Planet Wrecker ds-5

by Vaughn Heppner

  Marten scowled.

  “I am told the over-arching concept originated with Grand Admiral Cassius of the Highborn,” Tan said. “As the plan is elegant and economical of force, I have concurred. You are hereby ordered to attack the asteroid-cluster and land space marines on planetoid surfaces, to evict any cyborgs there and gain control of the propulsion systems.”

  “How are we supposed to reach the asteroids to land on them?” asked Nadia.

  “Shhh!” said Marten.

  “You will accelerate your ship and pivot around Mars, changing your heading to catch up to the asteroid-cluster,” Tan said. “The coordinates will be forthcoming. It is possibly a suicidal mission, and your courage for the good of the whole is hereby noted and applauded. You will not be alone in this assault, but you alone will represent the best of the Jovian Dictates. Given that truth, I implore you to fight with enthusiasm and show the others the greatness of the Dictates. In such a manner, your deaths will not go in vain.

  “To the Dictates,” said Tan, lifting her chalice in a salute.

  The main screen flickered afterward. Her image disappeared, and in its place appeared a pyramid with a lidless eye in the center.

  Scowling, Marten slid into his chair. Amidst the silence, he began studying the incoming data.

  -42-

  “It’s a suicide mission,” said Omi.

  Marten lay on his back, with his torso shoved inside a panel on a patrol boat. Using a pneumatic-wrench, he adjusted a photon cell. When he was finished, he slid out and sat up.

  Omi wore a vacc-suit, with the helmet dangling behind him. They were alone in the patrol boat, which sat secure on the surface of the meteor-ship.

  “We’re not coming out of this one alive,” Omi said.

  Marten picked up the grate, shoved it over the panel and switched on the magnetic locks. He grunted as he stood, and he staggered to the pilot’s chair. Omi sat in the weapons-officer’s seat. They were under heavy and extended acceleration, making movement a chore.

  Outside were the Spartacus’s rocky surfaces and then the glowing blue exhaust of the ship’s fusion core. Beyond shined the stars. They headed toward the Sun, but the patrol boat’s viewing port was pointed backward.

  “This entire assault,” said Omi, “it’s too jumbled.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  “Orion-ships from Earth, missiles from the Sun-Works Factory….” Omi shook his head. “It feels scrambled.”

  “The cyborgs caught everyone napping,” said Marten.

  “Highborn and Social Unity, they’ve been tearing out each others throats for years,” Omi said. “Now it turns out we all should have been fighting the cyborgs. Now it may be too late.”

  Marten switched on the pneumatic-wrench, feeling it hum in his hand. This entire mission…ever since Tan’s message, his gut had been tightening. The mission reminded him too much of the Storm Assault Missile fired at the Bangladesh. It had seemed soon as if the bulkheads of the Spartacus were closing in around him. So he’d grabbed Omi and climbed outside, entering a patrol boat. There were moments he felt like lifting off and just heading away, anywhere without Highborn, cyborgs and crazy political leaders. While sitting Marten switched the pneumatic-wrench on and off repeatedly. Then he switched it off for good and clipped it back to his tool-belt.

  “It’s a suicide mission,” said Omi.

  Marten nodded as he stared out of the window into space. “We don’t know anything about the asteroids. At least, if anyone knows, they aren’t telling us.”

  “You know the asteroids will be swarming with cyborgs.”

  Marten glanced at Omi.

  “We’ve learned from our past mistakes,” Omi said. “I bet the cyborgs have, too. On Carme, they didn’t have enough troops. This time I bet they will.”

  The churn in Marten’s gut grew. Unclipping the pneumatic-wrench, he switched it on. The worst horror of his life had been the ride out to the Bangladesh and then storming onto it. He’d never wanted to do something like that again. Yet here he was, accelerating toward death.

  “Do we even have a chance?” asked Omi.

  “What else can we do?” Marten whispered.

  “I’ve heard about your idea of heading to Neptune.”

  “Run away?” asked Marten.

  “Isn’t that better than suicide?”

