Doom Star: Book 05 - Planet Wrecker

by Vaughn Heppner

  “What happened?” Hawthorne shouted, striding to the offending screen and its operator.

  The woman looked up at him ashen-faced, with dark circles around her eyes.

  “Speak,” said Hawthorne. On the screen, debris rained down from the clouds as smoke billowed upward.

  “Orion-ship Avenger malfunctioned,” the operator whispered. “It exploded. They’re…they’re all dead, sir.”

  A colonel on the other side of the operator’s chair was weeping silently, with his face pressed against his hands.

  Hawthorne gazed at the screen again, understanding now what he saw. Dead, all those brave bionic soldiers vaporized into atoms. In the hurry and rush to get everything ready for zero hour, somebody had made one mistake too many. Now Earth’s chance for survival had dropped…by however many percentage points that ship represented.

  Hawthorne rubbed his eyes. There were so many things to coordinate, to think about, it was breaking him down. It was breaking all of them.

  “I wish I’d filled the Avenger with Highborn,” he said.

  Several operators turned and stared at him in shock. One general nodded, however, and even managed a bleak grin.

  “Carry on,” said Hawthorne. “We can’t stop for anyone now, not even for those brave soldiers.”

  The heavy Orion-ships on screen continued to flash and zoom upward, already leaving the atmosphere as they entered outer space and near-Earth orbit.

  -48-

  As the Orion-ships blasted their way out of the atmosphere, the Highborn Luna Missile Complex fired its first salvo. These were titanic Cohort-7 Missiles, which fired x-rays in the proximity of their enemies. From the hundreds of launch-sites, the missiles rose like stellar sharks, quick, deadly and silent. As the fusion cores propelled the Cohort-7 projectiles, the blue flares appeared as dots against the darkness of space. Those dots accelerated with astonishing speed. Soon enough, they vanished, swallowed by the void.

  Orders rang out as the Highborn Senior Tribune watched from his conning tower.

  All around him on the moon, other giant HB missiles moved on tracks and onto the still glowing blast-pans. The Senior Tribune laughed as he waited high in the tower. The fatigue of the last several cycles ate at him. It had been so long since he’d laid down his head and closed his eyes. The Highborn leader shook his head now, and his tongue felt thick in his mouth.

  “Next wave,” he said. “Launch, launch, launch.”

  Sullen Highborn standing at their stations eyed him. None had slept for days and they were each dangerously exhausted. There was a Highborn term for it: explosive weariness. Many mulishly clicked their controls. One officer suddenly bellowed with rage, drew a gun and began firing into his panel. Plastic and acrylic pieces went flying as loud bangs rapidly followed one after another.

  Three other Highborn reacted before the Senior Tribune was even aware of what occurred. One drew a vibroblade, clicked it so it hummed and hurled it at the berserk. Before the blade could hit the madman, two other Highborn drew their sidearms and emptied their clips into the berserk. He twisted around at the shots, glared at them for a second and then sank with a groan, his gun clattered on the floor.

  The Senior Tribune began to tremble, not in fear, but in rage. How dare anyone mar an otherwise perfect liftoff? He was tempted to try resuscitation of the offender in order to use SU tortures on him as punishment.

  Then he recalled his purpose. “Launch,” he said in a ragged voice.

  As smoke drifted from hot gun-barrels, Highborn officers attended to their stations. The Senior Tribune checked his board.

  The second salvo of modified missiles began launching. These had taken the most work, the most redesign and refit. Inside them was live ammunition: Highborn space commandoes. These missiles were almost as large as the Cohort-7s.

  As the Senior Tribune double-checked the sensors aboard the missiles, a glaring error became obvious. The oxygen-valve settings on a dozen missiles—no, on twenty of them, weren’t calibrated for heavy thrust. It should have been a simple thing to check beforehand. But these many hectic days on stims and without sleep….

  Bending over his com, the Senior Tribune shouted, “Emergency, emergency, the oxygen content will soon approach zero! Don emergency breathing gear and change the settings on the oxygen valves.” Then he realized he’d forgotten to turn on the com-system to the missiles. He did so now with a click and repeated his warning.

