Osadar put in on the boat’s speakers.
Marten opened his helmet’s visor. The deepness and arrogance of the voice told him a Highborn spoke.
“You are weak warriors, striking from the dark,” Centurion Titus said. “You fear to face us man-to-man. Very well, face the ship’s weapons then.”
“The Mao Zedong is moving,” Osadar said. “I think they’re turning the ship to bring a missile-port to bear.”
With a mental effort, Marten pushed aside the death of half his men. He had been with them a long time, but he couldn’t let that affect him now. He needed to think, to outwit a Highborn. The trick with them was to play to their arrogance. They thought of themselves as so superior and premen as cowardly and small.
Marten wanted to grind his teeth in rage. Instead, he forced himself to say, “Tell him we surrender our boat.”
Osadar and Nadia turned around in wonder. Osadar spoke first. “You want to surrender to the Highborn?”
“No,” Marten said. “I want to get close enough so we can board the missile-ship.”
“I do not understand,” Osadar said.
“Let’s hope he doesn’t either.”
“You are twisting your words?”
“These are the Highborn who planned to castrate me,” Marten said. “They stamped a number on my hand and treated me like an animal, a preman. I don’t like twisting my words, but this is war and he just killed half of my marines. Now open channels, and I want a direct video link with him.”
Osadar did as he requested.
In his combat-suit, Marten sat down clumsily on the pilot’s chair. He twisted off his helmet, letting it float in the air beside him, but out of sight of the video link.
In seconds, the wide face of a Highborn appeared on the screen. Centurion Titus had white hair in a buzz cut and he was missing his right eye.
“You are a preman,” Titus said.
“I’m Marten Kluge.”
Titus curled his thin lip. “I’ve heard of you. Prepare to die, preman.”
“I’m ready to surrender my boat to you,” Marten said.
Titus paused. “You are defenseless?”
“No. I have my PD cannons.”
Titus showed his teeth in a grin. “You fear the missile-ship. You are wise, preman. But it will not go well with you. Therefore, I do not understand why you are unwilling to die fighting like a warrior.”
“I have people with me,” Marten said, “my wife among them.”
“Ah,” Titus said. “You are weak with your emotion of love. Yes, I accept your surrender. Turn you craft and begin immediate deceleration.”
“I will comply,” Marten said.
“No,” Titus said. “You will obey.”
Marten knew how to satisfy Highborn egos. So, although it grated upon him, he hung his head. “I will obey,” he said grudgingly.
“You were a fool, preman. You destroyed a few shuttles, but failed to kill many of us. For the few you did kill, your fate will be a hard one. Yes, I will accept the surrender of Marten Kluge.” Titus leered. “I see you’re wearing combat-armor. I hope you decide to fight, preman. It would give me joy and increased rank to kill the insolent Kluge.”
“I’m surrendering my boat to you,” Marten said. “You have won this encounter.”
Even as they spoke, Marten turned the William Tell and began deceleration.
“Enjoy your last minutes of freedom, preman. For the rest of your life will be one of agony.”
Marten forced himself to shudder. Then he switched off the channel. Turning to the others in the compartment, he said, “We’re surrendering our boat, but we’re not finished fighting.”
Group-Leader Xenophon grinned.
“I’m never going to surrender to anyone,” Marten told the marines. “As we begin to dock, we will exit the William Tell. Let them have the patrol boat. It’s us they’re going to have to deal with.”
* * *
The ion engine burned its hottest, slowing the William Tell as it approached the Mao Zedong. The missile-ship used side-jets, slowly rotating. Just as slowly, one of the undamaged particle-shields began to move.
The thick mass of shielding was attached to gigantic struts that moved in grooves along the outer hull. It allowed the warship’s captain to rotate shields as needed. As the shielding moved, it revealed a row of big PD cannons, many times larger than those on the patrol boat. The shield moved just enough for the cannons to fire. Later, it could move more to allow the boat to enter a hanger. Titus had already instructed them to prepare for boarding. Highborn would come out and make sure this wasn’t a suicide vessel meant to explode once past the shielding.
