Cyborg Assault

accompany him. Why, the barbarian had wanted a display of fisticuffs between them. Marten Kluge had reveled in the degrading offer, as if it proved his manhood. What it had shown instead was the shocking lack of decorum among barbarians. But that wasn’t the issue now.

Cyborgs—

Octagon frowned. The barbarian possessed a cyborg. Could the Rousseau have cyborgs among its crew? That was such a fantastic proposal that it was laughable.

Hm. Why would Marten Kluge continue in his bizarre deception? Once he reached the dreadnaught—

Octagon’s jaw dropped. A bomb! The barbarian had surely planted a bomb in the pod. Or maybe Yakov had inserted one. They were using him as a pawn. They would blow up his pod when it reached the dreadnaught and declare Octagon a casualty of an enemy attack. That would unleash the last restraints on the meteor-ship’s crew and possibly on other warships with crews from Ganymede and Europa.

In desperation, Octagon stared at the control panel. He tried the toggles again, and then once more, moving them faster. The cruelly cunning barbarian—Marten Kluge was an animal. Octagon wanted to weep with rage, with fear.

He hated this feeling of helplessness. Oh, if ever he escaped this fate, he would dedicate his life to capturing Marten Kluge and practicing a thousand degradations upon him.

* * *

CR37, the chief cyborg of the crippled Rousseau, watched the mass detector. He floated on the emergency bridge, wearing a vacc-suit and helmet. Red lights washed the circular chamber, and the green-glowing detector showed that a pod had broken through the gel-cloud and approached the ship.

An unconditioned human monitored the dreadnaught’s board. She was the last of the deception crew, operators used to lure human-controlled warships into docking with ships infested with cyborgs. She had last spoken with a human calling itself Force-Leader Yakov.

The female wore a black uniform, and she had been chosen for her features, which Jovian males considered compelling. She had a pale face, with overlarge eyes and lips thicker than average. She lacked a vacc-suit. Thus, if this chamber were breached, she would die.

CR37 had once been the Force-Leader of the old Rousseau. Behind his darkened visor, his features were now like that of any other cyborg. He was inhuman in appearance and reminiscent of a zombie from the horror vids. Like others of his kind, he had been personality-scrubbed and given graphite-bones, motorized strength and cybernetic interfaces.

The ramming shuttle several days ago had been devastatingly effective.  It had also alerted special AI routines in him. The AI had detected a spark of personality and run a deep diagnostic. The probe had uncovered a hidden truth. CR37 had unconsciously retained a hint of Jovian System sympathy. It had been a tiny thing, something he’d unconsciously implemented by rerouting certain warship safeguards.

One of those tiny but critical things had occurred with the lowered particle shield and the open bay door. There had been others things like improperly sealed bulkheads, downed firewalls and missing emergency routes. When the enemy shuttle had turned into a fireball, it had created more damage than its attack should have warranted. Within the dreadnaught, point-defense ammunition had ignited, multiplying the damage.

Now, the Rousseau was a shell of its former self. Despite the damage, the ship was still a dreadnaught, meaning it was more powerful than a meteor-ship. It possessed heavy particle shielding, unlike smaller vessels. Much of that shielding was still in place. Unfortunately, the hull behind the shielding had been ruptured in a hundred places. The missile tubes were worthless. The last, operational laser was under repairs, and the magnetic guns were hopelessly mangled. The dreadnaught had point-defense cannons, however, many of them. And it would soon have minimal motive power. Several complements of cyborgs had survived the devastating explosions, and they affected repairs.

CR37 studied the approaching pod. Incoming information from Athena Station confirmed that the pod originated from the Descartes. The meteor-ship had sent the pod in direct contradiction to the logged Guardian Fleet orders. Logic dictated that the crew of the meteor-ship was aware of the cyborg infiltration.

As CR37 studied the mass detector and the approaching pod, he calculated possible responses. If the meteor- ship had received the shuttle’s survivors, they would know about the cyborg strike against Jupiter, or they would have been able to deduce it. Why otherwise had the meteor-ship’s Force-Leader flaunted direct orders from Guardian Fleet headquarters?

With this conclusion reached, CR37 opened a com-link with point-defense control.

“You are receiving incoming target information,” CR37 said.

“I have received the data.”

“Query,” said CR37. “At what range can you assure the pod’s destruction with a ninety-five percent probability?”

“Computing. In eight point three-seven minutes.”

CR37 considered the possibilities as he computed range. The pod might contain nuclear material with x-ray pumping. He reopened the com-link.

“Begin pod destruct in two point three minutes.”

“I have received.”

CR37 closed the com-link and continued to watch the passive mass detector. There might be other surprises. He needed to launch probes beyond the gel-cloud in order to cover a broader spectrum of space. The probability of other enemies was high, but at the moment, there was little he could do about it.

* * *

Tears of fear and frustration leaked from Octagon’s eyes. Despite the pressing Gs, he’d crawled out of the main compartment and to the tiny hatch. Reason dictated a bomb aboard the pod. The barbarian and Yakov needed him dead. Preferably, in the most graphic manner possible.

He must frustrate them. Since he couldn’t regain manual control, he must escape and warn others. He shuddered. Escaping the pod entailed frightful risk.

With the greatest difficulty, Octagon donned a vacc-suit. He’d only worn such a suit once during his space training. Sealing the helmet took several tries. At last, he heard the magnetic seals click together.

The air in his vacc-suit rapidly became stale. Before he faded into unconscious, he engaged his tanks. How could he have forgotten to do that? The rush of cool, breathable air—he inhaled deeply and splotches no longer interfered with his vision.

Octagon slapped a button and blew the hatch. As if hurled from a magnetic gun, he shot out of the pod. He flew past the thruster, almost burned by the exhaust. Then he began to tumble end over end. He was in space, alone, with many hours of air and utterly helpless. Terror gripped him. The hopelessness of his position caused him to howl in anguish.

Fortunately for his sanity, he wondered if the others could be recording his suit. They would mock him if they heard these howls. He fought for self-control, and nearly failed. Searing hatred came to his rescue.

“Marten Kluge,” he whispered. All-encompassing hatred stilled his screams. He began to pray, even though beseeching nonexistent divine beings was against the Dictates. In this instance, primordial instinct overrode Jovian logic. He prayed for survival and a chance to exact fierce retribution. He prayed, broadening the scope of his whispers to include any entity, good or evil, who might grant him his desire. Whatever the cost could be to exact his revenge, he told any listening entity that he would gladly pay it.

-15-

Shocked silence reigned in the Descartes’ command center. On the main screen,