Planet Wrecker ds-5

by Vaughn Heppner

  Hawthorne’s eyes snapped open, and he scanned the field marshals and generals. In several he caught questioning looks. It confirmed in him the desire to die with a gun in his hand, firing at whoever came to take him down. Maybe that was too melodramatic, but it fit his growing certainty that he had two choices, and only two. Hawthorne stood up, his chair scraping the floor behind him. The time for hesitation or timidity was over. Wars led to brutality and to atrocities. And this was the most brutal war in history.

  “Field Marshal Baines is correct…up to a point,” Hawthorne said, as he nodded at the squat commander. “We shall deploy troops around the cities and demand their surrender. Then we shall obliterate one of them with a rain of nuclear death and with however many city-busters are needed. After that, we shall call on the two remaining cities to surrender. If either fails to comply, we shall destroy the next one. Hopefully, in this manner, we shall save two cities and certainly one. Whatever else happens, however, we will crush this rebellion and return unity to our socially advanced state.”

  “Have you made a decision on the cybertanks?” asked Cone.

  “They will remain where they are,” said Hawthorne. “In this instance, the fusion weapons shall be our fist. The deployable troops will merely be the occupiers. Now—to other matters….”

  -29-

  “Sir,” said Captain Mune, “I highly recommend you take a different course of action.”

  Five swift days had produced a change in Hawthorne. His shoulders still stooped and there was a blue tinge in the bags under his eyes, but his heart no longer thudded as if on the verge of a heart attack. It had been a long time since he’d been outdoors under the sun. It was a strange feeling, a good one.

  The lanky Supreme Commander stood on the top of his APC. The heavily tracked vehicle was camouflaged green. Instead of benches for infantry, the inside of the armored vehicle held the highest-grade communication equipment on Earth. There were four other vehicles circling Hawthorne. One was a bio-tank with a silver-dome canopy. The other three were carriers. Fifteen bionic soldiers circled the vehicles, facing outward with their gyroc rifles.

  The bionic soldiers, the vehicles and Hawthorne were in the hills around Beirut. They were presently parked under tall cedar trees. The wind ruffled the top branches. Below them in the valley by the blue Mediterranean Sea was the rebellious city. Tall buildings and masses of domes and glassy cubes made up the highest level of Beirut. Underground were another twenty-eight levels, holding nearly thirty-one million people.

  Hawthorne’s heart turned cold then. “This is incredible,” he said. He stood on the APC, with hi-powered binoculars glued to his eyes. He scanned the city, at the mass movement in the streets. He saw people, hordes of people moving outward like a swarm of ants.

  “I don’t know how, sir,” said Mune. “But they must know we’re here.”

  Hawthorne lowered the binoculars. His face felt pasty and his heart began to thump. “How…how did they get out?” Then he shook his head. “No one is in control, or not in full control,” he said, answering his own question. “It’s a rebellion. The people are boiling up out of the lower levels.”

  This was the chaos he needed to prevent in the rest of Eurasia and Africa. What would happen if the people boiled up out of the cities everywhere?

  “We don’t have enough troops here, sir,” said Mune. “I suggest we move to a more defensible position.”

  Hawthorne gulped for air as he lifted the binoculars and continued to scan Beirut. Keeping the billions of inhabitants in the kilometer-deep cities made control easier. The physical evidence was down there before him. How many troops would it take to control so much human mass? Sealing off a level in the city only took a handful of troops.

  A bionic soldier popped his head out of the APC’s main hatch. “There is no answer to your ultimatum, sir.”

  Hawthorne heard the words as he scanned back and forth. Look at all of them! They just marched out of the city. He adjusted the controls, zooming closer. This was laughable. Many held clubs or knives. What did they think they were going to do? Hawthorne cursed softly. They were so skinny, and they wore rags for clothes. Many were shirtless and about half of those he could see lacked shoes. Were all the cities on Earth like this? The idea was shattering, sobering and in the end, sickening.

  “Shall I order Field Marshal Baines to repeat the ultimatum, sir?” the bionic soldier asked.

