Battle Pod

-1-

The first thing Marten Kluge did with his freedom was shut off the shuttle’s engines. Then he sat in the pilot’s chair, before a bank of color-coded controls. He eyed the vidscreen and the single polarized window that showed him the awesome beauty of the stars. The moment the engines cut out, acceleration died and weightlessness returned to the shuttle.

Marten grinned harshly. He was a lean ex-shock trooper with a blond crewcut and angular cheeks. He had survived horrible ordeals, and it may have been that full sanity hadn’t yet returned to him. Sitting there staring into space was his first moment of relaxation in….

Marten frowned, a frown that stayed with him until later when he found he was still staring at the stars. He shook his head. He had to concentrate, to try to become a normal human being again.

From the control panel, Marten began to run diagnostic tests on the engines, the life-support system, and the ship’s radar and teleoptic scopes. He was free, which meant he had to rely upon himself now. He owned a shuttle, a spaceship that could possibly take him anywhere in the Solar System.

He laughed. It was a strange sound in the endless silence of the shuttle. He cocked his head. Why would his laugh sound strange? He rubbed his face, feeling oddly disconnected.

He was free. He owned a spaceship. He—

A klaxon began to wail. It startled Marten. For a wild moment, he thought that Lycon had survived and somehow tried to gain admittance back into the shuttle.

Marten studied the controls and froze in shock. He turned off the klaxon, knowing now why his laugh had sounded strange. The carbon-scrubbers were turned off. So his CO2 levels had been too high.

He adjusted the life-support controls as he berated himself for making such an elementary mistake. He couldn’t afford any mistakes out here and hope to keep his freedom. He had a spaceship, but if the Highborn found him, if Social Unity found him, they would take away his ship and his freedom.

How was he going to remain free? The space between Mercury, Venus, Earth and Mars—the Inner Planets—swarmed with the warships of both sides. His shuttle was effectively defenseless against any of them. He had to tiptoe. He had to remain hidden. He had to make clever choices if he was going to remain free.

For the next half hour, Marten’s fingers moved across the controls as he accessed information. He was in the void between Mercury and Venus, with a heading that would bring him to Earth if he initiated one-G acceleration and let the engines burn for… eleven more hours. The journey would take several weeks. During his computer search, he also discovered the whereabouts of three Doom Stars. He didn’t use the shuttle’s radar or teleoptic scopes, but had referenced computer data on known locations. After fifteen more minutes of computer exploration, he discovered the location and vectors of several SU spacecraft, the majority of them war vessels. Neither the Doom Stars nor the SU craft were in position to affect him presently.

That eased some of his tension. Yet he wondered how long it would be before Highborn command sent him a message. Somewhere in their computers, they must be tracking him. Probably, the ship was sending a friend-or-foe signal. He had to find it and then decide whether to shut if off or to leave it on.

Before Marten did that, however, he had to decide what to do with his freedom. He couldn’t just drift out here. He needed a plan, a master plan, and make his moves accordingly.

He had no desire to go to Earth. Nothing good awaited him there. As all Free Earth Corps volunteers had learned, Social Unity received updates on the FEC battle-rosters. In other words, if Political Harmony Corps captured him, he would be treated as a traitor to Social Unity. Likely, the Thought Police would shoot him in the back of the head and dump his corpse in a mass grave.

Factoring in his present heading and velocity, it would take massive amounts of fuel to brake and redirect his spaceship to Venus. The majority of Venus was still in Social Unity’s hands, but the Highborn had bombarded and laid siege to the planet with a Doom Star, space platforms and orbital fighters. Even if he had the fuel to redirect his flight to Venus, there was little incentive to do so. What held true for Venus in terms of fuel was even truer for Mercury. Besides, the Highborn controlled Mercury. The planet and the Sun-Works Factory that circled it comprised the bastion of Highborn power.

Marten stretched his lower back. He had to sit on the edge of the pilot’s chair to use the control panel, because like everything else in the shuttle, it was sized for a Highborn. It made him feel childlike, and he found that annoying.

He continued to study the data. It was possible he might dock at one of the many open habitats orbiting Earth. The situation there was tenuous, however. At the various Lagrange-points were massive farm habitats. They helped feed Earth’s billions. The Highborn could storm each habitat and cut off some of the planet’s food supply. Or they could beam the laser-launch sites on Earth that propelled the food ships into orbit. Maybe they hadn’t tried yet because it would prove too costly in Highborn casualties storming the habitats. Maybe the Highborn wanted the Earth intact, to use it later as a base for the further conquest of the Solar System. Mass starvation might cause catastrophic destruction of a future industrial basin.

Because of the open policy concerning the farm habitats, it might be possible for him to slip into obscurity there.

Marten checked on the air-mixture as he considered the possibility.

Slipping onto one of the farm habitats could benefit Omi. Omi might need greater medical attention. Their present heading would take them to Earth orbit and that rather quickly. Marten knew Earth customs and could probably blend in more easily there than anywhere else in the solar system.

Marten studied the fuel situation as he plotted possible course headings to Mars and then to Jupiter. It wasn’t simply a matter of distance. It was where in their orbit around the Sun each planet would be when his shuttle reached the needed distance. It soon became clear that Jupiter was too far. He couldn’t actually land on Jupiter, but could head for one of the many moon colonies or cloud cities that orbited the gas giant.

Dejected, Marten slouched in his seat. It had always been his long-term plan to escape to the Jupiter Confederation. He wondered if Nadia Pravda had made it to the emergency pod. If so, her destination would be Jupiter.

Marten grinned at the prospect of holding Nadia again, of kissing her. He wanted to go to Jupiter. He wanted Nadia. Maybe he even needed her. But Jupiter was out presently as a reasonable possibility. That left Mars. He remembered rumors about a rebellion there.

There was a red light blinking on the control panel. Marten’s heart sped up as he tapped keys. Something was wrong in the medical unit.

Marten unbuckled and leaped for the hatch. He sailed too fast and bumped his head. Muttering, practicing greater control, he floated through the hatch and pushed toward the medical chamber. A light was blinking on the life-support monitor.

Marten felt queasy. He wasn’t a doctor. In the clear cylinder, Omi twitched and his features had become blue.

“Don’t die,” Marten whispered. He checked the monitor. It was the air-mixture. There was far too much carbon dioxide in the cylinder. He realized that he’d adjusted for the ship, but the controls on Omi’s system were still recycling the badly-mixed air.

Marten used the emergency release handle. The hatch hissed. Marten swung the hatch open.

His friend stopped twitching and the blueness faded from his skin. After a minute, Marten slid Omi back into the cylinder. He stood and watched for a half-hour.

Then he returned to the oversized pilot’s chair. He had to decide where to go. Before he could, he needed to know more about Mars. He studied the computer files until he found and read HB intelligence reports on the Red Planet. The information surprised him.

Mars had rebelled against its Social Unity garrisons. A single Doom Star had orbited Mars as the Highborn exterminated SU military personnel on the habitats and on the two moons. According to what Marten read, many SU personnel had escaped onto the surface. In other words, part of Mars belonged to Social Unity and the rest was in Rebel hands. The Doom Star had then departed the Mars System. As their last act, they’d installed the Rebels in the surviving orbital military installations.

Marten tapped at the console. The Highborn had left the Rebels, the Mars Planetary Union as they called themselves, in control of near orbital space. The Martians were separate from the Highborn and separate from Social Unity. Might the Mars Planetary Union welcome an ex-military man? Might they greet with open arms an independent captain owning a shuttle?

Marten rechecked the computer. An hour later, he hooked a line to the latch outside the airlock. Marten wore a vacc-suit, with a toolkit on his belt. He floated as stars shined all around him. Behind him, the Sun blazed. Marten magnetized his boots and clanked along the shuttle’s hull. Soon, he reached the friend-or-foe device. He knelt and extracted a wrench from his kit. For the next twenty minutes, he loosened bolts. It brought back fond memories of working with Nadia on the repair pod.

Finally, he detached the unit. He pulled so it floated upward. Then he crouched under it and heaved with all his strength. The friend-or-foe device sailed away into the void.

Let the Highborn monitor that on their computers.

Grinning within his vacc-suit, Marten began clanking back to the airlock. He coiled the safety line as he did so. Once at the airlock, he pressed the switch. But nothing happened. The outer hatch remained shut.

Marten frowned, and tried again. Again, nothing happened. He blinked in growing concerning. Then it hit him. He’d never operated many Highborn-built spaceships. Was this a different design from the ships he’d used while growing up around the Mercury Factory? Maybe it was a Highborn security device, an airlock that couldn’t be opened from the outside.

Marten banged on the hatch. After several blows, he realized that would do nothing at all. Omi was in the medical unit. He was stuck out here in space, with a limited air supply. He’d better think of something else fast.

-2-

“General Hawthorne, sir, this is highly irregular. I must insist you return to headquarters. I can’t possibly guarantee your safety.”

General James Hawthorne was a tall man with gray along his temples. He wore camouflaged body-armor and held his helmet in the crook of his arm. He was the de-facto dictator of Social Unity, a military genius and one of the key reasons the Highborn conquest of Earth had slowed to a crawl.

The speaker was Colonel Diego of the Tenth Battalion of the Sixth Division, Third Army, in South America. It was the hot spot of the war, at the southwestern edge of the mighty Amazon River Basin. The Highborn had just captured La Paz of Bolivia Sector as they continued their push north through the heart of the continent.

General Hawthorne was here because he was tired of watching video-feeds. He wanted to see the real thing, to gain the pulse of his troops and see how the new tactics worked. Thus, he had risked leaving New Baghdad to come here to the jungle warzone.

“An orbital strike occurred yesterday about this time, sir,” Colonel Diego said. He was a slim, stern-featured man, with a slender mustache. He glanced uneasily at Captain Mune and the rest of Hawthorne’s security team.

Everyone stood under the canopy of giant rubber trees. Monkeys screamed in the upper branches. Soldiers waited by heavy artillery tubes. General Hawthorne had just arrived in four tracked infantry carriers packed with his bionic bodyguards.

All the bionic men were like Captain Mune. Specialists had torn these bionic men down and rebuilt them with synthetic muscles, titanium-reinforced bones and sheath-protected nerves. Like Hawthorne, Captain Mune and the others wore camouflage gear. Mune had heavy features that were a little too wide and which hinted at plasti-flesh. He wore a peaked cap, and a barely audible whine emanated from him when he moved. Special enhancement glands had been grafted into him. If the need arose, they would squirt drugs into his bloodstream and dull any pain he might receive or stimulate him to even greater strength and speed. He wore a holstered gyroc pistol. Captain Mune was Hawthorne’s personal bodyguard and had saved his life more than once.

“Carry on, Colonel,” Hawthorne said.

“But, sir, the Highborn battleoids—”

“Are one of the reasons I’m here,” Hawthorne said.

Colonel Diego blinked with incomprehension.

“The Field Marshal has the same concerns you do,” Hawthorne said. “As I told him, I’ll take care of myself.”

“But General—”

“Those are my orders,” Hawthorne said quietly.

Colonel Diego hesitated a moment longer and then turned back to his communications team. They had set up a data-net under a camouflaged tent.

“Our presence has made him nervous,” Hawthorne shortly whispered to Captain Mune.

“You’re making me nervous, sir,” Captain Mune said.

“Nonsense,” Hawthorne said. He put on the helmet and lowered the visor. Then he strode purposefully into the jungle and toward the enemy lines.

Captain Mune motioned the security team. Several bionic men took off running ahead of Hawthorne. They were much heavier than normal troops and their boots sank deeper into the moist soil. The bionic men held gyroc pistols and were conditioned to sell their lives for General Hawthorne’s safety.

Listening to his labored breathing as he climbed over a giant root, Hawthorne understood why everyone was so uneasy. If he died out here, Captain Mune, Colonel Diego and even Field Marshal Santiago would take the blame. It was unfair, but it was how politics worked in Social Unity. Hawthorne knew he shouldn’t be here. But he absolutely needed to know firsthand how the war progressed.

It had been a political risk coming here as it left New Baghdad to the directors, giving them greater freedom to plot against him. In that sense, being here was unwise.

The real political danger for him was the fact that the Highborn were winning the war. Unless he could achieve a real victory against the Highborn, Social Unity was doomed. The strike on the Sun-Works Factory had hurt the Highborn, but not badly enough. It had cost Social Unity too much to do the damage. They had even lost the experimental beamship.

He needed to know if this was the place to attempt a critical defeat against the Highborn. He needed to know if it was even possible. So he took this risk, and he risked the lives of others.

An hour later, after they’d traveled several kilometers deep into the jungle, they finally made contact with the enemy.

“Get down, sir!” Captain Mune shouted. He shoved Hawthorne from behind.

The bionic captain’s strength was irresistible. Hawthorne found himself hurled against a mossy rise. He grunted, his body-armor rattled and his faceplate mashed against the damp soil. For a second, Hawthorne’s lungs locked as harsh, whooshing sounds streaked over him.

