No Surrender Read online

  Kobo was about to speak when Shithead answered for him. The robot had produced a thin cable which connected it to the jack panel at the head of the casket. "The body is that of Ho-La," it said solemnly. "He was a monk, a famous monk, who left Hudatha to live on a planet called Rain. His remains are one hundred and twenty-three years old and were on their way to Hudatha for safekeeping."

  "Why?" Chozick demanded.

  "Ho-La has a status similar to that of a Human saint," Shithead replied. "Though largely ignored, his teachings are greatly respected by all six Hudathan clans. It may be that the Hudathans were afraid that the Ramanthians would conqueror Rain, find the remains and desecrate them."

  Chozick took the information in. A saint. A highly respected saint. How much would the ridgeheads pay to get the remains back? A million? Five million? It was a strange opportunity but one with considerable potential. "Sergeant Kobo, please accept my apologies. You are a fucking genius. Seal this container and move it to the Mohawk right away."

  Kobo nodded. "Got it boss.” Then, having turned to the bio bods, he growled at them. "Well, don't just stand there... Find something to protect the coffin with. I'll call for some T-2s. They can carry it."

  Chozick looked at Shithead just in time to see the wire disappear into the robot's olive-drab colored body. "Lead me down to the surface."

  Shithead departed with Chozick and some bio bods following along behind. They left the ship, followed a causeway to the tower, and were on their way to the ground when Dickerson pinged him again. "The Captain here... Why can't we see your video feeds? Or hear any radio traffic? Over."

  "It must be some sort of technical glitch," Chozick lied. "But I'll keep you informed. We cleared the ship and we're on our way to the base. Over."

  "All right," Dickerson said irritably. "But pick up the pace. "We're sitting ducks. Over."

  "Copy that," Chozick replied. Then, after breaking the connection, "Bitch."

  A platoon of bio bods and some T-2s stood waiting as Chozick and his party arrived on the surface. The bipedal cyborgs stood ten-feet tall, could run at speeds up to fifty-miles per hour, and operate in a complete vacuum when necessary. For the purposes of the current mission each borg was equipped with grasper hands and carrying an energy cannon.

  In terms of firepower each T-2 was the rough equivalent of eight fully armed bio bods. Two of them led the way as the legionnaires crossed a large expanse of open ground to reach the base. Tracks ran every-which-way across the surface of the moon, but most of them converged on a single spot. And that was the entrance to what Chozick imagined to be the headquarters building.

  Unlike the hatch on the ship, the outer door was closed. "Blow it," Chozick ordered. "We'll split into teams once we get inside. I'll take the 1st squad, Lieutenant Ember will lead the 2nd, and Sergeant Howers will be in charge of the 3rd. Remember, we could run into survivors, so be careful."

  Chozick's words were punctuated by a silent flash and a sudden dust storm. The interior had been pressurized, just as the ship had been, and any Hudathan not wearing a suit was dead meat. And ugly meat, at that.

  They entered a huge lock. Tracked ground vehicles were parked next to a stack of cargo modules. Incoming supplies? Outgoing garbage? Intel would want to know. Chozick pointed to the pile. "Check those modules Sergeant Howes... and take Shithead with you. It can read Hudathan."

  As Howes and his party split off Chozick and the rest of them passed through an open hatch and entered the building beyond. Chozick turned left at the first intersection while Lieutenant Ember and his legionnaires went right. The deck was littered with trash that had been sucked towards the lock when it blew. Some of it crunched under Chozick's boots as he passed the first of what would eventually be eleven dead bodies. Hudathans who, with only a few exceptions, were stretched out on bunks. A fact that suggested that they too had been terribly ill.

  But how? Had the ship brought the disease to the station? Or had the personnel inside the base been sick when the freighter arrived? That was the sort of thing the spooks would try to figure out. Personally, so long as he and his people were safe, Chozick didn't care. And, by his reasoning, there was very little reason for concern. First, because it was very unlikely that a Human would be susceptible to a Hudathan disease. But, even if he was wrong, the entire company would have to pass through the antibiotic mist before they could reboard the ship.

