Star Fortress

-1-

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.”

-2-

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.

Like his men, Ricardo wore a bodysuit and a rebreather. His eyes felt gritty and his breathing was harsh. He had thin features and a spacer’s tan, with a mustache hiding his lips. Despite the polymer visor, hundreds of tiny lines were etched across it. If the particles abraded through the mask, he would choke to death on sand—or would die from a lack of oxygen.

Ricardo snarled as the suit’s air-conditioner unit whined, trying to cool his overheated body. He clutched a waist-high rock and glanced behind. The others struggled through the sandstorm. Like him, each gripped a gyroc rifle.

“How much farther are we walking, Captain?” Max radioed.

“Another two kilometers at least,” Ricardo said.

The answering oaths and curses made him nod. What a meaningless assignment. He ought to—

A warning tone beeped in his helmet. Ricardo frowned. That can’t be anything serious. He swiveled his head, watching on his HUD. Another tone sounded. His sensors had picked up something moving out here, something that was heavier than a man. All Ricardo saw was red rocks and swirling sand.

“Captain,” crackled in his comlink. “I’m picking up something. Could it be a cyborg?”

The idea intensified Ricardo’s frown. This was a lousy spot for a showdown. Worse, the red-out made it impossible to radio for backup or to warn High Command if it proved they had been right. Who would have believed that?

“We need to set up a perimeter,” Ricardo said. “Max, take the south. Rodriguez, you have east. Carlos is west and Bandores is in the center to provide a quick-reaction force.”

The men radioed in, and they took up their positions. As they did, Ricardo recalled Osadar Di, Marten Kluge’s cyborg. He had seen the things she could do: the bounding leaps, the exhibitions of inhuman strength and worst of all, the insect-like speed. He had trained with Osadar and he had listened to Kluge’s combat maxims, which had broadened his thinking. After Kluge’s departure, Ricardo had become the trainer of advanced tactics. His blog had become famous on Mars because of his retelling of his time with Marten Kluge.

Using the rock as a shield, Ricardo lay on his stomach, letting the storm howl above him. Swirling dust-clouds blew over other rocks and boulders, and created ghost images on his sensors. Tiny particles of iron oxide continuously struck his visor, causing a steady clicking noise.

Then he saw movement. Was it a rolling rock or was it a cyborg?

He curled his lips. Kluge had taught them: You don’t win by defending. You attack.

“I see something,” he radioed.

“Is it a cyborg?” Max asked. The sergeant sounded nervous.

“I’m going to find out,” Ricardo said gruffly. “I don’t want anyone panicking. We do this by the numbers.”

“Roger,” Max said, and the others radioed likewise.

Breathing deeply, Ricardo crawled out of the rock’s protection into the fury of the sandstorm. The wind slammed against his helmet and almost tore away his gyroc.

Ricardo gripped his rifle more tightly. Cyborgs moved with incredible speed. They had armored brainpans, graphite bones and reinforced muscles. Computer enhancements gave them speeded rationality to assess in nanoseconds what a man needed seconds or even a minute to decide.

The howling storm rattled pebbles against his suit. Ricardo looked up. He saw it then. The sight thinned his lips. The cyborg was a dark blot in the sandstorm, and it moved like a jittering fly.

“It’s here!” Ricardo shouted, with the sound reverberating in his helmet. “Grid seven-B-eight.” He raised his rifle and pulled the trigger. The gyroc fired a .75 caliber spin-stabilized rocket-shell. The rifle was effectively recoilless, meaning the butt didn’t slam against his shoulder after each shot. The shell popped out of the rifle-tube as its mini-rocket-engine ignited. He shot an APEX-round: Armor-Piercing Explosive. The super-hard penetrator used a big motor and a bigger explosive packet.

Ricardo heard the hisses of other APEX-rounds firing into the storm and whooshing past his head. Unfortunately, the rounds went in a variety of directions, blown off-course by the violent wind.

“Cease fire!” Ricardo shouted. “We’ll never hit it at a distance. We have to get close.”

At that moment, the cyborg rose up before him. It wore a metallic-fiber suit, and it seemed unaffected by the wind. With its mechanical-melded parts, it must weigh enough to ignore the lifting power of the storm.

Ricardo froze. He might have stayed frozen longer, but he had trained endless hours since Marten Kluge taught Martians how to fight. A portion of his training had been in acting fast and then faster yet, to increase his reaction time when surprised.

Ricardo frantically rolled left as the cyborg kicked a spiked boot at his head. He saved himself, as the cyborg bounded at someone else. It sounded like Bandores screaming over the comlink. Using his booted toes, Ricardo swiveled on his belly. Then he raised his head.

