Star Fortress ds-6 Read online

  An alarm sounded, barely audible over the roar and thunder of the engines pushing them toward space.

  This can’t be happening.

  Ricardo stared at his screen. No one could un-strap and face the cyborgs now. They were under too much G-force. If he shut off the engines, the Pancho Villa would not gain escape velocity and they would tumble back onto the planet. Either that or one of the captured satellites would fire lasers into them.

  “You haven’t won!” Ricardo shouted. Straining to keep his hand up, he switched cameras. Cyborgs crawled through the accelerating ship. One of the creatures forced a hatch, drew a weapon and shot the ten humans strapped to their acceleration couches.

  The next few minutes brought the horror home to Captain Ricardo Sandoval as the five cyborgs murdered fifty-seven humans.

  They beat us. They captured Mars. Now they’re going to get our only warship.

  “No,” Ricardo said. “No, they’re not.”

  As the Pancho Villa exited the Martian atmosphere, Ricardo punched in his commander’s password.

  As the destruct button appeared on his screen, the door to the chamber blew inward, and an upright cyborg stepped heavily into the command room. The cyborg swiveled its gun toward him. Before it could shoot, Ricardo touched the red destruct button.

  The cyborg fired, and three steel needles entered Captain Sandoval’s chest. The pain was intense. Two seconds later, the Pancho Villa auto-destructed as the engine’s dampeners went offline. The warship fire-balled, ending the last fight in the successful cyborg assault of Mars.

  -2-

  Millions of kilometers in-system from Mars, Marten Kluge sat in his highly-modified patrol boat. He searched the void with improved sensors, using passive systems: teleoptic scopes, thermal scans, broad-spectrum electromagnetic sweeps, neutrino, and mass detection.

  He sat behind and to the left of Osadar and Nadia in the sensor/communications seat. Respectively, they sat in the pilot and weapons officer’s chairs before a polarized window of ballistic glass. The boat was shaped much like his old shuttle, only bigger. It also had troop-pods attached, big round sections to add living space.

  They had been in space for seven months. He recalled how only a few weeks out from Earth they had watched eight blips burn as the Alliance Fleet built up velocity for Neptune.

  “We need to move like mice in a house full of cats,” Marten had told them then. “The Doom Stars and battleships are leaving Inner Planets, and even if they began deceleration now, it would take them weeks to return. But I’m betting the Highborn and Hawthorne kept something in reserve. They have to be thinking about what happens if and when they destroy the cyborgs.”

  “Meaning what?” Nadia asked.

  “That Highborn and SU warships are still in the Inner System,” Marten had said. “Given what happened to the Jupiter System, it’s likely the cyborgs already have stealth craft here. We have to move with extreme care.”

  “What is our objective?” Osadar asked.

  “Storming the Sun Station,” Marten said. “But for obvious reasons, we’re going to attempt it after the Alliance Fleet has engaged the cyborgs at Neptune.”

  “Your reasoning is sound,” Osadar said, as she peered out of the polarized window. She spent more time than anyone else did staring at the stars. “We need the Highborn to defeat the cyborgs. The Highborn might turn on the accompanying battleships if we captured the Sun Station too soon. How many Highborn do you believe are stationed on our objective?”

  “Since it’s a prime military target,” Marten said, “I’m guessing a lot.”

  Osadar swiveled around to study him. “Your answer suggests that there are more Highborn on the station than our space marines can defeat.”

  “That could be a problem,” Marten admitted.

  “Can we approach the station undetected?” Osadar asked.

  “We have several obstacles to overcome,” Marten said. “We have semi-cloaked vessels, but the Highborn have the giant interferometer. It seems unlikely we can remain hidden the entire time. The other problem involves the Sun’s heat and radiation. They become extreme the closer one approaches it. Our boats were never built to withstand that. Once we reach Mercury’s orbital path, we’ll have to live in our combat-suits.”

  “Will that be enough protection?” Osadar asked.

  “We’re going to find out.”

  “Our victory could be short-lived,” Osadar said.

  “A short-lived victory is better than none,” Marten said. “Besides, it might give other humans in better suits or spacecraft time to take over before other Highborn arrive.”

