A Device Of Death Part 6

For a moment Elyze felt acute dismay, then she chuckled and muttered, 'So much for that.'

'Pardon?'

'Never mind. What's next for our wonderman?'

'Don't sound so dismissive. He can be quite charming and funny.'

'Sorry.' She looked at Cara intently and the other read her meaning.

'You can tell Dr Emberley that the therapy is working already. I'm feeling a lot better.'

'That's good news,' Elyze said with feeling. 'I was beginning to get worried about you.'

'Well, don't any more. I think I'm over the worst.' She looked at her watch. 'We're going to take the Doctor out to the test zones to see a live fire exercise soon, in preparation for the MICA trials. Maybe when he's seen the sharp end of our work he can come up with a few more modest, and practical, suggestions.'

The battle team of six Glarrocks scuttled through the ruins.

They resembled upright armadillos, with armoured plates and weapon pouches strapped over their pale bellies to supplement their own natural segmented hides. Each carried a high intensity force rifle, and, though they were large and powerful creatures, they also moved quickly and silently.

Their target came into view: a synthonic trooper stalking along a weed-choked alley between crumbling brick walls, its red eyes scanning ceaselessly from side to side within the recessed visor slot of its helmet. In its human-patterned right hand it carried a heavy plasma blaster.

The Glarrocks timed their ambush perfectly, rising from cover and firing simultaneously. Three shots actually struck the trooper, punching holes in its body sh.e.l.l and sending it staggering backwards, before its own gun swung up. Two b.a.l.l.s of blue-white fire spat forth and struck two of its attackers, taking the head off one, and the shoulder and arm off the other. Then the plasma blaster was shattered by a second volley of force bolts. Throwing it aside the trooper charged at the nearest brick wall, its heavier clawed arm punching forward to smash a hole in the brickwork and drive its body through after it. Then it was gone in a cloud of dust and fragments leaving a man-sized hole behind it, even as force bolts peppered the wall. The surviving Glarrocks divided into pairs and scampered for either end of the long protecting wall even as there came the dull double thump of the trooper's integral backpack grenade launcher. Ground and rubble erupted about two of the running creatures, tossing them briefly into the air only to crash motionless to earth. Before the last pair of Glarrocks could round the wall there was a grinding splintering groan as the trooper pushed the end section over. It broke across the alien soldiers, flattening them to the ground. One of the Glarrocks was completely buried, but the other managed to scramble free, protected by its thick hide, but losing its force rifle in the process. The trooper pounded through the rubble towards it even as the Glarrock rose and flung itself forward. The two powerful forms collided, the impact actually knocking the trooper backwards.

An armoured paw smashed into its integral visor. Then the trooper's own arm lifted and fell just once. There was a sound like the crack of a tree branch. The trooper released its grip on its a.s.sailant and the Glarrock fell to the ground and lay still.

A siren sounded and the trooper froze into immobility. A heavily armoured door in one of the more substantial buildings swung open and the Doctor, Cara and a handful of technicians emerged and walked over to the site of the battle.

The Doctor prodded the fallen Glarrock with his toe. Close to the moulding joints in the computer-controlled manikin's body sh.e.l.l, innumerable patched and replaced plates and chipped paint from previous test zone battles were plain to see.

The trooper's armoured skin was pitted with several deep force-bolt pits, but these were already filling with some glistening sticky fluid. The Doctor peered at it closely.

Already the small scaled plates about the damaged sections seemed to be growing.

'Self-repairing?' he asked Cara.

'Yes, up to a point. All our synthonic devices have some version of the system, but it works best on units of this size.

The exact formulation is restricted, but I'm sure you can make an educated guess.'

The Doctor dabbed his finger in one of the 'wounds' and sniffed the fluid. 'Mmm,, an electrosensitive polymer suspension of metal salts?' Tarron nodded. The Doctor beamed and put a finger secretively to his lips.

'We're always modifying and improving the troopers,' said a young technician enthusiastically, striding over to them, 'they're our most successful design. For all the airpower, missiles and heavy weapons you employ, no combat zone is safe until ground forces have physically occupied it and located and subdued every last unit of the opposition. And that requires precision application of force, often hand to hand.

