Cyborg Assault

toggle. The door slid open.

“Enter,” the ship-guardian said. She leaned near as Marten passed by. “Remember, we shall be outside, standing guard.”

Marten entered a small room. Yakov sat behind a minuscule desk that nearly spanned the room’s width. A muscled statuette sat on a miniature rock, with his chin resting on his fist as he thought deeply.

There was a stool before the desk. A few vidshots were on the walls showing a small woman and two children in various acts of play. The woman was pretty, the children a boy and girl with blond hair. One shot showed a young and intense Yakov with a hussade stick in his hands standing among a team of serious-eyed players. Those in front lofted a silver trophy.

“Your wardroom?” asked Marten.

Yakov sent down a computer stylus and examined Marten in his same stoic manner as earlier in the command center. “Time is our enemy, Representative. We will therefore forgo pleasantries and speak about realities.”

Marten glanced at the hussade vidshot again. There was the essence of Yakov, he decided, before it had become hidden by age and responsibilities.

“How many times have you faced these cyborgs?”

Marten sketched his original meeting with Osadar and the raid later into Mons Olympus, the raid that had ended at the orbital fighter and his liftoff from the Red Planet.

Yakov listened intently, occasionally jotting notes onto his computer screen. After Marten had finished, the Force-Leader asked, “You are a soldier, isn’t that what you said before?”

“Highborn-trained.”

“You were in the Free Earth Corps?”

“You’ve heard of them?”

“We monitor Inner Planets news, yes.”

“Have you ever heard of the Bangladesh?”

“I have priority one concerning space-combat intelligence,” Yakov said.

“And that means what exactly?”

A faint smile touched the Force-Leader’s lips. “The Bangladesh was an experimental beamship that attacked the Mercury Sun-Factory. The Highborn attempted to hijack it.”

“I’m among the two sole survivors of the hijacking,” Marten said. “The other is vegetating in one of your holding cells.”

“You were in Free Earth Corps and space-combat trained?”

“The space-combat training was my reward for excellence in the Japan Campaign.”

“The reference fails me,” said Yakov.

“It doesn’t matter other than this: I’ve fought in the hellholes, both on Earth and in space. I fought on Mars and helped the Planetary Union against Social Unity.”

“Essentially then, you are of guardian class?”

“You’re forgetting my Mars Union credentials.”

“On the contrary, Representative, I have carefully listened to everything you’ve said.” Yakov seemed to measure him as he would a hussade goal. “By your own admission, you betrayed the Highborn, your sponsors.”

“I prefer to say that I got tired of being a slave.”

The faint smile reappeared on Yakov’s lips. There was something feral about it this time. “Why do you believe the cyborgs have infiltrated the War Council and Athena Station?”

“Why as in what is their reasoning for doing it or why as in how did I arrive at my conclusion?”

“The latter,” said Yakov.

“Because you were ordered away from the damaged dreadnaught,” Marten said. “And because cyborgs controlled the Rousseau. Now that I think about it, Osadar said there was a ninety percent probability that your ship was cyborg-controlled.”

“Her statement is obviously false.”

“Not if Athena Station is cyborg-controlled and they sent you orders.”

“Clever reasoning,” said Yakov. He reached into his black uniform and withdrew two colored disks. He set the disks on his desk, sliding them back and forth with his fingers. Possibly, it was a nervous gesture. “Your deprogrammed cyborg strikes me as durable. What is your analysis concerning our common enemy?”

“If I understand your question right,” Marten said, “I think that some of the cyborgs survived the Mayflower’s detonation. You’re heading into terrible danger.”

“You believe that some of the dreadnaught’s armaments are intact?”

“I wouldn’t bet against it. And I’d be ready for vacc-suited cyborgs trying to storm their way aboard your ship.”

“You suggest I shoot any survivors attempting to reach the Descartes?”

“You’re a rational man,” Marten said.

Yakov raised a slender hand. “I am a soldier-guardian. I do not attempt to rise above my class.”

“Force-Leader, let’s cut the crap.”

Yakov waited, remaining stoic. Marten wasn’t fooled anymore, not after seeing the picture of the intense young Yakov with the hussade stick and trophy.

“Why ask me all these questions?” Marten said. “You know what to do. Go in firing lasers, missiles or particle beams if you have them. Kill anything that moves. If you don’t, you risk losing your ship and possibly your lives. Worse, you risk capture and conversion.”

Yakov slid the colored disks back and forth. “Your credentials are from Mars. I must therefore assume you’ve been briefed about our Confederation.”

“No. There was no time for that.”

“That strikes me as illogical.”

“War and emergencies seldom lend themselves to logic,” Marten said.

Yakov put the colored disks back into a pocket. “Tell me, Representative. What do you think the cyborgs hope to gain in our system?”

“I have no idea.”

Yakov studied Marten. “You might be interested to know that I have hailed the Rousseau. They refused to answer. Later I detected ship transmissions to Athena Station. As curious, a gel-cloud hides the vessel from our passive sensor arrays. Why would they deploy such gels if they were stricken?”

Marten shrugged.

“You claim ignorance concerning our Confederation. Therefore, you are likely unaware of the philosophic purity of our rulers.” Yakov glanced at the statuette on his desk. “I am from Ganymede, meaning that I am a realist instead of a philosopher. I fear that our Strategist will make critical blunders once we reach the Rousseau.”

“Who controls the ship-guardians?” Marten asked.

Yakov looked up sharply. “I’ve studied the Mars Campaign. The cyborgs are ruthless and deadly to an inhuman degree. This is no time for philosophers, but for a realist who sees what is and acts decisively in the critical moment. You heard the endless babble in the command chamber.” Yakov shook his head. “I must lead the Descartes into battle, not Tan or Octagon.”

“Your ship-guardians must understand that.”

“How little you know,” Yakov murmured. “If I move openly, it might unleash the Secessionist—” The Force- Leader scowled. “This is a time for unity, not division. However, I’m certain the philosophers will dither and argue until the cyborgs have captured everything. In my heart, I believe this is the moment to act. Yet too many of the crew will hesitate or even turn against me if I attempt what needs doing.”

“That’s why you need me, isn’t it?”

“Explain,” said Yakov.

“Where are my weapons?”

“Ah, I see. You realize that our hammer-guns will not fire on the myrmidons. Octagon also realizes such a thing. He has already confiscated your hand weapons from the security locker. I suspect he has inspected them and