Absorption (3 page)

Next, a group of three men silently picked a lock. They may have separated as they stormed through the house, since this cameraman didn’t film any of his compatriots in action – only a couple of victims. Brett stared in horrified fascination at the civilians killed to prove – what?

The next house had a better lock – two men and a woman had to kick the wooden door apart. The young couple inside stared in shock during the last moments of their lives. It was done silently, and when they found a little boy alone they managed to lead him away unresisting, by a route which bypassed the carnage. They must have been persuasive, Brett thought – the boy must have at least heard the door breaking. It could have been an act of mercy, but Brett had heard stories about the rape of Skulton and suspected otherwise. His right hand, resting on his leg, clenched into a useless fist. He opened it deliberately.

Several similar scenes were shown. The ones selected all had children in them.

Invariably all the adults in a house were killed, but the children were herded into a few easily guarded buildings left intact. Many of the children were merely frightened and bewildered, not having seen the swift murder of their parents. It could have been an act of mercy. The cameras lingered on a girl in a blue dress who trustingly held the hand of the man she hadn’t seen kill her parents as he led her away. It was Lydia.

The camera cut away from the children. Brett never saw the moment when the alarm was raised, but somehow the word had gotten out. The stone church and hall in the center of town made good defensive positions. Brett silently cheered on the defenders, although he already knew the outcome. The attacking force fought as if it were one many-bodied individual. Covering fire pinned down the occupants of each building from several directions as the rest of the force swept around to complete the destructions of less fortified areas. Then the buildings were destroyed with explosive shells from a distance, granting the occupants a clean death.

When every possible threat was destroyed, the killers started torturing and mutilating the children. There was no brutal jesting, no attempt to bury internal revulsion. The faces of the members of the overmind were calm and relaxed as the children sobbed and screamed. Brett forced himself to sit down again, unaware until that moment that rage had driven him to his feet.

The camera cut to Lydia, who must have been out of earshot previously since she trusted her new friend even when he pulled out a razor sharp knife, and seemed to think the first cut was some horrible accident.

Brett stopped the video. Roundhouse had been wracked by periodic wars for centuries – but the worst parts of this one could be laid at the feet of the Oceanians who had sent nanotechnology here, claiming beneficent motives. The Space Force would heal this world as best they could – then Brett wanted to be there when they went to Oceania afterwards, to hear them answer for this, and prevent it ever happening again. He would be on the ship sent there, even if he was still a Second Lieutenant ten years from now when it happened. His resolve hardened. He would do what he had to, follow the rules and please his superiors, but he would be there.

Ten years later

From a distance Oceania appeared much like home, with white clouds, blue oceans, and green and brown landmasses. The polar caps were much smaller. The land area was slightly smaller as well, with many islands replacing a few large continents. The image wasn’t direct from a single camera - the axis of the ship didn’t point directly at the planet, so the same spin that gave the ship gravity would have caused a simple picture to gyrate wildly. Instead it added color to an otherwise Spartan room. The planet was as beautiful as she was deadly.

Major Brett Johnson looked away from the view screen on the sickbay wall. Everything except the examination table and a single metal chair for the doctor was recessed into the wall. From previous experience as both a doctor and a patient, Brett knew the soft green plastic covering the examination table was more comfortable than it looked. The room was well equipped but small. A ship with a hundred thousand troops on board was sure to have every conceivable medical problem at least once, but space in the 1-G zone of the ship was especially precious. Other compact medical bays were distributed throughout the troop transport.

Brett glanced at the X-rays once more, but the previous doctor had summarized them accurately. He voiced his diagnosis, “You’re lucky. You’ll be fine. Just don’t get into any more fights, especially not ones requiring intervention by a sergeant.”

Moore shifted, as if to rise from the bed in protest. “Sir, I –”

Brett interrupted. “No, don’t tell me, not even if you’re as pure as the driven snow. I wasn’t there, and I’m not in your chain of command. Don’t worry though. Your officers tell me you’ve never had a serious problem before.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was odd that Brett, who had long ago been transferred to military intelligence, should be asked to examine this injury after another doctor had already done so. Possibly Moore’s Lieutenant hoped Brett would have a word with Sergeant Thorne. It was hard for a Lieutenant who hadn’t yet seen combat to ride herd on a battle tested sergeant, especially one who had the respect of said Lieutenant’s superiors. Brett had a reputation as a hard case, though he didn’t really think of himself as one.

Not his responsibility, especially not now that he had fought his way into a position where analyzing the dangers of nanotechnology was actually his job, even if the politicians didn’t listen to him. In a few hours he had to meet with Joyce Rollers and discuss their differences. There was something else he wanted to review beforehand. Nevertheless, he knew Sergeant Thorne was perfectly capable of breaking up a fight without sending a man to one of the sickbays, and wanted to make sure it happened that way next time. Troop morale was critical, especially with the long hard fight that might be coming.

As soon as he had left sick bay, he pulled the gray plastic rectangle off his belt. He sent a message to Thorne asking to see him.

The response came back a few seconds later. Sergeant Thorne would be busy the next few days, and it would be hard for him to meet in person unless the situation was urgent. A new group of soldiers were raising their Zig qualifications. If Major Johnson wanted to discuss Private Moore with him, Thorne respectfully assured him that he had nothing to add to his report, and the situation was completely under control.

Brett raised an eyebrow, although the message wasn’t quite insubordinate. Training in zero-g combat was important, but zero-g combat was not likely in the foreseeable future. The message indeed originated in the Zig training room at the core of the ship. Not wanting to interfere with Thorne’s busy schedule, Brett decided to go see him there.

