“Well done,” the Praetor said, after listening to the message.
“The premen maintain a primitive system,” Canus replied hoarsely from his acceleration couch. “They use a simple 1-2-3 dynamic with an override code-sequence set at the second level.”
As he endured the terrible Gs, the Praetor pondered the Jovian message, playing it over a second time, ingesting the innuendos. “Replay the warship’s demise,” he said, meaning the Rousseau, although he didn’t know the dreadnaught’s name.
The Thutmosis III’s passive sensors had recorded the destruction. By studying a computer-list of Solar System warships, the Praetor knew it had been a Guardian Fleet dreadnaught, a durable warship, but inferior to those of Inner Planets.
“We’ve stumbled into a civil war,” Canus said, after watching the video a second time.
The Praetor grinned viciously. “That’s perfect. We shall join the weaker side, use our superior tactics, leading them to victory and thereby gaining their gratitude.”
“Premen are notoriously fickle with their gratitude,” Canus said.
“I controlled the Sun-Works Factory for many months,” the Praetor said. “There I learned the full extent of their ingratitude. We gave the premen discipline and meaning, and they turned on us like sneaking curs, with their tails between their legs as they snapped at us. It is the condition of inferior stock. In this system, I will use their initial gratitude, which sometimes gushes with irrationality. I will use it to begin my rule. Yes, even among premen there are killers. I will seek those out, break their will to mine and build a corps of enforcers.”
“First we must defeat the cyborgs,” Canus said, as he scratched the red burn-scar twisting across his cheek.
“No,” said the Praetor. “First we must stop the Thutmosis III.” He showed his teeth in an aggressive smile. “However, it is also time to begin winning premen gratitude. Show me the warship that destroyed the dreadnaught.”
Through the ship’s powerful sensors, the Praetor soon witnessed the situation between the Descartes and the following meteor-ships. The Praetor ran figures, studied the holographic display and listened a third time to Yakov’s warning to Callisto Orbital Defense. By then, Canus had intercepted the ruling philosophers’ answer.
“Give me the political situation report on the Jupiter System,” the Praetor said.
It came online. Despite the harsh conditions, the Praetor read the report with incredible speed, skipping the non-essentials. During that time, the ship rapidly closed toward the actively hunting Zenos.
“It will take us many circuits around Jupiter to halt our velocity,” the Praetor said thoughtfully. “Before that, we must have chosen sides and gained allies. Otherwise, we risk having both sides trying to destroy us.”
The Praetor balled his mighty hands into fists. He squeezed, letting his nails dig into the flesh of his palm. He was the superior being in this system. The cyborgs, they were no longer human. They did not count, as they were mechanical aliens. As the dominant being here, control and rule would naturally fall to him—if he could reach the levers of power.
“Weapons: heat the laser,” the Praetor said.
“The target?” asked Canus, trying to sound unconcerned as the continuing deceleration caused rattling and high-pitched whines.
“Target those drones,” the Praetor said. “Let us show these premen our gratitude for destroying the dreadnaught for us.”
“They only destroyed the dreadnaught to help themselves.”
“Do not seek to teach me the basics,” the Praetor warned. “I know more than you, more than everyone here combined. We shall give them life. They shall fawn on us because of it, and we shall insert ourselves into their struggle. Our superiority will then give us control of the system.”
Canus nodded grudgingly. “Your plan is well-conceived,” he muttered.
“On my word,” said the Praetor, “target the first drone.”
-22-
Gharlane wore a vacc-suit as he inspected massive Voltaire Missiles on Athena Station’s asteroid surface.
He was like a mote as the missiles towered three hundred meters over him. In effect, they were corvette-sized spaceships. But instead of living quarters and crew, each was double-packed with lethal weaponry to help fight its way to the target. Each also possessed a new and improved artificial intelligence to do the fighting. The payload was hundreds of megatons of thermonuclear power. A fusion core drove each at the highest acceleration of any craft in the Jovian System. A Voltaire seldom hid like the chemically-fuelled Zeno, but came on powerfully to subdue the target through mass, weaponry and superior ECM.
