Cyborg Assault ds-4

by Vaughn Heppner

  This tunnel snaked endlessly into the darkness. She was alone down here, and she could possibly wedge herself at any turn. Here she fought on through mind-numbing horrors. Why hadn’t she fought on with similar courage against the loneliness of the escape-pod?

  Her mind was too blurred to understand. With a groan, she forced herself up. She had to keep working or she might fail quota. If that occurred, a cyborg would simply rip off her mask and pitch her quivering body aside. She’d seen cyborgs do it over a hundred times to other unmodified humans.

  Why—?

  Nadia wondered then if she had the answer to her question. The escape-pod had been bitter loneliness and emptiness. There had not been anything to latch onto. There had been nothing to fight but for nothingness. Here, she saw her demons. She felt the tortures. It was something to endure. Maybe it was easier to endure hateful torture than to endure silence, stillness and aching loneliness and nothingness. That seemed strange.

  Nadia listened to her harsh breathing and she squeezed her burning eyes. She wanted to sleep, but she’d have to wait another eight hours for that. Carefully, she slid past the sharp rock. Then she pressed the stapler against the black cable—it also disappeared into the tunnel that seemed to go on forever.

  Nadia pressed the trigger. Her hands lifted, and another staple appeared around the power cable. She helped the cyborgs build their planet-wrecker, but Nadia didn’t know that. She endured for endurance sake, a human rat struggling in an alien sewer. If there was one thing life had taught her, it was that things changed. Nothing remained the same forever. On that small truth, she placed every hope, every drive to survive this endless ordeal.

  -8-

  After a year of desperate travel and weeks of hard deceleration, the Thutmosis III was docked beside a built-up asteroid-moon. The tiny moon was part of the Carme group and known as Demeter. Heavy docking girders were locked onto the big vessel, with lamprey-like tubes attached to the ship’s airlocks.

  Demeter was a Guardian Fleet outpost, a munitions depot housing several patrol boats. Silvery domes and towers dotted the seven-kilometer moon. Large bots were attached to the Thutmosis III. They glowed with bright, arcing light, effecting repairs. Another multi-armed bot presently left a hanger, its jet a stab of flame. It headed for the docked warship, for one of the weapons pods.

  After the missile strike on Callisto, the base personnel had fled Demeter, taking most of the patrol boats. The Praetor had captured one boat. Its sole occupant had been the base’s former Force-Leader. Her interrogation had revealed Demeter, the base’s proximity and function.

  At the moment, the Praetor marched through a munitions chamber deep in Demeter. He wore his battleoid-armor, with its heavy hand-cannon mounts. Around him, huge missiles lay in storage. Within his armor-suit, the Praetor grinned as he viewed the lettering on a missile’s nosecone: Voltaire Missile, AE 1133, Article Seven-Twelve.

  Since saving his ship, the Praetor had lost weight, and the glow to his pink eyes had grown even stranger. Radiation poisoning had done the damage, but he was functional again, regaining strength by the hour and sustained by stimulants. With an exoskeleton-powered gauntlet, he gripped a metallic leash. It glittered whenever his headlamps washed over the former commander of Demeter Outpost. The woman’s left eye had puffed shut. She was missing teeth, and by the wincing way she spoke, it was obvious it hurt her to talk.

  The Praetor mentally shrugged. The Force-Leader could have saved herself the permanent scarring and the brutalization. But she was a preman, a subhuman. It meant she could only learn through her own mistakes. That was the problem with possessing limited humanity. A Highborn learned through other people’s mistakes, not just his own. A preman was too stupid to use such elementary logic.

  The Praetor tugged the leash, making her stumble after him. The empty base now belonged to the Highborn. Soldiers effected repairs and restocked the missile-ship with inferior Zeno drones.

  The Praetor jerked the leash. The small Force-Leader bumped up against his armor. Servos whined as he peered down at her. In order to heighten her fear, the Praetor lifted one of his battleoid arms. He put his gauntleted fingers around the top of her head.