The grey steel bulkheads of the cramped corridors were as familiar to Brett as any home he had ever had, as was the tiny lift which took him towards the center of the Firestorm. Gravity was very low here. He could still stand on the floor, carefully, but kept himself fastened as he pulled off his uniform and changed into a grey zero-g jumpsuit. Though he didn’t expect to work out, the proper fatigues for the gym were a habit. Then he got in the cart which decelerated him into its frame of reference. The cylinder at the core of the spherical ship rotated on magnetic bearings in the opposite direction the ship did, counteracting the artificial gravity.

Targets and red arrows lined the walls of the zero-G gym. The pattern of wear on the padding indicated most of the troops now knew what they were doing. A large thickly padded metal pole with many offshoots projected from one wall, looking something like a leafless tree. On the opposite wall, screens showed the inside of the Zig ring from several angles. Since Zig was an art practiced in three dimensions, the ‘ring’ was actually a cubical room adjoining the gym, heavily padded on all six walls, with a number of heavily padded handholds distributed symmetrically. Each martial artist entered through opposing sides, closing the doors behind them. Often the victor was obvious, but otherwise there were several rules for making the determination.

Thorne floated alone, watching replays of his bouts with the men he had just trained from several different camera angles. The impassive face showed no signs of tiredness as the muscular hands gripped a branch of the tree. Since the men had already left, this didn’t seem such an urgent part of their training. Brett bit back a barbed remark, instead saying, “I’m glad I managed to catch up with you between classes, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

The tone was perhaps a bit too respectful, as if humoring a distinguished but elderly Admiral or General.

Brett doggedly pursued the conversation, “You’ll be glad to hear Private Moore is going to be fine.”

The Sergeant’s response was slightly clipped, with no inflection, “I knew that, sir.”

Thorne certainly wasn’t making this easy. Brett had taken a few lessons from Thorne when getting his brown belt in judo, and felt they had involved deeper bruises than necessary. One thing had made a big impression on Brett though. Thorne had told him that a true master could tell how good someone was after a few seconds, just by watching the way he stood. Thorne had attitude but didn’t consider himself a master despite his black belt. Brett watched the replays of Thorne’s style on the screen. His Zig wasn’t nearly as good as his Judo.

Brett tried again. “The men are getting restless from all the time they’ve spent in this orbiting tin can.”

Thorne nodded in agreement. “Yes, sir, and it does make my duties harder. If you’re concerned about that, you’ll be happy to know those of us responsible for them are on top of the situation. On the other hand, if you’re worried the long confinement has gotten to me and I may be doing my job with excessive force, you should probably speak to my superiors. With all due respect, since you’re not in my chain of command you may not totally understand the situation.”

As they hung in free fall, holding their respective branches of the padded metal tree, something came to Brett. Thorne gripped a little too tightly, and not at the most comfortable angle. Perhaps he wasn’t too experienced in zero-g. Being a black belt in Judo didn’t give Thorne the same qualification for Zig. Thorne rarely trained others in Zig at all, and then only the slowest classes. Brett only had a blue belt in Zig, but what the heck.

“Maybe you’re right. That’ll teach me to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong. Since I’m up here, would you mind showing me a few Zig throws before your next class?”

Thorne didn’t look displeased by the opportunity to throw around a commissioned officer with propriety. The predatory eagerness vanished from Thorne’s face in an instant, replaced by a mask of politeness. “Yes sir, if you like.”

They each entered the cubical Zig ‘ring’ from opposing openings, pulling the portals shut behind them. The inner surfaces of the hatches were padded to match the other walls.

After the chime, they both had five seconds to launch themselves towards the center of the ring. After that any opponent still gripping the red cushioned handholds recessed in his door lost the round. Thorne jumped fast and hard towards Brett, which would have intimidated some people. Brett was ready for it from the bouts he had watched before. He took a moment to assimilate his opponent’s precise vector and spin, and pushed himself off. When he intercepted Thorne, he grabbed him.

The grappling pair drifted in the direction of Brett’s wall, since Thorne was heavier and had been moving faster. Since their centers of gravity had not been on precisely the same vectors, the resultant double mass had spin. Since Brett had observed the other’s motion before launching and planned the angle of the collision, Thorne hadn’t managed to get a grip on him. It was Brett who chose the moment to push off, sending them each towards different walls.

Thorne bounced awkwardly against the wall, avoiding injury only because the handholds were recessed instead of protruding. Brett managed to grab a couple of handholds on the adjoining wall. It wasn’t a perfect finish in the red spot in the center of the wall, but in a real combat Brett would have been ready to continue, while Thorne bounced helplessly off the bulkhead. Brett had won the first throw.

Brett readied for the next bout with growing confidence – but Thorne made a perfect textbook launch. He waited until almost the end of the five seconds, so that Brett didn’t have time to observe his launch before executing his own. Thorne was slowly turning, ready to either speed his spin by curling up in a ball or slow it by spreading his arms and legs like a starfish. Brett didn’t manage to lay a hand on him, was himself grabbed and released at a moment of his opponent’s choosing. Much worse, he held his curl so tight he spun himself dizzy, and started to uncurl much too late. The combined force of his motion, his spin, and his uncurling rammed his head into the padding. By sheer luck, his blindly grabbing hand locked on to a handhold, so he didn’t go bouncing around like an idiot.

“Are you all right, sir? Maybe we should stop now?”

The solicitousness sounded almost genuine, which made Brett even more furious. He said casually, “No, let’s finish best of three. I need to improve my recovery,” as if referring to a minor thing, rather than a major embarrassment.

The dizziness couldn’t be a concussion, not with all that padding. He had just spun for too long. The pain in his neck couldn’t be a big deal. He moved fine. He didn’t have to show off for the last round, just avoid acting like a beginner who had injured himself.