Planet Wrecker ds-5

by Vaughn Heppner

  Marten looked away as his heart beat rapidly. He didn’t deserve friends like this. He was spent and it told on his emotions. He rubbed his eye as he thought about his friends staying to die with him. There was a speck in it, that’s all. He kept telling himself that until he stood up. “I’m not going to meekly surrender.”

  “No one thought you were,” Omi said.

  “Okay,” Marten said. “I just wanted to get that straight.”

  -92-

  Marten, Nadia and Omi were the only ones in the main room of the first dome. His wife sat at the sensor board.

  Marten stared out of the big window. It showed the crater-plain and the stars overhead. If he looked hard enough, Earth was the biggest dot to his subjective left. How long ago had it been since he’d left Earth? Stick, Turbo…Hall-Leader Quirn…Molly, all old memories. He’d left as a slave of the Highborn, one of their decorated, chosen pets. Now he was a Force-Leader of free men. Now he had to keep his people free of the shackle-bearing, castrating Highborn.

  Squinting, Marten studied the bright dot. The idea that he rode a world-killing asteroid seemed unbelievable. He had done his best to save Earth, deflecting one of seventeen planet wreckers. If more meteor-ships had joined him, he could have stopped more. He kept trying to think of something profound to say regarding billions of dead people. He shook his head, hating cyborgs and Highborn. Social Unity didn’t look so bad now in comparison. He still loathed the rampant, deadening socialism, but it wasn’t annihilation. If everyone on Earth died, if Social Unity perished as a force, it meant the supremacists and aliens would win. One represented eternal slavery for humanity. The other meant extinction.

  “Two of the shuttles are braking, and they’re not going to land,” Nadia informed them.

  Marten turned and studied his wife’s long dark hair. She’d tied it in a ponytail. He liked it that way. It let him kiss her neck more easily.

  “The third shuttle is moving in,” Nadia said. “They’re hailing us.” She turned as a light on her board blinked yellow. Her eyes were red-rimmed with fear. “What should I do?”

  “Open channels,” Marten said in a rough voice.

  Nadia did, and an arrogant Highborn appeared on the screen. He had the signature wide face, the square chin and chiseled features, the stark-white coloring. Some of his dark, pelt-like hair had been shaved away. Worse, half of his face was covered in a more human tone of a plasti-flesh bandage. The rawness of his skin around the bandage showed that his face had taken bad burn damage or cyborg laser-fire. Marten supposed that was the same thing. The fierceness shining from the Highborn’s good eye showed that the soldier hadn’t taken any painkillers. They were all mad, all hyped-up on their quest as supermen.

  “I recognize you,” the Highborn said.

  “I’m Marten Kluge.”

  Irritation flashed across the damaged face. “Since I’ve already stated I recognize you, there was no need to tell me your name,” the Highborn said. He held up a big hand as Marten began to speak. “I am aware of your habits. It is the reason we have been given our mission. Do you know what that mission is, preman?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” Marten asked.

  “You are to return with me to the Julius Caesar.”

  “Is that right?”

  The Highborn bared his teeth. They were big and strong-looking.

  That triggered something in Marten. He leaned closer to the screen, minutely examining the Highborn. “You look familiar to me,” he said. “Have we met before?”

  “Your insolence is making this difficult,” the Highborn said. “Premen should learn better manners and keep their mouth closed until personally addressed.”

  Marten snapped his fingers. “You look just like the Grand Admiral. Are you his son?”

  The Highborn snarled an oath and must have grasped his communication device, for this thumbs appeared on the image. “I am Felix of the Ninth Iron Cohort. Know that the Grand Admiral and I share the same chromosomes. In his mania, Cassius shot my favorite sex object, exiled me into space and killed me once. Then he packed me into a missile as a living warhead and launched me in a suicide mission against the cyborgs. I survived that, but gained this,” Felix said, indicating the plasti-flesh on half of his face. The Highborn breathed heavily so his nostrils flared. “Now Cassius will learn what it means to have made an enemy of me.”

  Marten glanced at Omi and raised an eyebrow.

