Planet Wrecker

-11-

Hawthorne paced before a one-way mirror. In the other room was an operating chamber. Former Chief Yezhov lay strapped down on a gurney, with a metal band around his shaved head.

Three doctors stood in green gowns around him, with surgical masks covering their faces. Medical equipment filled with room, with banks of computers, imagining holographs and mind-scanners.

Yezhov squirmed as a doctor inserted a tube into his left arm. Turning toward the one-way mirror, Yezhov shouted, “You’re breaking your word, Supreme Commander!”

Captain Mune stood to the side. He glanced at Hawthorne. “The man’s a liar, sir. He’s been lying for months.”

It had been five-and-half weeks since the raid on PHC Headquarters. Since then, Hawthorne’s most trusted soldiers had arrested the top echelon of Political Harmony Corps and sixty percent of the under-chiefs and ranking secretaries. Eleven of those secretive men and women had been shot. Twenty-three more faced Director-controlled Tribunals. Unfortunately, three Directors were discovered attempting to initiate a coup. They’d used a hidden fraternity of PHC personnel, together with altered people in various security services.

“You gave me your word!” Yezhov shouted.

Hawthorne bared his teeth in a grimace. The altered people—they had been proto-cyborgs, with the same brainwave patterns that Commodore Blackstone had transmitted from the Mars Battlefleet. The cyborgs had altered certain fleet personnel there during the Battle for Mars.

What do cyborgs have to do with Chief Yezhov? Hawthorne dearly wanted to know.

“You’ve kept your word, sir,” Mune said.

Hawthorne shook his head. The captain had left his wheelchair nine days ago. He still moved gingerly, but he said he felt as fit as ever.

“Supreme Commander!” Yezhov howled. “Let me out of here!”

The three doctors looked up, turning toward the one-way mirror. It was made of ballistic glass.

“Tell them to proceed,” Hawthorne whispered.

Mune pressed a button and said just that.

“No!” Yezhov shouted, trying to squirm free.

The three doctors returned their attention to him. One pressed a hypo against his arm. Soon, Yezhov’s struggles slowed and then ceased altogether.

The hospital room was part of Political Harmony Corps, this one in the former headquarters. In this very chamber, the three doctors working on Yezhov had operated on the women sent into enemy territory.

“You never could have trusted him,” Mune said.

Hawthorne knew that to be true. These past weeks, Yezhov had proved himself a masterful liar. If the art of deception were one of the martial practices, Yezhov would be a ninth-degree black belt.

“You must mind-scan him,” Mune said.

“The scanning burns out the brain,” Hawthorne whispered.

“He brought this on himself, sir. Your word implied that he would cooperate.”

Hawthorne squinted at Yezhov. These past five-and-half weeks had been murder on his conscience. His bionic teams had turned into death squads. He was becoming no better than Stalin or Mao of the Twentieth Century. Soon, he’d be no different from Lord Director Enkov. Social Unity was disintegrating under the crushing pressure of the Highborn conquest. In his gut, Hawthorne knew he had to do these things. But he wasn’t the right man for it. Each morning it was becoming harder to look in a mirror.

And that made little sense. He’d originated the frightful idea of blowing the deep-core mines and blaming the Highborn for it. He’d sent hundreds of thousands of soldiers to their doom. This political infighting, though, it felt different. Maybe it was the striving to stay on top, and the brutal killing to do it, that hammered at him. Maybe years at the top had worn him down. A colonel or general could only last so long in combat. Then he had to be rotated out of the field and into a quiet place to recuperate.

When do I get to recuperate? When do I get to rest?

Yezhov lay limply on the gurney. The doctors began to move the mind-scanning equipment into position.

Hawthorne’s chest began to thump. He put his hand over his heart. It raced. His mouth was dry.

“Wait,” he croaked.

“Sir?” asked Mune.

Hawthorne strode to the one-way mirror. He pressed a call button and said in a dry voice, “Wait.”

The three doctors looked up.

“Don’t operate,” Hawthorne said.

“No mind-scan?” asked a doctor.

“I gave him my word,” Hawthorne said.

“His death isn’t certain,” a doctor said. “If you wish, we can perform a third level interrogation.” The doctor’s head twitched as if he saw something. Then he sharply turned toward one of the other doctors. “What are you doing?” he asked.

The questioned doctor never answered, but pressed a hypo against Yezhov’s arm.

“I asked you what you’re doing?” the first doctor said.

The questioned doctor yanked down his mask. He grinned wildly, with drool leaking from his lips. Then he exploded. Pieces of flesh and blood, and plastic, smacked against the ballistic glass of the one-way mirror. Smoke drifted in the chamber, and from somewhere, a klaxon began to wail. The other two doctors and Yezhov, their bodies were torn and bleeding.

Hawthorne stared at the wreckage. Then he felt Mune’s hands on him, turning him, propelling him toward the exit. Two things kept drumming in Hawthorne’s mind. He’d tried to keep his word. He would have let Yezhov live. The other thing beating in his brain was that there was a hidden enemy among them.