Battle Pod ds-3

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Can the jets climb that high?” Marten asked over the com-link.

  “Did you see that flare?” Omi asked.

  “Flare?”

  “It was near one of those jets, might have been one of them.”

  Marten made a shrewd guess. “Martian orbitals must have jumped the jets.”

  During the next few minutes, there were four more flares. Likely, it was aircraft dying a violent death.

  Marten hoped that meant some Martian space defenses still existed. The thought of being trapped on Mars for good made him queasy. He had been trapped in Australian Sector for years. He wondered sometimes if he ever should have escaped from the Sun-Works Factory the day his parents died. He’d yearned for freedom all those years in Australian Sector. He’d resisted Social Unity, just as the Martians had resisted here. The Storm Assault Missile had changed him. He no longer resisted because he no longer accepted either Social Unity or the Highborn as even nominally in charge of his life. Until he found a free society, a free government, he was his own government, his own self-run State.

  Marten squinted up at the wispy ice clouds. He searched for specks, but the jets and orbitals had either perished or left for somewhere else. The Planetary Union was the closest thing to freedom there was in Inner Planets. Yet they followed Unionist doctrine. It talked a good game, but essentially meant the union leaders made the decisions. It leaned heavily on original Social Unity doctrine. The great difference was power. Social Unity wielded it and the Planetary Union wanted it. Because the Unionists fought like a wounded beast, it granted its individual members greater autonomy than otherwise.

  To pass the long hours riding the skimmer, Marten had spoken to Squad Leader Rojas about the Planetary Union. It’s how he’d discovered the majority of his information concerning Martian ideals.

  Rojas’s major credo and apparently the Planetary Union’s as well was—Mars was for the Martians. That was reasonable. But Marten no longer found socialist theories acceptable in any form. As far as he could tell, socialism always led to a police state, with a heavy emphasis on thought control.

  Marten wanted a free state, where free people united to achieve goals they genuinely desired. Instead of Thought Police, individual people would work toward individual goals. His mother had taught him about such systems. They had existed in the past and might possibly exist farther out in the Solar System. Yet his mother had also taught him another truth. People were not inherently good. Each human possessed an evil streak and a propensity toward bad actions. Each person needed a code of conduct that corralled that propensity toward bad actions. For his mother, it had been God and the ancient book called the Bible.

  Do not steal was one of the ancient maxims. Social Unity stole a man’s labor and stole his freedom. Social Unity theory spoke about equality, using it so the State could plunder the production of the individual.

  Marten shook his head. He refused to let anyone plunder him anymore. His stint in the Storm Assault Missile had torn the last veils from his eyes. He had no allegiance to Social Unity or the Highborn. Both systems sought to enslave him. So the sovereign State of Marten Kluge—the germ to an ancient method of governance—was going to leave Mars before the Planetary Union tried to usurp his freedom and mold him in its likeness.

  The great question was how to achieve his dream. If the SU Battlefleet had moved into near orbit, it meant they had likely captured his shuttle. If they held his shuttle, how was he going to tear it out of their grasp? Perhaps just as importantly, how was he going to get into space again to try to wrest his shuttle back into his rightful control?

  * * *

  Twelve hours later, Omi drove the skimmer into a low garage at the base of Olympus Mons. Marten had the men line up in an oxygen zone. They actually looked strange without their EVA helmets on. Most had matted hair and dark circles around their eyes.

  Marten spoke tersely to them, commending some and giving others Highborn axioms concerning combat. Then he dismissed the men and told them to get some sleep.

  As the men filed away, Major Diaz strode up and saluted. The major looked as dangerous as ever and his hair, incredibly, was swept back hard into perfect form. Diaz had lost weight, but none of the harshness to his features.

  “I will report to the Secretary-General,” Diaz said. “I will tell him you are a crafty soldier. I will tell him your courage and quick action saved the commandos from almost certain destruction. I refer to the jets, of course.”

  Marten waited for the kicker. He didn’t have long to wait.

  “However, I demand satisfaction from your lieutenant,” Diaz said.

  “It what form?” Marten asked.