  After a quick tour of the hydroponics section Chozick and his team were headed back toward the lock when Howes spoke. "Hey, boss... Do you read me? Over."

  "Roger that, over."

  "We got something here. A container of what Shithead says is hafnium. Personally I ain't never heard of the stuff but Shithead says that the brass would want us to bring it back."

  Chozick knew the android was correct because the officer made it his business to understand which substances were valuable and why. Hafnium was used to make high-temperature ceramics and the nickel based super alloys that were critical to manufacturing nozzles for plasma arc torches and nuclear control rods. That meant hafnium was always valuable. But now, in the middle of a war, the stuff would be priceless! If Howes was correct. "You're sure?”

  "Hell no, I'm not sure," the noncom replied. "Shithead is sure. It wants us to load the container onto the ship."

  "Shithead is correct," Chozick said, as his heart began to beat a little faster. "Round up as many cyborgs as you need and take that container up to the Mohawk. Over."

  "I'm on it," Howes assured him. "Over."

  Chozick could hardly believe his good fortune as he and his team exited the building. He could see Howes and four T-2s up ahead. They were carrying a cargo module between them, and puffs of moon dust shot up with each step. This was what Chozick had been hoping for. A BIG score. More than that, his personal freedom. If he had the balls to take the opportunity and make something of it. But did he?

  ***

  Dickerson was feeling antsy and struggling to conceal it from the bridge crew. The Mohawk had been docked for one hour, twenty-six minutes, and seventeen seconds by that time. An eternity from her point of view, because the DE was stationary and, therefore, vulnerable to any vessel that happened along, which was bad enough.

  But the fact that she didn't trust Captain Chozick made the situation even worse. The legionnaire hadn't done anything wrong. Not that she knew about anyway. But Dickerson was sixty-two years old, had dealt with a lot of people, and had learned to trust her instincts. And there was something about Chozick's coal chip eyes, his bladelike nose, and his thin lipped mouth that left her cold. So the incoming radio call came as a relief. "We're about to re-board," Chozick said. "I'll come forward and give you a report as soon as all of my people have cleared decontamination and are strapped in. Over."

  "How long will that take? Over."

  "Fifteen, max. We'll hurry. Over."

  Thus reassured, Dickerson gave orders for all personnel to begin their preflight checks. That was more of a formality than anything else, since the crew had been ready to lift from the moment the ship put down. Still, it gave them something to do as Dickerson watched Chozick and his ruffians enter the lock. She wondered what was contained in the cargo module that the T-2s were hauling aboard. The fact that it was the second container the legionnaires had brought back might be an indicator of success. Dickerson turned away from the screen as the external hatch closed and antibacterial mist filled the lock.

  There were plenty of things to think about as the Mohawk's crew prepared to get underway--so Dickerson didn't notice when Chozick entered the control room fifteen minutes later. She heard his voice and turned to see that he wasn't alone. Three heavily armed legionnaires stood flanking him. Dickerson frowned. "This is a restricted area, Captain... Please order your subordinates to return to the hold."

  "I'll be making the rules from now on," Chozick said, and aimed a gun at her. Dickerson raised her hands to block the bullets. I was right, she thought to herself, and then it was over.

  *
**

  The gunshots were unnaturally loud in the close confines of the control room and Chozick saw Dickerson jerk as the slugs struck her chest. Her head flopped forward but a six-point harness held her upright.

  Chozick lowered the pistol as he looked around. The pilot, navigator, and three techs all wore expressions of shocked disbelief. "We have the XO," he said calmly. "And the chief engineer. Both have agreed to cooperate. The plan is to take the Mohawk out to a planet on the rim. Those who wish to join us, and share in the take, can. The rest of the ship's personnel will be dropped at a point where they can find transportation. That means you have every reason to cooperate. Are there any questions? No? Fine. Let's get underway."

  ***

  Shithead should have been dead. Would have been dead had it been Human. That's because the robot had been standing in line, waiting to enter the Mohawk's lock, when Chozick shot it in the face.

