Star Fortress

-1-

Supreme Commander James Hawthorne sat before a screen as he spoke with Grand Admiral Cassius. The coiled ferocity of the Highborn never failed to impress him. It was like looking into the eyes of a psychopath. The sharp facial angles, the stark whiteness of the skin and the short hair like a panther’s pelt…at heart, Cassius was a killer. It was good to remember that.

Hawthorne sat in his office in New Baghdad. The years had worn him down. He was stooped and thin, with bags under his eyes. Massive crop failures and a strain of poisonous bacteria in the algae had caused grim malnutrition or outright starvation among eighty-three percent of the SU population. There were constant food riots and battalions of riot-control militia now. Misery abounded as extinction stared humanity in the face. He felt old and used up. The nuclear destruction of the Soviets last year—

Hawthorne forced himself to concentrate on Cassius. It was hard looking into those eyes. He yearned to turn away, but the Highborn would view that as a sign of weakness.

How are we supposed to destroy the cyborgs? I can’t even trust my allies.

By all reports, the Grand Admiral was aboard the Julius Caesar. Each of the three Doom Stars had collapsium shielding now. Hawthorne had asked for collapsium to shield some of the SU battleships. Cassius had agreed, provided such warships came under the authority of Highborn commanders. Hawthorne couldn’t agree to that.

“Don’t you wish to save your species?” Cassius had asked.

Hawthorne could have told Cassius you don’t turn your back on a psychopath. However, he was too careful about what he told the Master Race to say such a thing. Highborn were proud and as ready to battle as dogs bred for the fighting pits. According to reports, the Highborn had been busy these last several weeks rearranging command slots. That was a surprise. Highborn usually made those changes immediately after a battle, not a year later. Scipio now commanded the Genghis Khan. The reports said that strengthened Cassius’s position. Analysis suggested Cassius might have ordered the old commander’s murder. That didn’t strike Hawthorne as Cassius’s way. The supreme Highborn was a soldier, not an assassin. It was one of the reasons Hawthorne could trust the Grand Admiral to the minimal extent he did.

“If you could give me some gesture,” Cassius was saying onscreen. “It would help me thwart Admiral Sulla’s position.”

Hawthorne knew about Sulla. The Highborn was an Ultraist. Military Intelligence had learned about them. Ultraists spoke about purity to the Race and an elimination of the premen infestation. Ultraists worried about the possible seepage of the weak emotions of mercy, kindness and humility from too much contact with the premen, with normal men.

“I thought Sulla was an officer aboard your ship,” Hawthorne said. He knew very well that Sulla had gained rank. He wanted to see how Cassius answered.

Onscreen, Cassius stiffened. “He is Admiral Sulla to you. He is Highborn and worthy of the proper respect.”

“Of course,” Hawthorne said.

“Admiral Sulla has gained a following and managed to oust the previous commander of the Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“I see,” Hawthorne said. That fit with his information. “What seems to be the problem then? Does Admiral Sulla not approve of our planned attack into the Neptune System?”

Cassius stared at him.

Hawthorne kept a poker face throughout the silence. Did the Grand Admiral know about the secret communication with Sulla? The new Highborn commander might be an Ultraist, but Sulla wanted the Grand Admiral’s chair more than purity to his theories—at least in the short term. According to reports, Sulla was concerned about Cassius. If was difficult and in most cases impossible for a Highborn to admit to fear. Apparently, concern was the most they could feel. Intelligence believed there was a power-struggle going on among the Highborn. Well, there was an intensification to the constant power-struggle. The Highborn lived like a pack of beasts, constantly jockeying for position.

Hawthorne decided that Cassius knew about the communication with Sulla. It would be a foolish mistake to underestimate the Grand Admiral.

“What sort of gesture are we talking about?” Hawthorne asked.

“Perhaps you should return North American Sector to Highborn control,” Cassius said, his eyes oily dark.

“I thought you and I had agreed to a freeze on territorial changes,” Hawthorne said. “The cyborgs would rejoice if we reopened hostilities against each other.”

“Hmm,” Cassius said. “Admiral Sulla has rightly pointed out that you broke the original agreement, taking North American Sector during the planet-wreckers’ approach. By the terms of our initial truce, you must return North American Sector to us.”

Hawthorne cleared his throat. This was a delicate topic. “Grand Admiral, I would like to speak frankly. Beginning in 2349 you bombarded Geneva and invaded—”

“Supreme Commander, I am not interested in listening to objections that originate from preman moral philosophies. We attacked Social Unity because we are the stronger species and were in subjection to a lesser race. The situation was unnatural, as the only true imperative is survival of the fittest. The laws of Nature are immutable, particularity in this regard. We have stopped attacking because the cyborgs represent a unique threat to both of us. What use is our victory in Inner Planets if the cyborgs swallow us afterward? You originally thought to use the cyborgs against us and realized the error of your strategy only after they had turned on you. Now at last you have turned to us for aid. We both understand that it is in our combined interests to work together. This unity cannot function, however, if you will not abide by the agreed-upon terms.”

“We did not take North American Sector from you,” Hawthorne said. “You abandoned Earth during the cyborg attack from Saturn, leaving the Free Earth Corps behind as garrison. Some of them claimed independence from you and later asked for admittance into Social Unity.”

“You should have refused them.”

“On what grounds?”

“To keep the continued alliance with us,” Cassius said.

“But if you willingly abandon territory—”

Onscreen, Cassius leaned near. “Enough! I am simply relating to you Admiral Sulla’s argument. I understand your logic. Because I do, there is a different way for you to redeem yourself with me.”

“Grand Admiral?”

“The Ultraists represent a grave threat to premen—excuse me, to humanity’s continued existence. In your thinking, why trade one threat for a similar threat several years down the corridors of time?”

“It is true I dislike Ultraist creed,” Hawthorne said. “But the cyborg menace represents an immediate—”

“I dislike Admiral Sulla as he is a thorn in my side.” Cassius showed his teeth in what he might have thought was a smile. “You and I have certain similarities, Supreme Commander. Our fellow soldiers waste time and effort attempting to pull us from power. Tell me, haven’t you faced coup attempts against your authority?”

“I have,” Hawthorne admitted, wondering where Cassius was taking this.

“Be assured there are similar attempts among the Highborn against me. In that regard, Admiral Sulla represents a problem to our alliance. By protocol and custom, however, there are only several avenues I am allowed to react concerning his objections. In other words, I could use your help.”

Hawthorne raised his eyebrows. This was unprecedented: the Grand Admiral asking for human help. Despite the Highborn’s arrogant way of talking, this gave Hawthorne hope. He had an ongoing debate with Security Specialist Cone. He believed Highborn could feel gratitude. Cone said the super-soldiers thought of humans as dogs. One could not feel gratitude toward a dog. Hawthorne disagreed. As food continued to disappear from the stores, many people had found it difficult butchering their dogs for the table, having a deep sense of loyalty toward the animals. If he helped Cassius now, the Grand Admiral would likely feel honor-bound to him later.

“We have several common enemies,” the Grand Admiral was saying. “The first are the cyborgs. We are banding together with you to destroy them before they can convert us into abominations. The second is Admiral Sulla and his Ultraists. I do not fear him or them, although I know humans view their competitors in that light. The admiral’s sin is that he weakens our united attempt to destroy the cyborgs. That is why I am asking you to help me send a message to the Ultraists.”

“How can I do this?”

“The first way would be by ceding North American Sector to us.” Onscreen, Cassius held up a hand. “You have already admitted your reluctance and probably your inability to making such a gesture. I understand. It is good for you to realize that my understanding is unique among Highborn. The reason is that I am unique in my ability to think along premen lines. It is one of my strengths.”

Hawthorne nodded, impressed once again with a Highborn’s innate arrogance. Sometimes he wondered how two million hyper-ambitious super-soldiers could agree to do anything together. They would never be able to survive their victory—if they could achieve it. A Solar System filled with Highborn was inconceivable. They would war against each other long before that happened. It would be constant civil war.

“There is a second way?” Hawthorne asked.

“There are two other ways. I choose the easier option because I am considering your limited capabilities. Simply stated, I ask you to meet with me as we discuss strategy together.”

“We are meeting together,” Hawthorne said.

“I am talking about a face-to-face meeting, a physical greeting between you and me. This will surprise you, but I have long wanted to speak with you, Supreme Commander. You have waged war relentlessly against a superior foe—us—and shown great tenacity in—”

“How would such a meeting help you against Admiral Sulla?”

Cassius scowled. No Highborn liked being interrupted. Hawthorne had done it on purpose to test the Grand Admiral’s resolve.

With his right hand, Cassius wiped away the scowl. “Our meeting will show the Ultraists that I consider premen—excuse me. That I consider humans as worthy allies.”

“Before I could agree,” Hawthorne said, “I would need to speak with my people about this.”

“Time is our enemy.”

“I’m afraid your proposal will create a stir of distrust among my councilors. I will need to mollify the distrust.”

Cassius sat back, showing surprise. “I offer this gesture in order to heighten trust among us. We are soon to begin the fateful journey, heading for the Neptune System. Our two fleets must learn to act as one. How can we achieve this unless the two supreme leaders act in concert?”

“We lack unity of command, I agree with you there,” Hawthorne said.

Cassius’s eyes narrowed. Then he showed his teeth in another predatory smile. “You have rare genius, Supreme Commander.”

Hawthorne nodded, deciding he didn’t like such praise from a Highborn.

“Hmm,” Cassius said, “this distrust you mentioned, how could I help you dampen it?”

“I can think of several ways,” Hawthorne said. “Firstly, I would have to bring a security detail.”

“Security against Highborn?” Cassius asked, attempting a rare jest.

“We would ask you to bring a correspondingly smaller team.”

“Done.”

Hawthorne became thoughtful. The Grand Admiral was trying to be appealing. What lay behind it?

“I would like to meet soon,” Cassius said.

“I understand. You still have not said where.”

“In Low Earth Orbit, on a station in sight of your Eurasian beams and my Doom Star.”

Hawthorne drummed his fingers on the desk. The idea of meeting Cassius face-to-face… “Let me talk with my councilors.”

“I would appreciate an answer in three hours.”

“I’m sure it will not take us long to decide. I am curious about one thing, however. How will a meeting between us help you versus Admiral Sulla and the Ultraists?”

“Ah,” Cassius said. “That is one of the subjects you and I must speak of alone.”

Hawthorne’s heart rate quickened. “I understand. I will call the meeting at once.”

“Excellent. I await your reply.”

-2-

At 4:11 PM, a meeting began on Level Three of New Baghdad. It was held in the Supreme Commander’s quarters. Director Juba-Ryder of Egyptian Sector joined Security Specialist Cone and Force-Leader Marten Kluge, the Jovian Representative.

From the Supreme Commander’s biocomp transcriptions, File #13:

HAWTHORNE: That’s the situation. Now Cassius wants to meet me face-to-face in Low Earth Orbit. I would like your thoughts or observations concerning his proposal.

CONE: I don’t like it, sir. Why does Cassius need to speak to you alone? He has an ulterior motive.

JUBA-RYDER: His motive is clear. He wishes the Supreme Commander’s help in removing Sulla from command.

CONE: I don’t believe that.

JUBA-RYDER: Motives are not always complex or devious, Security Specialist. The Highborn are soldiers—

CONE: They are genetic racists first and foremost.

JUBA-RYDER: What bearing does their racism have on the situation? Sulla impedes the Grand Admiral. For that reason, Cassius wishes the commander’s removal. We can help him. Therefore, Cassius attempts to use us. That sounds like perfect Highborn reasoning to me.

CONE: I’ll tell you my objection. The Highborn don’t know how to treat us as equals.

JUBA-RYDER: Again, I must ask: What does that have to do—?

CONE: Your logic implies that Cassius sees us as equals, or near-equals. That is contrary to everything we know about the Highborn. That being so, I question the Highborn’s motives.

HAWTHORNE: You’re awfully quiet, Force-Leader Kluge. You’ve had more direct experience with the Highborn than any of us. Do you think Cassius needs our help eliminating Sulla?

MARTEN: There’s only one way to speak with a Highborn—with a gun aimed at his belly. The minute the cyborgs are dead, the Highborn will turn on us.

HAWTHORNE: How does that relate with Cassius’s proposal?

MARTEN: She’s right. (Points his thumb at Cone.) To them we’re animals to collar, geld, experiment on or insert in missiles as a biological weapon. They’re only a little better than the cyborgs because you can revolt against Highborn more easily.

JUBA-RYDER: It is impossible to revolt once a person is altered into a cyborg.

MARTEN: Osadar Di would disagree with you.

HAWTHORNE: If I understand your point, Force-Leader, you don’t think I should meet with Cassius.

MARTEN: (Shakes his head). The Highborn don’t know how to work with people. You can ask the Martians what they think about the super-soldiers. Before the Third Battle for Mars, Planetary Union personnel worked with Highborn. They learned to hate them to the same degree they hated Political Harmony Corps. The best way to deal with Highborn is from a distance as we did during the Cyborg Assault in the Jupiter System.

JUBA-RYDER: I cannot agree. A principle of cooperation is learning by experience about the other. The more you know from personal contact, the closer you become to that person or people group. This is a priceless opportunity to learn more about the Grand Admiral.

MARTEN: You weren’t listening. The more contact you have with some people—like Highborn—the more you hate them. Too much contact with the Highborn will make us forget the cyborgs until it is too late.

JUBA-RYDER: That is an extremely negative view.

MARTEN: (Laughs sourly).

JUBA-RYDER: Did I say something humorous?

MARTEN: My negative view has kept me alive in more than one situation.

HAWTHORNE: To say your biography is remarkable is an understatement. And I accept your premise, Force-Leader. Yet these are tragic times that demand the unusual from all of us. Admiral Sulla and the Ultraists represent a grave threat to humanity. If Cassius will help us eliminate the Ultraist position among the Highborn—

MARTEN: The Grand Admiral will not do anything for our good, at least not willingly.

HAWTHORNE: I understand.

MARTEN: Supreme Commander, I distrust Cassius’s motives because I do not know what they are. You should take as a given that he works counter to your position unless you have a concrete reason to believe otherwise. Even then, I wouldn’t trust him.

JUBA-RYDER: No, I cannot accept such thinking. My proof is that he already helps us. Cassius desires the elimination of the cyborgs as much as we do. He acts in concert with us and thereby wishes a strong Social Unity, at least for now. Your advice is born from your fear of the Grand Admiral. He has personally threatened you. Oh yes, we know all about that transmission. There are many things we know about you, Force-Leader.

HAWTHORNE: That’s enough, Director. Marten Kluge is here by my invitation.

JUBA-RYDER: He was a Free Earth Corps soldier once, a traitor to Social Unity. I’ve been studying his file, including Hall Leader Reports concerning his profile. The man doesn’t have the first idea about loyalty. Wherever he goes, he brings disunion and death.

HAWTHORNE: These past years we have all done things that we’re not proud of. Now we find ourselves allies against a hopeless future. The critical fact concerning Marten Kluge is that he has slain both Highborn and cyborgs. I applaud such deadliness and desire his advice concerning our common enemies.

JUBA-RYDER: I’m afraid that I don’t know how to trust a traitor.

HAWTHORNE: Your language is too strong. Curb it at once.