  The commando missiles zoomed out of the Sea of Tranquility, accelerating hard for Venus. As the Senior Tribune checked the responses, he soon discovered that fifteen missiles were dead, or their occupants were. Fifteen missiles—because of a simple single error over a hundred commandoes were dead before the battle had even started. The Senior Tribune banged his forehead against his board until blood began to drip in the light Luna gravity. He badly needed sleep. Oh, he wanted to sleep almost more than he wanted to finish his task. He realized dully that he had to think of a way to hide this fifteen-missile loss from the Grand Admiral.

  The Senior Tribune wiped blood from the board and made some quick calculations. No, this couldn’t be—oh, wait a minute. He rechecked missile manifests. As his shoulders sagged, he realized that Felix had survived the mishap. The Senior Tribune was aware of the Grand Admiral’s strange affinity for the soldier. He’d studied vid shots of the two and had discovered a disturbing likeness between them.

  The Senior Tribune straightened. His head throbbed painfully, but that was good. The pain helped him concentrate. Maybe if he were lucky, Cassius would die in the coming battle. Yes, he would hope for luck and the Grand Admiral’s violent demise when his Doom Star engaged the cyborgs.

  -49-

  “Marten, are you sure this is a good idea?” Nadia asked.

  The Spartacus accelerated at two-Gs as it traveled across the face of the burning Sun. The meteor-ship had built up tremendous velocity, a speed even greater than the fast-approaching asteroids. Those asteroids sped on a straight collision course for Earth’s projected position. It was obvious now that the asteroids had originated in the Saturn System. That was something over 1,400,000,000 kilometers away, nearly twice the distance between Jupiter and Earth. As far as Marten knew, those asteroids had not accelerated since they’d shot out of Saturn’s orbit and begun their fatal journey.

  “Marten,” said Nadia.

  They lay on the bed in his Force-Leader’s quarters. At two-Gs, both of them needed to practice caution, particularly Marten, or any man for that matter. Each man wore a special cup around his privates. Extended two-Gs for days on end could cause possible rupture.

  Marten lay stretched on the bed with his wife. He stroked her face as he lay on the pillow. Gently, the two of them kissed.

  “My dearest,” he whispered.

  “I love you,” she said.

  He embraced her and they continued to kiss. Soon, carefully, they made love…. Afterward, Marten slept with Nadia.

  He dreamed he was back in the Sun-Works Factory, running through the endless corridors. Instead of PHC chasing him, giant Highborn did. He heard Training Master Lycon and the Praetor. They shouted to each other about his coming castration. Just before they rounded a corridor to grab him, cyborgs dropped from somewhere, even though Marten knew it couldn’t have been the ceiling. The strange beings dropped, the Highborn appeared and everyone drew guns and began blasting.

  Marten woke up with a start. Nadia’s head lay on his chest, with her hair sprawled in disarray. He stroked her head and squeezed his eyes closed. What an awful dream. Soon, however, it was going to be reality as Highborn and cyborgs were together again in a confined space. Blowing out his cheeks, Marten listened to the soft thrum of the fusion core.

  “Uh, what time is it?” Nadia whispered.

  “Shhh,” Marten said, touching her cheek.

  She looked up into his eyes. He looked back. Then he gazed at her perfect butt and her long legs.

  “You beast,” she said in a sleepy voice.

&nbs
p; “Yeah, that’s me.”

  She turned serious then. “I’m frightened, Marten. We’re going to be near Mars soon. Then we have to turn, to shift onto a new heading. I’m not sure the Spartacus can take the strain.”

  “We have to try,” he said.

  “I’ve been studying the projected forces. We’re hardly anything compared to all the Highborn missiles and Doom Stars.”

  “I know,” said Marten.

  “If we fail to show up, no one will miss us.”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “Which is our side again?” she asked.

  “I hate Social Unity and I hate the Highborn. But the cyborgs aren’t even an option. If the Jovians are to survive, they’ll need allies. In this, a man has to choose the lesser of two or three evils. After the war is won, however, I’ll go back to fighting Social Unity.”

  “So first we save Earth?”

  “If we can,” he said.

