Cyborg Assault ds-4

by Vaughn Heppner

  The Praetor tapped the arm of his chair. The cyborgs surely would heavily defend this planet-wrecker. The Thutmosis III was a raid ship, best employed with long-range stealth tactics. To race toward the planet-wrecker like a Doom Star was folly. The preman wanted him to do their dirty work. The idea was enraging.

  “I will speak to Highborn High Command and relay your critical information,” he said. “We are presently repairing ship damage. Could you transmit to me all pertinent information regarding this planet-wrecker and the strategic situation between the Confederation and the cyborgs?”

  “You are wise, Commander,” Tan said. “If you are prepared, I will transmit the information now. I urge you to make a speedy decision, however. Whatever we do, we must do quickly.”

  The Praetor seethed. How dare she urge a Highborn to move with speed? None could act more decisively or more boldly than Highborn. Despite his anger, he nodded and ended the conversation with a salutation of seeming equality and a promise to act soon.

  Afterward, he realized that he would have to speak with the Grand Admiral and relay the terrible news. The Inner Planets war had just broadened to include Jupiter.

  -9-

  Gharlane stood in a viewing port of the Locke. He stared down at Io with its strange land patterns. Io looked like a rotten orange, with a dozen intermixing colors.

  The planetoid was the most geologically active body in the Solar System, possessing over four hundred active volcanoes. Many spewed sulfur dioxide. Some of the sulfur blew more than five hundred kilometers high, drifting into space. The sulfur added to Jupiter’s magnetosphere and it created the Io plasma torus. The torus was a belt of intense radiation. It was a doughnut-shaped ring of ionized sulfur, oxygen, sodium, and chlorine, created when the neutral atoms in the ‘cloud’ surrounding Io were ionized and carried along by the Jovian magnetosphere.

  Io’s largest volcanoes were over ten kilometers high. The spewed sulfur created huge umbrella-shaped, yellow plumes in the atmosphere. Pele, one of the biggest volcanoes, was named after an ancient Hawaiian goddess.

  As he stood in the viewing port, Gharlane shifted his stance. He saw white streaks, meaning that patrol boats entered the slight atmosphere.

  Today, the boats had two critical tasks to perform. The first was unloading cyborgs troops. Io was a harsh moon, rich in ores but deadly to life. Most of the habitats were near the hot sulfur lakes created by the constant volcanism. Company workers mined the lakes. They endured while working in heavy radiation-suits and they lived under lead shielding. Many roved over the lakes on crystal platforms, specially treated to withstand the lava-like sulfur.

  The cyborgs in the descending patrol boats planned to swarm each habitat, killing any who resisted. Gharlane allowed himself the stimulation of a pleasure center, the cyborg equivalent of a smile. He would also kill those who surrendered. The Web-Mind had ordered him to eradicate all life on Io. Since the Web-Mind hadn’t told him the exact method of death, Gharlane used his initiative. He would kill using cyborg troops. In this way, he would save missiles and bombs. He would need those later against Europa and Ganymede. Athena Station was too far away to re-supply now.

  Each patrol boat had a second task, and it was related to Athena Station’s distant location. The landing cyborgs had been ordered to collect radioactive material and fuel.

  Gharlane shifted his head, scanning the moon. He’d taken a risk coming to Io. But it was a calculated risk. To reach the inner Galilean moon, the fleet had traveled deep into Jupiter’s gravity-well. Now the warships would have to burn hard to escape up it. The enemy position in the well could give the Jovians possible advantages. Against all reason, however, the main Jovian Fleet remained at Ganymede.

  Soothing chemicals kept Gharlane’s thinking level, eliminating the need to emote. He wanted Ionian radioactive material for a tactical reason. The humans reacted badly to terror attacks. If their fleet continued to sit at a single location, then it was time to teach the Jovians another lesson elsewhere.

  Gharlane’s head swiveled sharply as his eyes locked onto another white streak. The streak was minuscule compared to the moon’s surface. It showed Gharlane that another squadron of patrol boats entered the atmosphere.

  Using patrol boats like this would damage some. Io’s atmosphere was weak, but it was still an atmosphere. The patrol boats were space vehicles, with a limited ability to maneuver anywhere but in vacuum.