JUBA-RYDER: I am at your orders, sir. But I wonder, has the Force-Leader taken a new oath yet to Social Unity?

HAWTHORNE: He is here as a representative of the Jovians. No oath is needed.

JUBA-RYDER: Has he at least denounced his former actions against Social Unity? He was a hero of the Japan Campaign, winning Highborn medals for murdering our soldiers. If he sits here with you, sir, I think the least he could do was foreswear his former actions and awards in Japan.

HAWTHORNE: We have not spoken about such things. There has been no time.

JUBA-RYDER: (to Marten) Do you denounce your FEC affiliation and awards?

MARTEN: Do you denounce sending people to the slime pits or allowing some to enter punishment tubes where they drowned to death because they failed to pump fast enough?

HAWTHORNE: Please, let there be peace among us. (Looking at Juba-Ryder.) I appreciate your zeal for Social Unity. You are to be commended for it and you are a true guide to the masses. However, at this time there is no reason to stir up old memories. We are attempting to save humanity from annihilation. Nothing else matters. If we must work hand-in-hand with murdering Highborn to defeat the cyborgs, I will do it.

JUBA-RYDER: I am at your orders, sir. You are the guiding hand of Social Unity and no one else could do as you’ve done these past years. Some have questioned your zeal, but they were wrong to do so. I know your heart, and it beats strongly, pumping true socialist blood. As for the Grand Admiral, I would like to speak in his defense for a moment. Despite what has been said here concerning Highborn, we should remember that Cassius agreed to work with us against the planet-wreckers. Without his actions and those of other Highborn, human life on Earth would be extinct. We must never forget that. And logically, what Cassius and the Highborn have done once, surely, we can expect them to do again.

CONE: I agree with much of what you say, particularly that without the Highborn, Earth would be a dead planet.

MARTEN: If the Highborn had never attacked you, Social Unity would have possessed enough warships to destroy the planet-wreckers on their own.

CONE: Hypotheticals don’t interest me. The Highborn saved human life by their assault on the planet-wreckers. They might help save humanity by attacking the cyborgs in the Neptune System.

JUBA-RYDER: You agree with me then that the Supreme Commander should meet with Cassius?

CONE: (Shakes her head). Cassius’s motives may have changed since the planet-wreckers a year ago. In fact, I believe they have changed.

JUBA-RYDER: On what do you base this assumption?

CONE: My communication with Admiral Sulla.

JUBA-RYDER: This is an amazing statement. You have spoken with the chief Ultraist?

HAWTHORNE: At my orders, she has.

JUBA-RYDER: (Glancing from Hawthorne to Cone). What does Sulla say?

CONE: There is a fierce battle going on between the Highborn. Cassius has been losing political ground as new commanders rise up. Then several weeks ago, things began to change. Sulla believes Cassius resorted to assassination in order to place one of his people in high command, namely, the newly promoted Admiral Scipio.

JUBA-RYDER: Is assassination unusual among them?

CONE: Apparently, it is. It means the Grand Admiral has possibly changed his feelings about murder and now willingly employs it as a tactic. I find that troubling.

JUBA-RYDER: I find your admission of communication with Sulla troubling. We’ve spoken here about our distrust of Cassius. Sulla is an Ultraist. Yet apparently we have no problem speaking with him. Sulla’s view about us is even harsher than the Grand Admiral’s. For what possible reason could Sulla be speaking with us, and why do you seem to trust him?

CONE: (Looks at the Supreme Commander).

HAWTHORNE: (Nods).

CONE: Our trust comes because Sulla is in an inferior position compared to the Grand Admiral. In addition, Sulla wishes our help in assassinating Cassius.

JUBA-RYDER: (Sits up). Sir, this communication with the Ultraist could be a trap. Sulla—it seems obvious what is happening. This is a loyalty test by them. The two Highborn work against us, they are testing to see if we are trustworthy.

HAWTHORNE: The citizens of Social Unity are not their subjects.

JUBA-RYDER: If we take the Force-Leader’s words at face value, the Highborn believe we are animals. An Ultraist would have an even lower opinion about us. We must tread with caution and keep out of their political battles.

CONE: The Director’s unease mirrors my own feelings. I find myself at a loss in this situation. I distrust both Sulla and Cassius. If I had to choose, I would believe the Grand Admiral before the Ultraist. But I would not want to make the choice. Therefore, in this instance, I must agree with Force-Leader Kluge. Sir, do not meet with the Grand Admiral.

JUBA-RYDER: As long as we refrain from entering into their political maneuverings, I do not see what we can lose from your meeting with Cassius.

MARTEN: (to Juba-Ryder) Have you ever been in combat with a Highborn?

JUBA-RYDER: Obviously not. I am a political representative of the people, not a soldier.

MARTEN: Then you have no idea what you’re talking about. Even without weapons, Highborn are extremely dangerous.

JUBA-RYDER: (Slaps the conference table and opens her mouth to retort).

HAWTHORNE: (speaking quickly) Could you elaborate, Force-Leader?

MARTEN: The Highborn are amazing soldiers, and they are daring to an intense degree. I wouldn’t discount the idea that they are trying to assassinate you, sir.

JUBA-RYDER: Why would they want to kill our Supreme Commander? It would shatter the alliance. The cyborgs would win then and we would all lose. Humanity would die.

MARTEN: That’s just it. Realizing humanity would die, wouldn’t you still work with the Highborn even after they killed the Supreme Commander? The stakes would be too high to face the cyborgs alone.

JUBA-RYDER: There would be no more trust.

MARTEN: Is there any now?

CONE: Not much, Force-Leader, but a little, yes.

MARTEN: That’s your first mistake. Never trust a Highborn.

CONE: We trusted them to help us with the planet-wreckers, and we were right to do so.

HAWTHORNE: Suppose I do go to Low Earth Orbit, Force-Leader? What would you suggest?

MARTEN: Take a gun.

HAWTHORNE: The Grand Admiral stipulated that neither of us go armed.

MARTEN: Then carried a concealed weapon.

HAWTHORNE: They have detectors for that sort of thing.

MARTEN: Use an implant. Those are nearly impossible to detect.

JUBA-RYDER: That is preposterous. You wish to alter the Supreme Commander of Social Unity with a bionic part?

MARTEN: These are unusual times and call for unusual actions.

JUBA-RYDER: You dare to hurl that in the Supreme Commander’s face. I find that offensive. Pray that nothing happens to our leader, Marten Kluge.

HAWTHORNE: You will desist at once with threats, Director!

JUBA-RYDER: Yes, sir. I’m sorry, Force-Leader. I wish you a long and socially useful life.

MARTEN: That’s great.

HAWTHORNE: As usual, we have had a spirited meeting. I appreciate the candor. Know that I have decided. I will meet with Grand Admiral Cassius.

MARTEN: Good luck. You’re going to need it.

HAWTHORNE: The meeting is adjourned. Security Specialist Cone, if you would remain a moment longer, please…

End of File #13

-3-

Several hours later, Grand Admiral Cassius piloted an armored shuttle toward an old command station in geosynchronous orbit above the Earth. Three other Highborn rode in back as his security team. The Vladimir Lenin, a SU battleship with particle shielding, was interposed between the station and the Julius Caesar ten-thousand kilometers away. In Cassius’s opinion, letting the premen have a protective battleship was an excellent method of lulling the enemy.

The Earth hung below and masses of heavy clouds hid the majority of the surface. The cloud-cover was thick enough that surface-based lasers would prove ineffectual against the station. The proton beams were another matter. Cassius respected them. They could punch through the clouds and annihilate the station. Nevertheless, he had a plan for that and for the battleship. Checking his chronometer, he saw that he had nineteen minutes to kill Social Unity’s Supreme Commander James Hawthorne. With him out of the way, chaos would result. In the chaos, the Highborn would achieve in weeks what they had been unable to do in years: complete conquest of Earth. Once he possessed unity of command in Inner Planets, he would be ready to destroy the cyborgs.

It would be enjoyable to interview the preman. One of Cassius’s fantasies was to go back in time to speak with Alexander the Great. Another fantasy he mentally indulged in was the idea of what he could have done with one hundred Highborn during Ancient Times. He would have conquered the Earth, swinging an axe and leading an army of subservient premen.

Cassius decided that conquering the Solar System would have to do. He chuckled. The heavy lifting of his plan had already been achieved. James Hawthorne walked…floated to his death at the station. A video cam recorded it and a chemical sniffer had made its analysis: the preman was unarmed.

“Thirty premen security people are on the station,” he told his guards.

“Thirty cattle,” the chief guard said. The Highborn wore combat-armor and had bristly white hair.

Cassius frowned. “Listen to me. You must avoid overconfidence. We are superior, but arrogance holds a trap for the unwary.

“Yes, Commander.”

“This is a delicate mission and we must perform at the height of our powers. The preman are soldiers, and they have held us at bay for years. We will not underestimate them, especially with the Vladimir Lenin nearby.”

“We hear you, sir.”

“At my signal, you will draw your weapons and ruthlessly destroy all thirty guards. Those of you who fail to enter the shuttle in time will die. The premen will surely destroy the station in retaliation for the Supreme Commander’s death and we must be gone by then.”

“Those of us who fail to enter the shuttle deserve to die,” the chief guard said.

“I have longed for this day,” Cassius said. “The clever preman has played his last card against me. Now is the hour of the Highborn as we consolidate our power.”

Cassius clicked the shuttle’s controls. Seconds later, thrusters blasted, slowing the armored spaceship as they began docking procedures.

James Hawthorne floated before the chamber’s viewing port of ballistic glass. It had been a long time since he’d been in space. He felt queasy floating here. It felt as if he was constantly falling. Because of that, his stomach roiled and he was afraid he would vomit.

He wore a silver vacc-suit. The helmet hung behind his head and he’d taken off the magnetically-sealed gloves. The chamber was spacious, a former carbon-scrubbing station. Some time ago, workers had removed the wrecked filters and patched the breached bulkheads. Outside, the view was spectacular. The stars shined brightly and the grim bulk of the Vladimir Lenin orbited nearby. Commodore Blackstone was the commanding officer, back at last from Mars. 600-meters of particle mass provided the warship’s main shielding. The oblong-shape of the warship showed it was a man-made construct and not just stray matter. It had been a long time since SU warships had been parked in Earth orbit. Beyond the battleship and out of visual range was the Julius Caesar.

Hawthorne had seen Cassius’s shuttle, at least he had seen its intense exhaust. Now he heard loud clangs from outside and vibrations against the floor.

I’m finally going to meet Grand Admiral Cassius. This was a historic moment. After all these years, all the enemy’s strategic plans…he was going to meet their author. As a student of military history, he understood the value of a genius. Frederick II of Prussia had once simultaneously fought France, Austria, Russia, the Holy Roman Empire, Saxony and Sweden. Collectively that represented a coalition of 70,000,000 people against 4,500,000 Prussians, fought in an era of flintlocks, cavalry and cannons. Napoleon had said of the king: “It is not the Prussian army which for seven years defended Prussia against the three most powerful nations in Europe, but Frederick the Great.” The Highborn were incomparable as soldiers. The Grand Admiral made them even greater.

Hawthorne swallowed in a dry throat, and he flexed his fingers. Had he guessed correctly or was Marten Kluge right? Infighting among humans and Highborn with the cyborgs threatening everyone, it would be suicidal madness. Surely, Cassius couldn’t be that arrogant.

The stars shined so brightly up here. It was beautiful and serene. Hawthorne frowned as he studied the stars. It came to him that he was more than weary of leading Social Unity. The weight of responsibility was crushing. The deaths of so many soldiers that he had ordered into hopeless situations…

It is time I risked my life against the cyborgs instead of just ordering others to their deaths.

The combined Highborn-Human Fleet would soon begin the long journey to Neptune. It would take over eight months to reach the enemy system.

I must go with them. The stooped Supreme Commander nodded, and he took a deep breath. Who would lead Earth in his absence? Who had the fire, the cunning and desire to match wits against the—

Behind him, the door swished open. Hawthorne turned his head. His eyes widened.

A nine-foot-tall super-soldier filled the entrance. The Highborn wore combat-armor, which was against their agreement. With a clang of magnetized boots, the Highborn walked into the chamber. Behind him, the door swished shut.

“Grand Admiral Cassius, I presume.”

The visor rotated open, and a wide face filled the helmet. The eyes with their oily film and the slash for a mouth, combined with the sharp planes of the face…Hawthorne understood Kluge’s objections better now.

“This is a pleasure,” the Highborn said.

Hawthorne tightened his slack muscles in order to suppress a shudder. The voice was inhumanly deep and rich with authority. This was a soldier born to command. He felt inadequate standing in the Highborn’s presence.

“I am Grand Admiral Cassius. You are James Hawthorne?”

Hawthorne nodded as the feeling of inadequacy grew. The sheer vibrancy of the Highborn awed him, the coiled intensity of the soldier…

“I am glad we can finally meet,” Hawthorne managed to say.

“You have come unarmed?”

“I have,” Hawthorne said.

“Excellent. I knew you were an honorable man. You have fought a good fight, preman. You held us at bay from Eurasia longer than I believed possible. It is the reason we are in this fix.”

“You wanted to speak about Admiral Sulla, I believe.”

Cassius checked a chronometer on his armored wrist. “We have little time, which is a pity. Never fear, Sulla’s days are numbered. He would eliminate you premen, a strategic piece of folly that I cannot allow. As a species, you are too needed in order to work the factories, at least until the cyborgs are destroyed.”

The direction of the conversation…it made Hawthorne sick. He had guessed wrong, it seemed. Marten Kluge had been right. He should have listened to the expert on Highborn. With a gentle shove, the Supreme Commander of Social Unity pushed himself off the ballistic glass toward Cassius.

“You understand what must happen,” Cassius said. “I see the knowledge in your eyes. With you gone, Social Unity will split into factions. In their fear of death and dishonor, the weaker factions will turn to us for help. Using that, I shall easily occupy Eurasia and Africa, completing my conquest of Earth.”

Hawthorne shuddered. The Highborn were killers. It was their genetic heritage.

“Even as you attempt to be brave, you show your fear,” Cassius said. “It is the great preman weakness.”

“What about my security team? You can’t hope to fight past them?”

“Thirty premen against three Highborn?” Cassius asked. “Bah. The odds are stacked in our favor. We cannot lose such an encounter.”

“With the cyborgs ready to destroy us,” Hawthorne said, “killing me is a mistake.”

“The cyborgs are the reason I must kill you. To defeat them, I need unity of command.”

“We’re already allied.”

“Loosely,” Cassius said. “I need obedience in order for my genius to flower. You made your greatest strategic error today in coming here. Otherwise, you fought brilliantly.”

“Are you armed?” Hawthorne asked.

“I have my hands,” Cassius said, lifting them. “They will be more than enough to twist your neck. For a preman, you fought better than anyone could have believed. However, I will take pleasure in this. My genetic imperative and greatness relentlessly leads me to the ultimate prize—victory!”

Hawthorne took a deep breath as he drifted near Cassius. The Supreme Commander raised his left arm and pointed his index finger at the Highborn’s face.

“Do not beg, preman, and do not preach to me concerning preman morals. Fight me and go down to death as a soldier should—struggle until the last breath leaves your pathetic frame.”

