Doom Star: Book 06 - Star Fortress

by Vaughn Heppner

  The thoughts slid away as Marten propelled himself through the corridors. A second booby-trap would surely kill him. He was betting Titus hadn’t enough time to rig two. What shocked Marten—if he was right—was that a handful of Highborn would have tried to capture the William Tell. In their place, he would have destroyed the patrol boat.

  Marten ducked his head as he shot through a hatch into the engine room. His beam of light washed over another hatch leading to the core. There was motion in there!

  Magnetizing his boots, Marten twisted, even as he reached behind him. He grabbed the rifle, wrenched it free and aimed at the hatch. At the same time, the soles of his boots stuck hard to the wall, as he’d applied full magnetic power. He stood sideways in the room as his momentum propelled his torso, slamming him against the wall. The blow caused him to let go of the gyroc.

  A space marine shot past him. Titus appeared in the hatchway and fired at nearly pointblank range. The laser-pulses tore open the stitches in the marine’s armor. Heat and smoking blood billowed. Red splashed against the wall. Scratch another Jovian.

  With frantic haste, Marten grabbed the rifle. The Highborn was turning at bay. He couldn’t let the super-soldier kill any more of his marines. Marten’s torso bounced off the bulkhead, tossing him up sideways even as his boots remained magnetized to the wall. He sighted and fired. Two shells ignited in flight, zooming toward the core-hatch.

  The beam quit as a gyroc shell flew through the hatch. The second exploded against a side of the hatch, gouging metal.

  Marten shoved off the wall as he turned off his boots. He flew across the chamber, knowing he had to keep moving. Titus reappeared, his beam burning where Marten had been. Then the beam was tracking him, and it struck Marten’s stomach-plate. If the pulse-laser had started on him for these few seconds, it would have burned through the armor. Fortunately, Titus ducked behind the hatch again.

  On his HUD, Marten saw the reason. Omi and Osadar set up the plasma cannon. A second later, a gout of orange, roiling plasma boiled in a mass toward the core-hatch. The plasma reached the hatch. Some of it vaporized against the sides, chewing through and melting it. Within the core chamber came an explosion.

  Marten didn’t hesitate. This was the moment. He propelled himself toward the orange-glowing hatch. He moved through it with his rifle ready, careful to keep from touching the glowing hot metal.

  In the chamber, Centurion Titus stood to the side of the hatch. The nine-foot Highborn raised his pulse-laser and might have tried to fire. The barrel had melted enough so it was inoperative. Marten and Titus must have realized this at the same instant. The Highborn released the laser and aimed his hand cannon, the one attached to his left arm. Marten snapped off a gyroc round—he was still sailing through the room.

  The hand cannon fired a heavy slug, and it destroyed the gyroc rifle, shattering it into pieces. The gyroc shell—

  The room and its occupant—the condition of both—finally penetrated Marten’s thoughts. Titus’s armor glowed hot from its nearness to the plasma blast. Through the faceplate, Titus appeared to be in agony. Beads of sweat rolled down a red and blistered face, and the eyes were wide and staring, showing Titus’s pain. The gyroc shell penetrated the heated armor, and the Highborn winced. His left shoulder—air expelled from the hole.

  Automatically, it seemed, Titus slapped a patch to his armor, to the wrecked shoulder. Incredibly, the patch held. On the other arm, the hand cannon had jammed, likely also affected by the intense plasma-blast heat.

  The slug that had destroyed Marten’s rifle had also slammed against him, pushing him off-course. He would have sailed into a glowing bulkhead or he might have sailed through it to the inner chamber. Because of the slug, Marten hit a different bulkhead.

  At that moment, Titus jumped. His one arm was useless. He didn’t appear to have any effective weapons left. His body-armor must have been too hot, maybe even cooking him. But the Highborn was still very much alive.

  Marten understood then. Centurion Titus didn’t leap at him. The Highborn sailed for the ruptured bulkhead. If Titus could reach the inner chamber, he could explode the core and kill everyone aboard the Mao Zedong.

  Shifting, Marten gathered his legs under him and jumped at the Highborn. As he sailed through the chamber, Marten drew his vibroblade and clicked it on. The special alloy blade vibrated thousands of times per second, giving it greater cutting power.

