Star Fortress ds-6 Read online

  From Venus, Commandant Maximus had launched more missiles, which accelerated fast. Then Osadar reported hidden drones burning into life, taking out one HB missile after another.

  That had started a debate. The consensus seemed clear: cyborgs had seeded Inner Planetary space with mines and seeker drones.

  “They were placed there to protect their stealth-ships,” Marten said. “Now the seekers are protecting us.”

  “Ironic,” Osadar said.

  What Marten found more ironic were the cyborg forces zeroing in on the Sun Station. The images had been faint and fuzzy. Lasers flashed. Drones exploded and cyborg pods died thousands of kilometers from their objective. A few must have made it through the defensive field and boarded the station. Several hours ago, Marten, Omi, Nadia, Xenophon and others had crowded around the screen. Mostly they viewed the giant fireball. It was the sounds in their headphones that kept them glancing into each other’s eyes.

  Highborn sent distress signals. Then came distinctive combat noises and Highborn shouting to each other. A few times Marten heard high-speed speech that put goosebumps on his flesh. Cyborgs—the cyborgs were using their own private binary language.

  The Highborn calls lessened, and then the last transmission came in: “They’re breaching into the control chamber! I’m beginning the auto-destruct sequence.” Gunfire erupted and then crackling noises that surely meant silence on the station.

  Marten blinked sweat out of his eyes. He along with everyone else wondered if the Highborn had completed his task or if the cyborgs now controlled the Sun Station.

  He glanced at Nadia floating beside him. What kind of universe created cyborgs? The scientists with their labs and genetically created super-soldiers—Marten shook his head. It was bad enough tampering with man like that. But to meld flesh with machines was blasphemy against nature. It brought the due reward of a hellish existence and maybe now the extinction of humanity.

  Marten clutched his gyroc and something vital smoldered in his eyes. He was freaking hot. He was thirsty, and he was on a boat headed for a showdown with evil beings. By the sounds, the cyborgs had killed the Highborn. What chance did a handful of space marines have?

  Gripping his rifle even harder, Marten thought back to the glass tube in Sydney. Major Orlov had put him in it, and he had pumped.

  “I didn’t give up then,” he whispered. “I damn well don’t plan on giving up now.” If he were headed to his death, he would die fighting. Maybe this was his Force-Leader Yakov hour. I’m not running away from the fight. I’m headed for it.

  He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want Nadia to die. But he didn’t want to live in a universe ruled by cyborgs.

  “You say something?” Omi asked.

  “Yeah,” Marten said. “We’ve dug them out of their fortresses before. We can do it again.”

  Omi stared at him. “Last time we had a fleet and ten-to-one odds on our side.”

  Marten shrugged even as his breathing became ragged. He sucked on a tube, letting warm water trickle down his throat. He wondered if this small vessel could make it past the defensive zone. It was doubtful the cyborgs had destroyed every HB mine or laser-point. Thinking about it reminded him of his shock trooper training at Mercury.

  “Mirrors are moving!” Osadar radioed. Her words were difficult to decipher over the heavy crackling.

  Mirrors? Marten wasn’t aware Osadar had spotted any of them. The mirrors were supposed to be near the solar atmosphere.

  “Give me a visual,” he said.

  “Can’t,” she said. “I’ll give you virtual reality imaging instead.”

  Marten lifted the portable screen so more of the marines could see. He could feel them gathering around and others craning for a look. The screen was fuzzy. Then a silvery object appeared. It was incredibly thin. Against the Sun, it was a tiny speck.

  The image grew larger, showing more of the mirror. According to Osadar, there were thousands of these. They were weighted in position by a clever technology that used the rays to fuel the mechanism that kept them still. Otherwise, they would act like a huge solar-wind sail. The focuser was on a similar scale as the rest of the weapon, kilometers wide.

  “Is the weapon activating?” Marten asked.

  “I have to check some other scans,” Osadar said.

  Marten tried to envision thousands of the gigantic mirrors sending the blistering sunlight at the focuser. It represented a titanic amount of energy, an inconceivable amount.