Then there are the psychological factors. Friend and foe alike relate to a simulacrum of a living warrior in interesting ways '

'Why don't you,' said the Doctor sharply, 'make dummies that bleed when they're damaged? Just to remind yourselves that these clever toys actually kill living beings.'

The technician was unabashed. 'They say the Averonians use live prisoners to test their weapons. Would you rather we did the same?'

The balloon-tyred wide wheel-based ground car b.u.mped along the track that wound between the test zones back towards the cliff wall that housed the main complex. The Doctor slumped in his seat, brooding, his feet propped up on the dashboard and his hat pulled down over his eyes.

'There is no other way to test combat units,' Cara pointed out once again.

'I know. But think of it as another aspect of the isolation you complained about this morning. You mustn't lose touch with the reality of what you're doing.'

Cara sighed. 'Well, it's not the sort of advice we expected, but I'll put it forward.'

The Doctor tilted his hat back and smiled at her. 'I think that would be very sensible...h.e.l.lo who's this: Cecil B. de Mille?'

They were pa.s.sing a reproduction of a section of an alien forest, dotted with large coniform growths sprouting colourful plumes of feathery leaves from their tips. Moving through them was another party of dummy warriors, while a small group of Deepcity personnel were busily engaged in filming their progress.

'Just Neels Prander making one of his training yids,' Cara explained. 'Now he knows about adding realism to the animates.'

They pulled up and waited patiently beside the car for the scene to end. At last Prander waved to them cheerily and came over.

'I'm glad to see you again, Doctor. I wanted to ask if you would sit for me.'

'For a portrait, you mean?'

'Yes. There's a gallery on the promenade level, and, well, we don't get that many distinguished visitors.'

The Doctor appeared to swell under this flattery. He thrust out his jaw and attempted to study his own reflection in the car's side window. 'Well, I do have a certain profile which has been commented upon favourably.'

'Has it? I mean is your memory coming back?'

'Some sizeable gaps remain,' the Doctor admitted, continuing to admire his reflection. 'Knowledge without source or proper chronological structure most disconcerting, I a.s.sure you. I still can't recall the coordinates of my homeworld for example.' He turned his disconcerting pale eyes on to Prander. 'However, we were just admiring your handiwork.'

They crossed to the synthetic alien warriors, now standing quite motionless. They were small slim beings with dark purple skins like polished leather, and tiny faces at the end of curiously elongated thrusting heads. The detailing of their harness and individual physiognomies was far more complete than the Glarrocks' had been.

'Most convincing,' the Doctor commented after a few moments' study.

'You've got to have realism to tell the truth,' Prander explained with evident feeling. 'What I produce here are hardly works of art, but they serve an important function.

Recognition of Alliance and Union members, battle techniques of enemy species based on our data banks, and so on. The results are sent out with weapons s.h.i.+pments. It's so important that the various races of the Alliance know who they are up against and how many different species are involved in the struggle.'

The Doctor pointed to the realistic injuries that had been applied to some of the dummies. 'I see you believe in displaying blood and suffering where appropriate.'

'Oh yes,' Prander replied with almost tangible pa.s.sion, 'I believe in its importance. I don't want anyone to forget the suffering Averon has brought us.'

The Doctor looked at him intently for a moment. 'Yes,' he agreed, 'I can see how important it is to you.' And he turned and walked back to the car with his head bowed in thought.

8.

Special Guest he ma.s.sive awning supported by a hastily erected geodetic fram T ework trembled with the sound of uproarious applause from almost four thousand Jand soldiers. The act they cheered was not that outstanding, but the men were happy. Except for a few isolated units currently being mopped up, the Nethra.s.s invasion force had been routed and pushed off Jand. And so the victors were enjoying a spot of what Harry thought of as old-fas.h.i.+oned 'R and R'. A live show had been put on, revealing that the spirit of wartime ENSA concert parties roamed freely between the stars.

