Mech Zero: The Dominant (2 page)

Two such men commanded the Mendelian task force. They were both products of generations of genetic weeding and tinkering. Fleet Admiral Goddard sat upon the command chair of the third cruiser in the formation, the venerable
Bernard Shaw
. He led the task force, and he was physically one of the largest men in the fleet. His parents had designed him for command, and large people tended to be awarded such roles. His head was hairless and smooth, with purple veins that pounded under skin so pale it was almost translucent. Size, intelligence and drive—he had it all.

Captain Davenport stood nearby. He was drastically different from Goddard, but no less driven. He was approximately the same height, but lighter of build. Instead of Goddard’s smooth almost albino baldness, he had dusky skin and a mass of curly black locks. Where Goddard’s eyes were staring orbs, Davenport’s were thoughtful, half-lidded slits. Davenport had the demeanor of a man who was always thinking deeply.

Admiral Goddard was not the cruiser’s captain, but he was in charge of the task force, and thus he demanded the command chair on whatever ship he boarded. The
Bernard Shaw
was the weakest ship in his fleet, and thus was destined to bring up the rear behind its more modern and better-equipped brothers. Goddard had placed his least effective captain aboard her, Captain Davenport, a man who was known for his relatively cautious, plodding nature.

“Admiral,” Davenport said. “I recommend a change of course by half a degree.”

“For what purpose?” Goddard asked. He spun around the command chair to face Davenport. The chair was so high and Goddard was so tall that even while the Admiral was sitting, the two men were eye-to-eye. Both were tall for humans—unnaturally tall. Goddard was nearly three meters in height and Davenport—for all his quiet rectitude—almost matched him. Davenport’s height had been achieved by his designers at the cost of mass, however. Goddard estimated he had at least fifty kilos more muscle and bone than the thinner man.

“There might be mines laid in our path, sir,” Davenport said calmly.

“Nonsense. We’ve seen nothing of the sort. No minelayers, no enemy ships of any kind. These talkative vermin barely have a fleet. I won’t divert my schedule a single hour to avoid a phantom minefield.”

“Sir,” Davenport began in an even voice, “we have protocols in place in these matters. I insist that we take evasive action on our approach. The enemy must not be allowed to predict our exact course.”

“You dare to quote doctrine to me?” Goddard demanded. He glared at Davenport in distaste. Such cowardice was difficult to stomach in another
Homo Superioris
. The people of Mendelia valued intelligence, strength and above all self-confidence. It had long ago been determined that individuals with these traits did better in life, and when the technology was available, Mendelian parents chose children who possessed these tendencies. They had rooted out the sick and infirm long ago. A century later, in order to raise ever more competitive offspring to impress their neighbors, their divergent sub-species came to be known as
Homo Superioris
and delved into viral gene-splicing and chemical intrusion to further their reproductive progress.

Goddard, like all Mendelians, was a product of genetic tinkering. He had biological parents, but those same parents were shared with thousands of other competing embryos. Long before his gestation and eventual birth had been approved, his sisters and brothers had lain dormant until the great day of testing. Goddard’s genetic stock had been sampled and measured against the rest. Out of all his siblings, he had been chosen and allowed to grow in an artificial womb. After a dozen modifications, he had been implanted in his mother and finally born through the oversized channel all Mendelian females were required to possess.

Goddard’s people were not fools—far from it. With IQs averaging in the one hundred thirties, Mendelians were quite the opposite. His people were far-reaching in their plans and their vision. They knew there might come a day when they had no technology to lean upon. And so they were quite capable of breeding the old-fashioned way, without genetic tinkering. They could even interbreed with
Homo Sapiens
—a disgusting thought. Should they ever have a colony cut off and lowered to a primitive level, that colony would still thrive and rebuild. Mendelia law made it illegal to create a female that could not bear young, or to produce an overabundance of males, as was all too common a tendency. To get a license for a third and fourth child, the first two had to be female. This simple expedient had balanced the sexes for three generations.

