Doom Star: Book 06 - Star Fortress

by Vaughn Heppner

  -4-

  Three days after killing the cyborg, Captain Sandoval hung onto the insides of a shaking Comet 9 strike-jet. After the sandstorm fight, he had been badly injured and was now on a ton of painkillers and half out of his mind.

  The strike-jet was an old military plane, a two-seater, having survived countless hits and patch-jobs. Ricardo had already endured hours in it and now found himself on the other side of Mars.

  Below, red dust-clouds billowed across the surface. It was a global storm, covering most of the planet. Although Mars was smaller than Earth, its landmass was a little more than all Earth’s continents combined. The surface of Mars consisted of a worldwide desert. As dust entered the atmosphere, sunlight heated it, increasing the temperature, sometimes as much as thirty degrees Centigrade. That caused winds to rush to colder areas, picking up yet more dust and adding to the situation. On Earth, water vapor was the main heating agent instead of dust. And on Earth, deserts were limited in area and therefore unable to feed a global storm. Dust clouds often grew in the Gobi desert of Mongolia Sector, for instance, but when they blew over the Pacific Ocean, the storm soon died from the lack of new fueling dust.

  Looking down through the billowing iron-oxide particles, Ricardo spied volcanoes and deep valleys.

  “Hang on,” the pilot said. “It will get rough for a few minutes.”

  As the plane blanked, it shivered hard into the wind. Something metal dislodged from the console in front of Ricardo. The part struck his foot, and sparks shot from the console.

  “There’s an extinguisher to your left!” the pilot shouted.

  “What?” Ricardo shouted back.

  The sparks caught fire, and a burnt electrical smell assaulted Ricardo’s nose. The flames before him flickered with bitter purpose. To add injury to the emergency, the rattling and shaking around him increased.

  “Put out the fire, amigo!” the pilot shouted. “Do it before it shorts something important and we crash.”

  The words finally penetrated Ricardo’s hazy thoughts. He spotted the extinguisher, tore it from the holder and studied it for a half-second. The burnt electrical smell was worse now and the flames bigger. He aimed the nozzle at the flames and pressed the switch. Foam hissed, coating the console. Some of it sprayed back onto Ricardo. A fleck landed on his lips. It tasted awful. He leaned forward in his seat, pulling against the restraints and pressed the button again, putting out the electrical fire.

  By this time, the jet plunged out of the bottom of the dust storm and entered one of the long Martian valleys that crisscrossed the planet. The shaking and rattling quit. Now Ricardo heard the laboring jet engine. At the same time, he noticed the sharp decrease of illumination. They were at the bottom of the dust cloud and had huge canyon walls on either side of them. He glanced right and left, and estimated each wall as about a kilometer away.

  “Where are we?” Ricardo shouted.

  “We’re nearing Salvador Dome, amigo.”

  Ricardo blinked several times, until he grew aware of the extinguisher in his hands. He shoved it back into its holder so it the locks snapped.

  Like this jet, just about everything was old and aging on Mars. Ricardo wouldn’t have been surprised if the extinguisher had lacked foam. Salvador Dome was a grim reminder of the luck and disrepair here.

  After the Third Battle for Mars, everyone had died in the dome. Against odds, a boulder-sized piece of Phobos had flashed into the valley, streaked the half kilometer to the bottom and shattered the main structure. The moon-meteor had proceeded to smash through every level of Salvador Dome. No one survived the impact. To save time and effort—critical commodities on Mars—workers had dumped the corpses down the meteor-made hole. It was a sealed mass grave now and a ghost-haunted dome.

  Why take me halfway across the planet to bring me here? It made no sense in terms of jet-fuel and use of the aging Comet 9.

  The pilot’s radio crackled into life. “You have ten seconds to identify yourself,” a female operator told them.

  Ricardo frowned. Ten seconds? That would imply a military capacity to do something about non-compliance. That made even less sense. Large-scale defensive equipment was among the rarest of commodities on Mars. Why station anti-air missiles down here at a dead dome?

  A constant whine sounded from the pilot’s console.

