Doom Star: Book 06 - Star Fortress

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Please,” Tan said, holding up her hand. “Give me a moment of silence.” She closed her eyes and listened to the chimes. There were many factors to consider. How many Highborn and Social Unity warships would journey to Neptune? What if the cyborgs attacked the Jupiter System while the Alliance Fleet traveled there to the edge of the Solar System?

  Tan’s eyes opened. She regarded Euthyphro as he studied the screen.

  “Attend me,” she said.

  The bearded Advocate turned around.

  “We cannot afford to send more meteor-ships out-system,” she said. “We have too few as it is and building more takes too much time and energy. If we send meteor-ships to Neptune and the cyborgs reappear here, it might mean the end of Jovian Civilization.”

  “We do nothing then?” Euthyphro asked.

  “We do not send warships,” Tan said. “Instead, we send knowledge, information.”

  “I will alert the communications—”

  “You will listen to me,” Tan said. “We will not use tight-beam communication. Instead, I will send a representative to Marten Kluge. I will strengthen his hand and increase the Jovian presence on Earth by giving him critical data to use as a bargaining chip.”

  “Marten Kluge is not noted for his savant-like behavior. He is a soldier.”

  “He is a killer,” Tan said. “At the moment, he is our killer. He has proven himself on more than one occasion. We aid him with what we can spare—knowledge, data. The question is: who should go?”

  Euthyphro stepped back in alarm. “Firstly, I must protest. The data is time-urgent. The Alliance must launch the attack sooner rather than later. A Jovian vessel heading to Earth will take at least two months to arrive, and that would be under stringent conditions. Secondly, I hope you are not thinking of sending me. I am unsuited to space travel. I have—”

  “Calm yourself,” Tan said. “I need you here. Besides, perhaps you are right. The knowledge might spur the Highborn and possibly spur Social Unity into sending everything they can to Neptune now. The hope of acquiring the Fuhl Mechanism—”

  “We must ensure that neither side gains an FTL drive.”

  “And how do we do that?” Tan asked.

  “We would have to send Jovian warships with the armada.”

  “And leave ourselves defenseless here?” Tan asked. “I already told you my decision in that regard.”

  “It is an interesting quandary,” Euthyphro said, as he plucked at his beard. “Do we risk sending our warships to Neptune in the hope of acquiring a fantastic technology? Or do we keep ourselves guarded and hope that neither the Highborn nor Social Unity gains the device?”

  “It may be that we should remain silent on the subject,” Tan said, “thus lessening the chance that either of them acquires the FTL drive.

  “What if because of that the Alliance Fleet dallies and gives the cyborgs time to refine the Fuhl Mechanism, thereby winning the war with it?”

  Tan rubbed her forehead. “I must think more deeply on the subject. It is unwise to make a hasty decision.”

  “Time is our enemy,” Euthyphro said.

  Tan nodded absently.

  “If you desire my recommendation…”

  Tan looked up. “No. You will continue to study the data. I want conclusive proof. Until you can give me more evidence, I must weigh the options and make a carefully reasoned choice.”

  Euthyphro plucked at his beard, with a troubled look on his thick features.

  “I do not want to hear about a Jovian leak,” Tan said.

  “I assure you, Chief Strategist—”

  “Such a leak would mean your death, and in an extremely unpleasant manner,” Tan added.

  Euthyphro paled. “I am a philosopher of Callisto. Threats are meaningless to me. My given word is more certain than sunlight. I shall tell no one about this and allow no outside communications until further notice.”

  “See that you do,” said Tan. “Now go. I have much to consider.”

  Euthyphro bowed his head and departed. He left the Chief Strategist staring at the screen. It replayed the flash in slow motion, cycling through the colors.

  Do the cyborgs possess an FTL drive? Tan asked herself. The Dictates help us if they do.

  -8-

  Far away from Jupiter on Earth, Marten, Nadia and Osadar rode a magnetic-rail train to Athens. The train sped over two hundred and fifty km/h through Lebanon Sector, with the Mediterranean Sea only a few kilometers away. Outside, the wind howled, at times rocking the reinforced cars as snowy particles swirled in the air. Above, dark clouds raced across the sky.

