Vaughn Heppner - Star Fortress

“You said magnetic lifters. Why shouldn’t we use the same automated cargo vessel and return to Lebanon Sector. There is a launch-site—”

“The Black Sea Flotilla has declared for Backus. Submarines have already entered the Aegean and Mediterranean Seas. You could try that route, but you’d risk capture and a possible trial. That’s what Backus keeps demanding.”

The com-unit on Cleon’s belt beeped. “It’s time,” he said. “Follow me.”

The magnetic lifters were big, although not as large as a cybertank. Each vehicle had three warfare pods, with heavy cannons and anti-air missile launchers. The lifters had an inertialess drive but were slower than helicopters. They were still faster and more maneuverable than tracked vehicles. They would need to refuel several times if they were to reach Geneva. Cleon had downloaded the information, showing them possible supply depots open to them.

The Jovians with Osadar, Nadia and Marten were evenly spread among the nine magnetic lifters.

Thus, at two in the morning, in the darkness, Marten’s magnetic lifter rose several feet into the air. Around him were other lifters painted in camouflage white. Jovians manned the guns and weapons ports. Armed and armored Jovians waited inside on berms.

Marten slid into the commander’s chair. He clicked on the restraints and gave the nod. The engine revved, and the lifter sped for Albania Sector.

Marten glanced at Group-Leader Xenophon, who manned a turret. Like the other Jovians, he was a tough space marine, although he didn’t look the part. Xenophon was a small man with a round face and blond fuzz for hair, but he was fast and deadly, especially with a gyroc rifle. He glanced down at Marten. “Glad you came for us, sir.”

“Glad you’re back,” Marten said.

By mid-morning, they reached the Adriatic Sea along the coast in Albania Sector. The lifters were parked alongside a road overlooking the slate-gray water. Marten stuck his head out of the hatch. The water was rough, with higher whitecaps than the previous Mediterranean voyage.

Despite the blistering cold, it was good to climb outside and walk around the lifters, listening to the crunch of snow. He was sick of sitting.

Osadar hurried to him, looking intent.

“What do you have for me?” Marten asked.

Director Delos had provided a new and improved senso-mask in Athens. It could emulate any face, provided one had a photograph to scan through the mask’s computer. After searching the databanks, Osadar had found a picture of herself from her days in the Jovian Guardian Fleet. That had been many years ago, however. Now the senso-mask showed her former features as a young pilot. She had possessed a small nose and open face, with a light sprinkling of freckles. During their ride in the lifter, Marten had watched Osadar continually examining her new face in a mirror.

As interesting as the simulation of her former features, the senso-mask could track moods. Unfortunately, Osadar no longer had moods like a normal person, nor could the senso-mask “read” them from her skin. By tapping a sensory interface-pad on her arm, however, Osadar could change settings to happy, angry and surprised, and she could meld a variation of the different moods.

“I have several items of note,” Osadar said.

The wind howled and snow flurries swirled around the fighting machines. Dead trees stood on the nearby slope.

“First,” Osadar said, “There is heavy fighting in the Po Valley. Cone sent armored units from Switzerland Sector and they have crossed the Italian passes. I suspect Cone wishes to secure the proton beam in Milan.”

“Omi visited Milan,” Marten said.

“If Omi were wise, he will have already escaped to a more peaceful region. If he didn’t escape, there is little likelihood of our ever seeing Omi again.”

“There has to be something we can do,” Marten said.

“Cone is attempting to capture Milan, but I believe it is costing her politically. She is using cybertanks, as the police units have little that can face them. Backus’s propagandists are calling the cybertanks ‘cyborg troops.’ Because of that, some military colonels have switched sides, complicating our situation.”

“I don’t know why Cone doesn’t request help from the battleships in orbit,” Marten said.

“Didn’t you hear?” Osadar asked. “The SU battleships have left orbit for Luna. They are joining the Doom Stars and will begin acceleration for Neptune in a week.”

“What?” Marten shouted. “Next week? That doesn’t give us much time to get to our patrol boats and join them.”

“Should we join the fleet?” Osadar asked.

“What else should we be doing?”

Osadar shook her head. “I do not think we will make the Luna rendezvous in time.”

Marten scowled as he gazed at the whitecaps. Too many good space marines had died killing cyborgs in the Jupiter System and en-route to Earth on the planet-wreckers. He wanted to finish it. He wanted to root out the Prime Web-Mind on Neptune as the Praetor had destroyed one on Carme. Now the fleet was planning to leave without him?

“Come on,” Marten said. “Let’s gather the others. I want to move while there’s still time to join the expedition.

The next twenty-four hours was a blur of travel and fighting as they sped through sectors that had declared for Backus. Fortunately, as elsewhere, the countryside was almost devoid of people. They lived in the underground cities. The only ones allowed outside were farm workers, military personnel and those who paid for the privilege of vacationing on the surface or those with the political pull to do as they pleased. Police units patrolled the roads.

It meant for some ugly sights. Several times, they passed a single, half-charred body. The corpse dangled by wire from a tree. One could only presume the man had been judged a saboteur or a traitor. The police must have sentenced him to torture and death.

Once they spotted an old woman gathering sticks. On sight of them, she shrieked, dropped her sticks and hobbled away. At least three times, they saw a red-uniformed peacekeeper. One had been hacked to death. Another had three sharpened sticks in his body. More people must have slipped out of the cities than Marten had realized.

In Bosnia Sector, an attack-jet screamed down at them, launching rockets. The Jovians were ready and sent up a hail of anti-rocket fire, bringing down all but one missile. That missile took out a warfare pod and injured a marine. Xenophon launched a SAM at the jet. There was an explosion in the air, and a burning jet plummeted earthward.

Several hours later, under Marten’s command, they scattered a battalion of police trying to block their path. It was a lopsided fight. With the greater numbers, the police should have easily destroyed the lifters. But they were unused to combat, to having people fire back. The Jovians sent the police running, although it cost them two marines and several wounded.

“The attrition will wear us down long before we reach Geneva,” Osadar said.

“I think the police units are still getting used to maneuvering outdoors,” Marten said. “And I don’t think they’re in any hurry to reach Italia Sector and face cybertanks. If we keep moving fast, we should be able to reach Cone territory before the police learn what to do.”

The next few hours were uneventful as the lifters zoomed across the terrain. Then Nadia swiveled in her seat and mutely handed Marten a hand-computer.

He took it, and goosebumps jumped onto his arms. Omi stared out of the screen. The muscled Korean had his patented blank look, with a .38 in his hand. He was obviously on the run when this picture had been taken.