  But unlike Human beings, Shithead's CPU was located in its torso rather than its head. So although the bullet destroyed a sub-processor responsible for speech the rest of the android's capabilities were unaffected. That meant Shithead was "alive" to the extent than any robot was alive, but had the good sense to fake its death, and was lying on its back as the Mohawk took off.

  As repellors flared and the ship grew steadily smaller Shithead didn't feel any sense of anger or hopelessness. What was, was.

  Finally, once the DE was lost among the unblinking stars, Shithead knew it was safe to stand up. Chozick was supposed to destroy key components of the base as he withdrew but hadn't. Why? The answer was obvious. The Human had experienced a malfunction of some sort. It made no difference. Shithead's duty was clear: Find a way off the moon, convey what it knew to the proper authorities, and request a new speech synthesizer. . In that order.

  So Shithead followed the causeway to the tower and stepped onto the elevator. Once the robot reached the ground it began to walk. Each step produced a puff of bone dry dust which took a long time to fall.

  As Shithead approached the crater it could see a tangle of what might have been old hydroponics tanks, the remains of a crawler, and a pile of scrap metal. None of which were of any interest. No, the android's attention was focused on the Human-made space ship it had seen from the top of the tower. It looked like a navy tug and lay in two pieces. Shithead didn't know how the tug had been acquired, or why the Hudathans cut it in two, nor did it care.

  What Shithead wanted to know was whether the vessel was equipped with one of the new FTL comsets. If it was, and if the robot could get the piece of equipment up and running, it could call for help.

  With that in mind, Shithead made a beeline for the bow section, entered through a large hole, and made its way to the control room. But, after scanning the interior with its headlamp, Shithead was forced to conclude that the lowly tug wasn't equipped with an FTL comset.

  What about message torpedoes? Every ship carried them, and as it turned out, the tug was no exception. Unfortunately the nacelle from which the missiles were launched was located under the hull. And even with the moon's light gravity that section of the tug was too heavy for Shithead to lift.

  So the robot was about to start for the headquarters building when it noticed something interesting. The tug was equipped with two lifeboats! One on each side of the hull. However, due to the way the ship was positioned, the boat on the port side was inaccessible. Still, that meant the boat on the starboard side was exposed. Or would be if Shithead found a way to open the bay where the boat was kept.

  First, however, the robot needed to enter the escape craft and verify that it was still operable. An easy task, and one that went well. Thus encouraged, the machine went looking for an accumulator that still had some juice in it. After locating a power source, it was necessary to run a jumper cable from it to the servos that controlled the bay doors. They opened smoothly.

  Having exposed the lifeboat to space, the next task was to charge the launching system which, under emergency conditions, would blow the emergency vehicle out into space. Unfortunately, part of the launch mechanism was damaged beyond repair. That meant the robot had to remove the broken parts and replace them with components salvaged from the port bay. A process that took three additional hours.

  Finally, having restored the launching system to full functionality, it was time for Shithead to enter the tiny cockpit and strap itself in. Lifeboats were intentionally easy to launch, so all the android had to do was flip a red cover out of the way, and push a green button. The response was instantaneous. The control board lit up, a five-second count down began, and a signal was sent to the newly rejuvenated air compressor. It blew the lifeboat out and up. And, thanks to the moon's microgravity, there was plenty of time for the little in-system drive to fire. Shithead was jacked into the vessel's NAVCOMP by then, and ordered it get clear of Krang's gravity well as quickly as possible.

  Then, once the lifeboat was well underway, it was time for the android to issue additional orders. The ship wasn't large enough to rate a hyperdrive, so Shithead couldn't jump to its destination. But it could head into Human space, find a nav beacon, and use its emergency com capability to send a message. Would the plan work? Shithead didn't know and didn't care. In the absence of something productive to do, it went to standby. There were no dreams, just a state of readiness, and that was all any robot could ask for.

  Chapter Two

  Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous.