  Marten clipped the pneumatic-wrench back onto his belt. “We’ve been in a lot of fights, you and me. Others around us die, but we keep going.”

  Omi became quiet.

  “None of the battles we’ve been in have mattered like this one.” Marten clapped his hands. “Everything on Earth dies. Sydney disappears. The islands of Japan burn to a crisp. Korea vanishes. We’re fighting for our home-world, Omi.”

  “The Spartacus is our home.”

  “Is that how the men feel?”

  “They’re not stupid,” Omi said. “They’ve fought the cyborgs before and know the odds. Everyone understands we were lucky to get off Athena Station alive. Counting force-levels is easy enough. You’ve seen the number of asteroids, and you can image the number of cyborgs that must be on each. This fight is fatally stacked against us. The cyborgs are making sure they win this time.”

  “We’re fighting for Earth!”

  “I understand,” said Omi, “but if Earth is doomed, it’s doomed.”

  Marten smacked a fist into the palm of his hand. His gut churned just as much as it ever had, and he hated the feeling. Omi was right. This one had the stink of doom to it, especially their being in a lone ship that was supposed to come up on the enemy’s backside. Marten could envision all too well a bank of laser-turrets and a salvo of missiles obliterating the Spartacus.

  “Tan might have a point about our essential nature,” Marten said.

  “Meaning?”

  “You know how she says we’re guardians, fighters. That fighting is what we know and do best. Maybe, however, the smart thing is to turn away. Maybe we should do what the SU Fifth Fleet did. If we hang out here in the void, we might be the last ones to die to the cyborgs. But then what are we living for?”

  Omi shrugged. “Do we need a reason?”

  “…I need meaning,” said Marten. “My life has to count for something.”

  “Committing suicide gives you meaning?” asked Omi.

  Marten shook his head. “Fighting for what I believe in gives me meaning.”

  Yawning, blocking it with his hand, Omi said, “You keep your meaning. I just want to live so I can eat, drink and bed women.”

  Marten frowned. He had Nadia to worry about now. That was so beautiful, being with the woman he loved. Maybe he could send her away in an escape pod. As he thought about it, he realized she would never agree to that. The trip from the Sun-Works Factory to Jupiter had scarred her emotionally due to the long-term isolation. She would never willingly make such a long and isolated trip again.

  “I need your help,” Marten said, as he stared at the stars. “The men respect you.”

  Omi squinted. “Tell me this. Can we survive?”

  “Ultimately, we all die.”

  “I mean can we defeat the cyborgs.”

  “…I don’t know,” Marten said. “I….” He shrugged.

  After a time, Omi nodded. He drew his gun, examined it and then shoved it back into the holster. “Let us fight then.”

  “You’re with me?” Marten asked, as he stared at the stars.

  Omi turned toward the window. He nodded.

  Marten saw that out of the corner of his eye. His gut still churned, but it was good to know that Omi backed him. A man needed friends. There was none better than Omi.

  “We’ve got work to do,” Marten said.

  “Work,” said Omi. “Maybe that’s what this is all about.”

  Marten glanced at Omi.

  “Some men repair ships,” said Omi. “Some pilot tugs. We’re soldiers. So our work is fighting.”

  “We’re guardians like Tan says?” asked Marten.
>
  Omi shrugged. “I don’t know nothing about that.” He fast-drew his gun. “But I know something about this.” He stared at Marten. Then he holstered the gun, put on his helmet and turned toward the hatch.

  -43-

  Far from the Spartacus on Luna, Grand Admiral Cassius listened to Senior Tribune Cato. They rode together in a moon-buggy. The vehicle had giant balloon tires and a bubble canopy. If anyone had witnessed their passage, they would have seen the two sitting side-by-side.

  The traveled through the Sea of Tranquility. Tiny puffs of moon-dust lifted at the vehicle’s passage and slowly drifted back to the surface. The blue-green Earth hung in the distance with nothing but stars beyond. It meant the Sun was behind Luna.

  “We have fifty-three percent completed,” Cato was saying.

