Star Fortress

“Got it,” Marten said. “What happened to the outer defensive field?”

“I don’t understand why we haven’t been fired upon,” Osadar said. “Maybe the cyborgs inserted a virus into the computing systems, but I doubt they destroyed everything.”

Marten scanned the space marines behind him. Every time he looked through a visor, he saw men battling fear. Nadia’s eyes were wide with fright, but she managed a tremulous smile. Every armor suit had old scars from former fights. They could have used new gyroc rifles. The plasma cannons had pitted nozzles, showing extended use.

Marten bared his teeth as fierce pride beat in his chest. These were his space marines, the survivors of too many fights. Not all the spit and piss had been knocked out of them yet.

“I’m going to try to ram through the biggest breach,” Osadar said. “None of us could withstand the Sun’s rays for more than several seconds if they caught us outside. We have to get inside behind the station’s insulation.”

“Is the hole big enough?” Marten asked.

A shudder ran through the William Tell. Then another followed the first.

“I’ve detached the troop pods,” Osadar said.

“Is the breach big enough?” Marten asked.

“Not completely,” Osadar said. “You must be ready for a hard impact.”

“Great.”

“Do you desire to space-walk to the station?”

Marten muttered to himself. Suicide by sunshine, he wanted no part of that. “Are you holding up okay?”

“I’ll join you once we’ve docked,” she said. “Does that suit you?”

“Keep talking,” Marten said.

“The cyborgs took my body from me,” Osadar said. “They tore me out of my flesh and turned me into this. We cannot let them win.”

Marten turned to his space marines. “We’re going in,” he said, using an open channel. “This is the fight and we’re the last grunts left. We have to dig out the cyborgs.” Marten swallowed a lump that rose in his chest. “This is going to be nasty, but we’ve beaten these freaks before. They want to enslave us. They want to bury implants in our brains. There’s only one answer to that, a bullet in their head. Nothing matters today but winning. We’re all expendable if just one of us is left standing at the end to use the Sunbeam as a free man.”

“Kill the cyborgs!” Group-Leader Xenophon shouted.

“They killed Jupiter,” Marten said. “They hunted down every human in the system. We can do the same to them if we win.”

“Can we win?” a space marine asked.

Marten laughed harshly. “I’ve got a gun in my hand and bastards telling me I’m going to be his slave. Live or die, I’m going to fight and show them they’re facing men!”

The Jovians roared bloodthirsty oaths as they shook their weapons.

“Now grab onto something,” Marten said. “This is going to get rough.”

* * *

In the sealed pilot’s chamber, Osadar sat alone in her combat armor. Heavy shields were locked before the ballistic glass window.

With her gauntleted fingers, she tapped the screen. The ion engine burned hotter as it increased thrust. Using sensors and outer cameras, she saw the exhaust licking against the Sun Station. The heavily-hulled circular structure was over half a kilometer in diameter.

The universe owes me for all the injustice it has heaped upon me. Just once, I would like some good luck.

Her screen showed motion on the station. With a sinking feeling, she realized she shouldn’t have through directly against fate. The universe had heard and now it screwed her yet again.

Osadar bared her teeth. It must have been an unconscious gesture learned from Kluge. The man never quit. He kept charging against insane odds in his quixotic quest for freedom. He was a fool, but Marten Kluge was her fool and friend. Maybe he was the universe’s prank against those who thought they could control everything.

Using a close-up, Osadar zeroed in on the biggest breach, the one she aimed for. Those were suited cyborgs. They tracked the patrol boat. With a tap, she zoomed an even closer shot. The cyborgs held silvery, hand-held missiles. As the cameras watched, the cyborgs fired. Silvery missiles streaked for the boat.

Osadar laughed. It was a strange sound. Each silvery sliver melted in the boat’s ion exhaust. One after another, they turned into slag and then disappeared.

It was then Osadar spotted wrecked auto defenses on the outer station hull. That explained much. The cyborgs must have destroyed them going in.

We didn’t give them time to fix them.

Osadar tensed her muscles. In seeming slow motion, the William Tell backed into the Sun Station, the ion exhaust licking against the outer hull.

“No,” Osadar whispered.

At another breach more cyborgs appeared. They launched a flock of hand-held missiles. As Osadar fired a PD cannon at the cyborgs, the missiles slammed into the boat. Explosions rocked the craft as warheads blew away sections of boat. Polymers, foam, and air sprayed outward.

Osadar slapped a switch. Then she cinched her straps. Seconds later, the Jovian vessel crumpled against the Sun Station, a portion making it through as the rest shredded in a groan and then a terrible shriek of metal.

It is your time, Marten Kluge. Screw the cyborgs if you can.

* * *

It was chaos aboard the William Tell. Marines slammed against each other. Sections of ship tore apart. In his headphones, Marten heard yelling. Then he realized he shouted as loud as he could. As he flew across the chamber, grunting, as he sank against hardened foam, Marten had time to believe that this was worse than the sled-ride onto the Bangladesh’s particle-shields. He flew a different way and clanged against another marine. His head banged around in his helmet, fortunately cushioned by pads for this express reason. Terrible screeching assaulted his ears. Then it was over. He lay still, a mass of bruises and sore joints. It hurt to shift. Jovians were piled on and around him.

Knowing they had little time, Marten clenched his teeth and forced himself to move his arm. He would not groan. He would not give in to pain. He had to act now.

He tapped a forearm pad. A groan did slide from his tightened lips as a needle jabbed his flesh. It injected a double dose of painkillers. He took a deep breath and managed to say, “Get up. Let’s get going.”

“My leg is broke,” a space marine radioed.

“No excuses,” Marten said, “not today. Shoot yourself with painkillers. If that doesn’t help, use more. We made it here and now we have a job to do.”

“It’s dark.”

“Use your infrared,” Marten said.

“Mine’s not working,” Xenophon said.

Marten tried his. “Mine isn’t either. It must have something to do with the nearness to the Sun. It doesn’t matter. Use your helmet-lamps. We’re used to that.”

“Lamps aren’t going to help us gain surprise over cyborgs,” Xenophon said.

“If it isn’t one thing, it’s another,” Marten said. “Now no more excuses. Follow me. It’s time to kick cyborg ass.”

In the light of his helmet-lamp, Marten shoved aside wreckage. Behind him, space marines followed as more lamps clicked on. In the wash of thirty beams, the humans worked in tandem.

The storming of the Sun Station began as Marten Kluge eased through a jagged opening. He left the wreckage of the William Tell and entered the first chamber. What he found there told the story.

There were blast holes in the bulkheads and sparking circuitry. A cable writhed back and forth as a thick liquid oozed from it. Worse were floating Highborn, dead soldiers in breached powered armor. One big Highborn was