Doom Star: Book 04 - Cyborg Assault

by Vaughn Heppner

  Novels by Vaughn Heppner

  The Ark Chronicles:

  People of the Ark

  People of the Flood

  People of Babel

  People of the Tower

  Lost Civilizations:

  Giants

  Leviathan

  The Tree of Life

  Gog

  Behemoth

  The Lod Saga

  The Doom Star Series:

  Star Soldier

  Bio-Weapon

  Battle Pod

  Cyborg Assault

  Planet Wrecker

  Other Novels:

  The Great Pagan Army

  The Sword of Carthage

  Death Knight

  The Dragon Horn

  Strontium-90

  Cyborg Assault

  (Book #4 of the Doom Star Series)

  by Vaughn Heppner

  Copyright © 2011 by the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

  Prologue

  The cramped chamber reeked of disinfectants and other, more sinister chemicals. The walls were white, and they shivered from the ongoing pulse of the ship’s fusion engine.

  The chamber contained three people: an arbiter, a technician and a wretched prisoner. The last was a naked woman strapped to an articulated frame. A dozen cables adhered to her bruised skin, some providing nutrients, other stimulants and the rest compelling obedience.

  “She’s too stubborn,” the arbiter said. His name was Octagon. He wore a white uniform with red tabs on the shoulders and a double row of crimson buttons on the front of the jacket. He had narrow features and suspicious eyes, and like most Jovian men, he was bald.

  “I suspect she’s undergone sphinx therapy,” the technician said. He was a small man in a blue gown and with a deferential manner.

  Octagon scowled. “You know I detest technical jargon.”

  The technician grew pale, and he spoke quickly. “They must have tampered with her brain, Your Guidance. It’s likely impossible for her to tell us what she knows.”

  Octagon studied the woman. She was young and pretty, even with her shaved head, contorted muscles and sweaty skin. It had been a pleasure watching the foul Secessionist squirm. Octagon pursed his lips, giving a small headshake. No. Pleasure had nothing to do with this. He must maintain decorum and remember the tenth article of the Dictates. He had a ship to purge, and this was the first lead he gotten that might allow him to crack into the higher circles.

  “It’s time for a braintap,” Octagon murmured.

  The technician looked up in alarm. “Your Guidance, Yakov will not approve of—”

  “I am the Arbiter,” Octagon snapped.

  The technician nervously rubbed his hands, and he spoke with caution. “A braintap is a delicate operation.”

  Octagon swiveled his head to gaze at the technician. “Tell me now if it is beyond your capabilities.”

  “Rehabilitation is not always possible afterward, Your Guidance. Our… subject is pilot-rated, second-class, meaning—”

  “I know what it means,” Octagon hissed.

  The technician began to blink rapidly.

  Octagon’s eyes narrowed. How deep was the Secessionist hold on ship personnel? Had they broken the technician’s loyalty?

  Deftly, Octagon unclipped a spy-monitor from his belt. He adjusted the settings and swept it here and there. Then he aimed it at the medical equipment, searching for bugs.

  “If I’ve angered you—”

  “Silence,” Octagon said.

  The technician wilted, backing up a step.

  Octagon changed settings, carefully watching the monitor. Finally, he eyed the technician. “Your index is in the ninety-fourth percentile.”

  “I am loyal to the Dictates,” the technician whispered.

  “What is your moon of origin?”

  “Ganymede, Your Guidance.”

  “The same as Yakov’s,” Octagon said.

  “I received my training on Callisto and had a first-class induction rating.”

  “Your rapid speech indicates nervousness, which in turn implies guilt. What do you have to be guilty about, hm?”

  “I serve the Dictates, Your Guidance.”

  Octagon clipped the monitor back onto his belt beside his palm-pistol. “You will begin the braintap.”

  “At once,” the technician said. He hurried to a trolley and pushed it beside the prisoner’s shaved head. In moments, a buzz emanated from a cranial saw. Like a barber, the technician ran it over her head, cutting away a portion of skull. Prying it free with core-pliers, he plopped the skull-bone into a green solution.