With his middle finger, Hawthorne pressed the pad embedded within the skin of his palm. He had undergone emergency surgery. The left index finger was a functional prosthesis. The tip of skin blew away as a dum-dum bullet fired from the finger mount.

Cassius might have shown surprise. It happened so quickly, however, that Hawthorne couldn’t tell if the Highborn knew what was happening. The dum-dum slug entered the Grand Admiral’s face under the right eye. As that occurred, the piece of mercury in the hollow part of the slug was flung against the lead. That caused the slug to fragment like a grenade as it entered the Highborn’s face. The slug exploded, instantly killing the soldier.

A hidden transmitter in the palm-pad trigger also alerted the security team outside. They were not ordinary humans, but bionic soldiers. This was another clear violation of the agreement they had made. The bionic soldiers attacked the three Highborn, who proved themselves marvelous fighters. Cassius’s three guards killed fourteen soldiers before they died, but die they did.

Afterward, the surviving members of the security team entered a pod and dropped for Earth. James Hawthorne strapped a propulsion pack to his shoulders, sealed his vacc-suit, entered a lock, waited until the chamber rotated into space and launched for the Vladimir Lenin.

Aboard the Vladimir Lenin, Commodore Blackstone stood at the command module as the chamber was bathed in red light. He watched the pod drop toward the heavy cloud cover. A tiny blip on the screen showed him Hawthorne’s position.

“Propulsion,” Blackstone said, “give me bearing seven mark ten. Put us between the Julius Caesar and the Supreme Commander.”

There was a lurch aboard the battleship as subsystems fractionally moved the multi-million-ton vessel.

How much time will they give us? Blackstone asked himself. The answer came almost right away.

“Highborn weapons systems are hot,” Commissar Kursk said. She monitored the situation from her part of the module as she stood near him. “I think they know what happened to their Grand Admiral.”

Blackstone gripped the module’s sides. “Are they targeting us?”

“They’re not responding to our calls,” Kursk said.

Blackstone flinched as he watched the module’s screen. A laser on the Julius Caesar activated. It was a stab of brilliant light that caused the small vessel to wink out of existence, killing the bionic soldiers aboard. Then a floating, and up until this point, invisible stealth-missile appeared on the module’s screen. The missile’s exhaust brought it to glaring notice.

“Should I intercept?” Kursk asked. “The missile is heading for the station.”

“Leave it,” Blackstone said. “Let the Highborn think they’re getting revenge.”

“There’s a probability that an exploding fragment from the station will kill the Supreme Commander.”

“It’s a risk he’ll have to take,” Blackstone said.

He had received a communication from Hawthorne an hour ago. The orders had been sketchy, but Commissar Kursk had helped the Commodore fill in the gaps. Blackstone knew what he needed to do now. If the Doom Star targeted the Vladimir Lenin, they were all dead. It was madness fighting another warship at such close range, especially a warship with collapsium shielding. Collapsium was an incredible advantage.

“Sir,” Kursk said. “An officer on the Julius Caesar is hailing us.”

Blackstone tapped his screen, putting the picture onto his portion of the module. It showed an angry Highborn. They all looked alike to him, big and volatile. This one had a scar on his forehead that disappeared into his hairline. Had this Highborn died before?

“I am Tribune Vulpus. You will lower your particle-shielding or face an immediate attack.”

“I’m sorry to report that Supreme Commander James Hawthorne is dead and so is Grand Admiral Cassius,” Blackstone said. “I suggest we call an immediate ceasefire until we can figure out why this happened.”

“You have broken the truce and caused the death of the greatest Highborn ever,” Vulpus said. “The penalty is death.”

“I have not broken any truce,” Blackstone said, struggling for a calm voice. “You have already fired a laser, killing men, and you have activated a missile, destroying an orbital station. I ask that you refrain from further destruction.”

“Highborn always act with swift assurance,” the tribune said. “We are unstoppable. You will immediately surrender your ship to me, preman.”

“No sir, I will not,” Blackstone said.

“Then you will die.”

“Yes, you have the capacity to destroy my ship,” Blackstone said. “Or we can continue to work together under the terms of our agreement. United, we can destroy the cyborgs. Divided, we fall. The choice is yours, sir. Do you speak for all Highborn?”

Tribune Vulpus glanced at someone off-screen. When he faced Blackstone again, he said, “You have acted treacherously, preman. You must surrender immediately or face annihilation.”

“May I remind you, sir, that you are in range of our proton beams from Eurasia,” Blackstone said. “I am in command of a Zhukov-class Battleship. It will last long enough to allow our lasers and missiles to fire. Combined with the Earth’s proton beams, we can severely damage your ship. Maybe we can even destroy it. The destruction of the Julius Caesar, one third of your Doom Stars, will likely ensure a cyborg victory. Do you wish to risk that?”

“You treacherously killed the Grand Admiral.”

“You have monitored us throughout the proceedings,” Blackstone said. “We have done nothing of the kind. I think our two leaders killed each other. Now we’re both in disarray. Maybe now it is time for soldiers like us to forget our differences as we band together to destroy the cyborgs.”

Tribune Vulpus stared at Blackstone. Then he glanced off-screen again.

“The cyborgs are the greater enemy,” some unseen Highborn said.

Vulpus glared at Blackstone. “I will maintain the temporary truce. The commanders will decide our next course of action. You have been spared.”

The screen flickered off.

Blackstone sagged as he leaned against the module.

“The Supreme Commander has activated his thruster-pack again,” Kursk said, as she watched the monitor.

“Radio him—” Blackstone said.

“That would be a mistake,” Kursk said. “Until he’s aboard, we must maintain radio silence with him. Let’s hope he does the same. Otherwise, the Julius Caesar will open hostilities with us.”

Blackstone nodded. What a mess. He was beginning to wonder if he should have gone back to Mars instead of returning to Earth.

-4-

“It was a mistake our landing on Earth,” Marten whispered to Nadia.

They walked through the second level of New Baghdad, hoping to speak personally with a transportation minister. From above sunlamps poured heat and light on them. Communal buildings towered seven stories high and small shops sold coffee and biscuits, provided one showed his ration card to the worker.

The sidewalks were full of pedestrians wearing the new severe cut of jacket and slacks. Everyone looked undernourished. They weren’t as thin as Martians, but they were much too thin for people living in the capital of Social Unity. Most of the passing crowd glanced sidelong at Nadia and frowned at Marten.

He wore a gun and leather jacket, and there was something feral about Marten Kluge. The card-holding people of Social Unity must have sensed the difference, realizing that he wasn’t tame like them. He had bristly blond hair and gaunt cheeks, and there was something compelling about the way he held his shoulders. Nadia wore a cap, with long hair spilling out of it. Her slacks showed her trim figure and the cut of her blouse heightened the fullness of her breasts.

Behind them followed two peacekeepers in helmet and dark visor. The peacekeepers wore body-armor but lacked combat weapons. Shock-rods dangled from their belts.

“I wish they’d leave us alone,” Nadia said.

Marten glanced back and grunted. Hawthorne hadn’t returned from orbit. It made his—Marten’s—standing on Earth more problematic. He needed to get his space marines back, tell Omi to hurry here and then find passage back up to space to the patrol boats. He never should have let the marines go to Athens. His Jovians were crazy interested about ancient Greek ruins.

Marten scowled. He didn’t like the feel of the crowds. The two peacekeepers paced them. There was something going on. He—

“There he is!” a woman shouted.

Marten almost drew his gun, but he hesitated.

“You!” the woman shouted. She was hidden but nearby. “Push those people back. You, make sure to use zoom. I want close-ups of his face.”

Police whistles began to blast.

“What’s going on?” Nadia whispered.

Before Marten could answer, several dozen new peacekeepers in red riot-control uniforms stepped through the crowd. They wielded shock-rods as the weapons sizzled with electric power. People screamed, shoving and pushing one another to get away from the red-suited thugs.

“Stand back!” a peacekeeper shouted through his voice amplifier. “Make room for the Information Advisor.”

As the red-uniformed peacekeepers drove the crowd apart, a woman with glossy lips and a stylish pantsuit approached Marten and Nadia.

Nadia sidled closer to Marten, gripping his left arm with both of hers.

Behind the woman—Nancy Vance by the crowd’s whispers—came several men with video devices, followed by thick-limbed security personnel wearing black armor.

“I’m speaking today with Jovian Representative, Marten Kluge,” Nancy said toward the cameras. She smiled. It was a radiant thing. She had sparkles in her hair and wore a shimmering blouse.

Marten pried his fingers from the butt of his holstered gun.

“Hello, Marten Kluge,” Nancy said, turning to him.

“Try to smile,” Nadia whispered.

Marten did try. The hundreds of people staring at him, however, made his scalp prickle. The curious knot of humanity pressed toward the guarding peacekeepers and the busy cameramen.

“Have you enjoyed your stay on Earth?” Nancy asked.

Marten nodded.

“The Jovians are a taciturn people,” Nancy explained to the cameras. “They ponder philosophic insights as they struggle to engage themselves with the regular world.”

“You think I’m a philosopher?” Marten asked, bemused.

Nancy made an elaborate bow. “I do not wish to presume, sir. On Earth, social justice and a fair distribution of the wealth supersede airy notions of archetype and forms.”

“Both political systems are useless these days,” he said.

Nancy Vance’s eyebrows rose. “You do not believe in an equal distribution of wealth?”

“Be careful, Marten,” Nadia whispered.

Marten scanned the crowd, noticing how people listened for his answer. Years ago, he had endured the hall leaders prattling about their empty slogans. How he’d longed to speak his mind then.

“You should ask yourself a question,” Marten said.

Nancy nodded politely.

“Do the directors live as simply as apartment dwellers? You know the answer. Directors, hall leaders and other functionaries go to high-class parties, dine at the best eateries and receive top-grade medical procedures. Apparently, not even the lords of Social Unity believe their own slogans.”

Nancy turned to the crowd. “Notice the craft which Jovians frame a question, which they then answer. It is diabolically clever. Notice, too, the effort our Jovian Representative has gone to learning our norms. It shows great intellect and the belief in hard study.” Nancy turned back to Marten. “On Jupiter the philosopher-kings possess incredible mansions. There—”

“On Jupiter?” Marten asked.

Nancy Vance smiled more brightly. “You are the Jovian Representative, correct?”

“I am.”

“Then Jupiter—”

“Jupiter is the gas giant,” Marten said. “No one can live on it. The people of the Jupiter System live on Europa and Ganymede, the moons orbiting—”

Nancy laughed in a delightful manner as she turned to the cameras. “Jovians are logicians, known for their lack of humor and rigorous attention to detail. It appears that Marten Kluge is no exception. I ask you,” Nancy said, turning back to Marten, “do all Jovians go armed as you do?”

“Don’t say anything else,” Nadia whispered.

Marten stared at the cameras, at Nancy Vance and then at Nadia.

“I apologize if I have touched upon a taboo subject,” Nancy said. She turned to the cameras. “Life is strange and unordered on the fringes of the Solar System. There, men and women must go armed to protect themselves from lawless behavior.”

“It’s not like that,” Marten said. “People should go armed so the government fears them more than the people fear the government.”

Silence swept over the crowd. Nancy Vance turned back to him, frowning in disbelief.

Nadia’s arms tightened around Marten’s bicep.

“We go armed so we can be free,” Marten said. “We have guns in case thugs in red-armor try to march us to the slime pits. We refuse to live beneath others who would attempt to tell us exactly what we can and cannot do.”

People in the front of the crowd began to murmur.

The tip of Nancy’s tongue touched her glossy lower lip. “Representative Kluge—”

“Once they take your guns, you’re no longer free,” Marten said. “Once you fail to speak your mind, you’re a slave to the system. I know. I once stood up for—”

“Marten,” Nadia whispered in his ear.

Nancy’s eyes brightened. “Please, be free with us, Marten Kluge. Tell us what we were about to say.”

Marten’s desire evaporated as he studied the crowd. People glared at him, some muttering angrily. His fingers twitched, and he longed to draw his gun.

“Give us your Jovian wisdom,” Nancy Vance said in a sugary voice.

“I’m late!” Marten declared. “I have an appointment with the Transportation Minister. Our two systems are working together so we may destroy the cyborgs and bring wealth and prosperity to Earth. If you will excuse me…”

Nancy Vance nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Kluge.” She turned to the crowd. “Make way for the Jovian Representative. He brings aid to our battered world.”

People glared at Marten, but they listened to Nancy Vance and slowly parted.

Nancy indicated several peacekeepers. “Escort the representative to the elevators. We don’t want the people to mob him.”

Marten glanced at her. Then he grabbed Nadia’s hand. Together they hurried for the elevators. It was time to get off the streets.

-5-

Half a world away in Australian Sector, a small man with narrow shoulders and thinning hair watched a holoset. He lived in Highborn territory and presently watched an illegal channel. He did so with impunity, however, because he was the Chief Monitor of Sydney.

The small man with vigilant eyes and a down-turned mouth fiddled with a tiny piece of paper, which sat on the glass table in front of the holoset. On the paper was the barest amount of dust, a highly addictive and illegal drug. Even though he was the Chief Monitor, he lacked immunity from the drug laws. Possession of dust brought an immediate death sentence.

Chief Monitor Quirn stared at the holoset, watching Nancy Vance interview the so-called Jovian. Quirn remembered Marten Kluge all right. Even these days, Molly spoke about him fondly. Quirn made a face as his right index finger hovered over the dust. He longed to snort the drug and let his fears vanish in a hazy dream.

He was sick of Molly and her complaining. The woman had become too sharp-tongued lately. The sex had been adequate in the beginning. Now it was horrible and she had become fat. Quirn shrugged, trying to tell himself it didn’t matter. Using his powers as Chief Monitor, he had found another woman, a better sex partner. She was small and Chinese, Ah Chen, a brilliant woman. In the beginning, he had enjoyed mounting Marten Kluge’s former girlfriend. Then she had spoken about him one night. Her tone had revealed much, and that had angered Quirn. Marten Kluge had plagued his life from the beginning and continued to do so.

What had happened several years ago? Yes, yes, there had been the ponderous Major Orlov. She had drawn a stunner and shot Marten Kluge for striking him. It had occurred at a Social Unity hum-a-long. Quirn grinned at the memory. He had been a hall leader in those days. That was before the Highborn had come, and before he’d switched his allegiance.

His gaze strayed back to the holoset, and he frowned. Listen to Kluge spout his nonsense. Quirn shook his head and wondered how Marten of all people could be mistaken for a Jovian philosopher. What did SU propaganda wish to achieve with this little hit piece?

What do the Highborn have on file concerning Marten Kluge? It might be interesting finding out.

Quirn licked his lips. He was supposed to meet Ah Chen tonight. The thought of her supple little body twisting under his—Quirn’s hands shook with anticipation. He banged his knuckles on the glass in his haste to pick up the small piece of paper with dust.

The Controllers would kill him if they knew the Chief Monitor of Sydney was a dust addict. Thus, he went to great lengths to make sure they never learned.

He carefully folded the paper over the dust. It would be a joy to inhale the drug and hold his breath. He shivered in delight just thinking about it. Then he would lie back on his sofa. His eyelids would flutter as he began to dream in a dust haze.

If he did that, however, he would miss the sex and conversation with Ah Chen tonight. He wished she loved him. He shrugged. Sometimes it paid to be Chief Monitor as he collected dirt on everyone in Sydney. Ah Chen needed him to keep quiet about her past, and about certain activities she engaged in now. Imagine rebelling against the Highborn. What folly.