Coils were still attached to many of the gargantuan missiles, and cyborgs scurried everywhere, using the rail-system to make last minute adjustments. Some cyborgs climbed the outer rungs and entered the rockets, manually checking the more delicate systems.
Above the missiles was the blackness of space. Athena Station lacked an atmosphere, causing the stars to shine brilliantly like cold gems. Jupiter hung in the distance, its Red Spot barely visible as the gas giant rotated.
Gharlane turned around. On the asteroid there were squat buildings, laser ports, waiting anti-missile rockets, ready for immediate launching, sand-accelerating guns used to knock down incoming objects and a bewildering forest of antennae. They helped scan the void for anything that might harm the station. The original gaining of Athena Station had been the greatest cyborg achievement to date.
Gharlane had wanted to strike at Callisto Orbital Defense then. The Web-Mind had overridden the desire, and Gharlane had come to see that the Web-Mind had been correct. The Guardian Fleet had been much too strong then and could have possibly converged in time to halt much of a first strike.
Gharlane raised his helmeted head, peering up at a giant missile. The Voltaire was unlike the Jovian dreadnaught, which was smaller than an Inner Planets vessel of a similar type. He read the big letters on the missile’s side.
Voltaire Missile, AE 1029, Article Seven-Ten.
Once activated, the AI would take control of the craft. Gharlane had studied the specs on the AI. It was an advanced artificial intelligence, with breakthrough crystal technology. Presently, the crystal AI lived in a virtual reality world of careful Jovian devising. The AI didn’t realize it lived in a make-believe world. Instead, it went on a hundred different expeditions in the virtual world, gaining experiences that would hopefully stand it in good stead the day it awakened to reality. The day that occurred would sentence it to a quick combat death, one way or another.
Gharlane had never expected such an abundance of military hardware. The Jupiter System was awash in combat vessels, missiles and armored satellites. By studying historical files, it was clear the Jovians had been rebuilding ever since 2339. The annihilating defeat of its expeditionary force to Mars many years ago had horrified them. Since then, they had added ships and hardware every year to insure victory in case Social Unity attacked the Jupiter System.
Attention, Cyborg Gharlane!
“I am ready to receive,” Gharlane said over the radio embedded in his head.
Immediately link to a secure channel.
There was a priority one tone to the Web-Mind’s command.
Gharlane glanced around. He was in a maze of the giant missiles, with crisscrossing rail-lines and busy cyborgs doing a hundred last-minute chores.
Gharlane magnetized his boots and began to run, building up speed. Then he snapped off his magnetic boots and leapt. He flew like a man in a dream, using his hands and feet to propel himself from missile to missile, turning, using his cyborg reflexes to keep him from harm.
In moments, he lightly magnetized his boots. Gharlane ran over metallic surfaces and slowed his speed before entering a single-storey building. He floated into a lift, pressed a red button and rode it down three levels. Hurrying through a dim corridor, he came to an electronic bed with a body depression. Medical monitors on top ran through sequencing numbers, the middle monitor rapidly
changing from 1 to 99 in blue numerals. Gharlane shed his vacc-suit and lay down in the depression.
He stiffened as his entire self merged into a direct link with the Web-Mind.
Without any introduction or explanation, the Web-Mind shot a series of images into Gharlane.
First were interferometer shots of the Highborn vessel. Its laser stabbed with precision and destroyed a Zeno. Then a different image invaded Gharlane’s thoughts. Two enemy Zenos activated at the last possible moment, suddenly appearing. The Descartes must have detached them. The first cyborg-controlled meteor-ship chasing the Descartes attempted an evasion tactic. A blinding flash of nuclear energy ended the attempt and effectively ended the much-needed meteor-ship. It was usually a risky maneuver to chase an enemy ship, as it could easily detach drones in one’s path.
The Highborn and Jovians continue to work together, although system-wide radio traffic proves that our subversion campaign has spread grave unrest among the Jovians.
