Cyborg Assault

“We have to beam this information to Athena Station,” Mara said.

“Not there,” the pilot said. “Don’t you remember? The cyborgs launched a missile attack from there.”

“Right,” said Mara. “I’m flashing this… to Ganymede Central.” She pressed a transmit button. The patrol boat’s readings concerning Carme, the massive fusion core—someone needed to know about this.

As Mara beamed the information, as the pilot jinked and as the weapons officer fired the boat’s canons, Nadia made it out of the pilot chamber, through a cramped corridor and into a closest-sized ejection chamber. She was thrown one way and then another by the violent maneuvering. She donned a vacc-suit and crawled into a minuscule pod.

Nadia kicked the hatch shut with a clang, clicked her straps into place and yanked the ejection lever. There was a bump and a heavy clanking sound as the pod was loaded into a chamber like a cartridge. Nadia sucked down air. Then acceleration slammed her against the padded couch. Her ejection pod flew out of the patrol boat’s side.

The Occam VII fled Carme. Missiles no longer launched from the huge dreadnaught. Now point-defense canons fired. They were blisters of light against the mighty warship. Seconds later, the patrol boat died, shredded into metallic parts and smears of bio-matter.

The jet on Nadia’s pod burned for several more seconds. It must have registered on the dreadnaught’s sensors. A flit-boat launched from a bay, heading toward her.

Nadia knew nothing about that. She hugged herself, moaning in misery. She was alone again, lost. It was a horrible feeling. What she wouldn’t give for company—I need company, she thought to herself. Anyone would do.

Nadia wasn’t aware that fate would grant her the wish, but grant it with a terrible twist.

-2-

As the information from Patrol Boat Occam VII of the Aquinas Wing entered the main computer of Ganymede Central, Chief Strategist Tan boarded the Kant.

Outgoing messages from Callisto had ended forty-nine hours ago. Long before that, images of attacking cyborgs had shattered the Confederation. Nothing should move so fast or kill so effortlessly. Cameras caught cyborgs bounding across the surface, shooting anything that moved. The worst shot, played repeatedly on a million screens, showed a young woman with her baby cradled in her arms. The space-suited woman ran for a sealed rover as she hurdled a block of fero-concrete. A chasing cyborg fired a Gyroc pistol. The .75 caliber rocket ignited and blew the head off the young woman, causing her to fling her arms. The baby sailed and thudded against the rover. A microsecond later, another Gyroc shell from the same cyborg obliterated the infant and most of the rover’s top.

Videos also caught machine-swift bipeds lunging through bunker corridors, using vibroknives to slaughter the survivors of the Voltaire strike. The herding of naked prisoners was awful to witness. Every news site on the web transmitted the image. The metallic indifference of the cyborgs burned into every heart that watched.

Callisto died, the victim to a thousand calamities. Nuclear-tipped cruise missiles flew nap-of-the-moon onto the Jupiter-facing side, hitting untouched domes. Gigantic mushroom clouds blossomed and radiation spread like a killer blanket. From low-orbit, cyborg-controlled patrol boats inserted gravity bombs.

The worst scenes were always the individual cyborgs moving too fast, too far and with killer precision. They combed the ruins: hunting, herding and annihilating the former Confederation stronghold.

The rule of the philosopher-kings was just a passing memory now, if still a recent one. The survivors in their space yachts and on the liners were too shocked to insist on their former prerogatives. They fled to Io or began the long journey to the Himalia group moons.

Because of the successful cyborg strike, Ganymede became the premier moon. The highest ranked there had already begun jockeying for power. Only a few terrified people openly considered Gharlane’s surrender terms. He came online, presenting the first recorded cyborg transmission in the Jupiter System. It was fitting that he issued an ultimatum. Most people suggested Gharlane’s message was a ploy to shock them or to cause greater confusion through divided councils. Some of those jockeying for power radioed the Descartes and asked Representative Kluge’s opinion concerning Gharlane’s terms.

“It’s a fight to the death,” Marten told them via vidscreen. “Once they’ve stripped you of your defenses, you’ll enter a converter, soon becoming one of the cyborgs yourself.”

“The cyborgs are behaving differently here than they did during the Mars Campaign,” one Ganymede Secessionist leader pointed out. “Perhaps they realize they need allies.”

Marten laughed at the man. “No. It’s only to gain time.”

“Time to do what?” the stung leader asked.

“Time to subjugate the entire Solar System,” Marten said.

Strategist Tan argued along similar lines. She now controlled the warships parked in low-Ganymede orbit. When asked by Secessionist leaders to accept a Ganymede commander, she said:

“I have the ships, the bombs and the missiles to dictate terms, not you.”

“With Callisto’s passing, your advantage is only momentary,” the Ganymede Advisor said.

“Possibly true,” said Tan. “Until that time ends, however, I shall direct my ships as I judge proper. Given that reality, I suggest you order your dreadnaught at Europa to join me. We must build up strength faster than the cyborgs build theirs. Then we must engage them and attempt an annihilating victory. We must drive them from our system.”

“Ship ratios are still in their favor,” the Advisor said.

“That isn’t completely accurate,” said Tan. “We presently have a superior concentration of warships. And it is a truism in war that such a superiority can bring strategic benefits if properly exploited. Therefore, let us quibble about political power later. Now is the moment to strike if we’re to save ourselves.”

The debate still raged between Tan and the Ganymede leaders, although the Secessionist dreadnaught had left Europa. It presently burned hard for Ganymede.

The Descartes meanwhile had matched velocity with the Thebes, a first class liner of the Pythagoras Cruise-Line. It was a huge vessel, bigger than a dreadnaught but without particle shields. It had escaped Callisto’s destruction. Now, under Article Seventeen of the Dictates, guardian personnel had commandeered it. The liner carried an abundance of ship-guardians and critical supplies, and it had been ordered to rendezvous with the meteor-ship.

Mechanics in zero-G worksuits and small repair-bots attached docking lines to the Descartes. Like some exotic species of space-ant, suited workers exited various bays. Hydrogen spray expelled from their packs as they moved huge crates and circular pods. Other mechanics repaired ship-damage or they took the badly wounded to the Thebes’s spacious medical chambers. Lastly, technicians replaced torn bulkheads and failing ship’s systems. Everyone worked feverishly, including Marten, Osadar and Omi.

Ten hours before detaching, orders arrived via laser lightguide from Strategist Tan. The Secessionist Council confirmed her commands. Equipment worthy of a shock-trooper piled into the cargo bays. Meanwhile, another meteor-ship limped in and matched velocities.

“Something is up,” Marten told Omi.

They were in an outer corridor, standing beside tall crates piled to the ceiling. One crate was open, with an armored spacesuit lying on the floor.

The suit was composed of articulated metal and ceramic-plate armor. A rigid, biphase carbide-ceramic corselet protected the torso, while articulated plates of BPC covered the arms and legs. The helmet had a Heads up Display, and a thruster-pack gave motive power. It was reminiscent of the shock trooper armor they’d worn while storming aboard the Bangladesh.

“Why are they filling our ship with these?” asked Omi.

“Take one guess,” Marten said.

“You and me?” asked Omi. “We’re going on the offensive for these people?”

“There’s something someone wants taken out by shock troopers.”