  “It’s been activated,” Osadar said. “Someone is firing it.”

  “Cyborgs?” asked Marten.

  “Who are they shooting?” she asked.

  “Can you get a visual of the beam?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  As the William Tell drifted toward the Sun Station, the giant focuser made minute corrections. Then it happened. For the first time, the Sun weapon beamed a titanic ray of incandescent fury. The tip of the beam flashed at the speed of light for a distant object.

  “Do you see that?” Osadar asked.

  On the screen, a bar of concentrated sunlight shot somewhere.

  Marten stopped breathing as a feeling of awe spread through him. He forgot to feel hot as he watched the beam.

  The hellish ray reached Mercury’s orbital path in minutes. In a little over eight minutes, the beam passed Earth’s orbital path. Several more minutes brought it as far as Mars. Then the Sunbeam continued its journey, heading out for deep space.

  * * *

  Across the Solar System on Triton, the Prime Web-Mind seethed with impatience as it issued directives and alerted the surface defenses. Its movable life-chamber was deep underground in an armored area. With the destruction of two Doom Stars, it should be safe. But there was no sense in taking chances now.

  In the inner room, in a bath of green light, brain domes pulsed with neural charges. The backup computers ran computations. Life support monitors ensured a constant supply of nutrients and different viewers showed scanner data.

  Shocked by the space battle, the Prime had launched endless logic probes. There had been an extremely low probability of any of its enemies surviving the battle. Yet some had survived. That caused the Prime to doubt its earlier computations. Had self-justification compromised its cognitive abilities? Solipsism lay there: the philosophical idea that only one’s own mind, alone, was sure to exist. It was a serious epistemological error, although there were several interesting factors pointing to its reality.

  The mass, explosive power and durability of the drone swarm should have achieved complete victory. The Prime had computed a negligible two percent failure rate. Data suggested there had been a four point three percent reporting error, with a zero point eight percent computational error.

  The strategy should have worked flawlessly. Likely, the failure had been operational in nature. Yes, the flow of data suggested that. The loss of Nereid and Proteus—bitter to observe—had ensured the enemy’s close approach to Neptune. The Highborn had surely wished to beam Triton into submission in the same manner as the other moons. How delightful to watch the braking and then flight of the eight intruders. Perhaps it should have accelerated the drones sooner, but it hadn’t wanted anything to foil strategic surprise. The plan had rested on surprise, and the plan had achieved partial success.

  Two Doom Stars are gone. The Prime replayed the vessels’ destruction, using twelve percent of its brainpower to delight in the rare spectacle. Watching their advance these eight months had been painful and worrisome. With the death of the third Doom Star, I will have achieved system victory.

  Thirty-three percent of its brainpower used long-distance tight-beams to monitor the fighting on the Sun Station. The station’s outer defenses had proven more powerful than it had inferred. Still, it knew now that cyborgs had reached the station in number. That was critical, as cyborgs possessed tactical superiority to any known form of infantry. Once the cyborgs gained control of the station, they would perform as instructed. Destruction of th
e last Doom Star was paramount. Along with that message, the Prime had sent projected Doom Star locations and weighted percentages of future locations.

  Fourteen percent of its brainpower was dedicated to watching the massive warship. Giant teleoptic towers on Triton’s surface minutely moved their lens as they tracked the enemy ships.

  Part of the fourteen percent, along with dedicated computers, broke down the ships’ actions. Bright flares showed the exhausts of enemy shuttles and pods crisscrossing the large volume of battle-space. Rationality programs deduced that the humans searched for survivors, as incredible as that seemed.

  They give me a further advantage as they waste time. It is inconceivable. I would never waste the most precious commodity. Time is the essence of life. I waste nothing, neither time, nor resources, nor computations. Once again, I prove my superiority to exist. How pitiful they really are, a blight upon the ALL.

  The Prime scanned former interviews, selecting one to re-watch. It had interviewed several captive Neptunian scientists. The answers had startled it, a thing not easily achieved.