  Gharlane’s servos whined as he shrugged.

  He saved his missiles for the battle with the main Jovian fleet. This would cost him the use of some patrol boats. However, he had a surprise for the Jovians that should negate the negatives here. If the main Jovian fleet remained static for another week—

  Gharlane lurched closer toward the viewing port. His plasti-flesh eyebrows contorted as a flash appeared on the moon’s surface.

  Gharlane turned to a scope and clicked his hand-unit. A second passed as the scope caused an image to leap into view. It showed a mushroom cloud rising from Io’s surface.

  Gharlane stepped to the scope’s board and typed fast, keying information. The nuclear explosion came from Pele Platform Three. The company habitat had a Callisto Corporation number. Ah, it was the Diana-Bacchus Company, and it was first on the cyborg itinerary. Two patrol boats should have landed there.

  Gharlane’s eyebrow-contortion smoothed out. It would appear the humans had used a nuclear device. Perhaps one of them had gone insane. That would mean—

  Another explosion occurred elsewhere. Probability factors shifted Gharlane’s thinking. One nuclear device indicated a crazed individual. Two explosions indicated a prearranged plan.

  Gharlane raised his hand-unit and chattered in high-speed binary.

  In a second, he told his communications Web-team: “Abort the landings and order all patrol boats to accelerate for space. I repeat, abort all platform landings. The Ionians are defending with suicidal desperation. Probability factors indicate that they are waiting until the boats disgorge troops. Then they are igniting nuclear devices to annihilate cyborg personnel. Emergency sequencing is ordered. I repeat, abort all landings and return to low orbit.”

  As Gharlane chattered at high-speed, another explosion occurred on the moon’s surface. He would have to expend missiles and gravity bombs after all. He would rain destruction from space and obliterate the humans. Then he would reorder select patrol boats down to the surface, there to hunt for survivors. The enemy had finally entered the tertiary mode of the campaign, practicing kamikaze tactics. He should have foreseen the possibility.

  More chemicals entered his brainpan, soothing his unease. Without the radioactive materials….

  Gharlane turned from the viewing port. He would have to adjust his strategy. On all counts, he must continue to fix the enemy’s attention on the Galilean moons. He must give the Web-Mind time to complete the planet-wrecker and gain the needed velocity. The Web-Mind needed to launch for the Inner Planets in tandem with the Saturn-strike. Nothing must be allowed to delay the master plan.

  -10-

  Io’s nuclear ambushes stimulated the Web-Mind to a feverish state. Orders went out and on Carme, the activity increased. Time passed as the accelerated teams worked around the cycles. The endless labor worked to death the hardiest Jovians as they stapled power cables, lugged coils and welded lines to the blast-pans.

  Then the Web-Mind’s Athena Station convoy landed. Its large, black-matted stealth-capsule entered a tunnel. Carefully, the Web-Mind maneuvered the capsule into an armored chamber specially constructed for survival. Cyborgs had built these tunnels and chambers long ago, as they’d worked in secret for years. At the beginning of the stealth assault, the cyborgs had boiled onto the surface, capturing the Jovians here and attempting to complete the massive task.

  The rest of the convoy vessels spilled their cargoes of cyborgs, Webbies, equipment and missiles.

  Octagon found himself panting as sweat soaked the inside of his vacc-suit. In a domed chamber seething with mo
tion, he heaved coils into place. Later, he inserted screws with a sonic drill and afterward, he loaded lifters with boxes of point-defense ammunition.

  Ten hours after the convoy’s landing, the fateful hour arrived. Every patrol boat entered a hanger as everyone hurried to his or her position.

  With other Webbies, Octagon strapped himself onto a long couch. The clicks of their buckles filled the room. The insertion of Web-jacks was a softer sound. It caused many to slump and twitch as they entered a pleasure state.

  Elsewhere, with a dozen other labor-survivors, Nadia Pravda lay on a slat. She waited in a metal shed that had been built on a protrusion of rock. It was exposed to any stray meteor or high-speed dust-mote that happened along.