Explosions lifted him from the mossy hummock and his armor rattled again as he slammed back down. Hawthorne grunted as weights fell on him. It took several seconds before he realized two bionic soldiers shielded his body with their own.

More explosions occurred. Then something fast and powerful boomed overhead. Were those the new magnetic lifters?

“Get off,” Hawthorne whispered. “I must witness this.” He squirmed free, wiped muck from his visor and blinked to get rid of the spots before his eyes.

Captain Mune lay beside him. “Sir, we must retreat.”

Hawthorne raised himself higher and peered down into a jungle valley. He used his chin to select one of his helmet’s special features: telescopic sighting.

He witnessed a Hawk Team. They were Free Earth Corps, traitorous humans who fought for the Highborn. They used a rugged, fuel-efficient, battlefield jetpack. Two of them lifted into the air, armed with portable missile-launchers. A burning SU infantry carrier lay on its side two hundred meters ahead of the fliers. Three SU soldiers tumbled out of the wreckage. Two missiles streaked from the Hawk Team. There was an explosion, and then no one moved on the burning carrier.

“The bastards,” Hawthorne said through gritted teeth. Before he could order his bionic men to take aim, one of the newer bio-tanks raced out of the jungle growth.

Bio-tanks were smaller than cybertanks, and were built upon different principles. The bio-tank was low to the ground and had a single silver dome atop its tracked body. A portal opened along the silver dome and a chaingun poked through. The chaingun whirled into life, shredding the two jetpack infantry. Other FEC infantry hidden in the trees opened fire with their portable missiles. As the flaming streaks closed upon the bio-tank, the vehicle activated its defensive armament. It exploded beehive-shaped charges. The shrapnel took out all but one missile. That missile cracked the silver dome, and it appeared to have angered the bio-tank. The engine revved. The tracks churned, causing grass and dirt to fly behind it. The bio-tank roared for the trees, its chaingun shredding leaves, branches, bark and FEC soldiers.

“Excellent,” Hawthorne said.

“Sir,” Captain Mune warned.

Hawthorne saw it: a great, bounding humanoid, a Highborn battleoid. With exoskeleton strength, a battleoid could make fifty-meter leaps.

A second and a third bio-tank appeared. They must have tracked the battleoid. Their chainguns poured rounds at the armored Highborn.

Stricken, the battleoid sprawled onto the ground. Then enemy lasers struck. They stabbed down from the heavens. The giant beams melted one of the bio-tanks’ silver domes, and the vehicle exploded. More lasers stabbed down, striking the other bio-tanks.

Hawthorne’s visor polarized and saved his eyes. The lasers were striking uncomfortably near.

Before Hawthorne could stop him with a command, Captain Mune hefted the general onto his shoulder and ran. The other bionic men followed. As they ran, SU artillery began to pound the area with high explosives, no doubt seeking other battleoids. High command desperately sought Highborn casualties. Due to Hawthorne’s orders, they were not aware of his presence in this combat zone.

The giant lasers stabbed down again. They beamed down to Earth from the orbital laser platforms. Hawthorne and his strategy staff had yet to find a battlefield answer to that tactic. Knocking them down was the only real solution. The cost in merculite missiles was always too high, as the Highborn savagely defended the orbital platforms.

“Set me down,” Hawthorne ordered.

“Respectfully, sir,” Captain Mune said, “I must decline. I just heard over Colonel Diego’s data-net that more battleoids are coming. I think the Highborn know you’re here. I think this is a trap to capture you, sir.”

Hawthorne endured the indignity of being carried until Captain Mune reached a tracked infantry carrier.

After setting him down, Captain Mune said, “It’s time we left the battle zone, sir.”

Hawthorne counted bionic men. About half were missing. Had they died so he might live? Was seeing the jetpack infantry killed worth half his security team?

“We must defeat the Highborn,” Hawthorne said.

Captain Mune hustled him toward the infantry carrier.

“There has to be a way to stop them,” Hawthorne said.

“Right now, sir,” Captain Mune said, “I’d just worry about surviving the afternoon.”

The hatch clanged shut. The engine fired into life. As it roared for Colonel Diego’s headquarters, General Hawthorne was sunk deep in gloomy thought.

-3-

Time ticked away for Marten as he sweated outside the shuttle, and his vacc-suit smelled like fear.

He adhered magnetically to the hull. At its present velocity, the shuttle sailed serenely for the Earth System. The stars shined their beauty, but Marten had no interest in them now. He’d worked hard the past half-hour to remove the final plate and gain access to the sensor system.

He checked his air supply. He had another twenty minutes left. The vacc-suit’s tanks hadn’t been fully charged before he gone outside. Marten shook his head. He couldn’t believe the mistakes he’d made these last few hours. For years, he’d dreamed of freedom. For years, he’d labored under rules set by others. With freedom, came responsibility. He could no longer afford the luxury of thinking some of the time. He needed to engage his wits all of the time.

If he survived this, he vowed to plan each move with care. Maybe he had spent too many dreadful weeks lost in space. Maybe that had played havoc with his senses and dulled his mind. He would now sharpen his mind.

There, he finally had it. Marten licked his lips, clipped his tools back onto his belt and pried the plate loose. He used a magnetic bolt to keep the plate fixed against another part of the hull.

Now came the tricky part. He hooked his suit to the sensor net so he could use the ship’s computer. In five minutes, he’d established a link. If there were some Highborn code—

No, no code was needed. That was a mistake on the part of the Highborn, a lack in their security details. They had probably never envisioned someone else gaining control of their shuttle, with the killer locked outside.

Blinking sweat out of his eyes, Marten used voice activation. He wasn’t used to this, and he had little time left, but he managed to override the airlock controls.

The computer told him the outer hatch was open. Marten swallowed hard and clanked along the shuttle’s hull, hurrying now. Time was running out.

He made it to the hatch with five minutes of air left. He closed the outer hatch, pressurized the chamber and opened the inner one. He only had two minutes left as he cracked the seal and twisted off his helmet inside the shuttle. He stood staring at the wall. That had been far too close.

Taking a deep breath, Marten began to open the vacc-suit. He needed to go outside later and reattach the sensor plate. But he couldn’t go now. He was too paranoid to go now. He had to first figure out why the outer hatch hadn’t opened properly. Maybe Lycon done something to it as he’d fought to remain aboard.

There was a lot to do to make this shuttle his and to make sure it was shipshape for a longer voyage to Mars. Marten floated to the oversized pilot’s chair and he reconfigured the flight path.

“Think,” he whispered to himself.

Once he changed heading… would that bring him to the notice of any Doom Stars or to SU warships? A spaceship was difficult to spot. It was such a tiny mote compared to the vastness of space. A shuttle was even harder to see than a warship. Once he fired up the engines, however, that all changed. In the voids, an engine’s heat signature stood out like a beacon. The trick was to be out of range of any warship’s weaponry. A Doom Star had the longest range and any warship could launch a missile.

“You have to tiptoe, Marten,” he said.

For the next hour, Marten studied his radar and teleoptic scopes and all known positions of all warships. The time came when he had to choose. He was nervous. He wondered what he had forgotten. This was the moment. Once he engaged the engines and used up precious fuel, he wasn’t going to be able to change his mind. What he decided now would affect what happened to him months from now.

He first floated to Omi and rechecked everything. Then he returned to the pilot’s chair, reconfigured his course yet again. His stomach was queasy. This was crazy. He was free and that meant he had to be brave.

Finally, he reached out and engaged the thrusters. The one-G of acceleration returned. It brought back gravity, or pseudo-gravity. Marten laughed. He couldn’t believe it, but he laughed with relief. He had made his decision, his biggest yet as a free man.

Now his destination was Mars.

-4-

General James Hawthorne paced with his thin hands clasped behind his back. He was in a bullet train, a magnetic railcar, and speeding in excess of five hundred kilometers per hour. He was crossing through Peru Sector, he believed, the northeastern corner of it. It was dark outside his window, as the train barreled through tunnels most of the way. Because the Highborn owned the air and owned space, this was the safest and presently the fastest transportation on Earth.

He had left the battle zone some time ago. His ribs were still sore where Captain Mune had thrown him onto the ground.

Hawthorne paced before a desk. On the desk was the gun Ulrich had used to murder so many good people. It was made of nickel-plated steel and shone like a polished mirror. Hawthorne bent close and saw himself in the shiny barrel. He kept the gun as a reminder of the treachery that lurked around him.

He believed himself cagier these days. He’d learned from his political mistakes, and he’d vowed never to be taken unaware again. There had been several attempts on his life. He now knew that more assassins would likely come for him.

It was the message that lay on the table beside the slivery pistol that made him paranoid. Madam Director Blanche-Aster had requested an emergency session with him. She was in Central American Sector, waiting for him. That was strange. She should be safely in New Baghdad, not in Central America. Had she engineered a coup attempt in his absence?

Officially, Madam Director Blanche-Aster ran Social Unity. In reality, she was his figurehead. It suited them both. He needed the pretense of her rule to pacify Political Harmony Corps and thirty-eight billion citizens. She needed his skill and military muscle to survive the other scheming directors and to survive Chief Yezhov of PHC.

Why had she come to Central America?

Hawthorne checked his chronometer. Soon, he would find out.

Two hours and fifteen minutes later, there was a heavy rap at the door of General Hawthorne’s railcar.

“Come in,” Hawthorne said. He sat at his desk, reading Julius Caesar’s Commentaries on the Gallic War. He felt as if the Highborn were like Caesar’s Roman Legions and the SU Military like the many Gallic warbands that had suffered endless butchery. Hawthorne kept wondering how the Gauls could have defeated Caesar’s crack legionaries. If he could discover the answer, it might help him against the Highborn.

Captain Mune entered, and said, “Madam Director Blanche-Aster is ready to see you, sir.”

“Did she bring her security clone?”

“I took the precaution of having the clone wait in the detention car, sir.”

“Did you disarm the clone?”

“No, sir.”

Hawthorne nodded, glad for Mune’s discretion. It was wise to hide the steel fist of his rule. Lord Director Enkov had never understood that. It made people more comfortable to pretend they had power, even when they knew better. He wondered why that was, and then dismissed it from his thoughts.

“I’ll go to her,” Hawthorne said, rising.

Captain Mune allowed himself a small smile. “I took the liberty of anticipating you, sir. If you’ll follow me…”

General Hawthorne entered a plush railcar with red carpeting, hanging ferns, famous portraits and fans gentling wafting about the odor of roses. Those odors couldn’t hide the medicinal smells emanating from Blanche-Aster’s special chair.

The Madam Director was one hundred and sixty-two years old. Longevity treatments had controlled the encroachments of age. Her chair kept her breathing. It was a bulky, gleaming-white unit with magnetic repulsors. It floated an inch off the carpet. Tubes snaked from it into her. Fluids surged through the tubes.

Hawthorne nodded a greeting, took a seat across a white cube from her and crossed his legs, idly smoothing a crease in his trousers.

Her vibrantly alive eyes tightened. Tubes rustled as the Madam Director leaned forward. “You’re no doubt curious as to why I’ve traveled this far for a simple conversion,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper.

“You have my attention, madam.”

She gasped at the effort of leaning forward and sank back against her chair. Her withered fingers twitched over armrest buttons and the floating chair backed away from the cube and turned toward a window. Sunlamps burned brightly in the tunnel outside, showing the granite walls.

Hawthorne waited. The gurgles from her chair were the only sounds in the room. Then a slight whine occurred as she faced him.

“I understand you will think my worry part of a subtle plot to remove you from office,” she began. “It is exactly the opposite. I have learned to fear Chief Yezhov.” Her unnaturally smooth features twisted with distaste. “I fear your Captain Mune almost as much. He is inhuman, the wrong direction for humanity to have taken.”

“You may be right about that. However, Captain Mune’s inhumanity has saved my life more than once.” Hawthorne refrained from rubbing his sore ribs.

The Madam Director cackled like a holovid capitalist. Maybe she knew it was a mad sound. She stopped almost the moment she made it. Then her chair floated nearer to her end of the white cube.

“Do you realize that our own arrogance has created this intolerable situation?” she asked.

Hawthorne waited. He had learned that holding his tongue combined with unruffled patience awarded him many advantages. It often made others nervous, and it usually caused them to speak their mind without his having to reveal his position. There was an ancient proverb concerning the matter. Even a fool is thought wise if he keeps silent.

The Madam Director hissed through her teeth. “Our eugenicists created the Highborn in their labs. They spliced genes and tampered with DNA. We wanted the perfect soldiers in order to bring harmony to the Solar System. The capitalists in the Outer Planets recklessly horded the limited resources of our system. Billions live harshly on Earth. With those resources equitably shared under Social Unity, we could have achieved an era of peace and plenty.”

“Ambition often leads to disaster,” Hawthorne said, thinking about the ancient Athenian Empire and its Sicilian Expedition in 415 B.C.

“If we had never created the Highborn,” she said, “we could have averted this war.”

