Doom Star: Book 03 - Battle Pod Page 18

  Where am I?

  As if to answer her silent question, Toll Seven floated before her. Lisa glanced at his hands. They were whole, his shorn fingers fixed.

  “Where am I?” Lisa whispered.

  “In the cyborg command pod,” Toll Seven said. He pushed himself to the floor and there was a tearing-cloth sound as he attached his feet to a Velcro-carpeted floor.

  “You have to let me go,” Lisa said. “I’m sure to be reported missing.”

  “General Fromm has already reported you as a suicide.”

  Lisa’s heart beat faster. “Fromm is your spy?”

  It seemed as if the cyborg wanted to smile, but something held him back. “General Fromm has learned the uses of Web-Mind. He is a Webbie.”

  “What is a Webbie?”

  “I had considered it for you,” Toll Seven said. “But the Martian Unionists have fought back more efficiently than Web-Mind had computed. Web-Mind has recomputed the casualty rates and indicated an immediate need for cyborg reinforcements.”

  “From Neptune?” Lisa asked.

  “Fear pheromones are leaking from you,” Toll Seven said. “But I had computed you capable of rational thought even under dire stress.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “You are a clone of Madam Director Blanche-Aster.”

  “Madam Blanche-Aster is dead,” Lisa said.

  “We know.”

  It wasn’t I know, but we know. “How could you know?” Lisa asked.

  “By direct communication with Chief Yezhov of Political Harmony Corps,” Toll Seven said.

  “I am the Blanche-Aster now.”

  “There are other clones.”

  “But none are as highly ranked as me.”

  “Ah,” Toll Seven said. “You are bargaining in the hope of forgoing your transformation.”

  “I can help you,” Lisa pleaded.

  “The Rita-Tan Solution failed.”

  Those fear pheromones Toll Seven had talked about poured off Lisa now. She struggled, but the straps binding her head, torso, arms and legs were too snug and too strong. She was trapped on this nightmare conveyor and she was about to enter the ominous machine.

  Lisa’s mouth was bone dry. “What does this thing do?” she asked hoarsely.

  “It converts human flesh into a cyborg soldier.”

  Lisa struggled harder and was soon panting. “I can kill James Hawthorne for you!” she said.

  “Our cyborg-reinforcement need is more pressing.”

  “I’ll become like those things you shot at Phobos?”

  “No.”

  Lisa’s eyes boggled as hope retuned. “No. What do you mean?”

  “You will not be as efficient as those soldiers. This is a micro-converter. Once we land on Mars, I will construct a true converter and the process of complete conversation will begin.”

  “Do to me what you did to General Fromm,” Lisa begged.

  “The risks increase with each Webbie.”

  “Have mercy,” Lisa said, while trying to control her terror.

  “Mercy is illogical.”

  Lisa tried to thrash. She twitched and heaved against the straps. Toll Seven’s metallic hand touched her naked shoulder.

  “Cease these useless efforts,” he said. “You will tear a muscle and that will make conversion less useful.”

  “Let me go!” Lisa screamed.

  “Such emotional flesh,” Toll Seven said. “It is a wonder humans ever made it off their mud-ball world.” Toll Seven stepped back, becoming harder to see in the dark, green light. He seemed to make a minute gesture.

  The conveyor lurched. Lisa Aster the clone began screaming. The scream became piercingly loud. She struggled as her feet entered the human-sized portal. She tried to lift her head so see what would happen next, but the straps were too tight.

  She should have tried to kill Supreme Commander James Hawthorne back on Earth. She should never have agreed to this journey. Stupid General Fromm had allowed Toll Seven to change him. The cyborgs were invincible. They had no mercy. They had no flaws whatsoever. They would shred the Martians, Social Unity and then shred the arrogant Highborn.

  A cold spray spewed against Lisa’s feet and then her legs. It made them numb.

  Lisa’s screams became hoarse as her head disappeared into the whirring machine.