Davenport began quoting doctrine from rote memory: “When in the presence of hostiles, known or unknown, vessels shall—”

“I know what it
says
, man,” Goddard hissed, leaning forward suddenly. Davenport flinched away, but only minutely. Goddard’s oversized hands squeezed the command chair arms with such tensile force the foam padding creaked and began to tear apart under his fingers. “If we adjust our course to avoid these imaginary mines, what will be the total length of the delay?”

“There will have to be several random adjustments—not just the one.”

Goddard glared at him, waiting for his question to be answered.

“I estimate we’ll achieve orbit and commence bombardment sixteen hours later than we would following a direct course.”

Goddard produced a rude expulsion with his lips. He stared in annoyance. “I approve of the action,” he said at last, his voice bitter. “After all, what are sixteen more hours after a year-long journey through deep space? However, Captain Davenport, we will spend our newfound additional time as I see fit.”

“Of course, sir,” Davenport said.

Goddard wondered: was that a smirk? Did Davenport dare to look pleased with himself? The captain needed a good thrashing.

“You and I will spend many of these extra hours preparing personally,” Goddard said. “You will meet me in the combat chamber one minute after you go off-duty.”

Davenport paled slightly. Goddard was known as an inhuman fighter. He was a tiger in the practice sphere, and relished beating subordinates into submission.

“Wouldn’t these final hours be better spent preparing for battle with the enemy fleet?” Davenport asked.

“There is no need!” Goddard shouted. “The enemy abhors its own military and will pay the natural price for their weak spines. Namely, we will snap them without compunction. You are hereby ordered to meet me in the sphere.”

“As you wish, sir,” Davenport said. He threw his head high and stalked off the bridge. His dark locks flowed behind him.

It was Goddard’s turn to smirk, which he did openly at the other’s retreating back.

Three

The crew dozed and mumbled, wrapped in bizarre, narcotic dreams. It was a tradition among the people of Tranquility to prepare for a stressful task with psychoactive chemicals. A brief state of euphoria, when experienced directly before unpleasantness, had been proven by the planet’s medicinal sages to take the sting out of the whole affair. How could one be fraught with worry while comfortably sedated?

Ensign Theller was alert, although he did not appear so. His academy training as a mummer had proven useful for once. His face was slack. His mouth hung open, and a tiny thread of drool ran down to his tapered chin.

Theller knew Captain Beezel was not among the dozing crewmembers. She was too disciplined to allow herself indulgences. Besides, as a mech, her metabolism was different. She could not imbibe the same quantities of a substance such as the sacrificial wine and expect to experience the same results a normal human would. Her primary flesh component was her brain, which comprised only a fraction of her total mass. As was the case for most mechs, the rest of her body was artificial. For her kind, it was difficult to get the chemical dosage of a narcotic measured correctly.

In order to achieve his goals, Theller knew he had to get past the captain and her big blue eyes. He listened for her, and soon sensed her moving around the prime deck. The aisle between the two rows of seats was so narrow that passage down it wasn’t possible without contacting sitting crewmen. Ensign Theller sensed her approach. Her vacc suit crinkled as she drew near and paused.

He waited for her to move on, but she didn’t. He thought of attempting a false snort or similar action, but decided against it. Grandstanding never made an act more convincing. Still she paused, silently hovering over him. A trickle of sweat began under his armpits. Did she suspect he had shirked his required sedation? He waited longer, but she remained there. He could feel her eyes upon him, those strange, surreal orbs. He wanted nothing more than to crack one eye minutely—just for a second—to see what she was doing. But he held firm. He played the part of the sleeping dead, breathing evenly, shallowly, even while his heart pounded in his chest and he thought he might suffocate.

His heart
, he thought. Could she hear it? He knew some mechs were fitted with superb auditory pickups. If she could pick out the sound of his accelerated heartbeat, perhaps that would explain her odd behavior. Still he waited, determined to maintain his façade until the last possible instant. He willed his heart to slow and grow steady…and to some degree, it did.