  “With the twitch of my fingers,” he boomed through the suit’s speakers, “I can crush your skull.”

  She whimpered. She was a broken reed, her entire body fleshed with purple and yellow bruises. There hadn’t been time for refinement as speed was critical.

  “Show me the secret locations,” he boomed.

  He allowed her to look up. She was such a child compared to him. Ah, this was living. This was why he’d been born—born into the world, not hatched from a test-tube as the hateful Social Unity propagandists claimed.

  He shook her head. “Show me.”

  “I’ve shown you everything,” she whispered.

  “I’ve studied the outpost’s specs,” he told her.

  She frowned.

  He laughed. “My mental acuity is ten times yours. What takes you days to read, I can scan in an hour. Either you erased sections of your outpost’s logs before you left, or your overlords possessed a smattering of cunning and failed to add them to the specs. Now show me the secret locations or I shall squeeze your skull until blood runs out your nostrils.”

  She stared up at him. Her eyes—

  The Praetor stiffened at what he read in her, and he nodded. So… she attempted deceit.

  “I will show you,” she whispered, with a quaver in her voice. “If you will follow me….”

  He gave her play with the leash. She shuffled ahead of him, past the nosecone of a giant Voltaire Missile. With his chin, he lowered the helmet’s receivers. He didn’t want to burst his eardrums with what he was about to do.

  His helmet and chest lamps washed over various control mechanisms. Yes, he understood now. It made him grin ferociously.

  The woman said something. He couldn’t hear the precise words, because his gain was way down. He recognized her pointing into the darkness, however. Then she lurched toward a hatch.

  “Is that the secret way?” he boomed.

  The Force-Leader hunched her battered shoulders before nodding.

  “Show me,” the Praetor said.

  She shuffled toward the hatch. With a shaking finger, she reached for a control board. He let her hand get to within an inch of it. Then, with savage strength, he yanked the leash. She lifted off her feet, yelping in animal surprise and pain, and then possibly screaming with terror. He didn’t give her time to attempt anything else. Gripping her head, he twisted with exoskeleton strength.

  He twisted her head, ripping the flesh and breaking the neck-bones, tearing the head from the torso. Blood jetted everywhere, spraying in gouts. Disgusted, the Praetor pitched her torso aside. It hadn’t been fear that made him use his battleoid-suit at full power, but a desire to protect the Voltaire Missiles from even the slightest harm.

  The former Force-Leader had just tried to explode a hidden bomb. Perhaps this control-board contained the base destruction switch. He had seen the subtle change in her. He had been so certain, too, that she’d been broken.

  “Praetor!” Canus said over the suit’s radio-link.

  “I am here.”

  “We have established a laser-link with Earth. Do you wish to speak with the Grand Admiral?”

  “Soon,” the Praetor said. They had lost radio contact with Highborn High Command many long months ago. Had the Grand Admiral believed him dead? Was news of the missile-ship’s survival a rude shock to that cunning old soldier? The Praetor concentrated on the here and now, and told Canus, “Before I speak to Cassius, we must first make contact with the Confederation ruler.”

  “The chief representative of the Confederation has been asking to talk with you for some time.”

  The Praetor studied the headless Force-Leader. Blood oozed from the torn neck and pooled on the floor. Could he have underestimated these premen? No. That seemed unlikely. A wild impulse must have reignited the woman’s train
ing. Perhaps he should have—

  “No,” he said.

  “Praetor?” asked Canus.

  “I’m coming back up,” he said. “Then I shall speak with their leader. What was his name again?”

  “Not a man, lord, but a woman.”

  The Praetor grunted with contempt. “That seems fitting, a woman to rule them. What was her name again? It’s hard remembering these subhuman names.”

  “Chief Strategist Tan, lord.”

  “A grandiose title for a preman, don’t you think?”

  “They love to give themselves gaudy titles,” Canus said.

  “It is a flaw in their makeup,” the Praetor said. Then he began giving Canus instructions regarding the dead Force-Leader and the deadliness of this underground chamber.

