Two cyborgs ambushed them as they approached the dome. Lasers speared out of jagged cracks. The two beams focused on one battleoid.
From behind a rock, Marten snapped off Gyroc rounds, pitting the metallic wall, but failing to enter the jagged cracks, which were at an oblique angle to him. Orange plasma hit, and globs of molten metal dripped off the wall or drifted into the vacuum. Then a cyborg dashed out. Heated plasma killed it, melting its helmet and head. A Gyroc round entered the crack, along with a red beam.
The last cyborg stopped firing.
“Is it dead?” Omi asked.
Marten counted the fallen Highborn. Three battleoids lay prone, with laser holes burnt through the heavy armor. The suits could absorb more punishment than space marine armor, but eventually broke under concentrated laser- fire.
“Shock Troopers Marten and Omi,” the Praetor said, “scout the dome. See if the cyborg still lives.”
“Screw him,” Omi said.
Marten heaved himself from behind his rock and began running. He snapped off three shots. Then a red light flashed on his HUD.
Horror and hatred washed through Marten. He yanked the trigger. Each slamming APEX round made the thing jerk and twist.
“It’s dead!” Omi shouted.
A red, empty light was flashing in Marten’s HUD, and he was still pulling the trigger. He stopped as Omi touched his shoulder.
Wordlessly, Marten switched clips.
“Everything is clear,” Marten heard someone say. Then he realized it was his voice. He had to get a grip. He shot himself with another stim. Too many, and he’d go paranoid. He laughed. It wasn’t a good sound. This was another firefight he had no business being in. Digging out a Web-Mind, they were all mad.
The wall behind them shuddered. Big pieces of metal and masonry flew off. Then a battleoid foot smashed through. A moment later, big gauntlets gripped an edge of wall and created an even bigger opening. Soon, the others joined Marten and Omi in the dome.
“Continue to scout,” the Praetor said.
Omi’s helmet turned toward him. Marten saw Omi’s features, the hollow eyes and the terrible strain etched across his friend’s face.
“Yeah,” Marten said, hefting his Gyroc. He chinned infrared, scanning the place, observing the cracks above, the broken equipment everywhere and the littered floor. Then he started across it.
It might have been smarter switching to his IML, but he was going to save the Cognitive missile for the Praetor. Let the Highborn think him a dog to sniff out trouble. In the end, this dog would bite and finish what he’d started with Sigmir and continued with Lycon.
As Marten scouted through the dome, the Web-Mind awoke to its danger. It had been running a prognostication program. Through it, it divined the Praetor’s plan.
With quick calculation, the Web-Mind assessed its immediate military assets. The Webbies waited with their pathetic stunners. Yes, it must radio the leader. They must scour the deleted cyborgs and confiscate laser carbines. That would give the Webbies enough firepower to kill Highborn. The Web-Mind then began to activate its cyborg protection team. They’d waited in storage, having been interned there in the Neptune System. Unfortunately, thawing them would take time. Lastly, the Web-Mind radioed a distress call. All cyborgs were to converge here to annihilate Jovians and kill or capture Highborn.
The Web-Mind regretted leaving Gharlane with the in-system fleet. Worse, perhaps, with deletion as a possibility, the Web-Mind knew a growing and bitter jealousy. It was wrong that any cyborg should survive his demise. It was an even greater wrong that the troublesome and annoying Gharlane should survive his master.
Before the Web-Mind could dwell on that, however, a pre-inserted optimism program began to run. This would be the last opportunity for the inferior species to harm it. As Web-Mind, it was going to destroy Jovians and capture Highborn. First, it must send the correct pulse to the Webbie commander.
Webbie Octagon’s hatred for Marten Kluge had undergone a transformation in the last ten minutes. He staggered under the heavy load of a laser-pack. He hunched like an old man. It would have been worse if Carme were under greater acceleration. But it was already bad enough.
Octagon cradled the carbine as sweat bathed his body. His brown vacc-suit’s air-conditioner was broken. He wheezed, as he tasted the sour odor. He followed another Webbie as they descended at an angle toward the Web-Mind’s armored chamber. They were supposed to intercept invaders. They were supposed to
Octagon now possessed cunning thoughts. His hatred of Marten Kluge had damaged his Web-conditioning. It had left him with some of his former personality. That personality wanted Marten Kluge to suffer. Now that he— Octagon—suffered miserably, an old emotion surfaced. It was self-preservation, which allowed him to practice the cunning.
That crafty self-preservation had caused Octagon to drag his feet. He had pretended to be weaker than he was. He’d pretended almost without being aware he did so. It meant that he was the last Webbie to enter the slanting tunnel. It also meant that the distance between him and the next Webbie grew with each passing second. Certainly, Octagon still yearned for Marten Kluge to suffer a thousand agonies, but first he’d have to stay alive. He could not rush this.
As Octagon debated plans, the screams began over his headphones. The screams were filled with mortal pain and they caused Octagon to freeze. The killing impulse tried to make him run toward the firefight. He resisted such madness, although he wasn’t completely able to overcome it. Therefore, Webbie Octagon took one slow step at a time toward the fighting.
Marten’s heart raced as he leaned against a tunnel wall. The Praetor and his Highborn had taken point. They pushed deeper and farther into the long tunnel, moving fast. According to Osadar’s data, there were several entrances to the armored chamber.
The Praetor had made a loud sound when Osadar had brought that to his attention. He’d ordered his small force to advance faster.
Marten and Omi were the rearguard now. It was pitch-black down here. Marten could only see a green and red world using his infrared HUD.
Tiny droplets oozed onto his face. No amount of cool air could stop the sweating. It was being underground that made his pours ooze. He knew it shouldn’t matter. He’d fought in worse places. But the fear of being buried alive had begun to claw at him. Maybe it was an atavistic dread, something he couldn’t help. Maybe the Japan Campaign had affected him more than he’d realized.
“I hear more Webbies coming,” Omi said.
The Korean’s voice was clearer than before because the static had almost vanished. It must have been because of the shielding rock.
Marten shifted his grip as he scanned the dead. The HUD read them as humans, which meant half-converted Jovians, Webbies. They wore simple vacc-suits but lugged cyborg laser-packs and carbines. They had been slow, unarmored and suicidal.
“They remind me of the Kamikaze squads in Japan,” Omi said.
