Doom Star: Book 05 - Planet Wrecker (26 page)

“I need your help,” Marten said, as he stared at the stars. “The men respect you.”

Omi squinted. “Tell me this. Can we survive?”

“Ultimately, we all die.”

“I mean can we defeat the cyborgs.”

“…I don’t know,” Marten said. “I….” He shrugged.

After a time, Omi nodded. He drew his gun, examined it and then shoved it back into the holster. “Let us fight then.”

“You’re with me?” Marten asked, as he stared at the stars.

Omi turned toward the window. He nodded.

Marten saw that out of the corner of his eye. His gut still churned, but it was good to know that Omi backed him. A man needed friends. There was none better than Omi.

“We’ve got work to do,” Marten said.

“Work,” said Omi. “Maybe that’s what this is all about.”

Marten glanced at Omi.

“Some men repair ships,” said Omi. “Some pilot tugs. We’re soldiers. So our work is fighting.”

“We’re guardians like Tan says?” asked Marten.

Omi shrugged. “I don’t know nothing about that.” He fast-drew his gun. “But I know something about this.” He stared at Marten. Then he holstered the gun, put on his helmet and turned toward the hatch.

Far from the
Spartacus
on Luna, Grand Admiral Cassius listened to Senior Tribune Cato. They rode together in a moon-buggy. The vehicle had giant balloon tires and a bubble canopy. If anyone had witnessed their passage, they would have seen the two sitting side-by-side.

The traveled through the Sea of Tranquility. Tiny puffs of moon-dust lifted at the vehicle’s passage and slowly drifted back to the surface. The blue-green Earth hung in the distance with nothing but stars beyond. It meant the Sun was behind Luna.

“We have fifty-three percent completed,” Cato was saying.

Cassius scowled. “It should be sixty-three percent. You’re behind schedule.”

Senior Tribune Cato gripped the wheel with gloved hands. Both Highborn wore vacc-suits, with their visors open to reveal their faces. Cato had a burn scar on the right side of his face, with a patch over his eye.

“We’re working twenty-four hours a day,” Cato said.

“In rotation?” asked Cassius.

“Yes.”

Cassius had to restrain the impulse to draw his sidearm and destroy the Senior Tribune. “Listen to me,” he said. “Every man is to work twenty-four shifts.”

“Grand Admiral?”

“I want those missiles completed in time!” Cassius shouted.

Cato winced at the volume. Then his features contorted angrily. No Highborn liked being yelled at or being berated. He gripped the steering wheel more tightly, and his foot pressed on the accelerator. The moon-buggy churned across the lunar surface, the vehicle swaying more and jolting as it took the small dunes and rocks faster.

In the distance rose a vast missile complex from horizon to horizon. There were thousands of blast-pans and tens of thousands of missiles. It had been built for use against the landing assault on Eurasia. As a secondary measure, it was meant to continue the siege of Earth if ever the Doom Stars were needed elsewhere. There had been long debates about situating the missile facility in near-Earth orbit instead of on Luna. The deciding factors had been Luna’s bulk as a permanent platform, its distance from Earth and correspondingly its height in the planet’s gravity-well and the proximity of the mining complexes here, aiding in re-supply.

“Have you’ve studied my timetable?” asked Cassius.

“Yes, but—”

“The cyborgs have achieved strategic surprise against us. Time is now critical. Normally, in a military timetable, there are percentages allowed for errors. We no longer have that luxury. My timetable is precise. You will meet it or face death by hanging.”

Cato glared at Cassius. “You threaten me as if I were a dog or one of the sub-species?”

“You have already tested my patience,” warned Cassius.

“Twenty-four hour shifts means stim-injections.”

“Tell me now: can you can meet my timetable or not?”

“Grand Admiral,” said Cato, gesturing angrily. “Extended stim-injections quickly results in mental fatigue. There will be mistakes, more as time progresses—”

“Mistakes are unacceptable,” said Cassius.

“Mistakes are inevitable.”

“We are Highborn. Highborn achieve. Now you must test your men to the utmost, driving them with stim-injections and forbidding them mental fatigue.”

“You ask the impossible,” said Cato.

“Is that your final word?”

“Grand Admiral, you must see reason. I have already achieved a miracle. Now you’re asking me to do the impossible. Instead of berating me, you should be praising me for what I’ve done. My men and I have worked incredibly hard.”

“Wrong answer,” said Cassius. He drew his sidearm, pressed the barrel against the Senior Tribune’s head and pulled the trigger. The helmet blew apart in a spray of blood, skull-bone and plastic. One chunk hit the bubble-canopy so hard that the ballistic glass starred.

Cassius shoved the gun onto the dash, grabbed the steering wheel and shouldered the corpse out of the way. In moments, he tromped down on the accelerator. The moon-buggy bounced and churned across the bleak landscape, increasing speed for the giant missile complex.

The new Senior Tribune of the Luna Missile Complex assured the Grand Admiral that the men could meet the timetable.

The new Senior Tribune kept glancing at dead Cato, who lay on a slab of metal in an underground garage. The moon-buggy was parked twenty feet away, with the bubble-canopy still open. The gore, congealed blood and brain tissue of the ruined head seemed to fascinate the new Tribune. He’d just learned about his promotion five minutes ago.

“This is critical,” said Cassius. “Are you listening?”

The new Senior Tribune tore his gaze from the dead Highborn, looking at Cassius. He nodded quickly.

“You must accelerate the work schedule, but sacrifice nothing in terms of perfection,” Cassius said. “Each missile must function to its full potential at the needed moment.”

“I understand, Your Excellency. It shall be done.”

“Words are unimpressive,” said Cassius. “Only deeds interest me.”

“I demand that you judge me by my deeds, Your Excellency.”

