Virus: Vector and Virus, #2

VIRUS

Stephen J. Schrader

Published by Foremost Press at Smashwords

Copyright © 2006 Stephen J. Schrader

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This work is dedicated to the person who taught me what it is to not just be a man but to be a good man, my father.

PRELUDE

Dortmunder leaned back in the creaking chair and sighed. While still tall, his once broad and well-formed shoulders were stooped and his once tanned complexion had faded to a sallow shade just the tan side of jaundiced yellow. He rubbed his sunken, blood-shot eyes with the back of a grimy, soot-stained hand. After taking a moment to glare at the water dripping into the bucket on one corner of the table, he tiredly shuffled the dirty, water-stained papers on the table that was doubling as his desk before nodding to the next petitioner to enter.

One of the Oahkie elders walked tiredly up and put a muddy clot in the middle of the table. His expression told of another disaster.

Dortmunder looked up from the muddy mess. Well?

The other man shook his head. His eyes were downcast as he sighed. Feared we did . . . He motioned to the mud. Too much fire damage to the plants. In rain mud rot the crops just do.

The speaker for the Oahkies nodded. Using his pen he poked at the mess on the table. Lost how much have we?

The other man shrugged sagging shoulders. Our grain crop, two-thirds the fire took. Half at least of the new planting this will take.

Dortmunder nodded again. The Reavers have gone six weeks now. He picked up a relatively clean sheet of paper and handed it into the elder’s muddy paw. But disaster they still deliver.

Pointing at the paper, he continued, In two days time M’lady Cromwell return she will. He sighed, closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. His grimy hand left an unnoticed dirt brand across his forehead. Abataurum she brings, inspect us they will.

The other man blanched. It took a moment for him to mutter, Judgment day it is.

Dortmunder dropped his hand; he couldn’t raise his eyes from the muddy mess on the table, as he quietly said, Yes.

CHAPTER 1

The door slid open, and in stepped a tall, lean battle-scarred figure. He was wearing a stiffly pressed dress coverall, the collar tabs of a Raider warrant officer glinting at his throat.

The older woman in an unmarked Raider coverall smiled and said, Ah, Chief Griffon! Welcome back! And congratulations on your mission!

The secretary—receptionist? adjutant? Griffon mused that he’d never learned her actual title—waved him toward the door. The commandant is waiting for you.

Griffon absentmindedly straightened his uniform coverall as he approached the metal door. Here goes nothing. He swallowed and lightly touched the button.

After a moment the door slid open, and from the interior of the much larger room beyond he heard the deep voice of the commandant. Come.

As Griffon strode purposefully across the carpeted floor, he noted that the commander was alone this time, and he was sitting in the only chair in the room. Uh-Oh, that can’t be good.

Griffon came to rigid attention, centered across the huge desk from the commandant, and snapped a precise salute. Warrant Officer Griffon, reporting as ordered, sir!

The commandant glanced up from the file he was examining and waved a half-hearted imitation salute. At ease, Mister.

As Griffon relaxed, the commandant snapped the file closed, leaned back in the high leather chair and grinned. First, congratulations on a job well done! You and your team have done the near impossible! By destroying the Brotherhood’s base in Kansas, you’ve set their operations back for years, and opened up half the continent for us!

Working hard to keep a straight face, Griffon snapped to attention and barked a quick, Sir!

The commander leaned forward, his smile faded into something else as he picked up a second folder.

Uh-Oh! Griffon couldn’t help swallowing as the commander slowly stood, leaning forward on his knuckles until his face was mere inches from Griffon’s.

The commandant roared, What the HELL did you think you were doing?

Griffon felt himself actually rocked back on his heels by the blast.

Already knowing it was pointless, he started, S-Sir, I—

The interruption was at slightly lower volume. Shut up and listen, you worthless wart on a bug’s arse!

With an actual growl, the commander seemed to actually swell with indignation. Still leaning on his desk, but with a more controlled volume, he continued, Warrant Griffon, do you have ANY idea the damage you and your bunch of gangsters have done?