  “Do you know of other such ships?” Osadar asked.

  Marten hesitated before he nodded.

  “This is news,” Osadar said.

  “Social Unity has a hidden missile-ship out here,” Marten said. “Hawthorne told me about it once. It has been in space since the beginning of hostilities. The crew will certainly be weary, but they have weapons and a ship with heavy particle-shielding. It will be just what we need to get in close to the Sun Station.”

  “You can find this missile-ship?”

  “Hawthorne gave me the coordinates once. I’m not sure if it’s five-nine or nine-five. Maybe I’ll just flip a coin to decide.”

  Osadar shook her head. “The odds are against events helping us, as the universe deplores such actions. I point to my own life as an example, a study in the universe’s ill humor.”

  “I don’t agree,” Marten said. “Out of all the cyborgs, you’re the only one I know who regained her identity. I’d say that makes you unique and a product of the universe’s help.”

  “I’d rather never have become a cyborg in the first place.”

  “I never wanted to become a shock trooper,” Marten said. “Since I did, I plan to use the training and expertise at least one more time.”

  The weeks passed as Omi and Xenophon drilled the space marines in the troop pods. They were merciless, pitting the squads against each other in various exercises. Marten bent his thoughts to inventing new combat games to help keep things fresh. No one was allowed to sit and brood except for Osadar. The weeks drifted into months, and still the cloaked patrol boats crawled toward the Sun.

  By monitoring the news, they kept abreast of the situation between the directors and Cone. The conflict seesawed on Earth. A change came when the former FEC troops in North American Sector once again declared independence, this time from Social Unity. Several weeks later, open conflict occurred in the Indonesian islands between the FEC troops and a small Highborn garrison. It threatened to erupt into wider war as the Japan-stationed FEC also rebelled. The Highborn retaliated with massed armored troopers. It was brutal and bloody as they put down the Japan-based rebels first and then crushed the Indonesian FEC.

  The show of Highborn strength brought a truce between the Chief Director and Vice-Chairman. Africa, the Middle East and Europe went to Backus. Asia sided with Cone, who promptly came to an understanding with the new dictator of North American Sector: Colonel Naga.

  “Social Unity is foolishly breaking into factions,” Osadar said. “Soon enough, the Highborn will play them against each other and complete their conquest.”

  “I’m more worried about what’s happening on Mars,” Nadia said.

  Mars Command kept broadcasting the conflict, showing clips and newsflashes of the deadly cyborg invasion and advance across the surface.

  “How can we win?” Nadia asked one night. She snuggled next to Marten in a warm bunk. Everyone slept in rotation, with someone always sleeping in the short supply beds.

  “I don’t know,” Marten told his wife. “The cyborgs have the advantages, but I refuse to accept they’ll wipe out humanity.” He was silent for a time. “The truth is it’s really up to the Alliance Fleet.”

  “Should we have joined them?” Nadia asked.

  “I keep wondering that.”

  Pouting, Nadia said, “Why did Ah Chen have to come and ruin everything?”


  Marten kissed his wife. He should have separated the women. But he hadn’t thought that a good idea at the time, not with all the fighting men around. He scowled. Morale was slipping and so was cohesion. It was simply too cramped in the boats and Omi and he where the only ones with girls.

  Early next week, an alarm rang in the flight compartment.

  Marten floated to the sensor screen.

  Osadar looked up at him. “There’s your SU missile-ship,” she said. “It’s surrounded by Highborn shuttles.”

  “Are they fighting?” Marten asked.

  Osadar shook her head. “I don’t know yet,” she said, adjusting sensor controls. “But I intend finding out.”

  Grabbing the back of her chair, Marten pulled himself closer, anxiously watching the screen…

  -3-

  The rehabilitation of General James Hawthorne was a slow process. First was the obvious fix to his finger, the one ruined by shooting Grand Admiral Cassius. Fortunately, the medical facilities aboard the Vladimir Lenin were top-rate. In short order, he had a new finger. The repair to his health and spirits was another matter.