  The stoic Korean shook his head.

  “Are you going to gain the Grand Admiral’s favor by bringing me in?” Marten asked.

  “You stupid preman,” Felix snarled. “Are you truly that slow-witted? No. I am declaring my independence from the Grand Admiral and his tyranny. His ineptitude has cost us Earth. I mean to see him ousted from power and hanged by the neck. In the interim, I, and those who think like me, will use your asteroid as a base. Since the Grand Admiral despises you, I will give you a choice. Remain among us for a time or leave in your spacecraft, if you possess any. It is more than an irritating subhuman deserves. But I feel that doing this will anger the Grand Admiral. Well, preman, what is your choice?”

  “Can you give me a few minutes to think about it?” Marten asked.

  “No!” Felix said. “Decide this instant. Speaking to you is a burden I’d rather not have to practice a second time.”

  “We’ll leave,” Marten said.

  “Felix of the Ninth Iron Cohort out,” the Highborn said.

  “How do you know he’s telling us the truth?” Nadia whispered.

  “I’ve rubbed shoulders with them for a long time, honey. This one is crazy like Sigmir. I know the look. But I bet he’s honest.” Marten turned to Omi. “Get the men. It’s time we left while the getting’s good.”

  “Go where?” asked Omi.

  “We’ll decide that once we lift off,” Marten said. “Maybe if we’re lucky, we can land on Earth.”

  Omi nodded and headed for the hatch.

  -93-

  In the former laser satellite that monitored the eight habitats, tall Scipio kept flexing his prosthetic hand. Why did it hurt at times like this? That didn’t make sense. He lacked pain-sensory equipment and none of the skin was raw. It was ghost-pain, imaginary. Yet even though he knew all that, the metal hand throbbed dully and made it difficult to concentrate. Not that he needed to concentrate now. Everything was set.

  Scipio stood before the wall showing the first targeted asteroid. It was the outer one of the two biggest, at least outer in relation to Earth. The wall showed the asteroid in detail, particularly its frozen cryovolcano or ice volcano.

  The cryovolcano fascinated Scipio. It meant that much of this asteroid was icy. Ordinary volcanoes spewed molten rock. A cryovolcano erupted water, ammonia or methane and was known as cryomagma or ice-volcanic melt. The energy to form the eruptions usually came from tidal forces—the tug and pull of gravity from larger objects that twisted the asteroid’s center. It was doubtful there had been any eruptions during the asteroid’s journey from Saturn. No, the cryovolcano would likely never have another eruption again. Unless he could nudge the asteroid out of the way, it would end its existence as it smashed into Earth and obliterated life.

  While flexing his bionic hand, trying to ease the imaginary pain, Scipio sat down at his desk. It was clean and minimalist. Using his real hand, his fleshy one, he began to change settings. The test of his work would begin in an hour. He would succeed and possibly save a world, or he would fail and condemn billions to death.

  He was ready…. But why did his inhuman hand have to hurt so much?

  -94-

  As Scipio watched on his wall, the asteroid with the cryovolcano approached the blue-green world. If anyone had been left alive on it, he or she would have seen the third planet as Luna-sized from Earth.

  The line of former farm habitats—gently accelerated these past days—moved like giant billiard balls. They approached in silence and in near formation. That had been Scipio’s greatest decision. Should he
work on one habitat at a time and send it alone at the asteroids? Or should he work on all of them and launch them together? He’d chosen a third way, working on eight at a time. Because of a thousand problems and delays, these were the only eight he’d been able to fix enough to blast out of Earth-orbit.

  From hundreds of thousands of kilometers away, Scipio witnessed the first event. A cylindrical-shaped habitat plowed into the asteroid. Metal crumpled at the impact and then burst apart, flying in many directions. The hit caused trembling to shake crystals loose on the cryovolcano ten kilometers from the impact-point. The second habitat caused greater trembling. Unfortunately, the habitat’s mass was a pittance compared to the asteroid. Fortunately, another came in a line, hitting, crumpling and flying apart.

