Marten found that his spit had vanished, making it hard to swallow. He hated pre-battle jitters. He hated the tingle in his arms and the roiling in his gut. He supposed it must have been like this thousands of years ago when David had tested his sling before racing out to challenge Goliath. That had been his favorite Bible story, his mother reading it to him as she sat on the edge of his bed. It was strange that he should think of her. Did that mean he was going to die?
Under his breath, Marten cursed softly. Then he shook his head, and he stared out of the polarized window. The surface of the meteor-shell was filled with junk and with other waiting patrol boats. Each of them contained its two-squad complement of space marines.
Marten dug in a pocket, producing a stick of gum. He opened it and popped the gum into his mouth, beginning to chew, beginning to produce spit so he could swallow.
Why did this feel like entering the torpedoes he’d ridden onto the Bangladesh?
“I’m ready,” Osadar said.
Marten blinked several times before her words made sense. Then he stared out of the window again, searching for signs of Carme. He’d see its long, comet-like tail first as Yakov had shown him the runaway planetoid via teleoptics.
The radio crackled and Yakov’s calm features appeared on the screen. For some reason, that reminded Marten of the Rousseau, how the screen had stayed blank that day.
“The cyborg laser has achieved a burn-through,” Yakov said.
Marten scowled. Why couldn’t he focus on what was going on? What was wrong with him?
“Now the cyborgs are hitting the Highborn ship,” Yakov said.
“Right,” Marten said. In way, he was relived. He’d never liked the idea of fighting with Highborn, certainly not with the Praetor.
Yakov laughed savagely. The laugh unnerved Marten. He’d come to appreciate the Jovian’s calmness, to appreciate the Force-Leader’s deadly seriousness.
“Shuttles are launching from the missile-ship,” Yakov said. “They’re maneuvering behind it, or behind what will soon be the ship’s wreckage. Wait, Rhea is telling me—oh, this is good.”
“What?” Marten asked.
“The Highborn ship accelerates onto a collision course with Carme. The Praetor seems to be using his ship as a shield. I wonder how many Highborn he’s sacrificing. The entire crew can’t fit into those few shuttles, can they?”
“I’m picking up Voltaire Missile signals,” Rhea said in Yakov’s background.
“This is it,” Yakov said. The Force-Leader stared out of the screen at Marten. “We’re in range of Carme, Representative Kluge.”
“Good luck, Yakov.”
The silver-haired Force-Leader nodded brusquely. “It’s time to pull the ring,” he said in a dead-calm tone.
‘Pull the ring’, was a hussade term. Marten knew that much.
“Enemy sensors have locked onto us,” Yakov said. “It’s time for you to lift-off.”
Marten tried to say a last word, but Osadar snapped off the link. Then she ignited the patrol boat’s engine, causing the craft to vibrate.
“Hang on!” Marten shouted to the men.
As the last syllable left his mouth, Osadar blasted off the meteor-shell, heading for Carme.
-16-
Carme trembled from its violent acceleration. The gargantuan ports spewed blue plasma. The generators hummed as power surged through coils. Deeper in the rock, mighty fusion engines separated atoms, creating nuclear energy. The combination meant that Carme’s rocky hills shook. Ancient stardust stirred on the cratered floors. The gleaming towers quivered as dishes rotated, as antennae collected thermal, mass and neutrino data on the approaching enemies. Missiles poked upward, ready to launch. The main laser spewed a torrent of focused light, cutting, slicing and separating the black-matted, Highborn ship. From low barracks, stubby point-defense cannons swiveled back and forth, ready to chug their depleted uranium shells at incoming enemy. Tac-lasers warmed up and several magnetic-guns shined with inner flashes of blue light.
There were five clusters of towers, buildings, barracks and underground entrances on Carme. Each had a separate defense grid, each powered by one of the mighty engines. Many tens of kilometers separated them, and there were more than enough suited cyborgs at each cluster to repeal any foolish space-drops.
The Web-Mind computed all this in a matter of seconds, as a paranoia program insisted on a quick probability check. It had seemed senseless then, and the numbers indicated the Web-Mind had been correct. However, there were some trifling possibilities that caused the Web-Mind a moment of unease.
The future master of the Jupiter System waited like a mechanical spider deep in its armored bunker. The greatest technological marvel of the 24th Century was built into its stealth-capsule. That capsule was parked in the dark, with hundreds of radio-links and communication and power cables attached to it.
The Web-Mind processed all the incoming information that its sensory stations on the moon’s surface collected. In seconds, it ran through hundreds of military scenarios. It had cyborgs on the ground, guns, missiles and laser stations and a roving dreadnaught ready to rise into view and attack the enemy ships and missiles. It could not lose. No, that wasn’t completely accurate. A five percent probability existed that the Highborn or Jovians possessed a secret weapon that could grant them victory.
Billions of neurons fired in the hundreds of kilos of brain-mass that composed the core of the Web-Mind.
A five percent probability of defeat was minuscule. That gave it a ninety-five percent probability of total victory. If Gharlane and the fleet had accelerated here instead of heading in-system to Io—
No, the probability of harm increased under those conditions. Whether Gharlane won or lost among the Galilean moons, the critical factor was the launching of the planet-wrecker. There were several smaller wreckers under construction in the outermost Jovian System. Carme-wrecker, however, was the only one able to launch in the window of the coming Saturn System attack.
A powerful confidence-boosting program now surged forward. The Web-Mind shrugged off the five percent probability, as it was too small to deflect the confidence program. With renewed zeal, the Web-Mind inspected near, mid and far space relative to Carme.
The wreckage of the Highborn ship burst through its weakened crystal-gel fields. There were twenty-three clumps spread over a kilometer. Those clumps contained thousands of smaller pieces.
A warning surged though the Web-Mind. Like a meteor shower, the wreckage was on an intercept course for Carme. A quick calculation showed that none of the pieces would hit building clusters one through five. Even so, the kinetic energy of the multiple strikes could cause quake damage. That might harm the coil linkages, always the weakest connection between fusion cores and lasers.
A subordinate function of the Web-Mind continued to fire the heavy laser. After the missile-ship’s destruction, it used priority targeting. Zenos first, rail-gun canisters second, cannon shells third and—
Warning beacons fired through the Web-Mind’s biomass brain. What the Web-Mind had believed to be more missiles traveling behind the Thutmosis III’s wreckage was now—the Web-Mind rechecked the readings to be sure. There were life-support systems hard at work on what it had conceived as missiles. The Web-Mind ran configuration checks. Those were Highborn shuttles!
Had Highborn survived their ship’s destruction? Why would the military creatures continue to head here then? Why didn’t they accept defeat and attempt flight and continued existence?
The Web-Mind yearned to run a re-analysis on Highborn psychology. This wasn’t the time, however. With the approaching shuttles—the Web-Mind ran through a fast executing probability script.
An annoyance factor seethed through the Web-Mind. As incredible as it seemed, the shuttles added a percentage point to the odds of enemy success. There was now a six percent chance of defeat.