Cyborg Assault ds-4 Read online

  “You know where it is,” the Praetor whispered.

  Osadar regarded him. Then she turned to Marten. “Should I tell him?”

  “You will speak,” the Praetor said, with menace.

  “First rescind your gelding threat,” Osadar said.

  Battleoids stirred, everyone one of them lifting their weapons.

  “I am in command here,” the Praetor said. “I will rescind nothing.”

  “You might as well tell him,” Marten said.

  “You once told me—” Osadar began to say.

  “Let’s kill this Web-Mind,” Marten said, “and stop the planet-wrecker. Everything else is secondary.”

  “You are wise, preman,” the Praetor.

  For once, Marten held his tongue, but it was hard to do.

  “Give me the Web-Mind’s coordinates,” the Praetor said.

  Osadar did so.

  -23-

  Marten resealed his helmet as the Praetor gave terse orders.

  The entrance to the Web-Mind’s underground chamber was in a different dome, but within this cluster of buildings.

  They reentered the large airlock and exited the cracked dome. Outside, the stars and Jupiter shined as eerily as ever. The silver buildings cast shadows. Carme’s low hills surrounded them, a sterile wasteland of asteroid rock and ancient dust. Dead space marines littered the area, as did shredded cyborgs. The majority of the melded creatures had perished to Voltaire laser-fire.

  The last drone no longer hung in the sky, however. Likely, the cyborgs had destroyed it.

  The Praetor had allowed Marten access to the Highborn battle-net. He thus heard the Praetor order eight Highborn along with Tass and the remaining space marines to intercept the approaching cyborgs. The others were to stop the melded humanoids in order to give the Praetor, Marten and the rest time to destroy the Web-Mind underground.

  Two cyborgs ambushed them as they approached the dome. Lasers speared out of jagged cracks. The two beams focused on one battleoid.

  From behind a rock, Marten snapped off Gyroc rounds, pitting the metallic wall, but failing to enter the jagged cracks, which were at an oblique angle to him. Orange plasma hit, and globs of molten metal dripped off the wall or drifted into the vacuum. Then a cyborg dashed out. Heated plasma killed it, melting its helmet and head. A Gyroc round entered the crack, along with a red beam.

  The last cyborg stopped firing.

  “Is it dead?” Omi asked.

  Marten counted the fallen Highborn. Three battleoids lay prone, with laser holes burnt through the heavy armor. The suits could absorb more punishment than space marine armor, but eventually broke under concentrated laser-fire.

  “Shock Troopers Marten and Omi,” the Praetor said, “scout the dome. See if the cyborg still lives.”

  “Screw him,” Omi said.

  Marten heaved himself from behind his rock and began running. He snapped off three shots. Then a red light flashed on his HUD. Rifle empty. He tore out the clip and slammed in another. By that time, he reached the jagged crack. It was barely wide enough to squeeze through. Breathing hard, his body taut with fear, he poked the barrel in and slid against metal. The cyborg was sprawled inside, a hole in its chest sparking. As he stared, the cyborg’s right hand twitched.

  Horror and hatred washed through Marten. He yanked the trigger. Each slamming APEX round made the thing jerk and twist.

  “It’s dead!” Omi shouted.

  A red, empty light was flashing in Marten’s HUD, and he was still pulling the trigger. He stopped as Omi touched his shoulder.

  Wordlessly, Marten switched clips.

  “Everything is clear,” Marten heard someone say. Then he realized it was his voice. He had to get a grip. He shot himself with another stim. Too many, and he’d go paranoid. He laughed. It wasn’t a good sound. This was another firefight he had no business being in. Digging out a Web-Mind, they were all mad.

  The wall behind them shuddered. Big pieces of metal and masonry flew off. Then a battleoid foot smashed through. A moment later, big gauntlets gripped an edge of wall and created an even bigger opening. Soon, the others joined Marten and Omi in the dome.

  “Continue to scout,” the Praetor said.

  Omi’s helmet turned toward him. Marten saw Omi’s features, the hollow eyes and the terrible strain etched across his friend’s face.

