brown eyes indicated fear. Then he lowered his head and stared at the floor. “Forgive me, Highborn. I meant no offense.”

Lycon grunted. Strict discipline was his guidepost in dealing with premen. He knew the Praetor thought likewise. This… it was more than impertinence. Chief Monitor was the highest rank premen secret policemen could achieve. So…

Lycon’s angular features stiffened. He turned and strode toward the lift to the Gymnasium.

Lot 6, beta, an original, they all were derogatory terms used to describe a so-called inferior Highborn, used by others to describe him! —At least behind his back.

He touched his “Magnetic Star” as his intense eyes narrowed. Beta, eh? Well, he knew that the road to rank went fastest by combat exploits. He would ride his shock troopers roughshod over every obstacle. A hard smile played on his lips. He would use his supposed inferiority to lap his superiors. His beta-ness had allowed him to see a truth that the others missed. No, they didn’t all miss it. Grand Admiral Cassius understood. But he was a rarity among the Top Ranked. This truth was perhaps his single card, his lone ace to play in his quest for greatness. It had gotten him the Magnetic Star in the Japan Campaign. It had earned him this berth in the Sun Works Factory, as the Training Master of the shock troops.

“Training Master!”

Lycon scowled and turned. Who could have addressed him? All he saw were premen. Then he saw the Chief Monitor huffing to catch up. The overweight, older man surely couldn’t have dared to shout at him, could he?

“Training Master,” said Chief Monitor Bock. “I would like a word with you.”

“You shouted at me?”

“I have information about your shock troopers that I’m sure would interest you.”

“So you did shout at me. You actually admit it.”

The Chief Monitor bobbed his head.

Rage washed over Lycon. That the Praetor should use a preman to relay a message was bad enough. That this preman dared speak first was double impertinence. No, it was an insult. The Praetor wanted to rub his nose in his Lot 6-ness. Why else did the Praetor want to meet in the Gymnasium? Why else had the Chief Monitor dared act as he had?

Lycon turned from the Chief Monitor as he struggled to control his rage. Remember that the Praetor is Fourth, and very dangerous. You must watch yourself. He nodded. Although his sponsor was the Grand Admiral, the Admiral was a long way from the Sun Works Factory.

“Wait, Training Master,” Chief Monitor Bock panted. “Your 101st has committed a terrible breach of discipline.”

Lycon rubbed his forehead. The Praetor is Fourth and the Chief Monitor is his preman.

Then Chief Monitor Bock put his hand on Lycon’s arm. “Training Master, please, I would like a word with —”

With an inarticulate roar, Lycon spun around and chopped with the flat of his hand. He caught the flabby Chief Monitor in the neck. Bones snapped. The preman flopped onto the deck, jerking, choking and trying to form words. His eyes boggled and then he relaxed. Blood seeped past his lips.

Lycon blinked at the dead heap. He frowned, looked up and saw the still sea of premen staring at him. His eyes narrowed. The crowd dropped their gaze. He strode to the nearest premen and grabbed him by the arm.

The man mewled in fear.

“What is your rank?” asked Lycon.

“Shipping Master, Second Class, Highborn.”

“Do you have security clearance?”

“Yes, Highborn.”

“Good.” Lycon took out his recorder, flicking it. “Tell me what you just witnessed.”

“Highborn, I saw the Chief Monitor grab your arm.”

“He touched me without my leave then, is that correct?”

“Yes, Highborn.”

The crowd began to slink away.

“Halt!” ordered Lycon.

Everyone froze.

One preman after another spoke into his recorder. They stated that the Chief Monitor had dared grab a Highborn, a death offense. Lycon had simply acted as any Highborn would, defending his honor and person.

Though I am beta, not even the Praetor’s Chief Monitor may dare lay hands on me.

Finally satisfied with his recordings, Lycon let them leave. Then he marched to the lift, wondering how to breach this to the Praetor. He peered at the old-style Western saloon door. A beep told of a successful retina scan. The door slid open and he entered the computerized box. The pioneer motif ended here, thankfully. He was sick of it.

“Gymnasium,” he said.

The door closed and the lift purred as it headed up.

Lycon wondered if the Praetor… No, no, better to keep such suspicions hidden deep inside. The walls had ears. How soon, he wondered, until some tech invented a device that monitored thoughts?

The lift slowed, and Lycon’s premonitions grew. He must tread extra softly. The Praetor would make a terrible enemy. Yet he hoped the Praetor wasn’t going to make the common and mistaken assumption that a beta always rolled over for a superior.

13.