Marten aimed an override unit at the door. It was one of Yakov’s achievements to have gained the needed code.
Nothing happened.
Marten scowled and tried again, clicking the button.
The door swished open. Omi shot through. Marten followed and the Jovians hurried to catch up. The chamber was three times the size of Yakov’s wardroom. It contained exercise pulleys and a sparing automaton. A myrmidon tore his arm out of a pulley’s wires, with blood welling and floating around him. He must have smashed into the wires during the short acceleration. There was no sign of the second myrmidon.
The squat man snarled as his dark eyes gleamed with murder-lust. Omi leapt. The Korean had always been the best at zero-G combat. With his free hand, Omi grabbed the myrmidon. The trick was to lock onto an enemy, anchoring for the knife thrust. If one just thrust, he cut minimally and ended up shoving himself away because of the third law of motion.
Omi tried for a leg lock. The bleeding myrmidon struck a savage blow, sending Omi spinning against a wall. Fortunately, the Korean kept hold of his knife and he stayed conscious.
“Attack together!” Marten shouted.
The Jovians flew at the myrmidon, with their free hands outstretched. Their knives were tucked protectively near their chests.
Three seconds later, Marten understood why everyone said myrmidons were unbeatable. The squat man had freed himself and moved with sublime grace. He used his long arms to grabble the first Jovian as he wrapped his legs around the Jovian’s torso. The myrmidon savagely twisted the man’s head. Neck bones snapped. Then the myrmidon was letting go as a knife slashed his side. The myrmidon hissed as he put a hand behind a Jovian’s head and punched with the other, crushing cartilage and breaking teeth.
Then Omi attacked from behind, thrusting his knife into the kidney zone. The myrmidon howled and hurled the broken Jovian from him. He spun and might have slain Omi.
But Marten had been waiting for something like that. As the myrmidon whirled, Marten pushed himself leg-first at the killer. He wrapped around the myrmidon’s torso as the killer struck Omi a devastating blow. Marten forewent style and knife-fighting theory. With two hands, he plunged the heavy blade into the myrmidon’s back. The myrmidon snarled, trying to twist around. Instead, he merely rotated Marten and himself as Marten yanked out the blade and plunged it in again. He did it a third time, hacking at the squat neck. It was like trying to cut gristle.
The myrmidon grabbed Marten’s foot and twisted. Marten bellowed, and he stabbed into the killer’s back. He rotated the blade, probing for a vital organ.
The myrmidon sagged as blood pumped from him. The door at the end of the room swung open then. The second myrmidon appeared, with only a cloth around his waist.
“Flee!” Marten gasped.
Omi’s face was puffy, with one of his eyes swollen shut. All three Jovians floated in the room, either dead or unconscious.
The myrmidon snarled as his muscles bunched. Omi shot out of the first door. Marten followed. In less than a second, each braced himself against the junction of floor and wall.
“Now!” shouted Marten.
Omi clicked his device, the one linked to Yakov. As the myrmidon hurtled after them, the ship’s engines engaged with terrific thrust. It brought pseudo-gravity to the ship. As before, it quit in three seconds.
Marten and Omi shot back into the chamber. The squat killer had hit his head against a bulkhead. He was dazed, but far from out.
Marten and Omi attacked. In a savage brawl lasting fifteen seconds, they took horrible buffets. In return, they killed the second myrmidon.
“We can’t stop now,” panted Marten, as he drew his knife out of the inert corpse.
Omi spit a globule of blood that wobbled in the weightlessness. His face was horribly bruised, and he could barely peer out of the least swollen eye. One of his arms dangled because the myrmidon had yanked it out of the socket.
“Wait,” Omi whispered. He let go of the bloody knife so it floated. Then he grabbed his arm, clenched his teeth and shoved his shoulder into place. He groaned, but instead of complaining, he grabbed the knife and nodded to indicate he was ready.
Marten’s ribs ached and he could hardly move his head because his neck hurt.
“Octagon has our needlers, right?” Omi asked.
