Planet Wrecker

-29-

“Sir,” said Captain Mune, “I highly recommend you take a different course of action.”

Five swift days had produced a change in Hawthorne. His shoulders still stooped and there was a blue tinge in the bags under his eyes, but his heart no longer thudded as if on the verge of a heart attack. It had been a long time since he’d been outdoors under the sun. It was a strange feeling, a good one.

The lanky Supreme Commander stood on the top of his APC. The heavily tracked vehicle was camouflaged green. Instead of benches for infantry, the inside of the armored vehicle held the highest-grade communication equipment on Earth. There were four other vehicles circling Hawthorne. One was a bio-tank with a silver-dome canopy. The other three were carriers. Fifteen bionic soldiers circled the vehicles, facing outward with their gyroc rifles.

The bionic soldiers, the vehicles and Hawthorne were in the hills around Beirut. They were presently parked under tall cedar trees. The wind ruffled the top branches. Below them in the valley by the blue Mediterranean Sea was the rebellious city. Tall buildings and masses of domes and glassy cubes made up the highest level of Beirut. Underground were another twenty-eight levels, holding nearly thirty-one million people.

Hawthorne’s heart turned cold then. “This is incredible,” he said. He stood on the APC, with hi-powered binoculars glued to his eyes. He scanned the city, at the mass movement in the streets. He saw people, hordes of people moving outward like a swarm of ants.

“I don’t know how, sir,” said Mune. “But they must know we’re here.”

Hawthorne lowered the binoculars. His face felt pasty and his heart began to thump. “How…how did they get out?” Then he shook his head. “No one is in control, or not in full control,” he said, answering his own question. “It’s a rebellion. The people are boiling up out of the lower levels.”

This was the chaos he needed to prevent in the rest of Eurasia and Africa. What would happen if the people boiled up out of the cities everywhere?

“We don’t have enough troops here, sir,” said Mune. “I suggest we move to a more defensible position.”

Hawthorne gulped for air as he lifted the binoculars and continued to scan Beirut. Keeping the billions of inhabitants in the kilometer-deep cities made control easier. The physical evidence was down there before him. How many troops would it take to control so much human mass? Sealing off a level in the city only took a handful of troops.

A bionic soldier popped his head out of the APC’s main hatch. “There is no answer to your ultimatum, sir.”

Hawthorne heard the words as he scanned back and forth. Look at all of them! They just marched out of the city. He adjusted the controls, zooming closer. This was laughable. Many held clubs or knives. What did they think they were going to do? Hawthorne cursed softly. They were so skinny, and they wore rags for clothes. Many were shirtless and about half of those he could see lacked shoes. Were all the cities on Earth like this? The idea was shattering, sobering and in the end, sickening.

“Shall I order Field Marshal Baines to repeat the ultimatum, sir?” the bionic soldier asked.

Hawthorne shook his head. Who was he to order nuclear devastation on these desperate people? Even though he kept the binoculars pointed at them, he closed his eyes. He knew then what the Shah of Iran must have felt. To have the force to annihilate and then to feel such pity—it could freeze a man. It could steal his resolve. Stand and fight to the end, bitterly, or run, or surrender to the Highborn.

“I’m killing a city to save Social Unity,” Hawthorne said bleakly.

“This is war, sir,” said Captain Mune.

“Is this war?” asked Hawthorne. When no answer was forthcoming, he opened his eyes and lowered the binoculars. The com-soldier and Captain Mune watched him. It was so easy to give advice, to urge a Supreme Commander to give brutal, soul-searing orders. But to be the man who had to give those orders, that was something else altogether.

Why had he insisted on witnessing the operation himself? Being outside felt good, that’s true. Is that what they felt down there? He hoped they felt the sun beating down on their faces and the cool kiss of the sea breeze. He hoped they smelled the clean air of Earth at least once. Maybe it was better that so many of them where already out of the levels.

“Order Field Marshal Baines to launch the missiles,” Hawthorne whispered.

“You have to come down, sir,” Mune said. “Otherwise the flash will burn out your eyes and peel off your skin.”

Hawthorne lowered the binoculars until they thumped against his chest. Feeling old, he headed for the hatch. The com-soldier already sat at his station. Hawthorne slid into his seat, turning on his screen. Captain Mune entered and closed the hatch. The main engines purred into life, and Hawthorne lurched in his seat as the tracks outside no doubt churned soil.

“I’ve sent the order, sir,” the com-officer said.

Hawthorne stared at his screen. All those streaming people outside would face the brunt of the missiles.

There! He saw one on his screen. It moved so impossibly fast. The missile zoomed downward. It zoomed toward the cluster of tall buildings, the domes and massive cube-buildings that had been the craze in this part of the world for the last ten years. He could imagine shocked faces looking upward. Would eyes bulge or mouths hang agape? Was there screaming, pushing, shoving and trampling? The missile flashed.

Hawthorne automatically counted the seconds. A thunderous boom crashed against the APC. He grabbed the bars as the shockwave hit. The heavy APC rocked back and forth.

“Halt the vehicle!” shouted Mune.

Seconds later, the vehicle’s vibrations finally stopped. Hawthorne vaguely realized that he couldn’t hear the engines. Multiple thunderous booms sounded now, and soon the APC rocked more violently. How many missiles had he ordered onto Beirut?

A glance at the screen showed nothing but fuzziness. The wash of electromagnetic pulses must be playing havoc with communications.

“Sir!” shouted the com-officer.

“Yes,” said Hawthorne, weary beyond life.

“I’m receiving an emergency message.”

That made no sense. The EMP blasts—oh, special laser optics probably linked the vehicle with a hardened communications site.

“Are the other two cities surrendering?” Hawthorne asked.

“It’s from Mars, sir. At least, it’s coded as a Mars Golden Flash.”

In took two entire seconds before Hawthorne scowled. “Speak sense,” he said.

The bionic com-officer adjusted his screen. “It’s a direct message, sir, for your eyes only.”

“What about Beirut?” Hawthorne asked. “I’m not interested in Mars right now.”

“A Golden Flash, sir,” the bionic officer said, swiveling around. “It’s from Commodore Blackstone.”

“Who?” said Hawthorne.

“The commander of the SU Battlefleet in Mars orbit, sir.”

“I know who Blackstone is,” said Hawthorne, his voice hardening. “Why’s he sending me a message now?”

“That’s unknown, sir. Shall I transmit the message?”

Hawthorne stared at the com-officer. With a mental effort, he cleared away the guilt of having just ordered the deaths of millions of people.

“Does the message have a heading?” Hawthorne asked.

“Yes sir. Apparently, it’s concerning the cyborgs. The Commodore believes he might have found them.”

It took two blinks. Then a cold feeling swept through Hawthorne. He knew then why he’d ordered the thermonuclear weapons. There were worse things than Highborn.

“Hurry man,” Hawthorne said, “read it to me.”