Doom Star: Book 03 - Battle Pod (27 page)

Omi leaned over and grabbed the controls.

“Move!” Marten roared.

The security men in the back leaned away from Marten. The man’s face behind the visor showed petrified shock.

Marten lifted the anti-air rocket launcher. It was a heavy weapon like an ancient bazooka. With a grunt, Marten hefted it onto his shoulder, flicked tracking with his thumb so the launcher beeped and a green light winked. He peered through the scope in time to see another jet fire a missile. That missile streaked like lethal death just as the first one had.

With a thud, Omi landed the skimmer. That violently jostled Marten and almost threw him out of the craft. Then the enemy missile slammed into the rock face with a shattering explosion. Marten heard rock shards whiz past his helmeted head.

High above, the SU jet’s afterburners engaged, and it flashed out of view.

With his teeth tightly clenched so his jaws hurt, Marten scanned the pink sky. The first jet had re-appeared. It must have made a wide circle. Yes. It was still turning. It was going to strike again.

“Bastard,” Marten whispered under his breath. He hefted the rocket-launcher onto his shoulder.

“Run for cover!” someone shouted into Marten’s headphones. He was vaguely aware that one of his men dove out of the skimmer. Didn’t the fool realize that if they lost the skimmer, he’d never make it anywhere alive in time before his suit ran out of power?

Beside him, Omi lifted another anti-air launcher. “The jet jocks should have fired a flock of missiles each and called it a day,” Omi said through his speakers.

The Korean’s coolness helped Marten’s tripping heart. Could the air jocks up there be as green as his men were? It seemed unlikely. But it did seem to Marten that it would have been smarter for the pilots to stay out farther and use their heavier missiles to advantage instead of coming in so close.

Marten tracked the first jet as it swung back around. The launcher beeped again, which meant it had gained radar-lock. Marten thanked God he held Highborn tech and not some imitation Martian crap. Marten held himself stiffly and pulled the oversized trigger. This wasn’t a gyroc weapon. The blast almost knocked him over backward. It was a Highborn weapon and was meant for a nine-foot giant in battleoid armor.

The rocket whooshed fast and climbed with astonishing speed. A second rocket whooshed. It was Omi firing.

The pilots must have recognized their danger. Without firing another missile, the first jet nosed up and the afterburners roared orange flames and made a thunderous sound. Anti-radar chaff drifted from the jet in a silvery clump behind the steeply climbing craft. Neither the chaff nor the steep climb helped. The anti-air missile hit the jet squarely and exploded with an impressive display of pyrotechnics. Omi’s missile did the same thing with the second jet.

Marten heard himself wheezing, the noise loud in his helmeted ears. He scanned the Martian sky as he trembled. If there were another jet, it would likely kill them all. Slowly, it dawned on him that the two aircraft were it. No more appeared.

Omi put his hand on Marten’s shoulder. Marten whirled around with a snarl. Then he grinned sheepishly and nodded as he settled down.

“Major Diaz?” Marten asked over the radio. There was nothing but static. Were his troubles with Diaz over? Was the man dead? “Major!” he shouted.

“Here,” Diaz answered in a choked voice.

“Glad to still have you among the living, Major,” Marten said. “Rojas.”

“Here, sir,” Rojas said.

Gutierrez was also alive, with his entire skimmer crew. Squad leaders Lopez and Barajas were dead and their skimmers destroyed. There were no survivors from either vehicle.

Thirteen skimmers were left out of the original twenty. They had destroyed two more jets, but at too high of a cost.

“Listen up, people,” Marten said over their headphones. “We’re going to use over-watch from now on.”

Marten waited for Diaz or one of the others to ask him why they hadn’t been using over-watch before this. But none of them did. Omi and he had killed the two jets and likely saved the remainder of the raiding party. Maybe it was finally starting to sink in with them that they weren’t soldiers and this was a real shooting war, not a guerrilla raid on underground city streets.