  Silver-dome clusters abounded on the uneven surface with its rocks, craters and low hills. Towers arose among them, some with antennas and others with dishes and even more with waiting anti-missiles. Point-defense guns ringed the small planetoid. The massive exhaust-ports dwarfed everything else.

  As Carme continued its monotonous orbit, a pulse of plasma blew out of an exhaust-port. Another pulse flowed out of a different port. In a nanosecond, hell erupted, changing everything. The generators poured power through the fusion engines deep in the moon. Blue plasma now spewed from the multiple exhaust-ports. The generators increased output as other engines came online. For several minutes, Carme shivered as if hit with the longest quake in history. Then the generators revved up the scale to maximum output. Massive amounts of power surged through hundreds of cables. A blue brilliant glow of plasma stretched thirty kilometers behind Carme. Slowly, the Jovian moon increased orbital speed as it increased velocity.

  The first Jovian planet-wrecker had begun its acceleration. There were no cheers, however, no backslapping cyborgs. The melded bipeds lay on their couches, emotionless and expressionless. They awaited orders from the Web-Mind. The few that possessed minuscule anomalies processed their stray thoughts. Those thoughts did not prevent their full functioning, however.

  Among the jacked-in Webbies lying on the long couches, a few frowned. Two laughed and one seethed. Octagon was one of the latter.

  Pressed against his couch, Octagon remembered the time in the pod as he’d headed to the Rousseau. Marten Kluge had done that to him. Marten Kluge—Webbie Octagon grinded his molars together. It was a vile sound. Despite his new way of examining reality and his plugging into the Web-Mind, he yearned for revenge. He yearned to hurt Marten Kluge. If only he could cut Marten’s flesh. If only he could reach in and pull out the kidneys and then the liver and finally the heart as it pumped hot blood all over his hands.

  For the first time in ages, Octagon smiled. It was a twisted thing, perverse and perverted. Marten Kluge’s blood, he would bathe in it as the barbarian died. Nothing could feel as good. Marten Kluge, Marten Kluge… Marten Kluge must die a hideous and painful death.

  Elsewhere, in a shed on a low hill, Nadia groaned. The massive engines caused Carme to accelerate. Her spine ached as it pressed against the metal sheet and her heart beat faster.

  Am I having a heart attack?

  Breathing hurt and she arched as a spasm made her scream. Then her beating heart slowed to its normal rhythm. Nadia panted as sweat poured from her heated skin. After a time the sensation passed. She slumped on her sheet. Within a minute, she slept.

  Nadia dreamed of suffocation, which was horrible. But for the first time in weeks, she slept for more than a four-hour stint.

  Nadia woke once in the darkness, feeling Carme tremble with its new life. Maybe the worst horrors were over. She smiled at the thought and fell back asleep.

  -11-

  Marten stood beside Yakov in an otherwise empty patrol boat. The Force-Leader sat at the controls as the craft lifted off the Descartes’ meteor-shell.

  Marten swayed as the patrol boat lurched, able to shift his weight as needed.

  Yakov gave him a sidelong glance, but otherwise made no comment on his standing.

  Lines of strain showed on Marten’s angular face. This morning, he’d found his first gray hair. He’d plucked it, staring at the offensive sight. Then he’d thrown the hair into the chemical sink before shaving.

  Yakov’s small hands played across the controls. The patrol boat lurched again, changing heading.

  Marten shifted his weight without being aware of it. He glanced out of the polarized window. From here, Jupiter appeared as the brightest star by several magnitudes. The Descartes was already out of sight as the patrol boat headed toward the taskforce’s second meteor-ship. Yakov wanted to inspect it before they began the hard deceleration for Carme.

  “I asked you to join me for a reason,” Yakov said.

  Something in the Force-Leader’s voice warned Marten. “Should I sit down first?” he asked.

  Instead of answering, Yakov turned on a vidscreen. He pressed another key, and the wide face of the Praetor appeared.

  Marten lifted an eyebrow.

  “The Highborn in our system have been in communication with Tan,” Yakov said.

  “I’d expected that.”

  “Tan believes the Highborn stormed onto the Demeter Depot, killing everyone there, allowing them to restock their missile-ship.”

  “That sounds like the Highborn,” Marten said.

