“The Highborn entered this place three hundred meters to our left,” Osadar said.
“We should broadcast our position,” Omi said. “We don’t want to surprise each other.”
Each time someone spoke, Marten bent his head, trying to decipher their half-garbled words through the static.
“You do remember Japan,” Omi said over the command channel. “A battleoid was worth more than one of our platoons. Sometimes they were more deadly than a company of men.”
“Do you think we killed all the cyborgs?” Tass asked nervously.
“No,” said Osadar.
Marten flinched again as his suit’s air-conditioner clicked and began to hum with greater power. He was too shaky. Seeing cyborgs slaughter his space marines earlier, this was a hell-world, a rogue moon meant to bring about humanity’s extinction. He hated this place, but they had to destroy the engines, to wreck the wrecker.
“Cyborg!” a space marine screamed.
A red-tipped carbine poked out of a shadowed entrance. A beam slashed. A visor melted as another space marine died.
A half-second later, Gyroc shells burned in flight. Instead of retreating, the cyborg bounded out of the dome and toward them. The APEX shells blew apart the entrance, sending chunks flying.
The laser carbine spat again. Two more space marines died, their visors drilled with deadly little holes.
From where he lay, Marten tracked the cyborg. It moved with uncanny speed and it swiveled its carbine with evil precision. The HUD’s crosshairs centered on it. Marten pulled the trigger three times. The cyborg hit the ground, rolled fast and killed another space marine. Marten’s shells missed the cyborg and pitted the hard surfaces at his feet instead. Pieces of rock sprayed up into the cyborg’s midsection. Then two APEX shells slammed into it. One blew apart an arm, another tore off a leg. One-armed, the cyborg burned another space marine. Three shells struck the torso in rapid succession then, and it died.
Marten swore harshly, surprised that he still lived. The things were impossible to kill, and they spewed murder until the last circuit flickered out.
He ordered Tass to take a headcount.
“To our right,” Omi said. “That’s where the Highborn beam slaughtered cyborgs before. We’d better be careful. Some of those things might have lost legs, but many will still continue killing.”
Marten raised himself up onto an armored knee as he lifted the Gyroc. His arms trembled, but the stim was steadying him, and his headache receded. He felt that something was out there. Someone watched. He moved the Gyroc to the left.
“Lower your weapon or you die, preman.”
Through his headphones, Marten recognized the commanding voice of a Highborn. It sent a chill of remembrance through him. Then a ten-foot tall battleoid stepped from behind the dome. Another Highborn rose into view on the dome’s cracked surface. Both battleoids aimed plasma rifles, heavy weapons by anyone’s standard.
Marten lowered his Gyroc. It would likely take two or three APEX shells in one spot to penetrate battleoid-armor.
“We hunted that cyborg,” a Highborn said. “It is the last one here.”
“No,” the other Highborn said. “Look. Another cyborg. It must have captured these premen, using them to lure us.”
“Wait!” Marten shouted. “The cyborg is with us. She’s broken her programming.”
Anything might have happened as the battleoids aimed their rifles and as Osadar raised her laser.
“What does ‘broken her programming’ mean?” a Highborn asked.
“We sent the Praetor information about her,” Marten said. “Didn’t he pass it onto you?”
“You’re no Jovian,” the nearest Highborn said. “Your voice patterns are wrong.” The battleoid approached, its plasma rifle minutely switching from target to target. The Highborn on the dome remained where he was.
Highborn were quick to pick up nuances. Marten knew he should have remembered that and tried to mask his Earth accent. “I was at Mars during the battle,” he told them.
“The Third Battle of Mars?” asked the towering Highborn. The battleoid bristled with weaponry, with an auto-cannon on the left arm, a missile launcher on the back and a large vibroblade sheathed on its armored hip. An antenna sprouted from a shoulder. Here on Carme, the suited Highborn was like a legendary giant.
“Sure,” Marten said, trying not to feel intimidated.
“He is truculent,” the second Highborn said. His tone implied that such a one should be punished.
“Where are the rest of your space marines?” the nearest Highborn asked.
“We’re it,” Marten said. He had eight men left. “We’ve run into several parties of cyborgs.”
“You premen killed them?”
“We’re still standing,” Marten said, hating the smugness of the question, hating to have to explain anything again to a Highborn. He’d had his fill of them on the Sun-Works Factory. Being in the presence of the so-called Master Race intensified the old feelings about them.
“They are fodder,” the Highborn on the dome said.
“Yes,” said the nearer one. “You will follow me.” Without waiting for confirmation, the intimidating battleoid turned around and began trudging in the direction it had first appeared.
As Marten hurried to keep pace and then to catch up, he had to tell himself that cyborgs were worse than Highborn. Cyborgs were inhuman, a death-plague. Highborn were insufferably arrogant, scary-strong and capable, but still human after a fashion. In the best of worlds, the two would murder each other and leave the Solar System to mere humanity. It was a nice wish, but would likely take years of heartache and fierce combat to achieve—if it was even possible.
The Highborn led Marten and his space marines into another cracked dome. Smashed machinery and broken panels littered the floors. One mirror-like shard glittered as Marten kicked it and it skittered across the tile-plates.
There was a large airlock ahead. Everyone entered, with the battleoid dwarfing them. It reminded Marten of exiting the Deep Core Mine in Greater Sydney. It was the day he’d first met Highborn.
Air pressure pushed against his armor. The airlock’s other end opened and they entered another large room, this one with a low ceiling. The chamber held over a dozen battleoids. That wasn’t what tightened Marten’s gut, however.
He saw the Praetor, who was in the act of removing his helmet. He stood before a processing machine with various lights and readings running on it. The huge Highborn stood with his gauntleted hands on his battleoid hips. The Highborn had the same strange, fur-like pelt of hair that Marten remembered. The Praetor turned then, and the intensely weird eyes chilled Marten. Here was a psychotic killer, a mass-murderer.
The Praetor indicated that Marten should remove his helmet.
Marten complied. What choice did he have? He had eight men against almost twice that number of Highborn. He opened the seals, twisted and lifted the heavy thing. The chamber’s cold air washed against him. A strange taint stung his nostrils. But the air was breathable, if filled with alien odors. Was it wise taking off your helmet in a battle zone?
The Praetor scowled down at him. “You are familiar to me. Tell me how that is possible.”
Part of Marten wanted to spit. He wanted to lift his Gyroc and blow the smug bastard away. He would die in turn, however. Every man here would die. Another part of him wanted to sneer and tell the Praetor what he thought about gelding men. That part wanted to boast to the Praetor about what he’d done to Lycon. There was a third part, fortunately, a saner portion of his mind. It had seen Yakov die heroically for a noble cause. That helped Marten remember how to play the role of the subservient preman. He did it for a higher cause: the continuation of the human race.
“I am uncertain, lord,” Marten said, as he lowered his eyes before one of the supreme race.
A harsh laugh was his reward. “Yes. I know you, preman. You are Shock-Trooper Marten Kluge. I recall your voice as well as your face. I am unique among Highborn in that I can recall various features among the lower races. To most Highborn, premen look the same, or nearly the same. There are some obvious variations in skin pigmentation, but that is inconsequential.”