Planet Wrecker

trooper and formerly belonged to the Free Earth Corps. You fought in the original Japan Campaign. How did you manage to flee to the Jupiter System?”

“Grand Admiral, that is all history.”

“Answer my questions, preman.”

“How about you answer mine?” Marten said with heat. “What gives you the right to threaten me and act in such a highhanded manner?”

“I have the ability to obliterate you.”

“So might makes right?”

“That is a truism of nature,” said Cassius.

“Fine,” said Marten. “I left Highborn service because my might proved superior to that of Training Master Lycon.”

“You are a fool, preman. Your meteor-ship is of infinitesimal value in the coming battle.”

“Then why bother calling us?” snapped Marten.

A chilling smile spread across Cassius’s face. “Are you deliberately attempting to goad me into destroying your spaceship?”

“No. I’m just sick of your arrogance, of your highhandedness. We’re risking our lives to join this fight. No one has come as far as we have to kill cyborgs and save Earth. Instead of berating us, you should be asking for pointers in how to defeat them. I’ve fought cyborgs on many occasions. Heck, I’ve probably faced cyborgs more than any other person in the Solar System has.”

“You are delusional,” said Cassius.

“I want to land my veteran, cyborg-killing space marines on the asteroids. I’m not going to do that charging in first. I’m a lone ship, while you’re hitting them en mass. Fine. My plan is to land after you’ve softened them enough and gained their attention. From my perspective, that’s sound military practice.”

Cassius had turned away, perhaps reading from a side-screen again. He now studied Marten anew. “You once stormed onto the Beamship Bangladesh.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“And you fought on Carme.”

“These space-landings have become my specialty,” Marten said.

Cassius sat motionless as he stared at Marten. “You are a unique preman. I wonder if there has been a miscalculation concerning your abilities.” Cassius nodded curtly. “Send me your recommendations for asteroid- storming against cyborgs. If you’ve gained a tactical insight, I shall glean it from your writings.”

“What?” Marten asked.

Cassius checked his chronometer. “You have two hours to transmit me the report. Grand Admiral Cassius out.”

The main screen went blank, and after a second, Marten sagged against his chair.

“You’re crazy,” whispered Omi.

Marten shrugged.

“But for some reason, Highborn like crazy,” Omi said. “What are you going to tell him?”

Marten sat up. “Get me Osadar,” he told Nadia. To Omi, he said, “Do you realize what this means?”

“That the most powerful Highborn of them all now wants to rip out your throat,” Omi said.

“That all our battles against the cyborgs have meaning,” Marten said. “We just have to distill the most important aspects. Then the Grand Admiral will likely employ what we’ve learned to help save Earth.”

“Do you know what will happen after that?” Omi asked.

“Victory?”

“Cassius will hunt you down like a dog for killing Training Master Lycon. They never forget, Marten.”

“Maybe it’s time we never forgot,” Marten said. “Where’s Osadar?” he shouted at Nadia. “We don’t have much time.”

“Know what I think?” Omi asked.

Marten shook his head.

“That the Highborn gave you the wrong stamp.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Back in Australian Sector they stamped a “2” on your hand. It should have been a “1”, seeing as you’ve done more than hit Highborn. You’ve killed them.”

“Now it’s time to start killing cyborgs,” Marten said. Then he took out a recorder and began to think. He had two hours to write or dictate his report and send it to the Grand Admiral. Before Osadar appeared, he started talking into the recorder.

-56-

As the Spartacus continued its hard deceleration, the cyborgs reacted to the meteor-ship.

Ship’s sensors picked up several blips detaching from the main asteroid-pack.

“What are those?” asked Marten.

During some shifts, Nadia doubled as the sensor-operator. “I don’t detect any radiation or heat signature from them,” she now said.

“What caused the separation?” asked Marten.

Osadar was in the command center, standing at the former arbiter station. “They might have been catapulted off,” she said.

“How?” asked Marten.

“By a rail-gun possibly,” Osadar said. “Because the vehicles are asteroids, the cyborgs have large surface areas to work with. They might have installed kilometer-long rails.”

“They’ve lit up!” Nadia said.

On the main screen, the blue blips turned bright red, indicating motive power.

“They have fusion cores,” said Nadia.

“Torpedoes,” said Marten. “How many are there?”

“I’m counting ten,” said Nadia. “No, make that twelve. They’re big torpedoes, too, with over five times the mass of our patrol boats.”

“Say again?” asked Marten.

Nadia’s fingers tapped her screen. She nodded shortly. “Five times the mass, Force-Leader. They’re huge.”

Marten transferred the specs onto the main screen. There was nothing secretive about these torpedoes. The attack used brute power and numbers. Marten shook his head in sudden doubt. This wasn’t like ground combat, which he knew to a nicety. This was space war with lengthy time-margins and extreme distances. What he decided now would take hours to unfold. Because of his lack of experience in these matters, throughout the journey he’d been studying ship tactics. The Spartacus had point-defense cannons and small counter-missiles. The size of the torpedoes troubled him, however. It did appear as if they were traveling in a pack.

“It’s time for our Zeno-missiles,” Marten said. The Spartacus had a limited number of the big ship-killers. But he didn’t think the meteor-ship was going to survive this battle for long. If it reached the asteroid surfaces, the spaceship would have served its purpose.

“How many Zenos do you desire launched?” asked Osadar, who presently acted as the weapons-officer.

Marten had been computing size, likely torpedo armor and spread. “…Six should do it,” he said.

“That leaves us with only three Zenos in reserve,” said Osadar. “Perhaps you are too generous with your missile expenditure?”

Marten glared at the screen, at the accelerating torpedoes. Maybe he was being too generous. No, this was a matter of weight, armor and numbers, of mathematical formulas. “I’m figuring one Zeno per two enemy torpedoes,”