Strontium-90 (4 page)

Kulik stood before it as the bow slipped from his hands. Beast and man regarded one another. The giant bear took a step toward Kulik. It was so startling manlike that Kulik felt compelled to speak. He tried to form words. Then, as if in a dream, the great bear toppled sideways.

His hands shook as Kulik crouched beside the wheezing Lur. He lay on his back. Ribs protruded from the ruined chest and blood matted the black fur.

Kulik stumbled to the king’s cairn and pried off the charm of royalty. It was heavy in his hands. The magic it contained—

As the Lur lay dying, Kulik knelt and worked the band up the long arm. Then he pressed the handle of
Blood of the Earth
into the Lur’s hand.

The Lur watched Kulik with glazed eyes. He worked his bloody fanged maw. “I would have reunited my race
and raised new victory steles. There would have been a new king, a new era. Now….” Bloody froth bubbled. “Take the land, O man. Defeat the Skunk People. Destroy the Ice.”

Kulik laid a hand on the Lur’s shoulder. There were tears in his eyes and he spoke hoarsely. “I will lead my People across the
Ice. We will battle the Skunk People wherever we find them. This I vow, blood brother. Your courage—” Kulik could say no more.

The Lur turned his head toward the king in the cairn. The dead bear lay in the way. Its blood had already begun to freeze. The Lur struggled to
lift his axe. Then he rattled his last breath.

***

Later, a weary Kulik emerged from the glacier. He bore mighty bear claws in a pouch. And in his quiver, he carried a double-length arrow. Its name was
Blood of the Lurii
.

Strontium-90

1.

Although he was weightless and feeling sick, CS1 Blake stared at the floating corpse. The open mouth with its protruding tongue and the way miniscule globules of spit floated around it disgusted him.

Blake turned away, and with his Velcro-soled shoes making tearing
-cloth sounds, he walked out of the Captain’s Module. He entered a steel corridor with float rails on the sides and a Velcro rug on the floor.

Lanky, sandy-haired and rather vacant-eyed, Blake was the computer specialist for the
Deng Lo
Attackship. He rubbed his hurting forehead before tapping a pad on his neck. He whispered, “The Captain’s dead.”

“Say again?” Blake heard the tinny voice from the implant embedded in his left ear.

Blake squeezed his eyes together, trying to will the headache away. He tapped the neck pad again. “I said the Captain’s dead.”

“Where are you?”

“Outside the Captain’s Module.”

“Don’t move.”

Blake leaned against the bulkhead. He felt no vibration. There hadn’t been any for over two years. Slowly, his headache receded. For some reason it left his mouth tasting cottony.

“CS1 Blake, please stand at attention.”

Blake turned. Two men floated toward him along the red-lit corridor. The lead man, the political officer, was small with unhealthy, pockmarked skin and a neat gray mustache. He wore a shabby uniform and stuck a stimstick between his thin lips. The second man was the
Deng Lo
’s doctor. He was medium-sized and wore a white smock. He was bald, had pink eyes, never frowned or smiled and had impossibly smooth skin. Blake wasn’t certain, but it was possible the doctor was an android.

The political officer Velcroed his feet to the carpet and squinted suspiciously at Blake. Red smoke curled from the stimstick to a vent that opened, whirred and sucked the smoke away. The political police—the Pak Dow—never gave out the names of their officers. It had been Chairman Feng’s first dictate.

“Check the Captain,” the political officer said. With a nod, the doctor floated into the module. The political officer continued to suck on his stimstick and watch Blake.

Blake’s head throbbed anew. He hated the narcotic smoke but was afraid to say anything about it. It made strange memories swirl, ones that struggled for attention. He was afraid of those memories and always pushed them deeply away.

The doctor floated back out and said in his dull monotone, “He’s dead all right.”

The political officer flicked ashes at the vacuuming vent. “Find out how, and please hurry.”

The doctor disappeared back into the module.

“CS1 Blake,” the political officer said, “do you realize the Captain was to make his decision today, in less than an hour?”

Blake’s head began to hurt anew.

“Two years, Blake. We’ve journeyed two years to let the Captain make his decision.” The political officer’s eyes radiated menace.

The doctor poked his bald head back out of the door.

