Doom Star: Book 02 - Bio-Weapon (29 page)

The masses of cocooned space-warriors suffered under the crushing grip of deceleration. Many screamed. Some stared dully. Others wept. A few laughed. Only thirty-nine died from heart failure, strokes and lunatic panic seizures. The rest longed for an end to their agony. The entire time, the missiles remorselessly closed as the
Bangladesh
fled.

At 80,000 kilometers separation the proton beam stabbed into the eternal night. It slashed through a ghost image. Immediately HB radar and optics recorded the beam, the fact of its being and that the enemy at last tried to hit them. Most of the incoming missiles slowed hard. Twenty others leapt ahead because they slowed less. Each of those mounted a single laser. In three seconds, they were pumped and ready to hotshot, a special process that burnt out the tubes faster but delivered a stronger initial punch. ECM drones locked-on target and fed the battle-data to the missiles. Twenty beams flashed at the
Bangladesh
.

Everyone aboard the
Bangladesh
lay on A-couches or belonged to damage control parties, where they were lodged in special repair vehicles that could move about under eight Gs. VR-goggles supplied information, although ship’s AI made the majority of the decisions while the
Bangladesh
was under eight gravities acceleration.

In the armored command capsule, hidden deep within the beamship, Admiral Rica Sioux presided over her officers via comlink.

“Particle Screen 1 is degrading,” said the Shield Officer.

Outside the beamship, sixteen enemy lasers burned into the 600 meter-thick rock-shield. The hotshotted lasers chewed deeper and deeper into the particle mass. If they broke through and breached the Bangladesh’s inner armor the battle would quickly be over.

Ship’s AI aimed giant spray-tubes and pumped an aerosol cloud in front of the beams. At the same moment, the
Bangladesh
’s
mighty engines quit. The enemy beams leaped ahead of the ship. Six seconds later the beams re-targeted and burned through the aerosol cloud. More aerosols flowed out, tons. The engines re-engaged, quit, started and slued the beamship sideways tiny fractions of percentages. At this terrific speed, the
Bangladesh
was unable to veer very far and stay within the eight G limit.

“Mine the seventh quadrant,” ordered Admiral Sioux, who had carefully studied the incoming missiles. Overlaying her view of the battle on her VR-goggles was a grid pattern to help her better understand locations, vectors and distances.

Giant rotary cannons poked out the
Bangladesh
and aimed between the cracks of two nearly joined particle shields. They spewed mines the size of barrels, firing them by magnetic impulse. Every fifth round was a radar mine. Every tenth contained chaff. The rotary cannons fired continuously, so a vast minefield grew in the path of the on-coming missiles.

“I have lock-on,” said the Targeting Officer.

“Proton beam charged,” said the First Gunner.

“Fire,” said Admiral Sioux.

The distances closed rapidly. From their 60-degree arc, the HB missiles swarmed at the
Bangladesh
.

Flashes winked in space as the proton beam destroyed HB laser missiles. One after the other they ceased to exist. By firing, the missiles had made themselves vulnerable to targeting. With cold calculation, the HB probability equators had accepted that. The majority of the surviving missiles decelerated. Those didn’t decelerate moved ahead of the mass.

Twenty new lasers stabbed at the
Bangladesh
.

HB optic and radar missiles recorded the breaching of the first particle shied. Behind a cloud of instant aerosols, that shield rotated away and a new one moved into place.

In quadrant seven, as viewed from the
Bangladesh
, the HB missiles entered the minefield. A signal thus pulsed from the beamship’s AI, activating the radar mines. Mass and velocity was almost instantly verified. The radar mines screamed on their high-band frequency. Thousands of other mines in listening range detonated. They strew depleted uranium shrapnel into the path of the on-coming missiles. The missiles’ speed made such particles deadly. When they met, the shrapnel breached the missile’s ceramic-ultraluminum armor. Ten HB laser missiles disintegrated, as did several ECM drones and five Storm Assaults. Twenty-five shock troopers perished. Their bio-remains were simply another part of the debris of space junk.

Ten EMP Blasters now leapt forward. Meanwhile, the bulk of the Storm Assaults dropped to one-G deceleration. And within them, or those that still worked, the three atmospheres of pressurized glop drained into space as needles and special drugs normalized the shock troops.

The EMP Blasters inched toward the
Bangladesh
, closing the distance, closing—

One vaporized, the proton beam catching it perfectly.

Nine others exploded, sending a nuclear fireball that arced toward the beamship. Fortunately, they were closer to the ship and farther away from the missile barrage. Heat and blast damage had no effect at these distances and in space. Radiation, electromagnetic pulse and anyone caught in the immediate fireball were the dangers.

In this initial phase of the attack, the nuclear explosions had only one purpose: the electromagnetic pulse, the EMP. It traveled toward and soon washed over the beamship and destroyed any unshielded electronics and played havoc with the rest.

More lasers then stabbed at the new particle shield the ship had rolled into place, burning into it.

“They’re too many of them!” shouted a SU officer. “The missiles closed too rapidly.”

“Kill them one at a time,” said Admiral Sioux, her voice as relaxed as if she sipped coffee.

“Rotating Shield Three into position,” said the Shield Officer.

“Spreading the minefield to quadrant nine.”

“Launch anti-missile torps,” said the Admiral.

“Firing,” said the Launch Officer. “Admiral! Tubes three through eight aren’t responding.”

“Reroute those torpedoes to the working tubes,” said the Admiral.

“What are those missiles to the rear of their formation?” asked the Tracking Officer. “I don’t recognize the type.”
“Their ECM drones are fantastic. How could there be twice as many missiles as we suspected?”

“Tubes four, five and six won’t respond,” the Launch Officer said.

“Damage control,” said the Admiral. “Check torpedo tubes four, five and six.”