Marten grunted a monosyllable answer.
They floated out of the chamber and toward Octagon’s room.
Marten was surprised Octagon hadn’t come charging to help his myrmidons. The Arbiter either believed they could handle the situation or he was too frightened by the ship’s sudden acceleration and Yakov’s warning that further maneuvering would take place.
“He can kill us both in seconds with that gun,” Omi whispered.
Marten reversed his grip, holding the point. During shock trooper training, he’d gained some efficiency hurling knives.
Omi tensed as he used the override unit. The door swished open. Each stood to the side. They glanced at each other across the open door, showing their surprise. Octagon should have fired warning shots.
Marten steeled his nerves and glanced into the room. He would only throw after assessing the situation. He laughed.
Octagon floated unconscious. Either the first or the second surprise thrust had rendered him helpless.
Marten rushed in, keeping his knife ready, in case Octagon was trying to fake them. He tore a Gauss needler from a holster at Octagon’s side—it was his own gun from the Mars System. Marten checked the charge. It was fully loaded. Too bad they hadn’t hit Octagon’s room first. Three Jovians would still be alive then.
The Arbiter groaned.
“Close the door,” Marten said.
As Omi hurried to comply, Marten searched the Arbiter, extracting what could possibly be dangerous devices. Then a thought struck.
“Hurry to the myrmidons,” he told Omi. “Search their uniforms for any hidden devices.”
“What sort of devices?”
“Something keeps hammer-guns from firing. If we can find those and put them on ourselves—”
“Right,” Omi said. He headed out.
Marten kept searching. He found a gray disk attached to the Arbiter’s stomach. Marten peeled it off.
Omi returned shortly, holding two similar gray disks.
“Was it on their stomachs?” Marten asked.
Omi nodded.
Marten ripped open drawers. He found Omi’s needler and a hammer-gun. “Take this,” he said, giving Omi the hammer-gun. “Then put a disk on a dead myrmidon and see if the gun shoots or not.”
“Does it shoot now?” Omi asked.
Marten aimed it at a bulkhead and pulled the trigger. The gun jerked in his hand as a heavy pellet dented the wall.
“It works,” Marten said.
Omi took it and hurried out again.
Marten continued to search the Arbiter’s desk. He discovered a monitor-board that showed areas of the ship. He moved toggles and heard voices from those areas. This was a spy-board.
Omi returned, with a grin on his puffy, bruised face. “I attached the disk to a corpse, aimed and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. I backed up and tried it again. Again nothing. Then I aimed at the other corpse and put a hole in him. These work. Or they make it so the hammer-guns don’t work.”
“Put one on,” Marten said, as he attached a disk to his stomach. “We’ll give Osadar the last one.”
“She’s still in the cell.”
“We’re breaking her out.”
“Your new friends aren’t going to like that,” Omi said.
“Yakov will stay happy,” Marten said. “We’ll remove Tan and give him control of his own ship.”
“He might turn on us after we give him what he wants.”
Marten pondered that. This desk, this room, might contain more surprises. “Okay. You have a point. This is going to be our headquarters. One of us must always be here, monitoring the crew.” Marten explained what he’d discovered.
“Got it,” Omi said. “What do we do with him?”
Marten studied the unconscious Arbiter. “Tie him tight like a hostage. Then figure out this desk better, particularly the audio-feeds throughout the ship. I’ll get Osadar.”
“You’d better hurry.”
“I know. Surprise and speed are two of a soldier’s best weapons. I was listening that day.” Marten headed for the hall.
-12-
Marten steeled his resolve as he floated ahead of Osadar. He would have liked to talk with Tan, get to know her better as he studied her exotic features. The woman stirred him. Was that because he had been cooped up with Osadar and Omi for nearly a year? Or was it because he genuinely found the Strategist exciting?
Tan made muffled, protesting sounds.
Marten scowled. Was he doing the right thing?