  * * *

  The Praetor sat in his command chair on the Thutmosis III. It had been a long time since he’d worn his dress uniform. It was black, with a stiff white collar and a blue Nova Sunburst on the right pectoral. He wore his black beret with a red skull pinned to the front, indicating that he belonged to the Death’s Head Battalion. The unit had originated in the Youth Barracks. It had contained the toughest among them, only joined by those who had either killed on the practice mats or so badly injured another that the instructors had ordered medics to drag the wounded to the infirmary.

  Even as a boy, he had been dangerous, a lion among his fellows. In turn among subhumans, he was a T-Rex, a legendry creature that all must fear.

  The Praetor smiled and his pink eyes shined. “Open the channel,” he said.

  “Opening… now,” Canus said.

  Before him appeared a holographic image of Chief Strategist Tan. There was more than twenty million kilometers separating them. It meant there was a seven-second time delay between each transmission.

  The holographic image showed him a soft woman, a small preman with a peculiar cant to her head and a bizarre… manner. He wondered if she were a cretin, if this was an arrogant, preman joke, played on him by someone who loved using proxies. She almost smiled like an idiot without a thought.

  The Praetor’s eyes narrowed. Canus offered a comment then. Perhaps the soldier had been watching him, maybe a little too closely.

  “I’ve just a found a file on her,” Canus said. “She follows the Dictates, which is a heightened, philosophical code.”

  The Praetor grunted with annoyance.

  “According to their philosophical beliefs,” Canus said, “each attempts to practice serenity.”

  “What?”

  Canus pointed at a holographic image.

  The Praetor saw the image of a bald, bearded man who wore a toga.

  “This is their base image,” Canus said. “It is their model, the one they attempt to pattern themselves after. He is their Socrates.”

  “Ah,” the Praetor said. The Socrates shown here had the same buffoonish smile as the woman portrayed. It was an affected idiocy, a philosopher’s trick. She attempted to mock him in an effort to anger him into revealing something critical.

  The Praetor settled back into his command chair. Instead of a predator’s smile, he would show her solid indifference, playing the part of a soldier’s soldier. If it were possible, he would attempt to appear simple. He would have to throttle back on the speed of his analytic abilities, lest he give away his surpassing superiority. He recalled reading or hearing somewhere that philosophers were the blindest of people, observing reality through the prism of their foolish creed.

  The holographic image of this puny woman opened its mouth. It began to speak. “I welcome you to our system, Commander. It is unfortunate that we have this communication under such dire stress. The cyborgs have arrived at Jupiter just as they arrived in the Mars System a year ago. We know they fought together at Mars with the fanatics of Social Unity. Together with the usurping Social Unitarians, the cyborgs inflicted unheard of damage against your Grand Admiral. Yes, they destroyed a Doom Star and nearly annihilated a second. Therefore, I do not need to underscore the deadliness of these mechanically-created aliens.”

  She paused then, no doubt deciding to let him utter a greeting. The seven-second delay made a conversation odd—for those who weren’t used to long-distance talk. As a ship commander, he was more than used to it.

  The Praetor clamped down on his irritation. To liken the Highborn Fleet with Jovian foolishness, surprised by the cyborgs and losing ships to stealth attacks—He breathed deeply. What he needed now was information.

  The Praetor inclined his head. “The days are dark as the cyborgs advance with their customary ruthlessness. Highborn High Command has pledged itself to their destruction. Even though these are evil times, I am pleased to have arrived at this critical juncture. I am formally placing my ship at the disposal of the Jovian Confederation. The implication of your greeting leads me to believe that we can work in tandem.”

  The words came hard, but the Praetor maintained his pose. It was ludicrous to think that Highborn could harness themselves with subhumans. Could even a philosopher believe such an absurdity? Well, she was a preman. Therefore, he could easily lead the conversation. He needed her to request his ship to travel deeper into the gravity-well to join the Jovian forces. Then he could maneuver onto a Galilean moon. Once his Highborn reached a planetary body—then he could implement his Pizarro strategy to its fullest scope.

