She smiled seductively.

  “None of that,” Gray said. “You’re here because I admire your mind, not your looks. Tell me what you think?”

  Elaine Barth sucked her lips inward for just a moment, nodding slightly. “I don’t agree with worrying about angering the aliens. Screw them. They’ve come into our Solar System. The dwarf over there said the aliens have higher technology than we do. History teaches that those with higher technology sweep aside those with lower. That means we’re a target. The key is winning. I just wonder if we should build up a larger force and keep it close to home. We have almost nothing now, so building up to attack will take time, time that we lack. Let the aliens extend themselves by coming to us. We can watch them as they accelerate to Earth and we can build missiles even faster. Strike them hard with massed missiles and whatever spaceships we can construct during that time.”

  “Petty?” asked Gray.

  “Sounds similar to my own thoughts,” Petty said.

  “Rumpelstiltskin?” asked Gray.

  The scientists frowned, looking down at the floor. He seemed uneasy.

  “You lack an opinion?” asked Gray.

  Rumpelstiltskin shook his big head.

  “Then I want to hear it,” Gray said. For the first time, there was a hint of danger in his melodious voice.

  For just a moment, Rumpelstiltskin looked up into Gray’s eyes. His gaze darted away as a mouse might do when seeing a striking hawk.

  “Are you afraid to speak against their ideas?” Gray asked.

  “That does strike me as imprudent,” Rumpelstiltskin said in his odd voice.

  “Doesn’t it strike you as more imprudent to fail to please me?” Gray asked mildly.

  Rumpelstiltskin looked up at Gray again. Had the man brought him here in order to speak against Elaine Barth and James Petty? They were both horrifying people, each having a long memory. In truth, why had Gray brought them both together? Rumpelstiltskin had the feeling that Barth and Petty secretly worked against Gray, wanting supreme power for themselves. First, they had to unseat Gray.

  “Well…” Rumpelstiltskin said. “I respect their ideas, sir. They are both well thought out.”

  “But?” said Gray.

  “Well…” Rumpelstiltskin said. “We are likely dealing with aliens possessing greater technology that we do.”

  “You said that before,” Petty growled.

  Rumpelstiltskin glanced at the man fearfully, bobbing his head. “It’s true, sir.”

  “So you agree with me, with us?” Petty said.

  “Well…” Rumpelstiltskin said. “I wouldn’t put it like that.”

  Petty glanced at Gray. “Why don’t you tell us what you think? I’m most interested in that.”

  “Rumpelstiltskin,” Gray said, ignoring Petty. “I want your view on this. Give it at once.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “It strikes me as obvious the aliens are waiting to hit us for a reason. The reason is that they’re not yet ready for a confrontation. They’re undoubtedly building a manufacturing center on Titan because they have to. It would be to our disadvantage to allow the aliens the time they need to do this.”

  “We should strike them now then?” Gray asked.

  “Sometimes one must throw whatever is at hand at the enemy in order to keep them off balance,” Rumpelstiltskin said.

  “Are you a strategist then?” Petty said with a sneer.

  Rumpelstiltskin cringed before saying, “I am a logician, sir. We are at a technological disadvantage versus the aliens. That disadvantage will likely grow as time progresses. That would mean now is the moment to make our move, not later.”

  “Even if that move fails?” said Petty.

  Rumpelstiltskin glanced at the icy Elaine Barth. She watched him as an owl might an overbold rat. “The gracious Ms. Barth has suggested a three-tiered plan. I still incline to it. There are many risks…” Rumpelstiltskin shrugged his small shoulders. “This may be the best risk we have. What I mean is that the odds are against us, but they will be stacked even more against us later. So, we might as well strike while we have the best odds we’re going to get.”

  Petty sneered at the small scientist before he turned to Gray. “Is that what you think?”

  Gray eyed Petty and then gave the slightest of nods.

  That caused Petty to blush, perhaps with anger. “We hardly have anything to strike the aliens with. A few so-called super-missiles are under construction in orbital space. And the other plan, the one against the mothership—”

  “The generational vessel,” Gray said, interrupting.