  “Ground control has lock-on,” the pilot informed Ricardo. “I guess I’d better answer.” The pilot clicked a switch, saying, “This is an Omi Operational flight.”

  Omi? That was the name of Marten Kluge’s best friend. That couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

  “I’m bringing Captain Ricardo Sandoval to the site,” the pilot said. “Those are per the orders of Secretary-General Gomez.”

  Ricardo looked up in wonder. No one had said anything about the Secretary-General. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “You have permission to land,” the operator said. “But if you deviate from the flight corridor, you will be targeted and shot down.”

  “They want us to feel welcome,” the pilot said over his shoulder.

  “Salvador Dome is defended?” Ricardo asked.

  The pilot laughed. “They’re targeting us with Veracruz SAMs.”

  Ricardo knew those were the highest-grade Surface to Air Missiles the Mars Planetary Union possessed. What he couldn’t fathom is why they ringed Salvador Dome, a dead city.

  “Do you know what’s going on?” Ricardo asked.

  “Yes I do, amigo. The SAMs have lock-on and the operator means exactly what she says. We stay in the flight corridor all the way down. With your permission, Captain, I will concentrate on that.”

  “Yes, please do,” Ricardo said. He leaned near the canopy as the jet banked slightly. Below was a great dome, with a jagged hole to the left of center. He spied the SAM sites flanking the dark dome. What did they guard down there? He supposed he would find out soon enough.

  The rest of the flight proved uneventful. They soon taxied down a runaway, put on their masks, climbed out and entered an APC. The military vehicle took them to a large garage separate from the dome.

  There Ricardo parted company from the pilot and soon found himself alone on a chair in an empty room. It was more of a large box with a metal floor and walls. There was a faint drone coming from somewhere and the slightest vibration against his feet. Ricardo was used to this: move here, go there, hurry up and wait. It surprised him High Command hadn’t kept him on the ground searching for more cyborgs. Had the generals decided the capsule was a first landing attempt?

  Ricardo’s stomach growled, but then it often did. He was always hungry, even though he ate sumptuously according to Martian standards. Before it could growl again, one of the doors opened.

  To his amazement, Secretary-General Gomez entered. He recognized her from the news blogs, particularly as she wore her customary green uniform. She was a tall woman with darker-than-average skin. She had tight curls, wore sunglasses and moved stiffly, using a cane as she dragged her left foot. Long ago, she had been a gunman in the Resistance. Nine, Political Harmony Corps guards had died on Martian streets due to Gomez’s firing. The tenth PHC guard had worn the latest body-armor and returned fire, sending three explosive slugs into Gomez’s frame. Reconstructive surgery had saved her life, but she lived with constant pain these days.

  “Captain Sandoval,” she said in a strong voice.

  Ricardo lurched to his feet at attention as he saluted crisply.

  “You recognize me, do you?”

  He nodded.

  The faintest of smiles appeared on Gomez’s thin face. “You are Mars’s great Cyborg Slayer, are you not?”

  “I killed one in a sandstorm.”

  “And thereby saved one of your Commandos,” Gomez said. “I read the report. You bayoneted it to death. From what they tell me about cyborgs, that is most impressive.”

  “The cyborg was already damaged and lacked modern weaponry,” Ricardo said.

  “It also slaughtered yo
ur men as if they were children,” Gomez said. “Under the circumstances, your feat was amazing.”

  Ricardo nodded brusquely.

  Gomez tapped the floor with her cane. “Tell me, Captain. What is your estimate of the war?”

  “I’m not certain I follow you.”

  “Then you are not the man I need and this entire situation was a costly waste of time.”

  “You mean the wider war, the one against the cyborgs.”

  “At the moment, it is the only war that matters.”

  “I agree,” Ricardo said.

  “How gratifying,” Secretary-General Gomez said dryly.

  Ricardo refused to let that bother him. “We are losing the war,” he said.

  Gomez became alert. “What is the probable outcome?”

  “The maxim is simple,” he said. “To win, one must attack. We do not attack. Therefore, we will lose until we successfully take the offensive.”

  “And we should attack where do you think?”

  “The heart of the cyborgs lies in Neptune. You must attack there. I thought Social Unity and the Highborn planned exactly that.”