Snapping upright, the big commander started pacing in short steps, punctuating each word with highly energetic gestures. WHAT do you think this war is all about? What do you think we’ve been fighting SEVENTY YEARS for? Are you capable of actually THINKING with anything else but your trigger-finger?

He finally slowed to catch a breath.

Griffon was actually becoming alarmed; the commander’s normal deep ebony coloring had gone absolutely purple. S-Sir, I—

Snapping around like a gun turret, the big man roared, I said shaddup!

It took a few moments, but he finally settled down enough to sit back down.

Leaning back again, the urbane controlled commandant asked, Warrant Griffon, do you LIKE eating fungus supplements, yogurt and yeast extracts? Do you WANT to wear synthetic polyester underwear?

The commandant went through a quick cycle of blinks and sighs. Leaning back he steepled his fingers and went on in a long-suffering tone, I realize you sleepers have missed out on all the history. He paused and started counting off on his fingers. The plague, the alien attack, the conquest of the Earth, the virtual annihilation of all things human.

Again he paused to catch his breath. The rise of the cybernetic Brotherhood, the decades, the generations of combat, all for the future existence of humanity itself.

He picked up the second folder and waved it in Griffon’s face. The purpose of the war . . . the PURPOSE of all this are these FRACKUPS . . . The people!

Tossing the much abused folder to the desk, he went on, "Like these Oahkies and the Kashuns to the east, or the Mikans to the south, we’ve been working to bring them to our camp while the Brotherhood tries to bring them to THEIR side. Whoever wins gets the recruits, gets the fresh meat, vegetables, and real cotton cloth. Whoever wins will decide the future course of the human race.

We have to work in the shadow of the aliens, anything, EVERYTHING that attracts their attention is annihilated! Humanity is facing extermination and what do you do?

He swiped an angry hand at the folder. You and your team aren’t happy with destroying a Brotherhood base. Oh, no! You have to go out of your way to virtually annihilate one of the few human enclaves on the CONTINENT!

The big man settled back into his desk chair and was visibly trying to regain his composure. Griffon waited patiently, his expression carefully neutral. After a few moments the commander continued, I’ve decided to post you and Fineous to our training section. It seems to be the best way for us to take advantage of the unusual . . . Let’s say unorthodox combat techniques you and your team have demonstrated. For some reason, and don’t ask me why, Sergeant Sanchez and his entire squad have asked to be assigned to your command. For the life of me, after what happened to his old sergeant and about a third of the squad on their last mission with you, I can’t imagine why. Anyhow, the two technical experts of your old 24th Planetary Exploration Team, Gillian and White, are going to be busy on their own projects . . . Dismissed.

He returned Griffon’s salute. But before the other man could make it to the door, the commander called him back. That is, IF you think you can handle a training mission WITHOUT getting half the trainees killed?

Griffon just gave him a rueful little smile before saluting and exiting stage left.

As the door slid shut behind him, he answered the knowing smile of the commandant’s secretary with a weary shrug. Once in the hallway outside the office, Griffon made his way to the elevator. Punching the button for the Recreation Level, he leaned against the rear wall of the elevator and closed his eyes as the car slid silently downward.

Making his way to the workout rooms, it took him a few moments to locate the one he was looking for.

On a mat in the center of the room, a mousy little man was sparring with a boy-slim, whipcord-quick woman.

Griffon stood at the edge of the mat watching.

A quick blur of blows and kicks, dodges and parries was followed by the little man twisting into a blindingly quick spinning back-kick.

Not quick enough, his opponent ducked the kick and swept his pivot-leg from under him.

The little man went crashing to the mat.

The woman had already done a forward roll, and brought her heel down in a kill-blow to his throat. Her foot stopped a fraction of an inch from actually making contact.

Griffon walked forward as the grinning little witch watched her buck-toothed victim gasp for breath.

Fineous gave a mock-snarl. You’ll get yours.

Janine just giggled. Then she said in a mocking little whine, Yes, but WHEN? She twisted around to give him a quick kiss.