  Petty scowled before turning to Rumpelstiltskin. “Is the generational vessel dangerous to us?”

  Rumpelstiltskin glanced at Gray.

  Gray nodded.

  “I don’t think so,” Rumpelstiltskin told Petty.

  “So why bother attacking it?” Petty asked, looking at Gray.

  Gray raised an eyebrow at Rumpelstiltskin.

  “The aliens might think as we do,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “Thus, the generational vessel will probably be more lightly defended than the Saturn moons. Besides, the assault against the generational vessel will use unique tactics. We likely lack their battle technology. Thus, we are going to assault them as pirates used to do during the Age of Sail.”

  “Pirates,” Petty said with a sneer. “Now we’re pirates?”

  “We’re going to use a pirate tactic to help offset our technical inferiority,” Rumpelstiltskin said.

  “Bah,” Petty said. “This all sounds insane to me.”

  Gray did not respond.

  Did that embolden Petty? “What about this frontal assault against Titan? We have a few massive missiles under construction. How can they stand a chance against the technologically superior alien vessels?”

  Rumpelstiltskin glanced at Gray.

  Once more, Gray nodded ever so slightly.

  “Concerning the missiles, sir,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “We hope to saturate the alien bases with nuclear-armed warheads.”

  “They have something to defend on Titan,” Gray added. “We don’t have to win the space battle at the Saturn moons. We just have to slow down the construction of the likely industrial base on Titan.”

  “If that’s so important, why not send everything at Titan?” Petty asked.

  Gray’s nostrils flared. “Rumpelstiltskin,” he said.

  The small scientist blinked several times. “The generational vessel attack has a different purpose than the frontal assault on Titan. We hope to acquire some of the aliens’ technology aboard the generational vessel. If we can do that, if our people going out to Neptune can return to Earth with the technology, then our odds for beating the aliens will rise dramatically.”

  “I see,” Petty said. “Which is the real strike and which is the feint?” he asked Gray.

  “That one that fails is the feint, while the one that succeeds is the key strike,” Gray said.

  Elaine Barth laughed softly.

  Petty glanced from her to Gray. “What if they both fail?” he asked.

  “Then,” Gray said, “as our lovely Elaine would say, ‘we’re screwed.’”

  Petty grunted.

  “Now,” Gray said. “I’d like a rundown on the training of the opposition forces we plan to throw at the generational vessel…”

  -47-

  Far from the Himalayan retreat, in Arizona, Colonel Mike Steele led his soldiers through rugged, mountainous terrain. He did so in a cross-country run where Apache braves used to train until as late as 1886, when Geronimo finally surrendered to the U.S. Army.

  The number of captured WSA soldiers had grown to a little over one thousand since Steele’s capture two months ago.

  Steele had healed from his thigh surgery after GPI surgeons extracted the last grenade fragments from a firefight fifteen years ago. After that and other processing, the men were transferred by train and then by truck to a huge training facility here in the deserts of Arizona.

  No one had yet said what the Corpocracy planned to do with them. Certainly, this was all strange and suspicious.

  As Steele ran, he looked up into the cloudless sky.

  GPI choppers and drones hovered over them, constantly watching. In the distance, Steele knew corporate mercenaries in jeeps and old-style Humvees were pacing them.

  Out here in the wilds, some of the men had tried to escape. At first, the GPI Arizona Camp Commandant had shown them the dead bodies. The corporation mercs had shot those who tried to run.

  That had intensified the attempts, not throttled them. Soon thereafter, the escapers returned to camp after having received a thorough and obvious beating.

  In the present and under the hot sun, Steele climbed over rocks and a huge boulder as he started scaling what was nearly a sheer cliff face. He wore combat fatigues and had new, better combats boots than he’d ever had before. Their captors forced them to train at nearly boot-camp intensity.

  Why do that? That was the question for Steele. Obviously, the corporate people planned to use the men for something nefarious. But for the life of him, Steele couldn’t figure out what it could be.