  “Not Social Unity, Captain,” Gomez said. “Social Unity is merely one component of our allied front. The Jovians, Martians and Earthmen have formed an alliance of regular men, don’t you remember?”

  “The Highborn, Social Unity and the Jovians have warships. We do not.”

  Gomez leaned on her cane toward him. “Does our lack of a fleet bother you?”

  Ricardo grew puzzled. If seemed as if his answer was important to her. What possible reason…his face grew slack. “We’re building warships,” he whispered. “Is that what this is about?”

  Pain creased her features, and the fist holding the cane knotted. “Where did you gain this information? You will tell me, Captain. We have learned from our enemies and will resort to whatever means necessary to find what we must.”

  “I fail to…” Ricardo saw it then—the reason why they had put SAMs here. Yes, the reason they had chosen Salvador Dome for a secret project.

  “Secretary-General Gomez,” he said, “no one has informed me of anything. I merely added two and two together. Your line of questioning, the defensive perimeter erected here and the operator’s willingness to destroy a Martian jet all points to some highly secret project. Your last question points to the nature of the secret.”

  “Go on,” Gomez said.

  “Both Inner Planets and the Jovians have warships. Mars has none. The war for survival is the critical action now if humanity is to survive the next few years.”

  Gomez lifted the cane, pointing it at Ricardo. “I have read your blog, Captain. You thrive on this war, on your association with Marten Kluge. You have a quick and agile mind. I seek those needed qualities. Even more, as you often point out in your blog, potential means nothing. The man of action who has proven himself capable should lead others into combat against the enemy.”

  “You’re talking about my advancement because I killed the cyborg?”

  “Exactly,” Gomez said. “You fulfilled Kluge’s maxims to a nicety. In the face of danger, you took a simple tool—your bayonet—and finished killing the meld. Mars needs men of your caliber, men who take what they have instead of complaining they lack the proper equipment. With the tools at hand, you achieved the needed goal. Mars has little to add to the armada. In many ways, I believe both Social Unity and the Highborn would torpedo our attempt to act the part of soldiers.” Gomez shook her head. “Mars will not be denied its place in the Sun. We will join hands with the others, helping kill the common enemy. Captain, you will come with me.”

  Gomez turned around and limped out the door. Ricardo hurried after her. They moved down a steel corridor, toward the sound of humming and increasing vibration. Entering an elevator, they went down, the noise increasing the entire time.

  The elevator stopped, the doors swished open and the two of them walked onto a balcony with a railing. Beyond was a cavernous area. Ricardo gripped the rail and carefully peered over. It was a good three hundred meters to the floor. Cables snaked everywhere and carts hurried here and there.

  Ricardo swallowed as he gazed at a huge missile-shaped vessel. Metal scaffolding encompassed it. Most of the vessel was girders and fierce welding sparks. Workers crawled everywhere over it.

  “The planet’s resources are badly stretched,” Gomez shouted into his ear. “Many of our people starve. The satellite defense is incomplete—the reason the cyborgs could slip their capsule through our net. Nearly every piece of military hardware on Mars is old and decaying. We should do everything else except build a warship. As we know, those are built in space, the best ones at the Sun-Works Factory.”

  Ricardo tore his gaze from the skeletal vessel, staring into those dark sunglasses. “Mars will join the attack?”

  “Many of the Local Bosses are against this,” Gomez said. “If the cyborgs launch a stealth fleet against us…”

  “I understand,” Ricardo said. “I also know that to win you must attack. The cyborgs are winning. Humanity is going down to defeat unless we can turn this war around. We won’t turn it around building defensive satellites.”

  “You speak the truth,” Gomez said.

  Ricardo heard the fatigue in her voice. He saw the lines in her face. The Secretary-General was taking a risk, risking an entire planet on the edge of collapse. She likely risked her political career as well.

  “What can I do to help you?” Ricardo asked.

  Gomez limped to the railing, putting one hand on it. “You are a man of action, Captain. You are not a political infighter. There is little you can do to help me.”

