Doom Star: Book 05 - Planet Wrecker Page 27

  “We’ve made it this far,” Marten told them. “And we’ve killed cyborgs. There can’t be that many left.”

  He had no idea if that was true or not, but it was good for morale if the men believed it. They’d lost over half the space marines who had made it onto the asteroid. If you counted all the space marines and ship personnel who had made the journey from Jupiter, less than a third had survived this far.

  They used stairwells, avoiding lifts, and climbed for the domes. These were the veterans from the cyborg assault in the Jovian System. They’d fought the melded machine-men before and survived, some of them more than once. They’d absorbed Marten’s refined tactics and had trained religiously before and during the trip here. Each knew what to do. Few panicked anymore, and each had his own method for dealing with the aliens from Neptune, in this instance from Saturn, too.

  Marten signaled by pumping a gloved fist. He stood near the hatch that by the specs in his HUD said led into the first dome. Then he raised his index finger and made a circular motion. These were Highborn-taught signals that Marten had learned in his shock trooper days in the Sun-Works Factory.

  Omi and three other space marines crouched nearby. Each gripped a grenade cluster.

  Marten hardened his resolve, braced himself against Osadar and shoved open the hatch. Then Omi and the others lunged forward, hurling their grenade clusters into the room. Flashes occurred, one right after the other.

  With a ragged cry, Marten sprang through, his gyroc firing. The room held screens, monitors and a vast computer array. There were clear bubbles with layered tissues of programmed brain-mass in them. Marten counted seven. All around were computer-banks, cryogenic-units and medical facilities. Tubes pulsed with red liquid. Green gels shifted in the bubbles and tiny rays beamed back and forth from odd antenna.

  Marten’s trigger finger moved four times before his brain registered the thought: This is a Web-Mind. Even as he realized it, the bubbles shattered and brain-mass exploded outward. Then other space marines added to the mayhem, blowing away computer banks and medical units.

  It was a glorious moment, and it made Marten grin harshly. He grinned even as he realized that this moment had been dearly paid for in human blood and agony. He hoped the vile mass of brain-tissue felt pain. He hoped it hurt like hell.

  -75-

  Marten, Nadia and Omi sat in a control room in the third dome. Dead cyborgs lay scattered on the floor. A window showed the asteroid’s bleak surface of crater-plain and the star-field above. The room held breathable air.

  With a hiss, Marten unsealed his helmet, rotated it off the locks and lifted it from his head. The room reeked of burnt electronics. But Marten didn’t care. He scratched his nose and rubbed tired eyes.

  Nadia and Omi acted similarly. Nadia had dark circles around her eyes. A cut on Omi’s forehead dripped blood into one of his brows.

  “We did it,” Omi whispered. “We took our asteroid.”

  “Maybe,” Marten said. “We haven’t checked everywhere. There may be some cyborgs hiding.”

  Omi shook his head. “They attacked when it might have been better for them to wait for us. I think they’ve thrown every cyborg into the fray.”

  Nadia stood up, moved near and half-collapsed into Marten’s arms. He kissed her salty lips as she wept silently.

  “I thought I was going to die,” she whispered.

  “We all did,” said Marten. He hugged her. It was difficult with her armored vacc-suit. Their pieces clanged against each other. He was overjoyed she was alive. If she’d died…what would have been the point of all this?

  “It’s time,” a tinny voice crackled from each of their helmet’s headphones.

  Marten lifted a hand-unit. “What was that?” he asked.

  “The fusion core is online,” said Osadar.

  “What about the damaged coils?” Marten asked.

  “There are some secondary banks,” said Osadar. “I’ve already rerouted.”

  “You should send a message to the Highborn,” Nadia said. “Otherwise, they might bombard the asteroid if we move it without first announcing it.”

  “I don’t agree,” said Marten. “By moving the asteroid, we show we won. And I don’t like the idea about broadcasting our victory.”

  “Why not?” asked Omi.

  “Maybe the cyborgs will send torpedoes from the other asteroids,” Marten said.

  “They’ll more likely do that once we’re moving,” Omi said.

  “But at least the asteroid will be moving by then,” said Marten. “That’s the point.”