  “We save the cut in case rehabilitation is required.”

  “I’m more interested in unlocking her secrets,” Octagon said.

  The technician nodded, and he began to work in earnest. Soon, a blue gel lay on the exposed part of the prisoner’s brain. There were yellow streaks in the gel, connected to a glassy black ball with tiny barbs dotted around it. The technician rolled a second trolley near the prisoner’s head. It held a bulky device with a screen. He turned it on so it hummed. That caused a tiny glimmer to begin emanating from the various barbs on the ball.

  The prisoner twitched.

  Octagon avidly watched the proceedings, although his gaze kept slipping down to the prisoner’s breasts, which were perfectly shaped. It was a pity to ruin such a prime specimen of womanhood. But then, she shouldn’t have joined the Secessionists. It was her own fault, and pity was a useless emotion.

  “I’ve bypassed the first layer of conditioning,” the technician said, who closely watched the screen. He tapped keys, seemed to hesitate and then he tapped faster.

  Shimmers played upon the glassy ball’s barbs.

  Octagon moved closer, examining the prisoner’s brain. Lines of light moved through the yellow streaks in the gel. They sank into the gray matter underneath.

  “I’ve reordered her synaptic connections,” the technician said. “As expected, this rerouting will expunge certain memories.”

  “No! I must know her secrets.”

  “This is understood,” the technician said, his deference no longer in evidence. “What we attempt, well, we attempt to foil sphinx therapy through new connectives. Naturally, this entails neuron loss. However, the core memories are stored in multiple areas and thus withstand the brainpurge to a greater degree than the sphinx-tampered connectives.”

  “When can I question her?”

  The technician glanced up and quickly returned his attention to the device. “If rehabilitation is required, we must proceed with delicacy.”

  Octagon pursed his lips. “My primary need is knowledge.”

  “If you would allow me to add a cautionary note?”

  “Yes, yes, speak,” said Octagon.

  The technician frowned. “The deeper the braintap, the more difficult it is to reconnect her synapses in the old order. Sometimes there is a brain-burn, bringing imbecility.”

  “I’m willing to risk that,” Octagon said.

  The technician hesitated before tapping keys. The prisoner groaned as her eyelids flickered.

  “What’s happening?”

  “This is strange,” the technician said.

  “What?”

  The prisoner’s eyes snapped open. They were blank. Then confusion filled her eyes. Her mouth hung slackly a
nd drool dribbled down her chin.

  “What did you do?” Octagon demanded.

  A beep began to emit from the bulky device. The technician grew pale.

  “You,” the prisoner whispered in a hoarse voice. She stared at Octagon.

  He scowled and then leaned nearer. He had nothing to fear, as restraints held her. “You have deviated from the Dictates,” Octagon said. “You are a Secessionist.”

  The prisoner groaned, and pain contorted her features.

  Octagon looked up.

  The technician wiped a sleeve across a suddenly moist forehead. He typed quickly on the keypad, and he kept biting his lower lip. “This shouldn’t be happening,” he whispered.

  “Fix it!” Octagon said.

  “I’m trying.”

  Octagon put a hand on the articulated frame. Heat radiated from the prisoner’s skin. He asked, “Do you belong to a triad?”

  She was staring at him again. Her lips moved, and words bubbled from her throat. “Yes,” she admitted.

  Octagon’s eyes glittered. “Are you the liaison to a higher circle?”

  Her lips twisted as if she tried to keep from speaking. But she said, “I am the liaison.”

  Yes, it was as he suspected. Finally, he was going to break into a higher circle. “Who is your operative?” Octagon asked.

  There was a loud buzz from the technician’s device. Several motes glimmered from the glassy barbs. The prisoner made a horribly deep groan as every muscle went rigid.

  “What occurs?” Octagon demanded.