  At the third strike, the combined jolts caused the cryovolcano to crack, shatter and burst apart. Giant sections tumbled down onto the icy plain or flew off into space. Each strike had deflected the asteroid a little. The trick, the point of this exercise, was to move it enough that Earth’s gravity wouldn’t pull the object down upon itself. If these strikes had occurred even two days ago, it could have easily moved the asteroid far enough off course. Now, it was going to be dicey. It would have been good to hit this asteroid with another object, but those were on other intercept courses. The targeting decisions had been made a day ago. The mass of the habitats, their velocity and the relative weakness of the engines meant it was impossible to redirect them now.

  -95-

  Scipio faced the wall as Supreme Commander James Hawthorne appeared on it. The Earthling sat at a desk, with his hands folded on top.

  “The habitats have struck,” Scipio said. “My projections say that four of the asteroids will not hit the planet, but will pass between the Earth and the Moon.”

  Hawthorne nodded solemnly. He had discolored bags under his eyes.

  “There are three major asteroids still coming,” Scipio said. “And there is much debris, enough to annihilate life on your planet.”

  “We’ve been monitoring their progress,” Hawthorne said in a raw voice.

  Scipio tried to refrain, but he had to know. “Can you stop the barrage and save Earth?”

  “We’re about to find out,” Hawthorne said. His chair scraped back as he rose to feet and gave the Party salute. “Long live Social Unity!” Hawthorne shouted. Then the connection ended abruptly, as if planned.

  What did all that signify? Scipio ignored his throbbing bionic hand. One thing he’d learned while working with these premen: they were more technologically cunning than he’d ever given them credit for. Maybe conquering and ruling them wasn’t going to be as easy as the Grand Admiral believed. If there was anything left to conquer, that was.

  -96-

  On Earth and deep underground in the Joho Mountains, Supreme Commander Hawthorne shrugged on his jacket. His fingers felt stiff as he buttoned it. He was so tired. He felt like an old man and his eyes burned from reading endless reports.

  The probabilities and projections—

  Hawthorne sagged into his chair, opened a bottom drawer and took out a small flask of old Scottish whiskey. Unscrewing the cap, he put it to his lips and threw back his head. The liquid slid down his throat, and it burned. Then warmth burst in his stomach and moved throughout his body. It made him shiver. Waiting a moment, he did it again. He was thinking about a third slug, when someone rapped at his door.

  Screwing on the cap, he put the flask in the drawer. Then he hesitated. Maybe he should keep it with him. A second knock occurred, more insistent this time. With a clunk, Hawthorne dropped the flask and slammed the drawer closed.

  “Enter,” he said.

  Manteuffel opened the door, sticking in his head. “Cone would like a word with you, sir.”

  Hawthorne blinked several times before the words registered. He nodded as he straightened his tie.

  Frowning, Manteuffel hesitated before he asked, “Sir, are you well?”

  “No,” said Hawthorne. “I’m sick with worry, with fear that we’re all about to die.”

  “But the merculites, the proton beams,” Manteuffel said. “The news sites all declare an easy victory.”

  “The probabilities and projections were altered for publication,” Hawthorne whispered. “They were propaganda lies.”

  “What was that, sir?” asked Manteuffel.

  “Nothing,” Hawthorne said. He wanted another sip of whiskey, a long one. He flattened his hands on the desk instead, spreading his fingers. “Let her in.”

  Manteuffel nodded, withdrew and then followed Cone into the room. She moved briskly to a chair before the desk. Then she glanced at Manteuffel, who had taken his place in a corner.

  “You wished to see me?” asked Hawthorne.

  Cone took off her sunglasses. Her pale eyes added to her beauty. If only she could smile occasionally. She was like an ice queen. Hawthorne suspected her smile might transform her.

  “Colonel Naga is having second thoughts,” Cone said.

  It was difficult for Hawthorne to wrap his thoughts around the FEC traitors today.

  “Naga says his men and tanks will be exposed to the asteroid-strike if they move today,” Cone said. “They’ll be on the surface.”

  “It’s why he’ll take everyone by surprise,” Hawthorne said.

