Vaughn Heppner - Star Fortress

Defensive satellites ringed the Red Planet in geosynchronous orbit. A few of the satellites were armored with particle shields. Most were half-built structures still under construction. Three were battered wrecks, masses of junk from damage sustained during the Third Battle for Mars.

Station Santa Anna presently orbited the night-side. It boasted an operational laser, a completed hull and a full array of sensors. Inside the satellite on the bridge, an alarm sounded.

“What’s going on?” the commander asked. He sat up from where he’d been dozing.

A warrant officer checked his screen. “It appears the computer has picked up an anomaly, sir.”

“Where?” the commander asked as he buttoned his uniform. He was a one-armed man, which might have made the buttoning difficult, but he deftly completed the task. “Give me specifics.”

The frowning warrant officer bent over his sensor equipment, making swift adjustments. “I’m putting the image on the main screen, sir.”

The commander shoved a cap onto his gray hair as he looked up at the screen. Something black and round plunged through the Martian atmosphere. Even as he watched, the object deployed massive chutes.

“Give me an—”

“Sir!” the warrant officer said. “The capsule is composed of an anti-radar polymer, and those are stealth-chutes we’re witnessing. Computer analysis gives it a ninety-three percent probability of being a cyborg vessel of unknown design. It’s obviously attempting a landing.”

“This is a code eleven emergency,” the commander said, his voice steely. “Activate our laser.”

“I’m tracking,” the warrant office said. “Sir, the object is headed for a sandstorm.”

“Weapons!” the commander shouted.

“Just a minute, sir,” the weapons officer said nervously. “There seems to be a glitch in the system.”

The commander leaned forward as he stared at the main screen. “Is this their first infiltration or simply the latest of an ongoing effort?”

People stared at him in horror. Several years ago, there had been a cyborg converter in Olympus Mons. The volcano was Mars and the Solar System’s largest.

“The object is entering the sandstorm!” the warrant officer shouted.

“Fire the laser!” the commander roared.

The stricken weapons officer looked up, shaking his head.

The commander’s eyes widened as two red spots appeared on his pale cheeks. “Prepare a Chavez Seven missile.”

“Sir,” the weapons officer whispered. “Those are nuclear-tipped missiles.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” the commander asked in a harsh voice.

During the Third Battle for Mars, the Highborn had exploded a Hellburner on Olympus Mons. The missile’s devastating effect had turned the idea of nuclear bombardment into a taboo subject. The fractured moon Phobos had also rained chunks onto the planet, killing even more millions.

“We dare not let the cyborgs get another foothold on Mars,” the commander said. “Launch now before it’s too late.”

The weapons officer’s forehead was shiny with sweat as he tapped his screen.

Through camera five, the bridge personnel watched the missile expel from its tube. In seconds, an orange contrail made it the brightest object against the planet’s dark surface.

“It needs to accelerate faster,” the commander whispered.

The seconds ticked away as the race absorbed everyone’s attention. The warrant officer tapped a command. A split-screen appeared, showing the sandstorm that had swallowed the capsule and beside it, the missile headed down.

“Give me a radar fix,” the commander said.

The warrant officer shook his head. “Cyborg stealth technology is better than our sensors, sir.”

Five minutes and forty-three seconds later, the missile entered the sandstorm.

“They could have landed by now,” the commander groaned.

Thirty-eight seconds later, there was an explosion, hopefully, detonated by a proximity detector. In any case, cheers erupted on the station.

“We got it!” the weapons officer shouted.

“Can you confirm that?” the commander asked.

The warrant officer hunched over his screen, finally looking up. “No, sir. I cannot confirm a kill, although it seems likely.”

The commander cursed under his breath. He’d lost his wife and grandchildren to the cyborgs during the Third Battle for Mars. “Maybe this secret vessel launched escape pods, scattering cyborgs before the missiles hit.”

“That seems highly unlikely, sir,” the warrant officer said.

The commander took off his cap, setting it on an armrest. As he agonized over his choices, he scratched his scalp. “We must saturate the possible landing zones with nuclear weapons.”

Three seconds of stunned silence ensued.

“Respectfully, sir,” the warrant officer said, “that’s a High Command decision.”

Fitting the cap onto his head, the commander scowled. “Then let’s hope they make the right decision. Patch me through to Satellite Defense HQ. Time is critical.”

Two days later, Captain Ricardo Sandoval of the Martian Commandos struggled through a sandstorm. The storm was the worst red-out in memory, with millions of particles of iron-oxide dust howling around him.

The cyborgs are dead. What could possibly survive a nuclear holocaust? Ricardo snorted, his disgust growing. This is stupid. Why am I even here?

He knew that one of the reasons was a nervous High Command. A few generals had wanted to carpet bomb the surface with nukes. Cooler heads had prevailed. To keep the others happy, however, they had sent for him, the leader of the Martian Commandos. Unfortunately, they had placed the most frightened general in charge of the search operation.

The man had told him, “We could be sending you into something worse than death, Captain. If this was a reinforcement landing and the cyborgs have already built a converter…” The general had insisted on a suicidal procedure. “If you’re captured, the enemy might run you through a converter, changing you into a meld of machine and flesh. For your sake, we can never allow that to happen.”

Yeah, right, for my sake .

Through his suit, Ricardo rubbed his gut. For the mission, he had swallowed intestinal explosives that would detonate if he failed to tap in the needed code every half hour. Because of the explosives, every Commando was on stims to keep him awake for the duration of the mission.

The only danger is these gut-bombs. What a deranged idea .

Ricardo had thought about declining the assignment. The reason he hadn’t was that he was one of the privileged: a steroid-pumped Martian with a normal caloric intake. On Mars, privilege definitely meant responsibilities. For Ricardo, it was risking his guts in this storm.

Knowing the general would check his radio-log later, Ricardo clicked on his suit-com. “See anything?” he asked.

There were four other Commandos out here with him. The rest were in the APC laager or checking out different coordinates.

“Negative, sir,” Max radioed. A few seconds later, he added, “What’s your Geiger counter say?”

“That we’re in a radiation-streaked storm,” Ricardo said. “Keep your eyes open. It would be just our luck that one of those things made it onto the surface.”

Max laughed, letting Ricardo know the sergeant understood the joke.

Checking a gauge, Ricardo found that wind-speed had risen to seventy-three km/h. It kept threatening to lift him airborne. Worse, visibility had dwindled so all he could see was several meters ahead. The swirling particles, they were like a living wall, a red shroud, an avalanche ready to bury him on the surface. The only thing worse was the noise. The shrieks were like vibrating spikes driving into his skull.