“Well?” asked the political officer.

“His skull was crushed.”

“Please tell me how?”

The doctor pursed his bloodless lips. “I’d say his head was slammed against the computer table five or six times.”

The political officer closed his eyes as he dragged deeply on his stimstick. “How long has he been dead?” he asked.

“...Three, four minutes.”

The political officer looked sharply at Blake. “Did you witness this death?”

Blake’s headache pierced between his eyes, making him groan in pain.

“What’s wrong with him?”

The doctor’s cold fingers probed over Blake’s body. Then a handscanner make its clicks as the doctor waved it over Blake’s head. “He checks out,” the doctor said matter-of-factly.

“You, CS1 Blake,” the political officer said, “what’s wrong with you?”

The headache slowed its drumming rhythm. Blake managed to swallow a dry lump down his throat. “My head hurts,” he whispered.

The political officer’s eyes bored into Blake’s. “You were born in Montana, North America, correct?”

Blake nodded.

“Your parents died in the eighty-six space strike?”

“I think so.”

“Your loyalty rating is ninety-eight point three percent?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never heard of that before.”

The political officer flicked away the stub of his stimstick and pulled another from his crumpled pack. “But I have.”

Blake didn’t understand, not the man or his methods. He only truly understood computers and their programs.

“Perhaps it was a suicide,” the doctor said tonelessly.

The political officer slid his gaze from Blake to the doctor.

“The chance is slim, granted,” said the doctor. “This is the third death in two years—all from accidental causes.”

The political officer inhaled his stimstick to life. After several seconds, he said, “Someone must make the decision.”

“What about you?” asked the doctor.

“Impossible, of course,” the political officer said. “If only you and I were left you would decide. In his wisdom, Chairman Feng has forbidden the Pak Dow from making command decisions.” He smiled wryly. “It would sully our purity.”

The doctor blinked his pink eyes, saying nothing.

The political officer thoughtfully sucked on his stimstick.

Blake felt compelled to ask, “Political Officer, who will make the decision?”

“Are you really that dense?”

“I monitor the computers,” said Blake. “I fix them when they malfunction. Command matters...
.” Blake shrugged.

The political officer’s hand trembled as he shook out a third stimstick, lighting it with the second. He glared at the hand, willing it to stop. The hand refused. He finally grunted something unintelligible and stuck the third stimstick between his lips.

“You should not smoke so much,” the doctor said.

The political officer nodded absently as he studied Blake. “You act as if you’re scrubbed.”

The doctor immediately reset his handscanner and passed it by Blake’s head again. It clicked as before. “...It’s possible,” the doctor said, “but I consider it unlikely.”

“Why?” asked the political officer.

“Mind-scrubbed humans cannot function in a technological environment.”

“They can if memory implants are put into them.”

The doctor raised almost nonexistent eyebrows.

“It’s been done before,” the political officer said.

“I didn’t know it was possible.”

The political officer made a slight gesture before he turned back to Blake.

“May I go, Political Officer?” asked Blake.

“May I go, he says.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t know,” the doctor said.

“Is that true, CS1 Blake? Don’t you know?”

Blake’s headache was gone. “Know what?” he asked.

The political officer laughed harshly. “You’ve been scrubbed, all right. There’s no curiosity or social awareness in you. Wouldn’t you agreed, Doctor?”

“It’s possible.” The doctor stared at Blake. “He’s... different.”

Yes, different,” said the political officer. “Yet he’s still our new Captain.”

Blake blinked rapidly, in confusion.

“Computer Specialist, First Rank is higher on the organization
al chart than Ship’s Doctor.” The political officer sucked hard on his stimstick. “You will follow me to the Captain’s Deck and make the decision. Is that understood?”

Blake nodded.

The political officer flicked away his third stub, and with an expert twist, he unlatched his shoes from the carpet.

2.

For the first time, CS1 Blake stood in the Captain’s Deck. There were three acceleration couches with their computer keyboards in the armrests. Otherwise, the room was bare.

“Yours is the middle couch,” said the political officer.

Blake propelled himself toward it, soon strapping himself in. The doctor took the left couch, the political officer the right.

“Close door and lights off,” the political officer said.

