Cyborg Assault

An annoyance factor seethed through the Web-Mind. As incredible as it seemed, the shuttles added a percentage point to the odds of enemy success. There was now a six percent chance of defeat.

Angered, the Web-Mind launched more missiles, and it sent a flash-message to the dreadnaught’s commander. If Highborn landed on Carme’s surface, the chance of defeat rose to an amazing eight percent.

In Carme’s deepest bunker, behind the stealth coating of its capsule, the Web-Mind computed, rechecked data and widened its sensory checks. Then it sent a pulse to other bunkers, bringing many cyborgs to active status. If the Highborn landed on Carme, they would die.

The Web-Mind contemplated a new possibility. If Highborn landed, the cyborgs could capture several. Then it could use the captives as test subjects, running thousands of experiments and learning everything there was to know about the highly aggressive subspecies. That would also give it something to do during the long journey in- system. The Web-Mind almost purred with delight. Fresh data for thousands of hours, it would enjoy that.

The experiments could also determine the provocative question concerning Highborn. Were they an entirely new genus? Or were the Highborn merely a larger subspecies of Homo sapiens?

The inquisitive aspect of the Web-Mind, the curiosity, actually hoped that a shuttle-full of Highborn made it onto the surface. It might almost be worth the negative percentage points to let them land. No, the landing would give the enemy that eight percent chance of victory. Those were unacceptable odds.

The approaching Highborn must die, just as the attacking Jovians were about to face obliteration.

-17-

Force-Leader Yakov was thrown hard to the left by his maneuvering ship. Only the restraining straps of his chair held him in place. The main screen was a blizzard of images as Carme hove into sight.

The rogue planetoid still accelerated, the spewing gases from its exhaust-ports attempting to propel millions of metric tons of rock and trace metals. Bright dots of light appeared on Carme’s surface. Those could be launched missiles or batteries of point-defense cannons. Both possibilities filled Yakov with dread. The laser-beam stabbed elsewhere for the moment. If that beam swerved to focus on the Descartes….

Yakov blinked. There was hoarse shouting. The ship’s fusion-engine whined. Then came the sound of sharp whistling, indicating a breach somewhere.

“Incoming shells!” Rhea shouted.

“Attempting sensor shear!” the ECM officer screamed.

“Decks five and six are off-line, Force-Leader! I think they’ve been breached. I’m initiating emergency bulkheads.”

Seconds later, loud booms sounded from within the ship.

The pilot was pale with fear as he held up his hands. “I’m putting the ship on emergency auto- sequencing!”

“No,” Yakov ordered.

Because of the strain of G-forces, Yakov had to use a motorized control as he spun toward the pilot’s module. Now that the back of his chair was no longer resisting the Gs, Yakov was thrown laterally against his restraining straps.

“Maintain heading,” Yakov said. Although he didn’t shout or scream, his voice cut through the bedlam. The pilot stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Force-Leader—” the man began objecting.

“Take us in,” Yakov said.

“It’s death to—”

“You took an oath,” Yakov said, his voice harsh. “You swore to defend the Jovian System. Today, we earn our berths.”

Before the pilot could argue, Yakov’s chair purred and once again, he faced the main screen. Years of training, of endless drill, study and late nights perfecting his art allowed him to read the bewildering screen. There were dots, triangles, cones of probability, dotted lines indicating flight paths—it was a plethora of information. The increasingly tightening space between Carme and the attacking vessels was dense with multiple forms of death.

EMP surges washed over armor-sheathed electronics. Nuclear explosions added x-rays and gamma rays as well as deadly heat radiation. Shredding pellets, shards of metal and even particles of sand slashed through the vacuum at hi-speeds.

Both meteor-ships had launched every Zeno drone they carried. The point-defense cannons barked endlessly. Rail-guns projected canisters that exploded killing shrapnel ahead of it. Ninety degrees from them the hurdling pieces of the former Thutmosis III headed for the surface. Carme’s laser had melted many of the largest pieces and deflected others. What was left of the prismatic and gel shields drifted at a constant velocity toward Carme. Following behind the fields were the missile-ship’s Zenos, the shuttles and farther behind, but coming on fast, were the four deadly Voltaire Missiles.

The tactic was simple and obvious. Zeno drones led the way. The ships followed. Behind came the shuttles and patrol boats, using everything before them as shields. With the countless explosions, shells, missiles and sand zones it seemed that nothing should survive unscathed. But even here, the volume of space was vast, the individual masses tiny in comparison.

Now Zenos began to ignite their thermonuclear warheads, using x-rays and gamma rays to attack the sensor installations and bunkers of point-defense cannons on Carme.

In return, the Descartes shuddered as an enemy Zeno blasted seven hundreds meters to starboard. X-rays traveled at light speed, flooding the starboard side of the ship, killing personnel and destroying delicate equipment. Behind it followed depleted uranium shrapnel. The impact caused the shuddering, and it created three massive cracks that splintered around the meteor-shell.

As that occurred, the dreadnaught rose from behind Carme. Its particle shielding protected it except for five- meter slits. From those slits poured point-defense shells, anti-missiles and laser-beams.

The cyborg-controlled warship was like an SU battlewagon. It was meant for long-range fights, using lasers as its primary weapon. The meteor-ships were even more unsuited for this intense barrage, built as raid vessels. The dreadnaught possessed the particle shielding, and that was a critical advantage. It would turn the battle decisively for the cyborgs.

“Force-Leader!” Rhea screamed.

Somehow, among the clangs, the sounds of more bulkheads slamming into place, the shouts from other officers, Yakov heard her.

“There’s a message from the Praetor!” Rhea screamed. “I’m patching it through to your chair.”

Yakov moved a toggle. On the armrest’s tiny screen and through heavy static appeared the Praetor’s wide features. The Highborn looked strained, his skin taut. His eyes were like burning pits of madness.

“They’ve destroyed half the Voltaire Missiles,” the Praetor said in his deep voice. “I’m not sure the others will make it through to the dreadnaught.”

Mute, Yakov nodded.

Maybe because of EMP blasts or enemy ECM, the static increased. It was now impossible to hear the Praetor’s next words.

Yakov raised his head. “Rhea—”

Rhea worked feverishly on her board. She stabbed buttons and twisted a dial. “Try it now!” she shouted.

Yakov clicked a toggle and the static appeared to lessen. He could barely make out the Praetor. He leaned closer to the chair’s speakers.

“You have to take out the dreadnaught,” the Praetor said. The static became too much again. But it didn’t matter now. Yakov understood. If the dreadnaught survived, they had lost the battle.

The Force-Leader calmly flipped an emergency cover on his armrest. He pressed the red button there. It gave him override authority over the ship’s functions. Yakov savagely wiped his eyes. They were dry, but they burned with fatigue. He didn’t want to die. Ganymede had finally gained its independence from Callisto. Everything had