She thrust again, and had managed to shift nearer the crater.
She would not call it victory, this continued self-awareness. She would strive against Web-Mind’s goals. Yes, she would use this piece of good luck and she would extract every ounce of pleasure from it that she could. Therefore, she must plot to remain free of Web-Mind. The question was how.
Yes… how?
Osadar Di’s longish, metallic-plastic head twitched within her helmet. She had no more time for conjecture. The suicidal cyborg hit with a splat, becoming a smear on Olympus Mons.
Osadar judged this to a nicety as she examined the vast cannon aimed at the pink sky. At precisely the right moment, she hit the thrust button and held it down. She passed the crater wall until she hit hard, but not as hard as against Phobos. She made a perfect two-point landing. Then she shed the jetpack and lifted a laser carbine. A metallic line from it snaked to a heavy laser-pack on her back. She charged with other landing cyborgs for the entrance to the proton cannon’s turret.
-23-
The cyborgs dropped hard, using jetpacks, shedding them upon landing and bounding for the vast structure that housed the proton-beam cannon.
The human drop-troops used incredibly huge, multiple chutes, which only had minimal effect. They also used jetpacks at the end, although they lacked the cyborgs’ skill. Too many of them broke legs, arms, necks or their ribs. Too many of them tore their suits. Their breathers still worked, at least most of the time. But because the Martian atmosphere lacked an ozone layer, their skin would severely burn if exposed to direct sunlight for very long.
The cyborgs moved with insect-like speed. Once inside the volcano, they tangled any Martian Unionist, and they worked down the vast network of elevators, levels, rooms and chambers. If a Mars Rebel fired a shot before the cyborgs captured him or her, red laser-beams cut them down. If the Rebel seemed to be in the act of sabotage, he died even faster.
Much lower down in Olympus Mons, Marten, Omi, Major Diaz and Secretary-General Chavez rode a magnetic lift for the skimmer garage. Other military officers rode with them. It was quiet in the lift as each exhausted man was absorbed with his personal sorrow.
They would have been gone long ago, but running the proton beam earlier had burned out more than just a few coils. In many places, the lifts didn’t work. In other places, the lack of working lights meant stygian darkness. Olympus Mons was vast. The men had raced through kilometers of empty corridors before finding this operational lift.
The lift now slowed and the doors swished opened. “Go!” shouted Marten.
The others were exhausted from running. They walked quickly, but none of them ran for their lives.
Omi traded glances with Marten. Then the bullet-headed Korean sidled near. “If we wait too long to escape, we’re dead,” Omi whispered.
The garage was huge, with a twenty-foot ceiling. It had long ago been blasted out of the volcano, with volcanic pillars instead of concrete stanchions. Crates, equipment, spare parts and tunnel machinery were everywhere. At the far end near the outer doors, almost out of sight, were parked skimmers and other EVA vehicles. The lights were low and the air was cold.
“We must hurry,” Marten told the others.
The thin Martians trotted for five minutes and then slowed back to a fast walk. They had been moving for some time. Most breathed heavily and despite the cold, sweat soaked their garments.
Far behind them, the lift doors opened.
Omi hissed. Marten turned, and his eyes grew huge.
Able to cover ground many times faster than a human and with extreme stamina, three cyborgs made incredible, bounding leaps for the Martians. The three lacked helmets. Their polished metal faces combined with shiny black plastic and fleshy components horrified Marten.
“What are those?” Omi whispered.
Marten yanked Omi behind a huge crate. “This way,” he whispered. He crawled along the volcanic floor, using crates, machinery and more crates to try to ambush those things.
None of the Martians had looked back. They were too absorbed with their fatigue. Then something must have alerted them. Diaz shouted a warming.
The cyborgs moved fast and they brought up their arms in a blur. Chugging sounds emitted from their short-barreled tanglers. Glistening black eggs sped at the humans. Sticky tangle-threads webbed individual officers. Shouting hoarsely, the officers thudded hard. Two hit their heads and they were knocked unconscious.
The cyborgs shot another volley of the glistening black tangle-eggs. From hiding, Marten and Omi opened fire. For three seconds, their explosive bullets shredded uniforms, metal, plastic and flesh, but the cyborgs kept coming.
“What are they?” Omi shouted.
“Keep firing!” Marten hissed.
Then tangle-eggs caught Marten and Omi and it was over. One of the cyborgs landed by them, kicked away their long-barrels and scanned the vast garage.
“Who are you?” Omi asked.
“Silence,” the cyborg said.
It dragged Marten and Omi to the others, where two more cyborgs stood.
The computer-like voice reminded Marten of Blake, the Bioram Taw2 that had run his old Tunnel Crawler Six in Sydney, Australian Sector. Marten knew that Blake would have been a cold-hearted killer if given a chance. Maybe it was the same with these horrors.
The cyborgs exchanged glances. One of them bounded away, leaving two of them behind.
The nearest cyborg stood motionless. The second cyborg scanned the garage. It seemed to be searching for something. That cyborg almost seemed agitated. Then it crouched beside the Martian officers.
The first cyborg now watched the second one. “The specimens are secure,” the first cyborg said.
“Why are they so emaciated?” the second cyborg asked.
The first cyborg froze. Then its longish head cocked to the left. “Your question… it indicates—” The first cyborg aimed its tangler at the second cyborg. “There is a seventy-eight percent probability that your query stems from emotive reasons. You must immediately head to the rendezvous point and ask for a diagnostic check.”
“Yes,” the second cyborg said, standing. Then it drew a laser carbine, ducked as a tangle-egg popped from the first cyborg’s weapon and opened fire with the laser.
In moments, the first cyborg slumped to the volcanic floor. As if it were a broken machine, blue sparks emitted from its component parts.
The surviving cyborg aimed the laser carbine at the nearest tangled Martian.
“Wait!” Marten shouted.
The cyborg hesitated. Then it stepped beside Marten, aiming the carbine at him.
“You shot one of your own,” Marten said.
“Now I will shoot all of you,” the cyborg said.
“You have emotions,” Marten said, remembering his talks with the Tunnel Crawler in Sydney. “I understand that. We understand. Leave the others and join us.”
“Join?” the cyborg asked. “You would have joined us as cyborgs. But my secret dies with all of you.”
Marten licked his lips. Blake the Bio-ram Taw2 had always wanted to be human again. “Help us, and we’ll help you become human.”
The cyborg stood perfectly still.
“Stay here,” Marten said, “and they will find your defect of emotion and expunge it.”
“…none can escape,” the cyborg said.
“If you free us,” Marten said, “we’ll flee in skimmers for one of the Martian cities. That way, you can keep your emotions longer.”
The cyborg lowered its carbine. Then it unhooked a canister from its belt. It bent before Marten and said, “Turn your head.”
Marten did. He heard a hiss, felt mist gently falling on him. Immediately, the tangle-threads lost their binding power. Marten sat up as he tore the threads from him as if they were spider webs.
The cyborg bent before Omi and sprayed more anti-tangle mist.