Doom Star: Book 03 - Battle Pod

by Vaughn Heppner

  “The dynamos are pumping the proton beam with power!” Major Diaz screamed into Marten’s ear.

  Marten skidded to a halt and dropped to his knees. Then he fired his gyroc rifle in quick succession and took out a PHC security team that stood before a door.

  “What if there aren’t any orbitals left?” Diaz shouted.

  “Then we’re screwed!” Marten roared.

  Osadar swiveled her head to stare at him.

  “Come on!” Marten screamed over the rising whine of the dynamos. “Let’s find out the worst.”

  ***

  Aboard the Julius Caesar, Grand Admiral Cassius was white-faced with fury. But he did not shout any orders or rave at fate. Instead, he chased the SU battleships around the curvature of Mars, seeking to bring his heavy lasers on them.

  The premen had destroyed a Doom Star. The animals had managed to kill one-fifth of Highborn space power. That the SU Battlefleet had almost ceased to exist was something, but to Cassius it wasn’t enough. He must annihilate all of it. Four battleships and a few other sundry vessels could still be enough to form the nucleus of another fleet. Other SU warships hadn’t made it to Mars. If those warships joined the four battleships—

  “That won’t happen,” Cassius whispered, “because soon these last battleships will be just more space debris.”

  ***

  In their haste to kill the battleships, the Doom Stars edged nearer Mars. They edged to within range of the deadly proton beam on Olympus Mons. As the Doom Stars accelerated around the curvature of Mars, the huge volcano became visible on the planet below.

  The white proton beam stabbed into space. It stabbed at the Napoleon Bonaparte. And as the beam had sliced through the particle shield of the Ho Chi Minh several weeks ago, it now sliced through the particle shield of the battle-worn Doom Star.

  ***

  Highborn reactions were much faster than Homo sapien reactions. As the Napoleon Bonaparte began to take terrible damage from the proton beam, Grand Admiral Cassius ordered the launching of a Hellburner.

  While the Hellburner launched and fell toward the cone of the Solar System’s largest mountain, the Napoleon Bonaparte took critical hits. Admiral Gaius did everything he could think of, but the proton beam proved superior to his actions.

  The Hellburner shrugged off the point-defense cannons of Olympus Mons. And it maneuvered too sharply for the proton beam to target it. As the giant bomb neared, a lone orbital roared out of a hanger bay in the highest third of the mountain. The orbital engaged afterburners almost immediately as it shot toward the heavens. The Hellburner slammed into Olympus Mons and ignited. It made sunlight because it was sunlight. A Bethe solar-phoenix reaction began. It would burn for hours and harm those within a five-hundred-kilometer radius. It killed the proton beam. It killed the cyborgs in and on Olympus Mons and it destroyed the cyborg converter deep in the mountain, although it failed to kill Toll Seven and Web-Mind.

  The Hellburner pushed up a massive mushroom cloud that climbed into the Martian atmosphere. It had destroyed many, but also saved what was left of the Napoleon Bonaparte.

  The Third Battle for Mars was nearly over.

  -22-

  Three humanoids in vacc-suits drifted between the abandoned orbital fighter and the Mayflower. The former Highborn shuttle orbited Mars. Tall Osadar Di was in the lead, with a towline attached between her and Marten. Another line connected Marten to Omi.

  Soon, Osadar reached the shuttle and she engaged her magnetic clamps. She stuck to the side of the shuttle and pulled in Marten. He soon magnetized himself beside her and drew in Omi. Afterward, Marten unclipped a handscanner and typed in the needed codes. They waited as the Mayflower’s computer decided if the codes matched. Then the outer lock that Training Master Lycon had shot out of many months ago, opened for them. Marten, Omi and Osadar floated in. Major Diaz and Squad Leader Rojas had died in the hanger. Their bodies were gone in the continuing solar-phoenix reaction on Mars.

  Far to the west of them down on Mars, Olympus Mons glowed brightly.

  Hissing occurred as the airlock filled with a breathable atmosphere. Soon, the inner hatch slid open. Leaving his helmet on, Marten floated for the pilot’s chair. Osadar and Omi floated after him. It was time to leave Mars, to slip away if they could.