  “I know that,” Cone said. “But we’re not the ones who are going to be on the surface. He is.”

  “What can I do about it?” Hawthorne asked, irritation entering his voice.

  “Talk to him,” said Cone.

  Hawthorne frowned at his spread fingers. Slowly, he shook his head. “I don’t have the strength. I’m going to need it all for the battle against the asteroids.”

  “Then empower me,” Cone said.

  Hawthorne looked up as Manteuffel cleared his throat. Cone stared at him with those pale eyes. They hid her thoughts, but he recognized her thirst for power. How he envied Cone her relative youth. Was his time for command over?

  “Empower how?” Hawthorne asked.

  “Reinstate me as your Security Specialist,” she said.

  Manteuffel tried to signal him with his eyes, but Hawthorne ignored the man.

  “This is the moment to strike, sir,” Cone said. “I can motivate Colonel Naga, but I’ll need a position of authority to do it.”

  “Very well,” said Hawthorne.

  Manteuffel shook his head.

  Hawthorne took out a scroll-pad and began to tap in the needed electronic-work. Doing it gave him energy. This was a risk. But the Earth needed hard, ambitious people. It might not survive the next twenty-four hours. If it did, then their window for retaking the planet from the vacant Highborn would be small indeed. Now was the time for energetic climbers to strike. Now was the moment for someone like Cone.

  “There,” Hawthorne said, as he stood. “You’re back in, Security Specialist.”

  Cone stood too. “You won’t regret this, sir.”

  He already did, but the die was cast.

  -97-

  Aboard the Julius Caesar, Cassius gave the order. The two Doom Stars pulled away laterally from the final planet wreckers.

  From in his command shell, Cassius closed his eyes. Despite his vast reservoir of energy, he was tired. He’d pushed the crews of both ships. They’d fired the ultra-lasers for so long that key components had gone critical. Cassius had also used up almost every shell of the point-defense cannons, blowing up the larger pieces of debris.

  With a lurch and the snapping open of his eyes, he hailed the Sun-Works Factory through his communications. The fight against the cyborg-launched objects was nearly over. He had to be ready for whatever happened afterward. That meant a total re-supply of the Doom Stars, including point-defense cannon shells, missiles, reflex plating, collapsium slabs, coils, meld-synapses and key laser parts. It might be time to head for the Sun-Works Factory for a major overhaul. He doubted the war would give him that luxury.

  Cracking his knuckles, laying back, Cassius allowed himself a m
oment of introspection. For him, that meant checking his mental files, opening them and seeing if matters had occurred how he’d desired. Hmm. Yes. He needed to send a call to the Luna Missile Complex. The Senior Tribune there should face a review board. Maybe that would be a good place to transfer Sulla, upgrade him off the Julius Caesar.

  It occurred to Cassius then that he’d never received a confirmation from the Highborn sent to Kluge’s asteroid.

  “Sulla,” he said. “Who was the officer in charge of the Asteroid-E pickup?”

  Sulla swiveled to a different console, tapped on the screen and said a moment later, “First Maniple-Leader Felix of Ninth Iron Cohort, Commandoes.”

  Cassius felt several things at once. The first was the oddness of the tone from Sulla. So he watched the Ultraist. The Highborn turned toward him, glancing at him too carefully, with too much calculation.

  “You have something to add to the report?” asked Cassius.

  It might have been his imagination, but Sulla’s mouth seemed to twitch. The oily, shiny face held inner gloating.

  Cassius felt something else, too. Felix of his chromosomes had gone to collect Kluge. That didn’t seem like a chance assignment. His enemies among the Highborn must have engineered it, hoping for something to occur that would further mar his image as Grand Admiral.

  “Has the Maniple-Leader returned yet?” asked Cassius.

  “Felix landed long ago,” Sulla said.

  The longing to unbuckle from his shell was nearly overpowering. Cassius wanted to beat Sulla’s face into bloody pulp. The tone and implications—this was the next thing to insubordination. Yet the Grand Admiral hesitated. It wasn’t fear of Sulla, but a grim understanding that his rank was under jeopardy. He needed to react with care.