Cyborg Assault

become even stronger. If that ship doesn’t contain reinforcements, the cyborgs on the Rousseau will likely be worrying about the new vessel.”

“The barbarian is wrong,” Rhea said.

“I’m not wrong,” Marten said, “and I’m not a barbarian.”

Rhea sneered at him. “The Earthman is likely a provocateur, sent to start a civil war among ourselves.”

Marten stared at Rhea a moment longer. Then he turned to Yakov. “You must decide quickly, as the Zenos still have a long way to travel. You must accelerate them now to strike as the new ship approaches the Rousseau.”

Yakov ran a hand through his silver hair. Indecision twisted his usually stoic features. He glanced at the main screen, at Marten and then at Rhea Merton, the Primary Gunner.

“We’re loyal to the Confederation,” Rhea said. “We each took a solemn oath with our three center fingers placed on the Dictates. We swore to uphold and enforce them. Now I must insist that you tell us where the Strategist went. We should have heard from her by now. Tell us what happened, Force-Leader.”

Using his sleeve, Yakov wiped his forehead. Then he sat straighter and opened a slot on his armrest.

“No,” Rhea said weakly. “We’re Confederation officers. That is a Guardian Fleet vessel.”

Without a word, Yakov decisively pressed two buttons.

Marten turned to his screen. In space where they coasted toward the Rousseau, the two drones engaged their chemical engines. The Zenos began to accelerate.

-19-

The Rousseau’s chief cyborg, CR37, studied the ship’s sensors. If these readings were correct, the decelerating ship was under tremendous stress. Could the ship have launched from the Uranus System? Simply backtracking the trajectory indicated the humans there had sent it. Had the Helium-3 Barons of Uranus discovered the Cyborg Master Plan? Was this ship meant as reinforcement for the Jovians?

“You have a message, sir,” whispered the unmodified woman, a crewmember. There were dark circles around her overlarge eyes and her paleness had increased. Her compelling nature had become haggard with worry.

CR37 stood beside her. For a moment, a chaotic impulse surged through him. He wanted to wrap his fingers around her delicate neck. He wanted her to squirm, to scream for him. His fingers would press into her soft flesh as he snapped her neck-bones. It seemed unjust that she should keep her humanity while he had lost his. He would adjust this wrong and delete the irritant from his sight.

Perhaps sensing his mood, the woman stared at him.

Suppressing the chaotic impulse, CR37 moved the toggle underneath a flashing orange light. A harsh voice immediately spoke through the intercom.

“This is the Praetor of the Highborn speaking. Any interference with our progress shall be met with annihilation. Our intentions are benevolent and beneficial to you premen—to the folk of the Jovian System. We have tracked you and we wish a confirmation that you understand our peaceful intention. Respond to our message or we shall have to take forceful measures. The Praetor of the Highborn out.”

“You have a second message,” the woman whispered.

CR37 opened another channel. High-speed chatter occurred. He clicked the toggle, took a jack and inserted it into a slot in his chest. Gharlane sent him personal orders.

After a short time, CR37 detached the plug and swiveled his plasti-flesh head, studying a screen. The bright dot had grown. It was nearing fast. Highborn rode that dot. Highborn had come to the Jovian System.

“Engine control,” CR37 said. “I need power to turn and face the incoming ship with our point-defense cannons.”

There was static on the line, but the answer came through. “Power online.”

* * *

“They fail to respond,” the Praetor said. All around him, the ship shook as high-pitched whines and clangs told of the fierce stress. The Gs pressing against his lips make speaking difficult, as if they were formed of lead.

“There is a rupture on level six!” an officer shouted.

“Tell damage control—”

“Coil three is overheating!” Canus shouted. “Lord, we must disengage the engines.”

“Negative!” the Praetor snarled. He lay on an acceleration couch, enduring as he had once endured circling the Sun. His tough skin had flattened and moisture leaked from the corners of his eyes. He recalled the deep void of space, the emptiness that would await him if they failed here. It made his voice hoarse as he spoke. “We live or die today in the Jupiter System. We shall not bypass it. Continue deceleration.”

“Lord, the enemy vessel has begun to rotate.”

“Laser team,” the Praetor snarled into his intercom, “do you have a lock on the warship?”

“Our laser won’t affect them, Lord,” a voice said over the intercom.

“Never mind that!” the Praetor shouted. “We fight. We attack. If that doesn’t work—Canus, can you change our vector to an intercept course?”

“Lord, we don’t know their intention. It may prove peaceful.”

“Answer my question!” the Praetor snarled, wanting to crawl across the floor and throttle Canus’s thick neck. He couldn’t move, however. Only the damage control party in their battleoid-suits could move under these tremendous Gs. Even they would find it difficult now.

“Yes, Lord, we could manage.”

More pressing Gs hit the ship and those within it. As he lay on the acceleration couch, the Praetor’s lips peeled back to reveal his big teeth, white teeth meant for rending meat. Every ten minutes, the engines pulsed with greater power, decelerating at higher levels for one point five minutes. It slammed them to the limit of Highborn endurance. One by one, they passed out until the engine lessened its terrible output and the gross Gs throttled down to horrible pain levels. The Highborn, being resilient, regained consciousness quickly. It was three minutes until the next big thrust pulse.

The Thutmosis III shook worse than before. There were grim sounds throughout the ship, metallic groans, creaks, rattles, mini-explosions and the continuing high whine that nearly made thinking impossible.

“Weapons, where’s that laser?” the Praetor roared.

“Lord, we’re ready.”

“Put it on visual,” the Praetor said.

A holographic image appeared before him. It showed a port opening on the side of the Thutmosis III. It wasn’t a Zhukov-class primary laser. Highborn Command had modified a captured Social Unity missile-ship, turning it into a gigantic stealth vessel. The modified ship had relied on missiles, carrying many detachable pods. Those missiles had all been fired during the Third Battle for Mars. Highborn Command had added several medium-range lasers for defensive use. Only one of those lasers had survived the hunter-killers from Phobos.

A focusing mirror poked out of the port. The front section was red with power.

“Target acquired and locked-on,” Canus said.

“Should we give them one more chance for friendly discourse?” another Highborn asked.

“Kill them!” the Praetor shouted. “They had their chance.”

From the holographic image there lanced a bright beam, streaking out into the void of space.

* * *

The range between the two warships was short in stellar distances, nearly sixty thousand kilometers and closing fast.