  Steele slipped while climbing and barely kept himself from falling off the cliff. He would have tumbled at least fifteen feet onto rocks below. He needed to concentrate on doing this. Otherwise—

  Steele reached up with one hand and wiped sweat out of his eyes. Then he focused on climbing, deciding he’d worry about the other stuff later.

  ***

  Two days later, three camp goons escorted Steele into a new building.

  The entire thousand-plus men had lined up outside a square brick building. A nurse then stepped out of the building and called people by name. Everyone went through the same building one by one, escorted by ubiquitous baton-wielding goons out the other side. There, the men entered a jeep and headed to one of six other larger buildings.

  The main camp where the WSA soldiers stayed was ten klicks from this chain-link fence, barbed-wire-protected super-compound.

  Three goons in blue uniforms and shock batons rode with Steele as the jeep took him to the farthest building.

  The jeep parked in front, with gravel instead of grass spread across the yard.

  “Get out,” the chief goon said.

  Steele did so without a word. He used the lone sidewalk and headed for the main door.

  The minute he entered the building, things seemed off to him. He heard groaning and even screaming from hidden places. That was horrific stuff.

  Steele halted in bewilderment and unease.

  A goon behind shoved him so Steele slammed against a protruding ledge before a slot window. He whirled around, angry, his side throbbing.

  Two goons raised their batons, with stupid evil grins on their fleshy faces.

  “Come on, tough boy bird,” the biggest goon said. “What you made of, huh?”

  The desire to do battle was strong. Steele let his shoulders slump instead and faced forward. This was the wrong time and place for a showdown.

  “That’s what I thought,” the chief goon said from behind.

  Steele nodded exaggeratedly even though that was a stupid thing to do.

  “What does that mean?” the goon said from behind.

  “Figure it out, bright boy,” Steele said without turning around.

  The baton swished through the air. Steele heard it, as he’d been expecting something like that. He jumped forward and turned fast. The tip of the baton swished past his gut and thudded against the divider in the office.

  From the other side, a uniformed woman appeared at the slot opening. “What are you doing? Treat him with respect or I’ll report you.”

  The goon lost his toughness as he nodded at her meekly.

  Steele laughed, pointing at the goon.

  Stupid rage appeared on the goon’s fleshy face.

  “Sergeant,” the woman at the partition said.

  A door opened that seemed to have been part of the wall. A big man in a blue military uniform with a GPI patch on his shoulder stepped in.

  “Please escort—” the woman at the partition glanced at a tablet— “subject C-14 to the testing chamber. These three seem to have lost their sense of perspective.”

  The sergeant grunted and put a firm hand on Steele’s upper left arm. “This way.”

  Steele left the goons and went into the room with the sergeant.

  Other military men within looked up. None looked at Steele with contempt, but with mild disinterest.

  “What’s going on here?” Steele asked.

  “Testing like the nurse said,” the sergeant replied. “It’s all I can tell you for now.”

  Steele couldn’t help himself, and said, “Why is the corporation treating us like this? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Hell if I know,” the sergeant said. “Just doing my job. You ought to do the same, right?”

  Steele stared into the sergeant’s bland-seeming face. The sergeant was lying. The man knew what was going on, but either he didn’t want to say or had orders to that effect. Steele nodded. “Okay. Thanks anyway.”

  After a few corridors, the sergeant used a card pass and opened a heavy, locked door. Steele went in, the sergeant followed and pointed at an examination table.

  Steele went to it and jumped up, sitting down.

  The sergeant put his back against the locked door, drew a pistol-sized weapon and aimed it at the colonel. His finger was on the trigger.

  “Just letting you know,” the sergeant said. “If you slide off that, I’m shooting you. This is a needler. It has slivers of knockout drugs that will melt once they’re in you. So whatever is going to happen is going to happen to you, right?”

  “What is going to happen?” Steele said.

  There was no hint of a smile on the sergeant’s face. “He’s ready,” he said loudly.