Griffon gave a start as a pair of hands slid beneath his arms and locked themselves around his chest from behind. He felt the soft curves of an infinitely familiar form press into his back as a husky voice whispered, Gotcha!

Gently loosening the hold, he turned into the embrace of his lady fair. They kissed before turning back to the pair untangling themselves on the mat.

Drawing back, Tory Stoner, Chief Medical Officer for Comanche Base and Griffon’s wife, looked into his eyes. Uh oh. Don’t tell me.

Griffon gave a curt nod and turned to Fineous. With a truly ghastly grimace he snarled, Yeah, we owe you two a dinner.

Fineous grinned. Told you so. By the way, that’s a STEAK dinner, right?

Griffon nodded. Right. Shrugging, he gave his wife a weak smile. What’s a week’s worth of variable ration points?

Tory got her own dig in. Yes, and you’re doing all the cooking, right?

Griffon shrugged. Yeah, yeah, a bet’s a bet.

They made their way to the lockers.

Fineous, his ever-present grin firmly in place, asked, So what was it? We didn’t kill that Cromwell bitch when we had the chance? Or was it that we obliterated the Oahkies?

Griffon caught Janine’s eye. Blasting the Oahkies.

She grinned, sticking her tongue out at Fineous.

The little man gave a melodramatic groan, rolling his eyes. Janine took his arm, pulling him to her. Grinning, Griffon heard her stage whisper in his ear, That’s TWO you owe me.

Fineous’ mock-dramatic shrug finally brought a smile to Griffon’s face. Looking askance at the bigger man, he said, You know, losing bets is gonna be the death of me yet.

Later in the men’s locker room, they were able to get to the more serious side of the conversation.

Fineous turned the shower taps to full. He stepped out of the stall, leaving the door open. Steam billowed out, along with the covering noise of running water.

The little man glanced at his companion. Ok, what’s the verdict?

Griffon shrugged. We get to host a training rotation.

Fineous got a sour look on his face. Great, we win their first real victory in decades and what do we get? Wiping trainee snot!

Griffon nodded. At least it gives us something to keep our hand in while we let phase two simmer. Glancing about to make sure they were alone, he asked, How are things going at your end?

To keep up appearances, Fineous began toweling off furiously. He seemed uncommonly agitated. Yeah, just great. I’ve managed to finagle a source.

Griffon froze, glancing up. What? Already?

Fineous shrugged. The other side was desperate to do their own finagling. We just had a meeting of the ways as it were.

Griffon thought a moment. Who?

Fineous, glancing about, shook his head. No. The codename is Janus. But that’s all you get.

Griffon’s eyebrow slowly rose. And when did you decide this? What do we do if something happens to you? How can we cross-reference the planning if we can’t make contact?

Fineous just shook his head. No. This is too good a source, and it’s too close to the edge. If you want to talk to Janus, you do it through me. He gave the larger man a rare serious scowl. I mean it, sir. Don’t EVER ask me again.

Griffon slowly shook his head. I don’t like it. You’re playing it too close to the vest again. He shrugged. Ok, you’re the expert in skullduggery.

After a few moments thought he added, Um, say Finn . . . why ‘Janus’? Wasn’t that an ancient god of two-faced liars, back-stabbers, spies, and sneaks?

Fineous returned to his usual sardonic grin. Actually, it was the ancient Roman god of Gates and Doorways.

I thought Janus was the ‘two-faced’ god?

Finn nodded. He was, as in ‘the door swings both ways’.

Griffon nodded. I hope not. At Fineous’ questioning look, he added, We want to get in, not let them out.

As Fineous shut off the shower and went to his locker to get dressed, he caught Griffon’s eye. I should tell you. He glanced around to make sure nobody could hear, before continuing sotto voce, It looks like we’ll get a quick chance to check Janus’ reliability. At Griffon’s raised eyebrows, he smiled. The first report said there was already a Brotherhood agent among the, um, volunteers for our team.