“The past is always more clearly seen than the future.”

The Madam Director scowled. “Aphorisms won’t avert the coming disaster.”

Hawthorne kept his face bland, but she had his interest. She was seldom this agitated.

“We should have understood that altered humans would view reality through altered eyes,” she said. “How could these supermen join us in social harmony? Man is a communal being. In many ways, massed men are like a herd of sheep. It isn’t a complete analogy, but I think you can understand my meaning.”

Hawthorne waited stoically. This lengthy preamble was undoubtedly leading to something momentous. She likely believed he would find her proposition repugnant, so she buttressed it with this speech.

“These words are not heretical to Social Unity theory,” she said. “They are plain facts, if stated in an uncomplimentary fashion. I hope I may speak frankly with you?”

“Our task is to face uncomplimentary facts head-on in the interest of serving the people,” he said.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “That is well-spoken. Chief Yezhov hints that you possess anti-socialist tendencies. Your statement just now belies Yezhov’s words. I have come to understand the steel of your spine. You eye intolerable facts with unwavering resolve. Perhaps a taint or two touches you and infests your thinking. But those are wounds gained in service to Social Unity.”

Hawthorne allowed himself a small twist of his lips.

“General, you should not belittle the importance that the other directors place on Social Unity theory. There are whispers that you attempt to sully the purity of the movement. Your monomaniacal insistence that all cybertanks and bionic soldiers remain under your command has led to strange rumors.”

Was this the thrust of her argument? Was she actually going to try to get him to relinquish command of the pillars of his power? If that was true, it meant she had become his enemy. Hawthorne felt tired then. He didn’t want to order her death. But he couldn’t allow her free rein if she worked this openly against him. Mentally, he began to cast about for her replacement.

“I’m not impugning the bionic soldiers,” she said. “Because of the Highborn, we need them. They are a lesser evil. For all their machinery, the bionic soldiers are still Homo sapiens. The Highborn are not Homo sapiens. They are like…”

“Wolves,” Hawthorne suggested.

Blanche-Aster gave him a blank look.

“You spoke about sheep before,” he said, “so I assumed you knew about wolves.”

“In my younger days, I worked in the farming habitat of Taping Five,” she said.

“It bred sheep?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Wolves were predatory animals like dogs that lived in the wild in the ancient times.”

“Ah,” she said. “I understand the allusion now. Yes, the Highborn are like the pit-fighting dogs that the slum dwellers breed.”

“Sheep and wolves can’t mingle without the wolves devouring the sheep,” Hawthorne said.

“As the Highborn try to devour us,” she said. “That is my point. We are engaged in a death struggle. Either we must exterminate the Highborn or they will replace humanity. Should they win, they won’t slaughter Homo sapiens immediately. But given several hundred years….” She paused as the color of the fluids in her tubes changed from blue to a reddish tinge. Then a clot of deeper red tumbled and wavered like jelly as it surged through the tube and disappeared into the chair.

“I’m not sure I completely agree with you,” Hawthorne said, keeping his face impassive. Her chair—he suppressed a shudder. “History shows that Master Races desire slaves or inferiors. I believe that Homo sapiens shall become a permanent slave race to the Highborn.”

“I have also studied the prehistoric files. What became of the Neanderthals?”

“I concede you your point,” Hawthorne said. “But is it all academic. Social Unity shall defeat the Highborn.”

“With bionic soldiers and cybertanks?” she asked.

A crease appeared in Hawthorne’s broad forehead. “Are you forgetting the cyborgs, Madam Director?”

Her eyes shined with a weird intensity as she leaned toward him.

General Hawthorne understood before she began to speak that here was the reason she’d wanted to meet with him. Here was why she’d left New Baghdad and crossed the ocean.

“I have not forgotten the cyborgs, sir. Consider what has occurred. Our eugenicists labored intensively for many years to mold the Highborn. They are biologically altered men. They were created to become a soldier race. Meanwhile, other scientists funded by us were hard at work in the Neptune System. They labored to create the perfect machine-man.” The Madam Director cackled. “I have taken to calling them Genus Cyborgus.”

“An apt name,” Hawthorne said.

“More apt than you realize,” she said. “As I was saying, our biological creation has rebelled against us. They captured the Doom Stars and with them seized control of the orbital space of Mercury, Venus, Earth and Mars.”

“They have retreated from Mars,” Hawthorne said.

“Please bear with me. The Highborn have also seized the Sun-Works Factory, the greatest industrial plant in the Solar System. They have conquered Antarctica and the islands of Earth and are in the process of conquering South America. Now we seek the help of the second creation, the machine men, to oust the biological error. But do we realize that the machine-men will be even worse than the altered biological men are? Instead of pit dogs among us, we will have automated killers.”

Hawthorne uncrossed his legs. “Madam, we already have machine men. The bionic soldiers.”

“No!” she said. “The bionic men are still human. The cyborgs are something completely different.”

“I have read the files. What you—”

“The files,” she sneered. “The files. Ha! Have you seen the cyborgs? Have you spoken with someone who lived through an encounter with them?”

“Have you?”

“Yes! Yes, I have. And I realize that we have sent for annihilation to save us from subjugation.”

Her fervor surprised Hawthorne. “Would you care to share this information with me?”

“May I use the holograph in the cube?” she asked.

“By all means,” he said.

The Madam Director pressed buttons on her armrest.

The top of the white cube between them flickered with life, projecting a holographic image. It showed a man-shaped being, bald, with plasti-flesh and dead, shark-like eyes. He moved with uncanny speed. It was a combat video, jerky, sometimes showing nothing but blasted buildings or falling men. There were occasional glimpses of the cyborg.

“Where did you get this?” Hawthorne asked.

The Madam Director twitched her withered fingers. “I have connections with PHC Outer Planets Intelligence.”

“Yezhov gave it to you?”

Madam Director Blanche-Aster gave another of her unnerving cackles. “No, no, Yezhov has no idea I have this. He awaits the cyborgs with great relish.”

“Why?”

The old woman bit her lower lip, and the grim vibrancy in her eyes become hooded, perhaps for the first time showing fear.

“Not all the experimentation occurred in the Neptune System,” she said. “Yezhov has access to the scientists who labored in secret here on Earth.”

“I’ve heard nothing of this.”

“No, no, I should have been surprised if you had. You know about Yezhov’s brain-wiped agents, the ones he plans to use to assassinate Highborn.”

“I’m familiar with the project.”

“General, there is a process….” She tapped a button and an arm extended from her medical unit with a small fan on the end. The fan whirred into life, gently blowing air into her perspiring face. “I debated a long time about this. For I’ve come to understand that your position is weaker than Chief Yezhov’s position. He waits for an unbeatable addition to his power base. He could use my secret help and it would cement my place in the new order. Even so, I have decided to risk everything and unreservedly throw in my lot with yours. Yezhov doesn’t understand the horror he wishes to use. All he knows is that he desires to rule Social Unity. The cyborgs have created an assembly line, a ghastly thing that tears down a human and recreates him or her into a cyborg.”

“Tears down? As Captain Mune has been torn down?”

“No,” Blanche-Aster whispered. “Can’t you understand what I’m trying to say? The Highborn have shattered Inner Planets. They have torn much of Earth from our control. They own Mercury. They have allowed the Planetary Union Rebels to regroup on Mars. Venus is under constant bombardment. The biologically altered Highborn have pushed us into a corner, but we’re battling hard to remain free. Imagine how much worse our situation will be once a true race of machine-men has escaped our control. The cyborgs have the means to expand like a virus among us. We cannot allow them to land on Earth. If that happens, our demise shall be swift.”

“Your holographic image was unsettling, but hardly—”

“I have another clone,” Blanche-Aster whispered.

Hawthorne sat very still, and he noticed movement on the farthest wall, a tiny spider slowly crawling toward the ceiling. For a moment, he wondered if it was a mechanical listening device, a new type of spy-stick. Another clone was news, and he realized how difficult it must have been for the Madam Director to tell him this.

“My second clone arrived from the Neptune System three weeks ago,” Blanche-Aster said. “The holovid was brought by her. I request that you speak with her.”

“…that can be arranged.”

“If you let the cyborgs land on Earth, General, we are doomed. I assure you that neither you nor your bionic men will be able to control them. They will quickly see that Yezhov will give them the freedom of operation they will want. They will help engineer Yezhov’s rise to power. That rise can only occur over your corpse.”

“What do you suggest I do?”

Madam Director Blanche-Aster grimaced. “What I would now do if I were in charge. Blast the cyborgs in their pods before they can unload.”

“Murder them?”

“Yes!”

“Because you fear them?”

“Because we’ve created our own aliens, General. Because they will supplant us in ways that would make the Highborn seem benevolent.”

Hawthorne stood up and strode to the window. The harsh lights showed the granite cracks in the tunnel. Water dripped there. They lived like moles because of the Highborn. Cyborgs—he recalled the bio-tanks. Programmed human brain mass ran the bio-tanks. Why should these cyborgs be any different? What was the real reason behind the Madam Director’s request?

“When can I speak with your second clone?” he asked.

“In an hour if you desire it. I brought her along with me to Central American Sector. She’s waiting in the city.”

Hawthorne regarded the Madam Director. “I’ll speak with Captain Mune. Let us say, two hours from now.”

“Wonderful.”

“You will remain my guest during that time. Hm. To make it easy, I’ll have you stay here on my bullet train.”

The Madam Director smiled grimly. “That you’re so suspicious raises my hopes that you’ll understand the danger. We must not compound our errors.”

General Hawthorne thought about that. Then he inclined his head and took his leave.

-5-

“I don’t recommend this, sir,” Captain Mune said.

General Hawthorne and the bionic soldier stood outside the cell where Blanche-Aster’s second clone waited. A vidscreen showed the clone sitting at a table. She was young, with short brunette hair, a thin face and a long, supple body. She wore the brown uniform of a habitat farm-worker. Unlike the Madam Director’s other clone who had been a bodyguard, this one had a fervent manner. She tried to maintain indifference, but her gaze slid about the cell. She seemed nervous. She either twitched fingers, her shoulders or blinked too rapidly.

“This clone is a PHC Outer Planet’s Intelligence operative,” Hawthorne said.

Captain Mune adjusted the controls of the vidscreen. It showed a modified x-ray image of her body. He zoomed to the base of her skull, to a tiny black dot there.

“It’s artificial,” Captain Mune said.

“Did the Madam Director send you the clone’s medical specs?”

Captain Mune nodded. “According to them, the implant was fused in her skull before she spaced out to Neptune. It’s a neural-charged explosive.”

Hawthorne recalled the neural inhibitor Ulrich had once stuck to him.

“Its purpose is what?” Hawthorne asked.

“The specs say the clone can will the device to explode. The Madam Director has gone to great lengths to ensure that no one can turn her clones against her.”

“Has the explosive been tampered with?” Hawthorne asked.

“We haven’t been able to establish that,” Captain Mune said.

“You think it has?”

“It’s my job to be paranoid, sir. I suggest you talk to her via vidscreen.”

“Would the explosive be enough to take out both of us?”

“No, sir.”

“Where is the danger then?”

“She could attack you physically, sir.”

“I am combat-trained,” Hawthorne said.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but you’re an older man.”

“And I am a man and she’s a woman.”

“If the Madam Director is correct concerning the devious nature of the cyborgs, who knows what other surprises have been modified into her.”

“Enhancement drugs?” asked Hawthorne.

“She may also have been trained in special fighting techniques.”

Hawthorne clasped his hands behind his back and scowled at the clone. For months now, he had awaited the cyborgs’ arrival. He desperately needed shock troops superior to the Highborn. The war in South America went against them in a slow and bitter grind of attrition.

Hawthorne unclipped his holster and withdrew his sidearm, a Gauss needler that fired heavy steel needles. It had a rubber-coated grip so it wouldn’t slip and felt good in his hand. He checked the gun, flipped the safety so it was ready for immediate fire and shoved it back into the holster.

“Even an old man can draw a needler,” Hawthorne said.

“Her reflexes may have been enhanced.”

“Paranoia is a good attribute in a bodyguard. For the Supreme Commander of Social Unity it can lead to paralysis. I must weigh the risks versus the benefits, play the odds and then strike boldly if that is called for. Deciding what to do with the cyborgs could be the most critical decision of my life. If she’s been tampered with so she’ll attack me, I want to know that. I suspect the only way to learn the truth is to present myself as a target.”

“If she makes it past your needler and is killing you, sir, do we have permission to gas the chamber?”

Hawthorne nodded curtly. Then he adjusted his holster and strode for the entrance to the cell.

Hawthorne sat across the table from the clone. He shook his head. The clone’s name was Rita Tan. It felt odd, because Rita Tan used the Madam Director’s voice and had many of her mannerisms. What Rita lacked was the Madam Director’s confidence.