  ***

  Marten and Omi ate cold soybean sandwiches in an EVA tent. They had been skimming for forty-eight hours in a southeastern direction. After passing Pavonis Mons, they’d entered jumbled terrain composed of huge blocks and deepening channels. One of those dangerous channels had led into the Noctis Labyrinthus, the most western of the Valles Marineris Rift System.

  The Valles Marineris was the largest canyon in the Solar System and stretched for nearly a quarter of Mars’ circumference. It wasn’t a single vast canyon, but was made up of many different, merging formations. Nearest the Tharsis Bulge was the present canyon. Traveling east, one would reach eight different canyon systems before it ended at the basin of the Chryse Planitia. The Valles Marineris was a vast tectonic crack in the Martian crust, formed as the Tharsis region had risen in the west. Over the centuries, carbon dioxide fluid and gas had eroded even more of the canyon.

  In the tent, Marten’s hair was oily and his face dirty. Surprisingly, Omi seemed fitter. Being on a planet again, even one with only one-third Earth’s gravity, had accelerated Omi’s health more than his many hours on the Mayflower’s workout unit had.

  After finishing the sandwiches, both ex-shock troopers donned their environmental helmets and turned their heaters up to full blast. Only then did they zip open the EVA tent. The warm, oxygen-rich air left in a cloudy rush.

  They were in shadow beside a towering cliff eight kilometers high. There were ice crystals on the rocks and patches of carbon-dioxide snow on the ground. Those patches were less than a quarter-inch thick. It was cold down here at the bottom of the Valles Marineris Canyon. But it wasn’t as cold as the Martian South Pole, which sometimes hit -193 degrees Fahrenheit in winter. It was cold enough. Because they were eight kilometers down from the regular Martian surface, there was enough atmospheric pressure for it to rain or snow.

  Major Diaz had led them down the eight kilometers. It had been six hours of harrowing maneuvering. One skimmer had flipped and killed all four passengers.

  Omi folded the tent as other raiders opened theirs, the oxygen-rich air escaping like cloudy genies. EVA-suited men began trudging to the parked skimmers. This was the last leg of the journey. Forty kilometers away was the first airstrip. None of them knew anything about the cyborg assault on the two moons.

  “Look!” Diaz shouted into their helmet receivers.

  Marten looked up. In the distance and leaving lines of vapor streaked four jets.

  “Where are they headed?” Diaz radioed.

  Marten watched the specks in the pink sky. Unlike Earth, which scattered the blue part of sunlight better than the other colors and thus made a blue sky, Mars had a reddish tinge. The reason was all the reddish dust in the air. The SU jets climbed to get out of the vast canyon. If those jets turned and burned down for them, it would be a mad scramble for the anti-air rockets. Marten mentally kicked himself for not having several of them rocket-armed at all times. He gave the order now.

  The jets kept streaking higher, however, until they disappeared over the distant edge of the canyon. Were they headed for Olympus Mons?

  As Marten strode for his skimmer, he began issuing commands. Soon they were going to find out if a mob of security personnel could pull off a commando raid. Maybe the thing to do was only take Omi with him and hit the airfield alone. He doubted Major Diaz would agree to that. No, Diaz would be sure they were turning traitor against the Planetary Union. That would bring about a gunfight Marten didn’t want to explain to the men or later to Secretary-General Chavez.

  ***

  An hour later, Marten lay on a rock, using an imager on the airfield. There were two machine-sweepers o
n the runway, clearing it of dust and any thin layers of carbon dioxide ice. The airfield had a tower, four hangers, what might have been a barracks and then several long buildings behind that. Around the airstrip were low bunkers, likely automated weapon systems.

  Marten slid off the rock and jogged back to the parked skimmers. He had the squad leaders gather around him. Using a holopad, he dumped the imager’s pictures into it and outlined the plan of attack.

  “Any questions?” Marten asked later.

  There were a few. By the quaver in the voices, Marten knew the squad leaders were scared. It was the right emotion. None of them had likely ever made a raid like this. Most had nerved themselves up in the past in the underground city streets they had grown up in. Then they would have walked up to PHC police and needled them to death. Hopefully, they were tough enough so they wouldn’t panic and freeze today. Marten was more worried they’d panic and shoot their own by mistake.

