Doom Star: Book 06 - Star Fortress

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Therefore—”

  “A moment,” Marten said. He raised his hand and indicated Osadar.

  She wore a large jacket and senso-mask, and that helped conceal the fact she was a cyborg. Unfortunately, it couldn’t totally hide her strangeness. She now walked to them, and her difference became more pronounced.

  Commissar Cleon took a step back as his face paled. “She’s a cyborg?”

  “One of the few to break their conditioning,” Marten said.

  Cleon glared at Osadar, and his gun-hand dropped onto the butt of his weapon. “I’ve read reports. They say cyborgs can convert people into their likeness.”

  “Osadar began as a Jovian,” Marten said.

  “You mean those others—the space marines—they’re hidden cyborgs?”

  “No. I mean Director Delos must speak with me. I am one of the few people who know how to detect pre-converted people.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Have you read the reports of the Third Battle for Mars?” Marten asked.

  Cleon shook his head.

  “I have reason to believe the cyborgs have targeted Director Delos for infiltration tactics. It is why I sent my space marines to Athens. Surely, they made their report.”

  “I know nothing about this,” Cleon said.

  “It’s worse than I thought,” Marten told Osadar. “We must leave at once.”

  “Why?” asked Cleon.

  Marten glanced at the commissar sidelong. “If you’re wise, you’ll join us, you and your men. We could use them.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that Director Backus is right?” Cleon asked. “The contamination has already occurred?”

  “Yes,” Marten said. “We must flee. Go!” he told Osadar. “Back into the hold with you. There is little time left.”

  “Wait,” Cleon said.

  “There’s no time,” Marten told him.

  Cleon drew his gun. It caused a stir among the peacekeepers on the pier. Several jumped onto the cargo vessel, hurrying near, with their machine pistols trained on Marten and Osadar.

  “You will wait,” Cleon said. He pulled out a com-unit and walked away from Marten. The commissar spoke urgently, listened and spoke even more urgently. Finally, he put away the unit, approaching Marten once more.

  “Director Delos believes you are lying about the cyborg danger,” Cleon said. “However, you have intrigued her. You will accompany me to the Director’s Building. Your cyborg and the woman will stay here as hostages for your good behavior. They will not be permitted to land on Greece Sector soil.”

  Marten nodded.

  “Give me your weapon,” Cleon said.

  Hoping he was right and knowing things could go very wrong, Marten began unbuckling his gun-belt.

  “Guard them,” Cleon told a peacekeeper. “Shoot them rather than letting them step onto a pier.”

  “Yes, Commissar,” the guard said.

  “Come with me,” Cleon told Marten.

  “Good-bye, Marten Kluge,” Osadar said.

  Marten nodded, and he glanced at his wife. There were tears in her eyes. It was possible he would never see Nadia again. He nodded once more, to her, and he turned away, hurrying for the pier.

  ***

  Even though it was a sector capital, Athens was in worse shape than New Baghdad. Level after level, the buildings looked old and rundown. Their lift groaned and lurched and the air tasted stale. Too many sunlamps were missing in the ceilings, sometimes creating dark or shadowed zones. Potholes abounded, and garbage lay in heaps, sometimes worked upon by grungy men with rakes and wheelbarrows. Police with drawn guns watched them. Old women swept the streets and the children—they were skinny like Martians.

  It was a little better on the Governmental Level, with more lights, less garbage and a battalion of street-sweepers in their mid-twenties. There were too many red-suited peacekeepers. Instead of machine pistols, however, the police wore shock-rods, although the higher-ranked had needlers.

  Marten and Commissar Cleon moved at a brisk pace along the sidewalks. There were a number of official people about, most in hall leader uniforms or maroon, sector-bureaucrat colors.

  “There,” Cleon said. With his chinstrap, the commissar pointed at the seven-story Director’s Building. It stood above the smaller buildings around it and the park on the other side. The building was octagonal in shape with several armored cars parked in front. A knot of peacekeepers stood near the glass entrances. The majority of them wore regular police body-armor.