  Cassius scowled. “It should be sixty-three percent. You’re behind schedule.”

  Senior Tribune Cato gripped the wheel with gloved hands. Both Highborn wore vacc-suits, with their visors open to reveal their faces. Cato had a burn scar on the right side of his face, with a patch over his eye.

  “We’re working twenty-four hours a day,” Cato said.

  “In rotation?” asked Cassius.

  “Yes.”

  Cassius had to restrain the impulse to draw his sidearm and destroy the Senior Tribune. “Listen to me,” he said. “Every man is to work twenty-four shifts.”

  “Grand Admiral?”

  “I want those missiles completed in time!” Cassius shouted.

  Cato winced at the volume. Then his features contorted angrily. No Highborn liked being yelled at or being berated. He gripped the steering wheel more tightly, and his foot pressed on the accelerator. The moon-buggy churned across the lunar surface, the vehicle swaying more and jolting as it took the small dunes and rocks faster.

  In the distance rose a vast missile complex from horizon to horizon. There were thousands of blast-pans and tens of thousands of missiles. It had been built for use against the landing assault on Eurasia. As a secondary measure, it was meant to continue the siege of Earth if ever the Doom Stars were needed elsewhere. There had been long debates about situating the missile facility in near-Earth orbit instead of on Luna. The deciding factors had been Luna’s bulk as a permanent platform, its distance from Earth and correspondingly its height in the planet’s gravity-well and the proximity of the mining complexes here, aiding in re-supply.

  “Have you’ve studied my timetable?” asked Cassius.

  “Yes, but—”

  “The cyborgs have achieved strategic surprise against us. Time is now critical. Normally, in a military timetable, there are percentages allowed for errors. We no longer have that luxury. My timetable is precise. You will meet it or face death by hanging.”

  Cato glared at Cassius. “You threaten me as if I were a dog or one of the sub-species?”

  “You have already tested my patience,” warned Cassius.

  “Twenty-four hour shifts means stim-injections.”

  “Tell me now: can you can meet my timetable or not?”

  “Grand Admiral,” said Cato, gesturing angrily. “Extended stim-injections quickly results in mental fatigue. There will be mistakes, more as time progresses—”

  “Mistakes are unacceptable,” said Cassius.

  “Mistakes are inevitable.”

  “We are Highborn. Highborn achieve. Now you must test your men to the utmost, driving them with stim-injections and forbidding them mental fatigue.”

  “You ask the impossible,” said Cato.

  “Is that your final word?”

  “Grand Admiral, you must see reason. I have already achieved a miracle. Now you’re asking me to do the impossible. Instead of berating me, you should be praising me for what I’ve done. My men and I have worked incredibly hard.”

  “Wrong answer,” said Cassius. He drew his sidearm, pressed the barrel against the Senior Tribune’s head and pulled the trigger. The helmet blew apart in a spray of blood, skull-bone and plastic. One chunk hit the bubble-canopy so hard that the ballistic glass starred.

  Cassius shoved the gun onto the dash, grabbed the steering wheel and shouldered the corpse out of the way. In moments, he tromped down on the accelerator. The moon-buggy bounced and churned across the bleak landscape, increasing speed for the giant missile complex.

  -44-

  The new Senior Tribune of the Luna Missile Complex assured the Grand Admiral that the men could meet the timetable.

  The new Senior Tribune kept glancing at dead Cato, who lay on a slab of metal in an underground garage. The moon-buggy was parked twenty feet away, with the bubble-canopy still open. The gore, congealed blood and brain tissue of the ruined head seemed to fascinate the new Tribune. He’d just learned about his promotion five minutes ago.

  “This is critical,” said Cassius. “Are you listening?”

  The new Senior Tribune tore his gaze from the dead Highborn, looking at Cassius. He nodded quickly.

  “You must accelerate the work schedule, but sacrifice nothing in terms of perfection,” Cassius said. “Each missile must function to its full potential at the needed moment.”

  “I understand, Your Excellency. It shall be done.”

  “Words are unimpressive,” said Cassius. “Only deeds interest me.”