  She looked up into his eyes. Hers were haunted. “Hold me,” she whispered.

  He stroked her hair, wondering how this would all turn out.

  -50-

  The four Zhukov-class battlewagons from Mars approached tactical laser-range with the enemy. They were in a line abreast, with the Vladimir Lenin on the subjective left as seen from Earth. A thick prismatic-crystal cloud was between the ship and the asteroids. The P-Cloud protected each battleship, and each taskforce presently moved through velocity alone.

  Commodore Blackstone stood at the map-module, with Commissar Kursk across from him. The other officers of the Vladimir Lenin sat at their posts, monitoring their boards. Red light bathed the bridge, with quiet noises from communications predominating.

  “Why haven’t they responded?” asked Blackstone.

  Kursk shook her head.

  “Our missiles have been in enemy range for almost an hour,” he said.

  Blackstone adjusted the module’s settings. The missiles launched many days ago now neared the front asteroids. The cyborgs had seemingly ignored every rule of space combat, neither building their own prismatic-crystal cloud nor attacking the missiles.

  “We’ll reach laser-range in ten minutes, sir,” said the weapons-officer.

  The Vladimir Lenin had an effective one hundred thousand kilometer range. Because its targets were asteroids with a precise velocity, a refined targeting technique was being employed.

  “Yes,” said Blackstone. “Inform the others and ready our mirror.”

  The weapons-officer bent over his board.

  Blackstone touched the map-module.

  The four battleships moved on a near-collision course toward the asteroids. Given their present heading, they would pass the asteroids with about seven thousand kilometers to spare. The prismatic-cloud presently glittered in front of the four battleships, acting as a screen in case the cyborgs fired heavy lasers. It also prevented the battleships from directly firing at the asteroids.

  Now four large mirrors moved away from the battleships but parallel with the protective cloud. These mirrors had special hardened coating and precise targeting features. Once in position, each tilted at a perfect angle, able to see the asteroids because the prismatic crystals were no longer between them and the targets.

  The Vladimir Lenin began to rotate, so the heavy lasers were pointed at its particular mirror.

  “Enemy lasers, sir!” shouted the weapons-officer, a squat Asian man named Wu, noted for his extreme devotion to his weapons.

  Commodore Blackstone hunched his shoulders. “Are the lasers firing on us or—”

  “Against our missiles, sir!” shouted Wu.

  Almost one hundred thousand kilometers separated them from the cyborg taskforce. That meant the information was several nanoseconds old. The missiles launched many days ago were less than nineteen thousand kilometers from the enemy. Surely, the cyborgs lasers could reach farther than that. So why had they waited so long before firing?

  “Do you have an estimate of the enemy wattage?” asked Blackstone.

  “The readings are coming in now, sir,” said Wu.

  “…Well?”

  “They’re similar to our heavy lasers, sir,” said Wu.

  “Not near Doom Star laser power-levels?” asked Blackstone.

  “Negative, sir,” said Wu.

  “That’s something at least,” Blackstone whispered to Kursk. “Give me more data,” he told Wu. “What are the other missiles doing?” he asked the missile-officer.

  “They’re all firing, sir!” shouted Wu.

  “What, our missiles?” asked Blackstone.

  “I’m sorry, sir. The cyborgs lasers are all firing.”

  “I want precise data,” Blackstone said. “What do you mean by all?”

  Wu’s thick fingers blurred across his screen as he tapped madly. “Twenty heavy lasers, sir,” he said a moment later. “No. Make that twenty-two enemy lasers.”

  “So many?” said Blackstone.

  “I’m surprised there aren’t more,” Wu said. “Given their surface area—”

  “Give me power estimates on their fusion cores,” Blackstone said. “We need more information and we likely don’t have much time to get it.”

  “We’re in laser-range, sir,” said Wu.

  “Ask the other ships if they’re ready to fire.”

  “I already have, sir. They are.”

  Blackstone moistened his lips. “Take out enemy laser turrets,” he said. “Now!” He made a curt gesture.