Here was a person who had seen too many horrors up close. She acted like a person who believed the world was under imminent doom, and that no one else understood the nature of the peril. Rita Tan blinked much too rapidly. Her head jerked at the oddest moments and she had the annoying habit of smiling too much as if she feared Hawthorne would attack unless she pacified him. Rita Tan put her elbows on the table and leaned forward too far. Her facial skin was stretched and she spoke in a hushed tone.

“He showed me the assembly line, the process.” Rita shuddered. “It removed the skin and incinerated it. The stench was horrible. The saws, the artificial attachments—it removed the brain and put it in a sheathed braincase, and connected a new spinal column.”

“Why did this….”

“Toll Seven,” she whispered.

“Why did Toll Seven show you the assembly line?”

“They calculate their actions using logic parameters. The trouble is I had no idea of their ideal outcome and what weights they put to each action. I found their speech either incomprehensible or frighteningly naive.”

“Did Toll Seven or the others give any indication they planned—”

“I escaped that night,” whispered Rita. “I knew they planned to alter me, to strip away my flesh, my humanity, and implant my brain into a cyborg body. I used sleep enhancers and shot to Earth using full thrust. I had to beat them here. I had to warn my mother. You can stop them, can’t you? You can order their destruction? You have the authority, I hope?”

Hawthorne gave her a small nod.

Rita Tan sat back and sagged in her chair. “Then I’m not too late. Please tell me you have the authority to order the pods blasted out of space. I have to speak—”

“Calm yourself,” Hawthorne said, as below the table he secretly wrapped his hand on the butt of his needler. Rita Tan wanted too much assurance he had the authority.

She blinked rapidly.

“I am the Supreme Commander of Social Unity,” Hawthorne said. “All final authority rests with me. Yes, I will destroy the pods.”

Rita Tan’s head jerked to the left. She gave him a weird smile and she opened her mouth. Then she surged with manic speed, flinging the table at him.

Hawthorne had expected such an obvious tactic. Despite his age and lanky frame, he rolled out of the chair, and kept rolling as he drew the needler. The altered clone was fast, maybe even faster than what Captain Mune had suggested. Rita twitched her head with insect-like rapidity, pivoted even as she lunged the wrong way, and changed direction to fly at him.

The Gauss needler was a deadly weapon against unarmored opponents. It used a magnetic impulse to shoot a heavy steel needle, and it fired a great number of needles in a matter seconds.

Firing from the hip, Hawthorne sprayed needles at Rita Tan. The needler made its signature crackling noise. The first few missed. They smashed against the steel wall behind her and disintegrated, flinging sliver-like shards. From the floor, Hawthorne aimed. Rita Tan screamed wildly, a battle cry meant to frighten her opponent or to increase her chi as she attacked. The needles riddled her torso, ten in less than a second. Twitching in agony, she thudded onto Hawthorne and knocked the needler from his grasp. He shouted as the door swished open.

Hawthorne flung Rita Tan away as Captain Mune charged into the room, his gyroc pistol ready. She flopped onto the floor as Mune snapped off a single shot. Because of the short distance, the rocket-packet in his gyroc round never ignited. The rocket-bullet smashed against the middle of her back, however. With a grunt, she sagged to the floor. She had been rising to attack anew. She twisted her head to glare at Hawthorne. Her lips writhed. Hawthorne groped for his needler. Then the back of her head exploded and rained blood and bone.

The tiny implant had done its grisly duty.

Shocked, Hawthorne stared at Captain Mune. The bionic soldier moved fast as he knelt beside the twitching corpse. He slid it across the room, away from Hawthorne.

“Never mind that,” Hawthorne said in a hoarse voice. He was breathing hard. The clone had attacked him. The implications might be far-reaching. “Leave her!” Hawthorne shouted.

Captain Mune looked up.

“This could be the beginning of a coup attempt,” Hawthorne said. “Chief Yezhov and the Madam Director might be working in concert.”

Captain Mune’s features hardened. He surged to his feet, whirled around and aimed his gyroc at the open door in one incredibly fast motion. His gun-hand was rock steady and the muscles in it were rigid and stood out in stark relief.

Hawthorne pulled out his communicator as it crackled with life, and he began to issue instructions to his security team.

That’s when an even heavier explosion occurred outside. It rocked the railcar. Hopefully, it lacked the power to bring the tunnel down on them.

-6-

Three shiny jets streaked across the Atlantic Ocean one hundred meters above sea level. They were the latest in military technology, built with laser reflectors. A powerful headwind blew against them and caused the steel-colored ocean below to seethe with white-capped waves.

In the second jet, General Hawthorne stared out of the polarized canopy. He stared at the dark clouds in the sky. High above the clouds lurked orbital laser platforms and Highborn orbital launch stations. Heavy orbital fighters often swooped down from those stations. It was a terrible risk flying across the Atlantic like this. Lasers or orbital fighters could easily take out these three jets. Using a fast submarine would have wiser.

Hawthorne shook his head. It might have been wiser for his personal security while crossing the ocean, but foolish for a different reason.

In the first jet sat the late Madam Director’s prime clone, the former bodyguard. The second clone was dead, her head a gory ruin. The Madam Director was also dead. The remains of Hawthorne’s security team had poked through the wreckage of the bullet train. The blast that had nearly killed everyone in the tunnel had come from her bulky chair.

In the jet, Hawthorne brooded about that. If she had wanted to kill him and had been willing to die to do it, why hadn’t she exploded her chair during their meeting? The prime clone, the former bodyguard, had provided a possible answer. It was the reason why the prime clone made the emergency trip to New Baghdad with him and with Captain Mune in the last jet.

Captain Mune’s people had questioned the prime clone, the surviving bodyguard named Lisa Aster. They had pumped her with interrogation drugs. What they’d learned troubled Hawthorne. The late Madam Director had feared the cyborgs, had talked about it ever since the second clone had returned from the Neptune System. According to the prime clone, the bodyguard, the second clone from the Neptune System had spent several hours alone with the Madam Director. That was highly unusual, according to the bodyguard clone. Afterward, the Madam Director had seemed disoriented.

As the jet continued to flash across the Atlantic Ocean, Hawthorne came to a decision. The clone from the Neptune System, the one whose head had exploded, had been tampered with by the cyborgs. That clone must have inserted the bomb in the Madam Director’s chair. That the bomb had passed Captain Mune’s security x-rays likely meant the Neptune-tampered clone had used advanced technology. By the compromised clone’s actions, the cyborgs had sent her back here in order to assassinate him, the head of Social Unity.

The conclusion was obvious: the cyborgs were his enemies. Hawthorne didn’t know why the cyborgs had rebelled, but that didn’t matter now. Getting back to New Baghdad before word of the assassination attempt leaked out was what mattered.

Hawthorne leaned toward the polarized canopy, staring down at the waves. It was intolerable that the head of Social Unity had to scurry across Earth. They were losing the war, and now a needed ally had become a liability. Hawthorne pressed his forehead against the pilot’s seat ahead of him. He closed his eyes and began to do some deep thinking.

General Hawthorne survived the trip and landed at New Baghdad. Captain Mune immediately led the city’s security teams through the vast, underground megalopolis. An hour later, Hawthorne received a call from Chief Yezhov of Political Harmony Corps.

“General Hawthorne,” Chief Yezhov said over a vidscreen. “I’m getting reports you’re back in the city.”

Hawthorne sat at his desk with a computer stylus in hand, as if he was hard at work on a project. He stared into the vidscreen, attempting to appear impatient because he was so busy. It was a ploy to confuse Yezhov.

“Yes, I’m back,” said Hawthorne.

The head of Political Harmony Corps wore a scarlet uniform and a black plastic helmet held in place by a chinstrap. He had pale skin, washed-out blue eyes and a ridiculous little mustache, twin dots under his nose. He was short and thin and possessed an almost nonexistent chin.

“How—” Chief Yezhov frowned. “I thought you were in South America.”

“Yes.”

Chief Yezhov blinked like a reptile. “…I’ve heard rumors that the Madam Director is dead.”

“You are amazingly well-informed. I’d hoped to keep her heart attack secret a little while longer.”

“…I see. A heart attack,” Yezhov mused. “That is most unfortunate. We shall mourn the great lady.”

“Orders for a temporary blackout of communications are about to go in effect,” Hawthorne said. “Any unauthorized back-channel use will be severely punished.”

“You of course do not mean Political Harmony Corps.”

“The delicate nature of yet another Director-in-Chief dying so soon after Enkov’s accident means we must proceed with extreme caution. While I applaud your devotion to duty, I must insist on your cooperation in the coming investigation. There is a possibility that some of your deputies have exceeded their authority.”

“It is with the greatest reluctance that I must disagree with you, General.”

“The possibility occurred to me,” Hawthorne said. “If you will look out your window, I imagine you’ll see a squad of cybertanks patrolling the premises. It might seem highhanded or excessively militant, but a breach of the emergency blackout orders will result in a cybertank assault on PHC Headquarters.”

“…you take heavy responsibilities upon yourself, General.”

“That may be true. Since we shall be working so closely together in the future, Chief Yezhov, I feel you should be the first to hear about my promotion.”

“You’re stepping onto the Directorate?”

“I hold the maxims of Social Unity too highly for such a move,” Hawthorne said. “Instead, the remaining directors have just ratified a new rank for me. For the duration of the emergency I am the Supreme Commander of Inner Planets.”

“The directors voted on this?” Yezhov asked with obvious disbelief.

“The surviving directors,” Hawthorne said.

Yezhov’s pale reptilian eyes narrowed. “Did more than one director have a heart-attack?”

“Including the Madam Director, there were three.”

“…I see.”

“I dearly hope you do, Chief Yezhov, as I need your cooperation for the coming fight. I may count on it, yes?”

“PHC will never cease struggling for ultimate victory.”

“I am a military man and am used to something a little less ambiguous.”

“…I shall cooperate with you, General. Excuse me, Supreme Commander. May I be the first to congratulate you on your elevation in status.”

“Thank you, Chief. If you would be kind enough to arrive at my headquarters in the next half-hour, I will outline my revised policies. And please, no clones this time.” Hawthorne referred to Yezhov’s use of a clone during the initial coup that had gained him, Hawthorne, control of Social Unity.

Chief Yezhov pursed his lips. “May I be indelicate enough to ask for assurances?”

“That will be one of my newest principles,” Hawthorne said. “Social Unity will only survive this ongoing crisis with the highest display of trust between its members.”

“I must trust you?”

“Either that, Chief Yezhov, or trust my cybertanks to do their duty.”

“I agree. A new era of trust will help stiffen resolve. There has been far too much distrust lately.”

“If it’s any consolation, Chief, I need men like you if we’re going to defeat the Highborn.”

“Men like me, Supreme Commander?”

“Cunning infighters with a gift for assassination,” Hawthorne said.

“You give me too much credit.”

“We shall see. A half-hour, Chief. Then—”

“I understand. I’m on my way.”

-7-

Grand Admiral Cassius, the leader of the Highborn, stood in a viewing port of the Hannibal Barca. It was the nearest of the Doom Stars to Earth. The Grand Admiral admired the blue planet. South America was in sight, with heavy cloud cover over the Amazon River Basin.

Cassius had iron-colored hair and gray eyes. He stood like a granite statue, but there was a terrible intensity in his stare. He wore his admiral’s uniform, complete with a Stellar Cross pinned to his chest and above it a Platinum Nebula. He had won the Platinum Nebula, the highest medal in the Social Unity Space Force, for his brilliant victory of the Second Battle of Deep Mars Orbit in 2339. That had been before the Highborn Rebellion. There, twelve years ago, he had broken the combined space fleets of the Mars Rebels and the Allied forces of the Jupiter Confederation.

The Grand Admiral heard a door open behind him. There was rustling and shuffling. The Hannibal Barca was presently under pseudo-gravity caused by rotation. With the shuffling sounds came a heavy odor. There were also low, angry mutterings.

Cassius frowned for a moment. Then understanding lit his gray eyes. Rock-still, a terrible change came over him. His was a fierce intensity. He held every muscle rigid to prevent them from trembling in anticipation of swift death.

From the strange smell and the muttering, it was clear that neutraloids were behind him, altered humans. They were blue-skinned, and each had been castrated. They were the Praetor’s invention. The Praetor was presently in the Earth System, and the Praetor was his greatest enemy among the Highborn.

It was possible this was a crude ploy of assassination on the Praetor’s part. Either that or one of the Praetor’s supporters hoped to present the Praetor with an amazing victory.

Cassius used the viewing port. But he no longer watched the blue planet, the jewel of the Solar System. Instead, he used the faint reflection of the viewing port glass. He watched the neutraloids shuffle into the chamber behind him.

They were muscular to an intense degree. Some held stunners. Others gripped vibroknives. Each wore a harness around his blue-tattooed torso. The Grand Admiral had read the reports on the neutraloids. They were dangerous, certainly, but their conditioned rage made it difficult for them to use anything but their hands in combat.