  ***

  Grand Admiral Cassius came to a painful conclusion. He needed to get the Napoleon Bonaparte to the Sun-Works Factory as fast as possible. It would take at least a full year, maybe more, to repair the mighty super-ship.

  The number of sick and dying Highborn aboard the radiated Doom Star was horrifying. Combined with the dead of the Hannibal Barca… the Third Battle for Mars had been a disaster.

  Yes, he had destroyed the bulk of the SU Battlefleet. Intelligence reports indicated that twelve battleships had arrived at Mars. The battleships were the heart of the SU Fleet. One third of those vessels remained. He wasn’t sure how heavy their damage was. The fact Social Unity still had one third of their most crucial warships left was galling.

  The new factor made his decision obvious. That factor was the cyborgs. They were a new element in the war for Solar System Supremacy. The tactic of swarming a Doom Star with stealth cyborgs—

  Grand Admiral Cassius slowly eased out of near-Mars orbit. The Napoleon Bonaparte was a crippled warship. Even worse were the Highborn dead. Cassius refused to accept he had lost the battle. He had done better than a draw. Yes, the premen had killed one third of his fleet. But he had destroyed close to ninety percent of their force. The galling truth, however, was that he was retreating.

  Could Social Unity hang onto Mars with what it had? What about the cyborgs? Where had they come from?

  Grand Admiral Cassius felt something strange then. In a lesser being, it would have been fear. He refused to accept that this feeling was fear. Maybe it was trepidation about the future.

  “This is a setback,” he whispered. He would not lie to himself. The premen had hurt the Highborn. Yet the essence of the Highborn was to fight through to victory.

  What about the cyborgs? The machine men troubled him. They were an unknown factor. He consoled himself with one thought. Working hard to keep their presence hidden, the cyborgs had played their bid to destroy three Doom Stars. Instead, one Doom Star was dead and another badly hurt. Yet now the Highborn realized they had another enemy to contend with. Next time he would be ready for the cyborgs.

  The war with them had just begun.

  ***

  Commodore Blackstone and his four battleships hid behind Mars as probes watched the two Doom Stars leave near-Mars orbit.

  “Did we win?” Commissar Kursk asked.

  Blackstone stared stonily at his vidscreen. They were in his wardroom. On another computer-box in his screen, he was reading the report of what the medical officers had found implanted in General Fromm’s neck.

  “The cyborgs did this to Fromm,” Blackstone said.

  “What did you say?” Kursk asked.

  “Here,” Blackstone said, shifting aside. “You’d better read this.”

  ***

  In the hidden command-pod from the Neptune System, in its close-Mars orbit, Toll Seven and Web-Mind debated their next move. Almost all the Neptune cyborgs were gone. Everything on Olympus Mons was lost. General Fromm had failed to report in. What had happened aboard the Vladimir Lenin? Their allied bio-forms had been strangely silent. The bio-forms should have tried to communicate with him by now.

  It was then Web-Mind alerted Toll Seven.

  Toll Seven turned on a screen. There was a bright image on it that showed an engine was burning. Before Toll Seven could ask, Web-Mind had computed the shuttle’s flight-path. It seemed to be headed for Jupiter. Cyborg Osadar Di had been from the Jupiter System. Web-Mind therefore gave it a thirty-three percent probability that Osadar Di was aboard that shuttle. They could not allow her to escape. She knew too much.

  Toll Seven acknowledged Web-Mind’s probabilities and he recognized the danger. He opened a com-li
nk and hailed the Vladimir Lenin. Then he sent them the shuttle’s coordinates and asked that they destroy the vessel.

  ***

  Seconds later, at Blackstone’s urgent command, lasers burned into space. They used Toll Seven’s radio-message, triangulating from the four battleships. Those lasers pierced the camouflaged hull of Toll Seven’s command-pod, killing the Neptune cyborg and Web-Mind.

  “What will you tell Supreme Commander Hawthorne?” Kursk asked on the Vladimir Lenin’s bridge.

  Blackstone gave her a wintry grin, and said, “Mission completed.”

  ***

  Aboard the Mayflower, Marten and Osadar noticed the lasers. Omi was in the medical unit, receiving treatment for his burned hand.