  As Wu complied, the thrum of the fusion core rose in volume. The Vladimir Lenin built up power and pumped it through the laser coils. The concentrated light beamed through the firing tube. That light struck the mirror, the one outside the protection of the prismatic-crystal cloud. Bounced perfectly, the coherent light sped across the one hundred thousand kilometers at the speed of light. It hit a laser-turret on the thirty-kilometer asteroid, the one designated as A. As the Vladimir Lenin continued to move toward the asteroids, the asteroids continued to move at Earth. In order to keep the laser focused on the turret, the mirror minutely adjusted throughout the entirety of the beaming.

  Now the other heavy lasers from the other three battleships began to beam across the immense distance.

  “Have any missiles hit?” asked Blackstone. “I want information, people, and I want it now.”

  Other devices had moved outside the protection of the cloud, some of them radar dishes and others teleoptic scopes of incredible power. The radar sped to the asteroids at the speed of light, bounced off and sped back just as fast. It took twice as long, however, as directly viewing what occurred through optics.

  “Scratch one laser-turret!” shouted Wu, who pumped his fist in the air.

  “We can hurt them,” Blackstone told Kursk with a grin.

  “We haven’t gotten to them with the missiles yet,” she said. “The missiles hold the nukes, which is the only effective way to nudge the asteroids off course.”

  “Allow me to enjoy my victory, as small as it is,” Blackstone said.

  Kursk gripped the map-module so her knuckles whitened. Her intense gaze was fixated on the screen.

  “I want—” Blackstone said.

  “Enemy lasers!” shouted the defensive-officer. “They’re trying a burn-through, sir.”

  “How many lasers?” snapped Blackstone.

  “Sir,” the defensive-officer said, “they’re focusing ten lasers into a small area.”

  “Start pumping more crystals!” Blackstone shouted.

  “Emergency pumping engaged!” the defensive-officer said. “Sir, at this rate, they’ll burn through our P-Cloud in twelve minutes.”

  “Impossible,” said Blackstone.

  “Slag the Leon Trotsky’s mirror, sir,” Wu said. “I don’t know how, but the cyborgs damaged it.”

  “We’re too heavily outgunned,” Kursk whispered.

  Blackstone said nothing as he stared at the map-module. The Commissar was right. The cyborgs had too many heavy lasers, and it looked as if they had en
ough power to fire them for hours. Just as bad, none of the missiles had made it near enough the asteroids to make detonation worthwhile.

  “How are we supposed to stop them, sir?” asked Wu.

  “What I want to know,” Kursk whispered, “is how Hawthorne is going to get any space marines onto those asteroids.”

  Blackstone swallowed in a dry throat. He had his orders. Hawthorne had ordered him to break off the attack if the cyborgs proved too powerful. Social Unity had to keep a fleet intact, especially if the unthinkable happened and the cyborgs destroyed Earth as a habitable planet. Yet to have traveled out this far and beamed the lasers for less than a minute, and then to turn and run—it was too galling.

  “Now they’ve damaged our mirror, sir,” said Wu. “We can’t fire at them anymore unless we come out from behind the cloud.”

  “Or if they burn our cloud away,” said the defensive-officer.

  Commodore Joseph Blackstone found himself short of breath. The cyborgs had too much concentrated firepower on those asteroids. The big ones possessed greater tonnage than all the Doom Stars, Zhukov-class Battleships and missiles combined. How were they supposed to stop the asteroids from smashing into the Earth?

  “We must ram them,” whispered Kursk.

  Blackstone blinked at her. “What?” he whispered.

  “We must ram them,” she said. She was pale and trembling.

  Shaking his head, Blackstone said, “We lack the tonnage to do more than nudge one. You saw the specs. The asteroids have giant exhaust ports. They’ll just readjust course.”

  “We have to do something,” Kursk said hoarsely.

  “Yes!” Blackstone said, and he struck the map-module. “We keep these battleships intact.”

  “You’re running away?”

  “I’m saving our fleet—if I can.” He knew it might already be too late. The cyborg firepower, it was too much. “Break-off,” said Blackstone, “employ schedule three-C.”

  Several officers swiveled around to stare at him.

  “Now!” shouted Blackstone. “We have to get out of range now. There’s nothing more we can do today.”