Osadar cradled Tan like a small child, with a titanium hand clamped over the woman’s pretty mouth. Osadar had proven faster than the Strategist, who had tried to draw her shiny rod as they’d entered her quarters. Now cyborg strength proved overpowering against the small woman’s muscles.
Marten floated ahead of them. He had out his Gauss needler, but he hoped to achieve this without killing any of Yakov’s crew. He’d chosen to deal from strength, and by freeing Osadar he might have chosen wrongly. But an apropos Highborn maxim said to make your decisions decisively. Even if it was the wrong decision, it was better to be bold about it than to hesitate. It made no sense to let qualms guide him, not with the dreaded cyborgs loose in the Jupiter System. Gilded philosophies meant nothing against graphite bones and tanglers. He needed plasma cannons and fusion-driven lasers.
Fortunately, the narrow corridors were still empty.
Marten holstered his needler and unclipped a medkit. Soon, he hefted a pneumospray hypo. It held Suspend, a drug that slowed biological functions. It was a perfect drug for the badly injured, organ-thieves and kidnappers.
They reached the holding cell. Marten typed in the code and turned the wheel. With a noisy thump, he opened the hatch and turned around.
Tan stared at him above Osadar’s metal hand. She stared with a mixture of fear, rage and indignation. She looked small and helpless in Osadar’s skeletal arms. She looked beautiful.
Marten scowled as he rolled up one of Tan’s sleeves. “Your philosophies will get us all killed. I know, because I’ve fought the cyborgs before. This will knock you out for a time,” he said, showing her the hypo. “Afterward, we will revive you. You will live, and hopefully the cyborgs will have been destroyed by that time.”
Tan made muffled sounds against Osadar’s hand, and she squirmed, or she tried. With a whirr of sound, Osadar tightened her grip. Tan cast an accusatory look at Osadar and another at Marten.
“This gives me no joy,” Marten muttered. He pressed the hypo against the Strategist’s pale skin. Air hissed.
Tan made a louder muffled sound.
Marten turned away as he shook his head. He’d rather be kissing the woman, holding her. But he had to act wisely, and he had to do it now.
“She’s out,” Osadar said.
“Put her in the cell.”
Osadar laid her down, using restraints to secure the limp woman so she wouldn’t injure herself during acceleration.
Marten shut the hatch, turned the wheel and reset the code to one only he knew. Now—
“We are making a mistake,” Osadar said.
Marten cocked an eyebrow.
“I am a cyborg and Omi and you are shock troopers. We three could gain control of the ship for ourselves.”
“That’s a bit ambitious.”
“We could achieve it nonetheless.”
“Then what?” asked Marten.
“Then we have a capable military vessel under our control.”
“We three would have to fix all damage, ensure the fusion engine remained—”
“We would keep a skeleton crew,” Osadar said.
“We could never trust them.”
“Trust would not be the issue, but effective control.”
“Omi, you and me—”
“Highborn methods could achieve control,” Osadar said.
“Maybe,” Marten said. “Yakov is a sly man. I’d hate to have him plotting against me.”
“We would have to drug him as you have Tan.”
“Again,” Marten asked, “to what end?”
“Escape to Saturn or Uranus.”
Marten chuckled grimly. “I don’t see why you think the planetary systems closer to Neptune would have escaped the cyborgs’ notice.”
“The Jovians have no chance against the cyborg infiltration. That is the issue.”
“You keep forgetting Mars,” Marten said.
“Doom Stars demolished the Mars Assault. The Jovians have these cramped vessels. We must flee while we can or face certain death.”
“Aren’t you getting tired of running away?” Marten asked.
“Flight is a primary survival tactic.”
“So is fighting. It’s time to fight, Osadar. It’s time to kick the cyborgs in the teeth. Besides, we’re running out of fleeing room. We have a military ship and the hope of others. That means a fleet.”
“The cyborgs will have a bigger and better fleet.”
“They’re plasti-flesh, steel and enhanced bio-brains, but they’re not magic. You escaped their programming. The Highborn killed an entire planetary attack force.”