  Yakov gave him another sidelong glance. “Tan’s tactical team thinks the missile-ship was badly damaged during the Battle for Mars. It must have headed out of the Solar System and barely turned around to reach Jupiter.”

  “If the ship was so badly damaged, how did it fight its way onto Demeter?”

  “I asked the same thing. Tan believes the Demeter Force-Leader foolishly attempted to lure the Highborn there in an attempt to capture the vessel.”

  Marten laughed harshly. “The Praetor is a bastard’s bastard.”

  “Maybe. He has agreed to help us storm Carme.”

  Marten’s gut hardened.

  “We definitely need the help,” Yakov said, as he pressed another computer key.

  A grainy shot of an asteroid appeared with the name Carme written underneath it. It had a long, blue plasma tail. Yakov used a unit, clicking it. A white arrowhead appeared on the screen. The arrow moved to a dot a little above the asteroid’s horizon.

  “This was taken several hours ago,” Yakov said, “by interferometers on Pasachoff.”

  “Where?”

  “Pasachoff is another moon of the Carme group.”

  Marten nodded.

  Yakov pointed at it. “Tan thought the cyborgs might move the dreadnaught toward the Galilean moons. As you can see, it still guards Carme.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” Marten said.

  Yakov took his time responding. “Two meteor-ships will have a difficult time defeating a dreadnaught with such a defensive position.”

  “Difficult or not, you must do it so we can land.”

  “Can space marines defeat cyborg troops?”

  “If we can’t,” Marten asked, “why are we out here?”

  “Highborn battleoids will assist us.”

  Marten’s features tightened. “I’m surprised the Praetor is willing to risk it.”

  “Tan believes the Praetor spoke with their Grand Admiral on Earth. The Grand Admiral likely instructed the Praetor to destroy the planet-wrecker. What makes that interesting is that Tan is sure the Praetor would rather head in-system.”

  “What does any of that have to do with our attack on Carme?”

  Yakov sat back in the pilot’s chair. “Thirteen years ago in the Mars System, many in the guardian class lost family to the Highborn.”

  “Okay,” Marten said, waiting.

  “For his help, the Praetor demanded command of the Carme assault.”

  Marten blinked, digesting that. “So what did Tan tell him?”

  “She agreed,” Yakov said. “She agreed because we need his ship and battleoids.”

  “We’re really going to take orders from the Praetor?” Marten asked, starting to become angry.

&
nbsp; “We are, for at least long enough to fight our way onto Carme.”

  “What about afterward?”

  Yakov gave him a level gaze. “If we defeat the cyborgs, a doubtful possibility, then we must escape Demeter’s fate.”

  Marten pressed a key, bringing back the Praetor’s image. The Highborn were in the Jovian System, and now the bastard who’d wanted to castrate him led the assault. He was actually going to take orders from a Highborn again. They had excellent memories. He had no doubt the Praetor would remember his face.

  Marten tapped his fingers on the console.

  “What are your thoughts?” Yakov asked.

  “I need something to pull my space marines together, to help them forget about getting slapped, and to forget about Pelias and her boyfriend.”

  “You mean to use the Praetor for that?” Yakov asked.

  Marten tapped a finger on the Praetor’s forehead. “This bastard is finally going to do me his first good deed. If we beat the cyborgs, the trick will be staying alive long enough to appreciate our victory.”

  -12-

  The Praetor seethed as he rechecked his battleoid-armor. Time conspired against him. The Grand Admiral, this puny Chief Strategist and the hateful cyborgs—

  The Praetor roared an oath as he slammed his fist against a bulkhead, denting metal. He began to pace like a caged beast.

  The missile-ship was under one-G acceleration. The Thutmosis III left Demeter behind. The tactical game against the planet-wrecker and its shepherding dreadnaught had begun. Soon, he would give the critical orders.

  The Praetor whirled around, and he stalked back to the ten-foot battleoid-suit. It was a marvel of engineering, a thing of deadly beauty with a titanium shell of exoskeleton strength. On Earth, battleoid-armored Highborn leaped one hundred meters, sometimes assisted by Dinlon jetpacks. Hi-powered slugthrowers, lasers, plasma rifles and tiny tactical nukes gave the battleoids massive firepower.