The show was also for their distinguished guests. Some Landoran Alliance s.p.a.cefleet personnel were seated in the front row with the local Jand dignitaries and senior officers.

Harry wasn't sure he wanted to meet Landorans at that moment, even for the pleasure of seeing another human face.

They might ask awkward questions about who he was and how he got here. So he sat in the semi-darkness a few rows back, along with the junior officers and other members of Ch.e.l.l'lak's staff that he'd come to know over the last few days. They seemed to take it as a gesture of comrades.h.i.+p to those with whom he had been under fire, which suited him perfectly. Besides, he was fully ent.i.tled to such a position. He was wearing a Jand military sash and honorary rank insignia of a hectander, which Ch.e.l.l had presented to him personally.

Ch.e.l.l himself was in the front row with the rest. Harry glimpsed him from time to time apparently trying to talk urgently to the Landorans on some matter. Unfortunately the entertainment kept interfering with the conversation.

Some acts, such as tumbling, juggling and acrobatics, Harry could enjoy without special effort. These also seemed to feature scantily clad female Jand, whose charms left him untouched, but were evidently deeply appreciated by his companions. A knockabout comedy routine was likewise comprehensible apparently Jand soldiers liked a pratfall as much as their Earthly counterparts. Spoken humour was more difficult to comprehend, relying on nuances his re-attuned mind did not always pick up. Songs were hardest on his ears, as the Jand seemed to use a semi-atonal musical scale. Still he hummed along with a few of the choruses that were evidently popular favourites with the men, and decided that, as a doctor, it was just the tonic he would have prescribed for battle-weary troops.

Then, right at the end of the programme, came an unexpected announcement. As the curtains closed on the last billed act, the compere came forward to the front of the stage and raised his hands for silence.

'Your attention, please. I have great pleasure presenting a special guest. For security reasons his presence could not be revealed to you earlier, and sadly he cannot stay with us long.

But he has specially requested this opportunity to address you.

He was the commander of the Alliance fleet at the battle of Norrcon Beacon, and the taking of Falence Nine. We are honoured to welcome Admiral Zeff Dorling of the Alliance s.p.a.ceforce!'

A surprised murmur dissolved into a thunderous round of applause as the curtains parted to reveal a wiry, grey-haired human, dressed in an immaculate midnight-black uniform with his right arm in a sling. He saluted the Jand soldiers and patiently waited for the applause to die down, smiling gently.

Then he spoke in a clear and robust voice with a hearty resonance to it.

'Thank you, friends, comrades...for whatever our origins we must never forget we are all comrades in this great struggle against the forces of Averon. I wished particularly to speak to you today, because you have been fighting for something which has a very special meaning for me. No, not your own lives, important though they are every soldier knows his own life cannot be held that high. Nor do I mean the safety of your families and loved ones, dear as they must be to you personally. No, I am talking of the freedom, the life, perhaps the very existence, of Jand itself!'

Harry felt a stir of emotion run through the audience, and a close tension building up under the lofty tent. Admiral Dorling continued.

'Yes, your world! What greater prize can there be, yet what more precious and worthy thing to defend. The birthplace of your race countless millions of years ago, the cradle of your civilization, the mother earth that fed you; that is what your enemy the Nethra.s.s, and through them Averon, has been trying to take from you! Shall they have it?'

'No!' came several shouts.

'No, they will not,' Dorling agreed. 'Because they have underestimated two things: the courage of the Jand and the strength of the Alliance!'

Scattered cheering interrupted him. With his good hand Dorling gently signalled for quiet, then continued in a more sombre tone.

'I speak as one who has seen his own world destroyed by the forces of Averon. I would not wish what happened to Landor to happen to any other.'

Harry was aware of sympathetic glances from those around him. So that explained Ch.e.l.l's strange question when they first met. He tried to look suitably angry but resolute, which came easily in the circ.u.mstances. He found himself sweating and ran a finger round his collar, even as he thought what unspeakable monsters these Averonians must be to destroy a world!