  “No, no,” the technician said, his fingers flying across the keypad.

  The prisoner sighed, and the rigidity left her muscles. She relaxed and then went limp.

  “Talk!” shouted Octagon. “Tell me the operative’s name.” He grabbed her shoulders and shook, which caused cables to jiggle.

  The prisoner’s mouth sagged and more drool slid down her chin.

  With his thumb, Octagon peeled back an eyelid. It was like peering into an animal’s eye, a brute beast.

  “How long will she remain in this state?” Octagon asked.

  The technician had grown paler. His small fingers moved listlessly over the keypad.

  “I asked you a question,” Octagon said, releasing the prisoner, straightening and then adjusting his uniform.

  “Something odd occurred,” the technician whispered. “I must perform an autopsy. Maybe they implanted a mote into her cortex.”

  Octagon frowned. “Explain yourself,” he said.

  “Arbiter, I can’t explain it. I attempted a braintap. I followed the standard procedures. But by what I’m seeing, a brain-burn has occurred.”

  “She’s become an imbecile?”

  The technician shook his head. “The memories are there, but the connectives were irretrievable burned. We should eliminate her body as a last mercy.”

  Octagon walked stiffly backward. His gaze kept flickering from the prisoner to the technician.

  “I did my best, Your Guidance. But her memories are beyond us now. Perhaps—”

  Octagon pressed a stud on his belt. The door to the operating chamber swished open. A squat man with long, dangling arms, heavily-muscular arms entered. He was a myrmidon, a gene-warped creature.

  “Take him to my quarters,” Octagon said.

  “Arbiter!” the technician cried. “I tried my best. You must believe me.”

  The myrmidon moved fast, and his large hands proved irresistible. The technician cried out a second time, his arms twisted behind his back. Shoved by the myrmidon, the technician stumbled for the door.

  “Please!” the small technician sobbed. “I tried.”

  “Hm,” said Octagon. “We shall see. We shall see.”

  The technician and myrmidon exited the operating chamber. The door slid shut.

  Octagon regarded the inert prisoner. This was infuriating. He’d had a lead into a Secessionist triad, one aboard a military vessel. The prisoner could have opened up everything for him. Octagon snarled in frustration, and he drew his palm-pistol. He should remain calm. He was an Arbiter after all. He lived by the Dictates and with decorum.

  He aimed, squeezed the trigger and shot the drooling prisoner. Sight of the smoking hole in her forehead helped compose his features. He clipped the pistol back onto his belt. He must display serenity for the good of the crew. First, however, he was going to have a small chat with the technician. They would chat after he attached a shock collar to the bungler’s neck. The thought brought a tingle of pleasure to Octagon’s lower abdomen.

  As the fusion engine pulsed, as the bulkheads around him shivered, Octagon headed for the door. Nothing must stand in the way of the continued implementation of the Dictates, the most perfected life-system devised by men. Certainly, this crew wasn’t going to defeat him. By Plato’s Bones, he was going to crack this nest of intriguers if he had to brain-burn the lot of them. Even Yakov might end up on the obedience frame. The thought brought a grin to Octagon’s lips. Then he exited the operating chamber, hurrying through a narrow corridor to his quarters.

  The Engagement

  -1-

  In 2351, the Jupiter System thrived as one of the richest in resources. The population there swelled and their wealth grew, despite the intense radiation belts and the heavy gravity-well. The reason was the gas giant itself. Like Saturn, Uranus and Neptune, Jupiter’s upper atmosphere contained massive quantities of deuterium and helium-3. These plentiful fuels drove the system’s fusion economy.

  Automated factories floating in Jupiter’s upper atmosphere collected the deuterium and the more important helium-3, an isotope of helium. At scheduled intervals, heavy boosters lifted the fuels to the nearest moons, the Inner group, where vast storage facilities stood. In historical terms, the gas giants were like the Solar System’s Persian Gulf, in the days when oil ran the Earth’s economy.

