In his time, Hernan Cortes had fought many battles against masses of Aztec warriors. At times, the odds had been one hundred Indians versus one Spaniard. The Mexica warriors as the Aztecs called themselves had ranged each of their bands under a gaudy leader decked out in flower-ornamented, cotton armor. In those battles, Cortez had ordered his handful of iron-armored knights to charge into the Aztec hosts. Those knights had one goal: to wade through the masses and spear the gaudily-clad chieftain. When the chieftain died, his band fled the battlefield. After the horsed knights slaughtered enough chieftains, and after enough Indians had fled, then the knights charged a last time, killing the Aztec Host Commander. Afterward, thousands of cotton-armored Mexicas had littered the gory battlefield.
Today, the strategy was simple. The best strategies always were. Find the Web-Mind, kill it and hope that paralyzed the remaining cyborgs. Including himself, the Praetor had fifteen battleoid-armored Highborn to do it, fifteen horsed knights, as it were.
The Praetor pressed a switch. The main hatch blew outward, throwing the doors thirty meters in either direction. The doors landed hard, sending up a geyser of moon-dust.
Then the Praetor’s exoskeleton-powered suit moved out of the shuttle and onto Carme. The hour of decision had arrived.
-21-
Deep in the cavern of its armored chamber, the Web-Mind collected data. Eighty percent of the Highborn shuttles were destroyed. A Voltaire presently stayed ahead of Carme. The drone used its defensive armaments as weapons platforms to provide covering fire for ground troops.
The Web-Mind ran a configuration program and then ran an analysis on munitions and laser-fire expenditures. It concluded that the thermonuclear warheads had been removed to provide greater munitions-carrying capacity for the Voltaire.
The Web-Mind pulsed retargeting data to select point-defense bunkers and laser stations. It was time to take out the last Voltaire.
Nanoseconds later, the Web-Mind counted the number of patrol boats, those destroyed and those that had landed. Cluster Three had been breached. Cluster Four faced a concentrated attack, while Cluster Five was untouched and Clusters One and Two had received minimal damage and faced a minuscule number of suited Jovians.
Cluster Three was the danger point.
The Web-Mind sent myriad orders, recalling many cyborgs and ordering them to converge on Cluster Three. Then it ran a probability scenario for Cluster Three. A stubborn five percent probability continued to exist of possible danger.
Few Cluster Three cyborgs remained. Others were on the way, however. This was interesting. There was a complement of Webbies in a holding cell on Cluster Three.
Suiting need to action, the Web-Mind pulsed an order to them. Webbies were inefficient battle units, but they could shave off half a percentage point of threat, possibly even a full percentage point. Even better, they might help the reinforcement cyborgs on their way to Cluster Three. They could help the cyborgs capture several Highborn.
A surge of greed boiled in the Web-Mind. It wanted captive Highborn. Yes, it dearly wanted them in order to practice experiments during the long journey to the Inner Planets.
* * *
Webbie Octagon was the first on his padded couch to sit up and yank out the plasti-flesh insert in his neck-jack.
Jovian space marines and Highborn battleoids were on Carme, were nearby in the towers and domes. They were to dress, arm and kill the invaders.
Gaunt Octagon slid off the long couch. He was in a large, oval chamber, with various control readings on the nearest wall. More lights flickered on, brightening the chamber. A panel slid open, revealing brown vacc-suits.
Hunger twisted Octagon’s stomach. He felt weak from lack of nutrients and from lack of exercise. His arms were thin and his legs trembled. He staggered toward the vacc-suits, his shoes making clicking noises. Behind him, other Webbies stirred. Some coughed, while a few had the temerity to urinate on the metallic floor. Those were the most emaciated, they had worn their neck-jacks the longest.
The kill-order beat in Octagon’s mind. But it was a pale imitation to the need to find and slay Marten Kluge. The logic was direct. Space marines were on Carme. With a desperate loathing, Octagon hated Marten Kluge. Therefore, he would find Marten among the space marines because the need had become gargantuan.