Cassius nodded to himself. This assassination attempt was due to insufficient danger. The Highborn needed deadly goals to concentrate their thinking. When they lacked deadly goals, the infighting began. The trouble was that Cassius was waiting for the premen of Social Unity to make their grand move. He had studied the files concerning their directors and this General Hawthorne. Cassius thought South America might be the location of the big push on the premen’s part. Until that push occurred, he kept most of his Highborn out of combat there. Let the premen bled each other. The FEC armies had their uses.

Ah, the neutraloids hesitated. That hesitation might allow one or two of them time to use their wits.

“Come on then,” said Cassius. “If you’re going to do it, do it!”

Behind him, the neutraloids snarled. They were so easily enraged. An enraged foe usually made critical blunders. He would have to enrage the Praetor in a subtle way. Yet, the Praetor had a following, and the Praetor possessed powerful friends in high command. He would have to handle that delicately.

Behind him, one of the neutraloids hurled his stunner.

Grand Admiral Cassius shifted. The stunner flew past him and cracked against the viewing port. He allowed himself a low, taunting chuckle.

The snarling intensified. The small creatures shuffled nearer. One of them actually lifted his stunner as if to aim.

Had the Praetor’s Training Masters made a breakthrough among the neutraloids? Cassius decided he would have to change that. These neutraloids, he despised the entire angle of them. Castration—it was disgusting.

Grand Admiral Cassius whirled around as a leaner neutraloid lifted his stunner and fired. The charge took Cassius in the gut, caused him to stagger backward. A numb sensation spread across his stomach.

The seven neutraloids howled and gnashed their teeth. Stunners and vibroblades hit the deck, but not all of them. Another stunner numbed the Grand Admiral’s left thigh. Then the neutraloids charged in a pack, screaming in their high-pitched voices, taunting him with obscenities. They shouted what they would do to his corpse.

Grand Admiral Cassius was a nine-foot giant with impossible strength and abnormal reflexes. He used his fists like sledgehammers and waded among the berserk creatures. He took a deep gash in the side and another in his numbed thigh. Neutraloids bounced off the walls, hit the deck with broken bones and fell with crushed skulls.

The survivors screamed wild cries. Cassius roared with joy, with battle-madness. He tore the last neutraloids apart as a shredding machine might pulp wood. Combat, he loved it. To win, to crush, it was the joy of life.

He lifted the last neutraloid above his head and heaved the creature against the bulkhead. The sound of breaking bones was beautiful. In such a manner, he would break the Praetor and break the premen who sought to survive against their genetic superiors, the new lords of the Solar System.

-8-

Twelve days after taking the title of Supreme Commander, Hawthorne sat at his desk. His eyes ached from reading endless reports.

He turned off the vidscreen and leaned back, rubbing his temples. Then he opened a drawer, took out a bottle and twisted the cap, dumping three white capsules onto his palm. He popped them into his mouth and chewed. The pills were dry, with a bitter taste. He swallowed several times, wishing he had a glass of water.

His security team lacked Political Harmony Corps’ subtlety. If only he could trust Yezhov. Then they could pull Earth’s resources together and aim them all solely at the Highborn. The deadly infighting between directors and between the various governmental agencies sapped too much energy, stole too much time and misdirected the focus of too many powerful personalities. That this power-struggle was part of man’s inherent nature didn’t make it any easier to accept. One would have thought that with such a frightening enemy as the Highborn, everyone’s focus would be on species-survival.

A blue light blinked on his vidscreen. He pressed the communication’s button and Captain Mune’s harsh features appeared.

“I have a priority message from Commodore Blackstone of the Vladimir Lenin,” said Mune.

“How did to it come to route through you?”

“It has a Security Gold clearance.”

Hawthorne massaged his forehead, bewildered. Then he realized that Security Gold was from the old days, before the Highborn attack that had taken out Geneva.

Hawthorne split the vidscreen and typed in, Vladimir Lenin. Ah, it was a Zhukov-class battleship. They had too few of those. It was stationed in a far-Mars orbit.

“A priority message?” Hawthorne asked.

“Shall I patch it through, sir?”

“Please.”

Hawthorne sat up as he became aware of what he was reading from Commodore Blackstone. The Vladimir Lenin had been in far-Mars orbit for a singular reason. That a Zhukov-class battleship had been used instead of a picket ship was incredible and almost criminally wasteful of space combat resources. Through powerful teleoptic scopes, the battleship had monitored the nearly invisible cyborg battle pods. The only reason the Vladimir Lenin had been able to do that was that the tracking officer there had been given the exact coordinates to watch.

The critical part of the Security Gold message read: The battle pods have begun deceleration. According to the computer’s estimates, that will bring them into near-Mars orbit in fifty-seven days.

According to Hawthorne’s information, the cyborgs were supposed to head directly to Earth. Why then had they begun deceleration for Mars? Hawthorne lurched to his feet and began to pace. He strode back and forth along the worn lane in his carpet. He ignored a call on his communicator. Captain Mune knocked on the door several minutes later.

“Handle it!” Hawthorne shouted through the door. “I’m thinking.” There was no second knock and no further communication interruptions.

Hawthorne clasped his bony hands behind his back. His head tilted forward to what many of his officers would have recognized as his ‘deep thinking’ pose. As he churned his way back and forth across his carpet, the headache receded and then disappeared altogether. He examined many apparently disparate facts. Then he began to think about Doom Stars, the bedrock of Highborn power.

When he was like this, Hawthorne had likened his mind to a computer that pulled up one file and examined it with complete concentration. He brought up the next file and gave his complete concentration to it in turn. He halted once and looked up in wonder. He had been so consumed with cyborgs, directors and maintaining political power, that strategy for the war had fallen into second place.

Whoever had convinced the cyborgs to go to Mars must have done it to hurt him. It might now be possible to use the cyborgs there for Social Unity’s good. Who had alerted them? Chief Yezhov seemed like the logical villain.

Hawthorne savagely shook his head. That wasn’t the important point now. He hurried to the computer. For the next nine hours, he used his computer stylus on the touchboard and voice-activated the keyboard. He sped-read through report after report concerning Mars. He laughed twice. It was a predatory sound. He began to outline a classic Hawthorne strategy. He had come to understand Highborn mentality and now used that to his fullest advantage.

At the end of the nine hours, he threw himself back against his chair so it creaked ominously. His eyes were red-rimmed and his features haggard.

He lurched to his feet and strode to the door, shouting for Captain Mune the minute it opened. He would sleep for several hours and take a special cocktail of stimulants when he awoke. Then he would meet with Chief Yezhov and afterward summon his military staff. A strategy had finally revealed itself, one that could give him the lever Social Unity desperately needed to turn the tide of the war.

He would send a reinforcement convoy from Earth filled with desperately needed supplies. The trick would be to slip the convoy past the Doom Stars that besieged the planet. Many SU warships were already headed for Mars. He would order all the others there, as well. The SU Battlefleet would be the bait for the Highborn, to draw Doom Stars to Mars. With the cyborgs’ help, he could destroy Doom Stars and change the course of the war. Why would the cyborgs help him? The answer was easy. They would help him to confuse him. Through Chief Yezhov, he would let the cyborgs understand that he didn’t suspect them. To keep themselves from being suspected, the cyborgs would have to help him win the battle for Mars.

“You’re a clever bastard,” Hawthorne whispered. Then he hurried for the first of many meetings.

-9-

Nine long, frantic days passed. Hawthorne functioned with the aid of stimulants as he prepared for the Mars campaign. He seldom slept as he raced to a hundred different locations, pushing officers and lashing others into a frenzy of effort. During that time, the Strategy Staff turned his idea into a detailed set of operational orders.

However, nine days was too short a time to write the operational orders from scratch. Fortunately, the Strategy Staff had long studied and planned for a hundred different operations. Many of those operations were wildly exotic in military terms, perfect now for Hawthorne’s needs. Code Valkyrie, Code Vida Blue, Operational Plan XVII and Skyhook Thirteen each had enough similarities to different aspects of Hawthorne’s idea to be useful. Thus, various members of the Strategy Staff lifted entire sections of those plans, changing details, and incorporating them into the Campaign for Mars.

The governmental machinery of Social Unity was ponderous. The military found it difficult to race at Hawthorne’s speed. The highest levels of Political Harmony Corps grew concerned and then alarmed once it realized the scope of the initial steps in Hawthorne’s plan. Despite Hawthorne’s dictatorial powers, key members in PHC, the Army and the Directorate coalesced into stubborn blocs. They pointed out the dangers of Hawthorne’s plan, and there were many.

Finally, on Day Seven, Hawthorne called an emergency meeting with Chief Yezhov of Political Harmony Corps, Director Danzig of Eurasia, Director Juba-Ryder of Africa, Air Marshal Crowfoot of Earth-Air Defense and Commander Sargon of Orbital Sector.

The meeting began at 7:17 P.M. around a large conference table. It was in the basement of Hawthorne’s emergency command center in Kazakhstan Underground Launch Site 10. Captain Mune attended, sitting in the back like a statue, with his gyroc pistol resting on his lap.

From the Supreme Commander’s biocomp transcriptions, File #9:

HAWTHORNE: Gentleman, madam (speaker nods to Director Juba-Ryder of Africa) time presses with its inexorable weight. The Highborn gained the advantage over Inner Planets with their precision first strikes. They commandeered the Doom Stars, captured the Sun Works Ring and obliterated the old Directorate and Social Unity’s governmental agencies when they destroyed Geneva on the first day of the rebellion. That paralyzed Inner Planets for too many weeks in the opening stages of the war.

YEZHOV: I hope the Supreme Commander forgives me for interrupting.

HAWTHORNE: That is the purpose for this emergency session. Tonight, you are free to air your grievances.

YEZHOV: I assure you, sir, I have no grievances. Rather, they are qualms.

DANZIG: Let’s not quibble, Chief. (To Hawthorne) Instead of grievances, Excellency, I have stark fear concerning this coming assault against the Highborn.

HAWTHORNE: Fear is reasonable. Before you air your fears, however, I want you to realize the nature of the war.

YEZHOV: If I might interrupt again, sir. We know the history of the war. A recap—

HAWTHORNE: Is necessary, Chief. If you would indulge me?

YEZHOV: (nods reluctantly.)

HAWTHORNE: (looks around the table.) The Highborn have unusual abilities. It is part of their genetic heritage. They gained the initiative at the commencement of the rebellion and they have never released it. Fortunately, Social Unity retains many of its spaceships, although these vessels have scattered into the deepness of space.

DANZIG: What good do these spaceships do us then? The Highborn gobble up chunks of landmass here on Earth. Soon, only Eurasia and Africa will be left to us.

HAWTHORNE: Exactly.

DANZIG: (pounds the table with his fist.) Then why are you endangering Eurasia? Your madness—

YEZHOV: No! You are wrong to slur the Supreme Commander.

DANZIG: He gave us permission to speak our mind.

HAWTHORNE: I am a man of my word.

YEZHOV: But to call your plan madness. Will you allow that, sir?

HAWTHORNE: I desire to understand the Director’s logic for use of such a word.

DANZIG: Madness was the wrong word, sir. I beg your pardon.

HAWTHORNE: Granted.

DANZIG: You know I’m an emotional man. My heart seethes with hatred against those genetic abominations. The madmen of the old Directorate— As you say, Chief Yezhov, that is old history. I fear for Eurasia. Sir, you staked your reputation and dared to expend much political prestige pushing for increased proton beam construction and a quadrupling of the merculite missile production. Because of that, we have greatly increased the depth of our defenses. Isn’t that right?

CROWFOOT (Air Marshal of Earth-Air Defense): Our coverage has increased one hundred and sixteen percent.

DANZIG: Does that include the anti-air batteries?

CROWFOOT: Our production levels there have given us a three hundred percent increase.

DANZIG: There’s my point, sir. You’ve pushed for massive increases against space-borne attacks. Now you wish to fire our merculite missiles to cover the launching of your space fleet. With the depletion of our stocks of merculites, it will make us vulnerable again. Eurasia is the heart of Inner Planets. If it goes, the war is over. We know that. The Highborn must know it too.

HAWTHORNE: My plan is a gamble. You are quite correct in pointing that out.

YEZHOV: Supreme Commander, have I heard correctly? Are you admitting that Director Danzig is right?

HAWTHORNE: Only in that Eurasia will soon be more vulnerable to attack.

DANZIG: Am I missing something, sir?

YEZHOV: I cannot fathom why you would disarm us. I hope you do not take offense, but this seems criminally negligent.

SARGON (Commander of Orbital Sector): I didn’t want to say this. In lieu of what I’ve heard here, however, I feel I must. Supreme Commander, Code Valkyrie will threaten the Earth with mass starvation. You must realize this. The open habitat policy between the Highborn and us is of a very delicate nature. Your gross violation of the understanding will doom millions, perhaps billions to a slow and painful death.

JUBA-RYDER (Director of Africa): This is unseemly. You gentlemen are openly accusing the Supreme Commander of sabotage. I protest in the strongest manner possible.