Quirn shook his head. As long as she pleased him, she would be allowed to live and to perform her duties in the deep-core mine. No. He wouldn’t miss his chance of using her tonight. He imagined her pleading with him to be gentler. He imagined her squirming under him. With a grunt, Quirn stood and limped for the door.

Outside, the sunlamps were dim, simulating twilight. It would be dark soon, and then the curfew would be enforced by immediate execution for those who lacked a special pass like him. After all these years, the Highborn still practiced martial law.

Quirn noticed that several of the big lamp-sockets up in the ceiling were empty. Work-crews unscrewed broken or damaged bulbs but none of them had replaced any yet. Sydney had fallen into disrepair since the conquest several years ago when the Highborn had invaded. Labor crews cleaned wreckage, swept the streets or removed broken pipes but they seldom built or installed anything new. Even worse than the disintegrating city were the recruitment raids for military and labor personnel. The pressgangs stopped people on the streets and demanded to see their cards. Those below a certain category were tested on the spot. If they passed, they entered a van, which roared away, taking them to their new life. Most went to the labor battalions. The best people went to the Free Earth Corps and the rest became farm workers. That was a nice way to say they went down to the slime pits to harvest algae.

The raids had emptied Sydney, but not enough to assuage the hunger, the borderline starvation. Quirn knew that certain rumors were very true. Useless mouths went to the bottom levels, there to die a lingering, painful death, as they were no longer given rations. Down there, people practiced cannibalism to eke out a few more months of life.

The Chief Monitor shivered as he shoved his hands in his coat pockets. It was better not to think about such things. He didn’t make the rules. He just enforced the ones that kept him alive and kept him in the Highborn’s graces.

Quirn held the packet of dust in his clenched palm. His bad leg hurt tonight. Maybe he should have stayed home and enjoyed his dreams. He could use Ah Chen later.

He scowled. It was hard work ferreting out people’s secrets. He had few joys with a harpy wife. Who would have ever suspected that Molly would get fat and argumentative? He would have sent her out into the streets long ago, but her job was in the Records Department. It would be easy for her to alter critical pieces of his biographical data and help bring it to the attention of the Controllers. Molly was good at altering records. He had taught her his secrets, learned many years ago as a hall leader for Social Unity. No. he would endure Molly for a little while longer. In the meantime, he would inhale the precious dust and punctuate those glory moments by blackmailed sex. These days, it was hard for him to enjoy any other kind.

I’ve become a deviant.

His scowl intensified. He needed help. He would like help with his problems. He didn’t like the person that he’d become. Sometimes he used to wonder what small choice in his early years had led him down this path. He had a theory about that. He now believed that a person made small choices in their youth. Those choices set a person onto various paths. One path didn’t seem very different from the other in those early years. But later, as one walked down the chosen path, it took him far, far away from what he had envisioned as good or proper.

Where can I get help?

That was the problem. He had no idea. He was the Chief Monitor of Sydney. If he showed weakness, people would use that against him. He knew that to be true because that’s how he operated.

His fist tightened around the packet as he limped onto Ah Chen’s street. He entered a lift and rode up to her floor. The hallway was carpeted, and her door was number A342.

Knocking would imply a choice on her part. The little minx had no choice. He pulled out a key, unlocked the door and let himself inside.

It was a tidy apartment, as one would expect from a deep-core engineer, and it was quiet. A light flashed from the living room. There was darkness, and another flash.

Curious, Quirn investigated, moving quietly. He spotted Ah Chen on her sofa, with her pretty legs curled up under her. She held a clicker, wore loose clothing and she had cut her black hair into a bob around her elfin head. A holo-unit sat on the floor, with a holo-image of the Sun above it. There were Chinese symbols on the wall, a few paper-made art pieces and a half-full glass of liquor on a stand beside the sofa.

Three things about the situation angered Quirn. The nights he visited, Ah Chen was supposed to paste sequins on her body in erotic swirls. He had told her to buy extensions and wear her hair long. Lately, he wanted music playing as he entered the apartment. He did not want her to be working on something.

“What are you doing?” he said in a querulous tone.

She screamed, twisting around as terror contorted her features.

That mollified him a little, as he limped toward the sofa.

“What…?” she whispered. She stared at the holo-unit and clicked it off so the Sun disappeared. Another click and the living room’s lights came on.

Until that moment, Quirn wasn’t curious about what she was studying. He stopped, and he blinked at Ah Chen and frowned at the holo-unit.

“Was that the Sun?” he asked.

“It’s nothing.”

“That isn’t what I asked,” he said, his professional senses alerted. “Why do you have a holograph of the Sun?”

“Would you like a drink? Are you thirsty?”

“Why are you nervous?” he asked.

She shook her head, her lips firming.

“Put the hologram back on,” he said.

Something he hadn’t seen before swirled in Ah Chen’s eyes. It looked like determination or stubbornness. Just as quickly as it came, however, it disappeared. Demurely, she lowered her head. If she had been wearing sequins and nothing else, the motion would have been very erotic.

As it was, Quirn licked his lips in an obscene manner. “Hurry,” he said, in a husky voice. “Put it up. Let me see what you were looking at.”

Ah Chen weighed the clicker in her tiny hand. Everything about her was petite and pretty. She glanced up at Quirn. It was so artfully done. She bobbed her head in acquiesce and pressed a button.

The living room’s lights dimmed. The Sun hologram returned.

Quirn frowned as he examined it. “I don’t see—” No, wait. There was a dot, several dots in fact in front of the Sun. “Give me greater magnification.”

Reluctantly, Ah Chen pressed the clicker several times. Each click produced a larger Sun hologram. Soon, it encompassed the entire living room. Now the dots had become mirrors. Since they appeared to be very close to the Sun, the mirrors must be gigantic.

“What am I looking at?” Quirn asked.

“That is what I am attempting to learn,” Ah Chen said.

He stared at her, at the blank look on her face. “You’re lying,” he said. “Tell me what I’m seeing.”

She hesitated a moment longer. Then she said, “It is a prototype, I believe.”

“Of what?” asked Quirn. “What are you trying to hide?”

She lowered the clicker. “I am being reassigned in several weeks.”

Quirn hid his dismay. It wouldn’t do to let her know how much he needed these times with her. That could possibly give her an advantage over him. “Where—” He studied one of the mirrors. “Are you going there?”

She nodded.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “You’re a deep-core engineer. You work with magnetic forces…” He turned back to the Sun mirror. His gaze tightened. Without looking at her, he said, “You work with the great temperatures of the core.” He pointed at the dot, the mirror. “What is that exactly?”

“I believe it is a weapon,” she said.

Quirn shook his head. He didn’t understand.

“What if one could focus the Sun’s energy into a single coherent beam?” asked Ah Chen.

“Those mirrors can do that?”

“I cannot see how. Yet I think the Highborn are setting up mirrors to focus some of the Sun’s heat and energy. Perhaps such a beam could reach the Earth.”

“Tell me why that matters,” Quirn said.

“I am not a military person.”

“Neither am I,” Quirn said. “But you are an engineer. I think you have an idea of why it’s important. In fact, I’m certain you do.”

“I have an idea, yes.”

“What?”

“We’ve all read news-blog releases of the incredible range of the Doom Stars.”

“One million kilometers,” Quirn said. He’d watched an illegal Social Unity show on it, and the incredible victory at Mars. The show had highlighted the impossibility of facing the Highborn and surviving.

“The Sunbeam should easily be able to outrange a million kilometers,” she said.

“By how much?” asked Quirn.

“That is what I’m trying to determine.”

“I still don’t understand why you’re taking such an interest in it.”

Ah Chen dropped the clicker and let a smile appear. “I’m tired, Quirn. I need to go to bed early tonight.”

He laughed. It was an ugly sound. As he advanced upon her, he said, “I have a different idea. Take off your clothing, and be quick about it.”

She hesitated a moment. Then she began to strip. Their couching was short and vigorous, at least Quirn’s part of it was. He became red-faced and shouted at the end, his hands clutching her smooth skin.

Afterward, as they lay on the sofa, Quirn began to talk. He rambled after his sessions with Ah Chen. Sleepy-eyed, he complained about Molly, going on and on about her many faults. He even told Ah Chen how he hated Molly speaking about Marten Kluge. Then Quirn lapsed into a moody silence.

“Would you like a drink?” Ah Chen asked. “I have brandy.”

He nodded. She got up. He loved looking at her slinkiness. She was so trim and fit. He could spend hours devouring her with his eyes. She poured brown brandy into a snifter and returned with the glass.

“Make yourself one,” he said. “Tonight, you will drink with me.”

She nodded, returning with brandy for herself.

They drank for two hours as Quirn steadily became drunker. He failed to notice that Ah Chen only took the tiniest of sips from her glass. He began to ramble about Marten Kluge, telling Ah Chen what he’d seen on the holo.

“Marten Kluge is on Earth?” she asked.

“He’s in the enemy capital,” Quirn said. “Nancy Vance was giving him a live interview. Can you believe that they’re calling him the Jovian Representative?”

She blinked at him.

“I was monitoring the Nancy Vance Show for my superiors,” Quirn muttered. “It is one of my duties.”

Ah Chen waved that aside. “What does it mean that Marten is a Jovian Representative?”

“I guess that he has his own spaceship. Our Marten Kluge has gone a long way since leaving Sydney.”

“That is very interesting,” Ah Chen said.

“Why?” Quirn asked, his small eyes shining with malice. “Why do you find that interesting?”

She laughed easily. “It shows how foolish the other side is. We have made the right choice in following the Highborn.”

“Yes,” Quirn said with a sharp nod. “You’re a smart girl,” and he slapped her butt.

He left the apartment ninety minutes later. She helped him get his coat on. Then he staggered home, showing his pass three different times to curfew guards.

He went to his bedroom and found Molly snoring on the cot. In disgust, he retreated to his den. He sank into his favorite chair and put his hand in his coat pocket. With a frown, he withdrew his packet of dust.

His fingertips were very sensitive. It was one of the reasons he enjoyed Ah Chen’s smooth skin so much and found Molly’s lumpiness so disgusting. It felt as if someone had tampered with the paper.

Carefully, and with a critical eye, he unfolded it and examined the dust. He had expected some to be missing. Instead, it almost seemed as if there was more. Maybe if he’d been sober…he was still drunk and still desiring a dust-dream.

One of the wonderful things about dust was that it was just as powerful when taken sober as when drunk.

With a slobbery grin, Quirn brought the dust to his nose and inhaled deeply. Then he sank back into his chair. Before he entered the dream haze, however, the poison so recently added to the dust began its nefarious task of murdering Chief Monitor Quirn. He went into seizures nine minutes later and cardiac arrest three minutes after that. His days of monitoring for the Highborn and enjoying women like Ah Chen were over.

That morning at first lamplight, Ah Chen left her apartment. She carried several money cards, but otherwise went empty-handed. She was on a mission, certain that she had learned various technological secrets for a reason. That the last piece of the puzzle had come from Quirn…it made the many nights in his disgusting embrace less shameful.

At this point in her life, she had to take what she could get.

-6-

Marten seethed inwardly as he pulled Nadia away from a cybertank. The hulking vehicle threatening them was one hundred tons of lethal destruction, with six warfare pods. An anti-personnel turret presently aimed at him. The giant tank blocked the arched brick entrance to the Supreme Commander’s Mansion, where Osadar was presently under house arrest.

“I can’t see anyone on the grounds,” Nadia said, craning to look past the huge tracked vehicle.

There was an ominous clack from the warfare pod aimed at them.

“We’re leaving!” Marten shouted at the cybertank. He yanked Nadia beside him.

“I have logged your attempt to gain access to a restricted area,” the cybertank said in its mechanical voice. “Now I am radioing the authorities. Do not make such an attempt again or I shall take immediate action.”

Marten turned away from the giant tank. Nadia and he were in the Governmental Area of New Baghdad, the third level. Here there were monumental buildings set along wide plazas and avenues, while the sunlamps blazed at twice the normal ceiling height.

In the distance was the octagonal Directors House where debates raged. Hawthorne hadn’t returned from orbit and his “disappearance” had thrown the highest levels of government into disarray.

Marten and Nadia hurried away from the Supreme Commander’s Mansion. It was an imitation of the ancient Palace of Versailles near Paris. They passed artifacts meant to celebrate various facets of human history: fountains, statues and various plinths and arches. At the end of one promenade, there was even a Sphinx.

The Nancy Vance interview had shaken Marten from what he now considered as his complacency. He didn’t belong on Earth, not an Earth ruled by Social Unity. He had come down to the surface as the Jovian Representative, hoping to drum up greater support for a united war against the cyborgs. With Hawthorne’s disappearance…

Marten’s few SU friends were in space with the fleet. His plan was simple now. He would free Osadar, get his space marines at Athens and find Omi. Then he would return to his patrol boats in orbit and join the fleet before it set out for Neptune.

“Why is Osadar a prisoner?” Nadia asked.

“That’s a good question,” Marten said. The idea of leaving Osadar behind—he didn’t like it. “We have to get her out of there.”

“How?”

Marten strode to a set of fountains, sliding his butt onto the lip of a smaller one. The air was cooler here, although the sounds of tinkling water did nothing to soothe his anxiety. He had to come up with a plan. He needed a way past the cybertank.

“Oh-oh,” Nadia said. “I think someone took the cybertank’s report seriously.”

Looking up, Marten spied a tall woman wearing a bright orange, flowing robe of African design. The woman also wore an orange turban, and there seemed to be something familiar about her. She had long, purposeful strides.

“Director Juba-Ryder,” Marten said, snapping his fingers. “She must have hurried out of the Director’s House. Yes, I think you’re right. She received the cybertank’s report.”

Behind Juba-Ryder followed three strange humans wearing heavy body-armor. They were big men, with outsized handguns holstered on their belts. The way they walked and the ease with which they carried the armor—

“Bionic guards,” Marten whispered.

He slid off the fountain. Social Unity Military altered a very few of its best soldiers, turning them into a super elite. They were all loyal to the Supreme Commander, however.

“I’ve heard rumors of this,” Nadia said.

Marten glanced at his wife.

“Osadar told me about it,” Nadia said, “illegal modifications to select bodyguards. It’s supposedly done in secret.”

“Cyborg agents would know how to help alter bodyguards,” Marten said.

“If cyborgs are on Earth, then we’ve already lost.”

Marten shook his head. “You only lose when you’re dead.” His hand dropped onto the butt of his holstered slugthrower. The bullets might not penetrate body-armor, but they would smash though skull-bone. Only cyborgs had armored brainpans.

“Juba-Ryder has never liked me,” Marten said. “If she thinks I’m a traitor to Social Unity—” Marten scowled. “I’m done being anyone’s prisoner. Get behind me.”

“Marten—”

“Let’s not argue,” he said. “Just do as I say.”

Nadia moved behind him as Marten took a wider stance. He hated fancy maneuvers, so he kept his hand on the butt of his weapon. If Omi was here with him or better yet Osadar—he shook his head. This was his play, and if he did it wrong, it could be the end of him and his wife. He rolled his right shoulder, trying to loosen it for quick-draw firing.