  “I demand that you judge me by my deeds, Your Excellency.”

  Cassius nodded. “There is no room in Higher Command for failure of any sort. We have five days until launching. Every missile must leave its pad, and each missile must carry its designated cargo, be it soldier or warhead.”

  The new Senior Tribune saluted smartly. “Then with your permission, Grand Admiral, I must leave you and begin the accelerated work-schedule at once.”

  “It appears I’ve chosen the right Highborn,” said Cassius.

  “Excellence brings rewards,” the new Tribune said.

  “Perfectly stated,” said Cassius. “Now before you leave, show me where I may find the commandoes.”

  “Do you have a specific commando in mind, Your Excellency?”

  “Maniple Leader Felix,” Cassius said.

  “Do you know his unit number?”

  “Troop Six, Battalion Fifty-Seven,” said Cassius.

  The new Senior Tribune examined a scroll-pad. “It is a penal unit.” He sounded surprised.

  “It appears you are not intimately familiar with the commandoes.”

  “We have an infantry specialist, Your Excellency. He can tell you more than I can concerning the commandoes. I specialize….” The Senior Tribune grimaced. “I specialize in completing the assignments given me.”

  “What was that designation again?” asked Cassius.

  With a start, the Senior Tribune thrust the scroll-pad at Cassius. Cassius examined it, nodded and abruptly turned around, heading for his moon-buggy.

  -45-

  Cassius sat in a chair before a small wooden table. He was still on Luna, in a bare room. A shock rod lay on the table, the sole object. A single bulb provided light.

  The door swished open. A Highborn in battleoid-armor entered. Behind him followed Maniple Leader Felix. The youthful replica of Cassius had changed subtly since that day on the Julius Caesar. Rage still burned in his eyes, but his features had become sullen, with a hint of mulishness that hadn’t been there before. It was difficult to detect at first, but something vital, a spark of intellect or life force had been drained away. Felix had died, had been injected with Suspend and then he’d been resuscitated. The psychologists claimed he didn’t remember his death, but Cassius didn’t believe it.

  Felix wore titanium-reinforced manacles, effectively trapping his wrists before him. As their eyes met, Felix halted.

  “You,” said Felix.

  Cassius said nothing, he merely watched. It pained him to recognize the resuscitation disease. Some Highborn did better than others when brought back to life. He himself had never died. After studying Felix, it seemed wisest if he never did so.

  Lifting the titanium
-reinforced manacles, Felix said, “Just how brave are you?”

  Cassius clicked a hand-unit. The manacles popped open.

  With a snarl, Felix whipped his hands at Cassius, hurling the manacles. Swaying to the side, Cassius dodged them. He’d been expecting that, an elementary maneuver. The manacles clanged against the wall, slid down and hit the floor.

  “Wait outside,” Cassius told the battleoid-armored Highborn.

  The guard never shrugged or bothered with a warning. He simply marched out, slamming the door behind him.

  “I could kill you before he entered again,” Felix said.

  “You tried that once already when you had the advantage. My recommendation is to wait before you attempt it again. Try to gain an absolute advantage.”

  Felix massaged one of his wrists. He sneered at Cassius. “I’ve been training hard.”

  “Good. You’re going to need every ounce of your rage and fighting spirit soon.”

  “You’re shooting us at the cyborgs, eh?” Felix spat on the floor. “That’s wise, old man. Otherwise, I would have killed you sooner or later.”

  Cassius leaned forward. “Your fury lacks rationality. We possess similar chromosomes. We are alike in many ways. I…I wish you to excel.”

  “Is that why you shot my favorite sex object?”

  “The premen could have used your girls against you, killing you like an animal.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I’ve already stated the reason: our chromosomes.”

  Felix’s eyes widened, and he laughed harshly. “You see me as your father?”

  A pang of something beat in Cassius’s heart.

  “Highborn have no fathers, no mothers,” said Felix. “We are alone. It is one of our strengths.”

  “We are the Highborn, the most superior form of life in existence,” said Cassius.

  “Do want me to call you father?” Felix jeered.