  The men climbed into the skimmers as Omi and Marten strode back to the rock. Both of them dragged mobile missiles. They were TAC-84s, the latest in raiding tech and left behind by the Highborn. Without them, Marten would never have agreed to the raid.

  Marten set his up with practiced ease, his training from the Free Earth Corps days returning as if it had been yesterday. An excited feeling ran through him, competing against the fear. Highborn training was the best in the Solar System, and Marten had taken two doses of it, once for FEC and the second time as a shock trooper. He unfolded the tripod legs and then swiveled the launch tube, using the comp-scope until he had the nearest bunker in sight. The missile launcher was like a giant gyroc rifle. It was easy enough to shoot these that one of the men could have done it. But in battle, what should have been easy quickly became difficult.

  Marten looked up at Omi. Omi swiveled his launcher and looked over at him. Marten waved his finger to the left.

  Omi glanced at his launcher and then at Marten’s launcher. He nodded, likely seeing now that they had both targeted the same bunker.

  Marten waited for Omi to adjust, wondering how many of his men were going to die today. It would have been safer having his men crawl to the airfield. But they weren’t real soldiers and he didn’t know what they would do once under fire. Too many might jump up and run away. He’d decided to keep them together in the skimmers. Hit the enemy hard and hit fast, so fast that none of his men would think about jumping out of the skimmer. If Social Unity had posted tough military personnel here, however…

  Omi gave him the thumbs up.

  Marten returned the gesture. He sighted the first bunker, pressed the firing stud and watched the first TAC-84 leap out of the launch tube. It ignited immediately and whooshed at the target. Beside him, Omi’s missile roared a second later.

  They targeted two other low bunkers each and let fly before the first missile hit with a terrific explosion. Concrete flew into the air and the concussion wave soon reached them. On Earth, the concussion would have been greater because of the greater density of the air.

  “Hit the barracks,” Marten said over the radio.

  Omi and he swiveled their launchers and let missiles zoom at the buildings in the distance.

  Then Major Diaz’s voice roared over their headphones. Seconds later, the first skimmers zipped past them.

  Marten glanced at Omi.

  Omi shrugged, and said over the radio, “He’s eager.”

  Marten turned, expecting to see their skimmer parked behind them. There was nothing but Martian ice crystals and shadows. In exasperation, Marten realized their driver had become too excited and had followed Major Diaz in his skimmer charge.

  “They’re clumping together,” Omi said.

  The fools, they were supposed to spread out, each team hitting their selected areas. Instead, as Major Diaz war-whooped over the radio, the other skimmers followed his like an old-time cavalry charge.

  Omi crouched over his TAC-84. Marten did likewise. SU-suited soldiers appeared in the distance. They climbed out of hidden portals. There must have been underground barracks they’d failed to spot. That was just great.

  Marten judged the skimmers, the SU personnel and took the risk. He sent another missile at the enemy. Then he deactivated his missile launcher.

  “Shut it down,” Marten said.

  “It’s a long run to the airfield,” Omi said.

  “Yeah,” Marten said. “So we’d better start. Set your gyroc for sniper-fire.”

  In moments, the two ex-shock troopers trudged across the cold Martian sand. With their gyroc rifles ready, they headed for the airfield.

  Thirty seconds later, Marten cursed. The SU soldiers flung themselves behind concrete slabs, on the runway and behind corners. They began firing at the charging skimmers and immediately gained results.

  A skimmer flipped as its driver lurched back hard in his seat, his helmet exploding. The three other occupants went flying. Upon landing, two lay still. The last lifted up and then slumped down again as bullets riddled his body. The skimmer exploded in a ball of fire.

  Marten hurled himself onto the cold sand, steadied his gyroc rifle and used the scope. Three enemy soldiers far in the distance set up a plasma cannon. Marten fired. The gyroc round ignited and sped at the enemy. It missed, however.

  Omi lay a little ahead of Marten, firing as well.

  Another skimmer exploded as a heated ball of plasma hit it.

  “Land! Land!” Marten shouted into his radio unit.