  “Granted,” he said. “Ah, I know. I’ll write on my blog—”

  “You will do nothing of the kind,” Gomez said sternly. “Your blogging days are over.”

  He glanced at her. Then he nodded. “Our vessel will need Commandos, will it not?”

  “There will be little room for them, but a complement of Martian Commandos will board the vessel once the time comes.”

  “I want a berth,” Ricardo said. He dared clutch the Secretary-General’s wrist. “You just said a few minutes ago that you agree with me that a proven man should lead. I killed a cyborg. Therefore, I should lead the Commandos.”

  “No,” Gomez said.

  Ricardo’s fingers slipped off her wrist. He blinked in confusion. “Why did you bring me here then and show me all this? Who is a better Commando?”

  “No one is better,” she said, “at least in terms of killing cyborgs.”

  “Then why not let me go?”

  “I won’t let you go as the leader of the Commandos,” she said.

  “Then—”

  “I want you to captain the sole Martian warship,” Gomez said.

  “What?”

  “You will take orders directly from Marten Kluge, when and if we discover his whereabouts. Otherwise, you will make your decisions as the sole representative of the Mars Planetary Union Fleet.”

  “A fleet composed of one ship?” Ricardo asked.

  “It is all we can launch in time, if we can even manage that. What do you say, Captain Sandoval? Do you accept the commission? Are you willing to journey to Neptune in a cramped warship?”

  Ricardo studied the skeletal vessel-in-building. The thrill in his heart—“I accept with everything in me. Even if it means my death, I want to attack the cyborgs. We must attack.”

  Secretary-General Gomez nodded as a grim smile stretched into place. “You comfort me, Captain.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I want a man in command of our ship who will draw a bayonet and stab a cyborg seventeen times. I want a man who is willing to fight to the bitter end.”

  “You want Marten Kluge.”

  She laughed. It was a short, sharp sound. “Either that,” she said, “or the Martian version of him.”

  Pride swelled in Ricardo’s chest. That was the greatest compliment of his life. Here and now, he vowed
to do everything in his power to live up to the reputation. Mars must be free and humanity must survive the cyborgs!

  The Build Up

  -1-

  Supreme Commander James Hawthorne sat before a screen as he spoke with Grand Admiral Cassius. The coiled ferocity of the Highborn never failed to impress him. It was like looking into the eyes of a psychopath. The sharp facial angles, the stark whiteness of the skin and the short hair like a panther’s pelt…at heart, Cassius was a killer. It was good to remember that.

  Hawthorne sat in his office in New Baghdad. The years had worn him down. He was stooped and thin, with bags under his eyes. Massive crop failures and a strain of poisonous bacteria in the algae had caused grim malnutrition or outright starvation among eighty-three percent of the SU population. There were constant food riots and battalions of riot-control militia now. Misery abounded as extinction stared humanity in the face. He felt old and used up. The nuclear destruction of the Soviets last year—

  Hawthorne forced himself to concentrate on Cassius. It was hard looking into those eyes. He yearned to turn away, but the Highborn would view that as a sign of weakness.

  How are we supposed to destroy the cyborgs? I can’t even trust my allies.

  By all reports, the Grand Admiral was aboard the Julius Caesar. Each of the three Doom Stars had collapsium shielding now. Hawthorne had asked for collapsium to shield some of the SU battleships. Cassius had agreed, provided such warships came under the authority of Highborn commanders. Hawthorne couldn’t agree to that.

  “Don’t you wish to save your species?” Cassius had asked.

  Hawthorne could have told Cassius you don’t turn your back on a psychopath. However, he was too careful about what he told the Master Race to say such a thing. Highborn were proud and as ready to battle as dogs bred for the fighting pits. According to reports, the Highborn had been busy these last several weeks rearranging command slots. That was a surprise. Highborn usually made those changes immediately after a battle, not a year later. Scipio now commanded the Genghis Khan. The reports said that strengthened Cassius’s position. Analysis suggested Cassius might have ordered the old commander’s murder. That didn’t strike Hawthorne as Cassius’s way. The supreme Highborn was a soldier, not an assassin. It was one of the reasons Hawthorne could trust the Grand Admiral to the minimal extent he did.