Juba-Ryder smiled triumphantly as she strode near. Each of the bodyguards had hard features and cold eyes. Their armor clattered. They wore dark helmets, with forehead and cheek protectors. They watched him closely, intently—predatorily.

It made the hairs on the back of Marten’s neck bristle. These three meant to kill him or to pulverize his flesh with their fists.

“Marten Kluge,” Director Juba-Ryder said. “I am here to inform you—”

Marten drew his .38. The three bodyguards had holstered guns, with flaps over the weapons. Despite their size and the bulk of their muscles, they moved with bionic speed. As Marten aimed at Juba-Ryder, the three guards aimed .55 caliber hand-cannons at him.

“They can blow me away,” Marten said tightly, “but I’ll still riddle your body with bullets.”

“I am a director,” Juba-Ryder said, outraged. “I have immunity against violence.”

“Yeah? Then you shouldn’t have made this tactical error. You should have just sent them, not come yourself.”

Juba-Ryder stiffened. “Lay down your weapon and submit to my authority.”

“Not a chance,” Marten said.

“You will die.”

“Yeah, but so will you.”

“I can fire at his gun-hand,” one of the bodyguards said. “I will destroy it before he can shoot.”

Before Juba-Ryder could answer, Nadia gasped.

“What is it?” Marten asked, refusing to take his eyes off the director.

“A fighting robot,” Nadia said, “a floating one.”

“Those are illegal here,” Juba-Ryder said. “Is this your doing?”

“Right,” Marten said, feeling a sense of helplessness. Three bionic bodyguards and now a fighting robot—he debated killing Juba-Ryder while he still had a chance. He could get off one shot, maybe two, but no more than that. The .55 caliber bullets would knock him flying.

Juba-Ryder moistened her lips.

“We can destroy the robot,” one of the bodyguards said.

“I wouldn’t try,” the robot said.

Marten saw it now out of the corner of his right eye. The robot floated, probably propelling itself through magnetic lifters, using the city grid. The robot looked like an elongated metal egg the size of a man. If he looked closer, Marten was sure he would make out sealed ports. Those could open for a laser nozzle or the tip of a machine gun barrel. The fighting robots belonged to the Cybernetic Corps, presently under Manteuffel’s control.

A large upper port opened then, revealing a screen. The face of Security Specialist Cone appeared on the screen. She had a sharp beauty and wore dark sunglasses.

“What is the meaning of this?” Juba-Ryder demanded.

“Before I answer,” Cone said onscreen, “I prefer to learn your intentions.”

“They are simple,” Juba-Ryder said with an imperious gesture. “I am here to arrest Marten Kluge. As you can see, he is resisting arrest. I demand that you assist me with that machine of yours.”

“I would be glad to assist,” Cone said. “However, he is the Jovian Representative and has diplomatic immunity.”

“He was born under Social Unity and thus remains subject to our laws and customs,” Juba-Ryder said. “Just as important, he is a traitor to the People.”

“Possibly true,” Cone said.

“Possibly?” asked Juba-Ryder. “How can you doubt it?”

“I don’t so much doubt it as I don’t think it warrants any action at this time. Despite his SU birthplace, he has become a Jovian and he is their representative to us. This is the critical factor.”

“I cannot agree,” Juba-Ryder said. “As my first order of business, I plan to make a clean sweep of traitors.”

“Could you elaborate please on what you mean by: my first order of business?”

Juba-Ryder eyed Marten and then the robot. “The Supreme Commander is gone.”

“Gone,” Cone said, “but we both know he is alive.”

The director shook her turbaned head. “That is inconsequential. You have read his resignation.”

“He is tired and weary,” Cone said. “Give him several weeks rest and then he will—”

“You think to honor him by this…loyalty?” Juba-Ryder asked. “No. You are disobeying his last command. James Hawthorne has stepped down from power and—”

“Hawthorne will lead the Human Fleet to the Neptune System,” Cone said.

“You are incorrect on several counts,” Juba-Ryder said. “Firstly, it is Social Unity’s Fleet, not the Human Fleet. Secondly, he cannot lead. If the Highborn learn he is alive, they will annul our alliance or demand his death. Therefore, he must remain incognito. Frankly, in the interest of cementing our alliance, James Hawthorne should surrender himself to the Highborn.”

“You are a political animal,” Cone said. “To cement your power, you would willingly give up a human to the genetic freaks. And not just any human, but the military genius who had kept us free from the Highborn. ”

“Those ‘freaks’ you refer to will help us defeat the cyborgs and thus save humanity,” Juba-Ryder said. “This is a harsh world, Security Specialist. Or didn’t the planet-wrecker teach you anything?”

Through the robot’s screen, Cone stared at the director. Then the floating machine rotated slightly so the screen aimed at Marten. “Why were you attempting to gain admittance to the Supreme Commander’s Mansion?”

“I want to free Osadar,” Marten said.

“He means the cyborg,” Juba-Ryder said.

“I can arrange that,” Cone told Marten.

“Didn’t you hear me earlier?” Juba-Ryder asked loudly. “This traitor will speak with no one, certainly not with a cyborg. He is coming with me.”

“In case you’ve forgotten,” Marten said. “I have a gun pointed at you.”

Juba-Ryder spread her hands in the robot’s direction. “His words betray him. He is a traitor, eager to shed our blood.”

“You plan to shed his blood,” Cone said.

“I am the new legal representative for Social Unity,” Juba-Ryder said. “In me resides the authority of billions of socially responsible people.” She faced Marten. “By what authority do you dare to threaten my life?”

“The right of self-preservation,” Marten said.

“In the face of billions of people?”

A grin tightened Marten’s lips. “Your time is running out. If you believe in any deities, I suggest you make your peace with them now.”

“If you kill me,” Juba-Ryder said, “my guards will kill you and your wife.”

“The minute I drop my gun, I’m dead anyway,” Marten said.

Juba-Ryder grew thoughtful. “I will bargain with you. Spare my life and she can walk away.”

Marten stared into the director’s eyes. He couldn’t trust her. He knew that, and yet…

“One moment,” Cone said. “I have a solution to our dilemma.”

“Marten Kluge must surrender to me,” Juba-Ryder said.

“We are not in Egyptian Sector,” Cone said. “By what authority do you make your arrest in New Baghdad?”

“Were you not listening?” Juba-Ryder asked. “The directors took a vote. I am the new Chief Director for Social Unity, for all Inner Planets.”

“Ah,” Cone said, nodding onscreen. “I see. I hadn’t fully understood the situation. A vote by the directors, you say? That was quick work, smoothly done.” The robot floated a fraction closer to Marten. “Force-Leader, you will come with me into protected custody.”

“Security Specialist,” Juba-Ryder said. “I must—”

“Please, Chief Director,” Cone said, smiling onscreen. “If you would allow me to convince Marten Kluge, I will save Social Unity your needed and legal supervision.” With startling speed, ports opened on the fighting robot. Two stubby barrels poked out, aimed at Marten.

“Your bodyguards can lower their weapons,” Cone said. “If Marten Kluge shoots you, I will destroy him and his wife.”

Juba-Ryder’s eyes flashed with anger, but she nodded curtly. “Holster your weapons,” she told the guards.

The three large men opened.

“Force-Leader Kluge,” Cone said.

There was no way to hurt Cone, so Marten shoved his gun into its holster. He backed away from Juba-Ryder, grabbing one of Nadia’s hands.

The robot rotated slightly. A nanosecond later, the two stubby barrels blazed with gunfire. Spent shells poured out of the robot, raining onto and rattling against the cement. In a stream of gunfire, rounds hissed past Marten and Nadia. The bullets shredded armor, uniforms and flesh, and caused a bloody mist to spray. In seconds, it was over. Juba-Ryder and her three bionic bodyguards were smoking piles of meat. The smell of gore and disintegrated bone was strong.

“I don’t have much time,” Cone said onscreen to an openmouthed Marten. “I have to consolidate my position fast. I want to keep the Human Alliance alive. I know you don’t have many troops here at present, but you are the best link we have with the Jovians. No, make that the only link.”

Marten turned a stunned Nadia away from the grisly pile of dead. “You play a hard game,” he told Cone.

“With the cyborgs raining asteroids on us, we don’t have time for fools,” Cone said. “The present directors…after Hawthorne’s changes, they’re too tame. I have changed the directives of the cybertank guarding the Supreme Commander’s Mansion. You’re free to take Osadar with you. After that, it might be better if you went to a military base.”

“I’d like to go to Athens where my space marines are,” Marten said.

“Your face has been in the news lately. I advise you to keep a low profile.”

“I understand. Do you have any vehicles I could use?”

“You used to live on Earth and should know your way around. I’ll give you a pass.” Cone turned to somewhere off screen. She re-appeared soon. “I’ve given you, your wife and Osadar Priority Clearance. It will allow you to go just about anywhere. Do you have any questions, Force-Leader Kluge?”

“No,” Marten said. “Good luck to you and thanks. I won’t forget this.”

“I’m counting on that.”

“Eh?” he asked.

“I’ve read your file. You get things done. Good luck to you. You’re going to need it.”

Marten wanted to get out of here before Cone changed her mind. He took Nadia’s hand, and they ran toward the former Supreme Commander’s Mansion. They needed to collect Osadar as quickly as possible, get the space marines and Omi, and leave Earth as fast as they could.

-7-

Far from Earth in the Jupiter System, on a defensive satellite orbiting Callisto, a purple-robed philosopher bowed before Chief Strategist Tan.

On the walls of the chamber were computer-screens cycling through various videos. At the moment, one showed the rocky moon of Callisto, centering on the ruins of a shattered dome. Another showed a gigantic helium-3 tanker in orbit around Jupiter, waiting for atmospheric haulers to bring their precious cargos. On a third screen was a distant blue-green object amid a bright star-field.

The philosopher was an older man with a bald dome of a head and a heavy beard like Socrates. Despite his flabby arms, he moved with serenity. He completed the bow and straightened, with a computer-scroll held against his chest.

The Chief Strategist regarded him. She was a tiny woman with bio-sculpted features. She was beautiful in an elfin way, with dark hair stylishly draped around her head. She wore a red robe that brushed her red slippers, and she had small red rings around her fingers. She knelt on a cushion before a low table. Soft “philosophic” chimes played in the background.

“The findings are serious enough to warrant careful thought,” the man said. His name was Euthyphro, but most people referred to him by his title: the Advocate. He was Tan’s primary link with the scientists and technicians searching the void for evidence of the cyborgs.

Venus, Jupiter and Uranus were currently in orbit on the same side of the Sun. Probes had been launched some time ago, journeying into space so they could look around the Sun and study Neptune. Past communication traffic with the Uranus System showed some anomalies and there was debate whether a cyborg stealth-attack had taken place there. Currently, communications seemed normal with Uranus, but a stubborn core of technicians believed otherwise and searched for proof.

Tan sipped from a chalice as a particular melody chimed. After the notes faded, she said, “Show me these findings.”

Euthyphro the Advocate turned to the screen with the distant blue-green object amid the star-field. He opened his computer-scroll and tapped upon it.

“I’m magnifying the image,” Euthyphro said. “Due to the optical effects, the surrounding stars may appear to become distorted.”

True to his word, the bright objects blurred as the blue-green object took on a distinct form. It was disc-shaped and possessed a Great Dark Spot, much like Jupiter’s Great Red Spot. A few white high-altitude clouds appeared at the edges of the spot. The distant ice giant gave off three times the heat it received from the Sun.

“Neptune,” whispered Tan.

Uranus and Neptune were sometimes referred to as “ice giants” as compared to the more regular term “gas giants” for Jupiter and Saturn. The reason was the high percentage of icy water, methane and ammonia that composed the majority of the two distant planets.

Euthyphro nodded as he continued to tap his scroll. The blue-green ice giant kept expanding until it filled the screen.

“This is extreme magnification,” Euthyphro said. “Military Intelligence attempts to count the anomalies, supposing that will give them the number of cyborgs ships. I’m afraid, however, that it isn’t going to be that simple.”

“The cyborgs are fond of stealth fleets,” Tan said. “Logic indicates they will use decoy forces, too.”

“Precisely,” Euthyphro said. “Therefore, the probability of this, hmmm, situation being an accurate assessment—”

“Show me your indicators,” Tan said. She had little time for discussions and debates. She was too busy juggling the many political factions of the Jupiter System. There were the Helium-3 Barons, the former philosophers of Callisto, the industrialists of Europa and the patriots of Ganymede, to name a few. It was difficult to maintain power, because by pleasing one group she usually angered several others with competing desires. There were constant political attempts on her position. So far, she had outlived the attempts and remained in control. She credited the success to her hard-won wisdom and because she was better than anyone else was at playing one faction against another.

Euthyphro sighed as he shook the scroll. “This is slim data from which to proceed.”

“My time is limited,” Tan said. “So no more objections, if you please. Show me the indicators.”

Euthyphro bowed again. “You have spoken.” He tapped his computer-scroll. On the screen, a flash appeared beside the ice giant.

“What color was that?” Tan asked.

Euthyphro glanced back at Tan, his eyes wide with surprise. They were the most interesting thing about him, big blue eyes full of intelligence. A hint of fear showed in them as well. He recovered quickly as once more he tapped the scroll.

The flash reappeared, but this time much slower than before. It cycled through a number of colors: red, green, purple, orange, blue and bright white at the end.

“Why the variations?” asked Tan.

“Precisely,” he said.

“That is not an answer,” Tan said, for the first time becoming angry.

“Excuse me, Chief Strategist, I simply marvel at your swiftly intuitive grasp of the—”

“I am not here to dialog with you, Advocate. I have decisions to make and meetings to attend. You said this was critical. Now explain this to me succinctly and quickly.”

“Chief Strategist, my techs believe we are witnessing a Fuhl Event.”

“I am not familiar with the term,” Tan said.

“I’m relieved. It shows you’re not omniscient after all, which I had almost come to believe a moment ago.”

“You are testing my patience with no perceivable reward in sight. Instead of achieving rewards, you are risking demotion.”

“Chief Strategist, the evidence frightens me. It is the reason for my strange behavior.”

“Explain your fear.”

“A Fuhl Event contains the needed parameters or factors toward creating a black hole,” Euthyphro said. “But not a haphazard black hole, rather, one needed to fold space.”

“A worm hole?” asked Tan, with mockery in her voice.

“Our physics has long disproved the possibility of worm holes, warp drives and other such nonsense,” Euthyphro said. “However, at the Callisto Academy—before its destruction—Higher Status Mathematics had conceived of a Fuhl Event.”

“What you’re really saying is that the cyborgs are experimenting with FTL,” Tan said, “a Faster than Light drive.”

“I would quibble with your statement on several counts. Firstly, we do not know who experiments with the Fuhl Event.”

“Since this occurs at Neptune,” Tan said, “the cyborgs are the logical persons.”

“True, but that doesn’t conclusively prove it is them.”

Tan waved her hand. “Give me your next ‘quibble,’ if you please.”

“Are we witnessing an experiment?” Euthyphro asked. “Why couldn’t it be an alien race visiting Neptune and now departing?”

Tan glanced at the ceiling. Trust a philosopher to add layers of complication to a thing. “Let us stick to high-end probabilities, shall we?”

Euthyphro bowed his head. “The highest probability indicates that this…flash was of cyborg origin or design. However, we should not discount the idea that holdout capitalists used an experimental device in order to flee from the cyborgs.”