With shaking fingers, Octagon tore a vacc-suit off the rack and began to unseal it. Others staggered toward him. Octagon sneered at a tall woman with long hair and circles around her eyes. Once, he would have found her naked hips appealing. Now all he wanted was to kill Marten Kluge.
Hurrying, Octagon thrust his arms into the suit, flexed his gloved fingers and began to close the seals. Soon, he jammed a helmet over his head and turned on the air. It was stale. Without waiting, Octagon staggered for a hatch.
The kill-order beat like a pulse, put there by the Web-Mind. He would find weapons in a nearby locker. The combination sequence throbbed in his forebrain.
Octagon hissed, and he rubbed his gloved hands together. Marten Kluge, Marten Kluge, Marten Kluge—he was finally going to gain vengeance on the hateful barbarian. He was going to hurt the man. He was going to hurt him repeatedly and listen to him scream in agony.
The desire brought small groans of pleasure and moisture to Octagon’s eyes. He forgot about his hunger and forgot about his weakness. To hold a stunner and blast the barbarian, it’s all that mattered.
Octagon panted, forcing himself to hurry.
-22-
Marten’s gut tightened with fear. He led the way, entering a new lane between a cracked dome and a broken tower. The tower cast a deeper shadow, the light shining from Jupiter.
Marten gripped a Gyroc rifle, ready to fire rocket-propelled shells. He had a clip of APEX rounds, Armor-Piercing EXplosive. Each shell had a super-hardened penetrator packet. The loaded IML hung by a strap from his shoulder, clunking against his armor as he slunk a step at a time.
Osadar followed, with Tass behind her, leading the spread-out space marines. Omi brought up the rear.
It was eerie, with the radio static constantly washing over Marten’s headphones. The occasional clicking of his suit’s air-conditioners made him flinch.
Marten tried to scan everywhere. His helmet used short sensor-bursts to find and warn him about hiding cyborgs. Wherever he aimed the dedicated weapon—the Gyroc now—crosshairs appeared on the targeting portion of his visor.
Dust, rocks, a stray piece of cable, a staple-gun and other manmade junk littered the area. This near, the silver structures showed pitting, and there were various entrances or cracks running down them.
Marten’s head throbbed, and he felt himself getting distracted. He gave himself another stim.
“The Highborn entered this place three hundred meters to our left,” Osadar said.
“We should broadcast our position,” Omi said. “We don’t want to surprise each other.”
Each time someone spoke, Marten bent his head, trying to decipher their half-garbled words through the static.
“You do remember Japan,” Omi said over the command channel. “A battleoid was worth more than one of our platoons. Sometimes they were more deadly than a company of men.”
“Do you think we killed all the cyborgs?” Tass asked nervously.
“No,” said Osadar.
Marten flinched again as his suit’s air-conditioner clicked and began to hum with greater power. He was too shaky. Seeing cyborgs slaughter his space marines earlier, this was a hell-world, a rogue moon meant to bring about humanity’s extinction. He hated this place, but they had to destroy the engines, to wreck the wrecker.
“Cyborg!” a space marine screamed.
A red-tipped carbine poked out of a shadowed entrance. A beam slashed. A visor melted as another space marine died.
A half-second later, Gyroc shells burned in flight. Instead of retreating, the cyborg bounded out of the dome and toward them. The APEX shells blew apart the entrance, sending chunks flying.
The laser c
arbine spat again. Two more space marines died, their visors drilled with deadly little holes.
From where he lay, Marten tracked the cyborg. It moved with uncanny speed and it swiveled its carbine with evil precision. The HUD’s crosshairs centered on it. Marten pulled the trigger three times. The cyborg hit the ground, rolled fast and killed another space marine. Marten’s shells missed the cyborg and pitted the hard surfaces at his feet instead. Pieces of rock sprayed up into the cyborg’s midsection. Then two APEX shells slammed into it. One blew apart an arm, another tore off a leg. One-armed, the cyborg burned another space marine. Three shells struck the torso in rapid succession then, and it died.
Marten swore harshly, surprised that he still lived. The things were impossible to kill, and they spewed murder until the last circuit flickered out.
He ordered Tass to take a headcount.