The thing’s arm was a blur of motion as it hurled a rock, smashing Rodriguez’s helmet. Ricardo swore. The cyborg was too fast for them, especially in this environment. Had it lost its weapons? Is that why it used primitive means to fight?

“Kill it!” Ricardo shouted, as he surged to his feet. A rocket-shell whooshed past him, a blur of darkness and an orange contrail. It missed his head by centimeters. He couldn’t worry about that now.

The cyborg reached Max. Something dark moved in its hand as the hand made contact with Max. The third Commando crumpled onto the rocky soil.

Hatred boiled in Ricardo as he leaped at the thing. The wind lifted him, shoving him fast at the cyborg. Ricardo landed, and he staggered, almost slamming down onto his belly. Like a dancer, Ricardo moved his feet, maintaining balance as the wind blew him.

The cyborg whirled around.

In a microsecond of time, Ricardo saw the inhuman eyes, the plasti-flesh face. The cyborg held a dark blade, a wet one—bloody! Without thinking and as he moved into close range, Ricardo shoved the muzzle of the gyroc against the cyborg’s stomach. As soon as he felt the pressure of contact, he pulled the trigger. Just as fast, a knife swiped at him. Ricardo shouted and he twisted. The tip of the blade slashed open his environmental suit. At the same time, the APEX shell in the cyborg’s combat-armor exploded. That knocked the abomination off its feet.

Ricardo landed on his side, but he scrambled up faster than the injured monster. At the same time, the auto-sealants fixed the breach in his environmental suit. Somehow, Ricardo had kept hold of his gyroc. He shot the cyborg at pointblank range. The shell broke into the cyborg’s helmet. A half-second later, another explosion occurred, ripping away the monster’s faceplate. The thing tumbled back and thudded onto the ground.

Ricardo tried to fire again, but the creature kicked its leg, smashing the rifle. Then the cyborg attempted to rise.

By fallen Phobos, I have to kill it before it kills me!

As the wind howled and threatened to lift Ricardo airborne once again, he drew a bayonet. As the cyborg climbed to its feet, Ricardo lunged and thrust the bayonet into the thing from Neptune. He stabbed it seventeen times before it died squirming on the sands of Mars. Seventeen times before a red light vanished somewhere behind its eyes.

Only then did Captain Ricardo Sandoval think about hunting for the surviving member of his squad.

-3-

In Far Mars Orbit, a cyborg Lurker-class Assault-ship—L7R325—stopped receiving signals from the surface. The large vessel was composed of black, radar-resistant polymers, built at odd curves, angles and planes to lessen sensor identification. It was not technically a warship, although it possessed a load of stealth-drones.

It drifted at far orbit, having sailed through the void on built-up velocity and braking with low-signature thrusters. Its design and tactical application was predicated on proven cyborg superiority. It was a troop ship: stealthily approaching the target in order to insert cyborgs and capture it. The Web-Mind in charge of operations presently ran through options as it computed known data on the Red Planet.

The missile launched from Station Santa Anna told it much about the defensive satellites ringing Mars. It was surprised the stealth-capsule had reached the surface at all. Martian defenses were much weaker than it had anticipated. Yes, the Web-Mind now knew how the Homo sapiens communicated with each other, how they reacted to an insertion invasion and the location of their primary defensive stations. Conquest of Mars…there was a sixty-two percent probability of victory.

Eighteen minutes after the analysis, the Web-Mind pulsed orders: Load five stealth-capsules with soldiers and the sixth with a converter unit. Once launched, it would fire three black-ice pods, one for each of the key satellites. It would hold five other stealth-capsules in reserve and the second converter as it continued its cloaked orbit.

The Mars Assault would be run along different parameters than any of the former campaigns. That would confuse the Homo sapiens, who reacted predictably and would expect similar moves from their opponent.

As the Web-Mind reconfigured the optimal strategy, the Lurker’s rail-gun ejected the first stealth-capsule at the distant Red Planet. It would take the capsules eight weeks to reach an insertion orbit. By then, the Homo sapiens would begin to relax, expecting that the worst was over.

-4-

Three days after killing the cyborg, Captain Sandoval hung onto the insides of a shaking Comet 9 strike-jet. After the sandstorm fight, he had been badly injured and was now on a ton of painkillers and half out of his mind.

The strike-jet was an old military plane, a two-seater, having survived countless hits and patch-jobs. Ricardo had already endured hours in it and now found himself on the other side of Mars.

