Cyborg Assault

-20-

The Praetor seethed with pent-up rage, fear, adrenalin and a singular Highborn passion: an exalted need to dominate, to win.

He stood in his battleoid-armor, with a heavy plasma cannon similar to the weapon Marten had used on the cyborgs that had invaded the Mayflower many weeks ago. The shuttle had landed, had made the awful journey through Carme’s killing zone. His single remaining Voltaire was dedicated for his use.

“Kill major weapon systems first and cyborgs second,” the Praetor ordered through his battleoid’s radio.

A lone Highborn would remain aboard the shuttle. He presently sat at a board, controlling the Voltaire.

The Praetor grinned as his pink eyes gleamed with dominating passion. If he died, nothing else mattered. He had predicated his strategy and tactics on that. The first shuttle had been a drone, meant to absorb enemy attacks. The second shuttle held sixteen Highborn. The remaining two of the Thutmosis III’s eighteen Highborn had been badly hurt. Therefore, they’d piloted different shuttles, meant to act as decoys. All fourteen healthy Highborn would join him in the ground assault.

Could fifteen, battleoid-armored Highborn conquer Carme? They had Jovians for fodder and the melded humanoids as enemies. The Praetor laughed. It was a harsh sound. The two greatest conquistadors, Hernan Cortes and Francisco Pizarro, had both won through capturing emperors. Both the Aztecs and the Incas had raised theocratic empires, where the emperor was considered a god or the son of the ruling gods.

These last few days, the Praetor had studied everything learned about the cyborgs and all the known data concerning a technological marvel called Web-Mind. Highborn Intelligence on Earth had uncovered interesting aspects from Social Unity sources, while the Mars Planetary Union had supplied some critical facts they’d learned during the Third Battle for Mars.

To the Praetor’s thinking, these Web-Minds seemed like Aztec or Inca emperors. Before the Thutmosis III’s destruction, he had picked up telling signals. Those signals had matched others from the Third Battle for Mars. Those signals had indicated a broadcasting Web-Mind on Carme.

In his time, Hernan Cortes had fought many battles against masses of Aztec warriors. At times, the odds had been one hundred Indians versus one Spaniard. The Mexica warriors as the Aztecs called themselves had ranged each of their bands under a gaudy leader decked out in flower-ornamented, cotton armor. In those battles, Cortez had ordered his handful of iron-armored knights to charge into the Aztec hosts. Those knights had one goal: to wade through the masses and spear the gaudily-clad chieftain. When the chieftain died, his band fled the battlefield. After the horsed knights slaughtered enough chieftains, and after enough Indians had fled, then the knights charged a last time, killing the Aztec Host Commander. Afterward, thousands of cotton-armored Mexicas had littered the gory battlefield.

Today, the strategy was simple. The best strategies always were. Find the Web-Mind, kill it and hope that paralyzed the remaining cyborgs. Including himself, the Praetor had fifteen battleoid-armored Highborn to do it, fifteen horsed knights, as it were.

The Praetor pressed a switch. The main hatch blew outward, throwing the doors thirty meters in either direction. The doors landed hard, sending up a geyser of moon-dust.

Then the Praetor’s exoskeleton-powered suit moved out of the shuttle and onto Carme. The hour of decision had arrived.

-21-

Deep in the cavern of its armored chamber, the Web-Mind collected data. Eighty percent of the Highborn shuttles were destroyed. A Voltaire presently stayed ahead of Carme. The drone used its defensive armaments as weapons platforms to provide covering fire for ground troops.

The Web-Mind ran a configuration program and then ran an analysis on munitions and laser-fire expenditures. It concluded that the thermonuclear warheads had been removed to provide greater munitions-carrying capacity for the Voltaire.

The Web-Mind pulsed retargeting data to select point-defense bunkers and laser stations. It was time to take out the last Voltaire.

Nanoseconds later, the Web-Mind counted the number of patrol boats, those destroyed and those that had landed. Cluster Three had been breached. Cluster Four faced a concentrated attack, while Cluster Five was untouched and Clusters One and Two had received minimal damage and faced a minuscule number of suited Jovians.

Cluster Three was the danger point.

The Web-Mind sent myriad orders, recalling many cyborgs and ordering them to converge on Cluster Three. Then it ran a probability scenario for Cluster Three. A stubborn five percent probability continued to exist of possible danger.

Few Cluster Three cyborgs remained. Others were on the way, however. This was interesting. There was a complement of Webbies in a holding cell on Cluster Three.

Suiting need to action, the Web-Mind pulsed an order to them. Webbies were inefficient battle units, but they could shave off half a percentage point of threat, possibly even a full percentage point. Even better, they might help the reinforcement cyborgs on their way to Cluster Three. They could help the cyborgs capture several Highborn.

A surge of greed boiled in the Web-Mind. It wanted captive Highborn. Yes, it dearly wanted them in order to practice experiments during the long journey to the Inner Planets.

* * *

Webbie Octagon was the first on his padded couch to sit up and yank out the plasti-flesh insert in his neck- jack.

Jovian space marines and Highborn battleoids were on Carme, were nearby in the towers and domes. They were to dress, arm and kill the invaders.

Gaunt Octagon slid off the long couch. He was in a large, oval chamber, with various control readings on the nearest wall. More lights flickered on, brightening the chamber. A panel slid open, revealing brown vacc-suits.

Hunger twisted Octagon’s stomach. He felt weak from lack of nutrients and from lack of exercise. His arms were thin and his legs trembled. He staggered toward the vacc-suits, his shoes making clicking noises. Behind him, other Webbies stirred. Some coughed, while a few had the temerity to urinate on the metallic floor. Those were the most emaciated, they had worn their neck-jacks the longest.

The kill-order beat in Octagon’s mind. But it was a pale imitation to the need to find and slay Marten Kluge. The logic was direct. Space marines were on Carme. With a desperate loathing, Octagon hated Marten Kluge. Therefore, he would find Marten among the space marines because the need had become gargantuan.

With shaking fingers, Octagon tore a vacc-suit off the rack and began to unseal it. Others staggered toward him. Octagon sneered at a tall woman with long hair and circles around her eyes. Once, he would have found her naked hips appealing. Now all he wanted was to kill Marten Kluge.

Hurrying, Octagon thrust his arms into the suit, flexed his gloved fingers and began to close the seals. Soon, he jammed a helmet over his head and turned on the air. It was stale. Without waiting, Octagon staggered for a hatch.

The kill-order beat like a pulse, put there by the Web-Mind. He would find weapons in a nearby locker. The combination sequence throbbed in his forebrain.

Octagon hissed, and he rubbed his gloved hands together. Marten Kluge, Marten Kluge, Marten Kluge—he was