“If we had a Doom Star, we would be the lords of Jupiter,” the Praetor said in a scathing tone. “Instead, we have the Thutmosis III. It’s still a crippled ship.” He grinned like a wounded tiger. “And we have eighteen Highborn. It’s a pitiful number compared to the likely masses of cyborgs. But we have more than enough pods and a dozen patrol boats to get us onto the moon’s surface.”
“Where we shall die,” Canus said.
The Praetor disliked Canus’s pessimism. He would have enjoyed throttling him, but he needed every officer he had.
“Did we survive this past year and finally decelerate here to die as a useless gesture?” Canus asked, scowling. It caused his burn-scar to turn even redder than normal. “Highborn should always fight to win.”
“We will win,” the Praetor said.
“After another—” Canus checked his board— “sixteen more minutes, the Thutmosis III will die to the heavy laser.”
“Have you rerouted the ship’s controls to the shuttle?”
“If it matters, I have.”
The Praetor clunked a gauntleted hand on Canus’s armored shoulder. “We defeated our despair at the edge of the Solar System. Let us defeat our despair once more and win through to victory.”
Still scowling, Canus glanced up. “Lord, your self-confidence borders on insanity.”
“That’s what others must have told Pizarro.”
“Lord?” asked Canus.
“We have fifteen minutes left,” the Praetor said. “So make sure you do everything right the first time, because we won’t have a second chance.”
-15-
As the Thutmosis III made its death-ride to glory or hapless oblivion, the Descartes and its fellow meteor-ship closed in on Carme as they decelerated. Compared to the missile-ship, the Jovian taskforce came from a ninety-degree angle, bearing down on the rogue moon. The Descartes led the assault, with the second ship following, using the Descartes as a shield.
Carme continued to accelerate, with the cyborg dreadnaught still hiding behind the moon. The main laser still attempted a burn-through on the Thutmosis III’s prismatic crystal field.
The Descartes looked much as it had the first day Marten saw it. The meteor-shell still looked like a junkyard with hosts of pods, girders, dishes, missiles, cubes and patrol boats seemingly magnetized to it. Today there was a singular difference. Marten viewed the meteor-ship from its surface.
He sat in the front of a patrol boat, beside Osadar. She was in the pilot’s chair, making last minute checks on her control board.
Marten wore his combat armor, presently minus his helmet. An IML was beside him and a Gyroc rifle. He had grenades, a vibroblade and an upset stomach.
Marten twisted back. Omi inspected the two squads piled into the patrol boat with them. There was heavy breathing, the clatter of equipment and the noisy sound of someone vomiting. The smell of sweat and fear was strong. Many of the space marines had thousand meter stares. Others glared. A few looked terrified. More than one trembled.
Marten found that his spit had vanished, making it hard to swallow. He hated pre-battle jitters. He hated the tingle in his arms and the roiling in his gut. He supposed it must have been like this thousands of years ago when David had tested his sling before racing out to challenge Goliath. That had been his favorite Bible story, his mother reading it to him as she sat on the edge of his bed. It was strange that he should think of her. Did that mean he was going to die?
Under his breath, Marten cursed softly. Then he shook his head, and he stared out of the polarized window. The surface of the meteor-shell was filled with junk and with other waiting patrol boats. Each of them contained its two-squad complement of space marines.
Marten dug in a pocket, producing a stick of gum. He opened it and popped the gum into his mouth, beginning to chew, beginning to produce spit so he could swallow.
Why did this feel like entering the torpedoes he’d ridden onto the Bangladesh?
“I’m ready,” Osadar said.
Marten blinked several times before her words made sense. Then he stared out of the window again, searching for signs of Carme. He’d see its long, comet-like tail first as Yakov had shown him the runaway planetoid via teleoptics.
The radio crackled and Yakov’s calm features appeared on the screen. For some reason, that reminded Marten of the Rousseau, how the screen had stayed blank that day.
“The cyborg laser has achieved a burn-through,” Yakov said.
Marten scowled. Why couldn’t he focus on what was going on? What was wrong with him?
