It might have been smarter switching to his IML, but he was going to save the Cognitive missile for the Praetor. Let the Highborn think him a dog to sniff out trouble. In the end, this dog would bite and finish what he’d started with Sigmir and continued with Lycon.
As Marten scouted through the dome, the Web-Mind awoke to its danger. It had been running a prognostication program. Through it, it divined the Praetor’s plan.
With quick calculation, the Web-Mind assessed its immediate military assets. The Webbies waited with their pathetic stunners. Yes, it must radio the leader. They must scour the deleted cyborgs and confiscate laser carbines. That would give the Webbies enough firepower to kill Highborn. The Web-Mind then began to activate its cyborg protection team. They’d waited in storage, having been interned there in the Neptune System. Unfortunately, thawing them would take time. Lastly, the Web-Mind radioed a distress call. All cyborgs were to converge here to annihilate Jovians and kill or capture Highborn.
The Web-Mind regretted leaving Gharlane with the in-system fleet. Worse, perhaps, with deletion as a possibility, the Web-Mind knew a growing and bitter jealousy. It was wrong that any cyborg should survive his demise. It was an even greater wrong that the troublesome and annoying Gharlane should survive his master.
Before the Web-Mind could dwell on that, however, a pre-inserted optimism program began to run. This would be the last opportunity for the inferior species to harm it. As Web-Mind, it was going to destroy Jovians and capture Highborn. First, it must send the correct pulse to the Webbie commander.
Webbie Octagon’s hatred for Marten Kluge had undergone a transformation in the last ten minutes. He staggered under the heavy load of a laser-pack. He hunched like an old man. It would have been worse if Carme were under greater acceleration. But it was already bad enough.
Octagon cradled the carbine as sweat bathed his body. His brown vacc-suit’s air-conditioner was broken. He wheezed, as he tasted the sour odor. He followed another Webbie as they descended at an angle toward the Web-Mind’s armored chamber. They were supposed to intercept invaders. They were supposed to kill, kill, kill.
Octagon now possessed cunning thoughts. His hatred of Marten Kluge had damaged his Web-conditioning. It had left him with some of his former personality. That personality wanted Marten Kluge to suffer. Now that he—Octagon—suffered miserably, an old emotion surfaced. It was self-preservation, which allowed him to practice the cunning.
That crafty self-preservation had caused Octagon to drag his feet. He had pretended to be weaker than he was. He’d pretended almost without being aware he did so. It meant that he was the last Webbie to enter the slanting tunnel. It also meant that the distance between him and the next Webbie grew with each passing second. Certainly, Octagon still yearned for Marten Kluge to suffer a thousand agonies, but first he’d have to stay alive. He could not rush this.
As Octagon debated plans, the screams began over his headphones. The screams were filled with mortal pain and they caused Octagon to freeze. The killing impulse tried to make him run toward the firefight. He resisted such madness, although he wasn’t completely able to overcome it. Therefore, Webbie Octagon took one slow step at a time toward the fighting.
Marten’s heart raced as he leaned against a tunnel wall. The Praetor and his Highborn had taken point. They pushed deeper and farther into the long tunnel, moving fast. According to Osadar’s data, there were several entrances to the armored chamber.
The Praetor had made a loud sound when Osadar had brought that to his attention. He’d ordered his small force to advance faster.
Marten and Omi were the rearguard now. It was pitch-black down here. Marten could only see a green and red world using his infrared HUD.
Tiny droplets oozed onto his face. No amount of cool air could stop the sweating. It was being underground that made his pours ooze. He knew it shouldn’t matter. He’d fought in worse places. But the fear of being buried alive had begun to claw at him. Maybe it was an atavistic dread, something he couldn’t help. Maybe the Japan Campaign had affected him more than he’d realized.
“I hear more Webbies coming,” Omi said.
The Korean’s voice was clearer than before because the static had almost vanished. It must have been because of the shielding rock.
Marten shifted his grip as he scanned the dead. The HUD read them as humans, which meant half-converted Jovians, Webbies. They wore simple vacc-suits but lugged cyborg laser-packs and carbines. They had been slow, unarmored and suicidal.
“They remind me of the Kamikaze squads in Japan,” Omi said.
“Yeah,” Marten whispered, licking salt off his lips.
Then more Webbies advanced around the corner. The HUD showed them as red, vaguely humanoid objects. Some sprayed laser-fire like a hose, beaming into the ceiling and high on the walls.
With careful, deliberate fire, Marten cut down one Webbie after another. After each shot, he changed positions. The igniting Gyroc shells were like flares, giving him away. Then something clattered in front of him. It showed up hot on his HUD. It must be tunnel-rock, burned off by a laser.
Then, as suddenly as the firefight had stared, it ended.
Marten squeezed his eyes shut. Would the tunnel collapse if enough laser beams hit? No, no, he told himself. That was irrational. Think about the Praetor cutting off your balls. Stay angry.
“Do you think that’s it?” Omi asked.
“I’m turning up gain,” Marten said. He chinned a control and he listened for tunnel sounds. Somewhere far away… there was something slight. Maybe he imagined it. After twenty seconds of listening, he said, “I think we got them all. We’ll head back to the surface, covering each other along the way.”
“You don’t want to run after the Praetor?”
Marten was sick of these tunnels. “No. We’ll stay near the surface, making sure no one comes down after the Praetor.” Marten picked up his IML with its Cognitive missile. There were likely more cyborgs on the way. He wanted to shoot them on the surface, not face the impossible creatures down here in the tunnels.
Omi studied him, shrugged after a moment, and said, “Sure.”
-24-
Like Marten, the Praetor hated the tunnel, but for different reasons. This was too direct, letting the enemy know his exact route of attack. Therefore, he believed speed was critical. Thus, four battleoids and a deprogrammed cyborg charged deeper, covering several kilometers in a matter of minutes.
They blew open huge hatches with their plasma rifles and jumped through red-glowing holes. Finally, they reached what had to be the main chamber, a great oval area sheathed with masses of processing units.
“Lamps,” the Praetor said.
Powerful headlamps snapped on. It showed a parked stealth-capsule. The vessel was over one hundred meters long. It sat on a huge tripod, with a hundred lines attached to it like some vast, mechanical spider.
At its sight, the Praetor knew a moment of supreme exaltation. What other Highborn could have achieved such a spectacular feat and with such paltry numbers? Surely, he was the greatest fighting Highborn alive. He was also proving the combat superiority of living flesh versus the melded horrors. Nothing compared to the ultimate super-soldier.
“A hatch opens!” Canus shouted.
Cyborgs leaped out, firing lasers with uncanny accuracy. They centered on the first battleoid, the beams cutting through reinforced titanium with brutal speed.
Four plasma rifles lifted, together with Osadar’s laser. Orange globules roiled through the underground chamber. The hot plasma struck cyborgs and the capsule’s hatch. Two cyborgs went down in a shower of sparks. Three survived after a fashion as they continued to beam, killing one battleoid and then a second. Another plasma volley hit the crippled cyborgs and the one bounding at them. It clattered to the floor, a heap of smoldering flesh and fused machine parts.