At last she moved on. Her hip bumped him as she slid by between the seats. He felt the contact and under different circumstances, would have craned his neck around to stare at her as she walked away. Not today, however. Today, he had bigger worries than Captain Beezel’s fine posterior.

She left the chamber and went down the tube to the lower decks. Theller’s hand was on his buckle in an instant. It hesitated there and did not unfasten the buckle.

This was the moment of truth. Thus far, he had done no wrong—or at least nothing serious. He was not a man who broke rules often. It was not in his nature. But today was different. He did not want to die so easily, so pointlessly.

Theller popped open the metal buckle. The belts slid away into the seat with a rasping sound. He climbed out of his seat and moved down the extremely narrow aisle. He bumped the various drugged crewmen along the way, but didn’t worry about that. They wouldn’t awaken for hours.

He reached the tubes and he passed them by. He could not afford to be seen by Captain Beezel, and the ship wasn’t so big that he could expect to escape notice if they were on the lower deck together.

Theller opened a hatch and entered the engine compartment. His eyes slid this way and that. What could he damage without arousing suspicion? Something small, reparable…but absolutely required for battle.

He quickly decided to change the oxygen mixtures by altering the manual-overrides on the tank valves. This would cause a slowly growing problem that shouldn’t even be noticed by the computers until the carbon levels exceeded what the scrubbers could take out of the pressurized cabin. When the alarms went off, he was sure his lax crewmen would attempt to repair the situation using the automated systems. They were not the type to handle an emergency directly, and would be loath to get out of their chairs and head back to check on the manual settings.

He put his hand on a valve, then paused. He could be wiped for this—sentenced to mental evacuation. Afterward, he would only be an oddity in the park, drooling over his social-wellness rations. After a full minute’s hesitation, he reminded himself if he did
nothing
, he would be a splatter of atoms in the outer reaches of the system. He twisted the valve a fraction. Then he twisted all the others at random.

Sweating, he glided back toward his seat. He froze at the hatchway leading to the prime deck. Captain Beezel stood in the forward crew section, staring at his empty seat. In that terrifying second, he knew he’d been discovered. He wanted to confess, to have a quiet argument with her, to somehow make her see reason. They could slip away so easily. The star system was vast and the universe was infinite. They could hide among the gas haulers or asteroid mining bases and come back after the Mendelians had grown tired of their sport and flown home.

Instead, he darted into the head. He let the door shut behind him with an audible click. Inside, he made a great show of urinating. Fortunately, this came easily to him, as he hadn’t used his personal waste tube for hours. He’d been too keyed-up.

Among the many peculiarities of his people, the citizens of Tranquility lacked shame. They did not object to nudity in public or to public elimination activities. The door of the head behind him, in fact, had a porthole in it.

Theller sensed a shadow behind him. Captain Beezel watched him through the porthole. He took no notice. He continued relieving himself and even leaned sleepily against the close walls of the tiny restroom. When he had finished, he turned around without closing his suit, exposing himself. He did everything he could to appear mildly intoxicated.

There stood Captain Beezel, staring at him through the porthole. Her perfect-looking blue eyes were too big for a human face. They were child-like, exaggerated and strangely attractive.

Theller slid open the door and almost stumbled into her.

“Uh,” he said. “Captain? Sorry.”

She didn’t say anything. Her manner was disturbing, and he thought she suspected something. He decided to keep with his act, however, and remained the bumbling intoxicated crewman. He moved to push past her, and she snapped out an arm to stop him.

Her arm was thin, and it looked as if it might break when he leaned against it. But it was made with metal bones and artificial muscles, not weak flesh. He could not pass.

“Sorry,” he mumbled again, eyes half-closed. He thought in all likelihood she had seen his sabotage, but he would continue to play his part to the finish, even if she grabbed him with those tiny, impossibly strong hands and threw him out the airlock. He was an academy-trained mummer, he told himself pridefully. If this was to be his last role, he would stay in character to the bitter end.

“Ensign?” she asked.

“Captain?”