“Do we have records of such experiments?”

“I have not discovered any, no.”

“Hmm,” said Tan. “Such evidence, if it existed, could have been destroyed on Callisto during the Cyborg Assault.”

“That is conceivable, yes.”

Tan studied the screen. “If the cyborgs have developed an FTL drive…”

“Certain possibilities come into play,” Euthyphro said. “One: could this drive be used in our Solar System? Instead of taking months or years crossing the system, could a warship make the trip in days? If that could occur, it would give the cyborgs a decisive military advantage.”

“This Fuhl Event,” Tan said, “have the theorists formulated any limiting factors to it?”

“That is an astute question.”

Tan scowled. “You are not here to pass judgment on my questions. Simply answer them as you are able.”

“Of course, Chief Strategist.” Euthyphro pressed his lips together before he said, “Theory indicates that a heavy gravitational body such as a planet would disrupt a Fuhl Event from occurring. The question becomes, naturally, what was the flash? Maybe the cyborgs foolishly attempted a Fuhl Event too close to Neptune. Maybe a group of human scientists risked their lives using the FTL drive, hoping to escape conversion.”

“We know so little about the cyborgs, other than their ruthlessness,” Tan said. “We need more data on our enemy.”

“There are some who believe it was a mistake allowing Marten Kluge’s cyborg to leave for Inner Planets.”

“That decision is not open to discussion,” Tan said.

“Of course not,” Euthyphro said. “Because we lack precise data on the event near Neptune, we must infer from our scanty evidence. Therefore, probabilities come into play.”

“Please, spare me the prologue. Just get to the point.”

Euthyphro rolled up the computer-scroll as he faced Tan. He took a deep breath and began to speak as he exhaled. “To date, the cyborgs have shown great and crafty intelligence. Clearly, they are winning the Solar War. I doubt the flash occurred because the cyborgs foolishly attempted to create a Fuhl Event too close to the ice giant. That would lend weight therefore to the notion that free-will humans still exist in the Neptune System. However, logic dictates that a cyborg victory occurred there and that it was of a total nature.”

“Where does that leave us then?” asked Tan.

“I believe an accident occurred. How, why or what caused this accident, I have no idea. I do think what we witnessed was the attempted creation of a Fuhl Event. The cyborgs appear to have or seem about to have an FTL drive. That should concern us deeply.”

“Why couldn’t Neptune be part of the Fuhl Event?” Tan asked. “If I understand the concept, four equidistant points of high gravitational force are needed.”

Euthyphro’s bushy eyebrows lofted. “What an interesting idea. I hadn’t thought of the possibility. Does the mathematics even support such a notion? I will have my techs run the computations.”

“It would seem we have even less time than we thought to defeat the cyborgs.”

“To give you some idea of the severity of the situation,” Euthyphro said, “I recalculated the possibility of human victory given the cyborgs have a working Fuhl Event. In that case, our odds for survival drop to seven percent.”

“Spare me your pessimism,” Tan said.

“I assure you this has nothing to do with pessimism but is an objective assessment of reality. Already, the cyborgs are militarily superior to any combination of our allied forces. That means—”

“That means you should hold your tongue for the moment,” Tan said. “I must decide what to do with this new data.”

“My seven percent probability occurs only if the Fuhl Event is an actuality.”

“I’m well aware of that. The percentage isn’t the new data I was referring to, but the possibility that a Fuhl Mechanism exists.”

“Ah,” Euthyphro said. He cleared his throat. “My recommendation is that we warn the others as quickly as possible so they will accelerate their attack against Neptune.”

Tan shook her head. “There are many factors in play. We desire victory, certainly. But we do not desire victory at the expense of Highborn dominance. We cannot play into their hands.”

“The Highborn will not escape this war unscathed. Given their paltry numbers, I would estimate—”

“Please,” Tan said, holding up her hand. “Give me a moment of silence.” She closed her eyes and listened to the chimes. There were many factors to consider. How many Highborn and Social Unity warships would journey to Neptune? What if the cyborgs attacked the Jupiter System while the Alliance Fleet traveled there to the edge of the Solar System?

Tan’s eyes opened. She regarded Euthyphro as he studied the screen.

“Attend me,” she said.

The bearded Advocate turned around.

“We cannot afford to send more meteor-ships out-system,” she said. “We have too few as it is and building more takes too much time and energy. If we send meteor-ships to Neptune and the cyborgs reappear here, it might mean the end of Jovian Civilization.”

“We do nothing then?” Euthyphro asked.

“We do not send warships,” Tan said. “Instead, we send knowledge, information.”

“I will alert the communications—”

“You will listen to me,” Tan said. “We will not use tight-beam communication. Instead, I will send a representative to Marten Kluge. I will strengthen his hand and increase the Jovian presence on Earth by giving him critical data to use as a bargaining chip.”

“Marten Kluge is not noted for his savant-like behavior. He is a soldier.”

“He is a killer,” Tan said. “At the moment, he is our killer. He has proven himself on more than one occasion. We aid him with what we can spare—knowledge, data. The question is: who should go?”

Euthyphro stepped back in alarm. “Firstly, I must protest. The data is time-urgent. The Alliance must launch the attack sooner rather than later. A Jovian vessel heading to Earth will take at least two months to arrive, and that would be under stringent conditions. Secondly, I hope you are not thinking of sending me. I am unsuited to space travel. I have—”

“Calm yourself,” Tan said. “I need you here. Besides, perhaps you are right. The knowledge might spur the Highborn and possibly spur Social Unity into sending everything they can to Neptune now. The hope of acquiring the Fuhl Mechanism—”

“We must ensure that neither side gains an FTL drive.”

“And how do we do that?” Tan asked.

“We would have to send Jovian warships with the armada.”

“And leave ourselves defenseless here?” Tan asked. “I already told you my decision in that regard.”

“It is an interesting quandary,” Euthyphro said, as he plucked at his beard. “Do we risk sending our warships to Neptune in the hope of acquiring a fantastic technology? Or do we keep ourselves guarded and hope that neither the Highborn nor Social Unity gains the device?”

“It may be that we should remain silent on the subject,” Tan said, “thus lessening the chance that either of them acquires the FTL drive.

“What if because of that the Alliance Fleet dallies and gives the cyborgs time to refine the Fuhl Mechanism, thereby winning the war with it?”

Tan rubbed her forehead. “I must think more deeply on the subject. It is unwise to make a hasty decision.”

“Time is our enemy,” Euthyphro said.

Tan nodded absently.

“If you desire my recommendation…”

Tan looked up. “No. You will continue to study the data. I want conclusive proof. Until you can give me more evidence, I must weigh the options and make a carefully reasoned choice.”

Euthyphro plucked at his beard, with a troubled look on his thick features.

“I do not want to hear about a Jovian leak,” Tan said.

“I assure you, Chief Strategist—”

“Such a leak would mean your death, and in an extremely unpleasant manner,” Tan added.

Euthyphro paled. “I am a philosopher of Callisto. Threats are meaningless to me. My given word is more certain than sunlight. I shall tell no one about this and allow no outside communications until further notice.”

“See that you do,” said Tan. “Now go. I have much to consider.”

Euthyphro bowed his head and departed. He left the Chief Strategist staring at the screen. It replayed the flash in slow motion, cycling through the colors.

Do the cyborgs possess an FTL drive? Tan asked herself. The Dictates help us if they do.

-8-

Far away from Jupiter on Earth, Marten, Nadia and Osadar rode a magnetic-rail train to Athens. The train sped over two hundred and fifty km/h through Lebanon Sector, with the Mediterranean Sea only a few kilometers away. Outside, the wind howled, at times rocking the reinforced cars as snowy particles swirled in the air. Above, dark clouds raced across the sky.

Marten and Nadia sat together, staring out a window. She kept pointing at trees, bleak snowscapes and old houses.

“I used to watch videos of Earth,” Nadia said. “I never thought it would be anything like this. It’s beautiful.”

“And cold,” Marten said. He sat closest to the window and felt the blasts seeping through.

The train-car rocked gently as snow batted against the window.

“I do not like this,” Osadar said. She was taller than Marten and wore heavy garments. They had nothing to do with the cold, but concealed her skeletal cyborg body. It was thin, with particles of flesh and too much graphite bones, titanium and plasti-flesh. She wore a senso-mask, giving her the simulation and look of real flesh, eyes and hair. To finish the disguise, she wore a hat.

A reading device rested in her lap. The latest title was Outbreak of Violence in Syrian Sector. Osadar had spoken about the article. Political Harmony Corps personnel had risen to prominence and taken up arms again. They backed Director Backus of Kurdistan Sector, who had gained a following in the last few days.

Many of the directors pledged Backus service in the interest of Social Unity. The Army, Navy and Space Arm followed Cone, with Manteuffel of the Cybernetic Corps as her second-in-command. Even now, the former Security Specialist was on the car’s holo-screen, broadcasting a message to the many billions of citizens. She urged calm and spoke about the need for a military alliance. They must band with the Highborn against the dreaded cyborgs. Humanity’s existence was at stake. This was a time for stern measures. It was not the time for the ordinary political maneuverings that had brought about the war in the first place.

“Social Unity is unraveling,” Osadar said.

“It’s been a difficult war,” Marten said.

“The planet-wrecker’s destruction of South American Sector a year ago preys upon people,” Osadar said. “The arctic-like weather outside is proof that the cyborgs are fated to win. Now this civil war—”

Marten shook his head. “It isn’t civil war. This is what happens in a dictatorship when the dictator steps aside. Now his lieutenants scramble to fill his shoes. If I were a betting man, I’d place my money on Cone. She has the guns and is willing to use them.”

“Are the soldiers willing to use the guns on the people?” Osadar asked.

“If not, Cone can call out her cybertanks.”

“More cyborgs,” Osadar said. “I think that could backfire against Cone.”

“That’s another reason why I want to get off Earth,” Marten said. “This war will be decided in space, and we need to get back up there before we’re stranded here forever.”

“Look!” Nadia cried, pointing.

Marten looked outside. Nadia pointed at a reddish-yellow flash in the distance. The rail-line curved gently and went to the point of the flash—an explosion. At that moment, the train lurched violently, throwing them against the seats ahead. There were only a few other passengers in the car, and those people sat at the front. One of the men up there screamed.

Speakers crackled into life as one of the train authorities spoke. “We have an emergency stop. Please, do not be alarmed. This should only take us a few moments to sort out.”

Marten helped Nadia off the floor.

“Why would anyone want to stop this train?” Osadar asked. With her amazing reflexes, she had caught herself and already sat normally in her chair.

“Could they be terrorists?” asked Marten, as he dusted the knees of his pants.

“I would think PHC rather,” Osadar said. “The remnants of them went underground after the nuclear destruction of the Syrian Sector Soviets last year. Now that the Party attempts to regain control of Social Unity, PHC is throwing its resurrected people into the fray.”

Marten had been listening to this kind of talk for hours. Osadar had been busy in the Supreme Commander’s Quarters, reading endlessly. She found Social Unity political theory to be vastly interesting and had been boring Marten to distraction concerning it. One of the critical pieces, she said, was how Social Unity had formerly kept a “Napoleon” from appearing.

A “Napoleon” was a military man who took over the government in a time of crises. Such had occurred in France during the French Revolution when Napoleon Bonaparte rose to supreme power. Social Unity theorists viewed the military as a hungry beast, eager and able to devour anyone it chose. The Social Unity Party in the past had kept a tight leash on the Military. Political Harmony Corps had firmly gripped a second leash. As long as the two forces stood far apart and kept the leashes taut, they kept the Military from devouring either of them. In the past few years, however, Hawthorne had gained maneuvering room. He destroyed PHC and then he made the Party—the Directors—his servants. The Military had gained control.

Osadar had explained to Marten how she believed the Directors would now logically ally themselves with a revitalized political police and try to re-leash the Military represented by Cone and Manteuffel.

“My guess is these so-called terrorists want you,” Osadar now said.

“They can’t know I’m aboard this train,” Marten said.

“Why else have they blown the track?”

“It might be a coincidence,” Marten said.

“How many coincidences have you been involved with lately?” Osadar asked.

Marten’s eyes narrowed. “Right,” he said, drawing his long-barrel semiautomatic. “Do you think this is retaliation for Director Juba-Ryder?”

“I think we do not want to meet the originators of the explosion,” Osadar said. “You and Nadia need warmer garments so we can survive outside.”

As they spoke, the train continued to slow down. Marten stared outside. They neared the exploded track, a twist of metal and erupted ground. Dirt and gravel lay on nearby snow-banks. A tree’s leaves fluttered wildly in the wind.

“Do you see anything?” Marten asked, as he scanned outside.

At that moment, another explosion occurred. It lifted the engine off the tracks, pitching it aside. That started a domino effect as the linked cars toppled off the magnetically charged tracks.

There were screams and the screech of metal in their car. Glass shattered. Marten slid across the sharply tilting floor. He covered his head and struck the bottom of one of the seats as the train-car crashed onto its side.

It was over in seconds. Then Marten was crawling for an exit. He kicked open a door. A freezing wind howled in, with a dozen stinging snowflakes hitting his face. He needed a parka, a hood and gloves.

Marten scrambled outside, sliding down between two crashed railcars, his feet crunching in snow. Icy, wind-driven particles batted his face. His cheeks were already turning numb. He glanced right and left. Bare trees and rocky ground abounded, and snow, lots and lots of snow. A second glance at the trees showed him some weren’t only bare, but dead or dying, those that couldn’t cope with the new bitter winters.

With slitted eyes, Marten spotted seven armored men crunching through snow. They floundered in the deepest drifts. Three of them cradled heavy machine guns. The other four carried needlers. They were all hard-eyed, their breaths misting against clear visors. Each looked uncomfortable in their armor. It was combat-armor, although not powered. If Marten were to guess, they were used to police armor, which was lighter and easier to wear. Needlers were useless against cyborgs, but they were eminently effective against unarmored humans: namely, he and Nadia.

A man in brown, magnetic-train overalls jumped off a railcar that had tipped onto its side. He staggered over the rail line and waved to the seven men. “Help, help!” the man shouted.

One of the seven aimed his needler at the man.

“No!” the trainman shouted. “I’m in Repairs.”

In the howling storm, Marten never heard the distinctive stitching sound of the firing needler. The mechanic in the brown overalls simply crumpled onto the snow. It caused a watching woman to scream, until they killed her, too.

Marten snarled as he judged the likelihood of killing those seven. They wore combat armor and helmets. His slugthrower fired hardened penetrators, but they would likely fail against armor. The bullets could punch through the visors—those were always the weak points.

Then Osadar appeared. While wearing heavy garments, she bounded across the snow toward the seven. She took ten-meter leaps and moved with amazing speed.

One of the men dropped to a knee, firing his needler. Little metallic flashes showed the stream of shots. A needler at full auto could fire one hundred needles in less than ten seconds. The others now lifted their weapons, aiming at Osadar.

She needs suppressing fire.

With both hands, Marten aimed his gun and squeezed off a shot. The .38 bucked and one of the combat-armored men staggered, hit but unlikely injured. Several of them turned toward Marten and fired.

Marten dropped behind the rails and the mound of raised dirt it was built on. Bullets and needles hissed overhead.