  Marten and Nadia sat together, staring out a window. She kept pointing at trees, bleak snowscapes and old houses.

  “I used to watch videos of Earth,” Nadia said. “I never thought it would be anything like this. It’s beautiful.”

  “And cold,” Marten said. He sat closest to the window and felt the blasts seeping through.

  The train-car rocked gently as snow batted against the window.

  “I do not like this,” Osadar said. She was taller than Marten and wore heavy garments. They had nothing to do with the cold, but concealed her skeletal cyborg body. It was thin, with particles of flesh and too much graphite bones, titanium and plasti-flesh. She wore a senso-mask, giving her the simulation and look of real flesh, eyes and hair. To finish the disguise, she wore a hat.

  A reading device rested in her lap. The latest title was Outbreak of Violence in Syrian Sector. Osadar had spoken about the article. Political Harmony Corps personnel had risen to prominence and taken up arms again. They backed Director Backus of Kurdistan Sector, who had gained a following in the last few days.

  Many of the directors pledged Backus service in the interest of Social Unity. The Army, Navy and Space Arm followed Cone, with Manteuffel of the Cybernetic Corps as her second-in-command. Even now, the former Security Specialist was on the car’s holo-screen, broadcasting a message to the many billions of citizens. She urged calm and spoke about the need for a military alliance. They must band with the Highborn against the dreaded cyborgs. Humanity’s existence was at stake. This was a time for stern measures. It was not the time for the ordinary political maneuverings that had brought about the war in the first place.

  “Social Unity is unraveling,” Osadar said.

  “It’s been a difficult war,” Marten said.

  “The planet-wrecker’s destruction of South American Sector a year ago preys upon people,” Osadar said. “The arctic-like weather outside is proof that the cyborgs are fated to win. Now this civil war—”

  Marten shook his head. “It isn’t civil war. This is what happens in a dictatorship when the dictator steps aside. Now his lieutenants scramble to fill his shoes. If I were a betting man, I’d place my money on Cone. She has the guns and is willing to use them.”

  “Are the soldiers willing to use the guns on the people?” Osadar asked.

  “If not, Cone can call out her cybertanks.”

  “More cyborgs,” Osadar said. “I think that could backfire against Cone.”

  “That’s another reason why I want to get off Earth,” Marten said. “This war will be decided in space, and we need to get back up there before we’re stranded here forever.”

  “Look!” Nadia cried, pointing.

  Marten looked outside. Nadia pointed at a reddish-yellow flash in the distance. The rail-line curved gently and went to the point of the flash—an explosion. At that moment, the train lurched violently, throwing them against the seats ahead. There were only a few other passengers in the car, and those people sat at the front. One of the men up there screamed.

  Speakers crackled into life as one of the train authorities spoke. “We have an emergency stop. Please, do not be alarmed. This should only take us a few moments to sort out.”

  Marten helped Nadia off the floor.

  “Why would anyone want to stop this train?” Osadar asked. With her amazing reflexes, she had caught herself and already sat normally in her c
hair.

  “Could they be terrorists?” asked Marten, as he dusted the knees of his pants.

  “I would think PHC rather,” Osadar said. “The remnants of them went underground after the nuclear destruction of the Syrian Sector Soviets last year. Now that the Party attempts to regain control of Social Unity, PHC is throwing its resurrected people into the fray.”

  Marten had been listening to this kind of talk for hours. Osadar had been busy in the Supreme Commander’s Quarters, reading endlessly. She found Social Unity political theory to be vastly interesting and had been boring Marten to distraction concerning it. One of the critical pieces, she said, was how Social Unity had formerly kept a “Napoleon” from appearing.

