That meant the Highborn must die. It would have been enjoyable to test the Highborn’s psychology during the long trip to Earth. Instead, it ordered repair units to dismember the shouting creature.
At the same time, the Web-Mind piloted its stealth-capsule through the tunnels. It headed for the surface and safety. The attacking vessels and missiles were gone. It was time to re-link with Gharlane and it was time to relay information through the laser lightguide with the Prime Web-Mind in the Neptune System.
The fight was short and vicious against the two repair units. It left the Praetor bleeding from six deep wounds as his right arm dangled uselessly. Gore oozed from the hole where his left eye used to be.
“You freakish bastard,” he mumbled. Then he stumbled at the bio-tanks. With a metal strut broken off a repair unit, the Praetor shattered ballistic glass. He thrust the metal strut through his belt, and with his hand, he began to tear out clots of pink-white brain mass. Gel spilled onto the floor as a klaxon began to wail.
“That’s right!” the Praetor snarled. “Scream while I kill you. Scream for me, my pretty. Scream.”
The Web-Mind sent out a distress call to the remaining cyborgs on Carme. Even as the Highborn destroyed computing power, it maneuvered the stealth-capsule.
The black vessel exited a tunnel and flew to an approaching party of cyborgs.
Then something akin to horrified panic erupted. The bleeding, dying humanoid smashed another globule of brain-mass. The destruction initiated a deep and hidden program.
Web-Minds were the ultimate creation, sublime beings beyond the capacities of inferior creatures to understand. Each Web-Mind was akin to what lesser creatures conceived of as gods. It was unthinkable that lower order creatures capture gods. It was vile to consider creatures tearing down a god or rendering them half-operable and imprisoning them. Destruction was preferable to creature-slavery.
As the harsh and unyielding program ran through its logic parameters, the shouting Highborn dug his large fingers into brain-mass. He yanked out the section that held the primary deletion program, meaning that sub-systems took over, trying to reconfigure the exact sequencing.
In its growing terror, the Web-Mind opened all channels, calling for all cyborgs to converge immediately on its coordinates. Then it began to search for a place to land.
The Praetor coughed up blood. Pain racked him. He hurt everywhere. It stank horribly in this awful place. Despite that, he forced his legs to move, and he hammered more ballistic glass. Then he continued to pluck out fistfuls of pink-white mass. It was brain tissue. He knew that much. He was killing his hated enemy.
Then he heard binary chatter. It came from speakers all around him. Was the Web-Mind trying to speak with him? Was it asking for mercy?
“Never!” he hissed. He squeezed his hand as mass squished between his fingers. Then he began to rip out more.
Marten and Omi exited the dome as binary chatter came over their headphones.
“What is that?” Omi asked.
“Cyborg speech,” Marten said.
“Who is that?” asked a harsh voice.
“What did you say?” Marten asked.
“I didn’t say anything,” Omi said.
“This is the Praetor speaking. I am in the Web-Mind.”
Marten and Omi glanced at each other.
“Where are you?” Marten asked.
“In the Web-Mind’s ship,” the Praetor said with a wheeze. “I’m dying, yet I am killing it.”
“Osadar said—”
“Never mind about your tame cyborg,” the Praetor snarled. “If you see a ship, shoot at it. Destroy the Web-Mind and we might still achieve victory.”
“Look!” Omi shouted. “There! I see a ship.”
Marten looked where Omi pointed. A dark blot of a vessel slid overhead. Marten lifted his IML, and he switched settings. He’d been saving this for the Praetor. Now the arrogant bastard—Marten pulled the trigger before he could finish the thought.
The Cognitive missile exited the tube. Its fuel burned and it shot up at the giant stealth-capsule, heading straight for it.
As the Web-Mind opened all channels and called for cyborg reinforcements, it heard the Highborn and the unmodified humans talk to each other over its communications system.
During that time, more of its brainpower vanished. The destruction was ongoing, and it confused the subsystem deletion program.
Delete, delete, delete—
The core of the Web-Mind sent delete pulses to the surface. It must delete. It must ensure that no creature capture valuable cyborg technology. Every unit must self-destruct and destroy-destroy-destroy.
The Highborn creature bashed at bio-tanks and life-support equipment.
Delete—
A missile struck and exploded, opening the stealth-vessel to the vacuum of space. As the Highborn swung his metal strut for the last time, the core of Web-Mind began to die from depressurization.
Then the vessel headed for the accelerating moon, soon smashing against it.
-27-
Carme continued to accelerate. The mighty fusion cores, eighty-seven percent of the coils, the generators and the gargantuan exhaust-ports were untouched by the battle.
Marten, Omi and Osadar reentered a dome. The EMP blasts, enemy ECM, explosive shells, zooming missiles, they had vanished with the Web-Mind’s death. Marten radioed other space marine survivors, all seventeen of them. No Highborn remained, not even the wounded one at the shuttle’s board.
The Descartes had vanished, while the second meteor-ship floated as wreckage many thousands of kilometers away.
A cautious several hours revealed the location of three working patrol boats, several control centers for various Carme-engines and two metal sheds full of unmodified Jovians.
“We should kill them,” Osadar said.
Marten stood with her in the same dome and chamber where the Praetor had first interrogated them. The control unit worked, and Osadar had spent most of her time attempting to master it. Through it, she’d discovered the two sheds and the Jovians.
Marten scowled. “What possible reason could you have for such a barbaric action?”
“Our attack here succeeded,” Osadar said. “Even more amazing, we are still alive and free agents. The universe cannot tolerate that, and therefore it will attempt to screw us. These so-called unmodified Jovians must have latent psychological commands. Given a chance, they will harm us or harm our mission.”
“The screw job is that we’re alive,” Marten said.
Osadar turned around from where she worked on the control unit. She cocked her head.
Marten laughed grimly. “We stopped a planet-wrecker. But there’s still a cyborg fleet in the system. Logically, there are still cyborgs in Neptune and probably more elsewhere. Social Unity remains. The Highborn still possess Doom Stars. Our continued existence means more endless conflict.”
“That is the nature of life, as the universe despises happiness. As long as one breathes, one must fight. Do not expect joy from life, Marten Kluge, or you will be endlessly disappointed.”
Despite the victory, Marten’s chest felt heavy. Maybe Osadar had a point, at least about endless disappointment. Everywhere he went, people died, usually in great numbers. All the space marines he’d picked—all but seventeen of them were dead. Yakov was dead. Every person from the Descartes was dead, including Rhea. He should have gotten to know her.
He knew he should rejoice at their marvelous victory. Instead, he felt soiled, a killer who brought death and destruction wherever he went.