Cyborg Assault ds-4 Page 12

  You are evading my question.

  “Not for any nefarious reasons,” Gharlane said. Soothing chemicals injected into his brainpan then, helping to stem his emotional excitement. “Web-Mind, the enemy vessel indicates reinforcements from Social Unity. Our stealth campaign has now been compromised on two levels.”

  Notice the angle of the attack. The vessel comes from out-system, not from Inner Planets.

  Gharlane made fast computations. “There was sufficient time for a deep strike and turnaround—”

  Are you suggesting that the masters of Social Unity deduced our Jupiter Assault a year ago and sent vessels bound for here at the curtailment of the Third Battle for Mars? At that juncture, they lacked sufficient vessels to face a single Doom Star. The Highborn vessels were still within the Mars System. Your thought is gravely unbalanced.

  “The stealth vessel is here, implying strategic action. That it matches its approach with the meteor-ship’s action proves my thesis. The probability that the two incidents are independent of each other is twenty-seven percent.”

  Twenty-NINE point six-five percent.

  Gharlane studied the Web-Mind’s data. “Ah. I failed to take into account the chaotic principle.”

  Our stealth campaign has proven effective. Given another thirty-seven days, we will gain complete system-movement control.

  “Agreed,” said Gharlane. “But now we must initiate a surprise strike against the remaining vessels and against the defensive establishments of the Galilean moons.”

  You are stubborn, and still yearn for an immediate missile assault against Callisto.

  “It is the logical action.”

  In several seconds, the Web-Mind ran through a thousand scenarios. It computed odds, vectors and random factors.

  We are under-strength for an optimal strike.

  “Which means we must strike at once,” Gharlane said. “For we are also under-strength against an alerted Callisto defense.”

  Position the missiles for a surprise assault and begin the preliminary countdown. We shall observe the stealth vessel with Social Unity missile-ship design specifications.

  “A surprise strike should place all military vessels under my control.”

  You are the hand, Cyborg Gharlane. I am the intellect. If you fail to remember that, I shall delete you.

  “I have received,” Gharlane said.

  Patience is the great virtue. And cyborgs cannot panic. Thus, ultimate victory shall be ours. Await the next development as you begin preparations for a sustained strike.

  A discharging impulse sent sparks and blue arcs writhing over Gharlane’s body. He sat upright in his mind-link bed. Then, with a clang, he slid his feet onto the floor.

  They should immediately begin the strike, he knew, but the Web-Mind sought optimal conditions. He was unable to disobey a direct order, although on some deep level he desired to run the cyborg assault along his parameters. Gharlane wondered, for just a moment, if the biomind in the Web-Mind meant that it coordinated too many factors. Did the many kilos of brain tissue argue against itself in an ongoing roundtable? That might explain the Web-Mind’s need for optimal percentage levels.

  In the dim, humming chamber, Gharlane examined the plugged cyborgs. He might have shrugged, but such a response had long ago been scrubbed from him. He strode for the exit in order to implement his directives.

  -17-

  The Thutmosis III sped for Jupiter at hyper-velocity, although it no longer hurtled through the void at its star-spanning speeds. Side-jets had rotated the squat vessel until its engines were aimed in the direction it traveled.

  Within the crippled warship, the remaining crew readied for an intense period of deceleration. A single laser of medium strength functioned, and the ship retained four anti-missile pods.

  The Thutmosis III had a triple-structured hull, with reactive armor on the outer surface. A nanosecond before a missile or shell hit the reactive armor, targeted sections of the hull would explode outward. The shape-charged shrapnel would theoretically obliterate the incoming mass, enough to steal its ship-killing power. The outward-blowing kinetic energy also acted as a shock absorber. It was a paltry defense, many factors less protective than six-hundred meters of asteroid rock, but it was better than a single, non-reactive hull.

  The Praetor was on the bridge in his command chair, observing several concerned Highborn. He only possessed a skeleton crew, and everyone was stretched to the breaking point. They sat rigidly, with tight skin and the haunted eyes of deranged killers. Their big hands were on the boards and ready to begin their final battle for survival.