“To our right,” Omi said. “That’s where the Highborn beam slaughtered cyborgs before. We’d better be careful. Some of those things might have lost legs, but many will still continue killing.”
Marten raised himself up onto an armored knee as he lifted the Gyroc. His arms trembled, but the stim was steadying him, and his headache receded. He felt that something was out there. Someone watched. He moved the Gyroc to the left.
“Lower your weapon or you die, preman.”
Through his headphones, Marten recognized the commanding voice of a Highborn. It sent a chill of remembrance through him. Then a ten-foot tall battleoid stepped from behind the dome. Another Highborn rose into view on the dome’s cracked surface. Both battleoids aimed plasma rifles, heavy weapons by anyone’s standard.
Marten lowered his Gyroc. It would likely take two or three APEX shells in one spot to penetrate battleoid-armor.
“We hunted that cyborg,” a Highborn said. “It is the last one here.”
“No,” the other Highborn said. “Look. Another cyborg. It must have captured these premen, using them to lure us.”
“Wait!” Marten shouted. “The cyborg is with us. She’s broken her programming.”
Anything might have happened as the battleoids aimed their rifles and as Osadar raised her laser.
“What does ‘broken her programming’ mean?” a Highborn asked.
“We sent the Praetor information about her,” Marten said. “Didn’t he pass it onto you?”
“You’re no Jovian,” the nearest Highborn said. “Your voice patterns are wrong.” The battleoid approached, its plasma rifle minutely switching from target to target. The Highborn on the dome remained where he was.
Highborn were quick to pick up nuances. Marten knew he should have remembered that and tried to mask his Earth accent. “I was at Mars during the battle,” he told them.
“The Third Battle of Mars?” asked the towering Highborn. The battleoid bristled with weaponry, with an auto-cannon on the left arm, a missile launcher on the back and a large vibroblade sheathed on its armored hip. An antenna sprouted from a shoulder. Here on Carme, the suited Highborn was like a legendary giant.
“Sure,” Marten said, trying not to feel intimidated.
“He is truculent,” the second Highborn said. His tone implied that such a one should be punished.
“Where are the rest of your space marines?” the nearest Highborn asked.
“We’re it,” Marten said. He had eight men left. “We’ve run into several parties of cyborgs.”
“You premen killed them?”
“We’re still standing,” Marten said, hating the smugness of the question, hating to have to explain anything again to a Highborn. He’d had his fill of them on the Sun-Works Factory. Being in the presence of the so-called Master Race intensified the old feelings about them.
“They are fodder,” the Highborn on the dome said.
“Yes,” said the nearer one. “You will follow me.” Without waiting for confirmation, the intimidating battleoid turned around and began trudging in the direction it had first appeared.
As Marten hurried to keep pace and then to catch up, he had to tell himself that cyborgs were worse than Highborn. Cyborgs were inhuman, a death-plague. Highborn were insufferably arrogant, scary-strong and capable, but still human after a fashion. In the best of worlds, the two would murder each other and leave the Solar System to mere humanity. It was a nice wish, but would likely take years of heartache and fierce combat to achieve—if it was even possible.
* * *
The Highborn led Marten and his space marines into another cracked dome. Smashed machinery and broken panels littered the floors. One mirror-like shard glittered as Marten kicked it and it skittered across the tile-plates.
There was a large airlock ahead. Everyone entered, with the battleoid dwarfing them. It reminded Marten of exiting the Deep Core Mine in Greater Sydney. It was the day he’d first met Highborn.
Air pressure pushed against his armor. The airlock’s other end opened and they entered another large room, this one with a low ceiling. The chamber held over a dozen battleoids. That wasn’t what tightened Marten’s gut, however.
He saw the Praetor, who was in the act of removing his helmet. He stood before a processing machine with various lights and readings running on it. The huge Highborn stood with his gauntleted hands on his battleoid hips. The Highborn had the same strange, fur-like pelt of hair that Marten remembered. The Praetor turned then, and the intensely weird eyes chilled Marten. Here was a psychotic killer, a mass-murderer.
The Praetor indicated that Marten should remove his helmet.