  Albert Einstein

  The World As I See It

  Standard year, 1949

  The planet Algeron

  Even though the planet Algeron had a breathable atmosphere and something close to Earth normal gravity, there was one way in which it was very different. And that was the fact that mountains divided the northern hemisphere from the southern. They were called The Towers of Algeron, and their highest peaks dwarfed Everest on Earth, and Olympic Mons on Mars. They were so massive that, if placed on Earth, the Towers would have sunk down through the planet's crust. But that wasn't going to happen because the mountains weighed half what they would on Earth due to the gravity differential between Algeron's relatively small poles and its equator.

  All of which was fine with Legion Captain Dean "Deacon" Smith. It was the two-hour-and-forty-minute days that he disliked. But what was, was. And the short days, the bad weather, and hostile natives were a large part of why the first emperor had given the planet to the Legion more than a hundred years earlier. The unspoken reason being his heartfelt desire to keep most of the Legion off Earth where, if led by the wrong people, it could have been a threat to him and his family. Because the emperor knew what the Legion's motto meant: Legio patria nostra. "The legion is our country.” Meaning that the men, women, and cyborgs who served in the Legion were ultimately loyal to each other rather than whatever government happened to be in power.

  Smith knew all of that, of course--but was focused on his job. Which was to find the bandits responsible for Private Coster's death and take them prisoner, or, failing that, to kill them. Because the Naa bandits viewed the Legion the same way they would look at a tribe. A strong tribe could take revenge. A weak tribe couldn't. So the last thing the Legion's brass wanted was to be perceived as weak.

  Most of Smith's company was back at Fort Camerone. But he, along with Lieutenant Mary Josy, and her twenty-four-person platoon were following a mishmash of dooth tracks up a narrow trail. The legionnaires had been following the tracks for two local days by then and, as the sun began to set, Smith knew the temperature would fall. Once that happened it might start to snow. If so, the tracks would disappear within thirty minutes.

  That would be bad, but far from disastrous, since one of the bandits had stolen Private Laraby's brain bucket, and it was "on.” As a result, Smith could "see" the helmet's location on his HUD. So, unless the Naa threw their prize away, or turned the power off, the platoon could track them down.

  There was another possibility however... What if the bandits knew how the
helmet worked--and were using it to suck the platoon into a carefully planned ambush? A lot of legionnaires had been killed by underestimating the Naa.

  Lieutenant Josy and her cyborg were up in the point position. The T-2 could detect heat and electromechanical activity, but couldn't see over the ridge above. Knowing that Smith sent the platoon's drone up to take a look. The can-shaped robot could fly at altitudes up to three hundred feet, send pictures back, and even serve as an interpreter if necessary. The machine made a soft whirring sound as it vanished into the gloom.

  The bio bods activated the night vision technology built into their helmets as another two-hour-and-forty-minute night got underway. It was helpful, but wouldn't provide a decisive advantage. The Naa could smell what some of them called "the stinks" from a hundred yards away. Their retinas were equipped with twice the number of rods that Humans had, and they were very attuned to the environment. So much so that the Naa had been known to sense the presence of alien troops even when there were no physical cues to go on. They were also excellent shots and increasingly armed with weapons stolen from legionnaires like Private Laraby.

  By leaning back in the harness and bending his knees, Smith could absorb the up and down motion as Chang carried him uphill. Like all of the T-2s Chang had been a bio bod originally and now, having lost most of his body, was living life as a cyborg. It was, he said, "A lot better than the alternative."

  Each cyborg had a story. Some had been legionnaires to begin with. Chang was an example of that. But others, those who had committed capital crimes, were often given a choice between life as a cyborg or a dive into the big abyss. Did that suck? Yes, it did. But most people thought that some life was better than none at all. Smith's thoughts were interrupted by an incoming transmission. "This is unit Zero-Two," the drone said flatly. "I am streaming video on channel three."

  Smith brought channel three up on his HUD. It looked like Zero-Two was just over the ridge looking down on what the map overlay said was the village of Crooked Creek. And, judging from appearances the settlement, was under attack. It consisted of about twenty huts surrounded by a palisade.