Planet Wrecker

declared it good.

“The core is sound then?” Marten asked.

“It is the only factor in our favor,” Osadar said.

“That’s too pessimistic,” Marten said. “The space marines didn’t balk.”

Yesterday, after too many hours without her, Circe’s myrmidons had demanded the return of their mistress. It had been odd speaking with the leader, and it had been a surprise to learn he could use a com-unit. The myrmidon’s voice had been so low-pitched and growl-like that Marten had barely understood the man’s words. The myrmidon had been a man. Even after the things Marten had seen in Circe’s quarters….

The leader had given an ultimatum concerning Circe. Not willing to see what six outraged myrmidons could do, Marten had reached a decision. With Omi and seven of the best space marines, he’d invaded Circe’s quarters. The myrmidons could have surrendered. He should have known they never would. One Jovian had died because Marten had insisted they first try to subdue the gene-warped warriors. As the man crumpled to the deckplates, Omi had killed the first myrmidon. The others had died seconds later in a blaze of gunfire. Marten swore his head still rang because of it.

Amid the blood and sprawled bodies, they’d first noticed the sex-statues, the shackles and other various implements.

“Who is the Sub-Strategist?” Marten had asked Omi.

“The sooner we leave Jupiter, the better,” had been the Korean’s answer.

“You cannot put off Chief Strategist Tan much longer,” Osadar said, as she put away her Geiger-counter.

Marten glanced at the tall cyborg. The heavy thrum of the core made her voice sound more normal. What a strange world. Cyborgs, Highborn, Jovian sex fiends pretending to be philosophers—he just wanted a regular life. He wanted a home.

“We can’t stay in this system,” Marten said.

“Neither can we leave it,” Osadar said.

“Why not?” asked Marten.

“We lack enough supplies for a sustained journey.”

Marten found it interesting that Osadar didn’t suggest they use one of the patrol boats. They’d crossed from Mars to Jupiter in the Mayflower. They could go back to Mars in a patrol boat, but it would be highly uncomfortable. No, Osadar’s words implied she wanted to remain aboard the meteor-ship. He felt likewise, and he still thought Tan’s idea was a good one.

“The rest of our ship’s supplies come in a day,” Marten said.

“Aboard a military vessel,” said Osadar.

“Wrong. It’s aboard a liner. You read the orders.”

“A conscripted liner full of Chief Strategist Tan’s people,” Osadar said. “Arbiter Neon and more myrmidons are among them. Without those supplies, our ship will not make it to Mars.”

“I’ve trained our space marines,” Marten said. “I’ve fought with them and understand their capabilities. Taking enemy ships is what I do.”

Osadar began to object.

“Remember,” said Marten, “I stormed onto the Bangladesh. Taking a Jovian liner—” He snapped his fingers.

“We would be branded outlaws for such an act,” said Osadar.

“Not if we play it right.”

“Chief Strategist Tan—”

“Sent Circe here to do Heaven knows what to me,” Marten said. “Okay. Tan made her play. Now it’s my turn.”

“She will be expecting something like this,” said Osadar.

“Tan is a brilliant strategist,” Marten agreed. “But she isn’t a god. She can’t have sent the Sub-Strategist, expecting her to fail.  If we act fast and without hesitation, we can storm the liner, take our supplies and be out of the system before they can react.”

“I find two flaws with your reasoning,” said Osadar. “Tan can always order hunter-killer missiles after us. And our space marines will not commit terrorism against their own government.”

“I’ve heard enough defeatism,” Marten said. “Our space marines are from Europa and Ganymede. They have no love for Callisto or Tan’s desire to revive the Dictates. Once I show the men the evidence—”

“Dead myrmidons?” asked Osadar.

“Some worry is good,” Marten said. “Too much is debilitating. We’re in a tight spot. Now we have to fight our way out.”

Osadar’s senso-mask showed thoughtfulness. “Perhaps that is so. Yes. We have little to lose now. If we die, we die.”

“Exactly,” said Marten. “Now come on. We have a lot of planning ahead of us.”

-26-

Twenty-nine and half hours later, three patrol boats lifted off the half-repaired meteor-ship. The best patrol boat was a battered craft that had survived Carme. Marten piloted it. Each boat had its own problems, and each needed further repairs.

They moved in a triangular formation toward the teardrop-shaped liner. This one was fifty percent larger than the Thaliana and it orbited closer to Callisto. New relay stations on the Galilean moon would give it quick contact with the Erasmus, which was on the other side of the planetoid. A good third of Marten’s people had fought with him aboard the Erasmus. No doubt, their positions had been filled with handpicked people beholden to the neo-Dictates.

The patrol boats approached the big liner. The ship’s com-officer asked why three boats. The orders had just called for one. Marten talked about his sick personnel. And he added that two of his boats had reactor problems that they couldn’t repair on his ship. It was a flimsy lie and the com-officer complained, but she finally gave them clearance.

The boats docked beside huge bays. Big tubes deployed, attaching to the emergency hatches of the boat. Marten and his space marines readied their gyrocs and slugthrowers. Circe’s myrmidons had taught him the foolishness of trying to play games. When you fought, you went in to kill and conquer. His instructions to the space marine sergeants had been simple. “Gun down anyone who resists.” He didn’t like to give that kind of order against a Jovian vessel, but he’d do what he had to.

They sealed their vacc-suits and entered the docking tube. Three space marines could march together at a time in this one.

Marten’s stomach seethed as he first climbed the rungs and then floated toward the airlock. He’d taken point. It wasn’t the right place for him. The commander was supposed to make decisions, not get in the first gunfights. But this was a commando operation. The first moves were often the critical ones. Smash and grab. He was afraid some of his Jovians might not be willing to smash fast enough.

Why was it always so hard to breathe at times like this? Marten drew his gyroc, wishing his hand would steady out. Then he changed his mind, holstered the gyroc and took out his slugthrower.

“Ready?” he asked over his com-unit.

The many clicks in his headphones told him the answer.

He floated to the airlock. Twenty men at a time could fit in this one, a bulk loading lock.

“Come on,” he said quietly, typing in the entrance code. To his relief, the big door rotated open. He floated in and so did the marines behind him. Soon, the door rotated closed. When it clanged, the airlock’s speakers burst into life.

“Marten Kluge?” they said.

“Yeah?” asked Marten. He wondered why the man’s voice sounded familiar.

“Did the Sub-Strategist give you any messages for me?”