  A “Napoleon” was a military man who took over the government in a time of crises. Such had occurred in France during the French Revolution when Napoleon Bonaparte rose to supreme power. Social Unity theorists viewed the military as a hungry beast, eager and able to devour anyone it chose. The Social Unity Party in the past had kept a tight leash on the Military. Political Harmony Corps had firmly gripped a second leash. As long as the two forces stood far apart and kept the leashes taut, they kept the Military from devouring either of them. In the past few years, however, Hawthorne had gained maneuvering room. He destroyed PHC and then he made the Party—the Directors—his servants. The Military had gained control.

  Osadar had explained to Marten how she believed the Directors would now logically ally themselves with a revitalized political police and try to re-leash the Military represented by Cone and Manteuffel.

  “My guess is these so-called terrorists want you,” Osadar now said.

  “They can’t know I’m aboard this train,” Marten said.

  “Why else have they blown the track?”

  “It might be a coincidence,” Marten said.

  “How many coincidences have you been involved with lately?” Osadar asked.

  Marten’s eyes narrowed. “Right,” he said, drawing his long-barrel semiautomatic. “Do you think this is retaliation for Director Juba-Ryder?”

  “I think we do not want to meet the originators of the explosion,” Osadar said. “You and Nadia need warmer garments so we can survive outside.”

  As they spoke, the train continued to slow down. Marten stared outside. They neared the exploded track, a twist of metal and erupted ground. Dirt and gravel lay on nearby snow-banks. A tree’s leaves fluttered wildly in the wind.

  “Do you see anything?” Marten asked, as he scanned outside.

  At that moment, another explosion occurred. It lifted the engine off the tracks, pitching it aside. That started a domino effect as the linked cars toppled off the magnetically charged tracks.

  There were screams and the screech of metal in their car. Glass shattered. Marten slid across the sharply tilting floor. He covered his head and struck the bottom of one of the seats as the train-car crashed onto its side.

  It was over in seconds. Then Marten was crawling for an exit. He kicked open a door. A freezing wind howled in, with a dozen stinging snowflakes hitting his face. He needed a parka, a hood and gloves.

  Marten scrambled outside, sliding down between two crashed railcars, his feet crunching in snow. Icy, wind-driven particles batted his face. His cheeks were already turning numb. He glanced right and left. Bare trees and rocky ground abounded, and snow, lots and lots of snow. A second glance at the trees showed him some weren’t only bare, but dead or dying, those that couldn’t cope with the new bitter winters.

  With slitted eyes, Marten spotted seven armored men crunching through snow. They floundered in the deepest drifts. Three of them cradled heavy machine guns. The other four carried needlers. They were all hard-eyed, their breaths misting against clear visors. Each looked uncomfortable in their armor. It was combat-armor, although not powered. If Marten were to guess, they were used to police armor, which was lighter and easier to wear. Needlers were useless against cyborgs, but they were eminently effective against unarmored humans: namely, he and Nadia.

  A man in brown, magnetic-train overalls jumped off a railcar that had tipped onto its side. He staggered over the rail line and waved to the seven men. “Help, help!” the man shouted.

  One of the seven aimed his needler at the man.

  “No!” the trainman shouted. “I’m in Repairs.”

  In the howling storm, Marten never heard the distinctive stitching sound of the firing needler. The mechanic in the brown overalls simply crumpled onto the snow. It caused a watching woman to scream, until they killed her, too.

  Marten snarled as he judged the likelihood of killing those seven. They wore combat armor and helmets. His slugthrower fired hardened penetrators, but they would likely fail against armor. The bullets could punch through the visors—those were always the weak points.

  Then Osadar appeared. While wearing heavy garments, she bounded across the snow toward the seven. She took ten-meter leaps and moved with amazing speed.

  One of the men dropped to a knee, firing his needler. Little metallic flashes showed the stream of shots. A needler at full auto could fire one hundred needles in less than ten seconds. The others now lifted their weapons, aiming at Osadar.

  She needs suppressing fire.

  With both hands, Marten aimed his gun and squeezed off a shot. The .38 bucked and one of the combat-armored men staggered, hit but unlikely injured. Several of them turned toward Marten and fired.

  Marten dropped behind the rails and the mound of raised dirt it was built on. Bullets and needles hissed overhead.