  “What do we do after that?” asked Omi. “Ride the asteroid to its new heading?”

  “You know the answer,” Marten said. “Once our asteroid is safely headed to a new destination, we climb into the patrol boats and storm another asteroid.”

  “We don’t have enough space marines left for that,” Omi said. “Look how many we lost capturing this one.”

  “We’ll have to coordinate with others,” Marten said.

  “Has anyone else won?” asked Omi.

  “If we did it, Highborn should have been able to,” Marten said.

  “We tackled a small asteroid,” Nadia said. “They hit the big ones.”

  “It is time,” Osadar radioed.

  Desperately wanting nothing more than to sleep, Marten stood up just the same. Then he approached the asteroid’s primary controls. Mankind’s future rested on their ability to decipher cyborg routing.

  -76-

  Captain Mune witnessed it from a nearby asteroid, the one designated as D. Grand Admiral Cassius watched from the Julius Caesar as he sat in his shell, examining holoimages. Supreme Commander Hawthorne saw it on the screens deep in the Joho Mountains.

  Asteroid E rotated as huge jets flared. Seventeen minutes later, a flicker appeared in the giant, crater-sized exhaust-port. Then a vast plume erupted from the asteroid. It lengthened to over one hundred kilometers. With the thrust, Asteroid E so very slowly began to change its heading and velocity. Given enough time on this new vector, it would glide past the Earth and no longer impact with the third planet from the Sun.

  Unfortunately, it was only one asteroid out of seventeen, and time was fast running out.

  -77-

  As the battle raged on the asteroids speeding for Earth, Hawthorne accepted a fateful call from Cone.

  She was in the Japanese Home Islands, Highborn-controlled territory. During these past few days, Cone and her teams had made contact with Free Earth Corps people. Now she called with interesting information, and spoke via a tight-link security beam to Hawthorne in his office in the Joho Command Bunker.

  ***

  CONE: I’m afraid I must keep this short, sir. My expert has established the fact of nearly constant enemy surveillance of my whereabouts and communications. The FEC soldiers and their loyalty monitors are nervous.

  HAWTHORNE: Are you in immediate jeopardy?

  CONE: Every minute I’m here. The islands are heavily militarized, full of military police and secret service personnel. The first runs loyalty checks on the soldiers and the second searches for spies and saboteurs.

  HAWTHORNE: Perhaps we should try to establish contact with the security services.

  CONE: The FEC soldiers don’t recommend it.

  HAWTHORNE: Why not?

  CONE: Sir, my expert has assured me I’m clean of listening devices—for the moment. But the tails will close in soon and likely frisk us more thoroughly. This will be my only call from the islands where I can guarantee a tight link.

  HAWTHORNE: I understand. What do you have for me?

  CONE: As I said, the FEC soldiers are nervous. Everything is in turmoil and the Highborn have left Earth as we surmised. I can fully substantiate that now. The soldiers I’ve spoken to are certain the asteroids will strike the planet. Why otherwise would the Highborn have completely evacuated Earth?

  HAWTHORNE: And these soldiers are willing to turn?

  CONE: (pauses) They’re sensitive
to terminology. Perhaps it’s their long association with the super soldiers. They bristle at the idea of disloyalty to the Highborn or any idea that they’ve betrayed Earth through their hostilities.

  HAWTHORNE: What is it they think they’ve done?

  CONE: Become the best soldiers in the world.

  HAWTHORNE: Do they think they’re better than the Highborn?

  CONE: They’re proud of their military achievements and constantly point to their victories in North America.

  HAWTHORNE: Don’t they realize that space superiority and Highborn insertions into critical battles allowed them these victories?

  CONE: They’re proud, sir. And they think of these victories as coming from their sweat, blood and military acumen.

  HAWTHORNE: So they don’t understand that they’re traitors to everything they used to hold dear?

  CONE: Enemy propaganda has brainwashed their thinking.

  HAWTHORNE: I think I understand. The ancient French Foreign Legion used to achieve the same results with their recruits.

  CONE: I’m unfamiliar with this legion.

  HAWTHORNE: It doesn’t matter now. You’re on a tight schedule and wish to let me know something critical, I presume.