  Once again, Cleon showed his pass. A guard joined them, keeping his needler aimed at Marten’s back. They entered the building, and the guard turned them over to black-suited gunmen.

  For the seventh time today, the commissar showed his ID card and the guards checked their slates.

  Instead of one guard, three black-suited gunmen joined them. They rode up an armored lift to the fourth floor. More gunmen lined the halls.

  “There been a lot of trouble lately?” Marten asked.

  Hostile glances were his answers.

  Finally, they marched into a large gray room. Marten and Cleon sat for several minutes. Then new black-suited gunmen appeared. They ushered the two into an even larger room. A red carpet on the floor, paintings on the walls, a Parthenon replica six feet high and deep couches decorated it. There was a large glass window on the far side of the room. The window showed gardens and promenades down below, with other governmental buildings beyond.

  An older woman with gray hair sat behind a desk. She had an alert expression, with dark eyes and a wide mouth.

  “Force-Leader Marten Kluge,” she said.

  “Director Delos?” he asked.

  “Commissar, you may return to the cargo ship,” she told Cleon. “You will await my orders to shoot the cyborg and the woman.”

  Marten stiffened. The gunmen noticed, all of them drawing their weapons.

  “Alexander,” Delos said, who ignored her gunmen’s reaction. “Your men may sit down.”

  Commissar Cleon opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something.

  Director Delos raised an eyebrow. “You’re still here?” she asked.

  Cleon must have thought better about speaking. He turned smartly and marched out the door. The gunmen moved to nearby couches, sitting down. They each placed their gun on their lap as they stared at Marten.

  “Please, have a seat,” Delos said, indicating a single chair before her desk.

  “That woman you’re speaking about is my wife,” Marten said. “She’s innocent of any wrongdoing and is not deserving of death.”

  Delos sat back in her chair. “I doubt that, Mr. Kluge. She is in your company. That is crime enough.”

  Marten silently counted to five before he asked, “Have you spoken with Security Specialist Cone?”

  “I’ve done even better than that. I’ve watched a rare video of a fool and a madman.”

  Marten frowned.

  Delos sat up and turned a computer screen on her desk. It showed an evil scene with several large glass tubes, surrounded by medical devices and medical personnel. In the nearest giant tube was a naked and obviously exhausted Marten Kluge, pumping a handle up and down as blue water gushed onto his head.

  With an oath, Marten lurched toward the screen. That caused several gunmen to leap up, training their weapons at him. Marten was unaware of their reaction. His gut tightened as he stared at the video. A snarl curled his lips.

  “I’ve been watching the clip,” Delos said, as she motioned her gunman to relax. “You pumped an amazing number of hours. All you had to do to end your suffering was speak.”

  “I didn’t speak,” Marten whispered.

  “And yet, here you sit before me.”

  “Where did you get that?”

  Delos frowned. It put wrinkle lines in her face. She was an old woman. “You are not here to ask me questions, Mr. Kluge. I am asking the questions. It appears that you were a poorly-behaved citizen and a malcontent.”

&nbs
p; He stared into her eyes, and he shrugged.

  That deepened her frown. “You are not a diplomatic man.”

  “Have you seen cyborgs fight?” Marten asked. “I have, many times, and yet I am here, as you say.”

  The lines in Delos’s face deepened. “How is it that you have a cyborg on your ship?”

  “Her name is Osadar Di. She used to be a Jovian. Long ago, she fled to Neptune. There the cyborgs—”

  “Spare me the history, as I don’t care enough to listen. Your warning to Cleon…it made me curious. I’ve glanced at your file before. I did it last month while studying the Supreme Commander’s latest advisors. I wonder what he saw in you.”

  “That I was a fighter, one who has faced the great enemy and survived,” Marten said.

  “Hmm. There you were,” Delos said, indicating the screen where Marten still pumped. “And here you are: the Jovian Representative to Earth. You fought in the Jovian System?”

  “And helped them defeat the cyborgs.”

  “Always fighting, are you, Mr. Kluge.”

  “It’s better than surrendering.”