The hatchway door closed and the lights faded. Illumination now came from the holoimage of the planets hovering above them. The majority of the light came from Jupiter with its soft red glow. The rest of the light came from blue Neptune. Saturn and Uranus were presently on the other side of the Sun and were therefore not shown.

“You’re aware of the tactical situation, I hope,” the political officer said.

Blake had a hard time concentrating because his head hurt again.

The political officer sighed. “Display the fleets from a wide-angle shot.”

Three red triangles, one after the other in a line, appeared in the holoimage. The red triangles were halfway between Jupiter and Neptune. There was also a blue triangle. It was barely out of Neptune’s orbit.

The political officer said, “The red triangles are three Trioligarchy Battlefleets. The one nearest Neptune is the Earth Battlefleet. The Mars Battlefleet follows it. Thirdly is the Deception Fleet.”

Blake furrowed his forehead.

“The blue triangle represents the Tyrant of Neptune’s Battlefleet.”

“What must I decide?” whispered Blake.

“Yes, the primary question. The answer is when to fire our lasers.”

Blake’s head hurt worse than before. “I don’t understand.”

The political officer checked his garments for stimsticks, coming up empty. He cursed softly.

“Not on the Captain’s Deck,” said the doctor.

The political officer scowled before giving his attention back to the holoimage. “Magnification on Neptunian Battlefleet.”

The solar system holoimage vanished. In its place appeared a vast field of prismatic crystals. They shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow.

Blake sucked in his breath, remembering now. Modern space fleets hid behind prismatic crystals. The P-Field, as it was called, protected the ships behind it from long-range lasers. The holoimage slowly shifted to a side shot. First were the P-Field
s, then massive asteroid ships and then Neptunian maulers, cruisers and destroyers.

“Wide-view,” said the political officer.

The solar system reappeared, as did the red and blue triangles.

“Indicate trajectories.”

Dotted lines zipped out from each triangle, showing the present course and destination if speeds and aim remained constant. The Earth and Neptunian Battlefleets were on a collision course. The Mars Fleet followed the Earth Fleet, while the Deception Fleet headed toward the satellite cities that orbited Neptune. The nature of P-Fields made it unlikely that any of these fleets would change their present course. Blake, as any shipmate would, knew that a space vessel could only carry so many prismatic crystals in its storage tanks. If a ship or ships deployed a P-Field and then veered away in another direction, that would lose the fleet their carefully built P-Field. They would have to deploy another. It would use up their limited store of prismatic crystals. If they enemy fleet tried to do a burn through, they might not have enough left to stop the enemy lasers. Therefore, once a fleet built up sufficient velocity and deployed its P-Field, it seldom changed course or speed.

Three years ago the Trioligarchy of Venus, Earth and Mars conquered Jupiter and Saturn’s moons. Then they accused Neptune and Uranus’s satellite cities of warmongering. Chairman Feng demanded they elect one person and send him or her to Mars for peace talks. The people of Neptune had complied. The Chairman’s media team had immediately dubbed the representative as ‘the Tyrant of Neptune.’ The talks had broken off a year ago. War was declared and the Battlefleets were marshaled.

Chairman Feng was known throughout the Solar System as The Fox, That Sly Bastard or Mr. Devious. True to his names, he had worked out his plan well before that. Two years ago, he’d sent out a secret supership, the
Deng Lo
. The gigantic ship was sheathed in ultramodern, anti-radar coating. Behind Mars and shielded from Neptune, the
Deng Lo
had gained terrific velocity before turning off its engines. It had circled Mars, whipping around it like a slingshot, propelled out of the normal plane or ecliptic that the other planets circled the Sun at. Hidden in the vastness of space, with its trajectory long ago planned, the
Deng Lo
was the Chairman’s ace card.

“The lasers are primed,” the political officer said. “The enemy is visible to our teleoptic scopes. Do we fire, CS1 Blake, or do we continue to wait for a better opportunity?”

Ship alarms rang before Blake could speak. The holoimage changed. From out of the void of space hundreds of green laser lines burned into the Neptunian Fleet’s P-Field. Prismatic crystals deflected most of the lasers’ heat, but not all. A burn through had begun.

“Decide!”