  Titus rotated, bringing his one good arm into play. Marten smashed against the giant, clicking on magnets. The armored, orange-glowing arm smashed against Marten’s helmet, and he heard something crack. In retaliation, the former shock trooper thrust the vibroblade. It vibrated harder, and it cut through the weakened Highborn armor, the blade shoving into Titus’s torso.

  For a second, Marten and Titus stared faceplate-to-faceplate, eye-to-eye. Shock and pain roiled in Titus’s orbs. The giant moved his arm, maybe to make another blow. Marten twisted the vibroblade and he jiggled it.

  Titus’s eyes bulged outward from the sockets. Blood seeped from his compressed lips. Then Centurion Titus whispered something as his lips moved. What he said was lost forever as the Highborn died, magnetically connected to Marten Kluge, his killer.

  ***

  The next several hours proved horrifying. They found the SU crew. Some floated dead, still wearing vacc-suits. They had been shoved into closets, floating corpses. There were others in the shuttles: naked, shackled and many tortured and bruised. The Highborn had been getting ready to leave, about ninety of them. With the number of dead in the missile-ship, it appeared as if twenty-five Highborn per shuttle had originally flown to the warship.

  “At least we put the missile-ship’s crew out of their misery,” Omi said later, speaking about the nuclear blast that had killed everyone in the shuttles.

  Before they went outside to check the shuttles, however, they found something else. It was in the medical station—and it was devilish.

  A naked Highborn lay strapped to an articulated frame. He wore a bulky helmet with many leads and lines sprouting from it, connected to a computer bank. Several dozen electrodes were taped to his discolored skin. As they watched, the electrodes zapped him, and he arched in agony as his muscles strained. When the electric flow stopped, stalks appeared from a medical unit. With a sharp, surgical implement on the end, the stalks flayed an area of skin. Another stalk with tiny claps peeled away the flesh. Disinfectants sprayed the wound. Then a mist of acid sprayed, and the groans from within the helmet were pitiful.

  With an oath, Marten shot the machine until it died and then he began ripping electrodes from the Highborn. Omi unbuckled the helmet, tore it off and hurled it away. A wild-eyed Highborn strained to free himself. He gnashed his teeth as foam flecked at the corners of his mouth.

  Shocked, Marten stared at the Highborn. He had a wide face, square chin and chiseled features, with the normal stark-white coloring. His hair had been shaved away, and he had two scars, one moving from his forehead into his hairline and the other along the left side of his face.

  “Cassius?” Marten whispered.

  The Highborn glared at him and spit in hatred, struggling more fiercely.

  “No,” Marten said, recovering from his shock. “You’re not Cassius. You’re too young. You’re Felix, the Grand Admiral’s clone.”

  The Highborn grew still as he glared at Marten. Slowly, some of the madness drained away from him.

  “Do I know you?” the Highborn asked in a raw voice.

  “I’m Marten Kluge. You once ordered me off a planet-wrecker.”

  Felix winced as if struck. Then he grinded his teeth and snarled like a beast.

  “They’ve driven him insane,” Omi whispered.

  “Wrong,” Felix said. “They wanted information.”

  “What kind of information?” Marten asked.

  Felix laughed wildly.

  “What are we going to do with him?” Omi asked.

  The laughter turned sinister, maybe demented. “Do
es Titus think I’m that easily tricked?” Felix roared.

  “Centurion Titus is dead,” Marten said.

  “Prove it!”

  “Get his body,” Marten told Xenophon.

  The Jovian left in a hurry.

  As they waited, Marten tore off the rest of the electrodes.

  “Tell Titus it’s a mistake giving me this rest,” Felix said.

  “I was tortured once by my own people,” Marten said. “I fought against them after that in the Free Earth Corps. I can understand your rage.”

  Felix roared as he tried to wrestle himself free, making the frame creak at the strain. “I’ll kill him! I’ll kill all of you once I’m out of here!”

  “He is insane,” Omi whispered, floating away from the Highborn.

  “Maybe,” Marten said, drifting with him. There was a glitter of memory in his eyes. Maybe for the first time in his life he found himself sympathizing with a Highborn. It was an odd feeling.