  “Why are you here in Athens? I want the real reason?”

  “To collect my space marines,” Marten said.

  Delos pressed a button. A speaker blared into life. The voices belonged to Marten and Cone, and it replayed their conversation a few hours ago.

  “Promise me grain, eh?” Delos asked, after the conversation ended.

  Marten closed his eyes. He thought of Nadia, of Commissar Cleon putting a pistol to her head and blowing out her brains. It made him clench his teeth with growing frustration. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

  “I despise Social Unity,” Marten said in a low voice. “All my life, the thugs of Social Unity have been trying to tell me how to think. They killed my parents and made my early life hell. They told me God didn’t exist and then they tried to take His place. I spit on Social Unity.”

  “Is Jupiter so much better?”

  “No!” Marten said. “They have a different form of tyranny, one based on supposed philosophic splendor. But that has changed, or it did while I was there.”

  “You are a born rebel, Mr. Kluge. You are a complainer instead of a builder.”

  “I’m in love with freedom, yes, that’s true. I want to think for myself, to decide without being punished for my thoughts. As long as I don’t interfere with my neighbor, I want to do as I please and think as I please.”

  “I have heard of your species of malcontent before: a libertarian. It is an old word, and it means: chaotic instability throughout society.”

  Marten scowled. “I hate Social Unity and I despise the Dictates. I refuse to knuckle under either system. Yet I will join hands with SU soldiers and Jovian guardians to fight the living death that are the cyborgs. I have a cyborg in my company. She used to be human. They tore her down to her component parts and then rebuilt her into a meld of machine and flesh. They programed her brain, using mini-computers to enslave her soul. When cyborgs win, when Web-Minds take over, they capture humans and put them into converters. They manufacture more cyborgs. I never thought it was possible, but out there I found something worse than Social Unity.”

  “Very stirring, I’m sure,” Director Delos said in a bored voice.

  “You believe yourself immune, is that it? Look at those thugs sitting on your couch. Look at their snappy black uniforms. They’ll stop the cyborgs for you?”

  “You’re ill-advised to mock the men who will soon be administering your punishments.”

  “I’m ill-advised to bow and scrape to a fool,” Marten said. “I have one life. I’ll live it free and tell it like it is, taking my lumps for it.”

  Delos frowned, and she glanced at her screen, which she had turned back. No doubt, she spied a younger Marten Kluge pumping the handle in the glass tube. She continued to watch.

  “In the first year of the war, the Highborn invaded Sydney,” Marten said.

  “I’m aware of that. It’s what saved your life.”

  “It almost ended my life. Political Harmony Corps tried to blow Sydney’s deep-core mine. I went deep into the Earth and stopped them. When I came back up, I was captured by the Highborn for my efforts.”

  Delos turned away from the screen and stared fixedly at Marten. She sat back, and she pressed her fingers together.

  “Listen to me,” Marten said. “I’ve been in tight spots before. I know what it means to face impossible odds and win. Humanity faces its doom, its extinction. We must band together now and fight as one. We have a fleet of Highborn and Humans, and we’re about to attack Neptune System. Release my space marines so we can join the armada.”

  “If I do that, Director Backus will mark me for death.”

  “The cyborgs have already done that.”

  “Your few Jovians will make no difference to the fight,” Delos said.

  “You’re probably right,” Marten said. “Yet you can’t know that. They might be the margin that gives us victory.”

  “Please, Mr. Kluge,” Delos said with a laugh, “no melodrama.”

  “War is melodrama. Torture is melodrama. Life is full of melodrama. Give me my men. Let me fight our true enemy.”

  Delos continued to frown.

  “Look!” Marten said, pointing at the mini-replica of the Pantheon. “Greece Sector is the land of melodrama. Long ago, men here learned to be free.”

  “Enough!” Delos said. “Speak to me about realities.”

  “A year ago, the cyborgs hit Earth with a planet-wrecker, or with part of one. How long will it be before they do it again?”

  “I hope never,” Delos said.

  “Then do everything you can toward hurting the cyborgs. Anything else is immaterial—at least in the long run.”

