Star Fortress

Marten shrugged even as his breathing became ragged. He sucked on a tube, letting warm water trickle down his throat. He wondered if this small vessel could make it past the defensive zone. It was doubtful the cyborgs had destroyed every HB mine or laser-point. Thinking about it reminded him of his shock trooper training at Mercury.

“Mirrors are moving!” Osadar radioed. Her words were difficult to decipher over the heavy crackling.

Mirrors? Marten wasn’t aware Osadar had spotted any of them. The mirrors were supposed to be near the solar atmosphere.

“Give me a visual,” he said.

“Can’t,” she said. “I’ll give you virtual reality imaging instead.”

Marten lifted the portable screen so more of the marines could see. He could feel them gathering around and others craning for a look. The screen was fuzzy. Then a silvery object appeared. It was incredibly thin. Against the Sun, it was a tiny speck.

The image grew larger, showing more of the mirror. According to Osadar, there were thousands of these. They were weighted in position by a clever technology that used the rays to fuel the mechanism that kept them still. Otherwise, they would act like a huge solar-wind sail. The focuser was on a similar scale as the rest of the weapon, kilometers wide.

“Is the weapon activating?” Marten asked.

“I have to check some other scans,” Osadar said.

Marten tried to envision thousands of the gigantic mirrors sending the blistering sunlight at the focuser. It represented a titanic amount of energy, an inconceivable amount.

“It’s been activated,” Osadar said. “Someone is firing it.”

“Cyborgs?” asked Marten.

“Who are they shooting?” she asked.

“Can you get a visual of the beam?”

“I’m working on it.”

As the William Tell drifted toward the Sun Station, the giant focuser made minute corrections. Then it happened. For the first time, the Sun weapon beamed a titanic ray of incandescent fury. The tip of the beam flashed at the speed of light for a distant object.

“Do you see that?” Osadar asked.

On the screen, a bar of concentrated sunlight shot somewhere.

Marten stopped breathing as a feeling of awe spread through him. He forgot to feel hot as he watched the beam.

The hellish ray reached Mercury’s orbital path in minutes. In a little over eight minutes, the beam passed Earth’s orbital path. Several more minutes brought it as far as Mars. Then the Sunbeam continued its journey, heading out for deep space.

* * *

Across the Solar System on Triton, the Prime Web-Mind seethed with impatience as it issued directives and alerted the surface defenses. Its movable life-chamber was deep underground in an armored area. With the destruction of two Doom Stars, it should be safe. But there was no sense in taking chances now.

In the inner room, in a bath of green light, brain domes pulsed with neural charges. The backup computers ran computations. Life support monitors ensured a constant supply of nutrients and different viewers showed scanner data.

Shocked by the space battle, the Prime had launched endless logic probes. There had been an extremely low probability of any of its enemies surviving the battle. Yet some had survived. That caused the Prime to doubt its earlier computations. Had self-justification compromised its cognitive abilities? Solipsism lay there: the philosophical idea that only one’s own mind, alone, was sure to exist. It was a serious epistemological error, although there were several interesting factors pointing to its reality.

The mass, explosive power and durability of the drone swarm should have achieved complete victory. The Prime had computed a negligible two percent failure rate. Data suggested there had been a four point three percent reporting error, with a zero point eight percent computational error.

The strategy should have worked flawlessly. Likely, the failure had been operational in nature. Yes, the flow of data suggested that. The loss of Nereid and Proteus—bitter to observe—had ensured the enemy’s close approach to Neptune. The Highborn had surely wished to beam Triton into submission in the same manner as the other moons. How delightful to watch the braking and then flight of the eight intruders. Perhaps it should have accelerated the drones sooner, but it hadn’t wanted anything to foil strategic surprise. The plan had rested on surprise, and the plan had achieved partial success.

Two Doom Stars are gone. The Prime replayed the vessels’ destruction, using twelve percent of its brainpower to delight in the rare spectacle. Watching their advance these eight months had been painful and worrisome. With the death of the third Doom Star, I will have achieved system victory.

Thirty-three percent of its brainpower used long-distance tight-beams to monitor the fighting on the Sun Station. The station’s outer defenses had proven more powerful than it had inferred. Still, it knew now that cyborgs had reached the station in number. That was critical, as cyborgs possessed tactical superiority to any known form of infantry. Once the cyborgs gained control of the station, they would perform as instructed. Destruction of the last Doom Star was paramount. Along with that message, the Prime had sent projected Doom Star locations and weighted percentages of future locations.

Fourteen percent of its brainpower was dedicated to watching the massive warship. Giant teleoptic towers on Triton’s surface minutely moved their lens as they tracked the enemy ships.

Part of the fourteen percent, along with dedicated computers, broke down the ships’ actions. Bright flares showed the exhausts of enemy shuttles and pods crisscrossing the large volume of battle-space. Rationality programs deduced that the humans searched for survivors, as incredible as that seemed.

They give me a further advantage as they waste time. It is inconceivable. I would never waste the most precious commodity. Time is the essence of life.  I waste nothing, neither time, nor resources, nor computations. Once again, I prove my superiority to exist. How pitiful they really are, a blight upon the ALL.

The Prime scanned former interviews, selecting one to re-watch. It had interviewed several captive Neptunian scientists. The answers had startled it, a thing not easily achieved.

Like a banker watching a critical investment, the Prime tracked the last Doom Star. The giant vessel continued its predicted course through Neptunian space. The Prime had accounted for a three percent deviation. Instead, its computations and analytic predictions were perfect.

I am approaching perfection. With the elimination of the Homo sapiens and Highborn, it could reroute more of its brainpower to achieving Nirvana: a perfect state of cyborg completeness and dominance. Small habitats of gene-weeded humans would supply the brains for more Web-Minds until it learned how to cultivate its own tissue-beds.

A program alert shifted the Prime’s concentration. The vessel’s long-ranged laser, the final danger came from it. A few more hours of full concentration until the Doom Star was destroyed…

Then I will be safe. Then nothing can harm me and I will have won everything.

* * *

On the Napoleon Bonaparte, Admiral Sulla applied another coat of grease to his face as he sat in the command chair. His dark eyes shone with victory-lust. He dipped his fingers into the cream and lathered it over his right cheek.

He had survived the great encounter with the cyborgs. The drone swarm—Sulla scowled as he recalled the death of two Doom Stars. The battle had been a close-run thing. The premen had acted courageously and done their part. Now he wondered if he could he be wrong about the lower race.

Maybe I can run tests, saving the bravest among them. It might be possible through