  CONE: I’ve found several colonels willing to meet with you, sir.

  HAWTHORNE: I’d hoped to speak with generals and preferably with a field marshal or two.

  CONE: There are no FEC generals or field marshals.

  HAWTHORNE: Before they left the planet, did the Highborn order them shot?

  CONE: It is my understanding that there have never been any FEC generals or field marshals.

  HAWTHORNE: Explain that.

  CONE: It is simple political cunning, maybe military cunning, too. Highborn officers command all division-level or larger FEC formations. Therefore, the highest slot a man can aspire to is colonel.

  HAWTHORNE: What about staff officers?

  CONE: Excuse me, sir?

  HAWTHORNE: Surely, there must be chief of staffs of general grade.

  CONE: No man is higher-ranked than colonel. That’s been made clear to me on several occasions.

  HAWTHORNE: Who controls the various FEC divisions and armies now that the Highborn have fled?

  CONE: As I said, sir, with the Highborn evacuation there’s great unrest among the FEC soldiers.

  HAWTHORNE: That will make everything much harder. I’d hoped to win a charismatic general to our side and have him bring over other FEC personnel.

  CONE: I read your brief, sir. And I think I’ve found your man.

  HAWTHORNE: A colonel?

  CONE: Two colonels, sir. One is Colonel McLeod of the Twenty-second Jump-Jet Battalion. He’s the most highly decorated FEC soldier on Earth. Originally, he’s from Australian Sector. He’s a fire-breather, as they say here. And he’s angry at the Highborn.

  HAWTHORNE: That they fled Earth at this critical hour?

  CONE: That they failed to take him. He spoke about his spilled blood on three different continents. Colonel McLeod believes himself betrayed.

  HAWTHORNE: (laughs grimly) Is he delusional?

  CONE: He’s enraged at the idea of dying helplessly, and he wants revenge. I think Colonel McLeod may be your man, sir.

  HAWTHORNE: You spoke about another colonel.

  CONE: I’ll have to cut this short, sir. My expert says security people are already cordoning off the area.

  HAWTHORNE: Yes, yes, hurry then.

  CONE: Colonel Naga is a panzer officer, a tank-man. He enlisted after the Japan Campaign and he has driven from the tip of South America to Hudson Bay in Manitoba Sector. His men are fanatically loyal to him. He believes himself worthy of higher command, and he hungers for power. If you offered him political control of North or South America, I believe you’d win him over.

  HAWTHORNE: These two are the only—

  CONE: Excuse me, sir. I must run or risk execution. Are you willing to meet these two? They insist on a face-to-face meeting.

  HAWTHORNE: Where?

  CONE: I suggest along the coast of Korean Sector.

  HAWTHORNE: Yes, agreed. Where exactly do you suggest?

  CONE: (panting) On the Pyongyang beachhead at twelve hundred hours. We will arrive via hovercraft.

  HAWTHORNE: I’ll be waiting. Hawthorne out.

  -78-

  Early next morning, Hawthorne left the Joho Mountains in a two-seater attack-jet. The pilot flew nap-of-the-Earth, roaring over trees, valleys and low hills. At times, Hawthorne twisted around and watched the highest leaves rustle from the jet’s wash. The trip was tiring, with everything soon blurring below him.

  The Highborn laser satellites had headed out to space to do battle with the approaching asteroids. But Hawthorne wasn’t taking any chances. He trusted the Highborn to act with ruthless cunning, keeping something in low orbit to hit when the right moment came.

  Toward the end of the trip as they flashed over the Liaotung Mountains, Hawthorne pressed his nose against the canopy’s glass. Orange flowers blossomed on the hillsides. They were beautiful. The idea that cyborg-sent asteroids would soon crash into Earth and burn everything in an end-of-the-world holocaust made him nauseous. That he’d had anything to do with originally summoning these aliens made it a hundred times worse. Were the Highborn to blame for that? They’re the ones who’d started the rebellion.

  Highborn, cyborgs, plunging asteroids—madness gripped the Solar System. Now he was rushing to meet traitors to humanity, outlaws who had cast their lot with mankind’s nightmare. Had the fools only realized now that they were bootlicking slaves to genetic supremacists? How could he trust such people?