“Now the cyborgs are hitting the Highborn ship,” Yakov said.
“Right,” Marten said. In way, he was relived. He’d never liked the idea of fighting with Highborn, certainly not with the Praetor.
Yakov laughed savagely. The laugh unnerved Marten. He’d come to appreciate the Jovian’s calmness, to appreciate the Force-Leader’s deadly seriousness.
“Shuttles are launching from the missile-ship,” Yakov said. “They’re maneuvering behind it, or behind what will soon be the ship’s wreckage. Wait, Rhea is telling me—oh, this is good.”
“What?” Marten asked.
“The Highborn ship accelerates onto a collision course with Carme. The Praetor seems to be using his ship as a shield. I wonder how many Highborn he’s sacrificing. The entire crew can’t fit into those few shuttles, can they?”
“I’m picking up Voltaire Missile signals,” Rhea said in Yakov’s background.
“This is it,” Yakov said. The Force-Leader stared out of the screen at Marten. “We’re in range of Carme, Representative Kluge.”
“Good luck, Yakov.”
The silver-haired Force-Leader nodded brusquely. “It’s time to pull the ring,” he said in a dead-calm tone.
‘Pull the ring’, was a hussade term. Marten knew that much.
“Enemy sensors have locked onto us,” Yakov said. “It’s time for you to lift-off.”
Marten tried to say a last word, but Osadar snapped off the link. Then she ignited the patrol boat’s engine, causing the craft to vibrate.
“Hang on!” Marten shouted to the men.
As the last syllable left his mouth, Osadar blasted off the meteor-shell, heading for Carme.
-16-
Carme trembled from its violent acceleration. The gargantuan ports spewed blue plasma. The generators hummed as power surged through coils. Deeper in the rock, mighty fusion engines separated atoms, creating nuclear energy. The combination meant that Carme’s rocky hills shook. Ancient stardust stirred on the cratered floors. The gleaming towers quivered as dishes rotated, as antennae collected thermal, mass and neutrino data on the approaching enemies. Missiles poked upward, ready to launch. The main laser spewed a torrent of focused light, cutting, slicing and separating the black-matted, Highborn ship. From low barracks, stubby point-defense cannons swiveled back and forth, ready to chug their depleted uranium shells at incoming enemy. Tac-lasers warmed up and several magnetic-guns shined with inner flashes of blue light.
There were five clusters of towers, buildings, barracks and underground entrances on Carme. Each had a separate defense grid, each powered by one of the mighty engines. Many tens of kilometers separated them, and there were more than enough suited cyborgs at each cluster to repeal any foolish space-drops.
The Web-Mind computed all this in a matter of seconds, as a paranoia program insisted on a quick probability check. It had seemed senseless then, and the numbers indicated the Web-Mind had been correct. However, there were some trifling possibilities that caused the Web-Mind a moment of unease.
The future master of the Jupiter System waited like a mechanical spider deep in its armored bunker. The greatest technological marvel of the 24th Century was built into its stealth-capsule. That capsule was parked in the dark, with hundreds of radio-links and communication and power cables attached to it.
The Web-Mind processed all the incoming information that its sensory stations on the moon’s surface collec
ted. In seconds, it ran through hundreds of military scenarios. It had cyborgs on the ground, guns, missiles and laser stations and a roving dreadnaught ready to rise into view and attack the enemy ships and missiles. It could not lose. No, that wasn’t completely accurate. A five percent probability existed that the Highborn or Jovians possessed a secret weapon that could grant them victory.
Billions of neurons fired in the hundreds of kilos of brain-mass that composed the core of the Web-Mind.
A five percent probability of defeat was minuscule. That gave it a ninety-five percent probability of total victory. If Gharlane and the fleet had accelerated here instead of heading in-system to Io—
No, the probability of harm increased under those conditions. Whether Gharlane won or lost among the Galilean moons, the critical factor was the launching of the planet-wrecker. There were several smaller wreckers under construction in the outermost Jovian System. Carme-wrecker, however, was the only one able to launch in the window of the coming Saturn System attack.
