Doom Star: Book 02 - Bio-Weapon Read Online Free
the shuttles, which returned them to barracks.
A few of the shock troopers congratulated Marten. Others scowled. They were angry his maniple had won the competition. Everyone toweled off after showering. Then the winning maniple donned blue tunics, brown spylo jackets, civilian pants and boots and re-boarded a shuttle. Their victory reward was an evening in the famed Recreation Level 49, Section 218 of the Sun Works Factory, the Pleasure Palace.
Marten sat at a shuttle window, glumly peering at the mighty space station.
The ring-factory rotated in order to simulate Earth-normal gravity for those within. The gargantuan space station was a veritable world unto itself, a world now run by the Highborn. It was their furnace and incubation for continued greatness.
The Highborn had controlled it less than a year. Grand Admiral Cassius had made it second priority at the rebellion’s commencement. First priority had been capturing all five Doom Stars. The majority of the population had lived on the satellite for over ten years or more, formerly card-carrying Social Unitarians and in HB parlance: premen. After the native Sun Workers, in terms of numbers, were recently imported Earthmen: FEC soldiers, ex-peacekeepers and ex-SU Military Intelligence operatives. FEC was Free Earth Corps. Their single uniqueness was allegiance to the New Order. The bulk of them came from Antarctica and Australian Sector, although lately several shipments of Japanese had arrived. All had gone through HB re-education camps. The Earthmen comprised nearly one hundred percent of the space station’s guards, police and monitors. The Sun Workers provided the service techs, mechanics, software specialists, recreation personnel, factory coolies and the like.
With the switch from State-sponsored socialism under Social Unity to a quasi-form of capitalism under the Highborn came many new ills. The Highborn urged success of product over rigorous application of ideology. In other words, did a thing work? Monitors watched to suppress rebellion, no longer gauging every thought and action. Thus while before the Highborn a lackluster black-market had survived in the factory, now a thriving illegal drug trade together with greater theft and its accompanying rise in assault and murder rates plagued the giant space habitat. Some said it was the price of doing capitalism. A handful of people got richer quicker while many others died sooner. A few were spaced: shoved out the airlocks without any vacc suits. The Highborn, it was said, threw up their hands. This once again proved their superiority over the premen, who acted like beasts, like cattle. Then several new divisions of monitors hit the streets.
Marten held nominal leadership of the 101st Maniple, Shock Troopers. He wasn’t the toughest, strongest, nor quickest, and he was not the most brutal, savage or street-savvy. The HBs however had judged him to have the best tactical mind. And he had something extra, a deep inner drive.
Kang, a massive Mongol and sitting across from Marten, had black tattoos on his arms and a flat-looking face. He’d shaved his head bald. Before the war, he’d been a Sydney slum gang-leader, running the Red Blades, a vicious lot. During the Japan Campaign, he’d been a psychotic FEC First Lieutenant, personally killing hundreds of Japanese.
“Hey, Kang,” called Vip, standing in the isle. The shuttle was nearly empty, giving the 101st effective run of the passenger area.
Kang ignored the little man as he penciled a crossword puzzle. He didn’t fill in the blanks with letters, but shaded heavy lines in ninety-degree triangles.
Vip nudged Lance, the rangy Brit sitting in an isle seat. Lance counted his pathetic supply of plastic tokens—credits.
“Hey, Kang,” Vip said. “How come you didn’t hit the wall like Marten did?”
Kang stopped his doodling and ponderously raised his head.
“You ever hope to take maniple leadership from Marten you’re gonna have to do stuff like
A few of the shock troopers congratulated Marten. Others scowled. They were angry his maniple had won the competition. Everyone toweled off after showering. Then the winning maniple donned blue tunics, brown spylo jackets, civilian pants and boots and re-boarded a shuttle. Their victory reward was an evening in the famed Recreation Level 49, Section 218 of the Sun Works Factory, the Pleasure Palace.
Marten sat at a shuttle window, glumly peering at the mighty space station.
The ring-factory rotated in order to simulate Earth-normal gravity for those within. The gargantuan space station was a veritable world unto itself, a world now run by the Highborn. It was their furnace and incubation for continued greatness.
The Highborn had controlled it less than a year. Grand Admiral Cassius had made it second priority at the rebellion’s commencement. First priority had been capturing all five Doom Stars. The majority of the population had lived on the satellite for over ten years or more, formerly card-carrying Social Unitarians and in HB parlance: premen. After the native Sun Workers, in terms of numbers, were recently imported Earthmen: FEC soldiers, ex-peacekeepers and ex-SU Military Intelligence operatives. FEC was Free Earth Corps. Their single uniqueness was allegiance to the New Order. The bulk of them came from Antarctica and Australian Sector, although lately several shipments of Japanese had arrived. All had gone through HB re-education camps. The Earthmen comprised nearly one hundred percent of the space station’s guards, police and monitors. The Sun Workers provided the service techs, mechanics, software specialists, recreation personnel, factory coolies and the like.
With the switch from State-sponsored socialism under Social Unity to a quasi-form of capitalism under the Highborn came many new ills. The Highborn urged success of product over rigorous application of ideology. In other words, did a thing work? Monitors watched to suppress rebellion, no longer gauging every thought and action. Thus while before the Highborn a lackluster black-market had survived in the factory, now a thriving illegal drug trade together with greater theft and its accompanying rise in assault and murder rates plagued the giant space habitat. Some said it was the price of doing capitalism. A handful of people got richer quicker while many others died sooner. A few were spaced: shoved out the airlocks without any vacc suits. The Highborn, it was said, threw up their hands. This once again proved their superiority over the premen, who acted like beasts, like cattle. Then several new divisions of monitors hit the streets.
Marten held nominal leadership of the 101st Maniple, Shock Troopers. He wasn’t the toughest, strongest, nor quickest, and he was not the most brutal, savage or street-savvy. The HBs however had judged him to have the best tactical mind. And he had something extra, a deep inner drive.
Kang, a massive Mongol and sitting across from Marten, had black tattoos on his arms and a flat-looking face. He’d shaved his head bald. Before the war, he’d been a Sydney slum gang-leader, running the Red Blades, a vicious lot. During the Japan Campaign, he’d been a psychotic FEC First Lieutenant, personally killing hundreds of Japanese.
“Hey, Kang,” called Vip, standing in the isle. The shuttle was nearly empty, giving the 101st effective run of the passenger area.
Kang ignored the little man as he penciled a crossword puzzle. He didn’t fill in the blanks with letters, but shaded heavy lines in ninety-degree triangles.
Vip nudged Lance, the rangy Brit sitting in an isle seat. Lance counted his pathetic supply of plastic tokens—credits.
“Hey, Kang,” Vip said. “How come you didn’t hit the wall like Marten did?”
Kang stopped his doodling and ponderously raised his head.
“You ever hope to take maniple leadership from Marten you’re gonna have to do stuff like
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