Too soon, their skimmer whined, and it shook so violently the metal rattled like a child’s toy. They rose higher and higher, using the VTOL jets to reach the next plateau.

Marten’s throat was dry like rust and tasted just as bad. He was sick of the planet’s sandy smell and the gigantically oversized geographical formations. He wanted to get back to the
Mayflower
and head for Jupiter. Jets, sand, kilometers deep canyons, he yearned for the quiet of outer space.

What a way to buy fuel. He snarled as the VTOL jets whined down and they flew over the ground by a normal few feet. If Social Unity had done something to his hard-won shuttle… then he was going to find a way to make them pay in a manner that they would never forget.

As Marten and the remnants of his commando team skimmed for Olympus Mons, the SU Battlefleet already braked to match orbits with Phobos, Deimos and the edge of the Martian atmosphere.

Commodore Blackstone sat in his wardroom, staring at a still-shot of his ex-wife. The vidscreen showed a young woman with long auburn hair and in a three-piece bathing suit. Through bio-sculpture, she had maintained her youthful looks. Through vigorous exercise, she had maintained her shape. To realize now that she hadn’t done it for him, but in order to keep catching new lovers drove Blackstone near despair.

There was a soft knock at his door.

Blackstone’s hand shot out as he pressed his keyboard, switching the screen to a tactical display of the Mars System.

“Enter,” he said.

The door opened and stout General Fromm stepped in and saluted.

“No need for that,” Blackstone said quietly. “We’re not on the bridge.”

General Fromm nodded stiffly and then managed an odd smile.

“Is there something troubling you?” Blackstone asked.

Fromm cocked his head, blinking at him. The general seemed distant as if he’d lost his train of thought.

“If you could make it brief, General,” Blackstone said. “I’m rather busy.” He gestured at his vidscreen. “I’m planning the next maneuver.”

“Ah…” Fromm said. “Yes. That’s why I’m here, sir.”

“Oh?”

“It’s about the prisoners on Phobos.”

“There are prisoners?” Blackstone asked. This was the first he’d heard about them.

“Strange, I know,” Fromm said. “The cyborgs are so rigorous that it would seem they’d kill everyone. Apparently, they are keen to digest every iota of intelligence they can from the enemy. Toll Seven wishes for my people to interrogate the prisoners.”

Blackstone frowned. Wasn’t that Commissar Kursk’s task? “It surprises me the cyborg doesn’t want to do it himself.”

“My thinking exactly,” Fromm said. He touched his neck and rubbed a heavy bandage there.

Blackstone was surprised he hadn’t noticed the bandage before now. It was flesh colored. He wanted Fromm out of here so he could decide whether to send his ex-wife a message regarding his possible return to Earth. Although Blackstone found it irksome, he forced himself to show interest in the general and his request.

“What happened to you?” Blackstone asked.

Fromm’s hand shot away from the bandage as if it was suddenly hot.

“Ah…”

“Is it a deep injury?” Blackstone asked.

“I jabbed myself,” Fromm said.

Blackstone could really care less. He did note that Fromm spoke in an odd manner and Blackstone decided it must be the stress of battle. “Is it healing?” he asked, wishing he’d never brought up the injury.

“Yes,” Fromm said. “It’s healing very well, sir. Perfectly.”

Blackstone indifferently waved his hand. “Yes, take care of the interrogations. But be sure to notify Commissar Kursk about it.” He frowned. “Why did Toll Seven ask you? The more I think about it—you realize that interrogations are the commissar’s prerogative?”

Fromm stiffened, and he saluted. Then he opened his mouth as if to explain, but said nothing.

Blackstone wondered if Supreme Commander Hawthorne had become a martinet concerning military protocol. Is that why Fromm acted so oddly? Had Fromm gained these strange mannerisms during his time on Hawthorne’s staff?

“Perhaps the cyborg realizes the commissar is overworked,” Blackstone said, answering his own question. He showed his teeth in a feral grin. “If Toll Seven had asked for the prisoners to interrogate, I’d have said no.”