Blake’s fingers flew over the buttons on his armrest. Numbers flashed before him. 300 million kilometers separated the Earth and Neptunian Battlefleets. At the speed of light, it took a laser approximately fifteen minutes to travel that distance. Blake needed more data. The Earth Fleet moved near 0.1 percent light speed, or about 300 kilometers per second, or 24 million kilometers per day. The Neptunian Battlefleet moved at a fraction of that speed. Contact between them would be in nine days.

“CS1 Blake!”

Blake looked at the political officer.

“Select targets,” the officer said grimly “or you must order a stand down.”

Blake studied the Neptunian targets. There were four asteroid ships, twenty-four maulers of the
Beijing
class, forty-six cruisers, fifty light cruisers and hordes of supply ships and tugs.

“You know,” the doctor told the political officer, “it’s been a fine job.” He almost managed a smile. “It has been a pleasure knowing you.” Then, with what amounted to a tiny up-curve of his lips, the doctor lay back and stared straight ahead, crossing his hands over his thin chest.

Blake glanced at the doctor in surprise.

“Ignore him, CS1 Blake. He’s just glad it’s over.”

“What’s over?” asked Blake.

“His life.”

The headache exploded back into throbbing pain. Then Blake understood. Once he fired, the enemy would spot the
Deng Lo
. Twenty minutes after his lasers hit them in the flank, enemy radar would pinpoint the
Deng Lo
. Then their lasers would strike and destroy him. The truism of space war was that unless a ship hid behind a P-Field, to be touched by a laser was to be destroyed.

His newfound knowledge caused Blake to tremble.

“None of that now,” the political officer said. “This is our task, our job.” He smiled. “Perhaps that’s what they scrubbed out of you.”

Blake’s tremors grew. His headache blossomed, and a thought struck him. His sister... he’d never see her again. He reached for her picture that he recalled now that he kept in his back pocket.

Ever alert, the political officer snapped, “What’s that? What are you doing?”

Blake pulled out his sister’s picture. He frowned at it, trying to remember something important.

“CS1 Blake, what do you hold?”

“This? It’s my sister’s picture.”

“Sister?” The political officer frowned in thought. “You don’t have a sister.”

The headache blasted Blake, and then it left—leaving him clearheaded at last. Both of them turned and stared into each other’s eyes. They both knew at the same instant. Blake fumbled madly with his shoulder harness as the political officer yanked at his. Blake proved faster. He floated at the political officer even as the officer yanked back his harness. Blake wrapped his legs around the prone torso, grabbed the ugly head in both hands—the political officer roared vile threats—and Blake twisted savagely. The neck snapped. The political officer went limp.

Breathing hard, Blake let go of the head and turned to the doctor, who still stared up placidly at the ceiling.

“You were mind-scrubbed after all,” the doctor said without looking up.

Blake blinked several times.

“And given post-hypnotic memory implants, I presume.”

Blake pushed off the couch, floating toward the doctor.

The doctor closed his eyes, sighed. “...Whenever you’re ready.”

When Blake was done, he strapped himself back into his couch. He sighted the Earth Battlefleet. Then he sent a coded message to the Neptunian’s about the Deception Fleet’s deception. Afterward, he pressed the firing button.

The vast engines vibrated into life. Generation took a mere three minutes
. A radioactive isotope Strontium-90 fueled the breakthrough laser-coils. Then forty massively powerful Strontium-90 lasers shot at the Earth Fleet. In eleven point six minutes, those lasers would hit their targets. The forty lasers would travel 200 million kilometers. They would hit and destroy forty priceless warships and thereby swing the battle in favor of the Neptunians.

Of course, the enemy would sight and destroy the
Deng Lo
in return.

That, too, the Neptunian Secret Service had foreseen. Blake had known and agreed with them. The memory implants went to work in Blake and did their scrubbing. Soon Blake peered at the dead political officer and at the dead doctor. He felt the ship’s vibration. That was new. He rather liked it.

Blake frowned at the corpses, wondering how they’d died. He’d better find someone and report this. He touched his head, his headache finally going away. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt, or maybe it was just intuition, that he wasn’t going to have any more headaches after this.

That was good, because he was tired of them.

He turned, and his feet made tearing-cloth sounds as he Velcroed his way across the carpet.