The ion engine shut down. Slowly the patrol boat drifted toward the big cannons.
“You know the plan,” Marten said. “Now let’s do it.”
As the boat drifted closer, the space marines began to exit out of a hatch opposite the missile-ship. Marten stayed behind by the com-equipment.
White-haired Titus hailed them and appeared onscreen. “Two Highborn are on their way. If they are harmed, the cannons will obliterate your vessel. If you decide to ignite yourself in an effort to harm us, you are wasting your time.”
“I will not blow up my boat,” Marten said. “You have my word on it.”
“A preman’s word?” Titus sneered.
“For what it is worth,” Marten said.
“Since last we spoke, I have read your file, Kluge. You are a traitorous beast.”
“I have my faults, but I am not traitorous.”
“Commandant Maximus is anxious to have you back at the Sun-Works Factory.”
“The missile-ship is headed there?” Marten asked.
“My soldiers have you in sight. Ready yourselves for them.”
Marten dipped his head. “I am prepared.”
“Go, and remember to act contrite in their presence,” Titus said. “Otherwise, it will go even harder for you, preman. You killed several of our comrades in your cowardly attack.”
“Marten Kluge, signing off,” he said, tapping the screen and cutting off communications. Hurriedly, Marten donned and sealed his helmet, heading for the hatch.
Soon, he floated outside the William Tell. Using rungs fitted for such actions, Marten “climbed” to the top of the boat. Activating the HUD in his visor, he spotted two Highborn in their combat-armor. White particles of hydrogen-spray propelled the two super-soldiers from the Mao Zedong and toward the William Tell.
Marten clicked on his suit-to-suit communications. “Some of those cannons are sure to open fire once we act, but we’re going to have to risk it. The cannons are meant to kill ships and shuttles, not individual marines. Are you ready?”
He heard the affirmatives.
Marten flicked on his IML. Beside him, Omi did likewise. They were the highest-rated on them. Therefore, they had the honor of reigniting hostilities.
“One, two, three,” Marten whispered over the suit-to-suit communications.
At almost the same instant, two Cognitive missiles launched from their IMLs.
It was a short flight, but the Highborn were quick. One fired a weapon. The other throttled open his thruster-pack, moving faster. It didn’t matter for either. Both Cognitive missiles hit and exploded, and each killed one of the master race.
Before the small missiles hit, everyone climbed above, below and to the sides of the William Tell. They leaped off the dark polymer skin and engaged their thruster-packs, beginning the last leg of the journey to the Mao Zedong.
Like the others, Marten used a joystick control. It brought bitter memories being out here, seeing the asteroid-like shield “below” him. He led the way toward the damaged section of the ship. That’s where they had seen Highborn entering before with thruster-packs. Then something flashed out of the corner of his eye.
He turned his head, and noticed another flash. It was a big PD cannon. They were firing.
Marten debated letting his thumb off the throttle. Likely, the tra
il of hydrogen-spray made one more visible. Probably, it didn’t matter either way. The key was to get out of the cannons’ line-of-sight as fast as possible.
He zoomed closer to the particle-shielding, and it began to move. The Highborn must realize—
A bloom of color told him a shell had just connected with someone ahead of him. He hoped it wasn’t Nadia.
Should I have left her on Earth?
He didn’t know. Now wasn’t the time to worry about it. With his teeth clenched, Marten zoomed toward the particle-shielding, believing if he could get low enough, that he could avoid the cannons.
The cannons kept firing. They killed five Jovians, too many—always too many losses.
Marten zoomed several meters above the shielding, heading for the damaged section. He had several gut-wrenching fears. If the Mao Zedong was in good enough shape, it could begin acceleration, stranding all of them out here. It’s what he would have tried to do if Highborn attempted to board his ship. The other possibility was many Highborn in combat-suits waiting at the damaged section, ready for battle.
This was too similar to the Bangladesh. Then he had faced a ship full of SU personnel, with shock troopers covering his back.
“Count off,” he said.
“Omi here.”
