Doom Star: Book 05 - Planet Wrecker Page 11

  “I’m going to make you piss blood before you die, old man.”

  “But you’re too foolish sometimes. You need a guiding hand if you’re to survive the war.”

  “Get ready to die,” said Felix.

  Cassius abruptly turned and ran. The move caught Felix by surprise.

  “I knew it!” the young Highborn roared. “You’re a coward.”

  Cassius glanced over his shoulder. The youth gave chase. Running away was ignoble. It was un-Highborn. Yet he was the Grand Admiral for a reason. There were times to retreat. There was an ancient but valuable adage concerning that: better to run away to live and fight another day. Not that he planned to run away for long.

  Cassius sprinted over the monofilament line, slowed his speed and then roared as he spun around. Felix was hot after him, and the cockerel’s eyes widened at the shout. It wasn’t fear, but knowledge that the old man was going to fight after all. It was then Felix remembered the monofilament line. Cassius had wondered if he would. Leaping over the line caused Felix to break his stride. Timing that, Cassius leaped, and he put everything into the flying kick. The sap hit, but not powerfully enough. A foot connected against Felix’s chest. With a grunt, the youth went backward. Cassius landed on top of him, and his big hands flew to the cockerel’s throat. It likely took Felix a second to understand, a critical amount of time in this sort of combat. Then he likely realized the sap was useless now. He dropped it and wrapped his hands around Cassius’s throat. They both squeezed, and Cassius found it impossible to breath. His iron-like fingers ground into youthful flesh as he tightened his own throat muscles. Suddenly, it was hard to see. He kept squeezing. Who was winning?

  Something snapped. Was it his neck? It hurt like Hades. Cassius blinked repeatedly and vision slowly returned. Felix lay under him, with his neck broken and tongue protruding.

  Groaning, Cassius struggled to his feet and to a com-unit. It was time to call medical. He needed to work fast if he was going to save the stupid cockerel from final death. The medics would have to bring Felix back through Revival so he could live again.

  -21-

  Far from Cassius and the Julius Caesar, the weeks blurred as Marten Kluge worked hard. It seemed there was always something going wrong.

  The worst was the fusion core. Its outer shell produced a crack, a leak. Before the technicians could fix it, eighteen crewmembers had been irradiated. Marten attempted communication with Fleet HQ. It was then he found that channels were inexplicably blocked.

  “It’s part of the new directive,” Nadia told him later. He’d made her his com-officer. It had meant a lot of technical reading and study for her, which had meant fewer hours alone together for them.

  “You mean the directive from Circe?” he asked.

  They were in the command center, which looked identical to the one Yakov had used aboard the Descartes. There was the same central chair, the main screen and the many cubicles for the officers along the circular wall. Unlike other Jovian warships, however, this one lacked statues. The cyborgs must have removed them when they’d taken over the vessel.

  “Circe sent around a memo,” Nadia said. She sat in her com-officer cubicle. It was cramped for Nadia, as she was bigger than the average Jovian. “You know Circe prefers the title Sub-Strategist.”

  “Whatever,” Marten said, who stood outside the cubicle.

  Nadia looked concerned. “You should try to get along with her better.”

  “Me?” Marten said.

  “She has a high-handed manner,” said Nadia. “But she does represent the Jovians. If you anger her too much, she could have you replaced.”

  “She represents a pain in my rear.”

  “Don’t let her hear you say that.”

  He nodded, and said, “What’s this about the directive? I need to get these sick people off the ship. And I need replacements.”

  “That part of it has already been taken care of—the replacements.”

  “Did the Sub-Strategist order it?”

  Nodding, Nadia said, “The replacement personnel will be here in ten days.”

  “That long? I want to be ready to leave in ten days. Who are these new people?”

  Nadia turned to her screen, tapping it. A manifest appeared and she scanned it. “Oh,” she said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s an arbiter with several more myrmidons coming.”

  Marten scowled. Just how many myrmidons did Tan plan to pack onto his ship?

  “Arbiter Neon—” Nadia was saying.

