Doom Star: Book 04 - Cyborg Assault

by Vaughn Heppner

  A faint smile touched the Force-Leader’s lips. “The Bangladesh was an experimental beamship that attacked the Mercury Sun-Factory. The Highborn attempted to hijack it.”

  “I’m among the two sole survivors of the hijacking,” Marten said. “The other is vegetating in one of your holding cells.”

  “You were in Free Earth Corps and space-combat trained?”

  “The space-combat training was my reward for excellence in the Japan Campaign.”

  “The reference fails me,” said Yakov.

  “It doesn’t matter other than this: I’ve fought in the hellholes, both on Earth and in space. I fought on Mars and helped the Planetary Union against Social Unity.”

  “Essentially then, you are of guardian class?”

  “You’re forgetting my Mars Union credentials.”

  “On the contrary, Representative, I have carefully listened to everything you’ve said.” Yakov seemed to measure him as he would a hussade goal. “By your own admission, you betrayed the Highborn, your sponsors.”

  “I prefer to say that I got tired of being a slave.”

  The faint smile reappeared on Yakov’s lips. There was something feral about it this time. “Why do you believe the cyborgs have infiltrated the War Council and Athena Station?”

  “Why as in what is their reasoning for doing it or why as in how did I arrive at my conclusion?”

  “The latter,” said Yakov.

  “Because you were ordered away from the damaged dreadnaught,” Marten said. “And because cyborgs controlled the Rousseau. Now that I think about it, Osadar said there was a ninety percent probability that your ship was cyborg-controlled.”

  “Her statement is obviously false.”

  “Not if Athena Station is cyborg-controlled and they sent you orders.”

  “Clever reasoning,” said Yakov. He reached into his black uniform and withdrew two colored disks. He set the disks on his desk, sliding them back and forth with his fingers. Possibly, it was a nervous gesture. “Your deprogrammed cyborg strikes me as durable. What is your analysis concerning our common enemy?”

  “If I understand your question right,” Marten said, “I think that some of the cyborgs survived the Mayflower’s detonation. You’re heading into terrible danger.”

  “You believe that some of the dreadnaught’s armaments are intact?”

  “I wouldn’t bet against it. And I’d be ready for vacc-suited cyborgs trying to storm their way aboard your ship.”

  “You suggest I shoot any survivors attempting to reach the Descartes?”

  “You’re a rational man,” Marten said.

  Yakov raised a slender hand. “I am a soldier-guardian. I do not attempt to rise above my class.”

  “Force-Leader, let’s cut the crap.”

  Yakov waited, remaining stoic. Marten wasn’t fooled anymore, not after seeing the picture of the intense young Yakov with the hussade stick and trophy.

  “Why ask me all these questions?” Marten said. “You know what to do. Go in firing lasers, missiles or particle beams if you have them. Kill anything that moves. If you don’t, you risk losing your ship and possibly your lives. Worse, you risk capture and conversion.”

  Yakov slid the colored disks back and forth. “Your credentials are from Mars. I must therefore assume you’ve been briefed about our Confederation.”

  “No. There was no time for that.”

  “That strikes me as illogical.”

  “War and emergencies seldom lend themselves to logic,” Marten said.

  Yakov put the colored disks back into a pocket. “Tell me, Representative. What do you think the cyborgs hope to gain in our system?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Yakov studied Marten. “You might be interested to know that I have hailed the Rousseau. They refused to answer. Later I detected ship transmissions to Athena Station. As curious, a gel-cloud hides the vessel from our passive sensor arrays. Why would they deploy such gels if they were stricken?”

  Marten shrugged.

  “You claim ignorance concerning our Confederation. Therefore, you are likely unaware of the philosophic purity of our rulers.” Yakov glanced at the statuette on his desk. “I am from Ganymede, meaning that I am a realist instead of a philosopher. I fear that our Strategist will make critical blunders once we reach the Rousseau.”

  “Who controls the ship-guardians?” Marten asked.