  Hawthorne shook his head. Who was he to order nuclear devastation on these desperate people? Even though he kept the binoculars pointed at them, he closed his eyes. He knew then what the Shah of Iran must have felt. To have the force to annihilate and then to feel such pity—it could freeze a man. It could steal his resolve. Stand and fight to the end, bitterly, or run, or surrender to the Highborn.

  “I’m killing a city to save Social Unity,” Hawthorne said bleakly.

  “This is war, sir,” said Captain Mune.

  “Is this war?” asked Hawthorne. When no answer was forthcoming, he opened his eyes and lowered the binoculars. The com-soldier and Captain Mune watched him. It was so easy to give advice, to urge a Supreme Commander to give brutal, soul-searing orders. But to be the man who had to give those orders, that was something else altogether.

  Why had he insisted on witnessing the operation himself? Being outside felt good, that’s true. Is that what they felt down there? He hoped they felt the sun beating down on their faces and the cool kiss of the sea breeze. He hoped they smelled the clean air of Earth at least once. Maybe it was better that so many of them where already out of the levels.

  “Order Field Marshal Baines to launch the missiles,” Hawthorne whispered.

  “You have to come down, sir,” Mune said. “Otherwise the flash will burn out your eyes and peel off your skin.”

  Hawthorne lowered the binoculars until they thumped against his chest. Feeling old, he headed for the hatch. The com-soldier already sat at his station. Hawthorne slid into his seat, turning on his screen. Captain Mune entered and closed the hatch. The main engines purred into life, and Hawthorne lurched in his seat as the tracks outside no doubt churned soil.

  “I’ve sent the order, sir,” the com-officer said.

  Hawthorne stared at his screen. All those streaming people outside would face the brunt of the missiles.

  There! He saw one on his screen. It moved so impossibly fast. The missile zoomed downward. It zoomed toward the cluster of tall buildings, the domes and massive cube-buildings that had been the craze in this part of the world for the last ten years. He could imagine shocked faces looking upward. Would eyes bulge or mouths hang agape? Was there screaming, pushing, shoving and trampling? The missile flashed.

  Hawthorne automatically counted the seconds. A thunderous boom crashed against the APC. He grabbed the bars as the shockwave hit. The heavy APC rocked back and forth.

  “Halt the vehicle!” shouted Mune.

  Seconds later, the vehicle’s vibrations finally stopped. Hawthorne vaguely realized that he couldn’t hear the engines. Multiple thunderous booms sounded now, and soon the APC rocked more violently. How many missiles had he ordered onto Beirut?

  A glance at the screen showed nothing but fuzziness. The wash of electromagnetic pulses must be playing havoc with communications.

  “Sir!” shouted the com-officer.

  “Yes,” said Hawthorne, weary beyond life.

  “I’m receiving an emergency message.”

  That made no sense. The EMP blasts—oh, special laser optics probably linked the vehicle with a hardened communications site.

  “Are the other two cities surrendering?” Hawthorne asked.

  “It’s from Mars, sir. At least, it’s coded as a Mars Golden Flash.”

  In took two entire seconds before Hawthorne scowled. “Speak sense,” he said.

  The bionic com-officer adjusted his screen. “It’s a direct message, sir, for your eyes only.”

  “What about Beirut?” Hawthorne asked. “I’m not interested in Mar
s right now.”

  “A Golden Flash, sir,” the bionic officer said, swiveling around. “It’s from Commodore Blackstone.”

  “Who?” said Hawthorne.

  “The commander of the SU Battlefleet in Mars orbit, sir.”

  “I know who Blackstone is,” said Hawthorne, his voice hardening. “Why’s he sending me a message now?”

  “That’s unknown, sir. Shall I transmit the message?”

  Hawthorne stared at the com-officer. With a mental effort, he cleared away the guilt of having just ordered the deaths of millions of people.

  “Does the message have a heading?” Hawthorne asked.

  “Yes sir. Apparently, it’s concerning the cyborgs. The Commodore believes he might have found them.”

  It took two blinks. Then a cold feeling swept through Hawthorne. He knew then why he’d ordered the thermonuclear weapons. There were worse things than Highborn.