  “What?” Marten said. He leaned into the cubicle and studied the screen. “Can you show me a pic?”

  Nadia tapped the screen. An image appeared of Arbiter Neon. It was the white-haired man who had been aboard the dreadnaught.

  “I thought he died when the master super-cyborg attacked,” Marten muttered.

  Nadia did more tapping. “Look at this,” she said. “There’s a demerit in his profile. It says something about being absent from his post during combat.”

  Marten laughed sourly and shook his head. “That’s all we need. Hmm. Maybe Tan is packing all her unwanted personnel onto my ship.”

  “She gave you this post because of your experience.”

  “What she tells me and why she does something can easily be two different things,” Marten said. “It doesn’t matter now anyway. What I need to know is how I can get permission to communicate with headquarters?”

  “You’ll need to see the Sub-Strategist for that.”

  “See her?” asked Marten. “I’ve been avoiding her.”

  Nadia shook her head. She wore a military cap. It suited her, especially the way her hair flowed out in the back. None of the Jovians had hair like Nadia. Many of the Jovian women didn’t have hair at all.

  Thinking about it caused Marten to bend deeper into the cubicle and kiss Nadia on the lips. His wife smiled and stroked his cheek. Marten kissed her again.

  “This is most unseemly,” Circe said, “and it is further proof of your barbarism.”

  Marten withdrew from the cubicle as Nadia blushed.

  Sub-Strategist Circe stood in the command center with three of her orange-uniformed myrmidons. Today she wore a white gown and black slippers. She was so small, yet she had an exotic way to her, leaving no doubt that she was a woman. Black makeup lined her eyes, highlighting them.

  Marten felt Nadia’s hand touch his back. Turning, he helped her out of the cubicle.

  “I’ve to decide if it is appropriate for your wife to be in the command center,” Circe said. “It distracts you from your duties.”

  “What distracts me is a lack of communication with headquarters,” Marten said. “I need—”

  “Your tone is improper.” Circe shook her head. “This is most distasteful. I do not wish to reprimand you in front of your sex partner, but I refuse to shirk my duties simply to ease your prickly ego.”

  “Nadia is my com-officer,” Marten said. “And you’d better watch how you speak about her to me. She’s my wife, not my sex partner.”

  The three myrmidons closed in around Circe and eyed Marten.

  “False bravado doesn’t impress me,” Circe said. “I doubt it impresses your sex partner either.”

  “I’m going to tell you again—” Marten said as Nadia pressed her hand against the small of his back. Her touch made Marten pause, and that made him wonder why Circe annoyed him so easily. Maybe it was her myrmidons. These acted differently toward her than Arbiter Octagon’s myrmidons had acted toward him. These myrmidons seemed possessive of Circe, more easily angered. They seemed more eager to attack, and that made him uneasy.

  “Sub-Strategist,” Marten said.

  “This conversation has ended,” Circe said. “If you have complaints or requests to make, come to my quarters in three hours. Until then, I shall be otherwise engaged.” So saying, Circe turned with a swirl of her gown. She moved regally out of the command center, with her three myrmidons trailing her like dogs.

&n
bsp; “What was that all about?” Marten asked. When Nadia didn’t answer, Marten turned toward her. She scowled after Circe. Then she turned sharply and stared at him.

  “What’s wrong?” Marten asked.

  Nadia shook her head before saying, “I don’t trust that woman.”

  “Neither do I,” said Marten.

  “Good,” Nadia said.

  An officer entered then, asking for Marten’s help. There was still much to do to get the meteor-ship ready for the flight to Mars. Marten needed more hours in the workday and less interruptions.

  -22-

  Returning to her quarters, Circe readied herself for the coming meeting with the barbarian.

  He was handsome in a crude way, and he exuded an intelligent ferocity. It was a strange combination, a mixture of myrmidon and Jovian cadet, brain and brawn. Her couplings with the myrmidons were always vigorous, but lacking in wit or grace. A union with a Jovian cadet was intellectually stimulating but left her limply unsatisfied. To experience both sensations at once—it excited her.

  Circe removed her white gown.

