stations. Thousands of system-craft darted into docking bays or launched outward. They went to or returned from other parts of the factory that were half a world away. They zoomed down to the planet or caught the billions of tons of ores catapulted from Mercury. Many circled the mighty Doom Star
Several military shuttles docked at a kilometers-huge Zero-G Training Room that drifted between the Sun Works Factory and Mercury. Training Master Lycon put his shock troops through their paces.
Within the kilometers-huge room floated cubes and triangles the size of barns. The geometric shapes had been made to look like portions of a blasted spaceship. Far in the background and all around appeared points of light, make-believe stars. The farthest wall shone brightly, the supposed sun-reflected side of an orbital habitat.
Floating thickest in the room’s mid-section were nearly fifty frozen shock troops. They wore stiff orange bodysuits that periodically buzzed. The sound was the suit’s generator releasing punishment-volts that zapped through the frozen victim. The enclosed helmets kept any grunting or groaning internal, although a detector within the helmet picked up the noise, causing the generator to add a few extra volts during the next charge.
The Highborn firmly believed in the virtue of suffering in silence. Premen training theory also stated that failures should be instantly punished. Furthermore, these pain procedures accustomed premen to pain endurance, another virtue. Also, the fear of training failure made the exercise “real” in the subjective sense of the zapped trainee. Finally, at least so the theory went, how could an instructor train premen to overcome pressure unless pressure was vigorously applied?
On the simulated space-habitat wall watchdogged a single remaining laser pulse-cannon, this one ready to emit a low-watt beam. The pitted nozzle rotated back and forth, hunting for motion and the color orange.
The last five-man maniple hid behind a nearby cube, out of sight of the cannon. They were all that was left of the attackers. These five knew that if one of those pulses touched their suit they would freeze, giving a practice kill to the enemy for this satellite storming drill.
One of the floating, orange-suited men peeked around the cube’s corner and at the pulse-cannon. On the top of his helmet was stenciled OMI.
The other four floated behind him, holding onto rails. Their helmets read MARTEN, KANG, LANCE and VIP. Kang was a massive man and dwarfed the others. Vip was the smallest. Otherwise, their bodysuits and helmet seemed identical.
Omi jerked back as a low-watt pulse grazed the cube’s corner. He held a heavy laser tube, his image glowing in the momentary red beam.
“A good leader leads through example,” Vip said, peering at Marten as he spoke via comlink. Through Vip’s faceplate showed the little man’s hair-lip scar and a pulp nose, all mashed about his narrow face.
“That’s a good maxim,” said Lance. “Bet the HBs would like it.”
Marten kept staring at Vip, watching the man’s twitchy eyeballs, like little lead pips. They were always on the move.
“What’cha grinning at?” asked Vip.
When Marten didn’t answer, Lance said, “You’ve been outvoted, Marten.”
Marten touched his holster. As maniple leader, his laser pistol could freeze their suits. So far, it had always trumped any of their arguments.
“Whatever we do we’re gonna take hits,” Marten said. “So—”
“Give me Omi’s laser tube and I’ll take out the pulse-cannon,” Vip said.
“Trade potshots with it?” Marten asked.
“You don’t think I can?”
“We have to move,” Kang said.
Omi nodded. “Immobility brings death.” He quoted an HB combat maxim. The genetic super-soldiers had hundreds of them, quoting them with dreadful regularity.
“Right,” Marten said. “Lance, Vip, at my signal you fly left.”
“We’ll get hit,” complained Vip.
“Correct,” Marten said.
“You and Omi fly left,” Vip said sullenly.
Kang hung onto a float rail with his left hand, reached out and grabbed Vip with his right and slammed him against the cube.
“Kang and I will take the wall-buster and go right,” Marten said, paying no attention to those two. “Omi, you take out the pulse-cannon if you can. Everyone ready?”
Vip shook his head from where his helmet had struck the cube. His upper lip curled as he stared at Kang. Lance settled between Kang and Vip as he glared at the massive man.
“Use your thrusters,” Marten said. “Make the pulse-cannon really have to swivel in order to hit us all.”
“What tactical brilliance,” Vip said. “By the time you brake for the wall—”
“Go!” Marten said.
Both Lance and Vip, who hung onto the float rail and had pushed up against the cube, thrust their legs. They sailed in the zero gravity, Lance in the lead. Both men thumbed the switch on the handle gripped in their right fists. Oxygen belched from their jetpacks, causing them to jerk and fly faster.
The pulse-cannon swiveled and tracked. S
Washed with red light, Lance froze. His comlink cut out and sliced his groan in half. Vip fired his laser pistol, an ineffectual weapon against the cannon, but it made the HBs happy seeing aggressive gestures. Vip’s beam washed over the pulse-cannon a second before it froze him.
From the other side of the cube and in the other direction, Kang and Marten jetted. Between them, they held an imitation wall-buster. The pitted pulse-cannon swiveled. Omi peaked from behind the cube as he aimed the heavy laser tube.
The pulse-cannon beeped in warning, jerking hard toward Omi, who fired. His beam missed, splashing a foot from the armored cannon.
“Aim!” crackled Kang’s voice.
Another shot missed and then Omi froze, hit.
Marten and Kang sped at ramming speed toward the fast-approaching wall.
“Brake,” Kang said.
Marten laughed as his jetpack continued to hiss propellant.
The pulse-cannon swiveled onto them as it pumped red flashes like tracers.
Kang let go of the wall-buster. He twisted expertly as his thick thumb jerked the handle switch. His jetpack quit. Once in position—with his back to the wall—Kang jabbed his thumb down. Air hissed and he braked. All the while, his other hand drew his laser and fired at the hated cannon. Then Kang froze as the pulse-cannon triggered the lock on his bodysuit. Each punishment zap brought a muffled curse from in his helmet.
Marten crashed against the simulated space habitat wall. His teeth rattled and his right ankle twisted and popped. But the wall-buster stuck to the habitat and a loud siren shrieked. At this point, the wall-buster would explode and breach the enemy habitat. That was military success for this tactical practice, as one hundred percent casualties had been within the allowable limits.
Lights immediately snapped on all over the kilometers huge gym, destroying the illusion of a battle-strewn space-field. The bodysuits unfroze and shock troopers shivered, or groaned, or laughed, or did whatever was natural to them with the stoppage of punishment pain. One by one, the premen jetted toward the exit. From there they filed aboard the shuttles, which returned them to barracks.
A few of the shock troopers congratulated Marten. Others scowled. They were angry his maniple had won the competition. Everyone toweled off after showering. Then the winning maniple donned blue tunics, brown spylo jackets, civilian pants and boots and re-boarded a shuttle. Their victory reward was an evening in the famed Recreation Level 49, Section 218 of the Sun Works Factory, the Pleasure Palace.
Marten sat at a shuttle window, glumly peering at the mighty space station.
The ring-factory rotated in order to simulate Earth-normal gravity for those within. The gargantuan space station was a veritable world unto itself, a world now run by the Highborn. It was their furnace and incubation for