  “Yeah,” Marten said, hefting his Gyroc. He chinned infrared, scanning the place, observing the cracks above, the broken equipment everywhere and the littered floor. Then he started across it.

  It might have been smarter switching to his IML, but he was going to save the Cognitive missile for the Praetor. Let the Highborn think him a dog to sniff out trouble. In the end, this dog would bite and finish what he’d started with Sigmir and continued with Lycon.

  * * *

  As Marten scouted through the dome, the Web-Mind awoke to its danger. It had been running a prognostication program. Through it, it divined the Praetor’s plan.

  With quick calculation, the Web-Mind assessed its immediate military assets. The Webbies waited with their pathetic stunners. Yes, it must radio the leader. They must scour the deleted cyborgs and confiscate laser carbines. That would give the Webbies enough firepower to kill Highborn. The Web-Mind then began to activate its cyborg protection team. They’d waited in storage, having been interned there in the Neptune System. Unfortunately, thawing them would take time. Lastly, the Web-Mind radioed a distress call. All cyborgs were to converge here to annihilate Jovians and kill or capture Highborn.

  The Web-Mind regretted leaving Gharlane with the in-system fleet. Worse, perhaps, with deletion as a possibility, the Web-Mind knew a growing and bitter jealousy. It was wrong that any cyborg should survive his demise. It was an even greater wrong that the troublesome and annoying Gharlane should survive his master.

  Before the Web-Mind could dwell on that, however, a pre-inserted optimism program began to run. This would be the last opportunity for the inferior species to harm it. As Web-Mind, it was going to destroy Jovians and capture Highborn. First, it must send the correct pulse to the Webbie commander.

  * * *

  Webbie Octagon’s hatred for Marten Kluge had undergone a transformation in the last ten minutes. He staggered under the heavy load of a laser-pack. He hunched like an old man. It would have been worse if Carme were under greater acceleration. But it was already bad enough.

  Octagon cradled the carbine as sweat bathed his body. His brown vacc-suit’s air-conditioner was broken. He wheezed, as he tasted the sour odor. He followed another Webbie as they descended at an angle toward the Web-Mind’s armored chamber. They were supposed to intercept invaders. They were supposed to kill, kill, kill.

  Octagon now possessed cunning thoughts. His hatred of Marten Kluge had damaged his Web-conditioning. It had left him with some of his former personality. That personality wanted Marten Kluge to suffer. Now that he—Octagon—suffered miserably, an old emotion surfaced. It was self-preservation, which allowed him to practice the cunning.

  That crafty self-preservation had caused Octagon to drag his feet. He had pretended to be weaker than he was. He’d pretended almost without being aware he did so. It meant that he was the last Webbie to enter the slanting tunnel. It also meant that the distance between him and the next Webbie grew with each passing second. Certainly, Octagon still yearned for Marten Kluge to suffer a thousand agonies, but first he’d have to stay alive. He could not rush this.

  As Octagon debated plans, the screams began over his headphones. The screams were filled with mortal pain and they caused Octagon to freeze. The killing impulse tried to make him run toward the firefight. He resisted such madness, although he wasn’t completely able to overcome it. Therefore, Webbie Octagon took one slow step at a time toward the fighting.

  * * *

  Marten’s heart raced as he leaned against a tunnel wall. The Praetor and his Highborn had taken point. They pushed deeper and farther into the long tunnel, moving fast. According to
Osadar’s data, there were several entrances to the armored chamber.

  The Praetor had made a loud sound when Osadar had brought that to his attention. He’d ordered his small force to advance faster.

  Marten and Omi were the rearguard now. It was pitch-black down here. Marten could only see a green and red world using his infrared HUD.

  Tiny droplets oozed onto his face. No amount of cool air could stop the sweating. It was being underground that made his pours ooze. He knew it shouldn’t matter. He’d fought in worse places. But the fear of being buried alive had begun to claw at him. Maybe it was an atavistic dread, something he couldn’t help. Maybe the Japan Campaign had affected him more than he’d realized.

  “I hear more Webbies coming,” Omi said.

  The Korean’s voice was clearer than before because the static had almost vanished. It must have been because of the shielding rock.

