“Ah. I see your point. Already you’ve been helpful. Good, good. Now, I propose that only space soldiers be converted. Leave the FEC Armies alone for now. But in space, our very special preserve, here we inject only the Neutraloids and none of the other lesser species. Of course we keep the making of Neutraloids secret from the FEC masses.”
“It won’t stay secret for long,” Lycon said.
“The trick will be in doing it for long enough.”
“Not that I agree with you,” Lycon said, “but I understand your reasoning. My second objection is the new gland.”
“Meaningless. Only the space soldiers will be so converted. The others will not have to fear it.”
“It isn’t the reaction of the premen I was thinking about. Rather, the cost, time and effort to plant these organs into these… these Neutraloids.”
“Hmm. Any other objections?”
“They attacked us.”
“They had been ordered to do.”
“Will they obey orders not to?” asked Lycon.
The Praetor frowned, hesitated and then admitted, “Their worldview has become distorted. They are pessimists. Hate dominates their thinking and a certain feeling of futility. A right combination of drugs will correct that.”
Lycon nodded thoughtfully.
“Any other objections?”
“Praetor, as I see it you mean drugs to replace ideas as the motive force.”
“Drugs are more trustworthy.”
“I’m not so certain. In any case, they’re more expensive. With ideas we’ve pried millions of Social Unitarians onto our side.”
“Fear did that,” the Praetor said.
“Fear helped,” agreed Lycon.
The Praetor expanded his chest. He seemed to consider his words. “Are you with me?”
“I am not against you.”
“Let me rephrase. The shock troops will make perfect test subjects. This week we should begin to convert them into Neutraloids.”
“But the shock troops are trained and ready to deploy,” Lycon said.
“Let me be frank, Training Master. I do not trust premen in space. On planets and at this point in our conquest we need them. In space and in our spacecraft, we must have utterly loyal soldiers. Space is the high ground. We dare not take chances there.”
“I tell you that shock troops are loyal.”
The Praetor stared at Lycon. “For your sake you’d better be right.”
15.
“We can’t do it,” whispered Omi. “Not with those new spy-sticks the Training Master put in.”
The 101st lay asleep in their bunks, Kang already snoring. Several days had passed since their return from the Pleasure Palace. Yesterday the entire shock troop regiment had been marched onto the training field. Lycon had stepped onto a stand and addressed them in his deep voice. He told them about the spy-sticks, about rumors of disloyalty and that nothing would stand in his way of making their names shine among the Highborn. They, the shock troopers, could climb in rank and privilege as long as they remained loyal. Disloyalty, traitorous actions after they had been given so much—no, the Training Master couldn’t envision that from any of them.
“Why doesn’t he tell us about the upcoming gelding?” Marten had whispered to Omi.
The Training Master had warned them that when they were away from the barracks they should be careful. Not everyone in the Sun Works Factory wanted them to succeed and gain rank. However, even given that, such things shouldn’t concern them. Excellence alone was what every one of them should strive for.
“We can’t do it,” Omi whispered from his bunk.
Marten rolled out.
“They just put in spy-sticks,” Omi hissed. “The watchers will be alert.”
“I have a timetable to keep.”
“Because of Nadia? Because you want to see her again?”
Marten eased into the slick-suit he’d secreted under his bunk. It was a smooth piece of body-fabric that clung to every muscle. He picked up the barcode eraser and ran it over his tattoo.
“Madness,” whispered Omi.
Marten leaned near. “It’s better if I do this alone.”
Omi stared at him in the darkness, rolled over and pulled the blanket over his head.
Marten crept out of the 101st’s sleep zone and through the 910th and 52nd’s. He checked both ways, slid open a window whose tripwire he’d spliced yesterday and rerouted. Crawling through, he shut the window and removed a floor-piece outside. His body ached and he craved sleep. Shock trooper training went apace with brutal intensity. He slipped a stim-pill and waited. Chemical strength soon flooded. He was going to pay one of these days, but hopefully on the long trip to the Jupiter Confederation and not as a gelded neuter here.
He took the sucker climbing equipment from the hidden floor space, the elbow, kneepads and gloves, and like a fly—
He reached the top of the barracks, his muscles quivering from the exertion, and rested for a moment. Then he shucked off the climbing equipment and crawled to the barracks’ flagpole. He shimmied to the top, unclipped a line from his belt, swung the hook twice and threw it. With a soft click, it latched to the ceiling vent. He tested it, closed his eyes as he muttered a prayer, and then hoisted himself to the vent. The fit between the grilles was tight, but he crawled through, coiled his line and hooked it to his belt. Then he put his back against one side of the shaft and his feet against the other and climbed like a crab. By the time he reached the joint where the shaft leveled, he dripped with sweat.
Ten minutes later, he dropped from a vent in a maintenance area. He donned a previously hidden maintenance uniform, opened a door-lock and jogged down a utility corridor. Five kilometers later, he opened another hatch and walked briskly past other maintenance personnel with their mops, buckets and spray kits. Soon he passed dockworkers and shuttle mechanics. He entered a huge hanger buzzing with lifts removing shuttle engines and yellow-suited mechanics working on the engines or shuttles. Foremen shouted. Welding equipment created bright arc-glares. Marten hurried, nodded at a man who yelled at him and pointed at Marten’s bare head. Everyone else wore hardhats. Marten stepped through a door and walked down the carpeted corridor. He passed men and women drinking coffee in a cafeteria and opened a door with a restricted sign.
He jogged again and entered a different hanger. This one was empty, with a dusty floor and feeling of disuse. He hurried down rows of fifty-foot shelves made of girders and steel sheets. Finally, he reached his destination. Up four shelves sat two boxes. One should be marked:
He lacked a forklift, so he climbed the shelves. At the box, he balanced himself and crowbarred the lid, looked in and smiled.
“I knew you’d do it,” he whispered.
Marten removed the baggies, stuffed the vacc-suit and helmet into a duffel bag and returned to the floor. He checked his chronometer. Lycon might call an emergency drill in another hour. That would be cutting it tight if he tried to make it back in time. But the Training Master might not call one. He’d hope for luck.
Marten exited the empty hanger, strode to a new utility corridor and set off on the six-kilometer jog. Halfway there he palmed another stim, knowing the price his body would soon demand, or even worse that he would give himself a heart attack. Maybe that was the price of freedom, or attempting freedom.