  Like a banker watching a critical investment, the Prime tracked the last Doom Star. The giant vessel continued its predicted course through Neptunian space. The Prime had accounted for a three percent deviation. Instead, its computations and analytic predictions were perfect.

  I am approaching perfection. With the elimination of the Homo sapiens and Highborn, it could reroute more of its brainpower to achieving Nirvana: a perfect state of cyborg completeness and dominance. Small habitats of gene-weeded humans would supply the brains for more Web-Minds until it learned how to cultivate its own tissue-beds.

  A program alert shifted the Prime’s concentration. The vessel’s long-ranged laser, the final danger came from it. A few more hours of full concentration until the Doom Star was destroyed…

  Then I will be safe. Then nothing can harm me and I will have won everything.

  * * *

  On the Napoleon Bonaparte, Admiral Sulla applied another coat of grease to his face as he sat in the command chair. His dark eyes shone with victory-lust. He dipped his fingers into the cream and lathered it over his right cheek.

  He had survived the great encounter with the cyborgs. The drone swarm—Sulla scowled as he recalled the death of two Doom Stars. The battle had been a close-run thing. The premen had acted courageously and done their part. Now he wondered if he could he be wrong about the lower race.

  Maybe I can run tests, saving the bravest among them. It might be possible through careful breeding to raise the genetic standard of the herd. I will create a vassal race, one good enough to live among the Highborn. Sulla nodded, enjoying his merciful thought. He would reward the courage shown here. No doubt, the premen couldn’t understand his generosity. I am letting them live. That is the thing.

  He paused before re-dipping his fingers into the grease. Could his interaction with the premen have tainted him? He frowned thoughtfully as a damage-control technician checked a weapons screen.

  Insidious, he thought. I have been tainted. Me merciful—Sulla the Ultraist, Grand Admiral of the Highborn?

  Since he was the last admiral and controlled the last Doom Star, it made sense he could grant himself whatever title he desired. Cassius had self-elevated himself to Grand Admiral. Now he had taken the rank because he had won the Battle for Neptune. Who could dare say otherwise? He was clearly the greatest Highborn. Scipio, Cato, Grand Admiral Cassius, they were all gone, all dead. The cowardly Maximus, the Commandant who hadn’t been able to generate the courage to come out to Neptune and face the enemy—Maximus would never give him trouble. Sulla knew that in his gut.

  My intuition has never failed me.

  As Sulla’s gloating smile widened, the terrible beam from the Sun neared Neptune System. The Sunbeam shot from the focuser had traveled at 300,000 kilometers per second. With that speed, it had taken four point twelve hours to cross the distance that had taken the Alliance Fleet a little over eight months to travel. Due to the speed of the attack, there was no warning of death’s approach aboard the Napoleon Bonaparte.

  The repair-teams feverishly brought the Doom Star back to battle readiness. The cyborg stealth-ships continued hiding in the void and the last drones had exhausted their fuels, moving out-system with great velocity. Then the Sunbeam flashed onto its target. In a frightfully concentrated ray, the Sun’s energy struck the collapsium plating and immediately set the metal to boiling. Alarms rang aboard the Napoleon Bonaparte as heat levels rose intolerably.

  Smoke rose from screens as flames burst into existence on the bulkheads.

  Sulla glanced about, his eyes wide. Sweat mixed with grease so drops rolled off his chin. “What’s happening?” he shouted.

  The fury of the ray was greater by many magnitudes than the proton beams on Earth. It was the greatest weapon ever devised in the Solar System.

  As Highborn tore off their shirts, beating the fiery walls with them, the Sunbeam burned through the collapsium.

  “Report!” Sulla shouted. The hairs on his arms began to curl and crisp. The smell of cooked flesh brought a hideous look of rage to his eyes. “What is causing this?”

  They were his last words as the incredible ray fired across the vast gulf of four and a half billion kilometers consumed the Doom Star. The great vessel slagged, melted and then burned away under the furious power of the great Sunbeam of Inner Planets.

  * * *

  The SU battleships were two and three and quarter thousand kilometers away from the Napoleon Bonaparte respectively.