Below, red dust-clouds billowed across the surface. It was a global storm, covering most of the planet. Although Mars was smaller than Earth, its landmass was a little more than all Earth’s continents combined. The surface of Mars consisted of a worldwide desert. As dust entered the atmosphere, sunlight heated it, increasing the temperature, sometimes as much as thirty degrees Centigrade. That caused winds to rush to colder areas, picking up yet more dust and adding to the situation. On Earth, water vapor was the main heating agent instead of dust. And on Earth, deserts were limited in area and therefore unable to feed a global storm. Dust clouds often grew in the Gobi desert of Mongolia Sector, for instance, but when they blew over the Pacific Ocean, the storm soon died from the lack of new fueling dust.

Looking down through the billowing iron-oxide particles, Ricardo spied volcanoes and deep valleys.

“Hang on,” the pilot said. “It will get rough for a few minutes.”

As the plane blanked, it shivered hard into the wind. Something metal dislodged from the console in front of Ricardo. The part struck his foot, and sparks shot from the console.

“There’s an extinguisher to your left!” the pilot shouted.

“What?” Ricardo shouted back.

The sparks caught fire, and a burnt electrical smell assaulted Ricardo’s nose. The flames before him flickered with bitter purpose. To add injury to the emergency, the rattling and shaking around him increased.

“Put out the fire, amigo!” the pilot shouted. “Do it before it shorts something important and we crash.”

The words finally penetrated Ricardo’s hazy thoughts. He spotted the extinguisher, tore it from the holder and studied it for a half-second. The burnt electrical smell was worse now and the flames bigger. He aimed the nozzle at the flames and pressed the switch. Foam hissed, coating the console. Some of it sprayed back onto Ricardo. A fleck landed on his lips. It tasted awful. He leaned forward in his seat, pulling against the restraints and pressed the button again, putting out the electrical fire.

By this time, the jet plunged out of the bottom of the dust storm and entered one of the long Martian valleys that crisscrossed the planet. The shaking and rattling quit. Now Ricardo heard the laboring jet engine. At the same time, he noticed the sharp decrease of illumination. They were at the bottom of the dust cloud and had huge canyon walls on either side of them. He glanced right and left, and estimated each wall as about a kilometer away.

“Where are we?” Ricardo shouted.

“We’re nearing Salvador Dome, amigo.”

Ricardo blinked several times, until he grew aware of the extinguisher in his hands. He shoved it back into its holder so it the locks snapped.

Like this jet, just about everything was old and aging on Mars. Ricardo wouldn’t have been surprised if the extinguisher had lacked foam. Salvador Dome was a grim reminder of the luck and disrepair here.

After the Third Battle for Mars, everyone had died in the dome. Against odds, a boulder-sized piece of Phobos had flashed into the valley, streaked the half kilometer to the bottom and shattered the main structure. The moon-meteor had proceeded to smash through every level of Salvador Dome. No one survived the impact. To save time and effort—critical commodities on Mars—workers had dumped the corpses down the meteor-made hole. It was a sealed mass grave now and a ghost-haunted dome.

Why take me halfway across the planet to bring me here? It made no sense in terms of jet-fuel and use of the aging Comet 9.

The pilot’s radio crackled into life. “You have ten seconds to identify yourself,” a female operator told them.

Ricardo frowned. Ten seconds? That would imply a military capacity to do something about non-compliance. That made even less sense. Large-scale defensive equipment was among the rarest of commodities on Mars. Why station anti-air missiles down here at a dead dome?

A constant whine sounded from the pilot’s console.

“Ground control has lock-on,” the pilot informed Ricardo. “I guess I’d better answer.” The pilot clicked a switch, saying, “This is an Omi Operational flight.”

Omi? That was the name of Marten Kluge’s best friend. That couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

“I’m bringing Captain Ricardo Sandoval to the site,” the pilot said. “Those are per the orders of Secretary-General Gomez.”

Ricardo looked up in wonder. No one had said anything about the Secretary-General. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“You have permission to land,” the operator said. “But if you deviate from the flight corridor, you will be targeted and shot down.”

“They want us to feel welcome,” the pilot said over his shoulder.

“Salvador Dome is defended?” Ricardo asked.

The pilot laughed. “They’re targeting us with Veracruz SAMs.”

Ricardo knew those were the highest-grade Surface to Air Missiles the Mars Planetary Union possessed. What he couldn’t fathom is why they ringed Salvador Dome, a dead city.

“Do you know what’s going on?” Ricardo asked.