  “Hurry man,” Hawthorne said, “read it to me.”

  -30-

  Commodore Blackstone stood beside the map-module on the Vladimir Lenin. The Zhukov-class Battleship was one of four in the Mars System. There were a few other secondary vessels in his truncated fleet, but they were a pittance compared to the ships he’d possessed before facing the Doom Stars.

  There was a red glow on the bridge. His officers were at their posts, diligently studying new data.

  The hatch opened and Blackstone looked up. Commissar Kursk entered, and the briefest flicker of a smile played on his lips. Kursk was the only happiness he had in the certain knowledge that humanity was doomed.

  They had beaten the Highborn. At least, they had made the super-soldiers retreat in their dreadful Doom Stars. For that, Blackstone knew he’d become a legend among the people of Earth. He’d even enjoyed the broadcasts the propagandists had beamed to Mars. It had revived him enough that he’d begun physical training and had regained some of his youthful stamina. Kursk had taken advantage of that in prolonged sexual encounters. That had lasted until news over a year ago had arrived from Jupiter. The story of the planet wrecker…what had that Jovian moon been called? Ah, right—Carme. The moon had changed Blackstone’s perceptions, so had the reports of the Highborn blockade tightening around Earth.

  There never had been more battleships and no extra missile-ships joining his flotilla. The Supreme Commander had decided to keep a small fleet-in-being between Venus and Earth. From the rumors he’d heard, it was a deteriorating fleet. One battleship had headed out-system. Instead of stopping at Mars, it had long ago sped for the Saturn System. No one had heard anything from it for over a year.

  Blackstone adjusted the map-module. He was a short man, with a newly bio-sculpted face, giving him a younger appearance. The best doctor in the Planetary Union had operated on him. The doctor had sharpened the nose and added authority to his chin. He’d even grafted new hair, which had taken well. Kursk had urged him to make these changes.

  “You have news?” asked Kursk.

  “It’s difficult to see,” Blackstone said.

  Kursk moved beside him, bumping her hip against his. She was taller and more earnest than he was. He was the more imaginative.

  “What am I looking at?” asked Kursk.

  “The last readings from the Stalingrad-Seven,” he said.

  “A probe?” she asked.

  Blackstone nodded. The probe had been launched many, many months ago, and it had made a long and silent journey toward Saturn. Several days ago, it had become functional and begun broadcasting data.

  “Is that a planet?” Kursk asked.

  “For unknown reasons it’s blurry,” he said. “That’s Saturn at extreme magnification.”

  “Where are its rings?”

  Blackstone tapped the map-module, increasing computer magnification of the data. “Run a spectrum-analysis on the interference,” he said.

  “I already have, sir,” said the sensor-officer.

  “And?” asked Blackstone.

  “A thin aerosol gel,” said the sensor-officer.

  “Just like the cyborgs did before we attacked the Martian moons,” said Kursk.

  Blackstone’s nostrils expanded. He remembered that tense time, the greatest battle of his life.

  “It’s not the same,” he said. “The scale….”

  That was part of his sense of doom, the sheer scale of this war. Mars only had one natural satellite now, one moon. Planet-busters had cracked Phobos and sent the pieces spinning toward the Red Planet. When the pieces had rained onto the surface, hundreds of thousands of Martians had died. Fierce storms still raged over the planet because of it and made landings and liftoffs difficult. What kind of war was it that changed the natural face of the Solar System? The cyborgs and Highborn had no sense of proportion, no propriety.

  Blackstone realized that Kursk was staring at him.

  “Do you realize how much gel it would take to block out the rings?” she asked.

  Blackstone laughed sharply.

  “Wait a minute,” said Kursk. “I see some ring there.” She pointed at the map-module. “They haven’t completely blocked them out. What does this mean?”

  Blackstone tapped the map-module, switching the scene. Now the void showed, with a thousand stars in the background.

  “Highlight in red,” whispered Blackstone.

  A tiny object appeared on the module map.

  “What is it?” asked Kursk.

  “We’re still trying to discover that.”

  “I don’t understand. That looks exactly like the object you sent in the file to Hawthorne.”