  Yakov looked up sharply. “I’ve studied the Mars Campaign. The cyborgs are ruthless and deadly to an inhuman degree. This is no time for philosophers, but for a realist who sees what is and acts decisively in the critical moment. You heard the endless babble in the command chamber.” Yakov shook his head. “I must lead the Descartes into battle, not Tan or Octagon.”

  “Your ship-guardians must understand that.”

  “How little you know,” Yakov murmured. “If I move openly, it might unleash the Secessionist—” The Force-Leader scowled. “This is a time for unity, not division. However, I’m certain the philosophers will dither and argue until the cyborgs have captured everything. In my heart, I believe this is the moment to act. Yet too many of the crew will hesitate or even turn against me if I attempt what needs doing.”

  “That’s why you need me, isn’t it?”

  “Explain,” said Yakov.

  “Where are my weapons?”

  “Ah, I see. You realize that our hammer-guns will not fire on the myrmidons. Octagon also realizes such a thing. He has already confiscated your hand weapons from the security locker. I suspect he has inspected them and wears one now in lieu of his lost palm-pistol. That was a propitious moment, a rare occurrence, when the Strategist disarmed him. I should have acted then.”

  “Osadar could defeat the myrmidons for you.”

  Yakov shook his head. “I distrust all cyborgs.”

  Marten hesitated. Then he blurted, “Let Omi and me do it.”

  Yakov studied him, before shaking his head again. “The myrmidons would slaughter you two.”

  “I don’t think you understand. Omi and I survived the Japan Campaign and took advanced Highborn-training on the Sun-Works Factory. Give us vibroknives and you’ll see what two ex-shock troopers can do.”

  “I’m afraid we have no vibroknives.”

  “Force blades?” asked Marten.

  “I can give you knives, which mean nothing at all against myrmidons. Ordinary men cannot defeat them.”

  Marten frowned. He’d seen them, had felt their grip. The myrmidons were tough, but they hadn’t seemed like supermen. Just how good were they? He said, “Lend us your most trustworthy ship-guardians as backup.”

  Yakov looked away. It was a subtle thing, but he seemed worried. After a time, he said, “In cadet school, I was captain of our hussade team. We won the Ganymede Star. Even after our victory, the stylists insisted that ours was the inferior team. And they were right.”

  Marten watched the Force-Leader. “How did you win?”

  “By risking everything and rushing the pedestal. It was a mad gamble, but it gave us victory. And it gave me this command slot.” Yakov swept his fingers through his silver hair. “I’ll risk everything again, this time on a mad rush to kill the myrmidons and gain control of my ship. Otherwise, philosophic fools will kill us all.”

  Yakov picked up the stylus. “I’ll show you the ship’s layout. Then you must help me pick the ambush site.”

  Marten nodded, realizing he was in it now.

  -10-

  Gharlane of Neptune, the prime cyborg of the stealth-assault, stood in his favorite chamber on Athena Station. The station was on a medium-sized, asteroid-like moon. In orbital proximity, its closest companion was Callisto.

  Gharlane dressed in Jovian styles, with a governor’s red uniform. He was large and robotic: polished metal merged with plasti-flesh parts and a face capable of only minimal expression. His eyes were golden-metal orbs that moved smoothly in black plastic sockets.

  Gharlane didn’t smile, although a strange sereni
ty filled him. His favorite chamber contained the newest in holographic imagery. It showed Jupiter in the center, with the important moons in their orbits and bright pinpoints representing the major warships in the system. Red pinpoints were dreadnaughts, yellow were meteor-ships and blue were clusters of patrol boats. There were fifteen capital ships in the system, fifteen dreadnaughts and meteor-ships.

  Gharlane moved through the various holo-images, feeling majestic, akin to a god. His left shoulder passed through holographic Jupiter and he eyed Io, turned and passed a hand through icy Europa.

  Gharlane understood that the Jupiter Web-Mind—his master—did not approve of these emotions or his present actions. The Web-Mind only allowed them for a precise reason. To eradicate the emotions that compelled these actions might well eradicate Gharlane’s higher genius functions.

  Gharlane was all too aware that after the successful conclusion of the stealth-assault he would have to go under the psycho-scanner. It was unavoidable, and he accepted the inevitably. However, that was a time far in the future. For now, he focused on a holographic image of Athena Station.