  To Homo sapiens, the desperate Highborn would have seemed like starved lions ready to rend a training master into bloody shreds. Three times throughout the harrowing journey, fights had broken out. Because of them, five Highborn had died.

  Twice, the Praetor had waded into battle, using his fists to enforce discipline. He was the dominant officer, Fourth-ranked among all Highborn by the old scale. Who knew his position now since the conclusion of the Third Battle for Mars.

  The Praetor surveyed the others. They respected him just a little more than death from decompression. And they were concerned about catching Jupiter’s heavy gravity-well and braking their out-of-control vessel.

  “Is the system still peaceful?” the Praetor asked, with menace in his voice.

  “I monitored an explosion earlier,” a thick-necked officer said.

  “Was the explosion directed at us?”

  “I would have informed you if it had been.”

  The Praetor glared at the weapons officer.

  The thick-necked officer returned the Praetor’s stare. His name was Canus and he had a burn-scar on his left cheek. The burn-scar was composed of angry red flesh, raised flesh with little ridges. As the Praetor stared at him, the madness in Canus’s eyes lessened and soon he dropped his fierce gaze.

  “Lord,” Canus added, although there was still truculence in his voice.

  The Praetor knew they were all under tremendous pressure. He also knew that he must remain strong—stronger than the others. A Highborn could climb rank without harm to his life expectancy. Sinking in levels often entailed his violent death.

  The Praetor rubbed his fingertips against the polished steel of his armrest. Then, with a sudden movement, he opened a ship-wide channel.

  “Attention, Thutmosis III crewmen. This is the Praetor speaking. We have achieved the impossible and repaired our engines and ship-structure to withstand the coming deceleration. There is a possibility that the Jovian premen will attempt to attack us at our most vulnerable moment. If that occurs, I assure you we shall let them know they have been in battle with the Highborn. Our weapons are ready. If they prove insufficient, we shall ram our foes. We will not sink quietly into the dark night of oblivion. Rather we will blaze with glory against any who dare set themselves against us. The universe thought it could conquer us and defeat our fierce will. The universe is now discovering that we are the superior form of life. We shall do more than survive. We shall dominate the Jovian System and bring it into the Empire of our devising. You have made me proud. You are proud soldiers. Together, we shall attack our problem head-on in the truest style of the superior being.”

  The Praetor raised his massive hand and made a decisive gesture.

  A pale officer licked his lips. Then the officer’s big hands roved over his board. He engaged the fusion core, and the ship’s engines fired with violent life. Every Highborn aboard the crippled Thutmosis III found himself slammed against his acceleration couch.

  The Praetor, Canus and one other Highborn on the bridge, shouted wildly, roaring at the universe. Their emotions had overloaded and they bled their tension in the only way they knew, with a predator’s roar of aggression.

  Despite the massive Gs, the Praetor raised his fist, shaking it at the universe, hoping his derelict ship could survive the horrible forces pressing upon it.

  -18-

  Alarms rang in the Descar
tes. On the ship’s main screen blazed a bright dot, the brightest object in the region of banded Jupiter. The glowing dot was more luminous than the Sun or any of the nearby moons, and certainly brighter than the stars.

  “Give me an analysis,” Yakov said, who had lurched forward to stare at the teleoptically-enhanced sight.

  The hunched officers worked furiously, while Marten frowned at the glowing dot.

  “It approaches from out-system,” Rhea said.

  “Is it cyborg reinforcements?” asked Yakov.

  “I have a match on the engine’s heat-signature,” Rhea said. She looked up, surprised. “Force-Leader, it’s a SU missile-ship.”

  Yakov massaged his forehead. It was a rare indication that he was under stress.

  “Their speed is excessive,” Rhea said. She touched the blue medal dangling from her choker. Then she went to work. Soon, she said, “Given their deceleration rate, it will take them many orbits around Jupiter before they could conceivably come to a halt.”

  Yakov stared at the white dot.

  So did Marten, as he thought about the Storm Assault Missile.