Cassius nodded. “There is no room in Higher Command for failure of any sort. We have five days until launching. Every missile must leave its pad, and each missile must carry its designated cargo, be it soldier or warhead.”

The new Senior Tribune saluted smartly. “Then with your permission, Grand Admiral, I must leave you and begin the accelerated work-schedule at once.”

“It appears I’ve chosen the right Highborn,” said Cassius.

“Excellence brings rewards,” the new Tribune said.

“Perfectly stated,” said Cassius. “Now before you leave, show me where I may find the commandoes.”

“Do you have a specific commando in mind, Your Excellency?”

“Maniple Leader Felix,” Cassius said.

“Do you know his unit number?”

“Troop Six, Battalion Fifty-Seven,” said Cassius.

The new Senior Tribune examined a scroll-pad. “It is a penal unit.” He sounded surprised.

“It appears you are not intimately familiar with the commandoes.”

“We have an infantry specialist, Your Excellency. He can tell you more than I can concerning the commandoes. I specialize….” The Senior Tribune grimaced. “I specialize in completing the assignments given me.”

“What was that designation again?” asked Cassius.

With a start, the Senior Tribune thrust the scroll-pad at Cassius. Cassius examined it, nodded and abruptly turned around, heading for his moon-buggy.

Cassius sat in a chair before a small wooden table. He was still on Luna, in a bare room. A shock rod lay on the table, the sole object. A single bulb provided light.

The door swished open. A Highborn in battleoid-armor entered. Behind him followed Maniple Leader Felix. The youthful replica of Cassius had changed subtly since that day on the
Julius Caesar
. Rage still burned in his eyes, but his features had become sullen, with a hint of mulishness that hadn’t been there before. It was difficult to detect at first, but something vital, a spark of intellect or life force had been drained away. Felix had died, had been injected with Suspend and then he’d been resuscitated. The psychologists claimed he didn’t remember his death, but Cassius didn’t believe it.

Felix wore titanium-reinforced manacles, effectively trapping his wrists before him. As their eyes met, Felix halted.

“You,” said Felix.

Cassius said nothing, he merely watched. It pained him to recognize the resuscitation disease. Some Highborn did better than others when brought back to life. He himself had never died. After studying Felix, it seemed wisest if he never did so.

Lifting the titanium-reinforced manacles, Felix said, “Just how brave are you?”

Cassius clicked a hand-unit. The manacles popped open.

With a snarl, Felix whipped his hands at Cassius, hurling the manacles. Swaying to the side, Cassius dodged them. He’d been expecting that, an elementary maneuver. The manacles clanged against the wall, slid down and hit the floor.

“Wait outside,” Cassius told the battleoid-armored Highborn.

The guard never shrugged or bothered with a warning. He simply marched out, slamming the door behind him.

“I could kill you before he entered again,” Felix said.

“You tried that once already when you had the advantage. My recommendation is to wait before you attempt it again. Try to gain an absolute advantage.”

Felix massaged one of his wrists. He sneered at Cassius. “I’ve been training hard.”

“Good. You’re going to need every ounce of your rage and fighting spirit soon.”

“You’re shooting us at the cyborgs, eh?” Felix spat on the floor. “That’s wise, old man. Otherwise, I would have killed you sooner or later.”

Cassius leaned forward. “Your fury lacks rationality. We possess similar chromosomes. We are alike in many ways. I…I wish you to excel.”

“Is that why you shot my favorite sex object?”

“The premen could have used your girls against you, killing you like an animal.”

“Why do you care?”

“I’ve already stated the reason: our chromosomes.”

Felix’s eyes widened, and he laughed harshly. “You see me as your father?”

A pang of something beat in Cassius’s heart.

“Highborn have no fathers, no mothers,” said Felix. “We are alone. It is one of our strengths.”

“We are the Highborn, the most superior form of life in existence,” said Cassius.

“Do want me to call you father?” Felix jeered.

“I want you to excel,” said Cassius.

“Why?” asked Felix, taking a step nearer.

Cassius groped for the right words, and it surprised him that he didn’t have them.

Felix’s leg muscles tensed.

“Don’t do it,” Cassius whispered. “You already have a mark against you for attempting to assassinate me. A second mark will bring about your destruction.”

“Why do you care?”

“You have the best of genes,” Cassius said. “Someday, you may become the Grand Admiral.”

Felix roared as he leaped for the table. Cassius was closer, if a touch slower. Snatching the shock rod, he switched it to its highest setting. Then he cracked it across Felix’s forehead. With a howl, Felix crashed sideways and collapsed onto the floor.

The door opened as the battleoid-armored guard looked in.

“Get out!” Cassius snarled.

The soldier stepped back, slamming the door shut.

Taking two steps, Cassius crouched beside Felix. “You have courage and you’re full of vigor. Those are excellent traits. Now you must learn to use your mind, to think.”

“I’m going to kill you someday,” Felix whispered.

“First you’re going to have to survive the cyborgs.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Cassius said. “To survive the cyborgs, you’re going to have to kill all of them. Do you think you can do that?”

Felix turned his head. There was something more than mere rage there.

Cassius looked away, and he stood up. He suddenly felt very tired and alone. It was a dull ache.

“Running away, old man?”

“You have the very best genes,” Cassius whispered.

“I can’t hear you. Why don’t you bend your ear near here by my teeth?”

“You must suppress your fury,” Cassius said. “For you, indulging your anger will bring eventual madness. You must cultivate your higher reasoning abilities and learn to lean on them.”

With a groan, Felix struggled to rise. Old Gaius could have done it, Cassius realized. But Gaius did it through willpower. Felix’s mind had been damaged in death or during resuscitation. There had to be a way to fix that.