  “I wonder who they’re firing at?” asked Marten.

  Osadar remained silent. Perhaps she was waiting for fate to screw her further.

  “Get ready,” Marten said. “We’re going to increase thrust and pretend we’re a missile.” After alerting Omi, Marten applied greater power. And the former Highborn shuttle left Mars orbit.

  Marten Kluge grinned at Osadar. “We did it,” he said. “We finally escaped Inner Planets.”

  “For how long?” she asked.

  “For now,” he said.

  “And tomorrow?”

  Marten shrugged. “Tomorrow will take care of itself. Today, we’ve done the impossible and won.” He felt the diplomatic credentials in his hidden pocket. He thought about the Martian commandos who had died to make his dream possible. He owed them a blood-debt. He would try to repay. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew that he was going to help the Planetary Union gain its freedom and keep it.

  The End, Book #3

  Please email me at Leevon45@hotmail.com if you find any errors, missing words, etc, in this manuscript.

  The story continues with

  Cyborg Assault

  (Book #4 of the Doom Star Series)

  Read on for an exciting excerpt from the next book in the Doom Star Series.

  Prologue

  The cramped chamber reeked of disinfectants and other, more sinister chemicals. The walls were white, and they shivered from the ongoing pulse of the ship’s fusion engine.

  The chamber contained three people: an arbiter, a technician and a wretched prisoner. The last was a naked woman strapped to an articulated frame. A dozen cables adhered to her bruised skin, some providing nutrients, other stimulants and the rest compelling obedience.

  “She’s too stubborn,” the arbiter said. His name was Octagon. He wore a white uniform with red tabs on the shoulders and a double row of crimson buttons on the front of the jacket. He had narrow features and suspicious eyes, and like most Jovian men, he was bald.

  “I suspect she’s undergone sphinx therapy,” the technician said. He was a small man in a blue gown and with a deferential manner.

  Octagon scowled. “You know I detest technical jargon.”

  The technician grew pale, and he spoke quickly. “They must have tampered with her brain, Your Guidance. It’s likely impossible for her to tell us what she knows.”

  Octagon studied the woman. She was young and pretty, even with her shaved head, contorted muscles and sweaty skin. It had been a pleasure watching the foul Secessionist squirm. Octagon pursed his lips, giving a small headshake. No. Pleasure had nothing to do with this. He must maintain decorum and remember the tenth article of the Dictates. He had a ship to purge, and this was the first lead he gotten that might allow him to crack into the higher circles.

  “It’s time for a braintap,” Octagon murmured.

  The technician looked up in alarm. “Your Guidance, Yakov will not approve of—”

  “I am the Arbiter,” Octagon snapped.

  The technician nervously rubbed his hands, and he spoke with caution. “A braintap is a delicate operation.”

  Octagon swiveled his head to gaze at the technician. “Tell me now if it is beyond your capabilities.”

  “Rehabilitation is not always possible afterward, Your Guidance. Our… subject is pilot-rated, second-class, meaning—”

  “I know what it means,” Octagon hissed.

  The technician began to blink rapidly.

  Octagon’s eyes narrowed. How deep was the Secessionist hold on ship personnel? Had they broken the technician’s loyalty?

  Deftly, Octagon unclipped a spy-monitor from his belt. He adjusted the settings and swept it here and there. Then he aimed it at the medical equipment, searching for bugs.

  “If I’ve angered you—”

  “Silence,” Octagon said.

  The technician wilted, backing up a step.

  Octagon changed settings, carefully watching the monitor. Finally, he eyed the technician. “Your index is in the ninety-fourth percentile.”

  “I am loyal to the Dictates,” the technician whispered.

  “What is your moon of origin?”

  “Ganymede, Your Guidance.”

  “The same as Yakov’s,” Octagon said.

  “I received my training on Callisto and had a first-class induction rating.”

  “Your rapid speech indicates nervousness, which in turn implies guilt. What do you have to be guilty about, hm?”

  “I serve the Dictates, Your Guidance.”

  Octagon clipped the monitor back onto his belt beside his palm-pistol. “You will begin the braintap.”