  Soon enough, Xenophon propelled Titus’s corpse into medical.

  “It’s him,” Felix said in awe. He turned wondering eyes on Marten. “What happened? Quickly, tell me and don’t try to dissimilate.”

  Marten told him the story.

  Felix laughed often, and he nodded. Then something strange entered his eyes. He studied Marten, and it seemed as if the Highborn struggled to contain a raw emotion.

  “Do you know why all this happened?” Felix asked.

  Marten shook his head.

  “Commandant Maximus desires the Grand Admiral’s chair.”

  “Cassius is dead,” Marten said.

  Felix frowned, and his breathing grew shallow. “Tell me how it happened.”

  Marten did, telling the Highborn everything he knew. It told Marten that Felix must not have had regular channels with the main Highborn. That was interesting and odd.

  “This is a fitting end,” Felix said, as he stared into an unseen place. “Grand Admiral Cassius slain by a preman, just like you killed Centurion Titus.” He turned to Marten. “I wanted to kill Cassius. I had several chances, squandering each one.” He grew thoughtful. “I cannot complain,” he said softly. Felix’s manner changed as he nodded. “So, Cassius is dead and Maximus attempts to fill his chair. I understand better. You did well, preman.”

  “I am a man,” Marten said, “the man who killed Titus and thus stopped him from torturing you.”

  “Yes. As strange as it seems, a Highborn owes a pre—a member of the lesser race a debt.” Felix scowled and he seemed to choose his next words with care. “Titus had orders to capture me and destroy any SU military ships he found out here. The reason is a secret weapon the likes of which has never been seen in the Solar System.”

  “Do you mean the Sunbeam?” Marten asked.

  Instead of shock, Felix grinned savagely. “It saves us time if you know about it. Time—what day is it, what month?”

  Marten told him.

  Felix snarled and tried to rip his arms free. He panted after a time, lying limping. Finally, he stirred and continued to speak. “Titus came with his shuttles. He hailed the Mao’s captain, made ready to dock, and then he directed hidden drones against the ship. After blowing away a shield and shocking the premen, Titus sent in the commandoes. They killed many, including several of my friends. By a fluke of battle, I was captured and later he had me strapped to this monstrosity. Titus desired the whereabouts of the rest of my men.”

  “Do you care to tell me why?” Marten asked.

  Felix lifted his head, glaring at Marten. “I will storm the Sun Station and take it over for myself. Then I will rule in Cassius’s stead.”

  “You were here to enlist the Mao’s help?”

  “Yes.”

  “That means you don’t have enough Highborn to capture the Sun Station by yourself,” Marten said.

  “We have enough,” Felix said, “but one can always use more, especially against a cunning warrior like Maximus.”

  “How many Highborn follow you?” Marten asked.

  “Forty-two now. How many…men follow you?”

  “Thirty.”

  “Release me, Kluge, and I will take you to our base. Together, we shall storm the Sun Station. It’s doubtful we’ll succeed, and if we do, one of us will surely die during the storming. If we both win, we can fight, you and I. The winner chooses where to fire the beam.”

  “Let me first speak with my commanders,” Marten said. “Either way, however, I will free you.”

  “Words,” Felix said.

  Marten drew his vibroblade and hacked away the restraints.

  With a roar, Felix sat up and massaged his wrists. Then he floated off the frame. “I need clothes,” he said, sounding like a king.

  “We’ll get them,” Marten said. “Be cautioned, however. Only this chamber and the next are pressurized.”

  “Yes, a wise precaution,” Felix said. “Now go, make your decision. And I salute you, Marten Kluge.” The nine-foot Highborn snapped off a precision salute. “You are a warrior indeed to release someone as dangerous as me.”

  Marten, Omi and Osadar exited the chamber. None wore their helmet as they floated into the next room.

  “Did you notice the tattoo on his triceps?” Osadar asked. “It showed a clenched fist, with an iron ring around the middle finger?”

  “I did,” Marten said. “It means he’s an Ultraist.”

  “Since you knew that, why did you free him?” Osadar asked.

  “I’ve been tortured before,” Marten said.