“Yes I do, amigo. The SAMs have lock-on and the operator means exactly what she says. We stay in the flight corridor all the way down. With your permission, Captain, I will concentrate on that.”

“Yes, please do,” Ricardo said. He leaned near the canopy as the jet banked slightly. Below was a great dome, with a jagged hole to the left of center. He spied the SAM sites flanking the dark dome. What did they guard down there? He supposed he would find out soon enough.

The rest of the flight proved uneventful. They soon taxied down a runaway, put on their masks, climbed out and entered an APC. The military vehicle took them to a large garage separate from the dome.

There Ricardo parted company from the pilot and soon found himself alone on a chair in an empty room. It was more of a large box with a metal floor and walls. There was a faint drone coming from somewhere and the slightest vibration against his feet. Ricardo was used to this: move here, go there, hurry up and wait. It surprised him High Command hadn’t kept him on the ground searching for more cyborgs. Had the generals decided the capsule was a first landing attempt?

Ricardo’s stomach growled, but then it often did. He was always hungry, even though he ate sumptuously according to Martian standards. Before it could growl again, one of the doors opened.

To his amazement, Secretary-General Gomez entered. He recognized her from the news blogs, particularly as she wore her customary green uniform. She was a tall woman with darker-than-average skin. She had tight curls, wore sunglasses and moved stiffly, using a cane as she dragged her left foot. Long ago, she had been a gunman in the Resistance. Nine, Political Harmony Corps guards had died on Martian streets due to Gomez’s firing. The tenth PHC guard had worn the latest body-armor and returned fire, sending three explosive slugs into Gomez’s frame. Reconstructive surgery had saved her life, but she lived with constant pain these days.

“Captain Sandoval,” she said in a strong voice.

Ricardo lurched to his feet at attention as he saluted crisply.

“You recognize me, do you?”

He nodded.

The faintest of smiles appeared on Gomez’s thin face. “You are Mars’s great Cyborg Slayer, are you not?”

“I killed one in a sandstorm.”

“And thereby saved one of your Commandos,” Gomez said. “I read the report. You bayoneted it to death. From what they tell me about cyborgs, that is most impressive.”

“The cyborg was already damaged and lacked modern weaponry,” Ricardo said.

“It also slaughtered your men as if they were children,” Gomez said. “Under the circumstances, your feat was amazing.”

Ricardo nodded brusquely.

Gomez tapped the floor with her cane. “Tell me, Captain. What is your estimate of the war?”

“I’m not certain I follow you.”

“Then you are not the man I need and this entire situation was a costly waste of time.”

“You mean the wider war, the one against the cyborgs.”

“At the moment, it is the only war that matters.”

“I agree,” Ricardo said.

“How gratifying,” Secretary-General Gomez said dryly.

Ricardo refused to let that bother him. “We are losing the war,” he said.

Gomez became alert. “What is the probable outcome?”

“The maxim is simple,” he said. “To win, one must attack. We do not attack. Therefore, we will lose until we successfully take the offensive.”

“And we should attack where do you think?”

“The heart of the cyborgs lies in Neptune. You must attack there. I thought Social Unity and the Highborn planned exactly that.”

“Not Social Unity, Captain,” Gomez said. “Social Unity is merely one component of our allied front. The Jovians, Martians and Earthmen have formed an alliance of regular men, don’t you remember?”

“The Highborn, Social Unity and the Jovians have warships. We do not.”

Gomez leaned on her cane toward him. “Does our lack of a fleet bother you?”

Ricardo grew puzzled. If seemed as if his answer was important to her. What possible reason…his face grew slack. “We’re building warships,” he whispered. “Is that what this is about?”

Pain creased her features, and the fist holding the cane knotted. “Where did you gain this information? You will tell me, Captain. We have learned from our enemies and will resort to whatever means necessary to find what we must.”

“I fail to…” Ricardo saw it then—the reason why they had put SAMs here. Yes, the reason they had chosen Salvador Dome for a secret project.

“Secretary-General Gomez,” he said, “no one has informed me of anything. I merely added two and two together. Your line of questioning, the defensive perimeter erected here and the operator’s willingness to destroy a Martian jet all points to some highly secret project. Your last question points to the nature of the secret.”

“Go on,” Gomez said.

“Both Inner Planets and the Jovians have warships. Mars has none. The war for survival is the critical action now if humanity is to survive the next few years.”

Gomez lifted the cane, pointing it at Ricardo. “I have read your blog, Captain. You thrive on this war, on your association with Marten Kluge. You have a quick and agile mind. I seek those needed qualities. Even more, as you often point out in your blog, potential means nothing. The man of action who has proven himself capable should lead others into combat against the enemy.”