  “Yes,” said Blackstone.

  “How big is it?”

  “Our best estimate: a kilometer.”

  “Do you still think it’s made of ice?”

  Without answering, Blackstone tapped the module, switching back to the first setting, showing a dim Saturn with wisps of rings.

  A Martian-fired probe had discovered the ice-asteroid three days ago. Analysis suggested it had originated in the Saturn System. It presently headed toward the Sun.

  A flash occurred on the map-module. Kursk gasped as she threw up her hands. Blackstone ignored her reaction as he glared at the map screen.

  “Did you find it this time?” he asked.

  “Yes sir,” said the sensor-officer, a tense woman, with quick, twitchy hands. Her fingers lacked rings and her name was Quo, Sensor-Officer Quo. “It was definitely an X-ray laser.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Kursk. “What just occurred?”

  “You just witnessed the deliberate destruction of the Stalingrad-Seven probe,” Blackstone said.

  “From Saturn?” asked Kursk. “The X-ray laser originated from Saturn? I thought the probe was at extreme range.”

  “Yes,” said Blackstone.

  “You sent a signal to begin scanning earlier than projected, correct?” asked Kursk.

  “I started early,” said Blackstone. He had because of the ice-asteroid.

  “The distance the laser traveled is quite phenomenal then.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Blackstone. “There could have been a nearby ship—”

  “The coincidence of that renders the likelihood impossible.”

  “Or those in Saturn found the probe some time ago and launched an X-ray laser missile,” said Blackstone.

  “Again, the coincidence of the timing makes such a thing unlikely.”

  “Unlikely or not,” said Blackstone, “our probe was destroyed.”

  “We must discover how.”

  Blackstone made a bleak sound as he glared at the map-module. Ever since he’d received the information about Carme, he’d begun intense scanning sweeps of the Saturn and Uranus Systems. So far, only the Saturn sweeps had brought returns, these meager images. It wasn’t always possible to scan Saturn directly, as Mars often passed onto the other side of the Sun as Saturn. Roughly, Mars orbited the Sun every two years. Saturn orbited the Sun about once every thirty years. That meant Mars orbited the Sun fifteen tim
es for every time Saturn orbited it once.

  He wouldn’t have found the ice-asteroid if the Jovians hadn’t initiated talks with Social Unity and the Planetary Union. Because they did, everyone shared data. It was incredibly difficult finding small, dark, cold objects in space. The Solar System was so vast that even Doom Stars were small in relation to the distances.

  Searching for relatively small objects in space could be critical for survival. The idea of whipping an asteroid around a gas giant and flinging it at a planet had terrified Blackstone. He couldn’t understand why Hawthorne hadn’t ordered a greater amount of probes and sweeps of the now silent Outer Planets. Maybe the Supreme Commander had become too Earth-bound in his thinking. Blackstone had definite ideas about how to run a space campaign. He could do it better than Hawthorne was doing, of that he was certain.

  “Do you think cyborgs burned the probe?” asked Kursk.

  “No one has answered us from Saturn for over two years,” Blackstone said.

  “That doesn’t prove the cyborgs conquered the system.”

  “Given what else we know, yes is does,” said Blackstone. “Don’t forget about General Fromm.”

  Kursk scowled. She had shot General Fromm, a cyborg-controlled individual. Fromm had tried to take control of the Vladimir Lenin in the most critical phase of the Third Battle for Mars. Learning that cyborgs could and had tampered with normal people…it had been a bitter lesson.

  “Can a kilometer-sized ice-asteroid harm Mars?” asked Kursk.

  Blackstone laughed sharply.

  “What about Earth?” she asked, staring at him. She’d told him before that she hated it when he laughed at her, especially on the bridge. No doubt, he would hear about it tonight. Maybe he’d hear about it all night long.

  “The ice-asteroid is extinction-sized,” he said. “If it hits the Earth, it means the death of everyone on the planet.”

  “Bring it up on the module again,” she said.

  Blackstone complied.

  “I doubt the cyborgs would launch a single ice-asteroid at Mars or at the Earth,” Kursk said. “We could certainly destroy it before it hit.”