'Interstellar war,' Dorling continued, 'is the greatest abomination that the Averon Union has ever perpetrated upon its innocent and peace-loving neighbours. Yes, they are strong but we united together are stronger! They shall not win. We shall not let them win! We shall fight them on the ground, in the air, in the depths of s.p.a.ce. Whether it takes one year or a hundred, we shall not rest until their so-called "Union" is broken for ever and every one of their miserable allies has been sent back to their own worlds beaten and cowed!'

The cheers and shouts were louder and fiercer than before, and Harry found himself adding his own voice to them, righteous anger now smouldering within him. Dorling signalled for silence for the last time.

'I give you my pledge and that of all the forces the Alliance commands. We are beside you and share your goals: Victory over Nethra.s.s! Crush the Union! Death to Averon!'

And the whole audience rose to its feet, punching the air with clenched fists, shouting, stamping their feet and repeating the chant over and over again. And Harry was standing with them, feeling at that moment as vengeful and determined as any Jand.

'Victory over Nethra.s.s! Crush the Union! Death to Averon!'

9.

Courage he tone sounded loudly three times within the long wo T rkshed.

'End of second work period,' Baal announced, his amplified voice echoing through the building. There was a large visi screen mounted on the wall over every a.s.sembly line, and they often worked under the Averonian's magnified gaze.

Machinery hummed to a stop and the workers downed tools and stepped back from their places, ma.s.saging aching arms and backs. Sarah put down the bundle of synthonic body sh.e.l.l parts she had been carrying and joined the others as they formed up into ranks for counting. At a signal from the guard they filed out, at the same time as the next s.h.i.+ft was marched in through, another door. The a.s.sembly line worked around the clock.

'So ends another fun-filled day,' Sarah observed wearily, dragging her feet as they were marched out of the factory compound. The thin air made all work seem that much more tiring.

'That's about how they go, Seventy-three,' 829 agreed.

829 was a lean middle-aged human woman from a Landoran outpost world. She must have had a name, but like many other workers she seemed to have abandoned it, referring to herself and others solely by their ident plate numbers. Whether this was a defensive mechanism to distance themselves from some traumatic past event or simply surrendering to the system, Sarah wasn't sure, but she was determined not to follow their example. I have a name not a number, she reminded herself firmly, but she still felt like a prisoner. Apart from the ubiquitous synthonic guards ('synths'

as everybody called them disparagingly) there were several more large visi screens mounted on pylons over most stretches of fencing, so that Baal could oversee almost every part of the camp. It also meant they had to look up at his image when he gave orders or made announcements.

Once through the gate into the living quarters section they were allowed to break ranks. Wearily they trudged into the general hall, queued for their bowls of food and plastic cutlery, and slumped at benches and tables stained and worn smooth by years of use. The food was some bland synthetic, with very little taste, apparently formulated to be palatable to the wide range of species that made up the workforce.

'It could be worse,' 829 said, seeing Sarah's face as she ate.

'That's the problem!' Sarah snapped back.

She could already feel herself being drawn into the routine of the camp. The awful simplicity of acceptance, of saying: well, the worst has happened and I can live with it. The work is hard but not totally soul-destroying or body-breaking, the conditions are austere but not intolerably so. There's no real hope of rescue, so why waste energy on hope? All decisions were made for you, so why bother to think? It could have been worse.

Some workers, she learnt from 829, had been there for years. 'There are about three thousand here on average,' she explained. 'Some are prisoners of war handed over by other Union allies according to some sort of quota, a few are Union personnel sent here for punishment, but most are Alliance civilians caught in raids on outposts or s.h.i.+ps, often scientists or senior diplomatic staff.'

'But why go to all that trouble?' Sarah wondered.

's.n.a.t.c.hing the higher ranking ones must cause panic on their homeworlds indecision, not knowing if they're alive or dead; perhaps they can extract some useful information out of some of them, and I suppose they would make useful hostages if it came down to it. But mostly I think Averonians simply like collecting important people and making them do menial work.'

'And has anybody ever escaped successfully?' Sarah asked.