  Someone in that cavalry-like charge finally began to listen. A skimmer dropped with a hard landing, plowing up cold dust and white carbon dioxide. Soon, four troopers spilled out. They began peppering the enemy with gyroc fire.

  As the enemy plasma team swiveled their cannon, Marten held his breath and slowly squeezed the trigger. Three second later, another explosion released a heated ball of plasma. This one cooked the three SU soldiers, shriveling them as if they’d been insects.

  Two reckless skimmers raced almost on top of the enemy. They landed. The security teams jumped out and charged, pumping shots. It was suicide. It was crazy. But maybe their recklessness favored them today. About a quarter of the security teams flopped onto the cold ground. The rest ran up to prone enemy and shot them at pointblank range.

  With Omi and Marten acting as snipers, the short battle turned hard against the surviving SU soldiers. There had only been a few of them to begin with.

  The victory was costly, however. And the terrible casualties left the Rebel Unionists in an ugly mood. The last Social Unity personnel tried to surrender. Major Diaz personally shot each of them in the back of the EVA helmet.

  Later, Marten walked through the wreckage of the hangers and counted fifteen jets. He set demolition charges on any that looked in good shape.

  The living were elated at their victory. The wounded with torn EVA suits had already died from exposure. Counting himself, there were thirty-one effectives left.

  “These EVA suits are crap,” Marten told Omi.

  The grim Korean grunted agreement.

  Major Diaz poked into the barracks ruins, with a gyroc pistol ready. He was likely hunting for SU survivors. Five of the men were with him.

  Marten collected everyone else and went down a hidden portal. As he’d suspected, it was an underground barracks. He found three men in a communications room. They were white with terror and begged for their lives.

  Marten whispered to Omi, “If Diaz tries to shoot them, take him out.”

  “Kill him?” Omi asked.

  “Fast,” Marten said. He turned to the three shaking men. They were pale, wore PHC patches and had sweat-soaked tunics.

  Before Marten could ask his first question, the PHC captain said, “You know the Battlefleet has attacked, right?”

  Marten stared at the man. The PHC captain had gray sideburns, curly gray hair and looked as if he was ready to start crying.

  “It-It’s on all the channels,” the captain stammered. “They stormed Phobos and Deimos.”

  The
door opened and Major Diaz entered the room. His brown eyes blazed. “Good,” he crooned. “There are more.” He lifted his gun.

  “Do it,” Omi said, “and you’re dead.”

  There were six other Unionists in the room. They looked up, surprised. Omi had a needler pressed against Diaz’s back.

  Major Diaz scowled at Marten, who sat on a chair.

  “Put away your gun, Major,” Marten said.

  “I see vermin in the room,” Diaz said coldly. “I crush vermin to remove the infestation from Mars.”

  “You took out the airfield,” Marten said. “Now we gain intelligence. You do know about that, right?”

  Diaz laughed. “Then we kill them?”

  “No,” Marten said. “There’s been enough killing today.”

  Major Diaz had a crazed look. “There you are wrong.” He lifted his gyroc, aiming at the PHC captain.

  Omi clutched Diaz’s elbow and made a sharp motion. Major Diaz cried out as the gyroc dropped from his hand and hit the floor with a crack.

  “Take him outside,” Marten said. “Let him cool down.”

  Omi put a hand on Diaz’s shoulder. The major tried to shake it off. Omi rabbit-punched Diaz in the solar plexus and Diaz groaned, going limp. Omi turned him around and pushed him into the next room.

  “Stay here,” Marten told two of Unionist raiding party who had risen to follow Omi and Diaz.

  They glanced at Marten and they must have seen something in his face that frightened them. They hurriedly sat down.

  “Finish your story,” Marten told the visibly trembling PHC captain.

  “Y-You’re not going to shoot me?” the captain whispered.

  “I’m no murderer,” Marten said.

  The captain gulped as a tear leaked from an eye. In a quavering voice, he told Marten what had come in over communications.

  Marten knew the truth when he heard it. He told Squad Leader Rojas. “Watch these three, but let them live. That’s an order.”