  There were several problems. Years of grinding work and intense pressure had taken a serious toll of his body. Mental fatigue made it worse, and guilt over the nuclear bombardment of the rebellious Soviets had been eating away at his conscience. The first few days aboard the Vladimir Lenin found him in a lone cubicle as he slept around the clock. He finally stirred, nibbling at his food and then lying on his bunk again, staring at the ceiling.

  The days became weeks and then the Vladimir Lenin made the short flight to Luna. Before they began acceleration for Neptune, there was a knock on the wardroom door.

  Hawthorne stared up at the ceiling with his long-fingered hands twined together on his chest. He’d been looking up at the ceiling for days, replaying a thousand decisions, seeing endless ways he could have made better choices. People who said they would never change anything in their life…he didn’t understand that. He would have done hundreds of things differently.

  The knock became insistent. There had been others earlier. Hawthorne had ignored them and finally they had gone away. This one didn’t sound like it was going away soon.

  “Who is it?” Hawthorne asked.

  “Commodore Blackstone. Do you mind if I come in?”

  “Joseph?” Hawthorne asked.

  “It’s easier talking face-to-face.”

  Hawthorne didn’t agree. Vaguely, he realized this was the Vladimir Lenin, Blackstone’s battleship.

  His forehead wrinkled as he attempted to summon the energy to sit up. He found the willpower lacking. He never should have said anything.

  Blackstone banged on the door again. “I need to speak to you, sir.”

  Hawthorne might have shouted, “Go away!” but he lacked the willpower for that, too. “Enter if you must,” he finally said.

  The door slid open and Commodore Blackstone floated in.

  Hawthorne was shocked at how Blackstone had aged. The rings under the man’s eyes, the sagging skin… Is this what prolonged space exposure brought? Then he noticed how Blackstone looked at him. Hawthorne didn’t like it, so he turned away.

  “You can’t just lie here,” Blackstone said.

  Hawthorne remained mute.

  “There’s civil war on Earth,” Blackstone said.

  Hawthorne remembered someone else yelling that through the door several days ago.

  “Someone faked your resignation,” Blackstone added.

  A momentary tingle went through Hawthorne. The feeling died, fortunately. He didn’t want the job anymore. It had been killing him. He had killed millions of innocent civilians who had simply wanted something to eat. A leader who couldn’t feed his people needed to be dragged behind a barn and shot in the head. They should have shot him a long time ago.

  “James, have you heard a word I’ve said?”

  Hawthorne frowned. Was there someone in the room? Curious, he rolled onto his back and noticed Commodore Blackstone hovering nearby.

  “Hello, Joseph,” Hawthorne said.

  The Commodore blinked in confusion. Then the thin man scowled. “Now see here. You have to get it together. You’re the Supreme Commander of Social Unity. You’ve been thwarting the Highborn for years and—”

  A stricken look crossed Hawthorne’s features as he began to shake his head.

  “What’s wrong?” Blackstone asked.

  “I resigned.”

  “No you didn’t. Someone forged it.”

  “Oh.”

  “The forgery has caused a fracture on Earth. The directors voted one of their own into the leadership, a Director Backus.”

  “A good man,” Hawthorne said. “I found him in an Algae Factory in Cairo. His production figures were amazing. I elevated him on the spot. He’s been a rising star ever since.”

  “He’s trying to oust Vice-Chairman Cone.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone named Cone. Do you know anyone by that name?”

  “Ah, Security-Specialist Cone. So she made a stab at power, did she? I thought she might.”

  “She’s losing.”

  “Not for long,” Hawthorne said.

  “You have to broadcast something to them.”

  Hawthorne turned his head, for the first time directly meeting Blackstone’s gaze. “You haven’t thought that through. If I speak, the Highborn will demand my blood. That could dissolve our shaky partnership.”

  “The Grand Admiral attacked you. He set you up.”

  “Yes, but no matter how you look at it, a preman killed a Highborn. That’s a grave offense to the supermen.”

  “What are you going to do then?” Blackstone asked. “Stay in here forever?”

  “The question is: what are you going to do? What have the Highborn done now that Cassius is dead?”

  “They’ve created a triumvirate.”

  “The Doom Star admirals are ruling by committee?” asked Hawthorne.