  The myrmidons grew tense, watching her. The dominant male grunted and began to unbuckle his breeches.

  “No,” she said.

  He growled irritably. The others became excited and began to jostle for position. Sometimes she let them wrestle over her, the winner allowed to approach her bed.

  “Heel,” she said.

  The six myrmidons froze, blinking at her.

  “Obey,” she said, reaching for an obedience rod.

  Reluctantly, the six creatures slunk to their shackles. She had trained them well by applying merciless punishment for the slightest infraction.

  Using a small thumb, she clicked a button on the rod. Each of their neck-manacles on the wall opened. Each myrmidon in turn rested his neck in a shackle. Clicking the rod again caused the individual shackles to snap shut, locking the brutes in place.

  Red silks swathed the room. There were six statues of aroused men and women. They surrounded a round bed with many cushions. Her favorite statue showed a man on his knees, clutching the thighs of a haughty-eyed woman. The male statue looked submissively up at the female, clearly ready to obey her every dictate. It was the essence of her training to be able to subdue any man, placing him in a state of abject worship.

  Circe smiled to herself. Sight of these statues would bewilder Marten Kluge. Tonight, she would subdue him. She would give him pleasure such as few males had ever received. Then she would show him the lash and thus his place in her world. But first, she must prepare.

  She lifted her rod and strode naked to the shackled myrmidons. Each stood at attention and grunted hungrily, eyeing her. She smiled, and she lifted a bottle of pheromones, beginning to spray the chemical throughout the room.

  Each grunting myrmidon began to thump his hands against the wall, eager to be chosen. Each of them longed to pleasure her tonight.

  Circe laughed, delighted at their antics. She’d never released one in this state. She’d never dared. Instead, she began to twirl for them, and dance erotically, driving them to drool and stare at her with glazed lust. Tonight, she would practice the Cleopatra grip on Marten Kluge. But she would leave nothing to chance, oh no.

  She sprayed more pheromones as she danced. Then she strode from myrmidon to myrmidon as she buffed her body before them. They pawed for her, and they thrust their hips at her as they tore off their uniforms. She decided then to allow them to watch her couple with the barbarian. It would ignite hatred in each of her creatures for Marten Kluge. If ever the day came that Kluge attempted to free himself from her control, she would release her myrmidons upon him. They would tear him apart.

  Twirling to her bed, she made further preparations. The most important was loading a spring-gun. It fired ice slivers that melted in the flesh. These slivers were not normal ice, they were frozen SX-16, a powerful aphrodisiac. Combined with the pheromones and her Aphrodite skills, the barbarian would easily succumb to her control.

  Circe ran her small hands down her hips. Once she gained full mastery, she’d make Marten throttle his wife for her. The woman was a cow, a barbaric distraction. She especially hated Nadia’s hair. Afterward, Marten would do anything she commanded.

  Circe checked her chronometer. Ah, in another hour the proceedings would begin. She shivered, looking forward to the challenge.

  -23-

  At the sound of a chime, Marten checked his watch. He was late for his meeting with the Sub-Strategist. Excusing himself from the group, he left the chief mechanic and his workers and hurried down the corridors.

  The byways and corridors were narrow, a veritable maze throughout the meteor-ship. Recycled air pulsed everywhere, and clangs, thrums and low murmurs were constant. Marten passed technicians wiring panels and he said hello to his fire-control officer checking laser-coils. After climbing a ladder to a different level, Marten hurried around a corner. He adjusted his uniform and told himself he needed to control his temper better. Nadia was right. Circe was Tan’s representative. He needed to learn how to convince the Sub-Strategist, to look past her aloof attitude. There had to be some way to convince her to work together with him instead of battling him at every step.

  “Marten—wait!”

  Recognizing Omi’s voice, Marten halted. “I’m late for a meeting with Circe. I need to hurry.”

  “You need to hear what I’ve found first.”

  There was something troubling in Omi’s voice. Then Marten saw Osadar Di. The tall cyborg had trailed Omi. The frowning senso-mask startled him. Marten recalled something about the mask being able to sense its owner’s moods and adjust accordingly. How it could do that with a cyborg, he had no idea.