A powerful confidence-boosting program now surged forward. The Web-Mind shrugged off the five percent probability, as it was too small to deflect the confidence program. With renewed zeal, the Web-Mind inspected near, mid and far space relative to Carme.
The wreckage of the Highborn ship burst through its weakened crystal-gel fields. There were twenty-three clumps spread over a kilometer. Those clumps contained thousands of smaller pieces.
A warning surged though the Web-Mind. Like a meteor shower, the wreckage was on an intercept course for Carme. A quick calculation showed that none of the pieces would hit building clusters one through five. Even so, the kinetic energy of the multiple strikes could cause quake damage. That might harm the coil linkages, always the weakest connection between fusion cores and lasers.
A subordinate function of the Web-Mind continued to fire the heavy laser. After the missile-ship’s destruction, it used priority targeting. Zenos first, rail-gun canisters second, cannon shells third and—
Warning beacons fired through the Web-Mind’s biomass brain. What the Web-Mind had believed to be more missiles traveling behind the Thutmosis III’s wreckage was now—the Web-Mind rechecked the readings to be sure. There were life-support systems hard at work on what it had conceived as missiles. The Web-Mind ran configuration checks. Those were Highborn shuttles!
Had Highborn survived their ship’s destruction? Why would the military creatures continue to head here then? Why didn’t they accept defeat and attempt flight and continued existence?
The Web-Mind yearned to run a re-analysis on Highborn psychology. This wasn’t the time, however. With the approaching shuttles—the Web-Mind ran through a fast executing probability script.
An annoyance factor seethed through the Web-Mind. As incredible as it seemed, the shuttles added a percentage point to the odds of enemy success. There was now a six percent chance of defeat.
Angered, the Web-Mind launched more missiles, and it sent a flash-message to the dreadnaught’s commander. If Highborn landed on Carme’s surface, the chance of defeat rose to an amazing eight percent.
In Carme’s deepest bunker, behind the stealth coating of its capsule, the Web-Mind computed, rechecked data and widened its sensory checks. Then it sent a pulse to other bunkers, bringing many cyborgs to active status. If the Highborn landed on Carme, they would die.
The Web-Mind contemplated a new possibility. If Highborn landed, the cyborgs could capture several. Then it could use the captives as test subjects, running thousands of experiments and learning everything there was to know about the highly aggressive subspecies. That would also give it something to do during the long journey in-system. The Web-Mind almost purred with delight. Fresh data for thousands of hours, it would enjoy that.
The experiments could also determine the provocative question concerning Highborn. Were they an entirely new genus? Or were the Highborn merely a larger subspecies of Homo sapiens?
The inquisitive aspect of the Web-Mind, the curiosity, actually hoped that a shuttle-full of Highborn made it onto the surface. It might almost be worth the negative percentage points to let them land. No, the landing would give the enemy that eight percent chance of victory. Those were unacceptable odds.
The approaching Highborn must die, just as the attacking Jovians were about to face obliteration.
-17-
Force-Leader Yakov was thrown hard to the left by his maneuvering ship. Only the restraining straps of his chair held him in place. The main screen was a blizzard of images as Carme hove into sight.
The rogue planetoid still accelerated, the spewing gases from its exhaust-ports attempting to propel millions of metric tons of rock and trace metals. Bright dots of light appeared on Carme’s surface. Those could be launched missiles or batteries of point-defense cannons. Both possibilities filled Yakov with dread. The laser-beam stabbed elsewhere for the moment. If that beam swerved to focus on the Descartes….
Yakov blinked. There was hoarse shouting. The ship’s fusion-engine whined. Then came the sound of sharp whistling, indicating a breach somewhere.
“Incoming shells!” Rhea shouted.
“Attempting sensor shear!” the ECM officer screamed.
“Decks five and six are off-line, Force-Leader! I think they’ve been breached. I’m initiating emergency bulkheads.”
Seconds later, loud booms sounded from within the ship.
The pilot was pale with fear as he held up his hands. “I’m putting the ship on emergency auto-sequencing!”
“No,” Yakov ordered.