  “The ship’s energy output has increased,” Rhea said. “And the ship’s heading has veered. It will take them….” She madly typed keys. “Force-Leader, it will take them ten thousand kilometers from the Rousseau.”

  “How long will that take?” snapped Yakov.

  “In approximately three point four hours.”

  Yakov swiveled toward Marten. “Do you think it’s an actual SU missile-ship?”

  “Not if it came from out-system,” Marten said.

  “Who drives it then?” Yakov asked.

  Marten spoke to Rhea. “Given its flight path, can you calculate its point of origin?”

  She stared at him. She had beautiful eyes. They were green, and larger than ordinary Jovian eyes.

  Abruptly, she turned to her screen, typing quickly. “It must have come from Uranus.”

  “Are you sure it’s a military vessel?” Yakov asked.

  “The engine’s heat-signature is a one hundred percent match to a SU missile-ship,” Rhea said. “It must be a warship.”

  “Why would those from Uranus send a warship here now?” Yakov said.

  “Their secret service must have stolen SU ship designs,” Marten said. “Maybe they meant to slip such vessels into Inner Planets.”

  “Why?” asked Yakov.

  “If cyborgs are here,” Marten said, “maybe cyborgs also attacked the Uranus System.”

  “And?” asked Yakov.

  Marten glanced at Rhea. She dropped her gaze, and after a moment, she turned back to her board.

  “Are they fugitives from a successful cyborg invasion?” Marten asked.

  “The assertion is preposterous,” Rhea said. She brushed curls from her eyes. “The barbarian could as easily suggest cyborgs commandeered the ship. The truth is otherwise.”

  “How can you know any of that?” Marten asked.

  She gestured angrily. “It has an SU heat-signature and it comes from Uranus. Why couldn’t it be an SU warship returning from a diplomatic mission? That is the logical deduction.”

  Marten shook his head. “That it’s here now at this juncture indicates something else. If it belongs to Social Unity, why stop in the Jupiter System? The ship must contain more cyborgs.”

  As Yakov stared at the main screen, his eyes glittered. “No. That isn’t a cyborg ship.”

  “It seems like the likeliest explanation,” Marten said.

  Yakov shook his head. “If you’re right about the Rousseau and Athena Station, it shows that the cyborgs have been acting secretly. This new ship blazes its presence. Everyone in the system will note it. And that would be contrary to a hidden attack. Therefore, the new ship contains something other than cyborgs.”

  “It is mere supposition that cyborgs are in our system,” Rhea pointed out.

  Marten made a harsh sound. “Cyborgs attacked my shuttle.”

  “The Arbiter didn’t believe you,” Rhea said. “Why should anyone else?”

  “The Arbiter fled his pod for a reason,” Marten said. “The Rousseau sprayed a gel-cloud to hide itself for a reason. Its com-officer said there was fusion core damage, but you all saw it earlier. That was battle-damage. They lied to us. Athena Station ordered the Descartes away from the stricken ship. Give me a good reason for those actions.”

  “He is an out-system barbarian,” Rhea told Yakov. “His motivations are hidden and likely antithetical to the Dictates.”

  “It might be time to active the Zenos,” Yakov said softly.

  Rhea clutched her slender throat. “No! You cannot attack a Guardian Fleet warship.”

  “If I use the drones,” Yakov said, his eyes tight, “it might inadvertently begin the secession. And if cyborgs are here it’s time for system unity, not discord.”

  “It’s time to attack,” Marten said. “If the new ship brings reinforcements, you must strike before the cyborgs become even stronger. If that ship doesn’t contain reinforcements, the cyborgs on the Rousseau will likely be worrying about the new vessel.”

  “The barbarian is wrong,” Rhea said.

  “I’m not wrong,” Marten said, “and I’m not a barbarian.”

  Rhea sneered at him. “The Earthman is likely a provocateur, sent to start a civil war among ourselves.”

  Marten stared at Rhea a moment longer. Then he turned to Yakov. “You must decide quickly, as the Zenos still have a long way to travel. You must accelerate them now to strike as the new ship approaches the Rousseau.”

