Mech Zero: The Dominant (7 page)

He crawled inside his derelict craft and buckled himself into a chair. The ship was gently spinning, but he did nothing to correct it. He wanted to look as lifeless as possible. He hoped that the alien in the assault shuttle would provide enough of a distraction to keep the enemy ships busy. With some luck, he might be allowed to drift away, forgotten until he was out of laser-battery range.

Ten

The Dominant was impressed yet again. This new host beast was startlingly powerful. She was able to burrow deeply into its broad back and sting the nerves directly this time, giving her a distinct advantage. Direct control of a suitable beast was hers for the first time in centuries! She reveled in the sensation. Goddard’s input organs flooded her with data, and her tendrils sought out his mind to do battle. The creature’s ego was powerful, but it had never been in such a contest before. She overcame it quickly, stuffing the being’s mind down into the depths of the id. She would leave it dreaming down there deep in the subconscious until she dismounted the beast.

With direct control, she was able to do far more than simple actions and gestures. She could control every nuance of her mount, even make it speak in its absurd language, which seemed to her to be an audible set of warbling, blatting noises. She turned the assault ship around, after riffling through Goddard’s memories and stimulating his thick fingers into the appropriate actions. There was no time to lose. She had to dock and firmly gain command of the nearest enemy cruiser. Speed was of the essence when employing tactical surprise. Sooner or later, she would make a misstep and the enemy would begin to suspect. Since she was alone, she could not afford to give them time to react.

She wheeled the assault ship smartly around, allowing the cruiser to suck her up into its yawning launch bay. Around her, the cooling bodies of the assault ship’s crew floated. Glittering like jewels, frozen globules of blood drifted around the cabin.

#

Davenport reflected that the entire mission had turned into a farce. They had planned carefully for a span of three long years, only to meet zero resistance. Just as the intolerable Goddard had predicted, the armed forces of Tranquility were laughable. They had no navy to speak of and had been brushed aside with imperial ease. This annoyed Davenport to no end for two distinct reasons: it made all his planning a ship-wide joke, and it made Goddard right. He was left with the unmistakable title of
fool
or worse,
coward
. Neither of these titles pleased him in the slightest. His mood was grim.

When the first of the cruisers exploded, Davenport was shocked. He was sitting in his own command chair on the bridge of
Bernard Shaw
, which the insufferably arrogant Admiral Goddard had finally relinquished to him some hours ago.

Galton
, the lead cruiser in the fleet, suddenly transformed into a ball of bright white light. Davenport’s immediate thought was that he had been right all along. The enemy had clearly laid mines before them. They’d foolishly abandoned his plan to alter course at random. The enemy had lured them in with these absurd patrol boats, getting into their heads, making them overconfident so they would make mistakes. It was all obvious to him now. He shook his fists at the screens and hissed in vexation. His only consolation was that Goddard had already died in this ‘phantom’ minefield.

“Emergency brake-jets!” Davenport shouted. “Take full evasive action. We’re in a minefield. Full detection scan in a thirty degree cone forward. Relay those orders to
Sanger
.”

Bernard Shaw
lurched upward then swung laterally with wrenching force. The other surviving ship did the same, but in the opposite direction.

“Don’t you think you should get approval for these orders first, Davenport?” barked a familiar voice over the command channel.

“Goddard? Glad to hear you made it out of that,” Davenport lied. “Please report your status and what hit your ship.”

“My status is I’m in command. I’m in a shuttle and proceeding to
Sanger
.”

“What happened to
Galton
?”

“If I knew that, I would have told you!” Goddard roared back. “Work your instruments, man. Report your findings. Goddard out.”

Davenport sat back in his chair with a heavy thump. It was grossly unfair. He’d been right all along, but the single bright point of hope in the situation—Goddard’s demise—had been denied him. He could not believe his misfortune. Worse, the fool seemed committed to pressing onward, flying blindly into the face of the enemy. They’d just suffered a horrifying loss; fully one third of their force was gone. But Goddard’s only reaction was anger, and persistence in his folly.