“The Highborn are many times superior to the Jovians,” Osadar said. “For us, here, I foresee doom.”
“When haven’t you foreseen doom?”
“We should take possession of the ship and live free for as long as it is possible. Any other choice is unrealistic.”
“We damaged the dreadnaught, remember?”
“Through incredible good fortune,” Osadar said.
“Wrong!” Marten said. “We outthought and in the end we outfought them. What we’ve done once, we can repeat.”
“You have false hope.”
“Isn’t that better than full-blown pessimism?”
“No. I am never disappointed by an outcome, because I expect the worst. When events prove beneficial, I am amazingly surprised.”
“Wouldn’t you agree that by following my plans you’ve been surprised more often than not?” Marten asked.
Osadar appeared uneasy. “It is tempting fate to answer your question in the positive.”
“I need your wholehearted support,” Marten said.
“It is still yours.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Now let’s hurry.”
***
“There is a change in plans,” Yakov said over the Arbiter’s desk-screen.
Marten sat at the desk, with the others out of sight. He had turned the statuette. It now faced him with the upraised arm and the finger pointing nowhere. He’d done it to remind him the Jovians viewed things differently than he did.
By the vidshots on the wall behind Yakov, the man must be in his wardroom. The Force-Leader attempted to look calm, but strain showed on his face.
“A change?” asked Marten.
“I have hailed the Rousseau many times. The last time, a Jovian officer answered.”
“You actually saw her?” Marten asked.
“I did.”
Marten blinked in consternation. “Cyborgs boarded my shuttle. I killed them.”
“I have no doubt concerning that.”
“But the officer—”
Yakov made an abrupt gesture. “The gel-cloud confirms my suspicion. And that the officer said the ship had a fusion-core leak.”
“A human officer aboard the dreadnaught,” Marten said. “Are Jovians allied with the cyborgs?”
“I consider that a strong possibility,” Yakov said. “One of the lesser moons yearning for freedom from the Dictates may have decided to trust the cyborgs. It complicates matter. Therefore, before walking into a trap, I will send probes.” Yakov stared out of the screen. “You have captured the A
rbiter?”
“And the Strategist,” Marten said.
The skin seemed to stretch across Yakov’s face. “I have altered a military pod. The Arbiter will enter it, fly to the Rousseau and report to us what lies behind the gel-cloud.”
“That will take days.”
“There are too many parameters that I do not understand,” Yakov said. “Therefore, I will proceed with caution, using probes and fallbacks.”
“Why will the Arbiter report anything to you?” Marten asked.
Yakov smiled grimly. “In reality, he will report nothing. The pod’s cameras will report.”
“So why send the Arbiter?”
“I wish to rid my ship of him, and his ‘act of courage’ will impress certain of the crew. His coming death will then inspire them, making my military decisions easier.”
Marten wondered what the real reasons were, or if Yakov told him the truth. “What if the Rousseau frees the Arbiter?”
Yakov shook his head. “I have altered the pod. He will not survive the journey.”
Marten glanced at Octagon, trussed from head to toe in black tape. Had the Arbiter heard all that? Or was the man still unconscious?
“You must take him to the pod,” Yakov said.
Was the Force-Leader trying to draw him out of the Arbiter’s chamber? Did Yakov know he’d freed Osadar?
“Time is critical,” Yakov added.
“I’m on my way,” said Marten. Then he cut the connection.
***
Marten pushed the mummified Octagon through the companionways. Twice, he passed ship-guardians with hammer-guns. They eyed him closely, although neither they nor he said a word.
Omi had trussed Octagon with black tape. It was an old hostage-taking trick. From heel to the crown of his head, Octagon was wrapped with black strands of tape. There was a slit for his mouth and nose so he could breathe. Otherwise, he looked like an ancient Egyptian mummy. Even wrapped tight, Octagon attempted speech.
“Save it,” Marten said, pushing against the man’s heel, propelling the weightless form toward the pod hanger.
Octagon made more noise.
Doom Star: Book 04 - Cyborg Assault Page 9
