Planet Wrecker

-43-

Far from the Spartacus on Luna, Grand Admiral Cassius listened to Senior Tribune Cato. They rode together in a moon-buggy. The vehicle had giant balloon tires and a bubble canopy. If anyone had witnessed their passage, they would have seen the two sitting side-by-side.

The traveled through the Sea of Tranquility. Tiny puffs of moon-dust lifted at the vehicle’s passage and slowly drifted back to the surface. The blue-green Earth hung in the distance with nothing but stars beyond. It meant the Sun was behind Luna.

“We have fifty-three percent completed,” Cato was saying.

Cassius scowled. “It should be sixty-three percent. You’re behind schedule.”

Senior Tribune Cato gripped the wheel with gloved hands. Both Highborn wore vacc-suits, with their visors open to reveal their faces. Cato had a burn scar on the right side of his face, with a patch over his eye.

“We’re working twenty-four hours a day,” Cato said.

“In rotation?” asked Cassius.

“Yes.”

Cassius had to restrain the impulse to draw his sidearm and destroy the Senior Tribune. “Listen to me,” he said. “Every man is to work twenty-four shifts.”

“Grand Admiral?”

“I want those missiles completed in time!” Cassius shouted.

Cato winced at the volume. Then his features contorted angrily. No Highborn liked being yelled at or being berated. He gripped the steering wheel more tightly, and his foot pressed on the accelerator. The moon-buggy churned across the lunar surface, the vehicle swaying more and jolting as it took the small dunes and rocks faster.

In the distance rose a vast missile complex from horizon to horizon. There were thousands of blast-pans and tens of thousands of missiles. It had been built for use against the landing assault on Eurasia. As a secondary measure, it was meant to continue the siege of Earth if ever the Doom Stars were needed elsewhere. There had been long debates about situating the missile facility in near-Earth orbit instead of on Luna. The deciding factors had been Luna’s bulk as a permanent platform, its distance from Earth and correspondingly its height in the planet’s gravity-well and the proximity of the mining complexes here, aiding in re-supply.

“Have you’ve studied my timetable?” asked Cassius.

“Yes, but—”

“The cyborgs have achieved strategic surprise against us. Time is now critical. Normally, in a military timetable, there are percentages allowed for errors. We no longer have that luxury. My timetable is precise. You will meet it or face death by hanging.”

Cato glared at Cassius. “You threaten me as if I were a dog or one of the sub-species?”

“You have already tested my patience,” warned Cassius.

“Twenty-four hour shifts means stim-injections.”

“Tell me now: can you can meet my timetable or not?”

“Grand Admiral,” said Cato, gesturing angrily. “Extended stim-injections quickly results in mental fatigue. There will be mistakes, more as time progresses—”

“Mistakes are unacceptable,” said Cassius.

“Mistakes are inevitable.”

“We are Highborn. Highborn achieve. Now you must test your men to the utmost, driving them with stim-injections and forbidding them mental fatigue.”

“You ask the impossible,” said Cato.

“Is that your final word?”

“Grand Admiral, you must see reason. I have already achieved a miracle. Now you’re asking me to do the impossible. Instead of berating me, you should be praising me for what I’ve done. My men and I have worked incredibly hard.”

“Wrong answer,” said Cassius. He drew his sidearm, pressed the barrel against the Senior Tribune’s head and pulled the trigger. The helmet blew apart in a spray of blood, skull-bone and plastic. One chunk hit the bubble-canopy so hard that the ballistic glass starred.

Cassius shoved the gun onto the dash, grabbed the steering wheel and shouldered the corpse out of the way. In moments, he tromped down on the accelerator. The moon-buggy bounced and churned across the bleak landscape, increasing speed for the giant missile complex.