  Marten shifted his grip as he scanned the dead. The HUD read them as humans, which meant half-converted Jovians, Webbies. They wore simple vacc-suits but lugged cyborg laser-packs and carbines. They had been slow, unarmored and suicidal.

  “They remind me of the Kamikaze squads in Japan,” Omi said.

  “Yeah,” Marten whispered, licking salt off his lips.

  Then more Webbies advanced around the corner. The HUD showed them as red, vaguely humanoid objects. Some sprayed laser-fire like a hose, beaming into the ceiling and high on the walls.

  With careful, deliberate fire, Marten cut down one Webbie after another. After each shot, he changed positions. The igniting Gyroc shells were like flares, giving him away. Then something clattered in front of him. It showed up hot on his HUD. It must be tunnel-rock, burned off by a laser.

  Then, as suddenly as the firefight had stared, it ended.

  Marten squeezed his eyes shut. Would the tunnel collapse if enough laser beams hit? No, no, he told himself. That was irrational. Think about the Praetor cutting off your balls. Stay angry.

  “Do you think that’s it?” Omi asked.

  “I’m turning up gain,” Marten said. He chinned a control and he listened for tunnel sounds. Somewhere far away… there was something slight. Maybe he imagined it. After twenty seconds of listening, he said, “I think we got them all. We’ll head back to the surface, covering each other along the way.”

  “You don’t want to run after the Praetor?”

  Marten was sick of these tunnels. “No. We’ll stay near the surface, making sure no one comes down after the Praetor.” Marten picked up his IML with its Cognitive missile. There were likely more cyborgs on the way. He wanted to shoot them on the surface, not face the impossible creatures down here in the tunnels.

  Omi studied him, shrugged after a moment, and said, “Sure.”

  -24-

  Like Marten, the Praetor hated the tunnel, but for different reasons. This was too direct, letting the enemy know his exact route of attack. Therefore, he believed speed was critical. Thus, four battleoids and a deprogrammed cyborg charged deeper, covering several kilometers in a matter of minutes.

  They blew open huge hatches with their plasma rifles and jumped through red-glowing holes. Finally, they reached what had to be the main chamber, a great oval area sheathed with masses of processing units.

  “Lamps,” the Praetor said.

  Powerful headlamps snapped on. It showed a parked stealth-capsule. The vessel was over one hundred meters long. It sat on a huge tripod, with a hundred lines attached to it like some vast, mechanical spider.

  At its sight, the Praetor knew a moment of supreme exaltation. What other Highborn could have achieved such a spectacular feat and with such paltry numbers? Surely, he was the greatest fighting Highborn alive. He was also proving the combat superiority of living flesh versus the melded horrors. Nothing compared to the ultimate super-soldier.

  “A hatch opens!” Canus shouted.

  Cyborgs leaped out, firing lasers with uncanny accuracy. They centered on the first battleoid, the beams cutting through reinforced titanium with brutal speed.

  Four plasma rifles lifted, together with Osadar’s laser. Orange globules roiled through the underground chamber. The hot plasma struck cyborgs and the capsule’s hatch. Two cyborgs went down in a shower of sparks. Three survived after a fashion as they continued to beam, killing one battleoid and then a second. Another plasma volley hit the crippled cyborgs and the one bounding at them. It clattered to the floor, a heap of smoldering flesh and fused machine parts.

  “They’re down!” roared the Praetor, as he kicked a smoking cyborg head, watching it bounce across the floor. His entire being was filled with the unique, Highborn battle-madness. It was like a human going berserk, but with a critical difference. There was a cold, soldierly mind in charge of the seething passions. It made the Highborn berserker a frightening killer, wanting to taste blood and pulp flesh, but guided with cunning ruthlessness.

  At that moment, the capsule’s exhausts began to flicker.

  “No!” shouted the Praetor. He mustn’t let the prize escape. “Follow me!” He marched for the hatch. Canus and the others hesitated. The Praetor whirled around. “Come! We must enter and destroy the Web-Mind.”

  Canus lifted his plasma rifle. “Let us destroy the vessel.”

