finally going to gain vengeance on the hateful barbarian. He was going to hurt the man. He was going to hurt him repeatedly and listen to him scream in agony.
The desire brought small groans of pleasure and moisture to Octagon’s eyes. He forgot about his hunger and forgot about his weakness. To hold a stunner and blast the barbarian, it’s all that mattered.
Octagon panted, forcing himself to hurry.
-22-
Marten’s gut tightened with fear. He led the way, entering a new lane between a cracked dome and a broken tower. The tower cast a deeper shadow, the light shining from Jupiter.
Marten gripped a Gyroc rifle, ready to fire rocket-propelled shells. He had a clip of APEX rounds, Armor-Piercing EXplosive. Each shell had a super-hardened penetrator packet. The loaded IML hung by a strap from his shoulder, clunking against his armor as he slunk a step at a time.
Osadar followed, with Tass behind her, leading the spread-out space marines. Omi brought up the rear.
It was eerie, with the radio static constantly washing over Marten’s headphones. The occasional clicking of his suit’s air-conditioners made him flinch.
Marten tried to scan everywhere. His helmet used short sensor-bursts to find and warn him about hiding cyborgs. Wherever he aimed the dedicated weapon—the Gyroc now—crosshairs appeared on the targeting portion of his visor.
Dust, rocks, a stray piece of cable, a staple-gun and other manmade junk littered the area. This near, the silver structures showed pitting, and there were various entrances or cracks running down them.
Marten’s head throbbed, and he felt himself getting distracted. He gave himself another stim.
“The Highborn entered this place three hundred meters to our left,” Osadar said.
“We should broadcast our position,” Omi said. “We don’t want to surprise each other.”
Each time someone spoke, Marten bent his head, trying to decipher their half-garbled words through the static.
“You do remember Japan,” Omi said over the command channel. “A battleoid was worth more than one of our platoons. Sometimes they were more deadly than a company of men.”
“Do you think we killed all the cyborgs?” Tass asked nervously.
“No,” said Osadar.
Marten flinched again as his suit’s air-conditioner clicked and began to hum with greater power. He was too shaky. Seeing cyborgs slaughter his space marines earlier, this was a hell-world, a rogue moon meant to bring about humanity’s extinction. He hated this place, but they had to destroy the engines, to wreck the wrecker.
“Cyborg!” a space marine screamed.
A red-tipped carbine poked out of a shadowed entrance. A beam slashed. A visor melted as another space marine died.
A half-second later, Gyroc shells burned in flight. Instead of retreating, the cyborg bounded out of the dome and toward them. The APEX shells blew apart the entrance, sending chunks flying.
The laser carbine spat again. Two more space marines died, their visors drilled with deadly little holes.
From where he lay, Marten tracked the cyborg. It moved with uncanny speed and it swiveled its carbine with evil precision. The HUD’s crosshairs centered on it. Marten pulled the trigger three times. The cyborg hit the ground, rolled fast and killed another space marine. Marten’s shells missed the cyborg and pitted the hard surfaces at his feet instead. Pieces of rock sprayed up into the cyborg’s midsection. Then two APEX shells slammed into it. One blew apart an arm, another tore off a leg. One-armed, the cyborg burned another space marine. Three shells struck the torso in rapid succession then, and it died.
Marten swore harshly, surprised that he still lived. The things were impossible to kill, and they spewed murder until the last circuit flickered out.
He ordered Tass to take a headcount.
“To our right,” Omi said. “That’s where the Highborn beam slaughtered cyborgs before. We’d better be careful. Some of those things might have lost legs, but many will still continue killing.”
Marten raised himself up onto an armored knee as he lifted the Gyroc. His arms trembled, but the stim was steadying him, and his headache receded. He felt that something was out there. Someone watched. He moved the Gyroc to the left.
“Lower your weapon or you die, preman.”
Through his headphones, Marten recognized the commanding voice of a Highborn. It sent a chill of remembrance through him. Then a ten-foot tall battleoid stepped from behind the dome. Another Highborn rose into view on the dome’s cracked surface. Both battleoids aimed plasma rifles, heavy weapons by anyone’s standard.
Marten lowered his Gyroc. It would likely take two or three APEX shells in one spot to penetrate battleoid- armor.
“We hunted that cyborg,” a Highborn said. “It is the last one here.”
“No,” the other Highborn said. “Look. Another cyborg. It must have captured these premen, using them to lure us.”
“Wait!” Marten shouted. “The cyborg is with us. She’s broken her programming.”
Anything might have happened as the battleoids aimed their rifles and as Osadar raised her laser.
“What does ‘broken her programming’ mean?” a Highborn asked.
“We sent the Praetor information about her,” Marten said. “Didn’t he pass it onto you?”
“You’re no Jovian,” the nearest Highborn said. “Your voice patterns are wrong.” The battleoid approached, its plasma rifle minutely switching from target to target. The Highborn on the dome remained where he was.
Highborn were quick to pick up nuances. Marten knew he should have remembered that and tried to mask his Earth accent. “I was at Mars during the battle,” he told them.
“The Third Battle of Mars?” asked the towering Highborn. The battleoid bristled with weaponry, with an auto- cannon on the left arm, a missile launcher on the back and a large vibroblade sheathed on its armored hip. An antenna sprouted from a shoulder. Here on Carme, the suited Highborn was like a legendary giant.
“Sure,” Marten said, trying not to feel intimidated.
“He is truculent,” the second Highborn said. His tone implied that such a one should be punished.
“Where are the rest of your space marines?” the nearest Highborn asked.
“We’re it,” Marten said. He had eight men left. “We’ve run into several parties of cyborgs.”
“You premen killed them?”
“We’re still standing,” Marten said, hating the smugness of the question, hating to have to explain anything again to a Highborn. He’d had his fill of them on the Sun-Works Factory. Being in the presence of the so-called Master Race intensified the old feelings about them.
“They are fodder,” the Highborn on the dome said.
“Yes,” said the nearer one. “You will follow me.” Without waiting for confirmation, the intimidating battleoid turned around and began trudging in the direction it had first appeared.
As Marten hurried to keep pace and then to catch up, he had to tell himself that cyborgs were worse than Highborn. Cyborgs were inhuman, a death-plague. Highborn were insufferably arrogant, scary-strong and capable, but still human after a fashion. In the best of worlds, the two would murder each other and leave the Solar System to mere humanity. It was a nice wish, but would likely take years of heartache and fierce combat to achieve—if it was even possible.
The Highborn led Marten and his space marines into another cracked dome. Smashed machinery and broken panels littered the floors. One mirror-like shard glittered as Marten kicked it and it skittered across the tile- plates.
