Cyborg Assault

begun for him long ago at Ganymede U when he’d won the hussade trophy. Now he was here, fighting a losing battle against the impossible cyborgs. How could men defeat such evil creations?

Yakov shook his head. He didn’t know how. He knew, however, that he had to try. He had to ram this attack down the cyborgs’ throat. He had to give the Praetor and his Highborn a chance for victory. He had to help stubborn Marten Kluge. Yes. The Earthman showed the way. Kluge fought even when the odds were impossible. He went in and tried, hoping a miracle would occur.

“Force-Leader!” Rhea shouted. “We’ve lost ship functions. We’re headed on an intercept course for the dreadnaught.”

Yakov ignored her. He controlled the Descartes now.

“They have sensor lock-on!”

“All hail Ganymede U,” Yakov whispered.

Lasers from the dreadnaught struck the meteor-ship, slagging rock. Point-defense shells followed and missiles attempted to race the gauntlet between the fast-closing vessels.

The shouting in the command room lessened.

“He’s taking us into the dreadnaught,” Rhea said, as she clutched her choker. “We’re the missile now.”

That brought silence as officers in their modules stared at Yakov.

The silver-haired Force-Leader snapped a crisp salute. Then he watched the main screen as the firing dreadnaught began to fill his world.

-18-

“Yakov, you fool,” Marten whispered.

On her screen, Osadar pointed at the crippled Descartes. Then she switched cameras as the patrol boat continued its wild, jinking, twisting ride toward Carme.

Marten was lurched this way and that. Behind him, space marines shouted as their armor clattered and clanked. Outside through the polarized window, weird colors flashed everywhere. Zipping, and often glowing shapes, burned past like planetary meteors.

During the hell-ride, Carme constantly became bigger. Now surface features were visible. There were silver domes and tall towers. They were clustered together in what seemed like a mechanized village at the end of a valley.

Marten leaned toward the window, peering upward, straining. He saw the dreadnaught, its lasers stabbing, burning into the Descartes. Yakov piloted it now. Weeks ago, Yakov had rescued him from the sealed pod and had saved him from Arbiter Octagon.

“No,” Marten whispered. He’d lost too many friends these past few years. Marten banged a fist against the window. Social Unity, Highborn, cyborgs and now pontificating philosophers—

Was there no end to it?

The meteor-ship Descartes, the splintering vessel, smashed head-on against the larger cyborg-controlled dreadnaught. Particle shielding and meteor-shell burst apart, sending rock and pulverized dust in an expanding ball of debris. The massive destruction unleashed tons of kinetic energy. Dreadnaught lasers quit firing, and like an interstellar billiard ball, the dreadnaught caromed leftward, away from Carme.

“Here we go,” Osadar said.

The patrol boat sank with sickening speed. Marten lost sight of the dreadnaught. Yakov, the mad fool, the insanely brave Force-Leader of Ganymede, he was dead. The calm guardian was likely a jellied mass. It hurt to know that. It brought—

It brought sadness, but then Marten had new troubles to occupy his thoughts. Osadar madly maneuvered the patrol boat as the vessel’s computer fired the boat’s cannons. The ripping sounds occasionally timed together with a white blossom to their left, their right and then directly in front of them.

“Seal your helmets!” Marten roared. He checked his, and he heard radios click online in his receivers.

The patrol boat violently shuddered. There was howling, and Marten felt a fierce tug on his straps as if he might fly upward. He craned his head. A large, jagged rip in the ceiling let him view the stars. Patrol-boat debris shot out of it. Something had torn off the vessel’s sheeting, releasing the precious atmosphere.

A Jovian screamed in Marten’s headphones.

“The moon!” another Jovian roared. It sounded like Tass.

Marten felt faint as Carme’s surface rushed toward them. Carme was huge. Craggy-spiked mountains loomed. A crater skimmed below them.

“Now!” said Osadar.

Marten was slammed forward as the final retros fired. Gleaming silver towers rapidly drew near. A sensor dish—it vanished as something from the heavens crashed against it. Beams washed over the towers, over the domes. The beams quit almost as soon as they began firing.

The hardest, most violent jolt of all caused Marten’s armored chin to smash against his chestplate. There was ringing in his ears and it seemed as if he were a thousand light-years from this place. Vaguely he was aware of terrific jolts and repeatedly slamming against his straps. Then it ended, and there was peace.

“Marten! Marten Kluge!”

Groggily, Marten moved his eyes. That hurt and caused an explosion of pain in his head.

“Marten Kluge?”

“Don’t shake him.” That sounded like Omi.

Omi…. That meant….

“Marten?”

Marten focused and saw Osadar’s worried face before him.

“We’ve landed,” Osadar said through the radio-link. “We’ve landed on the front part.”

Marten raised a feeble hand, trying to release a buckle. It was the front part in relation to the hot plasma expelled from the back at the crater-sized exhaust-ports, giving Carme its one-quarter G.

“Let me do that,” Omi said.

“What happened?” Marten slurred.

“Do you wish to avenge your dead friend?” Osadar asked.

What did that mean? Oh. Yes. Yakov had died to give him, to give the space marines, cover so they could land on Carme. The entire complement of the Descartes’ crew had died, including beautiful Rhea. It was a shame he’d never made friends with her, had never kissed her. He’d seen the crashing meteor-ship. He’d never forget that awful slight.

With a grunt, Marten heaved himself to his feet. Here, Carme’s acceleration gave the surface pseudo-gravity. It was nothing like the Bangladesh, however. Marten turned his head, glancing back. Jovian space marines waited for him.

“It’s time to move,” Osadar said.

Marten nodded. Oh, that hurt his head. With a slap of his hand, he struck a precise spot on his chest. That activated his medkit. He heard a hiss as his suit-hypo shot him with a stim. He chinned his radio to wide- beam.

“Listen up,” Marten said, “and maybe you can help me do some damage to these mother-loving cyborgs.”

He didn’t have time to wait for the stims. Time had run out for all of them. He began barking orders, leading the first wave of space marines onto Carme.

-19-

“Watch your footing,” Marten said over his crackling radio. The static was insane, a constant in his