Landing on the deckplates, Gharlane scrambled fast, charging the human. If the human had hidden behind the door, shown even a margin of timidity—
The man with the slugthrower snapped off shots. Each dum-dum bullet blew off chunks of flesh and graphite-bones and twisted titanium-reinforcement. The kinetic force of the shots also slowed Gharlane. The man’s firm stance, his deliberate tracking and near perfect shots—each one telling effectively—caused Gharlane to smash against a bulkhead instead of taking out the human.
The man’s hands blurred as he slammed in a fresh clip. Gharlane lifted his torso, and he gathered himself for a final assault. If he could get into the room, he would detonate himself. Maybe he should detonate himself now and hope the blast reached Tan. She had to be in the room.
The man fired, aiming at the brainpan. Dum-dum bullets jarred the casing.
Explode, Gharlane thought. It was his last.
The final fusillade of bullets mashed enough brain tissue to garble the neuron impulses. The explode sequence never reached the explosives.
The man with the gun killed the master unit cyborg.
-7-
Marten sat across from Chief Strategist Tan.
It was a day after the cyborg had died in the corridor. After-battle analysis had proven it was a unique cyborg, unlike the skeletal kind. Further analysis had been impossible. The team examining the cyborg had died in the blast that had obliterated it.
Tan knelt on a cushion. The pill dispensary was gone, although the silver chalice was still there. She pushed a twin chalice toward Marten before lifting a decanter and pouring him white wine.
Marten accepted by lifting the chalice and sipping. It was a dry wine, with a hint of peach flavoring. He wore a black Force-Leader uniform. Today, there had been no argument about his having a sidearm.
“Your dialogue yesterday was persuasive,” said Tan.
Marten nodded, but kept silent. Yesterday, the two of them had watched on her embedded table-screen as the cyborg advanced through the corridors. Marten had urged her to flee while there was time. She’d sat frozen, fixated on the death machine. Finally, Marten had decided to use the spy-sticks, to time his entry into the battle at the perfect moment. Even so, it had been a near thing.
“I had thought earlier….” Tan bit her lower lip. She frowned, and she glanced to her right. It was where the dispensary had been. Her right hand seemed to twitch involuntarily, as if wanting to press a switch to gain a blue pill.
“My thoughts yesterday were selfish,” Tan said. “I believed it was possible to rebuild our system as the cyborgs invaded Social Unity planets or other Outer Planets.”
“We can rebuild,” Marten said.
“I thought it would be possible to arm ourselves with enough satellites and warships to defeat any cyborg armada.” Tan shook her head. “The way the cyborg moved yesterday—it slew the myrmidons with ease.”
“Cyborgs are deadly,” Marten agreed.
Tan’s brow furrowed. “I ordered space marines to go down onto Athena Station and face them. Seeing that thing yesterday—I ordered those space marines to their deaths.”
Marten nodded as he tried to gauge the Chief Strategist. Did she feel real sorrow, or was this an act? Could someone as certain and arrogant as she’d been yesterday change her opinion so quickly? He didn’t know. Maybe she didn’t know.
“Tomorrow,” Tan said, “I plan to open negotiations with Mars, with the Planetary Union leaders. Then I will speak with the leaders of Social Unity.”
“What do the controllers of Europa and Ganymede have to say about that?” Marten asked.
She looked up at him. “I showed the controllers a video of the cyborg’s assault. I told them it detonated itself during examination. How it managed to get onboard…. Why did scientists develop such things?”
“Why did eugenicists create the Highborn?” Marten asked.
“We must unite,” Tan said. “The Solar System must band together to destroy these things. You were right in telling me that.”
Marten wondered about that. He and Omi had talked last evening. Usually Omi didn’t say much. He did point out that he remembered a vicious gang leader in Sydney that the other members had hated more than feared. The leader had kept power by involving them in a deadly and ongoing turf-war. Everyone had recognized the leader’s gift at street fighting, and had been content to follow him as long as they were engaged against a tougher gang. Was Tan like that leader?
“Yesterday cleared my mind,” Tan said.
“Yeah,” Marten said. It had cleared his too.
“The cyborgs devastated our system,” Tan said. “Now we must rebuild before the next fleet arrives. The cyborg yesterday showed me that they will never stop attacking until they’re dead or we’re dead.”
“That seems obvious,” Marten said.
Tan frowned. “This is difficult for me. You—” By a seeming effort of will, she smoothed her features. “You must not taunt me. Instead, you must allow me grace.”
“Granted,” said Marten.
Tan gave him a level stare. It was calculating and hard, and belied her elfin beauty.
“You are more than you seem, Marten Kluge. You walked out to face the death machine. Then you proceeded to shoot it apart.”
“It wasn’t a machine, but a cyborg, which made it partly human.”
“Do not lecture me,” Tan said.
Marten waited.
She flicked her hand. “No. I shouldn’t have said that. Just now, I spoke with hyperbole and you stated fact.” Sighing, Tan leaned her elbows on the table and massaged her forehead. “Do you know the kind of pressures that have battered me this past year? One wrong misstep and I could have lost us everything. Yet everyday, the controllers and the industrial barons complained or demanded I meet another of their imaginary needs.”
“The war grinds us down,” Marten said.
She lowered her hands and straightened her back. “We’ve lost too many warships. Our fleet—it could not withstand a full-blown cyborg invasion now. You do recognize that, don’t you?”
Marten waited for her point.
“Yet it’s madness to simply sit and rebuild,” Tan said. “We must strike back and destroy their industrial capacity. But how can we do that with any hope of success?”
“Are you asking me?”
“How polite you’ve become,” said Tan, with an edge to her voice. “Please, grace me with your thoughts. It’s one of the reasons you’re here.”
“I’m a ground fighter,” Marten said, “not a grand strategist.”
It was Tan’s turn to wait, to say nothing.
“Okay,” Marten said. “You asked. So I’ll tell you what I think. This is a war to the death. It’s either them or us. So we should gather the biggest fleet we can, go to Neptune and burn them out with nukes.”
“And this can be achieved how?”
“Talk to Social Unity. Talk to the Highborn. Convince them to unite their ships into one invincible fleet.”
“The Highborn are too arrogant to listen,” said Tan.
“They’re arrogant,” Marten agreed. “But I don’t know if they’re too arrogant not to fight with us. The Praetor gave his life to kill cyborgs. That ought to prove something.”
“They will want tactical control,” Tan said.
“If it gives us victory, give them that control.”
Tan’s eyes narrowed. “You are like most people, I’m afraid. You see what’s in front of you, but you cannot conceive of what’s behind that. Of what use is it to defeat the cyborgs, only to fall victim to the Highborn?”
“The cyborgs are aliens and attempt to convert all of us into their likeness. The Highborn are still human after a fashion. But you have a point. I don’t want to live under the Highborn. Therefore, I suggest you keep doing what you’ve been doing.”