  “Life is filled with short runs,” Delos said.

  Marten stared at the old director. He glanced back at the hard-eyed bodyguards. When he faced Delos again, he noticed she watched the video.

  “What about that intrigues you?” he asked.

  Her eyebrows lifted. “Yes, I am intrigued. That,” she pointed at the screen, “is very odd behavior.”

  “Do something odd for once. Go against your perfect calculations. Think of it as humanity’s last gamble against almost certain annihilation by a superior life-form.”

  “Superior?” she asked.

  “They’re better than us at fighting,” Marten said. “I’ve faced them several times, and I can attest to that.”

  “Yet you’re still alive, as you so humbly pointed out.”

  Marten waited.

  Director Delos sat forward, and she stroked her chin. Then her eyes narrowed. “Maybe there is a way. Let me think about it.”

  “We don’t have much time left.”

  “No. You don’t have much time left. I have plenty. I will think about it and get back to you…soon.” She sat up. “Alexander, take him to the detention center. Let him join his precious Jovians.”

  “What about my wife and Osadar, the cyborg?” Marten asked.

  Delos thought a moment. “For now, they will join you. That is all,” she said, waving her hand. “Take him away. I have much to consider.”

  -11-

  Many thousands of kilometers from Athens, the Napoleon Bonaparte was in Near Luna Orbit. The Doom Star’s commander—Sulla the Ultraist—was taking his morning exercise in a pseudo-gravity chamber, a large, rotating pod.

  The nine-foot-tall Highborn had oiled his face, giving him a warrior’s shine or glow. Many considered Sulla to be the deadliest combat fighter among the Highborn. He had thick dark hair and his eyes almost seemed to spark with hostility. If he lacked some of the strategic breadth of others, he made up for it with a tight-knit faction of Ultraists and a ruthless willingness to do anything required to achieve victory.

  He had advanced high in a short time. During the planet-wrecker assault, Sulla had been a bridge officer aboard Grand Admiral Cassius’s ship. It had been the destruction of th
e Gustavus Adolphus that had changed so much, taking some of Cassius’s staunchest supporters. No Ultraists had died because the Gustavus’s commander had forbidden any of the cult aboard his warship. Because of that, the percentage of Ultraists among the Highborn had risen dramatically. It had no longer been possible to deny an Ultraist a major command slot.

  Who would have believed such a thing possible? Sulla grinned at the thought. Cassius had made a temporary alliance with the premen. Then a preman had murdered the Grand Admiral. That Sulla had aided the premen in the act…well, that just made Cassius’s death even sweeter.

  I must now discover all of Cassius’s secrets. Sulla flexed his fingers. Whom must I assassinate next? It was an interesting question. Then he shook his head, concentrating on the moment and the fighting robot in the chamber with him.

  Sulla wore steel-reinforced gauntlets, a body-length synthi-suit and a fierce scowl.

  The robot was a squat device rolling on treads, possessing five mechanical stalks. The stalks were as supple as whips. One had a three-inch knife on the end. The others had blunt knobs and could easily beat a man into submission. The robot had beaten six FEC traitors at a time to death. Sulla had witnessed the event on four separate occasions. The FEC soldiers had rebelled against the Highborn during the planet-wrecker attack and foolishly declared independence. Several thousand had paid the ultimate penalty for their disloyalty. Those facing the fighting robot had died hard, many begging for mercy.

  Premen made such pathetic soldiers. Only in mass like a horde of lemmings did they present danger. Once more, Sulla shook his head, driving out extraneous thoughts. The robot attempted to outmaneuver and kill him.

  Just as my enemies attempt to outmaneuver me, hoping that I make a fatal mistake.

  Sulla shifted to the left. The robot paused, and a tread spun, rotating the machine. It would kill him here in the chamber if it could. Sulla never used the lower settings. That would be a mistake of the first order. You practiced at the same level you wished to fight. How otherwise could you hone your instincts to maximum efficiency?

  “Come, little death,” he told the robot. “See if you can match the greatest fighting Highborn of all.”