  On the bridge of the Vladimir Lenin, Hawthorne, Blackstone and Kursk stood around the command module. With astonishment, they watched the module’s screens.

  Slack-faced, Kursk managed to whisper, “The Doom Star is gone. They’re all gone. There are no more Doom Stars in the Solar System.”

  “Get us out of here,” Hawthorne said in a ragged voice. “We have to move before it targets us.”

  “What’s firing?” Blackstone asked, bewildered.

  Kursk shook her head. “The power wattages are off the charts. I do not understand this.”

  “How are we going to storm Triton now?” Blackstone asked. His thin features whitened. “We needed the Doom Star’s heavy beam. Two battleships can’t assault Triton. We won’t even dent the number of laser-turrets before they burn us.”

  Hawthorne sagged against the module. All the effort, all the fighting and all the enduring these past years… “They’ve won,” he said. His words were unequivocal and struck like a hammer blow to the kidneys. “The cyborgs have won.” He could hardly comprehend the immensity of what he said. He could hardly breathe. Yet he managed to add, “Humanity is doomed.”

  -12-

  Marten Kluge wasn’t aware of the Supreme Commander’s pronouncement. He just knew that his handful of space marines had to storm onto the Sun Station and oust the victorious cyborgs or that beam would destroy everything he held dear.

  It could target Earth and beam it into cinders. It could fry the Venusian sunshield and then Venus. The Sun-Works Factory would never survive the ray. It was an annihilating weapon, meant to give utter dominance to the person controlling it. No wonder Commandant Maximus had remained behind. With it, he could have set himself up as the Solar System’s emperor, the Sunbeam his hammer of royal authority. The heavily fortified Luna Base—once the cyborgs targeted it, they could slice the Moon into pieces. This was the ultimate weapon, and the cyborgs owned it, meaning that nothing could stop them now.

  Omi stared at him through his helmet’s visor. The Korean’s harsh features seemed starker than ever. “Do we have a chance?”

  “We’re mankind’s last chance,” Marten snarled.

  Through the visor, Omi’s stare lengthened until his lips twisted into a rare smile. “The dregs of Sydney are going to save humanity. Turbo would have liked that.”

  Turbo…Marten scowled. Too many good friends had died over the years: Force-Leader Yakov, Major Diaz of the Martian Co
mmandoes, Lance, Vip, Turbo, Stick and Kang, evil old Kang of the Red Blades. He missed them all.

  “Get ready,” Osadar radioed. “We’re about to begin deceleration.”

  Marten gripped his gyroc. “Storming another stronghold—how many times have we done this?”

  “Too many,” Omi said, “far too many.”

  “We will defeat them,” Felix said. In his powered armor and with his size, the hulking Highborn was bigger than any of the space marines.

  There was a lurch aboard the patrol boat. Marten clanged against Group-Leader Xenophon.

  “Look at this,” Osadar said over the harshly crackling radio.

  Marten had to turn down the volume the crackling became so bad. “What happened?” he asked, even though he knew what had happened. The ion engine had begun to brake the boat’s velocity.

  “Look at your screen,” Osadar said, sounding tired. It was the first time he’d heard that in Osadar’s voice.

  “Are you feeling okay?” he radioed.

  “Do not worry about me,” she said.

  “I am. You’re my friend. I don’t want to lose you, too.”

  “Look at your screen.”

  Marten picked up the screen and turned it. Space marines crowded around. For the first time, he had a good look at the Sun Station. It was round and brightly metallic like chrome. There were black splotches in it. He squinted, looking closer. Those splotches—they must be breaches, holes. Debris floated around the breaches.

  “Do you see?” Osadar asked.

  “Polymers?” asked Marten.

  “Yes. Correct. The cyborgs blasted their way in, although their stealth-pods did not survive.”

  “Got it,” Marten said. “What happened to the outer defensive field?”

  “I don’t understand why we haven’t been fired upon,” Osadar said. “Maybe the cyborgs inserted a virus into the computing systems, but I doubt they destroyed everything.”