  “Zoom in,” he said.

  Athena expanded before him. The surface was brightly lit, with hundreds of low domes, towers, antenna-clusters, sensor stations and interferometers. There were repair docks, supply depots, laser bunkers, and missile sites. It also had girders dug into rock, stretching into space and attached to various spacecraft.

  Athena Station had been the heart of the Guardian Fleet and the second most heavily defended location in the Jovian System. The defense satellites around Callisto and the laser bunkers on the surface were considered three times as powerful as the weaponry on Athena.

  In the last few months, a non-Jovian installation had been added. It was buried half a kilometer under the surface and it churned throughout the cycles. Horrified, naked, freshly-scrubbed humans entered the complex on a conveyer. After a thorough tearing down and intricate rebuilding, shiny new cyborgs exited the machine. These cyborgs then joined the ongoing campaign.

  Unfortunately, the conversion process was too slow, and they had failed to achieve the timetable set for them by the Prime Web-Mind in the Neptune System. The problems had begun several months ago, as the stealth-capsules entered the system. A zealous Force-Leader had burnt two of the seven capsules and damaged three others. The Jovian Force-Leader had almost ended the Jupiter Assault before it had commenced. The same Force-Leader presently captained the Rousseau, but as a converted cyborg known as CR37.

  “Resume normal imaging,” Gharlane said.

  The holographic of Athena Station became a small dot again in the greater Jupiter System.

  Before Gharlane could give another command, a panel in the wall opened. He turned and regarded two basic-type cyborgs.

  They were taller than he was, with elongated torsos. Each was a composite of flesh, steel, plastic and graphite bones. Each had been a Jovian less than four months ago. They had dead eyes now, incurious eyes, with immobile features.

  “Yes?” Gharlane asked.

  “The Web-Mind wishes an immediate link,” the foremost cyborg said in a mechanical voice.

  Gharlane was aghast. He had suppressed an impulse from the Web-Mind. Now he noticed a blinking red pinpoint. It represented the Rousseau. Obviously, the Web-Mind had sent these two to check on him.

  Gharlane opened his internal link. Immediately, the two cyborgs departed and the panel closed.

  “I will run a self-evaluation,” Gharlane told the Web-Mind. They spoke via a tight-link radio-signal.

  You must not spend any more time in the holographic command room, the Web-Mind told him.

  “Noted,” said Gharlane.

  The Descartes deviates from its heading. It moves toward the disabled dreadnaught.

  “I have already ordered the Hobbes to the disabled ship,” Gharlane said.

  Our vessel will not arrive until much later. And one-to-one combat ratios are poor odds. Send… the two nearest patrol boats in conjunction with the Hobbes.

  “I wish to point out,” said Gharlane, “that there is a high probability that members of the Mayflower’s crew reached the Descartes.”

  The bearing on combat ratios—

  “The files show that the Mayflower is from Mars, containing survivors from the latest conflict there. They have shown high survival capabilities.”

  The combat ratios—

  “Battle is not all ratios and mathematical computations. There is a chaos factor involved.”

  Metaphysical ramblings are further indication of anomalies, Cyborg Gharlane. That bodes ill for your continued use.

  “I use logic to deduce factors beyond my perception,” Gharlane explained. “Metaphysics has no bearing on that. Continual success against the odds indicates high-level chaos factors. I will order the Hobbes to rendezvous with the Kepler. Together, they will engage and overcome the enemy meteor-ship.”

  That will delay the engagement with the Descartes. You thereby risk losing the remnants of the dreadnaught. We need the crews and we need the vessels, particularly the engines.

  “Your objection is noted. And I have reevaluated the situation as we’ve talked. My conclusions have changed. Our presence has already likely been discovered. We must switch from stealth tactics to first-strike attacks. Let the crippled Rousseau do what it can against the approaching ship. I will use our two meteor-ships with others on a mass strike against Callisto. We must assault the heavily-guarded planetoid before their guardians are alerted.”

  You are premature. We should continue to subvert the Guardian Fleet.