YEZHOV: If it’s any help in understanding the situation, Political Harmony Corps’ psychology profile shows the Supreme Commander to have a greater leaning toward the Highborn than to Social Unity.

CAPTAIN MUNE: (stands up.)

HAWTHORNE: (motioning Captain Mune to sit down) Would you clarify that statement, please, Chief Yezhov?

YEZHOV: I mean no disrespect, sir, but your thought patterns are nearer those of Highborn soldiers than a grounded practitioner of Social Unity.

HAWTHORNE: If a man came at you with a gun, Chief, would you fight with your bare hands?

YEZHOV: You are Social Unity’s gun, sir?

HAWTHORNE: I detest false modesty and bragging. So let me put it this way. Social Unity has hurt the Highborn twice and only twice. Each of those times, the idea that propelled the action that harmed the Highborn was mine.

JUBA-RYDER: Chief Yezhov is your enemy, sir. I suggest your captain take him outside and have him shot.

HAWTHORNE: The Chief is a deadly opponent, of that there is no doubt. He is also a master of the secret ploy. Today, as he has been doing the past few days, he has sown discord. Few can match him in that regard. Director Juba-Ryder, you are correct in pointing out that Chief Yezhov is a danger to me. The safest course is to kill him. However, it is not in my nature to throw away powerful weapons. Chief, I dearly hope you will employ your skills to kill Highborn rather than engaging in intrigue against me.

YEZHOV: I support you one hundred percent, sir. You wound me with these allegations.

HAWTHORNE: Your vote of confidence fills me with resolve, I assure you. Gentlemen, and madam, Director Danzig is correct in stating that our present plan will deplete our defenses. Commander Sargon is equally correct in stating that implementation of Code Valkyrie will cause mass hardship on Earth.

DANZIG: Then why are you sending this convoy?

HAWTHORNE: Because we’re losing the war. The Highborn have the initiative and we have not been able to wrest it from them. As long as they own space, we cannot win. Perhaps we can stave off defeat, but even that is unlikely. Because they control space, they can pin down one planet and concentrate on another. If we hope to win, we must win space control.

YEZHOV: Against five Doom Stars?

HAWTHORNE: You have hit the mark, Chief. The Doom Stars are the bedrock of Highborn power because those ships give them space-superiority. The Campaign for Mars has a single goal. We must destroy Doom Stars.

DANZIG: You told the Directorate that you hoped to gain control of the planet.

HAWTHORNE: I do.

DANZIG: But you just said—

HAWTHORNE: We must accept terrible risks in the calculated hope that we can destroy Doom Stars. I predict that the critical campaign for us is this one. We failed to destroy the operational capacity of the Sun Works Ring. Now, as has been pointed out, the Highborn are gobbling landmasses on Earth. Soon, they will control more of Earth than we do.

DANZIG: How can we win on Mars?

HAWTHORNE: The exact nature of the operational plan will remain unknown to those present. I have calculated, however, that in eight out of ten times we shall achieve victory.

YEZHOV: We must trust your military genius?

HAWTHORNE: What else do you suggest we trust?

YEZHOV: (to the others) Do I stand alone in my qualms?

DANZIG: I tremble at the depletion of our defensive stocks. But I can see the Supreme Commander’s logic. We must take the terrible risk if we are to stave off bitter defeat in two or three years.

HAWTHORNE: Well-spoken, Director Danzig.

SARGON: Is the implementation of Code Valkyrie absolutely necessary?

HAWTHORNE: I tremble when I think of initiating it, Commander. Believe me, this is a difficult decision. Yet it is not a one hundred percent certainty. I will hold Code Valkyrie in reserve.

SARGON: I strongly suggest it stay in reserve, sir, unless its implementation can guarantee total victory.

HAWTHORNE: I will repeat it: Those are my sentiments also.

SARGON: (nods slowly) Then with the greatest reluctance, I agree to your logic, although I am unfamiliar with the exact merits of your plan.

HAWTHORNE: Does anyone else have any other comments? …Chief Yezhov?

YEZHOV: As a faithful son of Social Unity, I concur with the majority, suppressing my will in the interest of solidarity.

HAWTHORNE: (rising) Social Unity shall overcome. That is my pledge, my dedication and my most fervent dream. This meeting is adjourned.

-10-

Two days later, Supreme Commander Hawthorne stood in the Space Command Center deep in the Joho Mountains of China Sector. These ancient coalmines had been converted into a headquarters and fortress.

It was intense but quiet in the command center. Many uniformed personnel sat at their consoles, staring up into blue-colored vidscreens. The screens showed many different facets of the war. There were enemy laser platforms, orbital launch stations, orbiting farm habitats, asteroids and a giant Doom Star at far-Earth orbit. The single purpose of their planned attack was to create a hole in the Highborn blockade of Earth and to screen outbound supply vessels for Mars. The position of the two Doom Stars—one in far-Earth orbit and one in Lunar orbit—had been carefully calculated.

Hawthorne brushed his moist palms against his trousers. He stared at a screen showing him a merculite launch site in Kazakhstan Sector. It was a barren plain with steel doors covering the blast pans.

“Ten seconds,” a woman down the row said.

Hawthorne stared at those steel doors in Kazakhstan Sector. Suddenly, they began to move. Then they were open and giant merculite missiles roared out of the Earth. The exhaust burned hot, but the giant missiles moved so slowly. Tensely, Hawthorne waited for Highborn lasers to begin shooting them down.

A deadly red beam lanced out of the heavens and struck a merculite. The missile was heavily shielded, but three seconds later, it exploded. The others were moving faster now. More lasers struck from the orbital platforms that ringed the planet.

Targeting the laser platforms and the orbital-fighter launch stations, Social Unity fired thousands of merculite missiles from sites located in a seven-hundred kilometer diameter. Six proton beams also lashed the heavens. It was the heaviest space attack since 10 May 2350 and the wounding of the Doom Star Genghis Khan.

The silence in the underground command center was ominous. Along with Hawthorne, the military personnel stared at the vidscreens. Hundreds of merculite missiles were burned out of the sky, and hundreds more were going to die.

The proton beams struck, however. The one from Stalingrad obliterated the Highborn laser platform known as LP-23. As the space platform broke apart on the many screens, a ragged cheer arose in the Joho Command Center.

“Strike one!” a colonel shouted.

Hawthorne smiled grimly.

Then other Highborn platforms died: LP-16, LP-40, LP-41 and OLS-10 and OLS-11. OLS was an acronym for Orbital Launch Station.

As always, the Highborn response was swift. From other orbital launch stations, heavy fighters dropped down from space. The sonic-booming orbitals attacked the proton beam installations. Anti-air flak-guns opened up. They fired depleted uranium shells and sabot missiles, and another blizzard-salvo of merculite missiles lofted. Heavy orbital fighters disappeared to growing cheers in the underground command center. Other fighters survived, firing missiles or dropping bombs. In five places, multiple nuclear mushroom clouds appeared.

In the command center, a chair scraped back as a major stood, shaking her fists at the screen and cursing the Highborn.

Hawthorne sympathized. He hated the Highborn. He hated being on the defensive. But today they attacked. As he studied the figures, over thirty-four percent of the orbital fighters were destroyed. Against the Highborn, those were fantastic numbers.

The loss of so many orbital fighters and the space platforms must have stung the so-called Master Race. A Doom Star engaged its engines and began to move from its position behind Luna. The Doom Star at far-Earth orbit also began to accelerate. There were two Doom Stars in the Earth System, each far enough away so they were out of range of the merculite missiles and proton beams.

Before the first Doom Star could leave its lunar orbit, however, the Social Unity attack slackened. In this brief window of time, Hawthorne had expended a third of the Eurasian merculite missile reserve and burned out two of the proton beam cannons. It was the unprecedented scale of the attack that had won them the destruction of Highborn space targets.

To use more merculites would leave the heart of Social Unity on Earth dangerously exposed to another strike. Military Intelligence had discovered ten asteroids circling in far-Earth orbit. It was a grim reminder of Highborn power. Also, the very scale of the merculite missiles launched had resulted in a twenty-three percent degradation of launch capacity. That meant many of the blast pans used for the missile launches had been worn down and would require maintenance to function again.

The merculite missiles and the proton beams were meant as defensive weapons, primarily against any asteroids and the close approach of Doom Stars. The use of the carefully built-up stocks of missiles and the burning out of two proton beams weighed heavily on Hawthorne and on the men and women dedicated to the space defense of Earth. Despite the conference two days ago, it also cost Supreme Commander Hawthorne in perhaps the most critical area, his power base. Highly ranked military men and women questioned his decision. This was a gamble. The Highborn might very well use the depletion of defensive stocks to launch an all-out space attack on the Eurasian landmass.

Hawthorne shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to worry about that. Now was the critical moment. Now a small window was open to launch the supply convoy to Mars.

“Launch the Orion ships,” Hawthorne said.

The orders went out from the Joho Command Center, and then the military personnel waited. The probable success or failure of the Mars Campaign rested on what happened in these next few hours. The Orion ships had to get into space and past the Doom Stars before they could close the gap in their blockade around Earth.

Waiting in one of the many convoy vessels, was the prime clone of the late Madam Blanche-Aster. This clone had been the bodyguard who had survived the detonation of Mother aboard Hawthorne’s bullet train.

The clone’s name was Lisa Aster. As a former bodyguard, she knew guns, knives, unarmed combat and security arrangements. She was a master at kinetics and reading body language, trained to note the subtle signs of those readying themselves to kill. The late Madam Director’s death infuriated Lisa. She attributed it to the Neptune clone, the one tampered with by the cyborgs. Thus, Lisa hated the cyborgs and wanted to see them destroyed.

The clone Lisa Aster waited with thousands of other people aboard the Orion ships because Supreme Commander Hawthorne had given her a mission. Once the supply convoy reached Mars, she was supposed to study the cyborgs and discover their weaknesses.

Lisa Aster lay on an acceleration couch. Like stout General Fromm on the other couch, she wore a vacc-suit and a helmet. She had a buzz cut of pale hair and a narrow face with intelligent features.

Words sounded in her ears, something about four, three, two, one—

Then Lisa Aster’s world dramatically changed. The first nuclear bomb exploded with a mighty sound.

BANG!

It shoved her hard against the acceleration couch and made everything rattle around her. She clenched the bars beside her and then clenched her teeth.

BANG!

BANG!

The gigantic, Orion ship lifted from an underground launch-bunker in Kazakhstan Sector.

It was a crude booster and one of the most powerful propulsion systems known. Weapons-grade U-235 was the fuel, nuclear bombs. A bomb detonated under each booster. An immensely thick metal plate absorbed the blast as it was blown spaceward. It looked like a city block, with tall buildings, lifting out of the Earth and heading for the clouds. Those ‘buildings’ were supply spaceships. Lisa Aster peered at a screen in her ship and saw the clouds jump nearer at each bone-crushing BANG! After the Orion ship’s thick metal plate, was tons of hardened ablative foam. The foam’s single purpose was to cushion the shock to the riding spaceships clustered and perched at the front.

Each nuclear blast poured x-rays, heat and neutrons onto the planet. It had been a hard decision, a terrible choice, but the Orion ships had several key advantages. The weapons-grade U-235 moved the boosters fast. Each exploding warhead tremendously increased velocity. If the convoy fleet was to get past the waiting Doom Stars, it would need velocity. The other gift the Orion ships gave was the ability to lift tons of mass. No other propulsion system in the Solar System provided as much quick lift out of the Earth’s gravity well as nuclear bombs.

In the center spaceship of the second Orion ship, the original clone of the late Madam Director endured the explosions that hurled her closer to the waiting Doom Stars.

On many of the screens in the Joho Command Center, the Orion ships exited the stratosphere and headed into the space of near-Earth orbit.

“Your gamble is paying off, sir,” Captain Mune whispered.

Hawthorne wasn’t ready yet to accept that.

“They’re attacking,” someone said.

Hawthorne and Captain Mune walked to a different vidscreen. It showed a kilometers-huge Doom Star, a spherical spaceship of outlandish size. Its primary lasers stabbed into the darkness of space. They could fire a million kilometers accurately. No other surviving warship had such range. Once, Social Unity had possessed the experimental Bangladesh. Its range with its single weapon had been 30-million kilometers, a breakthrough in space combat technology.

The Orion ships had two protections against the deadly lasers. The first were packets of prismatic crystals. The normal procedure was to accelerate and then shut off the engines and drift toward the enemy. Only then would spaceships spew the prismatic crystals in their tanks to form a cloud of shiny particles that floated before, beside and behind at the same velocity as the spaceship. Unfortunately, because the Orion ships still accelerated, any prismatic crystals spewed out were soon left behind. In such a situation, combat procedures called for the spewing at carefully timed intervals. The second defense against the lasers was the massive metal plate of each booster and the hardened ablative foam behind it. For those to come into play, however, the Orion ships had to be flying away from the Doom Stars, not toward them. At this point, the supply ships clustered on the boosters were in the direct-line of laser fire.

“Estimates?” Hawthorne demanded.

