Marten moistened his lips. “It is crazy. The cyborgs are crazy. Breaking a moon out of its orbit, even a small asteroid-moon, and sending it across space to hit a planet—that’s lunacy. It tells me this is a war of annihilation, either theirs or ours.” Marten flexed his hands. “I told you before, I’m finished running away. It’s time to slug it out. Maybe that means you and I are supposed to lead an attack onto that rock. I don’t know.”
“We’ll be facing cyborgs,” Omi said.
“Yeah,” Marten whispered. Cyborgs—he remembered Olympus Mons. A handful of cyborgs had handled them with ease. If Osadar hadn’t shown up, Omi and he would likely be cyborgs now. This was a suicide mission. Damn, he hated cyborgs.
Marten scowled. Hadn’t he already killed cyborgs here? He’d helped destroy a dreadnaught full of them. It’s also likely his action had given the Jovians whatever chance they had of surviving this stealth attack from Neptune. Marten stood very still then. Had he arrived in the Jupiter System for a reason?
A queasy feeling filled Marten’s stomach. What did he stand for? Did the cyborgs really plan to make planet-wreckers and send them at Earth? Could he stand by and watch them do it, knowing he could have done something but that fear had caused him to run to Saturn or Uranus for safety? How long could he run in a Solar System ruled by cyborgs?
“Tell Yakov he’s full of crap,” Omi said.
Marten swallowed a lump in his throat. “Maybe this is crazy,” he told Omi. “But we have to do it.”
“Why? We’ve done our time.”
“We survived Japan,” Marten said. “But Stick and Turbo died there. We survived the Bangladesh. Vip, Lance and Kang become sterile motes in space. We survived Mars, but Chavez and the others are radioactive dust. Maybe this is why we lived. We’re meant to help stop humanity’s extinction.”
Omi folded his arms across his chest. After a moment, he said, “Osadar is right. Life is rigged.”
“All men die,” Marten said. “Maybe it’s time to make our existence worth something.” He faced Yakov. “I’m in.”
Yakov checked a chronometer. “We leave in eleven hours. In that time, I want you to choose which ship-guardians to take along.”
“Come again?” asked Omi.
“We had planned to take the Thebes with us,” Yakov said. “Now we’ve discovered severe engine damage.”
“What?” Omi asked.
“There was sabotage aboard the Thebes,” Yakov admitted.
Omi laughed bitterly.
“Now we must select the best ship-guardians,” Yakov said, ignoring the laugh. “You two must teach them what you can in the time remaining. Then you will lead them to victory once we reach Carme.”
It was Marten’s turn to laugh. He stared into space as if recalling a grim memory. “We have to choose the best. Yeah, I know what to do. Omi?”
Omi’s face had become blank. He gave the barest of nods. Marten clapped him on the back, and that made Omi scowl.
“This is crap,” Omi said.
“When isn’t it?”
Omi thought about that, and said, “Yeah.”
-3-
“Are you sure you want to do it this way?” Omi whispered.
Marten wore a black uniform with silver stripes and tabs. Omi was similarly dressed. They stood in the spacious promenade deck of the Thebes, a first class pleasure liner of the Pythagoras Corporation. It had a rotating torus shell, giving pseudo-gravity to this area of the ship.
“No,” Marten whispered. “I’m not sure. If you know of a better way of choosing space marines, let me know now.”
Grim-faced ship-guardians standing at attention and in their blue uniforms, complete with medals and battle ribbons, filled the promenade deck. There were too many ship-guardians to take in the two meteor-ships. The guardian-class Jovians stood ready, awaiting inspection.
“I know of a better way,” Osadar said.
She stood behind them, the focus of many staring eyes, as the three of them stood before the crowd of ship-guardians.
Marten and Omi turned to her.
“Check their records,” she said.
“They’re peacetime soldiers,” Omi said with distain.
“Do peacetime records lie?” the cyborg asked.
“It isn’t that,” Marten said. “During war, officers look for fighters. During peace, they look for yes-men, for those who don’t make waves. We want fighters. We want soldiers who will stick it out when cyborgs swarm them.”
“Sift carefully through their records,” Osadar said.
“We don’t have time for that,” Marten said.
“Is that why you have lined them up?” Osadar asked. “Can shock troopers tell a fighter at a glance?”
“No,” Marten said, “not at a glance.”
“Then why have you staged this?” she asked.
“You didn’t tell her?” Omi asked.
“Tell me what?” asked Osadar.
“The Highborn are bastards,” Marten said. “We know that. But they’re also betters soldiers, better fighters. They had a way to find the tough ones, the battlers.”
“What way?” asked Osadar.
Marten cracked his knuckles as he stared at the ranks of ship-guardians. “We know the ones we choose are going to be fodder for the cyborgs. That’s the truth of this war. It will be a quick trip to Carme, two or three weeks. There isn’t much I can teach them in that time. But I can make sure I take the tough ones along. I can increase our odds a few percentages. Why is it then that I feel like such a bastard doing this?”
“The answer’s simple,” Omi said. “You’re choosing those who are going to die.”
“Yeah,” said Marten. He set his features. “You tell her what’s going on, okay?”
“Sure,” Omi said.
“Tell me what?” asked Osadar.
“Okay,” said Marten. “Here we go.” He left them and strode alone toward the ranks of waiting ship-guardians. Those who had been staring at Osadar now looked at him. It was an animal response to glance at things that moved.
Marten adjusted his collar as he halted before them. He switched on an amplifier there, which would help project his voice.
“So you’re the sorry rejects they’re giving me to destroy the cyborgs,” Marten said, letting contempt fill his voice.
Ship-guardians blinked at him. Many scowled. More than a few stirred.
Marten shook his head. “I fought in the Inner System, both on Earth and in space, capturing an experimental beamship near Mercury. Highborn trained me because they discovered I have an innate ability to kill. I also survive where others die, and I accomplish the missions given me.” He pointed at Omi. “We’re shock troopers, which means we’re the best soldiers in the Solar System, at least the best among humans. You ship-guardians—” Marten laughed with contempt.
More angry scowls appeared in the ranks.
“Some of you are going to have a chance to prove your worth,” Marten said. “You’re going to prove if Jovian space training is anything like Highborn training. I doubt it, frankly, but you’ll have the chance to show me.”
“Yeah!” a blue-uniformed guardian shouted. “And who the heck are you anyway?”
Marten stared at the guardian, a blocky individual. “I’m going to choose who goes and dies and who stays to live under the coming cyborg domination.”
“Are all shock troopers arrogant pricks like you?” the guardian asked.
“Ask me an hour from now,” Marten said.
“I’m asking you now!” the angry guardian shouted.
Marten drew his needler and fired, making crackling sounds. Guardians shouted in surprise. Many hit the deck. A few screamed as the bulky guardian flopped onto the floor.
“Stay where you are!” shouted Marten.
Pelias from the Descartes appeared, the tight-faced woman with black lipstick. She and three other guardians had drawn hammer-guns, aiming them at the crowd.
“I shot him with drugged ice-needles,” Marten said. “He’s still alive, but his mouth isn’t flapping anymore. And that’s my first lesson. I know many of you were expecting me to challenge him to a fistfight, to prove how superior my fighting technique was against his. A shock trooper uses overwhelming force when it’s at his disposal. You’ll do the same, or you’ll die to the cyborgs.”