Bio-Weapon

“Who said that?” snapped Admiral Sioux.

No one volunteered to say.

“We’re not surrendering,” Admiral Sioux said. “We’re fighting to the last round, to the last bullet.”

“Bullet, Admiral?”

“I’ll blow the Bangladesh before I let the HBs get their hands on her.”

The sudden and profound silence around Admiral Sioux made her wonder if the beamship’s officers would let her carry out such a threat.

“Here comes another volley,” the Tracking Officer said.

“Damage control!” shouted Admiral Sioux. “Get me a working launch tube.”

“We’re trying, Admiral.”

“Then try harder, dammit!”

“Look at that,” said the Tracking Officer.

Admiral Sioux did. It made her snarl. They weren’t going to get her ship. No, sir. That wasn’t going to happen.

11.

Pain throbbed in his head. Marten tasted blood in his mouth. He smacked his lips as klaxons wailed for his attention. Kill, kill, kill, beat somewhere deep within him. He stirred. Then he blinked. His eyelids felt gluey, almost stuck together. He wondered if he had a concussion. Then the fog over his thought lifted and he knew that his torpedo had burrowed into the particle shield. Marten Kluge slapped the torp’s ejection button.

His seat moved backward, picking up speed as it slid out the rear of the torpedo. Buckles unsnapped and the battlesuit’s servomotors roared into life. Eight Gs of the Bangladesh’s acceleration pulled at him. But the battlesuit had exoskeleton power. He used his muscles and the suit amplified it many times over. With such suits on Earth, the Highborn could make 100-meter leaps. Here it allowed him to crawl out the hole made by the torpedo.

Over his gloves, he wore special pads. Every time he put his palm down nine-inch curved spikes thrust out and held on tight. Little barbs jutted out the nine-inch nails, helping the spikes hold onto the particle shield rock. He had the special curved spikes in his boot-toes as well. To withdraw them he had to chin a switch in his helmet. It was hard getting the hang of it. Slap your hand down, slam, the spikes thrust into the rock like explosive pitons, and then out shot the barbs. Chin for the left hand to pull in the barbs and then the claws, lift up the hand, move it, thrust in those spikes again, chin for the right hand, move it, thrust down, chin for the left foot. It was slow work climbing out this hole. He felt the Bangladesh’s high acceleration tugging at him the whole time. So he decided to take his time and do it right.

Soon, like some bizarre space gopher, he popped his head out of the hole. The pitted particle shield spread in all directions. Motion caught his eye. Out of a nearby hole, as if shot by cannon, a shock trooper flew away. The man’s arms flailed in a tragic-comic way, as if he could climb back to the particle shield with an invisible rope.

That man hadn’t been careful enough. The Gs had ripped him off the rock and hurled him into space.

Marten swallowed hard.

The shock trooper became a dot and disappeared because he was too far to see now. His oxygen would last several hours, several lonely hours with absolutely no hope of rescue.

What would he think about?

Marten shook his head, trying to drive away the thought, but it hung there, taunting him, frightening him, reminding him that failure to take the beamship meant death.

He chinned his suit so it glowed with a bright blue color. Then he crawled out the hole, pressing his body against the rock as if he loved it. So very carefully, he moved one hand or foot at a time, crawling across the particle shield, making sure those deeply curved spikes had driven in as far as possible. Other shock troopers did likewise.

Meanwhile, the Bangladesh continued to flee from Mercury.

Marten glanced back over his battlesuit’s shoulder. An HB missile moved up. It terrified him. A red laser flashed out its cone. Marten shouted hoarsely. Then something exploded, a flash and then nothing, darkness. Other movement caught his eye. More torpedoes coming. Two blossomed in space, beam hit before they could burrow to safety. Marten groaned. Bile rose in his throat. That could have been him. He didn’t know why he was the lucky one. Then the surviving torps smashed into the particle shield that he was on. The shield shook, and that threatened to loosen his grip.

“No, please, no,” he whispered, as his right hand slipped up and then whipped off the rock, the nine-inch curved claws showing with their little barbs. His servomotors whined as he hammered the spikes back into the rock. Motion in the corner of his visor caused him to look to his left. Another shock trooper had lost his grip and shot backward into space.

“Help me, God,” Marten whispered. “Please don’t let me die like that.”

His helmet crackled. Garbled, static, scratchy voices sounded. For a brief, insane second he thought it might be God answering. The reality of where he was took over. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make out the words.

“One hundred and twenty-fourth Maniple, report.”

More static, then little tinny voices tried to respond.

“Basil here, Maniple Leader.”

Marten dared look around again. He saw blue-glowing shock troopers clinging to the particle shield as he did. A few had green-glowing numbers.

Right, right, he chinned his suit, turning all its colors on. A big green 101 would now be on his back and helmet. And that action seemed to let him think again. He dared dial himself another shot of neurostim. Riding the particle shield with one tiny wrong move that would lead to a lonely, terror-filled death by suffocation was simply too debilitating for normal thought. As the drug pumped into him, more anger, rage, washed through him. It made him mad that he was scared. Then he got pissed.

He started crawling—carefully! Yeah, yeah, he wasn’t that mad.

He avoided a huge laser-made hole. It was deep and big. He glanced around. A lot of those holes dotted the shield. He bet some went almost all the way down.

Marten tried the comlink. It crackled horribly, and he heard many tinny voices.

“One-oh-one, report,” he said. He repeated it several times.

“Marten!”

“Here, Lance.”

“Where?”

Marten wasn’t about to raise an arm.

“Look around. Do you see any one-oh-one’s glowing?” he said.

“Oh, right,” said Lance. “We’re supposed to chin on the numbers. Just a minute.”

Marten swiveled his helmeted head. He saw a green 101 pop-on thirty meters from him, on the other side of a laser pit.

“I see you,” Marten said. “Look across the pit.”

“Gotcha. Oh, yeah, there you are.”

“Let’s meet halfway,” Marten said. He started crawling.

Other maniples called in and now more of the shock troopers showed their numbers. A few of the battlesuits didn’t move. Maybe their owners were too terrified. Most of the men crawled toward their maniple leaders.

As he crawled, Marten noticed how shot up the particle shield really was. It could crumble apart at any moment. That meant—they had to get off it fast!

“Wu, here,” called a man. He was the mission’s second in charge.

“Kang, here, Wu.”