  “A duel,” Diaz said.

  “Are you tired of living?”

  Major Diaz stiffened. “Without honor, a man is an animal.”

  “I ordered Omi to disarm you,” Marten said. “Therefore, your desire for satisfaction should lie with me.”

  “I have no desire to kill a soldier who could teach the commandos useful skills,” Diaz said.

  “That’s something, at least. Major, why not wait for satisfaction until we find out if Martian space defense still stands? If it doesn’t, the Planetary Union is going to need each one of us. I know that I want you with me when Social Unity launches drop-troops.”

  “The weight of honor compels me—”

  “Major Diaz,” Marten said. “Honor compels you to save your planet. Mars is for the Martians, remember? Honor means that you must forgo your personal desires until the emergency ends. We are free and wish to remain so. As much as I dislike your murder of prisoners, I recognize your combat ability. You are what the Highborn refer to as a ‘natural soldier.’ You’re a killer. Omi is also a killer. I’ve been trained to mimic one. Killers are always rare and always feared by the vast majority of people. It is strategic and tactical stupidity for the killers of one side to eliminate its best warriors. So despite our personal dislike for each other, we need to work together for at least a little while longer.”

  Diaz’s lips had compressed tighter throughout Marten’s speech. Now both his hands gripped his belt. Diaz glanced at Omi, who seemed to watch the major indifferently.

  “Your words are compelling,” Diaz said. “I hadn’t realized you possessed honor as well. This changes the issue. …I will agree to your suggestion if you will cede me one concession.”

  “What?” Marten asked.

  “You must show Secretary-General Chavez Martian dignity.”

  In surprise, Marten lifted an eyebrow. “You mean I should stand up when he enters a room?”

  “Yes.”

  “…agreed,” Marten said, and he held out his hand.

  Diaz and he shook. Then the major turned around and hurried away for the door the rest of the men had used.

  “You never know,” Marten told Omi.

  Omi remained silent.

  “Come on,” Marten said. “I need a shower and then I want at least an hour’s sleep.”

  * * *

  Marten had his shower, but not the hour nap. He and Omi were summoned to join Secretary-General Chavez in the Olympus Mons command center.

  They rode the magnetic lift and Marten’s ears popped twice as he hastily swallowed time after time.

  The command room was surprisingly cramped, with a handful of officers clumped around two monitors. A glass partition showed technicians in white lab-coats watching a room-length monitor-board. The board possessed a hundred multicolored lights and displays, a bewildering amount.

  Diaz stood in a corner. The major was pale and his eyes staring, as if he’d learned dreadful news. Secretary-General Chavez stood behind the officers around the two monitors. He stared at an unseen point as he sucked heavily on a stimstick. Red, mildly narcotic smoke hung in a haze above him like a broken halo.

  Marten and Omi moved quietly. The guards outside hadn’t even questioned them about their sidearms. Each of them wore long-barreled slug-throwers with explosive bullets. Each carried extra cl
ips. These were deadly close-combat guns. Until now, Marten hadn’t used them. Something about the immediate summons had troubled him. A laser pack and rifle would have been more powerful. But Marten didn’t own one and he doubted the guards would have let him shoulder such a weapon.

  Omi had asked about the choice.

  “Do you notice how empty this place feels?” Marten had asked.

  “Now that you mention it,” Omi had replied, “yes.”

  “There’s a reason for that,” Marten had said. “And I don’t think it’s a good reason. So we wear the long-barrels.”

  In the cramped command center, no one seemed to notice the difference in armament. The officers were too intent on the monitors. Diaz looked pale enough to faint and Chavez was lost somewhere in his thoughts.

  After two minutes of inattention, Marten discreetly cleared his throat.

  Major Diaz’s head swiveled around. Marten expected a glare. Instead, Diaz looked lost, bewildered.

  Chavez took a deep pull on his stimstick. He exhaled through his nostrils as he slowly turned around. Just as slowly, the distant stare departed as he focused on Marten.