  A rear door opened and the Kurdish woman Steele had met two months ago in Little Rock, Arkansas entered. She wore her dark hair up, had a white lab coat and glasses and still had all those pens in her front pocket.

  She stopped short upon seeing Steele. “It’s you,” she said.

  “Hello, Doctor,” Steele said. “Care to tell me what’s going on?”

  She glanced at the sergeant with his aimed needler. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. There are rules.”

  “How about telling me your name then,” Steele said.

  The sergeant with the GPI patch cleared his throat. Both Steele and the Kurdish woman looked at him. “Don’t bother the doctor, Colonel. This is routine. Nothing to worry about, eh?”

  “The hell it is,” Steele said.

  “Still,” the sergeant said. “Do it the nice way or you’ll receive it the hard way.”

  Steele was more confused than ever. He regarded the doctor. She wouldn’t meet his eyes now. That didn’t seem like a good sign.

  She went to the side and pulled out a drawer. Then, from it, she raised the ugliest hypodermic needle he’d ever seen. The hypodermic had a long steel needle and a plastic part filled with a gloopy yellow solution that had strange metallic motes floating in it.

  “You’re not thinking about injecting all that into me, are you?” Steele said.

  Still refusing to look at him, the Kurdish woman nodded.

  “What is that stuff?” Steele said.

  “Shut up,” the sergeant said. “Just get on with it. We have a lot of processing to do today. Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

  Steele looked at him. The sergeant was much tenser now, edgy. Steele regarded the doctor again. “Am I a lab rat?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Do you understand what shut up means?” the sergeant said, sounding annoyed.

  Once more, Steele regarded the sergeant. The GPI man was no longer pleasant in any way. That meant the needle, or the solution in it, was poison. The hell with this—

  Steele slid off the examining table.

  The sergeant pulled the trigger. A hail of slivers poured from the nozzle and embedded in Steele. They hurt each time.

  Steele had planned to charge the sergeant. Now, he wobbled, blinking madly. It was hard to think all of a sudden. Now, he knew what it felt like when a hunter shot a tiger with a knockout dart. It was awful. He staggered toward the sergeant—

  “Don’t shoot anymore,” the doctor shouted. “It will delay everything.”

  Steele staggered to the sergeant. The pistol lifted up and came down hard on his head. That did it. Steele crashed to the floor, hitting it hard. A moment later, he was unconscious.

  -48-

  Colonel Mike Steele awoke on a hospital cot. He heard groans and quiet pleas all around him. He sat up just a bit, and that made his stomach clench horribly.

  When the pain subsided and the tears cleared from his eyes, he saw that the large chamber was crammed with WSA soldiers lying on cots like his.

  Steele frowned, and then his side throbbed with agony. He moved his blanket and pulled up his pajamas. He had a red ugly welt at his hip. Examining it more closely, he detected the smallest of puncture wounds. Was that where the Kurdish doctor had injected him with that foul yellow solution?

  By degrees, Steele managed to gain the attention of a fellow inmate. He asked the soldier what had happened.

  “The injection happened,” the soldier said.

  “In the hip?” asked Steele.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t remember.”

  “They shot me with the knockout slivers first.”

  The soldier, a young boy, practically, scowled. “I should have thought of that.” He frowned a moment later. “You look old. Who are you, anyway?”

  “Colonel Steele.”

  The boy’s features fell. “I’m sorry, Colonel. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. It’s this damn prison and these evil injections.”

  “Don’t worry about it. We’re all prisoners, all in the same boat.”

  “That’s kind of you to say, sir. What is this all about?”

  Steele shook his head. “I wish I knew.”

  “First they treat us nice, letting us exercise. Now, they’re pumping us with this solution. What kind of mission do they have in mind for us?”

  Understanding hit Steele. That and the pain of the injection proved too much. Without answering the boy, he thumped back, his head hitting the pillow. He was thinking about the news of the aliens, which had filtered through to them. This must have something to do with that. The GPI corporatists weren’t letting them exercise for fun, but keeping them fit as in training. Now the weird injection that was making many sick—something odd was up.