Not for the first time, Davenport doubted his people’s wisdom. The mentality of their greatest leaders was indeed extreme, but it was also inevitably flawed, unbalanced. He knew, of course, that it was in his nature to be a doubter. This trait he saw as further evidence of Mendelian weaknesses in their leadership. His parents had jockeyed his genes to produce a child with the proverbial Wisdom of Solomon. He had gone far with their cooked-up, unusual design. He’d impressed countless others who had been bred for sheer intellect or physical prowess. But internally, he had his misgivings concerning his mental configuration. Genetic tendencies meant to provide him with great wisdom had largely resulted in a cautious nature. He was a worrier, and had difficulty proceeding down a fixed path regardless of obstacles due to his unique ability to see all possible outcomes. In many ways, he and Goddard were opposites.

Davenport’s first thought was to abandon the entire mission. They had lost
Galton
after destroying a half-dozen rickety patrol ships. In matters of sheer attrition, the enemy was winning. Worse, they still had no clear idea of the enemy’s true strength. And Davenport, naturally, suspected the worst.

Minutes later, shocking him out of his reverie once more,
Sanger
exploded. Davenport stared at the screens, scarcely able to believe his eyes. His jaw fell open and hung there.

“I requested a scanning cone—” he began in an accusing voice.

“I know sir!” responded the senior operations officer. “I did just as you said. There was nothing there. We ran into absolutely nothing!”

Davenport stared at him. He rose and pushed the man away from his station. He checked the boards carefully, then did it again. He could not see any error, so he stepped back to his command chair.

“Open a general channel,” he said, sucking in a deep breath. “This is your commander speaking. The fleet has suffered a catastrophic loss. We—”

“Davenport? Is that you assuming command again?”

Davenport could not believe his ears. He stared up at the combat dome and there it was, a small contact coming toward his ship. Goddard had escaped again.

“Admiral?” Davenport asked. “How did you escape that explosion?”

“I didn’t,” Goddard said. “I merely inspected the ship then left. I was on my way to inspect your ship when the second attack occurred. I now suspect sabotage, Davenport. We may be in the grips of a mutiny, or the victims of a group of Tranquility sympathizers. I strongly suggest you search your engine room for charges and post guards there. I’m coming aboard shortly. There is no need for an escort to meet me. Put your marines into action, now!”

“I hear and obey,” Davenport said. He closed the connection, relayed the admiral’s orders and then sat in his chair for approximately thirty seconds.

Finally, he got up and left the bridge. He told his crewmen to stay at their posts and to continue slowing the ship.

He marched down to the launch bay to meet Goddard personally. The marines that normally thronged the area were all missing, all sent to guard duty elsewhere. Goddard opened a weapons locker, selected an assault rifle, checked the charge and then checked it again. Each time he examined it, the rifle was fully operational, but less than a minute later, he felt compelled to check it again.

When the shuttle arrived, Davenport was waiting at the airlock. He pressed a button, sealing the hatch.

Goddard’s annoyed voice soon came through the intercom. “This is Admiral Goddard. Open this damned hatch!”

Davenport continued working the controls, now locking the outer hatch of the airlock. The admiral was sealed inside.

“Davenport?” roared Goddard. “I’m on to you. You’re out there, aren’t you? I thought you would try this eventually.”

“Try what, sir?”

“Mutiny. Assassination. You’re weak, Davenport. You’re not worthy of command. I’ve always known it.”

Davenport licked his lips, wondering briefly if the admiral had a point.

“Maybe I’m wrong,” Goddard said thoughtfully. “Maybe this isn’t about cowardice and a fear of losses. Maybe this is good old-fashioned injured pride. You hate me because of a thousand slights and the beating I gave you. Is that it, Davenport?”

Davenport didn’t answer. He wondered if the other was right. He felt a sudden urge to put down his weapon and to return to his post. Resisting was difficult. In his own way, however, he was as stubborn a man as Goddard himself.