  “The shock troopers,” Chavez said. The Secretary-General coughed until he took another deep drag on his stimstick. He left it between his lips as his arm swung down to his side, as if it was too heavy to hold onto the smoldering stick anymore. “Major Diaz said you eliminated an airfield and its jets.”

  “At heavy cost, sir,” Marten said.

  Chavez took another drag as he shook his head. “Frankly, the way events proceed, that was fantastic success. I can only hope to achieve a like result today.”

  “Your men have fixed the proton beam?” Marten asked.

  “Not entirely,” Chavez said. With the barest flick of his wrist, he indicated the officers and then the worried-looking technicians in the other room. “They’re petrified. So am I, I suppose. Even Major Diaz shows the strain. Juan,” he told Diaz, “I told you to flee to New Tijuana. Take the shock troopers with you. Someone must survive this day.”

  “I stay,” Diaz whispered.

  “Stubborn fool,” Chavez said without any rancor.

  “Why are you here if the proton beam doesn’t work?” Marten asked.

  “‘Not entirely’ means it works after a fashion,” Chavez said. He smiled tiredly. “You don’t understand which is entirely understandable. The Battlefleet is arriving at near orbit. Nothing up there belongs to us. It is all theirs. They captured our moons before the main weapons could inflict damage. We have images of incredible space marines, robots or some deranged form of android. They used stealth tactics and took the moons by surprise. It means they obliterated our satellites with hardly a fight. What kind of domination will they inflict on us if we couldn’t even kill a few of them? They will become even more unbearably proud than before. No. We must damage them. We must make them realize they fought a battle. That is why I am here. That is why I have decided to use a half-working proton beam.”

  “The battle is over?” Marten asked in dismay.

  Chavez slowly shook his head. “It will never be over. The Martians shall always fight. The Planetary Union has given millions of needlers to the workers. Social Unity will face a bloodbath as they attempt to rule us. It will bring fierce retribution, of this, I am certain. But it is better to die a fighting Martian than to submit to invaders from another planet. Mars is for the Martians.”

  Marten stared at the officers. All the Martian satellites had been destroyed? That meant the Mayflower—

  “We’re trapped on Mars,” Omi whispered into his ear.

  “I’m sorry we could not return you to your shuttle, Mr. Kluge. Commander Zapata took the liberty of cracking your code. He fueled your shuttle.” Chavez made a vague gesture. “It must be space debris now, likely destroyed. I am sorry.”

  Marten frowned. Zapata had filled the tanks with propellant?

  “You must join your commandos and head for New Tijuana,” Chavez said. “If the deep-core mine should erupt or the dynamos overheat, Olympus Mons could receive a new and impressive crater.”

  “You’re going to beam the Battlefleet,” Marten said, finally understanding.

  “For the future of the Planetary Union, we shall try,” Chavez said.

  “When is zero-hour?” Marten asked.

  A rail-thin officer looked up. “It’s as ready as its ever going to be, sir,” he told Chavez.

  “You have a target?” Chavez asked. There was new life in his voice. He had apparently already forgotten about Marten and Omi.

  “A battleship, sir.”

  “Their flagship?” Chavez asked with savage hope.

  “Can’t tell that, sir,” the officer answered. “But it is one of their heavies.”

  Secretary-General Chavez removed the stub of the stimstick from his lips and flicked it into a corner. He took two steps closer to the monitor. At a word from the officer, others hurried out of the way. Chavez raised his hands. They were clenched tightly into fists. “Kill it!” he rasped. “Show them we still have teeth.”

  A different officer seated at the other monitor began to enter the firing code.

  “We must leave,” Omi whispered, tugging Marten’s arm.

  Marten shook his head. He stepped closer to the monitor Chavez viewed. It showed a computer image of an SU battleship. It was near Phobos, which was a little more than 9,000 kilometers away.

  A loud and fierce whine began from somewhere in the volcano. It was the dynamos as they converted the deep-core mine heat into proton-beam power. The whine increased as the dynamos pumped the power into the cannon poking out of the giant crater at the top of Olympus Mons. That crater was over 60 kilometers in diameter. The cannon targeted the SU battleship.