General Fromm cocked his head and his eyes became glassy before he asked, “Is there a reason why you would have refused Toll Seven?”

Blackstone laughed without mirth. “I don’t trust the cyborgs. I hope you don’t either.”

“No, no,” Fromm said, “not at all.”

“Say, whatever happened to that aide of yours?” Blackstone asked. “She used to dog your heels. Now I never see her.”

“The clone?”

“That’s right. The Aster clone.”

Fromm blinked several times. “She’s hard at work monitoring the cyborgs.”

“The Supreme Commander asked about her in his last lightguide message,” Blackstone said. “If she discovers anything unusual, I want to know about it immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” Fromm said.

Blackstone drummed his fingers on his desk. “Was there anything else?”

“No, sir,” Fromm said. “With your permission, sir, I shall communicate your decision to Toll Seven.”

Blackstone waved him away, and he switched the tactical display back to a still-shot of his ex-wife. He was hardly aware as the door closed and as General Fromm took his leave.

***

Nine minutes later, Fromm secured the door to his cubicle. He double-checked it. Then he sat down on a chair and peeled the thick, flesh-colored bandage from his neck. A deep jack was embedded there.

Stout General Fromm licked his lips, feeling an odd sense of sexual arousal as he uncoiled a warm, flexible tube. It was synthi-flesh. He wormed the tube into the jack in his neck. He shivered with delight as the pseudo-nerve endings linked with nerves in his neck. It always began as pleasure sensations as the insert sent pulses to the needed brain centers. Drool trickled from his slack mouth. He moaned in pleasure and shifted in short, sudden movements.

Then, the deeper functions occurred. Mentally, he entered Web-Mind, the unit of the Neptune whole that resided in Toll Seven’s command pod. The general reported directly to Web-Mind about his talk with Commodore Blackstone. With his Web-heightened memories, he relayed the conversation perfectly.

Afterward, Web-Mind took General Fromm’s consciousness into his favorite simulation. During the episode, Web-Mind continued reprogramming the chaotic mass of the general’s neurons, gaining yet another level of control over the bio-form’s thoughts.

***

The unpleasant task of beginning the conversion process fell to OD12 and three other cyborgs. The Phobos prisoners were a mix of male and female bio-forms.

Twenty-seven naked humanoids drifted toward the far wall of the storage room as OD12 and three other cyborgs entered. The prisoners were male and female bio-forms. The cyborgs had already shaved off every hair on their bodies. The prisoners had bruises and scabs, but each was now as hairless as a newborn.

The bio-forms babbled frightened questions. And they stared at OD12 with wide-eyed horror.

That troubled her. And what troubled OD12 even more was that her internal computer didn’t notice her unease. During the battle for Phobos, a bullet or a shard from an explosion had struck her armored chest with terrific force. Adrenalin had already flown through her system. That adrenalin had accelerated many bio-functions in her, but for too long a period without rest. At the time, OD12 hadn’t noticed either problem. Replaying it later in her computer memories, she’d noticed that a glitch or an electronic burn had surged through her internal computer several microseconds after the impact. Certain data had been lost. OD12 suspected now that the censor program had been damaged. Her computer had repeatedly given her a message to report the incident to Web-Mind. She ignored it, and the computer ignored her disobedience.

Because of that, OD12 pushed aside the override controls over her emotions. She had done so with a sustained effort of will.

She now studied the horror on the faces of the naked prisoners. They babbled questions concerning their fate. Some wept. Some begged for mercy. Two of them scowled horribly.

OD12 shrugged. She heard servos whine and knew two of the other cyborgs had noticed the shrug. Would their internal computers consider that an anomaly: something foreign to proper cyborg behavior? In that instant, OD12 realized she would have to hide her freedom of thought. She must mimic the others perfectly or she would return to Toll Seven’s pod for repairs.

No thank you
, she told herself.
I like my damage just fine
.

In another life, she would have chuckled. She knew, however, that if she chuckled, the other cyborgs might destroy her.