Then a blaze of gunfire erupted. Nothing seemed to strike the rail mound now. Marten could guess what had happened. The seven would be screaming at each other to kill the cyborg.

Marten popped back up.

Slugs hit Osadar. Needles did, too. The fools didn’t know enough to aim at her head, however, or maybe they tried and missed. Instead, the few hits struck her armored chest-plate. Through it, Osadar moved like greased death. Then she leaped the final distance and landed among them. Her fists punched through visors so heads snapped back hard. One man aimed and let rip with his machine gun, but Osadar kept moving. It meant the man fired at his friends. The heavy slugs tore into combat-armor as he slaughtered two of his team.

Prone, with teeth clenched and with his arms resting on the rail, Marten fired three deliberate shots.

The machine-gun man clawed out his empty magazine and slammed in another. He staggered back then, a testament to Marten’s marksmanship, but it didn’t stop the man. In front of him by ten feet, Osadar twisted the neck of a different killer. She had her back to the machine-gun man and for the first time she had stopped moving. He lifted his weapon. In desperation, Marten shot the rest of his magazine. One of the bullets struck home. The man threw the machine gun into the air as he staggered backward, falling into the snow, his visor a jagged-red ruin.

Osadar disarmed the last killer. Then she grabbed his wrists, yanking them behind his back. She marched him through the snow to the railcars.

Marten was shivering as he stood up. He looked at his hands. They were red. After holstering the gun, he rubbed his hands and put them under his armpits.

Osadar shoved her captive over the rail-line. The man’s visor was open and he grimaced in pain. He had short hair and blood dripped from his broken nose.

“Who ordered you to do this?” Marten asked.

Despite his pain, the man shook his head.

“Twist his arm a little,” Marten said. Osadar complied.

The man grunted in pain and sweat pooled on his face.

“More,” Marten said.

The man winced and breathed heavily, blowing blood droplets onto the snow.

“In the end you’ll tell me what I want to know,” Marten said.

“I know who you are,” the armored man said in a harsh voice. Two of his front teeth were broken.

“Who ordered this?” Marten asked.

The man licked his lips as his pain-racked eyes turned cunning.

“Wrong choice,” Marten said.

“No, wait!” the man shouted, as Osadar began to twist his arm again. “We’re…we’re PHC.”

Marten glanced at Osadar. With her senso-mask, it was even more impossible to tell what the cyborg was thinking.

“Our commander is helping Director Backus,” the PHC thug said. “The director wants you in his custody.”

“Who do you think I am?”

“Marten Kluge, who else?” the man asked. “I saw you on the Nancy Vance Show, you with your talk about everyone going armed. That’s all this world needs now.”

“What does Backus want with me?” Marten asked.

“If I tell you…you have to promise to let me live.”

“If I think you’re telling me the truth, sure.”

“Promise it,” the man said.

“I give you my word.”

The PHC thug swallowed painfully. “And tell your cyborg to let me go.”

Marten shook his head.

The crafty look entered the man’s eyes again. “Okay. I was lying just a second ago. Director Backus wants you dead.”

“Why?”

“Why?” the man laughed, the pain making his eyes bulge. “People like you brought about this war, brought asteroids raining down on Earth. Look around you, at this weather. There hasn’t ever been anything like this in Lebanon Sector. We have to purge the Earth so something like this never happens again. We have to wipe out trouble-makers like you.”

“The cyborgs launched the asteroids, not me,” Marten said. “I tried to stop them.”

“I’ve got news for you,” the man said. “A cyborg is holding my wrists. You’re in league with the world-killers. It’s obvious.”

“He is irrational,” Osadar said.

“At least I’m not a freak like you,” the man said over his shoulder. “Humans need to stick together. Then we’ll win this war. Director Backus knows what to do. The people know it, and so does PHC.”

“Is that why you’re killing innocent people?” Marten asked.

“You’re a dead man, Kluge. Political Harmony Corps remembers its enemies. You’re never going to reach Athens and you’re never going to see your filthy space-borne Jovian marines again.”

Marten stared at the man. This was all so senseless. Why had Hawthorne agreed to go meet Cassius? If only the Supreme Commander could have seen the bigger picture.

“Knock him out,” Marten said. “Then we have to figure out what we’re going to do.”

The man tried to say more. Osadar spun him around and hit him hard, but not hard enough to crack his skull. He slumped to the snow.

“Tie him up,” Marten said. “I’m going inside to warm up and check on Nadia.”

-9-

Back in the Jupiter System, events had radically altered for the Chief Strategist.

Tan met with Sub-Strategist Circe aboard the defensive satellite orbiting Callisto. The large Galilean moon was mostly ruins below, although a new dome was under construction on the surface. The two women sat before a large holoimage in an heavily protected chamber. Behind their chairs were Grecian statues: one of a thinker, another in the act of throwing a discus and the third of a nude goddess. On the ceiling was a stylized drawing of a pyramid with a lidless eye in the center.

Tan was the smaller of the two, had haunted eyes and wore her red gown. She glanced at Circe. The dark-haired Sub-Strategist sat forward in her chair, staring at the holoimage. A small dark stone was embedded in Circe’s forehead. Etched on the stone in nearly microscopic letters were the words: Marten Kluge.

The Sub-Strategist commanded a flotilla of meteor-ships. In her personal quarters aboard the flagship, the walls were plastered with pictures of Marten Kluge. Tan had read the latest profile on Circe. The Sub-Strategist no longer practiced her sexual rites with myrmidons. She had, in fact, declined several months ago to use the Cleopatra Grip on a targeted man. The only union the Sub-Strategist desired was with the quixotic barbarian from Inner Planets, Marten Kluge. Except for that quirk, however, Circe had regained her abilities, the ones lost from a forced injection of powerful sex-drugs. Her flotilla—three meteor-ships—was the most disciplined in the Jovian System. They contained pure crews, people from Callisto, those who had been taught along philosophic lines.

“The situation is stark,” Chief Strategist Tan said. “The answer…I don’t have the answer. I admit myself bewildered today concerning the correct course of action.”

The holoimage showed eight, faint, stellar objects hurtling through the void. Tan had read the reports. They were massive projectiles headed on a collision course for the Jupiter System. Each of the faint objects was five to fifteen kilometers in diameter and bristled with weaponry. Astronomers on Carpo—the outermost prograde moon, seventeen million kilometers from Jupiter—had discovered the objects several hours ago. After learning of them and digesting the reports, Tan had summoned Circe, who had taken a shuttle from her meteor-ship in orbit around Callisto. The Sub-Strategist had docked fifteen minutes ago.

“Who else knows about this?” Circe asked.

Tan made a bleak gesture. “It hardly matters now.”

“I disagree. The information could prove critical. We have planned for this eventuality and have the tools to blunt the enemy’s attack. Panic, however, could hurt our chances of success.”

“Do you not see?” Tan cried. “Can you not count? Our civilization is doomed.”

“Not if we stop this attack.”

“After seeing what the cyborgs send at us, you believe we can stop it?” Tan asked.

“If we act with speed, resourcefulness and cunning,” Circe said with a nod. “We can possibly keep ourselves alive. At all costs, we must refuse to let ourselves despair. We are the mind and heart of Jovian Civilization. I submit that we must toil to the bitter end.”

Tan inhaled deeply, struggling to overcome the despair Circe spoke of. She had been right to call the Sub-Strategist. She needed to hear this and needed to draw strength from Circe’s convictions. The sheer destructiveness of the cyborgs, their machine-like ruthlessness—the scope of the attack numbed her mind.

“Do we know the headings of the various asteroids?” Circe asked.

“Asteroids?” Tan asked. “The correct name is ‘planet-wreckers’.”

“If we’re going to use the proper words,” Circe said, “then let us call them ‘moon-wreckers.’ The rocks can do no harm to Jupiter.”

Tan made another sound of despair, adding, “I see the end of Jovian Civilization.”

Circe bared her teeth, shaking her head. They were un-philosophic gestures, picked up perhaps during her sojourn among the less educated. Circe pulled out a touch-pad, her small fingers blurring over the screen. Numbers and information began scrolling in the air beside the holoimages. The Sub-Strategist read the information at an incredible rate.

“According to the astronomers’ findings,” Circe said, “the objects definitely originated from the Uranus System.”

“This answers our question,” Tan said. “The cyborgs have conquered Uranus’s moons and habitats.”

Circe nodded as she continued to tap her touch-pad. The faint holoimages of the eight moon-wreckers vanished. In their place appeared the Sun. Circe studied the planets and their relative locations in the Solar System.

Tan also observed. Neptune, Saturn, Mars, Earth and Mercury were on one side of the Sun. Venus, Jupiter and Uranus were on the other. The attack on Jupiter had originated from Uranus, approximately fourteen AUs away, or fourteen times the distance from the Sun to the Earth. After computing the velocity and trajectory of the eight moon-wreckers, it was obvious they had orbited the blue-green ice giant, building up speed this past year. Several months ago, the cyborgs had launched the eight asteroids, causing them to break out of Uranus’s gravitational pull. It was clear the cyborgs had immediately shut off each wrecker’s massive engines—it would have taken gargantuan engines to propel the asteroids. Ever since then, the eight objects had been gliding through the Great Dark, eating up the distance to Jupiter, ready to bring destruction to the system.

“Their composition is different from the planet-wreckers launched from Saturn last year,” Circe noted.

“It is the reason, I’m told, these were so hard to find.”

Circe read more data as she continued to speak. “Many of the Saturn-launched wreckers were icy asteroids. These are formed of a dark carbon material, with an albedo of five percent.”

Albedo was a measure of an object’s reflecting power, the ratio of reflected light to incoming light for a solid surface. Complete reflection would be one hundred percent.

“How did the cyborgs conquer Uranus without our knowledge?” Tan asked. “There should have been radio signals, distress calls.”

Circe glanced at her. “The answer is obvious. It was a successful stealth campaign.”

The despair began to well up again in Tan. The scope of such an operation…it was bewildering and showed the breadth of the cyborgs’ power. How could the Jovians hope to defeat such an enemy? It was impossible.

“Are there more objects incoming?” Circe asked.

Tan wanted to ask the Sub-Strategist the point of these useless questions, but that would take too great of an act of will. They were doomed. Let Circe play out her life as she chose.

“We have not spotted more,” Tan said, glancing at her hands. Maybe it would be better to fight than to await certain annihilation. The attack was so galling, so…unfair. “If the planet-wreckers launched at Earth are any indicator, the cyborgs prefer to make one massive assault instead of sending a continuous stream of asteroids. Logically, we can expect the same pattern here, are seeing it unfold against us.”

“Hmm,” Circe said. “I notice this is a smaller number of wreckers than launched at Earth. That is in our favor.”

“I suppose that is true,” Tan said. “But we also have a smaller number of warships to attempt deflection. Given our ship tonnage and capabilities, the ratios are in favor of the cyborgs.”

While scowling, Circe asked, “What is the estimated time of impact with our system?”

“Five weeks,” Tan said.

Circe’s head swayed slightly. She asked in a huskier tone, “What are their targets? Did the astronomers discover that?”

Tan produced a touch-pad and began to manipulate it. Dotted lines sprouted from each of the faint moon-wreckers. As the lines lengthened, an enlarged Jupiter System appeared. The eight lines spread apart, heading for the Galilean moons, two each at Io, Europa, Ganymede and Callisto.

“Two wreckers per moon,” Circe said. “That is interesting.”

“From a theoretical point of view, I suppose that’s true,” Tan said. “It proves the cyborgs are not all-knowing. Apparently, they failed to realize that Io and Callisto are almost devoid of people. They would have been better served aiming those wreckers at the two populated moons.”

“I don’t necessarily agree,” Circe said. “We have begun re-colonization of Callisto.”

“On an extremely limited basis only.”

Circe tapped her pad. It caused the holoimage to show the massive gas giant of Jupiter. Circling it were two new asteroids, one of four kilometers diameter and the other of six. A close-up appeared on one, showing massive ports for huge engines within the projectile.

“We have two wreckers of our own and they are already moving at a great speed,” Circe said.

Tan made a listless gesture. “Meaning we can possibly deflect two of the enemy’s projectiles.”

Circe studied the holoimages with care before turning to Tan. “Which two do we attempt to deflect?”

“Precisely,” Tan said as the hopelessness welled from her chest, radiating throughout her body. “Do you have any preferences?”

Circe blinked at the holoimages. “We must assume that each of the Uranus wreckers contain laser turrets and missile launch-sites.”

“No assumptions are needed. The astronomers have already spotted structures on the surface that match those of the Saturn-launched wreckers.”

“Cyborg warships might conceivably be behind the eight wreckers,” Circe said.

“We must give that a high probability,” Tan agreed.

“The Guardian Fleet is woefully under-strength for this mission.”

Tan made a bleak sound. “One dreadnaught and seven meteor-ships—I am well aware of our deficiencies.”

“Suppose we decided to deflect the two wreckers headed for Ganymede,” Circe said. “How would the industrialists of Europa respond to the news?”

“With deadly vigor,” Tan said.

“And if we attempt to save Europa?”

“Most of the space marines aboard the various warships are from Ganymede,” Tan said, “along with two meteor-ship crews. Once they learned we would make no attempt to defend their moon, they might object in a forceful manner.”

Circe became thoughtful. “Those of Europa primarily crew the civilian liners and the majority of the helium-3 tankers.”

“You are beginning to understand the quandary,” Tan said. “Europa also contains more heavy industry.”

“That should make it an easy decision then,” Circe said, “easy in a philosophic sense.” She grimaced. “I must admit to finding myself feeling emotional about the topic, which is distracting me from purified reasoning.”

Once more, Tan attempted to concentrate her thoughts. She would follow the Sub-Strategist’s example, using a philosophic approach to this, employing her lifelong training and submerging her ‘emotional response.’

“These emotions,” Tan said. “I suspect you are still tainted from your episode aboard Force-Leader’s Kluge’s vessel.”

“No doubt you are correct,” Circe said, as her features took on a pinched look.

“Let me add a third possibility—third in terms of which moon we should save,” Tan said. “Callisto is the heart of our superior civilization. As you pointed out, we have already begun to rebuild on the moon. This may be the answer to our dilemma: that of how to revive the most humanizing civilization ever seen during man’s long history of brutality and unexamined actions. If Ganymede and Europa perish, Callisto will become the premier Jovian moon. Although the Jovian System will lack numbers after the strike, the survivors will be pure and we can begin anew with untainted citizens.”

“There is much elegance in what you say,” Circe agreed. “The trouble is the nature of the war. The cyborgs will continue to attack until the Alliance sends fleets to the enemy systems. Therefore, it seems probable that the Jupiter System will have to absorb more attacks. Therefore, we need numbers. And there is one other thing that troubles me.”

“Yes?”

“Our system contains more than the four major moons. The cyborgs must realize this and have plans to target the smaller moons and various habitats.”

“You feel this proves there are enemy warships behind the eight wreckers?”

Circe nodded.

“Given these parameters,” Tan said, “what is your recommendation?”

Circe rubbed the skin around the stone in her forehead. “We lack the warships and firepower to deflect all eight projectiles. Rationally, we should let the four wreckers hit Io and Callisto and concentrate on the other four. I would hate, however, to attempt to defend Europa and Ganymede and lose both. It would be far better to defend and save one of the moons.”