  “You have sympathy for a potential mass murderer?” Osadar asked.

  “No, I have sympathy for a human in distress.”

  “They’re not human,” Omi said. “They’re monsters.”

  “Their genes have been warped,” Marten said. “They’re like hyper-myrmidons. Yet for all that, they’re still human. I won’t stand by and watch a man be tortured.”

  “I do not trust him,” Osadar said.

  “I don’t either,” Marten said. “But he needs us.”

  “He needs our patrol boat.”

  “I doubt he knows that yet,” Marten said.

  “Since he is an Ultraist,” Osadar said, “he must be allied with Admiral Sulla. Sulla must know something about Maximus’s goals and this is one of his counters. We have likely stumbled onto a Highborn power play.”

  “Seems reasonable,” Marten said.

  “The Ultraists are little better than the cyborgs when it comes to humanity’s fate,” Osadar said.

  “Like the man said,” Marten replied, “it’s doubtful both of us will survive the attack. So we’ll join forces for now and see what happens. The trick will be in turning against them a minute before they turn on us.”

  “Treacherous allies may prove worse than no allies whatsoever,” Osadar said.

  “No one said this was going to be easy,” Marten said. “It’s a fight to the finish with extinction staring us in the face. We’re near the last lap, and now we have our own Highborn to fight with us. It’s better than trying to storm the Sun Station with thirty marines.”

  “Where is this secret base of his?” Osadar asked.

  “That’s a good question,” Marten said. “Let’s ask him.”

  -5-

  Far from the Sun in the void of Outer Planets, the Alliance Fleet sped toward its destiny. There were four big SU battleships, the Vladimir Lenin among them, and one missile-ship. They were impressive warships, bristling with weaponry and protected by gigantic particle shields. The Doom Stars dwarfed the battleships, making the SU vessels seem like small scout destroyers.

  They hurtled through space, having long ago achieved maximum velocity. Soon each ship would turn around and use a hot burn to decelerate so they could fight at battle-speeds in the Neptune System. Otherwise, they would fly past Neptune like comets and sail for the outer reaches of the Solar System.

  Many tens of millions of kilometers behind the Alliance Fleet trailed three meteor-ships. Sub-Strategist Circe had hailed the fl
eet twice. The humans had replied each time. The Highborn had never even acknowledged the messages.

  As the Alliance warships sped toward Neptune, a pod detached from the forward battleship of Vice-Admiral Mandela’s Fifth Fleet. The pod accelerated. After moving a kilometer-and-a-half in relative distance, it decelerated, carefully maneuvering into a hanger bay on the Vladimir Lenin.

  The chief occupant of the pod was Vice-Admiral Mandela himself. He shook hands with the deck crew and then hurried away.

  Using a screen, Hawthorne watched the exchange. He was in Blackstone’s wardroom. Hawthorne had his doubts about Mandela, although once he had been an outstanding flag officer. Mandela’s extended stay in deep space and time among the Highborn during the planet-wrecker emergency seemed to have wrung something out of him. Hawthorne would withhold final judgment until after the meeting. He vowed, however, that mankind’s existence would not fail because he was too sentimental. Now was the time for hard decisions, maybe the hardest of this life.

  Soon, Hawthorne spoke earnestly with Blackstone and Mandela. They met in the wardroom, at a low table with bulbs of steaming coffee resting in slot-holders. Mandela had been grumbling and upset, until he did a double-take upon seeing Hawthorne.

  Mandela now sat at the table. He was a tall black man with curly-white hair, large eyes and a badly rumpled uniform. That had always been his trademark: a sloppy dresser but a hard-charger. His Fifth Fleet was the strongest one left to Social Unity.

  “You have to believe me, sir,” Mandela was saying. “The Highborn won’t listen to us. They never have and aren’t going to change their habits now.”

  Hawthorne wore a crisp uniform and during the journey out, he’d regained some of his former presence. His nose might have been longer or maybe his face was thinner than it used to be. It gave him a hawkish look. He had been doing a lot of reading lately and even more thinking.

  “The Highborn listen to strength,” Hawthorne said, who watched Mandela closely. “They are never swayed by sentiment. Appealing to their better nature is useless.”