Planet Wrecker

-48-

As the Orion-ships blasted their way out of the atmosphere, the Highborn Luna Missile Complex fired its first salvo. These were titanic Cohort-7 Missiles, which fired x-rays in the proximity of their enemies. From the hundreds of launch-sites, the missiles rose like stellar sharks, quick, deadly and silent. As the fusion cores propelled the Cohort-7 projectiles, the blue flares appeared as dots against the darkness of space. Those dots accelerated with astonishing speed. Soon enough, they vanished, swallowed by the void.

Orders rang out as the Highborn Senior Tribune watched from his conning tower.

All around him on the moon, other giant HB missiles moved on tracks and onto the still glowing blast-pans. The Senior Tribune laughed as he waited high in the tower. The fatigue of the last several cycles ate at him. It had been so long since he’d laid down his head and closed his eyes. The Highborn leader shook his head now, and his tongue felt thick in his mouth.

“Next wave,” he said. “Launch, launch, launch.”

Sullen Highborn standing at their stations eyed him. None had slept for days and they were each dangerously exhausted. There was a Highborn term for it: explosive weariness. Many mulishly clicked their controls. One officer suddenly bellowed with rage, drew a gun and began firing into his panel. Plastic and acrylic pieces went flying as loud bangs rapidly followed one after another.

Three other Highborn reacted before the Senior Tribune was even aware of what occurred. One drew a vibroblade, clicked it so it hummed and hurled it at the berserk. Before the blade could hit the madman, two other Highborn drew their sidearms and emptied their clips into the berserk. He twisted around at the shots, glared at them for a second and then sank with a groan, his gun clattered on the floor.

The Senior Tribune began to tremble, not in fear, but in rage. How dare anyone mar an otherwise perfect liftoff? He was tempted to try resuscitation of the offender in order to use SU tortures on him as punishment.

Then he recalled his purpose. “Launch,” he said in a ragged voice.

As smoke drifted from hot gun-barrels, Highborn officers attended to their stations. The Senior Tribune checked his board.

The second salvo of modified missiles began launching. These had taken the most work, the most redesign and refit. Inside them was live ammunition: Highborn space commandoes. These missiles were almost as large as the Cohort-7s.

As the Senior Tribune double-checked the sensors aboard the missiles, a glaring error became obvious. The oxygen-valve settings on a dozen missiles—no, on twenty of them, weren’t calibrated for heavy thrust. It should have been a simple thing to check beforehand. But these many hectic days on stims and without sleep….

Bending over his com, the Senior Tribune shouted, “Emergency, emergency, the oxygen content will soon approach zero! Don emergency breathing gear and change the settings on the oxygen valves.” Then he realized he’d forgotten to turn on the com-system to the missiles. He did so now with a click and repeated his warning.

The commando missiles zoomed out of the Sea of Tranquility, accelerating hard for Venus. As the Senior Tribune checked the responses, he soon discovered that fifteen missiles were dead, or their occupants were. Fifteen missiles—because of a simple single error over a hundred commandoes were dead before the battle had even started. The Senior Tribune banged his forehead against his board until blood began to drip in the light Luna gravity. He badly needed sleep. Oh, he wanted to sleep almost more than he wanted to finish his task. He realized dully that he had to think of a way to hide this fifteen-missile loss from the Grand Admiral.

The Senior Tribune wiped blood from the board and made some quick calculations. No, this couldn’t be—oh, wait a minute. He rechecked missile manifests. As his shoulders sagged, he realized that Felix had survived the mishap. The Senior Tribune was aware of the Grand Admiral’s strange affinity for the soldier. He’d studied vid shots of the two and had discovered a disturbing likeness between them.

The Senior Tribune straightened. His head throbbed painfully, but that was good. The pain helped him concentrate. Maybe if he were lucky, Cassius would die in the coming battle. Yes, he would hope for luck and the Grand Admiral’s violent demise when his Doom Star engaged the cyborgs.