“Group-Leader Xenophon reporting.”
“Osadar here…”
As the men kept counting off, Marten brought up the Mao Zedong’s specs on his HUD. He also saw which squads had lost men. Ah, three of the dead belonged to Alpha Squad. He adjusted the boarding attack and used suit-to-suit communications to tell his space marines.
Then he zoomed over the edge of the shielding. A vast pit loomed under him: the destroyed part of the missile-ship. He wished he’d practiced more at thruster-pack flying. He was moving too fast. With a twist of his wrist, he changed the direction of thrust and headed down into the Mao Zedong. He clicked on his suit-radar and brought up the information onto his HUD. Space marines followed him down into the maw. They were going into the damaged section where there was open decking visible.
“Motion at grid ten-B-seven!” a Jovian shouted into Marten’s headphones.
Even as the marine spoke, tiny pinprick dots appeared down in the ship’s darkness. The enemy was using a gyroc rifle. If he’d used a laser, it would have shown a direct line back to where he was. With a gyroc, one could fire and move. Highborn were experts at that game. There was none better at it, not even cyborgs.
In a smooth motion, Marten shouldered his IML. He flicked on the radar. In seconds, an enemy symbol flashed on his HUD. He fired. So did ten other space marines, too many on one target. In their excitement, the men had forgotten fire procedure.
The Cognitive missiles burned fast in a flock.
Marten swept the barrel of the IML, seeking a new target for his already lofted missile. The radar beeped again, giving him a different enemy. He pressed a switch, downloading the new targeting data to his missile. A blue light flashed in his helmet. The missile accepted the data and veered toward the new enemy.
All the while, the Highborn kept firing at them.
“Pericles is hit!” Xenophon shouted over Marten’s headphones.
Marten snarled with frustration. The Highborn were deadly marksmen. He wouldn’t have any men left for the Sun Station if this kept up. He should have set out with five hundred space marines. He was almost down to thirty—thirty regular men to take on the masters of the Solar System.
“Hit!” a Jovian shouted. “We scratched one.”
Unwilling to attempt a missile-reload, Marten racked the IML onto his back-slot. He unhooked his gyroc and clicked it online with his suit’s targeting system. A targeting crosshairs appeared on his HUD. It showed wherever he aimed the rifle.
“Ten-C-six,” Omi said in a gunfighter’s voice.
Missiles ignited at the heading.
“Nine-C-six,” another Jovian said.
The Highborn had come to fight. But Marten was surprised there were so few of them. Had they caught the overmen by surprise?
Marten shut off the thruster-pack as he fired gyroc shells. Highborn shot back. Tiny contrails grew as the enemy shells sped up at them. An enemy gyroc punctured a neck-joint, killing a Jovian seventy-three meters from Marten. Another shell blew open Group-Leader Praxis’s stomach, and entrails blew outward. A third space marine died as shrapnel opened his suit, and oxygen left a stark trail.
They’re killing too many of us.
Marten ignited the retro-rocket attached to his chest. It had one purpose: to slow him down so he could land. Instead of turning around and using the thruster, he faced the enemy as he decelerated. The rocket slammed against him, expelling air out of his lungs. He’d never gotten used to this, no matter how many times he practiced. He’d have a purple bruise on his chest tomorrow—if he survived.
As he landed on open decking—his magnetic boots automatically activated—Marten saw a crouched Highborn shooting at his men. Marten quick fired from the hip. The Highborn was already swiveling around, however, and shot a palm laser. The beam hit Marten’s chest-rocket, burning through and burning into the ablative armor underneath. Then Marten’s gyroc shells struck. The first one failed to penetrate the heavy armor. The kinetic energy should have knocked the Highborn backward, but this warrior was strong, and his suit gave him exoskeleton power. The second shell missed, penetrating a ruined bulkhead behind the Highborn. The third shell exploded against the faceplate. The visor fractured just enough so air hissed away in a stream. The laser moved off-target. Marten fired two more shells—the rest of his magazine. And it should have worked.
