There was a large airlock ahead. Everyone entered, with the battleoid dwarfing them. It reminded Marten of exiting the Deep Core Mine in Greater Sydney. It was the day he’d first met Highborn.
Air pressure pushed against his armor. The airlock’s other end opened and they entered another large room, this one with a low ceiling. The chamber held over a dozen battleoids. That wasn’t what tightened Marten’s gut, however.
He saw the Praetor, who was in the act of removing his helmet. He stood before a processing machine with various lights and readings running on it. The huge Highborn stood with his gauntleted hands on his battleoid hips. The Highborn had the same strange, fur-like pelt of hair that Marten remembered. The Praetor turned then, and the intensely weird eyes chilled Marten. Here was a psychotic killer, a mass-murderer.
The Praetor indicated that Marten should remove his helmet.
Marten complied. What choice did he have? He had eight men against almost twice that number of Highborn. He opened the seals, twisted and lifted the heavy thing. The chamber’s cold air washed against him. A strange taint stung his nostrils. But the air was breathable, if filled with alien odors. Was it wise taking off your helmet in a battle zone?
The Praetor scowled down at him. “You are familiar to me. Tell me how that is possible.”
Part of Marten wanted to spit. He wanted to lift his Gyroc and blow the smug bastard away. He would die in turn, however. Every man here would die. Another part of him wanted to sneer and tell the Praetor what he thought about gelding men. That part wanted to boast to the Praetor about what he’d done to Lycon. There was a third part, fortunately, a saner portion of his mind. It had seen Yakov die heroically for a noble cause. That helped Marten remember how to play the role of the subservient preman. He did it for a higher cause: the continuation of the human race.
“I am uncertain, lord,” Marten said, as he lowered his eyes before one of the supreme race.
A harsh laugh was his reward. “Yes. I know you, preman. You are Shock-Trooper Marten Kluge. I recall your voice as well as your face. I am unique among Highborn in that I can recall various features among the lower races. To most Highborn, premen look the same, or nearly the same. There are some obvious variations in skin pigmentation, but that is inconsequential.”
Marten looked up into those intense eyes. Despite his resolve, Marten grinned insolently.
The Praetor’s already taut features tightened, making it seem that his skin might tear. “During your flight to the
“You were going to castrate us.”
“A trifling matter,” the Praetor said.
“Not to me,” Marten said.
“What happened to Lycon? He went to rescue shock troopers. How is it that you are here in the Jovian System?”
The old rage returned as hard words spilled out of Marten. “I killed Lycon.”
The Praetor’s eyebrows rose. “You, a preman?”
“I spaced three Highborn, took their shuttle and headed here.”
The Praetor’s terrible eyes seemed to shine, and an even weirder smile stretched his lips. “The Training Master and his crew were inferior Lot Sixers. And it seems you are a throwback.”
Marten shook his head, not understanding the reference.
“During prehistoric days, bestial premen must have been savage hunters. How otherwise could they have survived those times? You are like them, a natural killer. I despised the weak Training Master. Thus, I grant you life in ridding me of him. But for daring to spill Highborn blood—a terrible crime for a preman—I will personally geld you after I destroy the Web-Mind. Then I shall keep you as an example to show Grand Admiral Cassius.”
Behind Marten, seals snapped open. He heard metal sliding in grooves, and there was a faint
Marten looked back. Osadar had taken off her helmet.
“Cyborg,” the Praetor whispered.
“She’s broken her programming,” Marten said.
The Praetor’s head twitched, which might have indicated curiosity or perhaps it was another manifestation of loathing.
“So,” the Praetor whispered, “this is the infamous Osadar Di. I’ve read her specs, and I’d hoped she had survived.”
“Why threaten Marten with gelding?” Osadar asked. “It is unreasonable.”
The Praetor stared at Osadar, glanced once at Marten and then continued to study her.
“Lord,” one of the Highborn said, using the battleoid’s speakers, “Marcus has detected cyborgs. They’re racing here from another cluster, and should arrive in… approximately eleven minutes.”
The Praetor’s nostrils expanded. He pointed at Osadar. “I’ve detected a Web-Mind, and I mean to destroy it. I believe that its destruction will render Carme inoperable.” The Praetor put a huge, armored gauntlet on the humming machine. “Can you use this broadcasting unit to pinpoint the Web-Mind’s location?”
Osadar stepped toward the Praetor and toward the large machine. He was bigger, bulkier and radiated intensity. She was cold, moved in a frighteningly quick manner and despite her humanoid shape and features, seemed alien.
Osadar pulled off a glove and twisted her forefinger’s tip, unscrewing it. She plugged the forefinger into a jack. Osadar froze then as her eyes closed. In seconds, her head jerked, her eyes flickered open and she yanked her finger free.
“You know where it is,” the Praetor whispered.
Osadar regarded him. Then she turned to Marten. “Should I tell him?”
“You will speak,” the Praetor said, with menace.
“First rescind your gelding threat,” Osadar said.
Battleoids stirred, everyone one of them lifting their weapons.
“I am in command here,” the Praetor said. “I will rescind nothing.”
“You might as well tell him,” Marten said.
“You once told me—” Osadar began to say.
“Let’s kill this Web-Mind,” Marten said, “and stop the planet-wrecker. Everything else is secondary.”
“You are wise, preman,” the Praetor.
For once, Marten held his tongue, but it was hard to do.
“Give me the Web-Mind’s coordinates,” the Praetor said.
Osadar did so.
-23-
Marten resealed his helmet as the Praetor gave terse orders.
The entrance to the Web-Mind’s underground chamber was in a different dome, but within this cluster of buildings.
They reentered the large airlock and exited the cracked dome. Outside, the stars and Jupiter shined as eerily as ever. The silver buildings cast shadows. Carme’s low hills surrounded them, a sterile wasteland of asteroid rock and ancient dust. Dead space marines littered the area, as did shredded cyborgs. The majority of the melded creatures had perished to Voltaire laser-fire.
The last drone no longer hung in the sky, however. Likely, the cyborgs had destroyed it.
The Praetor had allowed Marten access to the Highborn battle-net. He thus heard the Praetor order eight Highborn along with Tass and the remaining space marines to intercept the approaching cyborgs. The others were to stop the melded humanoids in order to give the Praetor, Marten and the rest time to destroy the Web-Mind underground.
