Marten looked up into those intense eyes. Despite his resolve, Marten grinned insolently.
The Praetor’s already taut features tightened, making it seem that his skin might tear. “During your flight to the Bangladesh, I heard your traitorous words. You had sworn an oath to us. That oath you broke, making you foresworn.”
“You were going to castrate us.”
“A trifling matter,” the Praetor said.
“Not to me,” Marten said.
“What happened to Lycon? He went to rescue shock troopers. How is it that you are here in the Jovian System?”
The old rage returned as hard words spilled out of Marten. “I killed Lycon.”
The Praetor’s eyebrows rose. “You, a preman?”
“I spaced three Highborn, took their shuttle and headed here.”
The Praetor’s terrible eyes seemed to shine, and an even weirder smile stretched his lips. “The Training Master and his crew were inferior Lot Sixers. And it seems you are a throwback.”
Marten shook his head, not understanding the reference.
“During prehistoric days, bestial premen must have been savage hunters. How otherwise could they have survived those times? You are like them, a natural killer. I despised the weak Training Master. Thus, I grant you life in ridding me of him. But for daring to spill Highborn blood—a terrible crime for a preman—I will personally geld you after I destroy the Web-Mind. Then I shall keep you as an example to show Grand Admiral Cassius.”
Behind Marten, seals snapped open. He heard metal sliding in grooves, and there was a faint popping sound. Before him, the Praetor’s head swayed back as the Highborn’s lips twisted in loathing.
Marten looked back. Osadar had taken off her helmet.
“Cyborg,” the Praetor whispered.
“She’s broken her programming,” Marten said.
The Praetor’s head twitched, which might have indicated curiosity or perhaps it was another manifestation of loathing.
“So,” the Praetor whispered, “this is the infamous Osadar Di. I’ve read her specs, and I’d hoped she had survived.”
“Why threaten Marten with gelding?” Osadar asked. “It is unreasonable.”
The Praetor stared at Osadar, glanced once at Marten and then continued to study her.
“Lord,” one of the Highborn said, using the battleoid’s speakers, “Marcus has detected cyborgs. They’re racing here from another cluster, and should arrive in… approximately eleven minutes.”
The Praetor’s nostrils expanded. He pointed at Osadar. “I’ve detected a Web-Mind, and I mean to destroy it. I believe that its destruction will render Carme inoperable.” The Praetor put a huge, armored gauntlet on the humming machine. “Can you use this broadcasting unit to pinpoint the Web-Mind’s location?”
Osadar stepped toward the Praetor and toward the large machine. He was bigger, bulkier and radiated intensity. She was cold, moved in a frighteningly quick manner and despite her humanoid shape and features, seemed alien.
Osadar pulled off a glove and twisted her forefinger’s tip, unscrewing it. She plugged the forefinger into a jack. Osadar froze then as her eyes closed. In seconds, her head jerked, her eyes flickered open and she yanked her finger free.
“You know where it is,” the Praetor whispered.
Osadar regarded him. Then she turned to Marten. “Should I tell him?”
“You will speak,” the Praetor said, with menace.
“First rescind your gelding threat,” Osadar said.
Battleoids stirred, everyone one of them lifting their weapons.
“I am in command here,” the Praetor said. “I will rescind nothing.”
“You might as well tell him,” Marten said.
“You once told me—” Osadar began to say.
“Let’s kill this Web-Mind,” Marten said, “and stop the planet-wrecker. Everything else is secondary.”
“You are wise, preman,” the Praetor.
For once, Marten held his tongue, but it was hard to do.
“Give me the Web-Mind’s coordinates,” the Praetor said.
Osadar did so.
-23-
Marten resealed his helmet as the Praetor gave terse orders.
The entrance to the Web-Mind’s underground chamber was in a different dome, but within this cluster of buildings.
They reentered the large airlock and exited the cracked dome. Outside, the stars and Jupiter shined as eerily as ever. The silver buildings cast shadows. Carme’s low hills surrounded them, a sterile wasteland of asteroid rock and ancient dust. Dead space marines littered the area, as did shredded cyborgs. The majority of the melded creatures had perished to Voltaire laser-fire.
The last drone no longer hung in the sky, however. Likely, the cyborgs had destroyed it.
The Praetor had allowed Marten access to the Highborn battle-net. He thus heard the Praetor order eight Highborn along with Tass and the remaining space marines to intercept the approaching cyborgs. The others were to stop the melded humanoids in order to give the Praetor, Marten and the rest time to destroy the Web-Mind underground.
Two cyborgs ambushed them as they approached the dome. Lasers speared out of jagged cracks. The two beams focused on one battleoid.
From behind a rock, Marten snapped off Gyroc rounds, pitting the metallic wall, but failing to enter the jagged cracks, which were at an oblique angle to him. Orange plasma hit, and globs of molten metal dripped off the wall or drifted into the vacuum. Then a cyborg dashed out. Heated plasma killed it, melting its helmet and head. A Gyroc round entered the crack, along with a red beam.
The last cyborg stopped firing.
“Is it dead?” Omi asked.
Marten counted the fallen Highborn. Three battleoids lay prone, with laser holes burnt through the heavy armor. The suits could absorb more punishment than space marine armor, but eventually broke under concentrated laser-fire.
“Shock Troopers Marten and Omi,” the Praetor said, “scout the dome. See if the cyborg still lives.”
“Screw him,” Omi said.
Marten heaved himself from behind his rock and began running. He snapped off three shots. Then a red light flashed on his HUD. Rifle empty. He tore out the clip and slammed in another. By that time, he reached the jagged crack. It was barely wide enough to squeeze through. Breathing hard, his body taut with fear, he poked the barrel in and slid against metal. The cyborg was sprawled inside, a hole in its chest sparking. As he stared, the cyborg’s right hand twitched.
Horror and hatred washed through Marten. He yanked the trigger. Each slamming APEX round made the thing jerk and twist.
“It’s dead!” Omi shouted.
A red, empty light was flashing in Marten’s HUD, and he was still pulling the trigger. He stopped as Omi touched his shoulder.
Wordlessly, Marten switched clips.
“Everything is clear,” Marten heard someone say. Then he realized it was his voice. He had to get a grip. He shot himself with another stim. Too many, and he’d go paranoid. He laughed. It wasn’t a good sound. This was another firefight he had no business being in. Digging out a Web-Mind, they were all mad.
The wall behind them shuddered. Big pieces of metal and masonry flew off. Then a battleoid foot smashed through. A moment later, big gauntlets gripped an edge of wall and created an even bigger opening. Soon, the others joined Marten and Omi in the dome.
“Continue to scout,” the Praetor said.
Omi’s helmet turned toward him. Marten saw Omi’s features, the hollow eyes and the terrible strain etched across his friend’s face.
“Yeah,” Marten said, hefting his Gyroc. He chinned infrared, scanning the place, observing the cracks above, the broken equipment everywhere and the littered floor. Then he started across it.