Because of the successful cyborg strike, Ganymede became the premier moon. The highest ranked there had already begun jockeying for power. Only a few terrified people openly considered Gharlane’s surrender terms. He came online, presenting the first recorded cyborg transmission in the Jupiter System. It was fitting that he issued an ultimatum. Most people suggested Gharlane’s message was a ploy to shock them or to cause greater confusion through divided councils. Some of those jockeying for power radioed the Descartes and asked Representative Kluge’s opinion concerning Gharlane’s terms.
“It’s a fight to the death,” Marten told them via vidscreen. “Once they’ve stripped you of your defenses, you’ll enter a converter, soon becoming one of the cyborgs yourself.”
“The cyborgs are behaving differently here than they did during the Mars Campaign,” one Ganymede Secessionist leader pointed out. “Perhaps they realize they need allies.”
Marten laughed at the man. “No. It’s only to gain time.”
“Time to do what?” the stung leader asked.
“Time to subjugate the entire Solar System,” Marten said.
Strategist Tan argued along similar lines. She now controlled the warships parked in low-Ganymede orbit. When asked by Secessionist leaders to accept a Ganymede commander, she said:
“I have the ships, the bombs and the missiles to dictate terms, not you.”
“With Callisto’s passing, your advantage is only momentary,” the Ganymede Advisor said.
“Possibly true,” said Tan. “Until that time ends, however, I shall direct my ships as I judge proper. Given that reality, I suggest you order your dreadnaught at Europa to join me. We must build up strength faster than the cyborgs build theirs. Then we must engage them and attempt an annihilating victory. We must drive them from our system.”
“Ship ratios are still in their favor,” the Advisor said.
“That isn’t completely accurate,” said Tan. “We presently have a superior concentration of warships. And it is a truism in war that such a superiority can bring strategic benefits if properly exploited. Therefore, let us quibble about political power later. Now is the moment to strike if we’re to save ourselves.”
The debate still raged between Tan and the Ganymede leaders, although the Secessionist dreadnaught had left Europa. It presently burned hard for Ganymede.
The Descartes meanwhile had matched velocity with the Thebes, a first class liner of the Pythagoras Cruise-Line. It was a huge vessel, bigger than a dreadnaught but without particle shields. It had escaped Callisto’s destruction. Now, under Article Seventeen of the Dictates, guardian personnel had commandeered it. The liner carried an abundance of ship-guardians and critical supplies, and it had been ordered to rendezvous with the meteor-ship.
Mechanics in zero-G worksuits and small repair-bots attached docking lines to the Descartes. Like some exotic species of space-ant, suited workers exited various bays. Hydrogen spray expelled from their packs as they moved huge crates and circular pods. Other mechanics repaired ship-damage or they took the badly wounded to the Thebes’s spacious medical chambers. Lastly, technicians replaced torn bulkheads and failing ship’s systems. Everyone worked feverishly, including Marten, Osadar and Omi.
Ten hours before detaching, orders arrived via laser lightguide from Strategist Tan. The Secessionist Council confirmed her commands. Equipment worthy of a shock-trooper piled into the cargo bays. Meanwhile, another meteor-ship limped in and matched velocities.
“Something is up,” Marten told Omi.
They were in an outer corridor, standing beside tall crates piled to the ceiling. One crate was open, with an armored spacesuit lying on the floor.
The suit was composed of articulated metal and ceramic-plate armor. A rigid, biphase carbide-ceramic corselet protected the torso, while articulated plates of BPC covered the arms and legs. The helmet had a Heads up Display, and a thruster-pack gave motive power. It was reminiscent of the shock trooper armor they’d worn while storming aboard the Bangladesh.
“Why are they filling our ship with these?” asked Omi.
“Take one guess,” Marten said.
“You and me?” asked Omi. “We’re going on the offensive for these people?”
“There’s something someone wants taken out by shock troopers.”
“What thing?” Omi asked suspiciously.
“I have no idea,” Marten said. “But I think we’ll find out soon enough.”
“I hope there not thinking we’re going to tackle cyborgs for them.”
“Who else would we tackle, the Praetor?”
“I’m not sure I care for that, either.”
Marten kicked the corselet with his armored boot. It had a nice metallic ring, and it proved that the armor-suit was heavy. It was too bad it lacked exoskeleton power. On whatever surface they fought, they’d have to utilize their own muscled power. “These are nothing compared to battleoids,” Marten said.
“When did that stop anyone from feeding canon-fodder into the shredder?” Omi asked in a bitter tone.
“Never.”
Omi glanced at Marten. “So what are we going to do?”
Marten shrugged moodily.
“We still have Osadar,” Omi said.
Marten frowned as he counted crates. There were a lot, and plenty of new ship-guardians had boarded. They reminded him of the guardians who had helped them kill Octagon’s two myrmidons. What they needed were more of those genetic killers. But maybe myrmidons were too elemental to fight well in spacesuits.
“Can these Jovians beat the cyborgs?” Omi asked.
“The time for running is over,” Marten said quietly.
A hard frown appeared on Omi’s normally expressionless face. “I don’t think you heard me before. We still have Osadar.”
“Yeah, I heard you. But I don’t like the idea of killing Yakov’s crew just so we can run away again.”
“I don’t like certain death either,” Omi said. “You’ve watched the videos from Callisto. I don’t think even Highborn could face cyborgs one-on-one, let alone us.”
Marten took a deep breath. “We don’t know that’s what the higher-ups are planning.”
“Come-on,” Omi said. “We know it here.” He tapped his heart. “Before, everyone figured they could use us. Why would these Jovians be any different?”
“The Jovians are our friends.”
“Balls,” said Omi. “They’re people in a tight spot who will grab anything they can to stay alive. What I want to know is how come it’s always you and me that have to do the dirty fighting?”
“Maybe because we always win,” Marten said.
“You think we won on the Bangladesh?”
“We didn’t lose.”
Omi shook his head, and he turned, giving the suit a kick. “This is crap, whatever they have planned for us. We’ve done our time. Now it’s someone else’s turn.”
“No,” Marten said. “Now we’re going to teach others how to do it.”
“Like we did on Mars?” asked Omi.
“Better than we did there.”
Omi studied Marten. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Marten took another deep breath. Then, in a quiet voice, he told Omi his thoughts about standing for once and fighting or dying instead of just endlessly running away.
“Dying is easy,” Omi said. “Running keeps us alive.”
“Dying isn’t easy for us two,” Marten said. “Let’s find Yakov. He’ll tell us what’s going on.”
They found Yakov in his wardroom. The silver-haired Jovian was grim-faced. His elbows were on his computer desk as he massaged his temples. He stared at Marten before looking away.
“Why all the armored spacesuits?” asked Marten.
“Close the door,” Yakov said.
Marten and Omi piled into the tiny room. Yakov motioned them nearer. The two of them sat as the Force-Leader straightened. There was a tightness around his mouth, bunched up muscles like little hard balls. He adjusted the desk controls.