You will gather our nearest vessels and form them into a taskforce, including the second meteor-ship following the Descartes. The taskforce will follow the missile strike against Callisto. They will constitute a second wave assault. Later, they will strike Ganymede. The enclaves on Europa and Io represent a four percent danger and therefore can await destruction. Once Ganymede receives its nuclear bath, the Jovians will cease to threaten us.
“I await your instructions,” Gharlane said.
The Web-Mind flooded Gharlane with the data that needed to go out to the cyborg vessels.
We will launch the missiles in ninety-three hours, the Web-Mind added.
“Calculations indicate a quicker timetable would achieve greater success.”
Negative. Callisto is presently on the other side of Jupiter as Athena Station. Soon it will begin to swing around the planet in relation to us. Calculating the speed of our missiles and Callisto’s orbital path, the strike will hit at the most propitious moment to achieve surprise.
Gharlane reevaluated. “I have received,” he said. Then he arose to begin the preparations.
The Strike
-1-
In the lonely vastness of space, Arbiter Octagon continued to tumble end over end. In his ears, he heard the harshness of close breathing. It was a hoarse sound, a bitter one and it told about the futility of his existence.
His throat was raw from screaming. His eyes had bled a thousand tears. Now he stared like a dead man at the many stars shining in mockery around him.
Soon, he would choke to death on carbon dioxide. He would likely beg for an extension of life to whatever being could hear in the chilling vacuum of space. He realized that the Dictates were a bloody pack of lies. Man wasn’t logical, but a seething bed of passions. Men yearned for existence and they desperately wanted things. Men did not rationally reason out each step as the Dictates implied. Perhaps for the first time, Octagon realized that man was not a rational animal, but a rationalizing beast, making excuses for whatever suited his yearnings.
All these cycles aboard the warships, and before that the grueling courses readying him for duty as an arbiter—everything was composed of lies. It was all the bloody, pathetic ravings of idiot-buffoons. It had led to this, to his tumbling in space, hopeless, helpless and defeated by a primitive barbarian. The Dictates….
Arbiter Octagon frowned as something entered his vision. Something out there—
His jaw dropped as his mouth hung slackly.
The something blazed brighter than anything else did, making it greater than a star, greater even than Jupiter, at least from his vantage.
Octagon’s frown changed texture as a decided change came over him. The futility of life dribbled away. A dim thing, a chattering thing, an animal longing burst into life and quickly become hope. The hope thudded like his heartbeats and revived his spirits. It also rekindled his hatred for barbarians, for the supreme bastard of them all: the arrogant Marten Kluge.
The brightness was a flare of exhaust. It grew larger and larger as he stared at it. In time, Octagon realized it was the exhaust of a pod.
It’s a rescue pod. I’m being rescued.
A weird smile twisted Octagon’s face. It wasn’t a sane smile, rather that of a madman whose prayers had been answered. The universe, maybe the Dictates or some divine being, realized that he had been unjustly abused. Now he was going to be allowed to exact his revenge against barbarians, against vile Marten Kluge.
Octagon laughed with glee, a wild, whooping noise.
As he tumbled end over end, as he twisted his head to get a better view, he read the pod’s lettering. Ah, he was in luck. This wasn’t a pod from his old ship. This one said, Pod 3, Hobbes.
A fierce grin stretched Octagon’s lips. A new ship, a different Force-Leader and Arbiter would listen to his tale. In a matter of weeks, he was going to be before the Philosopher’s Board on Callisto. They would hear his story. They would learn that he had been right and Strategist Tan had been wrong. This could well mean a leap in status.
Octagon rubbed his gloved hands.
The bright flare had died. Now smaller jets appeared as the pod slowed and moved toward him. An airlock opened and a vacc-suited rescue-worker jumped out. The worker was strong, for the leap quickly accelerated the worker. A tether line hooked to the worker’s belt played out behind him.
Octagon’s grin was beginning to hurt, he smiled so widely. The indignity of his kidnapping and the horror of being launched in a prefixed pod—he continued to whoop with laughter. Oh, his certain death had miraculously changed into life and coming revenge. He could almost feel the thrill of shocking a captured Marten Kluge for the first time.