  Plentiful fusion power had allowed the first Deuterium Barons to turn the otherwise inhospitable moons into vast industrial basins. That in turn had enticed more colonists seeking escape from the nascent Social Unity Party. The vast exodus of wealthy, intellectual and daring people had been the driving force behind the increasingly harsh Anti-Emigration Laws of Inner Planets.

  The growing wealthy class of the Jupiter System had turned toward intellectual pursuits. This held truest for the rich on Callisto, the fourth Galilean Moon. Many there had become absorbed with philosophy, and became particularly concerned with the examined life. This had inspired the Dictates, a codex of axioms that governed a neo-Socratic lifestyle.

  Backed by fusion-powered heavy industry, the lords of Callisto had created the Guardian Fleet. For over one hundred years, the Fleet grew in political power until it ruled the system. Serving as a velvet-covered platinum fist, the Fleet had ensured Callisto’s dominance over the rest of Jupiter’s sixty-two moons.

  If Social Unity propaganda was the measure, the Guardian Fleet was one of the strongest in the Solar System. Many claimed it was the reason for building the Doom Stars. Others said the lust to gain access to the deuterium and helium-3 rich gas giants was the real reason. Whatever the case, in 2351, the Jupiter System was awash in wealth, ships and inhabited moons.

  ***

  “I’m not receiving any video, Rousseau,” Marten said.

  Marten sat at the controls of his shuttle, the Mayflower. He glanced at a note taped to the board: Double-check everything. The shuttle had originally been designed to transport eighty Highborn in comfort. With its modifications, the shuttle had proven roomy enough for Marten, Omi and Osadar.

  As Marten waited for an answer, he leaned back and stared out of the polarized window. Visible through it was the vast gas giant, the largest planet in the Solar System. Its mass was two point five times as great as the rest of the planets combined. Presently, the Great Red Spot on Jupiter seethed with movement.

  The Mayflower was in a medium orbit and outside of the worst of Jupiter’s radioactive magnetosphere.

  The gas giant’
s magnetic field was ten times as strong as Earth’s field. The sun-side of the magnetosphere acted as a buffer that deflected the solar wind around Jupiter. The magnetic tail reached almost as far as Saturn’s orbital path.

  Marten pressed more buttons, running a diagnostic, seeing if any high-intensity radio bursts might be interfering with the video-feed. The gas giant often gave off radio bursts at ten-meter wavelengths. Jupiter’s violent upper atmosphere also created super-bolts of lighting. Those bolts gave off a million times more energy than a lightning bolt on Earth and often interfered with ship-to-ship transmissions. Marten detected only minimal interference. What was causing the video blackout then?

  His frowning highlighted Marten’s angular cheeks and his intense blue eyes as he watched the blank vidscreen. His blond buzz-cut matched his lean build. Because of the long trip, his worn silver suit was badly faded at the elbows and knees.

  “Come on,” Marten muttered, moving toggles. He expected the screen to waver, flicker and then he would see his first Jovian.

  The warship Rousseau was a dark blot, several kilometers away. According to the specs Marten had been studying, it was an Aristotle-class dreadnaught. That made it the largest class of ship produced in the Jovian System. It was roughly spherical, a giant ball bearing with asteroid-like particle shields. It dwarfed the Mayflower and contained hundreds of crewmembers. Marten had read somewhere that Aristotle-class dreadnaughts had been built to operate and fight on their own, not just as part of a fleet.

  “Rousseau—” Marten began to say.

  “Prepare for a boarding inspection, Mayflower.”

  Marten opened a channel to Omi’s room. “You’d better get up here,” he said.

  “I’m coming,” Omi said.

  Marten tapped the console. The free Martians had been beaming endless shots of the cyborgs that had died in the Mars System nearly a year ago. The Jovians must understand the cyborg danger. Marten grimaced. How was he supposed to explain Osadar to them?

  “Is your communications equipment faulty?” Marten asked. “I’m not picking up any video images.”