  “The meteor-ship heading for the Rousseau indicates the Jovians know about our presence. Thus, stealth no longer aids but hinders us. It is time for massive strikes.”

  Negative.

  “If you will examine—”

  Further argumentation will push your anomalies to rogue-level status. You will undergo immediate and full systems overhaul.

  Gharlane hesitated for a fraction of a millisecond. Then he said, “The two meteor-ships will unite and defeat the Descartes. Any survivors there will face interrogation and conversion as we continue with the stealth assault.”

  That is acceptable. On another matter, the cyborg converter needs….

  As the Web-Mind continued to communicate with him, Gharlane glanced around the darkened room. The red pinpoint of light indicating the Rousseau blinked wildly. He wanted to remain and walk through the holographic Jupiter System like a divine being. With something akin to a sigh, Gharlane headed for the panel. They should strike Callisto now. He knew it was the wiser course. But the controlling Web-Mind held the final decision. He would prefer to launch missiles at this meteor-ship, but the vessel’s crew would detect the missiles and broadcast the attack throughout the system. No. A close approach by other warships was still the best way to capture the enemy vessel and crew.

  Gharlane paused. Maybe there was a third way. Yes, he needed to consider this carefully.

  -11-

  Omi rolled his shoulders. “A gun would be better.”

  “If you’d rather go back and sit in the cell with Osadar…” Marten said.

  “No,” Omi said. “I started with knives.” He gripped a stainless steel blade with a razor’s edge on one side and a deadly point on the end.

  They floated down a hall, moving toward the myrmidon chamber. Ten feet behind them were three Jovians. They were smaller men, but tough-looking and determined, if scared.

  Ship personnel had received face-to-face orders to report to their station or remain locked in their sleep quarters. It meant the passageways were clear. According to Yakov, Octagon, his myrmidons and Tan had not received such orders.

  “You remember Stick?” asked Omi.

  “I’ll never forget him.”

  Omi grunted. “Stick and Turbo, they were loony, but good in a bad spot. Stick loved his knives. He was an artist with a blade. I never viewed knives as he did. They’re a tool. A gun is a better tool. But before I
became a gunman, I used to cut people for Big Arni.”

  “Surely Highborn knife-tactics are superior to whatever you did in Sydney.”

  “Yeah,” Omi said. “But you always remember your first kill. It’s like laying your first girl. You never forget.”

  Marten’s nostrils expanded. Omi was nervous, which was a bad sign. Osadar had been telling Omi about the myrmidons. Facing gene-improved killers didn’t sound like a life-extending action. But they’d killed Highborn before. He’d killed a shuttle-full of them through sneaky tactics. That would be the best way to kill the myrmidons. The problem was the myrmidons always expected trouble.

  Marten blew out his cheeks as his stomach fluttered. It was a bad feeling. He tried to make himself angry. The myrmidons had collared him, allowing Octagon to shock him many times.

  “Yeah,” Marten whispered, his grip tightening on the knife-handle.

  “You say something?”

  Marten shook his head.

  They floated around a corner. Down the companionway, he could see the region of the ship with red and white hall colors. It made Marten’s stomach churn.

  “Two on one,” he said. “They’re fast—”

  “I know what to do,” Omi hissed. “Zero-G fighting, the crazy way.” He hefted his knife. “A gun would be better, or our needlers.”

  “Octagon has them.”

  Omi wiped the back of knife-hand across his mouth. Then he took out a small device, holding it in his free hand.

  Marten signaled the three Jovians. They curled against the wall and gave him a thumbs-up sign. Marten pushed down to the floor, curling up in a fetal ball, trying to wedge himself at the junction of the wall and floor padding. Omi did the same thing. The Jovians were in position.

  “Now,” Marten whispered.

  Omi clicked the device.

  Three seconds later, the meteor-ship’s engines engaged. After five seconds of thrust, the engines cut out, returning weightlessness to the Descartes.

  “Let’s do it,” Marten said, shooting for the red and white part of the hall.

  A klaxon rang. Yakov’s voice sounded over the ship’s intercoms. “All hands, report damage and injuries to the proper authorities. Then tighten yourselves for further ship maneuvering.”