  Hawthorne sat back as the jet whooshed over a mountain, zooming toward a river in the distance. He couldn’t trust them. He didn’t even trust Cone. Maybe the only people he’d ever really trusted were Captain Mune and his bionic soldiers. Most of them were already dead from trying to storm stellar death.

  Gazing up at the sky, Hawthorne wondered how they fared. He wondered if Mune was even alive.

  “We’re near our destination, sir,” the pilot said.

  “Yes, thank you,” Hawthorne said. Two FEC colonels, two traitors, two ambitious climbers wanted to speak with him face-to-face. For the sake of Earth, for the sake of humanity’s future, he would deal with them. But if he ever trusted them, he hoped he’d die a crushing death beneath the steel treads of a cybertank.

  -79-

  Waves lapped onto the sandy beach, throwing up swirling foam and a tangled cluster of rubber-like plants.

  Hawthorne stood on a grassy dune ninety meters back from the beach. Beside him, Manteuffel spoke into a com-unit. Snipers with scopes lay everywhere and out of sight. Jump-jets waited ten kilometers inland, ready to come screaming into action, firing cannons and missiles.

  “There, sir,” Manteuffel said, pointing.

  Hawthorne nodded. He’d been watching the speck out at sea. It had steadily grown larger. The speck represented a hovercraft, which had left Japan and sped up the southern side of the Korean Peninsula.

  “You’re too exposed here, sir,” Manteuffel said.

  “I sent Cone, not suicide troops,” Hawthorne said.

  “The Highborn have used hypnotically-motivated soldiers before. This may be a trap.”

  Hawthorne glanced at the worried Manteuffel. The wind tugged at the small officer’s tunic and he kept brushing his watering, narrowed eyes. For a fact, it was chilly on the beach. The salty tang, however, was a joy compared to the recycled air of the Joho Complex. It was even better-smelling as he considered that this might be the last time he’d ever see the ocean.

  “Caution is wise,” Hawthorne told Manteuffel. “But sometimes too much fear becomes paralyzing. The end of the world is near. Taking a chance or two….” Hawthorne shrugged.

  “I’ve never known you as a fatalist, sir.”

  “The war has worn me down,” Hawthorne said. He considered that, and he turned to Manteuffel. “Do you know that Napoleon said a general o
nly has a few years for fighting? Then his time is over. Napoleon went on to prove his adage, showing in his later years that his fine grasp of the art of war had slipped. I wonder sometimes if my time has past.”

  “If not you, who sir?” asked Manteuffel.

  Hawthorne smiled sadly. “It would be a nice fantasy to think myself irreplaceable. Many leaders have thought of themselves like that. They were each wrong. If I pass, another will rise up to take my place.”

  Manteuffel frowned thoughtfully.

  Soon, the hovercraft roared toward the beach. It was a loud vehicle, protected by composite armor and outfitted with a cannon, two torpedo-launchers and three heavy machine-gun mounts. A battalion flag snapped from the top of a long antenna, while slanted glass windows showed where the hovercraft’s operator stayed. The machine roared toward them as it blew spray and foam across the water.

  “It’s heading straight at us, sir,” Manteuffel shouted in warning.

  Hawthorne’s legs tightened. He wanted to hurl himself to the grass. But that would be too undignified. Then he wondered if he’d become too proud. Wouldn’t it be wiser to throw himself prone and survive, then keep his pride, stand and die? But if this were a test of his mettle and the outcome would determine if the colonels betrayed their masters—

  Before Hawthorne could convince himself to hit the ground, the hovercraft rose up on a cushion of air and then whined less as it settled onto the sand. A few moments later, a hatch opened and three people jumped onto the sand.

  They trudged toward him. Hawthorne recognized Cone in her black jacket and sunglasses. The big man beside her must be McLeod. He had wild red hair, a mass of freckles and likely possessed a Viking heritage. Even in combat fatigues, the man looked as if he should be captaining a dragon-boat of old. The other one must be Colonel Naga. He was slim, with black hair that almost seemed purple. Dangling from his neck was a pair of goggles.