  Yakov ran a hand through his silver hair. Indecision twisted his usually stoic features. He glanced at the main screen, at Marten and then at Rhea Merton, the Primary Gunner.

  “We’re loyal to the Confederation,” Rhea said. “We each took a solemn oath with our three center fingers placed on the Dictates. We swore to uphold and enforce them. Now I must insist that you tell us where the Strategist went. We should have heard from her by now. Tell us what happened, Force-Leader.”

  Using his sleeve, Yakov wiped his forehead. Then he sat straighter and opened a slot on his armrest.

  “No,” Rhea said weakly. “We’re Confederation officers. That is a Guardian Fleet vessel.”

  Without a word, Yakov decisively pressed two buttons.

  Marten turned to his screen. In space where they coasted toward the Rousseau, the two drones engaged their chemical engines. The Zenos began to accelerate.

  -19-

  The Rousseau’s chief cyborg, CR37, studied the ship’s sensors. If these readings were correct, the decelerating ship was under tremendous stress. Could the ship have launched from the Uranus System? Simply backtracking the trajectory indicated the humans there had sent it. Had the Helium-3 Barons of Uranus discovered the Cyborg Master Plan? Was this ship meant as reinforcement for the Jovians?

  “You have a message, sir,” whispered the unmodified woman, a crewmember. There were dark circles around her overlarge eyes and her paleness had increased. Her compelling nature had become haggard with worry.

  CR37 stood beside her. For a moment, a chaotic impulse surged through him. He wanted to wrap his fingers around her delicate neck. He wanted her to squirm, to scream for him. His fingers would press into her soft flesh as he snapped her neck-bones. It seemed unjust that she should keep her humanity while he had lost his. He would adjust this wrong and delete the irritant from his sight.

  Perhaps sensing his mood, the woman stared at him.

  Suppressing the chaotic impulse, CR37 moved the toggle underneath a flashing orange light. A harsh voice immediately spoke through the intercom.

  “This is the Praetor of the Highborn speaking. Any interference with our progress shall be met with annihilation. Our intentions are benevolent and beneficial to you premen—to the folk of the Jovian System. We have tracked you and we wish a confirmation that you understand our peaceful intention. Respond to our message or we shall have to take forceful measures. The Praetor of the H
ighborn out.”

  “You have a second message,” the woman whispered.

  CR37 opened another channel. High-speed chatter occurred. He clicked the toggle, took a jack and inserted it into a slot in his chest. Gharlane sent him personal orders.

  After a short time, CR37 detached the plug and swiveled his plasti-flesh head, studying a screen. The bright dot had grown. It was nearing fast. Highborn rode that dot. Highborn had come to the Jovian System.

  “Engine control,” CR37 said. “I need power to turn and face the incoming ship with our point-defense cannons.”

  There was static on the line, but the answer came through. “Power online.”

  * * *

  “They fail to respond,” the Praetor said. All around him, the ship shook as high-pitched whines and clangs told of the fierce stress. The Gs pressing against his lips make speaking difficult, as if they were formed of lead.

  “There is a rupture on level six!” an officer shouted.

  “Tell damage control—”

  “Coil three is overheating!” Canus shouted. “Lord, we must disengage the engines.”

  “Negative!” the Praetor snarled. He lay on an acceleration couch, enduring as he had once endured circling the Sun. His tough skin had flattened and moisture leaked from the corners of his eyes. He recalled the deep void of space, the emptiness that would await him if they failed here. It made his voice hoarse as he spoke. “We live or die today in the Jupiter System. We shall not bypass it. Continue deceleration.”

  “Lord, the enemy vessel has begun to rotate.”

  “Laser team,” the Praetor snarled into his intercom, “do you have a lock on the warship?”

  “Our laser won’t affect them, Lord,” a voice said over the intercom.

  “Never mind that!” the Praetor shouted. “We fight. We attack. If that doesn’t work—Canus, can you change our vector to an intercept course?”

  “Lord, we don’t know their intention. It may prove peaceful.”