  Marten glanced down the corridor toward Circe’s chamber. There were spy-sticks there.

  “In here,” Marten said, indicating a storage chamber.

  With the three of them among coils, auto-welders and construction-foam blowers, it made a tight fit. Osadar took out a sonic-shield, turning it on. The vibration hurt Marten’s ears. Listening to it too long would give him a headache.

  “I’m late for a meeting with Circe,” Marten whispered.

  “The crack in the fusion core’s outer shell wasn’t an accident,” Omi said.

  “What’s that supposed mean?”

  “Sabotage,” Omi said.

  “Do you have proof?” asked Marten.

  Osadar slid out a scroll-pad and showed him the evidence. After five minutes of tech-talk and Osadar explaining what she meant by it, Marten realized that they were right.

  “The question is now,” Marten said, “who do you think did it?”

  “I suspect the Sub-Strategist,” Osadar said.

  “What reason could she have?” Marten asked.

  “Delay,” said Osadar.

  “Why?” Marten asked, as he shook his head.

  “Have you studied the manifest of the new personnel?” asked Osadar.

  “Yeah,” said Marten. “Headquarters is sending an arbiter, more myrmidons and replacement technicians.”

  “I managed to discover the point of origin of several of the new technicians,” Osadar said. “It is Callisto.”

  Marten frowned. “Has Tan changed her mind about us?”

  “Someone has,” said Osadar.

  Taking the scroll-pad, staring at the names, Marten mulled over the implications.

  “You dare not enter the Sub-Strategist’s chamber,” Osadar said.

  “Why not?” asked Marten. “I don’t see the connection.”

  “Given that she sabotaged the core-shell,” Osadar said, “shows that she willingly risked the deaths of at least eighteen people. You must ask yourself—after her arrogance toward you—why does she now wish a private meeting in her chamber? The answer is obvious to me. So she can stage an incident and order her myrmidons to kill you.”

  “Why didn’t Tan have me killed when she had the chance?” Marten asked.

  “We do not know all the realities
of the Chief Strategist’s current political position,” Osadar said. “Clearly, she feared to have you murdered outright. Now, however, time has passed. A staged incident would allow her to remove you and place one of her people in charge of the warship.”

  “I don’t know,” Marten said. “Tan seemed genuine. She also recognized the need for an alliance with everyone else against the cyborgs.”

  “According to the reports,” Osadar said, “this alliance has been achieved. Before, you believed Tan wanted to use your unique experiences with the Highborn, Social Unity and the Martians. It may be that your expertise is no longer required. Therefore, she is free to kill you.”

  “It’s possible,” Marten said thoughtfully, “and it might explain why she sent Circe in the first place.”

  “Kill Circe and the myrmidons,” Omi said. “Then kill the new arbiter before he can board.”

  “That seems harsh,” said Marten.

  “So does sabotaging the fusion-shell and causing eighteen crewmembers to be poisoned with radiation,” Omi said.

  Marten rubbed his forehead. The sonic-shield made his brain pound. If all this was true…. He looked up at the others.

  “You have reached a solution,” Osadar said.

  “Maybe,” said Marten. “Let me think about it first.”

  “What about the meeting with Circe?” Omi said.

  “Osadar might be right,” Marten said. “So I’ll let her stew. Yeah,” he said with a grin. “I’ll make the Sub-Strategist angry enough to come see me.”

  -24-

  Thirteen hours later in a lonely part of the ship, Omi muttered, “Here comes trouble.”

  Marten looked up.

  They were in an outer corridor near a seldom-used docking bay. Several battered patrol boats were attached to the meteor-ship’s outer shell. One of the boats had used this emergency bay. Omi had climbed out of the boat and come down here to describe the latest field exercise to Marten. The space marines used thruster-packs to skim around the meteor-ship. Omi still wore his vacc-suit, although minus its helmet. Half the marines were still outside, and would spend another seventeen hours there. Marten wanted them accustomed to spending long hours in their suits, so they wouldn’t panic if it happened during combat.