Vaughn Heppner - Star Fortress

“Social Unity is unraveling,” Osadar said.

“It’s been a difficult war,” Marten said.

“The planet-wrecker’s destruction of South American Sector a year ago preys upon people,” Osadar said. “The arctic-like weather outside is proof that the cyborgs are fated to win. Now this civil war—”

Marten shook his head. “It isn’t civil war. This is what happens in a dictatorship when the dictator steps aside. Now his lieutenants scramble to fill his shoes. If I were a betting man, I’d place my money on Cone. She has the guns and is willing to use them.”

“Are the soldiers willing to use the guns on the people?” Osadar asked.

“If not, Cone can call out her cybertanks.”

“More cyborgs,” Osadar said. “I think that could backfire against Cone.”

“That’s another reason why I want to get off Earth,” Marten said. “This war will be decided in space, and we need to get back up there before we’re stranded here forever.”

“Look!” Nadia cried, pointing.

Marten looked outside. Nadia pointed at a reddish-yellow flash in the distance. The rail-line curved gently and went to the point of the flash—an explosion. At that moment, the train lurched violently, throwing them against the seats ahead. There were only a few other passengers in the car, and those people sat at the front. One of the men up there screamed.

Speakers crackled into life as one of the train authorities spoke. “We have an emergency stop. Please, do not be alarmed. This should only take us a few moments to sort out.”

Marten helped Nadia off the floor.

“Why would anyone want to stop this train?” Osadar asked. With her amazing reflexes, she had caught herself and already sat normally in her chair.

“Could they be terrorists?” asked Marten, as he dusted the knees of his pants.

“I would think PHC rather,” Osadar said. “The remnants of them went underground after the nuclear destruction of the Syrian Sector Soviets last year. Now that the Party attempts to regain control of Social Unity, PHC is throwing its resurrected people into the fray.”

Marten had been listening to this kind of talk for hours. Osadar had been busy in the Supreme Commander’s Quarters, reading endlessly. She found Social Unity political theory to be vastly interesting and had been boring Marten to distraction concerning it. One of the critical pieces, she said, was how Social Unity had formerly kept a “Napoleon” from appearing.

A “Napoleon” was a military man who took over the government in a time of crises. Such had occurred in France during the French Revolution when Napoleon Bonaparte rose to supreme power. Social Unity theorists viewed the military as a hungry beast, eager and able to devour anyone it chose. The Social Unity Party in the past had kept a tight leash on the Military. Political Harmony Corps had firmly gripped a second leash. As long as the two forces stood far apart and kept the leashes taut, they kept the Military from devouring either of them. In the past few years, however, Hawthorne had gained maneuvering room. He destroyed PHC and then he made the Party—the Directors—his servants. The Military had gained control.

Osadar had explained to Marten how she believed the Directors would now logically ally themselves with a revitalized political police and try to re-leash the Military represented by Cone and Manteuffel.

“My guess is these so-called terrorists want you,” Osadar now said.

“They can’t know I’m aboard this train,” Marten said.

“Why else have they blown the track?”

“It might be a coincidence,” Marten said.

“How many coincidences have you been involved with lately?” Osadar asked.

Marten’s eyes narrowed. “Right,” he said, drawing his long-barrel semiautomatic. “Do you think this is retaliation for Director Juba-Ryder?”

“I think we do not want to meet the originators of the explosion,” Osadar said. “You and Nadia need warmer garments so we can survive outside.”

As they spoke, the train continued to slow down. Marten stared outside. They neared the exploded track, a twist of metal and erupted ground. Dirt and gravel lay on nearby snow-banks. A tree’s leaves fluttered wildly in the wind.

“Do you see anything?” Marten asked, as he scanned outside.

At that moment, another explosion occurred. It lifted the engine off the tracks, pitching it aside. That started a domino effect as the linked cars toppled off the magnetically charged tracks.

There were screams and the screech of metal in their car. Glass shattered. Marten slid across the sharply tilting floor. He covered his head and struck the bottom of one of the seats as the train-car crashed onto its side.

It was over in seconds. Then Marten was crawling for an exit. He kicked open a door. A freezing wind howled in, with a dozen stinging snowflakes hitting his face. He needed a parka, a hood and gloves.

Marten scrambled outside, sliding down between two crashed railcars, his feet crunching in snow. Icy, wind-driven particles batted his face. His cheeks were already turning numb. He glanced right and left. Bare trees and rocky ground abounded, and snow, lots and lots of snow. A second glance at the trees showed him some weren’t only bare, but dead or dying, those that couldn’t cope with the new bitter winters.

With slitted eyes, Marten spotted seven armored men crunching through snow. They floundered in the deepest drifts. Three of them cradled heavy machine guns. The other four carried needlers. They were all hard-eyed, their breaths misting against clear visors. Each looked uncomfortable in their armor. It was combat-armor, although not powered. If Marten were to guess, they were used to police armor, which was lighter and easier to wear. Needlers were useless against cyborgs, but they were eminently effective against unarmored humans: namely, he and Nadia.

A man in brown, magnetic-train overalls jumped off a railcar that had tipped onto its side. He staggered over the rail line and waved to the seven men. “Help, help!” the man shouted.

One of the seven aimed his needler at the man.

“No!” the trainman shouted. “I’m in Repairs.”

In the howling storm, Marten never heard the distinctive stitching sound of the firing needler. The mechanic in the brown overalls simply crumpled onto the snow. It caused a watching woman to scream, until they killed her, too.

Marten snarled as he judged the likelihood of killing those seven. They wore combat armor and helmets. His slugthrower fired hardened penetrators, but they would likely fail against armor. The bullets could punch through the visors—those were always the weak points.

Then Osadar appeared. While wearing heavy garments, she bounded across the snow toward the seven. She took ten-meter leaps and moved with amazing speed.

One of the men dropped to a knee, firing his needler. Little metallic flashes showed the stream of shots. A needler at full auto could fire one hundred needles in less than ten seconds. The others now lifted their weapons, aiming at Osadar.

She needs suppressing fire .

With both hands, Marten aimed his gun and squeezed off a shot. The .38 bucked and one of the combat-armored men staggered, hit but unlikely injured. Several of them turned toward Marten and fired.

Marten dropped behind the rails and the mound of raised dirt it was built on. Bullets and needles hissed overhead.

Then a blaze of gunfire erupted. Nothing seemed to strike the rail mound now. Marten could guess what had happened. The seven would be screaming at each other to kill the cyborg.

Marten popped back up.

Slugs hit Osadar. Needles did, too. The fools didn’t know enough to aim at her head, however, or maybe they tried and missed. Instead, the few hits struck her armored chest-plate. Through it, Osadar moved like greased death. Then she leaped the final distance and landed among them. Her fists punched through visors so heads snapped back hard. One man aimed and let rip with his machine gun, but Osadar kept moving. It meant the man fired at his friends. The heavy slugs tore into combat-armor as he slaughtered two of his team.