“Hurry!” shouted Octagon. He waved his arms as his hysterical laughter increased. Oh, this was the most glorious moment in his existence. What had he ever done to deserve this? It was uncanny. It was—
The vacc-suited worker reached him. It was such a serene thing. The worker grabbed his boot and halted the slow tumbling. With a strong hand and a deft twist that shoved against his hip, the worker hooked the tether line to Octagon’s belt.
“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you,” Octagon whispered.
Then something cold blossomed in Octagon’s gut. It came from the sight of a silvery sheen, something… metallic. The worker’s faceplate—Octagon craned his neck, trying to get another glimpse.
The worker drew him closer and Octagon had his first good look into his rescuer’s faceplate. Behind the glassy visor was a mask-like face with black, plastic sockets and silver eyeballs. Each ball bearing-like eye contained a red dot for a pupil. His rescuer wasn’t human, but a cyborg.
The cold in Octagon’s gut mushroomed outward until his arms and legs felt numb. If a cyborg was rescuing him… that meant the melded creature would take him to a converter. Evil Marten Kluge had warned him about this. The barbarian had suggested that suicide would be preferable to cyborg conversion.
With a hoarse cry, Octagon grabbed the tether-line’s hook, trying to tear it off his belt.
The cyborg moved with an insect’s speed. It gripped his wrists, immobilizing his hands. Then the thing activated a thruster-pack. They lurched. Octagon whipped his head back and forth. He saw the hydrogen particles propelling them. He saw the open airlock in the pod. It was like the jaws of a beast. It was hideous doom, and the airlock seemed to grin and hiss with Marten Kluge’s voice.
“No,” Octagon said. “You can’t do this.”
The cyborg paid no heed as it jetted for the pod. With a madman’s bellow, Octagon attempted to fight, to flail against fate. Remorselessly and with steely strength, the cyborg tightened its hold, taking him to a sinister new future that promised a metallic world of enslaved electrons and motorized limbs.
-2-
The Descartes headed toward Jupiter, deeper into the heavy gravity-well. Behind it followed the last Zeno, rapidly closing in. At the present speeds, the ship had less than ninety minutes until the drone reached it. Unfortunately, the Highborn ship had al
ready swept past in its comet-like rush and no longer fired its laser.
Marten sat in his module in the command center. He scowled at his screen, at the Praetor’s wide face, at the pink, arrogant eyes and the predatory features chiseled in flat planes. Marten quietly replayed the Praetor’s system-wide speech. He heard the harsh voice that had once told Training Master Lycon that the shock troopers needed to be gelded. What he couldn’t understand is why the Highborn had sent a lone ship all the way out here.
Marten clicked off the Praetor’s image. On the screen, he brought up Chief Controller Su-Shan. She’d spoken to Yakov, to the officers of the Descartes. Marten had learned that she was the ranking governor of the Guardian Fleet. She was presently in one of the laser-satellites of Callisto Orbital Defense.
Su-Shan had the same elfin quality as Tan. She wore a golden headband, had pale hair and strikingly green eyes. Surprisingly, she wore a sheer robe. Every time she’d moved, Marten had caught a glimpse of her perfect breasts or the slenderness of her waist.
Marten replayed her quiet voice. It was utterly devoid of emotion. She’d spoken with Yakov, demanding an audience with Strategist Tan. When Yakov had said that was impossible, Su-Shan had informed Yakov about armed uprisings on Ganymede and the detention of visiting dignitaries. She’d told him of his coming destruction and that of every terrorist. She said it in such inflectionless tones that Marten couldn’t decide if it was comical or chilling.
Marten froze her image. He’d listened to Yakov’s attempts to reason with her. She’d fallen silent then, as if waiting for Yakov to halt his flood of nonsense. When he’d stopped talking, she’d continued where she had left off, as if Yakov had never spoken.
Marten squeezed out of the module and moved to Yakov in his chair. The Force-Leader examined a holographic image. It hovered over a rectangular section of flooring before him. Yakov made adjustments with a control unit. The orbital paths of the four Galilean moons appeared as dotted lines around holographic Jupiter.
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