Planet Wrecker

-26-

Twenty-nine and half hours later, three patrol boats lifted off the half-repaired meteor-ship. The best patrol boat was a battered craft that had survived Carme. Marten piloted it. Each boat had its own problems, and each needed further repairs.

They moved in a triangular formation toward the teardrop-shaped liner. This one was fifty percent larger than the Thaliana and it orbited closer to Callisto. New relay stations on the Galilean moon would give it quick contact with the Erasmus, which was on the other side of the planetoid. A good third of Marten’s people had fought with him aboard the Erasmus. No doubt, their positions had been filled with handpicked people beholden to the neo-Dictates.

The patrol boats approached the big liner. The ship’s com-officer asked why three boats. The orders had just called for one. Marten talked about his sick personnel. And he added that two of his boats had reactor problems that they couldn’t repair on his ship. It was a flimsy lie and the com-officer complained, but she finally gave them clearance.

The boats docked beside huge bays. Big tubes deployed, attaching to the emergency hatches of the boat. Marten and his space marines readied their gyrocs and slugthrowers. Circe’s myrmidons had taught him the foolishness of trying to play games. When you fought, you went in to kill and conquer. His instructions to the space marine sergeants had been simple. “Gun down anyone who resists.” He didn’t like to give that kind of order against a Jovian vessel, but he’d do what he had to.

They sealed their vacc-suits and entered the docking tube. Three space marines could march together at a time in this one.

Marten’s stomach seethed as he first climbed the rungs and then floated toward the airlock. He’d taken point. It wasn’t the right place for him. The commander was supposed to make decisions, not get in the first gunfights. But this was a commando operation. The first moves were often the critical ones. Smash and grab. He was afraid some of his Jovians might not be willing to smash fast enough.

Why was it always so hard to breathe at times like this? Marten drew his gyroc, wishing his hand would steady out. Then he changed his mind, holstered the gyroc and took out his slugthrower.

“Ready?” he asked over his com-unit.

The many clicks in his headphones told him the answer.

He floated to the airlock. Twenty men at a time could fit in this one, a bulk loading lock.

“Come on,” he said quietly, typing in the entrance code. To his relief, the big door rotated open. He floated in and so did the marines behind him. Soon, the door rotated closed. When it clanged, the airlock’s speakers burst into life.

“Marten Kluge?” they said.

“Yeah?” asked Marten. He wondered why the man’s voice sounded familiar.

“Did the Sub-Strategist give you any messages for me?”

Was this a trick question?

Marten’s air-conditioner unit began to blow cool air over his prickly skin as his gut knotted. Had he just led his men into a trap?

“Must I repeat the question?” the man asked.

Marten remembered the voice now. It was Arbiter Neon from the dreadnaught.

“No messages,” Marten said, liking this less than ever.

“Ah, I see,” said the unseen Neon. “Then I am most sorry to inform you that you will be under arrest when the airlock opens.”

Marten glanced back at the space marines packed behind him. He saw the mirrored visors in their helmets and suited men gripping their weapons more tightly. This had to be a trap.

“Why am I to be arrested?” asked Marten, who added a whine to his voice.

“Ah, you are not so arrogant now, are you, barbarian?” Neon said.

The big airlock swished open. Three myrmidons moved forward with stunners and a pair of sonic-manacles. A sneering, white-haired Arbiter Neon stood behind them. His eyes widened in astonishment.

“Lay on the floor now!” shouted Marten, his vacc-suit’s speakers at full volume.

“Y-you,” Neon stammered.

The myrmidons’ hesitation lasted only a second longer. Then they charged, and they died. Arbiter Neon attempted flight and fared no better as a dum-dum bullet blew open his back.

Marten felt sick gunning down a running man. But this wasn’t a game. If Neon had escaped—

In the centrifugal-gravity, the space marines trampled past the dead arbiter and the blood splashed on the walls. Marten never halted to mourn. He raced at the head of his commandoes. They had to secure the liner and get the needed supplies to his ship now. He hoped Osadar and Omi’s team had been similarly successful. One way or another, he’d find out soon enough.