“You’re talking about my advancement because I killed the cyborg?”

“Exactly,” Gomez said. “You fulfilled Kluge’s maxims to a nicety. In the face of danger, you took a simple tool—your bayonet—and finished killing the meld. Mars needs men of your caliber, men who take what they have instead of complaining they lack the proper equipment. With the tools at hand, you achieved the needed goal. Mars has little to add to the armada. In many ways, I believe both Social Unity and the Highborn would torpedo our attempt to act the part of soldiers.” Gomez shook her head. “Mars will not be denied its place in the Sun. We will join hands with the others, helping kill the common enemy. Captain, you will come with me.”

Gomez turned around and limped out the door. Ricardo hurried after her. They moved down a steel corridor, toward the sound of humming and increasing vibration. Entering an elevator, they went down, the noise increasing the entire time.

The elevator stopped, the doors swished open and the two of them walked onto a balcony with a railing. Beyond was a cavernous area. Ricardo gripped the rail and carefully peered over. It was a good three hundred meters to the floor. Cables snaked everywhere and carts hurried here and there.

Ricardo swallowed as he gazed at a huge missile-shaped vessel. Metal scaffolding encompassed it. Most of the vessel was girders and fierce welding sparks. Workers crawled everywhere over it.

“The planet’s resources are badly stretched,” Gomez shouted into his ear. “Many of our people starve. The satellite defense is incomplete—the reason the cyborgs could slip their capsule through our net. Nearly every piece of military hardware on Mars is old and decaying. We should do everything else except build a warship. As we know, those are built in space, the best ones at the Sun-Works Factory.”

Ricardo tore his gaze from the skeletal vessel, staring into those dark sunglasses. “Mars will join the attack?”

“Many of the Local Bosses are against this,” Gomez said. “If the cyborgs launch a stealth fleet against us…”

“I understand,” Ricardo said. “I also know that to win you must attack. The cyborgs are winning. Humanity is going down to defeat unless we can turn this war around. We won’t turn it around building defensive satellites.”

“You speak the truth,” Gomez said.

Ricardo heard the fatigue in her voice. He saw the lines in her face. The Secretary-General was taking a risk, risking an entire planet on the edge of collapse. She likely risked her political career as well.

“What can I do to help you?” Ricardo asked.

Gomez limped to the railing, putting one hand on it. “You are a man of action, Captain. You are not a political infighter. There is little you can do to help me.”

“Granted,” he said. “Ah, I know. I’ll write on my blog—”

“You will do nothing of the kind,” Gomez said sternly. “Your blogging days are over.”

He glanced at her. Then he nodded. “Our vessel will need Commandos, will it not?”

“There will be little room for them, but a complement of Martian Commandos will board the vessel once the time comes.”

“I want a berth,” Ricardo said. He dared clutch the Secretary-General’s wrist. “You just said a few minutes ago that you agree with me that a proven man should lead. I killed a cyborg. Therefore, I should lead the Commandos.”

“No,” Gomez said.

Ricardo’s fingers slipped off her wrist. He blinked in confusion. “Why did you bring me here then and show me all this? Who is a better Commando?”

“No one is better,” she said, “at least in terms of killing cyborgs.”

“Then why not let me go?”

“I won’t let you go as the leader of the Commandos,” she said.

“Then—”

“I want you to captain the sole Martian warship,” Gomez said.

“What?”

“You will take orders directly from Marten Kluge, when and if we discover his whereabouts. Otherwise, you will make your decisions as the sole representative of the Mars Planetary Union Fleet.”

“A fleet composed of one ship?” Ricardo asked.

“It is all we can launch in time, if we can even manage that. What do you say, Captain Sandoval? Do you accept the commission? Are you willing to journey to Neptune in a cramped warship?”

Ricardo studied the skeletal vessel-in-building. The thrill in his heart—“I accept with everything in me. Even if it means my death, I want to attack the cyborgs. We must attack.”

Secretary-General Gomez nodded as a grim smile stretched into place. “You comfort me, Captain.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I want a man in command of our ship who will draw a bayonet and stab a cyborg seventeen times. I want a man who is willing to fight to the bitter end.”

“You want Marten Kluge.”

She laughed. It was a short, sharp sound. “Either that,” she said, “or the Martian version of him.”

Pride swelled in Ricardo’s chest. That was the greatest compliment of his life. Here and now, he vowed to do everything in his power to live up to the reputation. Mars must be free and humanity must survive the cyborgs!