“Yeah,” Marten whispered, licking salt off his lips.
Then more Webbies advanced around the corner. The HUD showed them as red, vaguely humanoid objects. Some sprayed laser-fire like a hose, beaming into the ceiling and high on the walls.
With careful, deliberate fire, Marten cut down one Webbie after another. After each shot, he changed positions. The igniting Gyroc shells were like flares, giving him away. Then something clattered in front of him. It showed up hot on his HUD. It must be tunnel-rock, burned off by a laser.
Then, as suddenly as the firefight had stared, it ended.
Marten squeezed his eyes shut. Would the tunnel collapse if enough laser beams hit?
“Do you think that’s it?” Omi asked.
“I’m turning up gain,” Marten said. He chinned a control and he listened for tunnel sounds. Somewhere far away… there was something slight. Maybe he imagined it. After twenty seconds of listening, he said, “I think we got them all. We’ll head back to the surface, covering each other along the way.”
“You don’t want to run after the Praetor?”
Marten was sick of these tunnels. “No. We’ll stay near the surface, making sure no one comes down after the Praetor.” Marten picked up his IML with its Cognitive missile. There were likely more cyborgs on the way. He wanted to shoot them on the surface, not face the impossible creatures down here in the tunnels.
Omi studied him, shrugged after a moment, and said, “Sure.”
-24-
Like Marten, the Praetor hated the tunnel, but for different reasons. This was too direct, letting the enemy know his exact route of attack. Therefore, he believed speed was critical. Thus, four battleoids and a deprogrammed cyborg charged deeper, covering several kilometers in a matter of minutes.
They blew open huge hatches with their plasma rifles and jumped through red-glowing holes. Finally, they reached what had to be the main chamber, a great oval area sheathed with masses of processing units.
“Lamps,” the Praetor said.
Powerful headlamps snapped on. It showed a parked stealth-capsule. The vessel was over one hundred meters long. It sat on a huge tripod, with a hundred lines attached to it like some vast, mechanical spider.
At its sight, the Praetor knew a moment of supreme exaltation. What other Highborn could have achieved such a spectacular feat and with such paltry numbers? Surely, he was the greatest fighting Highborn alive. He was also proving the combat superiority of living flesh versus the melded horrors. Nothing compared to the ultimate super- soldier.
“A hatch opens!” Canus shouted.
Cyborgs leaped out, firing lasers with uncanny accuracy. They centered on the first battleoid, the beams cutting through reinforced titanium with brutal speed.
Four plasma rifles lifted, together with Osadar’s laser. Orange globules roiled through the underground chamber. The hot plasma struck cyborgs and the capsule’s hatch. Two cyborgs went down in a shower of sparks. Three survived after a fashion as they continued to beam, killing one battleoid and then a second. Another plasma volley hit the crippled cyborgs and the one bounding at them. It clattered to the floor, a heap of smoldering flesh and fused machine parts.
“They’re down!” roared the Praetor, as he kicked a smoking cyborg head, watching it bounce across the floor. His entire being was filled with the unique, Highborn battle-madness. It was like a human going berserk, but with a critical difference. There was a cold, soldierly mind in charge of the seething passions. It made the Highborn berserker a frightening killer, wanting to taste blood and pulp flesh, but guided with cunning ruthlessness.
At that moment, the capsule’s exhausts began to flicker.
“No!” shouted the Praetor. He mustn’t let the prize escape. “Follow me!” He marched for the hatch. Canus and the others hesitated. The Praetor whirled around. “Come! We must enter and destroy the Web-Mind.”
Canus lifted his plasma rifle. “Let us destroy the vessel.”
“Cowards!” shouted the Praetor. He faced the vessel, and with practiced precision, he used exoskeleton power. In three terrific bounds, he reached the glowing hatch. “Let the greatest among us achieve the ultimate victory.” Then the Praetor grabbed the frame and hauled himself into the huge stealth-capsule.
Osadar hung back from the others. Perhaps her innate pessimism suspected a fatal trick, some last-minute screw-job. Her helmeted head twitched toward the capsule’s exhaust as more propellant exited. As Canus and the others aimed their plasma rifles, cables began to pop off the capsule’s outer-skin. With extreme haste, Osadar retreated into the tunnel.
Canus raised his heavy plasma rifle. At that moment, the vessel’s glowing hatch clanged onto the floor. What must have been an emergency seal slammed down in its place.
“The Praetor is trapped,” a Highborn snarled.
“Aim there!” shouted Canus, pointing with his plasma rifle. Before he could pull the trigger, an EMP blast blew outward from the giant stealth-capsule. It washed over the battleoid-suits and the heavy rifles. Each of the battleoids froze, the circuits destroyed and the Highborn in them trapped.
If he could have moved his armored finger and pulled the trigger, Canus would have found his plasma rifle useless. He roared curses inside his suit, struggling.
As he did, the huge stealth-vessel swiveled on its tripod base. Then hot propellant gushed from the exhaust- port. The vessel lifted and began to move. It was the last sight Canus had. The hot propellant cooked him in his frozen armor-suit, killing him and the other helpless Highborn.
-25-
The over-watch technique was a laborious way to retreat or advance. At its most basic, one soldier watched, with a ready weapon aimed at the most dangerous area. The other soldier moved into a new position. Then he stopped and watched while his partner now moved. They leapfrogged back or leapfrogged forward. It could be done by man, by squad and sometimes even by platoon.
Marten and Omi used the over-watch maneuver heading up the tunnel and back toward the surface. They halted and waited as the tunnel shook and as hot gasses rushed past like a hurricane.
When it stopped, Omi asked, “What was that?”
Marten shrugged.
“What should we do now?” Omi asked.
“Keep moving,” Marten said.
They did, covering one another as they advanced. Then Marten saw a Webbie with a heavy laser-pack stagger around a tunnel corner.
“Wait,” Marten whispered.
Omi froze.
Through infrared, Marten watched the suited Webbie stagger and shuffle. By his actions, the Webbie seemed delirious. The HUD’s specs showed that the Webbie was like the others they had slaughtered earlier.
“Kill him,” Omi said.
“He’s no cyborg,” Marten said.
“He’s a Webbie, and they’re almost as bad.”