Griffon came to a sudden stop. Shaking his head at his smaller companion, he said bitterly and a bit overloud, Not another one of those DAMNED assassins! He almost spit out the next. I suppose you weren’t able to get a name?

Fineous shrugged as he quickly dressed. I don’t have a name, a sex, or anything. They exited the locker room and turned down the hallway to meet up with their ladies. I’m not even able to say what their mission is. Maybe it’s just to observe and report?

Griffon caught his elbow. Don’t take any chances. Nail the bastard if you identify him.

Their smiling companions ended the conversation.

CHAPTER 2

Of the two Brotherhood Abataurum that accompanied her, Consul Bushnell outranked her, and Praetor Gruenspear was her senior in seniority. But Praetor Olivia Cromwell, as the commander of the local prefecture, oversaw the proceedings.

The three were comfortably seated under a protective canvas awning. They were perched on the cleared foundation of the burnt-off ruin of the old townhouse. It served its purpose quite nicely under the rapidly clearing morning sky.

Flanking the three were a full dozen of the massive Battleborg war machines. More or less human in shape, their impassive sensor turret heads and heavy weapons covered the bleating Oahkies massed before the trio.

Olivia noted that at least Dortmunder was showing a bit of spine in his stance. Too bad, she thought. Sitting up a bit straighter to draw the attention of the Oahkies from the Battleborgs, she ostensibly scanned the list in her hand for the second time, before speaking, Not once, but twice, you allowed a group of . . . Reavers—she had to access the appropriate file with her cybernetic implant to remember how the Raiders were called by the locals—"to escape. The first time they caused some destruction and disruption.

The second time they . . .—she started reading down the list in her hand—destroyed or seriously damaged over half the buildings in your village. They also burnt off two-thirds of your crops. Stampeded your herds to be decimated by the beasts of the field . . . Here she gave him a withering glare. You then failed to secure or recapture the Raiders. All this AFTER I handed them over to you personally.

To his credit, Dortmunder managed to respond without a quaver in his voice. M’lady! These . . . These Reavers . . . Demons they were! Walk through walls they can . . . Invisible they can become . . . Even destroy your own base they did . . .

That was as far as he got. Commendable or not, his opposition only sent the Brotherhood Cyborg into a white-faced frenzy. She leapt to her feet screaming, How DARE you?

The Oahkie leader flinched as if he’d been physically struck. The other elders blanched and began to quake. A collective moan swept through the massed villagers.

The white-clad woman stepped forward. Still screaming, How dare you make excuses? Are you daring to insinuate there is ANY similarity between the well-orchestrated military strike, done with the full support of our enemy’s military? She was actually spitting as she sneered, And your inability to hang onto four helpless prisoners?

She waved her hand at the crowd in an expansive gesture. And, after I . . . at great personal risk and discomfort . . . She ignored the amused message that came over her cybernetic implants from the other two Abataurum. That last hadn’t been quite true. Handed them over to you personally for safekeeping.

She finally got control over her temper.

As she returned to her seat, Dortmunder tried to salvage what he could of his defense. M-M’lady! I would never, could never such a thing even think. His voice faltering, he stuttered, I . . . I, um, I . . . Only their sheer deviousness and abilities meant to say. These Reavers, unlike any we have dealt with were!

Olivia sat slumped in her chair. She gave an arrogant, dismissive wave of her hand. Whatever. The simple fact is you failed in your trust . . . Twice.

She paused, eyes shut as she accessed a previously flagged file via her implants.

The other two Abataurum said nothing, though they were exchanging amusing anecdotes via their own implants.

Finally Cromwell opened her eyes and straightened in her seat. With deliberate pontification she pronounced the verdict. As if there had ever been any doubt. Almost two hundred years ago, a man named Hal Woodrow said—she read off the entry that was projected by her implant onto the inner surface of her retinas— ‘It is usually impossible to tell the difference between incompetence and conspiracy’.

She gave the clustered elders a slow, evil smile. Like a cat with a mouse, she was enjoying playing with them. "Luckily,