The Highborn twisted even as he slapped a sealant to his faceplate. Marten’s shells burned into the heavy shoulder-plate, disabling the Highborn’s arm, but they failed to kill. The Highborn used his good arm, lifting his big gyroc rifle, aiming at Marten. Marten frantically tore out his empty magazine. He wasn’t going to make it.
Then, out of the corner of his faceplate, he saw a Cognitive missile streak down at them. For a wild second, his gut clenched.
I’m going to die.
The missile seemed to zoom right at him. Maybe something was wrong with its targeting acquisition. Before the Highborn could pull his trigger, however, before Marten could slam in a fresh magazine, the missile slammed into the enemy giant, exploding, saving Marten’s life.
It took a split-second for Marten to realize he was still alive. Then it was time to enter the Mao Zedong.
* * *
Marten Kluge crept through the crippled missile-ship. He’d shed his thruster-pack, clutched his gyroc rifle and used his magnetic boots.
It was dark in the long corridors and the tight chambers. He used infrared sight and kept up a schematic of the ship’s passageways on his HUD. His space marines followed him. Omi and Osadar lugged a plasma cannon. Group-Leader Xenophon led the squads in an adjoining corridor.
There was no sign of the Highborn. Had the enemy retreated deeper into the ship? Or had they exited to a hidden shuttle and even now readied nuclear missiles to pump into the warship? He should have left someone aboard the William Tell to monitor the situation. He hadn’t expected the patrol boat to survive, however. In truth, he hadn’t expected to survive this engagement with the Highborn.
His helmet beeped as the sensors picked up life-readings. “Four-G-nine,” Marten said.
“I see it,” Omi said. “It’s hot! They have weapons!”
Marten snapped orders as his stomach seethed. Somewhere inside him, he had hoped the fight was over. He should have known better. These were Highborn.
The space marines moved in the darkness, spreading out in the various corridors.
“Watch for booby-traps,” Marten radioed. His radio buzzed. He used his chin to click and accept.
“Careful,” Omi said. “They could be using the emplaced device we spotted as a locator or a directional finder.”
Marten nodded, even though he knew Omi wouldn’t be able to see the head gesture
.
“Marten Kluge,” a Highborn said over the radio.
“Titus?” Marten asked, as he started in his combat-suit.
“I am Centurion Titus,” the Highborn said proudly. “You have reached the ship because of your faithlessness.”
“Wrong!” Marten said. “I’ve stormed the vessel because we’re better at this than you.”
“He’s moving,” Omi said. “Or someone is. He’s headed for the engine core!”
“Stormed?” Titus sneered over the radio. “You have stormed nothing, preman, but for your tomb. You are a dead man. We are all dead.”
“Yeah?” Marten asked.
“I am Centurion Titus, and I have pronounced your doom.”
“He’s moving fast!” Omi said.
“Is he attempting to maneuver us into an ambush?” Osadar asked.
Scowling, Marten tried to think past his knotted gut and the heaviness in his chest. They had made it onto the Mao Zedong. Against Highborn, they shouldn’t have been able to do that. What did it mean?
“De-magnetize,” Marten said. “We have to reach him before he blows the core.”
“Highborn are not suicidal,” Osadar said.
“But they do hate losing,” Marten said, “especially to premen.” He clicked a switch on his suit. The boot-magnets turned off and he lifted minutely. As he activated his palm-magnets, he jumped off the deck-plates. Slotting the rifle, Marten began to “swim” along the corridors. Instead of pushing against water, his magnetized palms gripped the walls as he pulled. He twisted his palms at the last moment, ripping off the magnetic holds. It was an art, and he was good at it. Marten propelled himself faster and faster, and clicked on a helmet-lamp. Infrared and schematics could only do so much—then old-fashioned eyesight was needed. The beam washed through the darkness, giving an eerie feeling to the compartments, making it seem like a ghost ship.
Behind him, the space marines followed. It was a race, and it was a terrible gamble chasing a Highborn so recklessly.
An explosion occurred in a side corridor—there was a flash to his left and the faintest of shudders.
“What was that?” a space marine shouted.
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