  Twenty seconds after Secretary-General Chavez gave the order, a deadly-white beam of proton particles lanced upward into the reddish heavens.

  -22-

  Several SU warships circled Phobos.

  The Kim Philby had already collected half the Rebel prisoners. Now that the battle was over, General Fromm planned to use the mine-ship as their supposed ‘interrogation center’. Toll Seven had exported enough equipment to it so three of Fromm’s fellow converts had set up a Web-link. If anybody should ask about the strange equipment, the answer would be that it was a new interrogation technique hot from Earth.

  The Alger Hiss supply ship presently maneuvered for docking. In its cargo-holds were tons of laser coils, merculite missiles and other items meant to make the moon bristle with functioning weaponry. Now that Social Unity owned Phobos again, there was no time to waste to make it battle-ready for the Highborn.

  The Battleship Ho Chi Minh protected the others. If the Planetary Union should foolishly attempt to send its last orbitals in a kamikaze raid, the Ho Chi Minh would obliterate every fighter. The Battleship’s captain, however, had not taken any undue chances. The heavy particle-shields were all in place. The shields were 600-meters of asteroid rock surrounding the war-vessel. Before any laser or projectile could touch the Battleship’s armored skin, it would first have to pierce the 600 meters of rock.

  The proton beam from Olympus Mons stabbed into near orbit. The thin Martian atmosphere created some friction, but not enough to dissipate the beam’s awful power. The deep-core mine functioned. The Olympus Mons equipment and the jury-rigged emergency coils held for the moment.

  The proton beam hit the number six particle-shield of the Ho Chi Minh. As amazing as it would seem, the attack caught the Battlefleet cold. They had destroyed all orbital defenses. They knew the proton beam was offline because of the damage it had sustained when the Highborn battleoids had stormed into it six months ago. SU officers also sneered at Martian technical ability, and they had been quite sure the Martians would have not been able to fix the deep-core link in time. Besides, if the proton beam had been online, it should have fired when the Battlefleet first matched orbits with the moons.

  It fired now, however. The proton beam smashed into the parti
cle shield, into the asteroid rock.

  The proton beam operated differently than the conventional methods of smashing through particle shields. A heavy laser burned through, slagging rock as it chewed deeper and deeper. It also created clouds of dust and hot gas that slowly began dissipating a laser’s strength until the gas and dust ‘drifted’ elsewhere or settled. Nuclear-tipped missiles blasted their way in, but by necessity, most of the blast blew in other directions and thus wasted much of its potential. The proton beam worked on a different principle than a laser or a nuclear warhead.

  A laser was focused light. The proton beam was made up of massed protons, elements of matter, in a deadly and coherent stream. It meant that a proton beam was slower than a laser, but not by much. And at this close of a range—around 9000 kilometers—that difference was negligible. Unlike a nuclear-tipped missile where much of the blast was wasted as it blew elsewhere, none of the beam striking the particle shield was wasted. The entire power of the beam smashed against the particle shield. It chewed through fast. Dust, gas, they made no difference. That deadly proton beam stabbed like a rapier.

  At long ranges, a beam could only stay on target for a few seconds, usually less. That meant heavy lasers needed to burn away huge sections of a particle shield before those lasers could reach the actual ship underneath the rock. The same was true with nuclear-tipped missiles. The particle shield’s length became nearly as important as its depth.

  The proton beam made a mockery of the particle shield’s length as it bored through the 600 meters of asteroid rock.

  The Ho Chi Minh had only one true defense against the terrible proton beam, and that was aerosol gels with lead additives. Because the attack caught them cold, the aerosols did not begin spraying until the proton beam punched through the particle shield and smashed against the armored hull. By then it was far too late.

  The proton beam cut through the layered hull and beamed through the battleship. It hit living quarters, food supplies, missed the bridge by fifty meters and cut into the coils that supplied power from the fusion core. Air pressure rushed out into the vacuum of space. Klaxons rang. Bulkheads crashed down to minimize damage. Battle-control teams raced to don equipment. Then explosions started. One of those explosions ruptured a coil. It built an overload in the fifth fusion reactor.