  Then a blaze of gunfire erupted. Nothing seemed to strike the rail mound now. Marten could guess what had happened. The seven would be screaming at each other to kill the cyborg.

  Marten popped back up.

  Slugs hit Osadar. Needles did, too. The fools didn’t know enough to aim at her head, however, or maybe they tried and missed. Instead, the few hits struck her armored chest-plate. Through it, Osadar moved like greased death. Then she leaped the final distance and landed among them. Her fists punched through visors so heads snapped back hard. One man aimed and let rip with his machine gun, but Osadar kept moving. It meant the man fired at his friends. The heavy slugs tore into combat-armor as he slaughtered two of his team.

  Prone, with teeth clenched and with his arms resting on the rail, Marten fired three deliberate shots.

  The machine-gun man clawed out his empty magazine and slammed in another. He staggered back then, a testament to Marten’s marksmanship, but it didn’t stop the man. In front of him by ten feet, Osadar twisted the neck of a different killer. She had her back to the machine-gun man and for the first time she had stopped moving. He lifted his weapon. In desperation, Marten shot the rest of his magazine. One of the bullets struck home. The man threw the machine gun into the air as he staggered backward, falling into the snow, his visor a jagged-red ruin.

  Osadar disarmed the last killer. Then she grabbed his wrists, yanking them behind his back. She marched him through the snow to the railcars.

  Marten was shivering as he stood up. He looked at his hands. They were red. After holstering the gun, he rubbed his hands and put them under his armpits.

  Osadar shoved her captive over the rail-line. The man’s visor was open and he grimaced in pain. He had short hair and blood dripped from his broken nose.

  “Who ordered you to do this?” Marten asked.

  Despite his pain, the man shook his head.

  “Twist his arm a little,” Marten said. Osadar complied.

  The man grunted in pain and sweat pooled on his face.

  “More,” Marten said.

  The man winced and breathed heavily, blowing blood droplets onto the snow.

  “In the end you’ll tell me what I want to know,” Marten said.

  “I know who you are,” the armored man said in a harsh voice. Two of his front teeth were broken.

  “Who ordered this?” Marten asked.

  The man licked his lips as his pain-racked eyes turned cunning. />
  “Wrong choice,” Marten said.

  “No, wait!” the man shouted, as Osadar began to twist his arm again. “We’re…we’re PHC.”

  Marten glanced at Osadar. With her senso-mask, it was even more impossible to tell what the cyborg was thinking.

  “Our commander is helping Director Backus,” the PHC thug said. “The director wants you in his custody.”

  “Who do you think I am?”

  “Marten Kluge, who else?” the man asked. “I saw you on the Nancy Vance Show, you with your talk about everyone going armed. That’s all this world needs now.”

  “What does Backus want with me?” Marten asked.

  “If I tell you…you have to promise to let me live.”

  “If I think you’re telling me the truth, sure.”

  “Promise it,” the man said.

  “I give you my word.”

  The PHC thug swallowed painfully. “And tell your cyborg to let me go.”

  Marten shook his head.

  The crafty look entered the man’s eyes again. “Okay. I was lying just a second ago. Director Backus wants you dead.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” the man laughed, the pain making his eyes bulge. “People like you brought about this war, brought asteroids raining down on Earth. Look around you, at this weather. There hasn’t ever been anything like this in Lebanon Sector. We have to purge the Earth so something like this never happens again. We have to wipe out trouble-makers like you.”

  “The cyborgs launched the asteroids, not me,” Marten said. “I tried to stop them.”

  “I’ve got news for you,” the man said. “A cyborg is holding my wrists. You’re in league with the world-killers. It’s obvious.”

  “He is irrational,” Osadar said.

  “At least I’m not a freak like you,” the man said over his shoulder. “Humans need to stick together. Then we’ll win this war. Director Backus knows what to do. The people know it, and so does PHC.”

  “Is that why you’re killing innocent people?” Marten asked.

  “You’re a dead man, Kluge. Political Harmony Corps remembers its enemies. You’re never going to reach Athens and you’re never going to see your filthy space-borne Jovian marines again.”