  “Cowards!” shouted the Praetor. He faced the vessel, and with practiced precision, he used exoskeleton power. In three terrific bounds, he reached the glowing hatch. “Let the greatest among us achieve the ultimate victory.” Then the Praetor grabbed the frame and hauled himself into the huge stealth-capsule.

  Osadar hung back from the others. Perhaps her innate pessimism suspected a fatal trick, some last-minute screw-job. Her helmeted head twitched toward the capsule’s exhaust as more propellant exited. As Canus and the others aimed their plasma rifles, cables began to pop off the capsule’s outer-skin. With extreme haste, Osadar retreated into the tunnel.

  * * *

  Canus raised his heavy plasma rifle. At that moment, the vessel’s glowing hatch clanged onto the floor. What must have been an emergency seal slammed down in its place.

  “The Praetor is trapped,” a Highborn snarled.

  “Aim there!” shouted Canus, pointing with his plasma rifle. Before he could pull the trigger, an EMP blast blew outward from the giant stealth-capsule. It washed over the battleoid-suits and the heavy rifles. Each of the battleoids froze, the circuits destroyed and the Highborn in them trapped.

  If he could have moved his armored finger and pulled the trigger, Canus would have found his plasma rifle useless. He roared curses inside his suit, struggling.

  As he did, the huge stealth-vessel swiveled on its tripod base. Then hot propellant gushed from the exhaust-port. The vessel lifted and began to move. It was the last sight Canus had. The hot propellant cooked him in his frozen armor-suit, killing him and the other helpless Highborn.

  -25-

  The over-watch technique was a laborious way to retreat or advance. At its most basic, one soldier watched, with a ready weapon aimed at the most dangerous area. The other soldier moved into a new position. Then he stopped and watched while his partner now moved. They leapfrogged back or leapfrogged forward. It could be done by man, by squad and sometimes even by platoon.

  Marten and Omi used the over-watch maneuver heading up the tunnel and back toward the surface. They halted and waited as the tunnel shook and as hot gasses rushed past like a hurricane.

  When it stopped, Omi asked, “What was that?”

  Marten shrugged.

  “What should we do now?” Omi asked.

  “Keep moving,” Marten said.

  They did, covering one another as they advanced. Then Marten saw a Webbie with a heavy laser-pack stagger around a tunnel corner.

  “Wait,” Marten whispered.

  Omi froze.

  Through infrared, Marten watched the suited Webbie stagger and shuffle. By his actions, the Webbie seemed delirious. The HUD’s specs showed that the Webbie was like the others they had slaughtered earlier.
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  “Kill him,” Omi said.

  “He’s no cyborg,” Marten said.

  “He’s a Webbie, and they’re almost as bad.”

  “Has anyone ever captured one of those?”

  “Who cares?” asked Omi. “Kill him.”

  “Maybe we should—”

  Omi’s Gyroc kicked. The rocket-packet ignited. The APEX shell moved fast.

  * * *

  Webbie Octagon was exhausted. He’d shuffled under the heavy load for a long time. His shoulders ached and a point in his back knifed him every time his right leg moved. He yearned to throw off the laser-pack, but the kill-order prevented him from doing so.

  He longed to glimpse Marten Kluge again. He would burn off a leg first, then an arm and then maybe a foot. He would enjoy the spectacle. Yes, it would be glorious to hurt and maim Marten Kluge. It was his greatest wish to see that barbarian—

  It might have been a premonition, but Octagon looked up then. He saw a spark in the darkness. It rushed toward him. He switched on the vacc-suit’s helmet lamp. The beam washed over a kneeling, armored figure. The soldier’s helmet was aimed at him. The visor was clear. In it, he spied Marten Kluge.

  Octagon hissed as he raised the laser carbine. Finally, his greatest life’s joy was about to be—

  Omi’s APEX shell struck Octagon in the chest. The round pierced his body. Then the shell exploded, raining bits of rib-bone, heart-muscle, fat and brown vacc-suit. With its gaping, smoking hole, the corpse thudded onto the floor.

  * * *

  “You’re getting slow,” Omi told Marten.

  “Did he look familiar to you?” Marten asked.

  “Don’t be crazy. Who do we know that could have become a Webbie?”