Because of the strain of G-forces, Yakov had to use a motorized control as he spun toward the pilot’s module. Now that the back of his chair was no longer resisting the Gs, Yakov was thrown laterally against his restraining straps.
“Maintain heading,” Yakov said. Although he didn’t shout or scream, his voice cut through the bedlam. The pilot stared at him, wide-eyed.
“Force-Leader—” the man began objecting.
“Take us in,” Yakov said.
“It’s death to—”
“You took an oath,” Yakov said, his voice harsh. “You swore to defend the Jovian System. Today, we earn our berths.”
Before the pilot could argue, Yakov’s chair purred and once again, he faced the main screen. Years of training, of endless drill, study and late nights perfecting his art allowed him to read the bewildering screen. There were dots, triangles, cones of probability, dotted lines indicating flight paths—it was a plethora of information. The increasingly tightening space between Carme and the attacking vessels was dense with multiple forms of death.
EMP surges washed over armor-sheathed electronics. Nuclear explosions added x-rays and gamma rays as well as deadly heat radiation. Shredding pellets, shards of metal and even particles of sand slashed through the vacuum at hi-speeds.
Both meteor-ships had launched every Zeno drone they carried. The point-defense cannons barked endlessly. Rail-guns projected canisters that exploded killing shrapnel ahead of it. Ninety degrees from them the hurdling pieces of the former Thutmosis III headed for the surface. Carme’s laser had melted many of the largest pieces and deflected others. What was left of the prismatic and gel shields drifted at a constant velocity toward Carme. Following behind the fields were the missile-ship’s Zenos, the shuttles and farther behind, but coming on fast, were the four deadly Voltaire Missiles.
The tactic was simple and obvious. Zeno drones led the way. The ships followed. Behind came the shuttles and patrol boats, using everything before them as shields. With the countless explosions, shells, missiles and sand zones it seemed that nothing should survive unscathed. But even here, the volume of space was vast, the individual masses tiny in comparison.
Now Zenos began to ignite their thermonuclear warheads, using x-rays and gamma rays to attack the sensor installations and bunkers of point-defense cannons on Carme.
In return, the Descartes shuddered as an enemy Zeno blasted seven hundreds meters to starboard. X-rays
traveled at light speed, flooding the starboard side of the ship, killing personnel and destroying delicate equipment. Behind it followed depleted uranium shrapnel. The impact caused the shuddering, and it created three massive cracks that splintered around the meteor-shell.
As that occurred, the dreadnaught rose from behind Carme. Its particle shielding protected it except for five-meter slits. From those slits poured point-defense shells, anti-missiles and laser-beams.
The cyborg-controlled warship was like an SU battlewagon. It was meant for long-range fights, using lasers as its primary weapon. The meteor-ships were even more unsuited for this intense barrage, built as raid vessels. The dreadnaught possessed the particle shielding, and that was a critical advantage. It would turn the battle decisively for the cyborgs.
“Force-Leader!” Rhea screamed.
Somehow, among the clangs, the sounds of more bulkheads slamming into place, the shouts from other officers, Yakov heard her.
“There’s a message from the Praetor!” Rhea screamed. “I’m patching it through to your chair.”
Yakov moved a toggle. On the armrest’s tiny screen and through heavy static appeared the Praetor’s wide features. The Highborn looked strained, his skin taut. His eyes were like burning pits of madness.
“They’ve destroyed half the Voltaire Missiles,” the Praetor said in his deep voice. “I’m not sure the others will make it through to the dreadnaught.”
Mute, Yakov nodded.
Maybe because of EMP blasts or enemy ECM, the static increased. It was now impossible to hear the Praetor’s next words.
Yakov raised his head. “Rhea—”
Rhea worked feverishly on her board. She stabbed buttons and twisted a dial. “Try it now!” she shouted.
Yakov clicked a toggle and the static appeared to lessen. He could barely make out the Praetor. He leaned closer to the chair’s speakers.
“You have to take out the dreadnaught,” the Praetor said. The static became too much again. But it didn’t matter now. Yakov understood. If the dreadnaught survived, they had lost the battle.
Doom Star: Book 04 - Cyborg Assault Page 29