  “Something like that,” Blackstone said.

  “What have they decided?”

  “To attack the cyborgs in the Neptune System.”

  “What about you?” Hawthorne asked.

  “We’re joining them, Vice-Admiral Mandela and me.”

  “Who holds the highest command?”

  “It’s a triumvirate,” Blackstone said.

  “I understand. But who will make the command decisions in the heat of battle?”

  “They each will, I suppose.”

  Hawthorne thought about it, and shrugged after a time.

  “That’s it?” Blackstone asked. “You shrug?”

  “What else do you expect me to do?”

  “We need a leader, an overarching commander for us and them.”

  “Can you convince the Highborn of that?”

  “I can’t,” Blackstone said. “Maybe you can.”

  Hawthorne gave a short, brittle laugh.

  “With divided commands, we’re doomed to defeat,” Blackstone said.

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Unity of command is vital to victory.”

  “I could name you several historical fleet actions that show the contrary. They were important victories, too, against an enemy with cyborg-like unity of command.”

  “I can’t think of any,” Blackstone said.

  “What about the Battle of Lepanto?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It was a naval battle on Earth. It occurred in 1571 as Europeans fought the conquering Turks. The Venetians, Spaniards and Papal forces quarreled right up until the moment of cannon-fire. Or take the Battle of Salamis in ancient times. The Athenians, Spartans, Corinthians and others debated fiercely as the Persian King of kings moved his fleet to annihilate the arguing Greeks. It was a Persian debacle. Victorious committees running a campaign—especially fleet actions—are nothing new.”

  “It still seems like a poor way to coordinate our last desperate action to save humanity,” Blackst
one said.

  “Yes,” Hawthorne said.

  Blackstone made an explosive sound. “At least Social Unity should fight together. It is the mantra of our political existence.”

  “Why wouldn’t we fight united?”

  “Because we have two senior officers with the remnants of their fleets,” Blackstone said. “Neither Vice-Admiral Mandela nor I care to take orders from the other.”

  “Vice-Admiral outranks Commodore,” Hawthorne said.

  “His was a political appointment!” Blackstone shouted.

  It made Hawthorne wince.

  Calming himself, Blackstone said, “Under no circumstances will I take orders from him that jeopardizes my ships.”

  Hawthorne managed a nod.

  “What’s wrong with you, man?” Blackstone said. “How come you’re just lying there? The least you could do is give me an order.”

  Hawthorne made a vague gesture before he turned away.

  Blackstone spoke more, but Hawthorne tuned him out. Eventually, the Commodore left.

  Hawthorne closed his eyes, falling into a troubled sleep. He ate, slept and stared until alarms rang thought the Vladimir Lenin. The noise wouldn’t stop. Finally, Hawthorne realized it was the warning sounds before hard acceleration. He hurried to the bathroom and then strapped himself onto his bed.

  Ninety-three minutes later, the grueling acceleration began. It leveled off after several hours, maintaining one-point-five Gs.

  The extended sleep, mental rest and utter lack of everything but the physical pressure of acceleration slowly restored some of Hawthorne’s energy. He began to wander the long, curving halls of the battleship. After a week, he attempted limited exercises, which improved his appetite. He knew of an old German proverb: Eating builds appetite. In his case, it proved true.

  His curiosity began to stir again, although it wasn’t about the situation on Earth. Whenever anyone tried to talk to him about the SU civil war, he blanked out. It didn’t matter to him anymore. People soon knew to avoid the topic.

  Slowly, Hawthorne became curious about Neptune, the planet, the system and the cyborg defenses there.

  Neptune was the last regular planet of the Solar System. Pluto—along with several others like Ceres in the Asteroid Belt—was considered a dwarf planet. On average, Neptune was about four-point-five billion kilometers from the Sun, or a little over thirty AUs away. Light traveled at 300,000 kilometers per second. That meant it took a ray of light roughly four hours and sixteen minutes to travel from the Sun to Neptune. The Vladimir Lenin would make the trip in a little over eight months, accelerating, coasting and then decelerating once near enough. Neptune’s orbit was so large that it took 165 years for it to complete one circuit around the Sun.