Planet Wrecker

-92-

Marten, Nadia and Omi were the only ones in the main room of the first dome. His wife sat at the sensor board.

Marten stared out of the big window. It showed the crater-plain and the stars overhead. If he looked hard enough, Earth was the biggest dot to his subjective left. How long ago had it been since he’d left Earth? Stick, Turbo…Hall-Leader Quirn…Molly, all old memories. He’d left as a slave of the Highborn, one of their decorated, chosen pets. Now he was a Force-Leader of free men. Now he had to keep his people free of the shackle-bearing, castrating Highborn.

Squinting, Marten studied the bright dot. The idea that he rode a world-killing asteroid seemed unbelievable. He had done his best to save Earth, deflecting one of seventeen planet wreckers. If more meteor-ships had joined him, he could have stopped more. He kept trying to think of something profound to say regarding billions of dead people. He shook his head, hating cyborgs and Highborn. Social Unity didn’t look so bad now in comparison. He still loathed the rampant, deadening socialism, but it wasn’t annihilation. If everyone on Earth died, if Social Unity perished as a force, it meant the supremacists and aliens would win. One represented eternal slavery for humanity. The other meant extinction.

“Two of the shuttles are braking, and they’re not going to land,” Nadia informed them.

Marten turned and studied his wife’s long dark hair. She’d tied it in a ponytail. He liked it that way. It let him kiss her neck more easily.

“The third shuttle is moving in,” Nadia said. “They’re hailing us.” She turned as a light on her board blinked yellow. Her eyes were red-rimmed with fear. “What should I do?”

“Open channels,” Marten said in a rough voice.

Nadia did, and an arrogant Highborn appeared on the screen. He had the signature wide face, the square chin and chiseled features, the stark-white coloring. Some of his dark, pelt-like hair had been shaved away. Worse, half of his face was covered in a more human tone of a plasti-flesh bandage. The rawness of his skin around the bandage showed that his face had taken bad burn damage or cyborg laser-fire. Marten supposed that was the same thing. The fierceness shining from the Highborn’s good eye showed that the soldier hadn’t taken any painkillers. They were all mad, all hyped-up on their quest as supermen.

“I recognize you,” the Highborn said.

“I’m Marten Kluge.”

Irritation flashed across the damaged face. “Since I’ve already stated I recognize you, there was no need to tell me your name,” the Highborn said. He held up a big hand as Marten began to speak. “I am aware of your habits. It is the reason we have been given our mission. Do you know what that mission is, preman?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Marten asked.

“You are to return with me to the Julius Caesar.”

“Is that right?”

The Highborn bared his teeth. They were big and strong-looking.

That triggered something in Marten. He leaned closer to the screen, minutely examining the Highborn. “You look familiar to me,” he said. “Have we met before?”

“Your insolence is making this difficult,” the Highborn said. “Premen should learn better manners and keep their mouth closed until personally addressed.”

Marten snapped his fingers. “You look just like the Grand Admiral. Are you his son?”

The Highborn snarled an oath and must have grasped his communication device, for this thumbs appeared on the image. “I am Felix of the Ninth Iron Cohort. Know that the Grand Admiral and I share the same chromosomes. In his mania, Cassius shot my favorite sex object, exiled me into space and killed me once. Then he packed me into a missile as a living warhead and launched me in a suicide mission against the cyborgs. I survived that, but gained this,” Felix said, indicating the plasti-flesh on half of his face. The Highborn breathed heavily so his nostrils flared. “Now Cassius will learn what it means to have made an enemy of me.”

Marten glanced at Omi and raised an eyebrow.

The stoic Korean shook his head.

“Are you going to gain the Grand Admiral’s favor by bringing me in?” Marten asked.

“You stupid preman,” Felix snarled. “Are you truly that slow-witted? No. I am declaring my independence from the Grand Admiral and his tyranny. His ineptitude has cost us Earth. I mean to see him ousted from power and hanged by the neck. In the interim, I, and those who think like me, will use your asteroid as a base. Since the Grand Admiral despises you, I will give you a choice. Remain among us for a time or leave in your spacecraft, if you possess any. It is more than an irritating subhuman deserves. But I feel that doing this will anger the Grand Admiral. Well, preman, what is your choice?”

“Can you give me a few minutes to think about it?” Marten asked.

“No!” Felix said. “Decide this instant. Speaking to you is a burden I’d rather not have to practice a second time.”

“We’ll leave,” Marten said.

“Felix of the Ninth Iron Cohort out,” the Highborn said.

“How do you know he’s telling us the truth?” Nadia whispered.

“I’ve rubbed shoulders with them for a long time, honey. This one is crazy like Sigmir. I know the look. But I bet he’s honest.” Marten turned to Omi. “Get the men. It’s time we left while the getting’s good.”

“Go where?” asked Omi.

“We’ll decide that once we lift off,” Marten said. “Maybe if we’re lucky, we can land on Earth.”

Omi nodded and headed for the hatch.