The uniformed captain at the console tapped computer keys. “At this rate, sir, it seems like seventy to eighty-five percent destruction of the convoy.”

Hawthorne kept his features stoic. He could accept thirty percent destruction, could endure thirty-five and grudgingly go with forty percent. This was the only supply convoy he was going to be able to launch from Earth. The scattered SU warships in the voids had been operating on their own for far too long. They needed re-supply. They needed these munitions.

Hawthorne glanced at Captain Mune. The bulky, bionic soldier watched the staff, not the screens. Mune was more interested in the personnel than the battle. His hand was on the butt of his gyroc pistol. If anyone thought to assassinate the Supreme Commander, that potential assassin would die.

Hawthorne took a deep breath and then another. His insides seethed. He could not accept a seventy percent destruction of the supply convoy. There was only one way they might be able to defeat the Doom Star that was sure to join the battle. The risks, however, were terrible. It was not a present risk, but a future one. This was a dreadful moment. Hawthorne’s shoulders slumped. A trickle of sweat ran down his back. He waited, unwilling to give the order. He risked billions of lives. He risked his position as Supreme Commander. He risked even his life giving the order. Did he believe his own rhetoric? Had it all been a sham? He desperately wanted to ask someone else his or her opinion. His stomach seethed. He realized that no one else on Earth could help him. The terrible command decision was his alone. He would never be able to shift the blame onto someone else. How would history regard this decision?

No. He couldn’t worry about that. The Great Captains in the past had taken awful risks. Hannibal had lost the war against Rome because he’d been afraid to risk his splendid cavalry on a hell-ride to the gates of Rome after the annihilating Battle of Cannae.

Seventy percent of the convoy destroyed.

Supreme Commander Hawthorne lifted a trembling hand. He willed it still. Then he put his hand on the captain’s shoulder at the vidscreen. The woman looked up at him in alarm. “Issue Code Valkyrie.” Hawthorne was grateful his voice remained firm.

“Sir?” she whispered.

“Now, Captain.”

The woman leaned toward her microphone. She opened her mouth but nothing came out. She cleared her throat and spoke harshly. “Initiate Code Valkyrie,” she said, and then she added a string of numbers and letters to verify the command.

The Space Command Center grew deathly quiet as others realized the dreaded order had been given.

The order went out via radio beams. The seconds ticked by. Then select personnel on gigantic farm habitats at far-Earth orbit began to initiate desperate code sequences. Over a period of many months, they had emplaced heavy lasers onto the habitats. Social Unity had been able to achieve this feat because of the open farm habitat policy of both sides. That policy would no doubt change very soon because of Hawthorne’s order. The lasers were only supposed to be used if Earth was in imminent danger of being overrun.

There would be starvation in parts of Earth if the Highborn destroyed or captured the many habitats. Many would question the order. Hawthorne knew that. Some would believe him mad, but the full impact of his decision would not occur until months from now.

Maybe by that time, he could give Earth the news of a stunning victory at Mars. This entire campaign was a terrible gamble. Hawthorne had recognized that from the start and it had only weighed more heavily on him as the days passed. One thought gave him the strength to continue. Social Unity was losing. If they couldn’t turn the tide of the war soon, nothing would help.

Showing on countless vidscreens deep in the Space Command Center in the Joho Mountains, lasers from many farm habitats began to chew into the thick hull of the Hannibal Barca. The vast warship had massive particle shields composed of asteroid rock. Lasers chewed into that rock so dust, stones and even boulder-sized pieces began to slag off.

“Enemy lasers have changed targeting,” the captain said at her console.

The minutes ticked by as the Orion ships accelerated hard. The needed bombs dribbled one after another under the metal blast pans. The gigantic boosters gained velocity and freedom from the fierce gravity well that was the Earth.

Then, “Taping Habitat is under attack.”

Several minutes later: “Chicago Seven Habitat has taken a direct hit to its fusion core.”

“Caesar Chavez Habitat is breaking up!” someone else shouted.

Supreme Commander James Hawthorne closed his eyes. He was consigning millions to their deaths. Millions more on Earth might come to curse his name.

“There is a burn-through in Taping Hab.”

“Sir, Tel Aviv Hab has fifty percent greater firepower. They hotshotted their lasers, sir.”

Supreme Commander Hawthorne opened his eyes. He should have thought of that. Someone else should have thought of that. Next time—

Hawthorne swallowed. There would be no next time with these habitats. He stared at the vidscreen, at the lasers pouring from the many habitats and at the nearly impregnable Doom Star. He had ordered this. He would watch the grim consequences and remember. He deserved nightmares in his sleep for the rest of his life. Why did he feel so dreadfully alone?

-11-

For a brief time, the orbiting farm habitats poured laser fire into the Hannibal Barca’s heavy particle shields. Normally, the Doom Star would never have gotten close enough to have any laser hit so hard, but the habs had the element of surprise on their side. The Hannibal Barca was close indeed. Those lasers were hot and on target.

More than the massive merculite launch, more than the six proton beams, even more than the gigantic Orion ships, the heavy lasers on the farm habitats took the Highborn by surprise.

Grand Admiral Cassius roared for more speed. He sat in his command chair aboard the Julius Caesar at Lunar orbit. The clever premen had timed their attack well. Luna was presently on the opposite side of the Earth as compared to the launching Orion ships. Many of the farm habitats also used the Earth as a shield against the Julius Caesar’s lasers.

“Faster!” Cassius shouted.

Highborn could take greater G-forces than premen could, about twice as many before blacking out. The Doom Star already accelerated at six gravities. The super-ship surged through far-orbital space, moving to gain a clear line-of-fire.

“Sir, it is Commander Scipio.”

Cassius could see the holoimage of Scipio before him, a Highborn with a jutting nose.

“Destroy the farm habitats!” Cassius shouted. “Above all, keep your Doom Star intact and unharmed.”

The holoimage nodded curtly before fading out.

Cassius studied the other hologram image before him. It showed the massive Orion ships. Most of them had made it off Earth and into space. They headed for Mars. First, he would save the Hannibal Barca. Then the premen would see what long-range heavy lasers could do to the fleet heading for the Red Planet.

Three days after the battle, Grand Admiral Cassius hardened himself to demote Commander Scipio of the Hannibal Barca. It was a painful decision, as Scipio was one of his most ardent supporters. This humiliation might well cause Scipio to commit suicide.

Cassius piloted a shuttle to the Doom Star, using the quiet of the ship to think.

Scipio had targeted the Orion ships for too long before engaging the farm habitats. The Hannibal Barca had taken more damage than the Genghis Khan had on 10 May 2350. Better that Scipio had let more of the Orion ships survive than allow his ship to be damaged.

Cassius was going to need the Hannibal Barca soon and thus he could not send it to the Sun-Works Factory for repair. They would have to repair it here in the little time left them.

After a brief glance at the Earth above, Cassius studied reports. Long-range laser fire had destroyed forty-five percent of the Orion ships and the spaceships they carried. The surviving boosters spread prismatic crystals, shielding the SU spaceships headed for Mars from the long-range lasers of the two Doom Stars.

Fifty-five percent of the Earth Fleet had survived.

Cassius shook his head. The premen had fought harder than he had expected. Because of that, he was going to lose his good friend, Scipio. The Praetor’s people would expect him to give the Praetor the open command slot.

Cassius crackled his knuckles and began to make plans.

-12-

The former Praetor of the Sun-Works Factory walked with a lesser Highborn, a Lot 6 creature. The Praetor believed it was his dire luck to find himself forever saddled with inferior Highborn.

The two of them strode through a utilitarian steel corridor on a combat training station in near-Lunar orbit. The station was torus-shaped and rotated to simulate one hundred and thirty percent Earth gravity. The extra thirty percent helped to harden the training soldiers.

The Praetor towered over the Lot Sixer, an earlier subset from the vats and many years his senior in age. The Praetor possessed broader shoulders, a deeper chest and a more sharply angled face. They both had short cut, thick hair reminiscent of panther’s pelts. The Praetor’s eyes were pink, intense and perhaps possessed more than the usual Highborn ferocity. Each officer had abnormal vitality, at least when compared to sluggish Homo sapiens.

The Praetor’s hands were massive and strong. He clutched an ivory baton, a symbol of the successful destruction of the experimental Beamship Bangladesh. No other SU warship had so impressed the Highborn with its deadliness.

The Lot Sixer wore the green uniform of an infantry specialist and he had pitted features. He’d earned those scars in South America, destroying his twentieth bio-tank. He was the Praetor’s new training master of the subhumans. The last one had died after the failed neutraloid ‘accident’ concerning the Grand Admiral.

Grand Admiral Cassius had no doubt secretly engineered the foisting of yet another Lot 6 upon him. The Grand Admiral was First. He, the Praetor, was Fourth in the strictly graded hierarchy. The Grand Admiral was wise to fear him, wise to try to sabotage him with inferior officer material.

“I’ve read Training Master Lycon’s paper concerning shock troopers,” the Lot Sixer was saying. “He has many credible points.”

The Praetor stopped and stared down at the Lot Sixer. “Training Master Lycon has fled Highborn service. He is a traitor.”

“Perhaps he was killed and the premen—”

“Do not strain logic, Training Master. Do you seriously suggest that half a dozen shock troopers could overpower a Highborn?”

“I’ve read his reports. Lycon trained them to a razor’s edge of premen lethality.”

“That begs the question. Could half a dozen premen defeat you?”

“If I was unarmed and they possessed high technology, it would certainly be possible.”

“Let me rephrase the question. If you possessed a shuttle and picked them up and then they overpowered you, would that be possible?”

“I stand corrected, Praetor.”

The Praetor nodded and began striding down the corridor. The new Training Master hurried to catch up.

“Lycon’s shock troopers did capture the Bangladesh,” the new Training Master said.

“All the shock troopers are dead or converted.”

“Praetor?”

The Praetor allowed himself a small smile. “After Lycon’s departure, I took the liberty and assumed leadership of the shock trooper regiment. Those that remained on the Sun-Works Factory were gelded and converted into neutraloids.”

“You castrated high-quality premen?”

“Your statement is illogical. I turned questionable premen into trustworthy neutraloids.”

“I admit that your neutraloids have unique fighting qualities, at least in a primitive setting. But their rage, Praetor—”

“I have already successfully altered three platoons of neutraloids. They are now undergoing space combat training. Incidentally, that is why you’ve been assigned to me.”

“You wish me to attempt to train these neutraloids?”

“To space combat efficiency. Yes, Training Master.”

“…I’ve read your reports, Praetor. You hand me a daunting task.”

“Do you feel it is beyond your capabilities?”

The Praetor watched the other sidelong. The Training Master had a harsh face with muscles in odd places. They tightened and bulged at his jaws and near his temples. A vein across his forehead grew and throbbed with blood. Oh, how this Lot Sixer wished to challenge him. The Praetor hoped he would. He would break this one in single combat and force the Grand Admiral to send him a real Highborn as Training Master.

The Praetor’s communicator beeped and temporarily broke the tension.

“Yes,” he said, speaking into a wrist communicator. Ah, he spoke with the Grand Admiral.

“Praetor, I have sent a shuttle to pick you up. You will bring your suite with you.”

“At once, sir.” The communicator winked off. The Praetor’s pink eyes seemed to glitter.

The Lot Sixer lost his truculent manner, as he seemed to notice the change come over the Praetor.

“You heard him,” the Praetor said, his voice rougher than before. He slapped the baton into his open palm, enraged that as Fourth he had been bypassed twice for command of a Doom Star. This time, it would be different. Commander Scipio had committed suicide. Now there was no excuse for the Grand Admiral. That cagy old soldier would have to give him command of the Hannibal Barca.

The Praetor and Grand Admiral Cassius sat in a lounge aboard the Julius Caesar. Each hulking Highborn was bent before a three dimensional chessboard.

The Grand Admiral’s skill was legendary. He had three of the Praetor’s pawns and a knight. The Praetor had four enemy pawns, each carefully lined up in a row beside his ivory baton.

The Highborn likened the Grand Admiral to the Great Captains of the premen, those uncanny soldiers of history: Alexander the Great, Hannibal Barca, Julius Caesar, Genghis Khan, Napoleon and others. Instead of a premen genius, however, Grand Admiral Cassius was a Highborn genius. That meant he was superior by a probable factor of ten than when compared to the greatest warlord ever born to Homo sapiens.

That genius radiated from the iron-haired admiral. It was a palpable force, as the Grand Admiral exuded a fierce presence.

The Praetor felt that force, just as he felt the Grand Admiral’s merciless attack on the three dimensional chessboard. The Praetor refused to succumb to a legend, however. He silently berated himself and jeered his nervousness. He was the Praetor. He was a superior Highborn. He was Fourth in the unbelievably competitive world of the genetic super-soldiers. He would ignore the stories about Cassius’s legendary chess assault. He would play his own highly aggressive game and catch the Grand Admiral in a long-term trap.