Still, he felt his will waning. He was in the wrong. He’d disobeyed his rightful commander. He lowered his assault rifle.

With a flash of fear his mind tried to analyze these alien thoughts and feelings he was having. Could Goddard have affected his mind somehow? The thought was incomprehensible, but the evidence and the worry was distinct. He reached for the control panel again. He didn’t think he had much time. He could feel his resolve already fading again.

“Davenport, open the damned hatch!”

Davenport reached for the override panel. He would type in the code, release the shuttle from the ship then fire Goddard out into space after it. The admiral would survive in his suit, and if he was innocent the matter could be safely sorted out later.

But he didn’t. Instead, he felt an urge to obey Goddard, who was after all his rightful commander.

Davenport opened the hatch. Goddard stepped forward and brought up a large pistol. Davenport was already aiming at the hatch. It was all he could do to depress the firing stud.

He had assumed the worst. He had assumed his life was on the line. Only this paranoid, survivalist urge allowed him to fire. Davenport was a thorough man, so he kept on firing. While Goddard sank down to his knees, something tickled at Davenport’s mind again. He felt an urge to drop the rifle, and he almost did so. But his natural paranoia paid off again. He hung onto his mind and kept the firing stud depressed instead. Broadening holes opened in Goddard’s ruined chest and finally burned through. The tickling sensation weakened. Vaporized flesh filled the corridor creating a sickly, cooked-meat smell.

Something odd slagged off Goddard’s back, falling into a separate steaming heap. Davenport approached it and toed it questioningly. He did not know what it was, but it was alien, and it was dead.

An hour later, the
Bernard Shaw
halted its forward momentum and began the long, slow acceleration back toward Mendelia. Davenport was finally in command of the expedition, and he had determined that it was a failure. Whatever Tranquility’s navy lacked in fleet power, they had more than impressed him with their auxiliary attacks. He now suspected they were masters of organic technologies unknown to his people. The creature they’d used to take over and control Goddard’s actions was bizarre and amazing. It was as far beyond Mendelian genetic breeding techniques as their guns were above sharpened sticks.

Davenport turned around his last cruiser and ran home with it. In his written briefs, he recommended to High Command that they should build more ships—not for purposes of conquest, but rather for defense against these terrifying enemies.

Eleven

Theller slipped away in
Redemption
toward his homeworld. His forgotten ship had lost much of its supplies and most of its systems were inoperable, but he was the only one using them now. He had six large tanks of oxygen, a little fuel and plenty of food. In a week, with careful use of his meager supplies, he would make it home.

He spent the long hours heavily editing his story for his Space Service debriefing. He practiced his tale and ran through a dozen variations as time passed. Oh, he would tell them about the strange alien they’d found—in fact, he would tell them almost everything. His sole omission would be his part in altering the ship’s oxygen mixtures.

Theller wondered if they would mistake him for a hero. He suspected they would, as there was no one else to thank for their salvation. He
had
defended his world by accident, but he did not feel the part of the hero.

Each day Tranquility grew larger. It became a bright point, then a jewel, and finally a glowing blue disk. As the days rolled by and his space suit grew stale, he wondered how often in the past tales of great events had been altered to hide unpleasant truths…he suspected it had happened often.

The End

BONUS EXCERPT:

MECH 1: The Parent

(Imperium Series)

by

B. V. Larson

“And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”
- Friedrich Nietzsche

One

Out along the rim of the galaxy hung a loose configuration of some sixty stars known as the
Faustian Chain
. From Old Earth, the cluster presented a colorful display of plasma-streams, luminous nebulae and brilliant pinpoints of light. Sparkling suns in relative proximity to one another shone down on numerous, rocky planets.

One such planet was Garm, a backwater colony world in the northern section of the Chain. It was an unimportant world to humanity—but as was often the case, the local population felt otherwise. Today, the arrival of a great tradeship caused countless eyes on Garm to turn upward and gaze at the dark structure, which was visible from the surface in the clear, gray sky.