  After a short delay, she began to speak again. “Your words give me hope, Commander. We are in dire need of alliance. That you’ve reached Demeter at this time—could it be Dictate-derived intervention?”

  Did she believe in divine beings? Ha! That made her even simpler, practically a stooge in intelligence. Conquering the Jovian System might actually prove easier than he’d expected. The cyborgs would prove the challenge. He would have to gain leadership of these Jovians fast. Could this preman understand the hope he brought with his vessel? Sometimes, these subhumans were inordinately proud. If she desired victory, logically, she should immediately offer him supreme command. Should he hint to that effect? It was probably too soon. No. He would mask himself for a little while longer. He needed to gain the Jovian levers of power before he revealed his true nature.

  “Let me repeat my offer, Chief Strategist. The Thutmosis III has been restocked with armaments. Likely, it is the most powerful warship in the system. By its addition, the Confederation will gain immensely. We are soon ready to depart and could reach Ganymede in one hundred hours.”

  Time passed. Then she said, “Your offer is generous, Commander. I accept. I wonder… could you place me in communication with the base personnel of Demeter. There seems to have been a com failure, as we haven’t been able to speak with guardian personnel there for some time.”

  According to the former Force-Leader, the Jovians had fled Demeter in secret. The Praetor pondered that. He smiled inwardly. Then he began to speak.

  “Our nearness activated a secret stealth attack. We landed as cyborg-converted Jovians finished the butchery of their former comrades. The bloodshed was hideous. We avenged your follow soldiers and obliterated the cyborgs, never fear on that score. Unfortunately, we must have inadvertently activated secret destruct codes. Perhaps you could send us the deactivation sequences so we could keep the base from further damage.”

  The transmission took seven seconds one way, seven seconds the other, in addition to the time needed for the Chief Strategist to digest the words and form her reply. The Praetor almost frowned. What was taking her so long? Could she suspect duplicity on his part? That seemed inconceivable. He had woven the perfect cover story, and he understood how those under siege grasped at straws. Her need should smooth over any suspicions she might have. Perhaps he’d stumbled onto one of those paranoid preman. The best way to deal with those was with a bullet through the brain.

  “Another tragedy has occurred,” Tan finally said. “Since you have uncovered another of their stealth attacks, you can more readily understand how deadly their secrecy is.”

  No, the Praetor wished
to tell her. I now understood how gullible you are. Instead, he replied, “The cyborgs are a virus, one we must ruthlessly purge. Having witnessed their savagery, I now pledge myself to their eradication from the Jovian System.”

  “Your words give me relief,” said Tan.

  The Praetor shifted in his command chair, holding back braying laughter. How pitifully easy it was to lull premen! Only their vast, teeming numbers and large industrial base gave the subhumans a lingering ability to resist the Highborn.

  “I suspect that my relief will also be your relief,” Tan said, “for we have uncovered a diabolical plan.” She went on to describe the Carme planet-wrecker, the desperate Jovian taskforce heading toward it and the likely cyborg targets of Mars, Earth or Venus.

  A cold feeling entered the Praetor’s stomach. His baleful features stiffened and his weird eyes gained a crazed look. As he sat in his command chair, the cyborg strategy seemed to unfold before him. Seemly attempting to conquer the planets of the Jovian System, rather they were here to create planet-wreckers from the many stray asteroids. These errant rocks and moons would orbit around Jupiter, building up velocity. Then they would hurl the planet-wreckers at the Inner Planets. It was brilliant, vast in scope and a scheme of genocidal ruthlessness. It awed him, and despite his growing hatred of the cyborgs, the Praetor found himself admiring them.

  “Commander,” Tan said, “fate seems to have given you the prime task of halting the planet-wrecker. Our main fleet must remain among the Galilean moons or we shall face extinction. We have sent a taskforce, but now you have arrived. I ask you, Commander, what could be more important than your ship heading to Carme and obliterating the grave threat?”