The room possessed bronze busts of generals of the past and various famous battle paintings. A subtle vibration told the Praetor that the Julius Caesar was under acceleration. It approached Earth, linking with the second Doom Star in the Earth System.

Grand Admiral Cassius decisively moved a pawn, clicking the metal piece onto the glass tile. He then stared at the Praetor across the three dimensional board.

“I do not approve of the gelding of fighting troops.”

The Praetor nodded crisply. “I have sent your office a recording of the battle files of the Storm Assault Missiles. A percentage of the shock troopers sent against the beamship spoke treason against us.”

“Those were words, Praetor. The shock troopers’ action spoke loudly enough about their ultimate loyalty.”

“In the storming of the Bangladesh you are correct. What occurred afterward?”

“You have files concerning that?”

“The Grand Admiral knows I do not. The experimental beamship was destroyed.”

“It’s your move.”

The Praetor studied the chessboard. After a moment, he looked up. “My neutraloids are superior to the shock troopers.”

“In a primitive setting, you may be right. The shock troopers were high-tech soldiers. We will need a four hundred percent increase in space combat premen to help secure the remaining farm habitats in Earth orbit. If the neutraloids could function as police, they could perform some useful task. They are, however, too savage to be policemen.”

“I have taken steps to modify their savagery.”

The Grand Admiral grunted in a noncommittal manner.

The Praetor shifted in his chair and resumed studying the chessboard. He willed his thoughts onto the game and spent the next five minutes mentally moving the chess-pieces five, six and then seven moves ahead. Finally, he dropped his bishop two levels and captured another pawn. This piece he lined up precisely with his other captured pawns.

“If—” the Praetor began to say.

Grand Admiral Cassius held up a big hand, signaling for silence. He then clasped his left wrist again and leaned forward like a statue. After three minutes, he captured the bishop with a castle.

The Praetor nodded, trying to hide his smile.

“I appreciate your dedication to solving the space combat dilemma,” the Grand Admiral rumbled. “We have too few Highborn and need additional population if we’re to conquer the Solar System.”

The Praetor yearned to hold up his hand and halt the Grand Admiral’s words. He recognized the tactic of only talking during his turns. The Grand Admiral used his position of strength, of possessing the higher rank. The Praetor did not think that was unfair. A position of strength should be exploited for all the advantages it could give. He simply wished he had the high ground, not the Grand Admiral.

“It is a pressing dilemma,” the Praetor agreed.

“This training of premen space-combat soldiers fails to engage your talents to the full benefit of the Highborn.”

The Praetor blinked slowly, the game forgotten now. He trembled with seething vitality, his rage only held in check by his will. He yearned to flex his big hands. He wanted to lunge across the chessboard, wrap his fingers around the Grand Admiral’s throat and squeeze the life from him. Surely, the Grand Admiral had to offer him the command of the Hannibal Barca.

“The premen of Social Unity have moved more quickly than I’d foreseen.”

“They surprised you?” the Praetor asked.

The Grand Admiral shook his iron-haired head. “Surprise is the wrong word. I have set a trap for them. It is a delicate trap, however. I have debated with myself whether their side had a commander worthy enough to see the possibility and thereby find himself lured by my bait.”

The Praetor waited as he wondered what the Grand Admiral was talking about. He was too proud to admit that he didn’t know.

“Five days ago, Social Unity launched a surprise assault.”

“I’m obviously well aware of that,” the Praetor said.

“You are probably also aware that we probe the Earth’s defenses with the Hannibal Barca.”

“You’re bringing the Julius Caesar into near-Earth orbit to help?”

“The premen expect it, so it’s best to comply and keep them from thinking too deeply,” the Grand Admiral said.

The Praetor’s nostrils flared. He wished the Grand Admiral would get to the point and offer him command of the Hannibal Barca.

“Consider the problem, Praetor. We possess five Doom Stars. There are four planets in the inner system. We could pin down each planet with a Doom Star and have one extra warship for duty wherever the primary objective happens to be. That extra warship, however, took damage. Fortunately, the Genghis Khan nears completion of its repairs. The problem still remains, however, especially with the damage sustained by the Hannibal Barca.”

“Our Doom Star left Mars for just that reason,” the Praetor said. “Mars is now in Rebel hands so it’s out of Social Unity’s hands. That means we have five Doom Stars for three planets.”

“The Bangladesh highlighted our dilemma,” the Grand Admiral said, as if he hadn’t heard the Praetor.

“Guerilla attacks?” the Praetor asked.

“Would you call the pounding your Sun-Works Factory took a guerilla attack?”

“We destroyed the Bangladesh,” the Praetor said.

“But we have not yet solved the situation. Mind you, it could become worse if the other planets came to Social Unity’s aid.”

“The Outer Planets?” the Praetor asked in jest.

“The Jupiter Confederation once came to the aid of the Mars Rebels.”

“Those Rebels now control Mars.”

“I will frame the situation exactly, Praetor. We own Mercury but must guard it with at least one Doom Star to insure its safety. We pin down Venus with a Doom Star and thereby cut it off from the rest of Inner Planets. Soon, we will have three Doom Stars in Earth orbit. Yet if we wish to travel anywhere else in the Solar System, we must leave at least one Doom Star on guard duty here and preferably two.”

“Go on,” the Praetor said.

“As I’m sure you understand, the problem is the Social Unity space fleet. As long as it exists, we must scatter our Doom Stars in this inefficient manner. The longer the war progresses, the longer the Outer Planets have to come to their senses and join their fellow premen against us. Premen are slow-witted and often foolish to an amazing degree. They still do, however, have overwhelming numbers.”

“Has the Intelligence Service discovered communications between Inner and Outer Planets?”

The Grand Admiral nodded.

The idea made the Praetor uncomfortable. There were two million Highborn, more or less. The training schools graduated just enough young Highborn to make up for combat losses. Earth System alone still contained over thirty-eight billion premen. If the entire Solar System of premen should unite against the Highborn—

“You spoke about a trap,” the Praetor said.

“I believe the director of the premen war effort possesses elementary cunning. The Bangladesh affair proves that. The stiffening of their war effort on Earth also points to it. Our days of easy victories are over for the present. I therefore withdrew the Doom Star from Mars in order to give him a golden opportunity.”

“You left the Rebels in charge of the orbital defenses.”

“Yes. Now you’re beginning to see. Our exit from Mars seemed reasonable from their limited view. The SU premen will think we believe we’ve garrisoned the planet against them.”

“But we have not done so sufficiently?” the Praetor asked.

“No. I say this for two reasons. One, Social Unity still possesses many powerful warships, a more than credible force if combined. Two, that force will have another surprise for us.”

“Of what nature?” the Praetor asked.

The Grand Admiral chuckled. “This is nothing the Intelligence Services have discovered. It is something I have logically deduced.”

The Praetor frowned.

“We are superior, Praetor, but we are not infallible. The premen have among them intelligent scientists and able tacticians. They will have a surprise, maybe even two surprises, that we have not foreseen. I accept that and plan accordingly. The trick is to use their surprises against them.”

The Praetor waited, having expended his willingness to ask questions.

“I have enticed Social Unity to gather their scattered warships into one place,” the Grand Admiral said. “This place is Mars. Using their trick, they will likely capture the Rebel orbital defenses in short order. If it is bloody for them, that will be even better for us. The point is they will set their space forces and orbital defenses to face us. They will no doubt believe they’re setting a trap for us.”

The Praetor’s frown deepened, putting creases in his broad forehead.

“I see your doubts concerning my plan, and I accept it. I am blessed with superior sight. I will tell you a secret, Praetor. Sometimes it is a curse to see farther and more clearly than anyone else. Too often in the past, others I hold dear have doubted me. I would like to say that I’ve become inured to it, but that would be a lie. However, I can give you evidence that even you can comprehend, Praetor.”

The Praetor stiffened.

“The Social Unity space attack five days ago occurred in order to send a flotilla of vessels to Mars.”

“So their high command could escape the coming disaster?” the Praetor asked.

The Grand Admiral shook his head. “I’ve heard those rumors, and they’re absurd. If nothing else, these socialists are stubborn. They’ve been in control of human destiny too long to simply give up and flee to the Outer Planets. No. That was a supply convoy, and the majority of it now hides behind a growing prismatic crystal shield. I have ordered a cessation of laser attacks against it.”

“I see,” the Praetor said slowly. “The premen gather their fleet into one force and will capture Mars. We then send… two Doom Stars to smash their fleet and retake Mars.”

“You are almost correct.”

The Praetor’s cheek twitched. When was the Grand Admiral going to offer him command of the Hannibal Barca? “This fleet that lifted from Earth,” he said. “You called it a supply convoy. They will refit their warships?”

“Exactly,” the Grand Admiral said. “They will have surprises that we cannot yet foresee. But we too shall have a surprise.”

The Praetor blinked, waiting.

“It’s your move,” the Grand Admiral said.

It took the Praetor a moment to understand that the Grand Admiral meant the chessboard. He tried to concentrate on the game. The Praetor pondered for only a minute and then swept the Grand Admiral’s castle with his queen. He neatly placed the captured castle in a new, second line of pieces, one behind the smaller pawns.

The Grand Admiral moved immediately, seeming to make a blunder. He took a pawn, but left the Praetor’s queen open to maneuver.

As the Praetor bent forward to examine the possibilities, the Grand Admiral spoke.

“I know you’ve desired a field command in space. Until now, I’ve needed you in charge of supplies at the Sun-Works Factory. It was critical that we kept ourselves well-supplied.”

The Praetor looked up. Here it was, at last. “I am to head the expedition against Mars in the Hannibal Barca?”

“No. That position belongs to Admiral Brutus. He will command the Hannibal Barca. Nor are there any available positions in the other Doom Stars. But if you are agreeable, Praetor, I wish to award you the captainship of our secret weapon.”

Rage washed through the Praetor. He found it hard to speak. “If you would explain the weapon—”

“The Beamship Bangladesh gave me the idea,” the Grand Admiral said. “Even as we speak, a special weapons team is converting a captured missile-ship. They are rapidly adding stealth technology and installing our new drones. Your task, Praetor, will be to take the stealth ship and circle the Sun. The technicians are adding booster pods. As you build velocity, you will shed those pods. It will be a highly uncomfortable time as you circle the Sun, mostly spent on the acceleration couches. At a precise time, you will sling yourself out of the Sun’s orbit and head for Mars. Then you will shut off the engines and coast for the Red Planet. I will tell you now, Praetor, that your ship neither carries particle shields, nor will it employ a prismatic crystal cloud, nor aerosol gels with lead additives.”

“I will be defenseless?” the Praetor asked.

“You will effectively be invisible, a black object hurtling through the empty void of space. Your close approach to Mars will be timed so it coincides with the hard deceleration of the Doom Stars. You will attack with stealth drones dropped from your ship. Your second objective will occur once you’ve passed their positions behind the moons, the planet itself or their prismatic fields. You will then beam critical information concerning their formation to the Doom Stars.”

“They will fire at me once I beam these messages.”

“Their window of opportunity to do you damage will be small. Your speed will be great and the technicians will have supplied your ship with many escape pods.”

“Escapes pods and the ship together will drift at high velocity toward the Outer Planets.”

“Shuttles will already be on their way to pick you up, if that proves necessary.”

“The timing would need to be exquisite for the flyby.”

“I have computed the numbers,” the Grand Admiral said. “It is well within Highborn capacity. Praetor, it is a dangerous mission. It calls for iron nerves and a will to conquer. I know you possess each of those qualities. You will also be in possession of the spaceship that tilts victory hard toward the Highborn. Needless to say, you will be a hero.”

“If I survive,” the Praetor said.

“Glory inherently demands risks.”

“Excellence brings rank,” the Praetor recited.

“Then you accept the assignment?”

“What about my neutraloids?”

“They will train until such time as the Doom Stars leave Earth orbit. I have plans to use them to retake Rebel strongholds on Mars.”

The Praetor wanted to examine the captaincy in detail. Yet he feared hesitating lest the Grand Admiral offer the chance at field command to someone else.

The Praetor forced himself to mutter, “I would be honored, Grand Admiral.”

“I knew it would be so,” the Grand Admiral said. “Now, it’s your move.”

The Praetor examined the chessboard and captured another piece, a bishop. He pressed his fingertips against the top knob of the bishop and ran the edge of his thumbnail through the bishop’s crease. Then he clunked the piece down into his growing row of captures.

“Hm,” the Grand Admiral said. He made another seemingly strange move.

The Praetor captured a pawn.

The Grand Admiral moved his queen and said, “Checkmate in three moves.”

Stunned and disbelieving, the Praetor examined the chessboard. He saw it then. He looked up into the Grand Admiral’s face. It was at that moment a cold icicle of fear stabbed the Praetor’s heart.

The Grand Admiral had outmaneuvered him all down the line. Could the old man be that much more cunning than he was? The thought made the Praetor wonder if this field command was a suicide mission intended to get rid of him, his reward for the failed neutraloid ‘accident’.