  “At once,” the technician said. He hurried to a trolley and pushed it beside the prisoner’s shaved head. In moments, a buzz emanated from a cranial saw. Like a barber, the technician ran it over her head, cutting away a portion of skull. Prying it free with core-pliers, he plopped the skull-bone into a green solution.

  “We save the cut in case rehabilitation is required.”

  “I’m more interested in unlocking her secrets,” Octagon said.

  The technician nodded, and he began to work in earnest. Soon, a blue gel lay on the exposed part of the prisoner’s brain. There were yellow streaks in the gel, connected to a glassy black ball with tiny barbs dotted around it. The technician rolled a second trolley near the prisoner’s head. It held a bulky device with a screen. He turned it on so it hummed. That caused a tiny glimmer to begin emanating from the various barbs on the ball.

  The prisoner twitched.

  Octagon avidly watched the proceedings, although his gaze kept slipping down to the prisoner’s breasts, which were perfectly shaped. It was a pity to ruin such a prime specimen of womanhood. But then, she shouldn’t have joined the Secessionists. It was her own fault, and pity was a useless emotion.

  “I’ve bypassed the first layer of conditioning,” the technician said, who closely watched the screen. He tapped keys, seemed to hesitate and then he tapped faster.

  Shimmers played upon the glassy ball’s barbs.

  Octagon moved closer, examining the prisoner’s brain. Lines of light moved through the yellow streaks in the gel. They sank into the gray matter underneath.

  “I’ve reordered her synaptic connections,” the technician said. “As expected, this rerouting will expunge certain memories.”

  “No! I must know her secrets.”

  “This is understood,” the technician said, his deference no longer in evidence. “What we attempt, well, we attempt to foil sphinx therapy through new connectives. Naturally, this entails neuron loss. However, the core memories are stored in multiple areas and thus withstand the brainpurge to a greater degree than the sphinx-tampered connectives.”

  “When can I question her?”

  The technician glanced up and quickly returned his attention to the device. “If rehabilitation is required, we must proceed with delicacy.”

  Octagon pursed his lips. “My primary need is knowledge.”

  “If you would allow me to add a cautionary note?”

  “Yes, yes, speak,” said Octagon.

  The technician frowned. “The deeper the braintap, the more difficult it is to reconnect her synapses in the old order. Sometimes there is a brain-burn, bringing imbeci
lity.”

  “I’m willing to risk that,” Octagon said.

  The technician hesitated before tapping keys. The prisoner groaned as her eyelids flickered.

  “What’s happening?”

  “This is strange,” the technician said.

  “What?”

  The prisoner’s eyes snapped open. They were blank. Then confusion filled her eyes. Her mouth hung slackly and drool dribbled down her chin.

  “What did you do?” Octagon demanded.

  A beep began to emit from the bulky device. The technician grew pale.

  “You,” the prisoner whispered in a hoarse voice. She stared at Octagon.

  He scowled and then leaned nearer. He had nothing to fear, as restraints held her. “You have deviated from the Dictates,” Octagon said. “You are a Secessionist.”

  The prisoner groaned, and pain contorted her features.

  Octagon looked up.

  The technician wiped a sleeve across a suddenly moist forehead. He typed quickly on the keypad, and he kept biting his lower lip. “This shouldn’t be happening,” he whispered.

  “Fix it!” Octagon said.

  “I’m trying.”

  Octagon put a hand on the articulated frame. Heat radiated from the prisoner’s skin. He asked, “Do you belong to a triad?”

  She was staring at him again. Her lips moved, and words bubbled from her throat. “Yes,” she admitted.

  Octagon’s eyes glittered. “Are you the liaison to a higher circle?”

  Her lips twisted as if she tried to keep from speaking. But she said, “I am the liaison.”

  Yes, it was as he suspected. Finally, he was going to break into a higher circle. “Who is your operative?” Octagon asked.

  There was a loud buzz from the technician’s device. Several motes glimmered from the glassy barbs. The prisoner made a horribly deep groan as every muscle went rigid.

  “What occurs?” Octagon demanded.

  “No, no,” the technician said, his fingers flying across the keypad.

  The prisoner sighed, and the rigidity left her muscles. She relaxed and then went limp.