Marten complied. What choice did he have? He had eight men against almost twice that number of Highborn. He opened the seals, twisted and lifted the heavy thing. The chamber’s cold air washed against him. A strange taint stung his nostrils. But the air was breathable, if filled with alien odors. Was it wise taking off your helmet in a battle zone?
The Praetor scowled down at him. “You are familiar to me. Tell me how that is possible.”
Part of Marten wanted to spit. He wanted to lift his Gyroc and blow the smug bastard away. He would die in turn, however. Every man here would die. Another part of him wanted to sneer and tell the Praetor what he thought about gelding men. That part wanted to boast to the Praetor about what he’d done to Lycon. There was a third part, fortunately, a saner portion of his mind. It had seen Yakov die heroically for a noble cause. That helped Marten remember how to play the role of the subservient preman. He did it for a higher cause: the continuation of the human race.
“I am uncertain, lord,” Marten said, as he lowered his eyes before one of the supreme race.
A harsh laugh was his reward. “Yes. I know you, preman. You are Shock-Trooper Marten Kluge. I recall your voice as well as your face. I am unique among Highborn in that I can recall various features among the lower races. To most Highborn, premen look the same, or nearly the same. There are some obvious variations in skin pigmentation, but that is inconsequential.”
Marten looked up into those intense eyes. Despite his resolve, Marten grinned insolently.
The Praetor’s already taut features tightened, making it seem that his skin might tear. “During your flight to the Bangladesh, I heard your traitorous words. You had sworn an oath to us. That oath you broke, making you foresworn.”
“You were going to castrate us.”
“A trifling matter,” the Praetor said.
“Not to me,” Marten said.
“What happened to Lycon? He went to rescue shock troopers. How is it that you are here in the Jovian System?”
The old rage returned as hard words spilled out of Marten. “I killed Lycon.”
The Praetor’s eyebrows rose. “You, a preman?”
“I spaced three Highborn, took their shuttle and headed here.”
The Praetor’s terrible eyes seemed to shine, and an even weirder smile stretched his lips. “The Training Master and his crew were inferior Lot Sixers. And it seems you are a throwback.”
Marten shook his head, not understanding the reference.
“During prehistoric days, bestial premen must have been savage hunters. How otherwise could they have survived those times? You are like them, a natural killer. I despised the weak Training Master. Thus, I grant you life in ridding me of him. But for daring to spill Highborn blood—a terrible crime for a preman—I will personally geld you after I destroy the Web-Mind. Then I shall keep you as an example to show Grand Admiral Cassius.”
Behind Marten, seals snapped open. He heard metal sliding in grooves, and there was a faint popping sound. Before him, the Praetor’s head swayed back as the Highborn’s lips twisted in loathing.
Marten looked back. Osadar had taken off her helmet.
“Cyborg,” the Praetor whispered.
“She’s broken her programming,” Marten said.
The Praetor’s head twitched, which might have indicated curiosity or perhaps it was another manifestation of loathing.
“So,” the Praetor whispered, “this is the infamous Osadar Di. I’ve read her specs, and I’d hoped she had survived.”
“Why threaten Marten with gelding?” Osadar asked. “It is unreasonable.”
The Praetor stared at Osadar, glanced once at Marten and then continued to study her.
“Lord,” one of the Highborn said, using the battleoid’s speakers, “Marcus has detected cyborgs. They’re racing here from another cluster, and should arrive in… approximately eleven minutes.”
The Praetor’s nostrils expanded. He pointed at Osadar. “I’ve detected a Web-Mind, and I mean to destroy it. I believe that its destruction will render Carme inoperable.” The Praetor put a huge, armored gauntlet on the humming machine. “Can you use this broadcasting unit to pinpoint the Web-Mind’s location?”
Osadar stepped toward the Praetor and toward the large machine. He was bigger, bulkier and radiated intensity. She was cold, moved in a frighteningly quick manner and despite her humanoid shape and features, seemed alien.
Osadar pulled off a glove and twisted her forefinger’s tip, unscrewing it. She plugged the forefinger into a jack. Osadar froze then as her eyes closed. In seconds, her head jerked, her eyes flickered open and she yanked her finger free.
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