“Roger, Admiral.”

“How are we supposed to beat off all those missiles? They’re too many of them!”

“Switch offline, mister, if all you spout is defeatist garbage,” said the Admiral.

“Admiral!” said the Targeting Officer. “Look at those.”

“Re-target the proton beam,” said the Admiral. “Don’t let—”

Flashes showed on their VR-images as enemy missiles fired lasers.

Admiral Rica Sioux clenched her teeth. She suddenly had the gut feeling that maybe it wasn’t possible to beat the Highborn, that the HBs truly were superior in every conceivable way. Oh, but what a horrible feeling that was. So she fought off the feeling and tried to think of a way to defeat these masses of clever missiles.

Ten minutes after the one part ethylene glycol, two part molasses-like glop drained into space, water sprayed into the SA missile compartment. Soon the water also swirled out.

Hiss—pop!

The first G-suit cracked open.

Pop!

Pop!

Pop!

The others did likewise.

More buckles snapped. A seam in a suit appeared. Someone groaned. Then a hand, smooth and naked, without any artificial protection, slipped out of the seam and pried at the suit.

“Six minutes to combat acceleration,” crackled an automated voice.

Weak-voiced curses were the only reply, although new hands appeared at the seams of the other suits. Slowly, the shock troopers struggled out of their cocoons.

Marten broke free first. He wrestled through the tangled tubes attached to his suit and dropped heavily to the wet floor. On his hands and knees he panted, naked and trembling, his hair damp and a scraggly growth of beard.

At the sound of hoarse breathing and desperate struggling, he looked up. Vip, his face bone-white and sweaty, his eyes wide and pupils jittering like rubber balls, fought against the masses of tubes around his suit.

Marten forced himself up. He trembled, but he locked his knees. Willing himself, he lurched to Vip’s suit.

“Vip.” Marten’s voice was scratchy. He cleared it. “Vip.”

The small man stopped what he was doing and stared without recognition.

Lance tumbled out of his suit, to lie gasping on the floor.

Marten grabbed two tubes, yanking them out of Vip’s way. Vip continued to stare.

“Leave him there,” Kang said.

Vip’s eyes widened in fright.

Marten turned. The massive Mongol, as naked as himself, stood to his left.

“You can’t stay in there,” Marten told Vip. “You gotta come out and help me kill HBs.”

Kang elbowed him in the side. “Shut up. I said leave him.”

Marten ignored Kang as he helped Vip. Soon, Vip plopped to the floor as he made retching sounds.

Marten knelt by him. “You’re okay, now, do you hear? You’re out of that thing forever.”

“I can’t do that again,” whispered Vip.

“I know.”

“I’d go crazy.”

“We’re all crazy,” said Lance, kneeling on the other side.

Then the hatch cracked open as Kang twisted the wheel. “We got four minutes,” he told them, “and then it’s more acceleration.”

Vip looked up, sick fear giving his skin a greenish tinge.

“Let’s get dressed,” Marten said, helping him by the elbow.

They filed out of the dreadful compartment and entered the other one. There they donned brown jumpsuits and climbed into the battlesuits. Marten still had the shakes, so he dialed up the suit’s medikit. It diagnosed him and shot him with a pneumospray hypo.

In their battlesuits, they looked like mechanical gorillas, huge beasts with exoskeleton power and dinylon body-armor. They screwed on the helmets with the names KANG, LANCE, OMI, MARTEN and VIP, and they strapped on thruster packs. Oxygen tanks were already part of the battlesuits, while laser rifles and breach-bombs had been packed away for them in the separate torpedoes. For tiptoeing in here, the servomotors were geared way down to minimum.

“No neurostims until we’re outside,” Marten said, speaking to them by helmet communicator.

“I’m the maniple leader,” Kang said.

“You’re third in command of the entire mission,” Marten said. “You don’t have time to lead our maniple as well.”

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your treachery,” Kang said.

“We’re all gonna be killed,” said Lance, “and you’re worried about a few wrong words spoken during the hell-ride here?”

“No defeatist talk from you either,” warned Kang.

“Relax, okay,” Marten said.

“I’m the maniple leader,” Kang said. “Training Master Lycon must’ve known you were a turncoat. So he put someone reliable in charge.”

“Why don’t you shoot me now then?” Marten said, disgusted with the whole conversation. “You’re so ready to be their butt-boy, maybe that’ll earn you points.”

Kang balled his exoskeleton fists. The suit’s engine whined as he revved it for combat power.

“Don’t be an idiot,” said Lance.

The five, battlesuited shock troopers faced each other, their suits purring.

“We’re gonna need everyone we have in order to fight into the
Bangladesh
,” said Lance.

“And we only have two minutes to enter the torps,” Omi said.

The battlesuit with KANG on the helmet turned away first. He opened the hatch to a long torpedo. The others hurried to theirs. Each climbed into the torpedo’s mini-cockpit. They buckled themselves into the seats and flipped a switch.

Slam, slam, slam, went the hatches, and the forward compartment of the Storm Assault Missile was devoid of men. Five sleek torpedoes, like bullets in a cartridge, waited near the single firing chamber.

Thirty seconds later the SA missile leapt forward at eight Gs.

“Here we go again,” Marten said, via comlink. This time, however, he had a little display screen in front of him. He would have minimal control in the torpedo, once it was fired. But having just that little bit gave him a needed psychological boost.

“Next stop, outer space,” said Lance.

“Where we’ll be as free as eagles,” Marten said.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“What are those missiles in the rear of their formation?” asked the Tracking Officer. “Why haven’t they
done
anything yet?”

“Good question,” said Admiral Sioux. She’d been wondering that herself.

“Particle Shield 5 rotated aft,” said the Shield Officer. “Shield 6 in place.”