“Which one?” Tan asked, feeling detached and increasingly numb. The entire conversation was surreal. She noticed that Circe had become pale and stared fixedly at the holoimages. Clearly, the topic strained the Sub-Strategist, too.

“We must come to a rational decision and thereby prove the superiority of our civilization,” Circe said.

Tan bowed her head and closed her eyes. The strain of this—the responsibility of making the decision was too much, too heavy even for a first rank philosopher. They attempted to use reason alone, to keep their emotions in check, but it was hard. This concerned millions of Jovians, millions of men, women and children. She didn’t want to choose who lived and who died. It had been difficult enough defeating the first Cyborg Assault. Endless months of grueling decisions and careful maneuvers…fifteen months of it had eaten at her resolve. Now to decide which Jovian moon should die…

“I feel old,” Tan said.

“There is another possibility,” Circe said.

“Tell me.”

“We have five weeks before the wreckers strike. We could load every liner and tanker with Jovians and journey to Mars or Earth.”

“Evacuate the Jupiter System?” whispered Tan.

“For now,” Circe said. “The idea would be to save as many people and ships as possible. It would have the added benefit of uniting the Guardian Fleet with the others of the Alliance.”

Tan studied the Sub-Strategist. “Do you suggest this because it is the best idea, or do you wish to reunite with Marten Kluge in the Earth System?”

Circe shook her head. “I do not know. Whenever I think about Marten Kluge, all else fades from my thoughts. I desire his arms around me, that he peel off my clothes and—” Circe looked stricken. “Excuse me, Chief Strategist. I—”

“No excuses, Circe. I sent you against Kluge as a weapon. I should have known better. The man is a killer and amazingly resilient against any who wish him harm. You suffered because I hated the idea of his…well, it doesn’t matter now. That was then and now we have to face these eight projectiles. I do not like the idea of fleeing our ancestral home. We must stand our ground.”

Circe looked away.

“I have grown weary of the Advisor of Europa,” Tan said, with her eyes half-lidded. It was so hard to think, but she recalled that the man had been a constant irritant. The idea that he should survive while those of Ganymede perished—no! He was an insufferable toad. “Europa’s domes and cities lie deep under the ice. Perhaps they can survive the wreckers.”

“That is extremely unlikely,” Circe said.

“You speak the truth. They will die, but some of the industries might survive.” Tan shrugged listlessly.

For a time, the two women stared at the eight projectiles.

“With the choice of which moon to defend decided,” Circe finally said, “there is a more delicate question.”

“You agree with me then that we should save Ganymede?”

“Force-Leader Yakov was from Ganymede,” Circe said.

“Why is that important?”

Circe blushed. “It isn’t.”

“Ah,” said Tan. “Yakov was Marten Kluge’s friend.”

“Marten thought very highly of Yakov,” Circe said.

“We all did,” Tan said. “And that is as good a reason as any to save Ganymede. Force-Leader Yakov gave his life to save our civilization. We will now choose to save the moon that gave us such a selfless guardian. I approve of your reasoning.”

Circe gave Tan a sidelong glance. “I spoke of a delicate issue a moment ago. We still have not broached it. The Advisor of Europa is forceful and given to threats. He might do more than protest your decision.”

Tan nodded. She realized that. She should have been the one to bring it up, but she couldn’t do it.

“Given his emotional make-up,” Circe said. “I suggest we take away the Advisor’s ability to affect our decision.”

Tan’s mouth was dry. Once she spoke these words, she would begin a terrible sequence of events. With her tongue, she moistened the inside of her mouth. “What do you suggest?”

“We must neutralize his ability to harm the Guardian Fleet,” Circe said. “To speak plainly, we must ensure that he never uses the defensive satellites orbiting Europa to launch missiles at our ships.”

“That would be an irrational act on his part,” Tan said.

“I have studied his psychological profile. The man is irrational and unstable.”

“I have also found him irritating,” Tan admitted.

“There are two meteor-ships in orbit around Europa,” Circe said. “I suggest you launch an immediate space marine assault against the defensive satellites or use bombs to incapacitate them.”

“If we did that it would destroy their ability to deflect the wreckers.”

“Europa has insufficient military hardware to deflect them,” Circe said. “Their only possibility of affecting the outcome of the situation is vengeance against us.”

Tan recoiled at the idea of leaving Europa defenseless against the enemy. It was monstrous and she would have no part in it. The horror of the suggestion revived her spirits and cut through the despair.

She turned to Circe. “What if Europa used all their liners and tankers, building up velocity and crashing them against the moon-wreckers? Before impact, they would have to launch weapons to disable each wrecker’s engine ports so the asteroids could not make any course corrections.”

On her pad, Circe began to compute the odds. After a time, she looked up. “They would need to send the ships now. The farther away from Jupiter they nudge the asteroids—provided they can knock out the engine ports—the less mass is needed for success.”

“The problem is that cyborg lasers would likely destroy such space-liners and tankers,” Tan said. “And who would crew the suicide vessels?”

“It wouldn’t necessarily have to be suicide. Skeleton crews could guide the ships, leaving at the last moment by a shuttle and escaping the impact.”

“And falling victim to cyborg lasers,” Tan said.

“The Guardian Fleet would need to join in the assault,” Circe said, “engaging the moon-wreckers in battle. We would attempt to mimic the Highborn and Earthlings as they attacked the Saturn-launched wreckers.”

Tan bit her lip, worried again about the leader of Europa. “If only the Advisor were a rational man.”

“The answer is obvious. You must assassinate him.”

“Who will take his place?” Tan asked.

“Hopefully someone more malleable,” Circe said.

“And if he or she does not view the matter as we do?”

“There are many imponderables,” Circe said, “too many to calculate. We must fight. We must give our system the likeliest chance for survival. Our two asteroids will target the Ganymede wreckers, shepherded to the point of contact by the Guardian Fleet. The people of Europa can do as they wish with their space-liners, tankers and defensive satellites—provided they don’t attack us. Perhaps we can convince them to transfer to Ganymede.”

“There are not enough spaceships to complete a transfer in time.”

“It would save many more lives, however.”

Tan stared at the holoimages, at the faint stellar objects. She was the Chief Strategist. She should devise a strategy for the greatest number of survivors. This certainty of the Advisor’s emotionalism—

“No,” Tan whispered.

“Chief Strategist?” Circe asked.

“I cannot order the Advisor’s assassination,” Tan said. “Neither can I use space marines or myrmidons to denude Europa of a fighting chance. I will have to take a leap of faith on the Advisor’s humanity.”

“He has not shown good faith in the past,” Circe said.

“He has not faced extinction before.” Tan leaned forward, letting her forehead sink against her hands. “I don’t know what to do. The decisions…they are too heavy for me. We are facing the end of our hard-built civilization.”

“Then let us show the Solar System our superiority by facing doom like the philosophers we are,” Circe said. “We lived with equanimity and we shall die the same way.”

Tan looked up. “That isn’t how Marten Kluge faced the cyborgs.”

Circe’s serenity faded as her features twisted. She stood abruptly, strode toward the holoimages and then turned around. “Here is my advice. Call the Advisor. Tell him our decision. Let us see how he acts. If he is a Jovian, he will act with calm and we may yet defeat the moon-wreckers. If he panics…” Circe shrugged.

“Is this a reasoned decision you suggest?” Tan asked.

“…no,” Circe said. “The emotions in me are too strong to control. Nevertheless, this is my suggestion. First, order the two meteor-ships out of Europa’s orbit. We will need every vessel if we are to deflect the two wreckers headed for Ganymede. Then, board every liner and tanker you can with space marines or myrmidons. Take away the Advisor’s options so when he threatens, you can bargain with him, offering him the return of his vessels if he agrees to reason.”

Tan stared up at the lidless eye in the pyramid. “In a week—”

“No,” Circe said. “You have two days to act, no more. Stall while you can and move shuttles and warships into position. Then—”

Tan held up her hand as she dug out a com-unit. She clicked it on and began to give rapid-fire orders. Circe was right. She had to act fast and decisively. These moon-wreckers…the scope of the attack had paralyzed her. But she was the Chief Strategist, a philosopher of Callisto. She would show the Solar System how one with an examined life responded to an extinction-level attack. She would show them because otherwise she would begin to weep for the loss of such a metaphysically beautiful system.

-10-

As signals began to flash between the meteor-ships of the Guardian Fleet, on Earth, Marten Kluge felt nauseous. He tried to walk across a heaving deck, with angry waves tossing whitecaps around their automated cargo vessel. Everywhere he looked the sea churned. His guts churned as well, with seasickness. Cold wind whipped against his face, pelting it with salty spray. Storm clouds raced across the sky so everything was moving, making him dizzy.

He still thought hijacking this automated ship had been a bad idea. No one rode on ships anymore unless they wanted to go on a pleasure cruise. A plane would have been better, but very difficult to access now. Using a train would have been faster than the ship. The trouble was that Social Unity was unraveling as the directors and others jockeyed for position. Already there had been riots, armed police uprisings, incidents of military defense-forces shooting down planes and PHC terrorists blowing up trains.

The greatest blow to Marten was that Turkey Sector had declared for Director Backus, joining Italia Sector and others. They demanded that Backus rule Social Unity, cleansing the Party so it would return to its socialist purity. The problem was that Marten needed to get to Greece Sector, to Athens in particular. Two weeks ago, his Jovian space marines had insisted on finally visiting the ancient Athenian ruins. He’d let them go, never suspecting everything was going to unravel into chaos.

If that wasn’t bad enough, the Director of Greece Sector had “detained” his marines, a little less than one hundred fighting Jovians. In Osadar’s option, Director Delos was trying to keep Greece Sector neutral by holding both Backus and Cone at arm’s length. Delos had quarantined the Jovians, but she hadn’t shot them as Backus wished.

Marten wiped spray from his cheeks. He spied the jagged hills of Crete on the horizon. The hills looked decidedly uninviting. The way the white-capped waves slammed against the automated vessel…

They had slipped away from the train wreck in Lebanon Sector and headed for the nearby coast. With Turkey declaring for Backus, they needed another path to Athens.

“I’m afraid the authorities will arrest us if we enter Turkey Sector,” Osadar had said.

After the PHC attack, Nadia hadn’t wanted to go into any city to try to buy a plane ticket. That meant they could travel across North Africa to get to Spain Sector, and then to Athens, but that would mean traveling through Egyptian Sector. It had strongly declared for Director Backus. The quickest route then—since they couldn’t use the air—was by sea.

With her superior sight, Osadar had pointed out the automated vessels. Most bulk shipments were transported by sea. They found a rowboat, and with her cyborg strength, Osadar rowed them out to the ship. She leapt aboard the present vessel, found rope and hauled them up. For several days, they had endured the ship’s programed route. During that time, Osadar, being part machine, had talked to the vessel’s computer. She’d finally cracked its defenses and was now in control, piloting the ship to Athens.

Osadar still spent most of her time on the computer, monitoring the news-sites. She discovered all sorts of useful, if sometimes daunting, information. The most pertinent was that open fighting had broken out. Cone’s soldiers won most of the engagements, but Backus eroded Cone’s political power with an idea. As Osadar put it, “The idea is like a spark landing on oil-soaked rags.” The oil was the planet-wrecker strike a year ago. According to what she’d found in Hawthorne’s quarters—real opinion polls, for instance—many people believed the cyborgs would conquer Earth. Despair was rampant, and Backus used that. Osadar had read Marten several of the director’s newest slogans: Free Earth of all foreign germs. There was another: Cleanse our planet of its infestation. Then we will grow strong again in purity and defeat our enemies.

The Jovian space marines made excellent symbols. Osadar had predicted a show trial, where Backus’s people stirred up mass hysteria against non-Earthers to a fever pitch.

Marten staggered for the hatch, as he thought, I’m not going to let that happen. He should have never landed on Earth. He’d trusted Hawthorne. After the battle a year ago with the planet-wreckers, what choice had there been? They couldn’t have survived for long, cramped in the two patrol boats. Maybe they should have tried just the same. It would have been better than this.

The deck heaved up and seemed to roll sideways. Marten barely grabbed a rail in time. He was sick of the automated vessel. He was sick of Earth and this endless war. How could men defeat cyborgs and then put down the Highborn?

He grimaced as he slid down the hatch, moving along a corridor toward light. Soon, he staggered into a small cabin with its bunks and shoved-together crates that acted as their table. Nadia slept, with a blanket pulled over her head.

Osadar sat before the computer terminal, bracing herself with her legs. At his entrance, she twisted around.

“Have you considered the possibility that it will prove impossible to free our marines?”

“No,” Marten said.

“Perhaps we should bypass Athens and head for a launch-site under Cone’s control. Let’s get off Earth while we can.”

Marten shook his head.

“You have lost soldiers and friends before,” Osadar said. “Our goal is bigger than a few marines.”

Marten scowled. “I’m tired of seeing my friends die.” He pulled out his gun, hefting it thoughtfully. Then he shoved it back into its holster. “We’re going in and rescuing them.”

“How can we achieve this miracle?” Osadar asked. “We are three people against a city of millions.”

“You forget. I’m the Jovian Representative.”

“Your title failed to impress Juba-Ryder.”

“The Director of Greece Sector wants to stay neutral,” Marten said. “That’s the key.”

“Delos’s neutrality makes her actions predictable,” Osadar said. “She will continue to detain our marines to keep Backus’s people happy, and she will please Cone by refusing to hand them over to an SU tribunal.”

Marten was afraid that Osadar was right. Social Unity…nothing ever changed. Men mouthed pious slogans and then acted as they pleased. Equality for all. Yet the hall leaders, the police chiefs and directors, they lived like princes, dictating to everyone else. If everything was so good under Social Unity, why the need for shock batons, punishment details in the slime pits and torture in the glass tubes? If socialized men were so superior, why did some starve and others become fat on good food? Why did the leaders bicker for supremacy? Why were there so many checkpoints, ID cards, half-truths and endless coercion?

“We have one power,” Marten said. “No, we have two.”

“Do you care to enumerate them?” Osadar asked.

“I need to speak with Cone. Can you patch me through to her?”

“The automated ship has given us anonymity, allowed us to travel unseen. Broadcasting in the open might jeopardize that.”

“Can you do it?” Marten asked.

Osadar swiveled to the computer. “The key is our priority clearance, which is linked to the Security Specialist’s code.” Osadar began to tap the screen. It took a little over an hour, but finally she turned to Marten.

“Are you ready for the Security Specialist?” Osadar asked.

Marten had been listening the last few minutes as Osadar spoke to increasingly powerful underlings. Now he was going to get his chance to speak with Cone. He shoved a crate near Osadar, sitting down and moving the computer screen to face him. Maybe twenty seconds later, Cone appeared.

She wore sunglasses, had slicked-back hair and sat before a sunburst symbol. “Marten Kluge?” she asked, sounding surprised.

“Thank you for speaking with me,” Marten said.

Cone’s lips twisted into a half-grin. “The reports of your death are highly exaggerated, it appears. I was told you were dead, killed during a train hijacking.”

“Who gave you the report?”

“Does it matter?” Cone asked.

“Did they tell you a cyborg killed the PHC terrorists?”

Cone frowned. “Do you have a point?”

“I’m on my way to Greece Sector.”

“Where are you now?”

“I understand that you’re in a difficult situation,” Marten said. “With Hawthorne’s removal, the upheaval has begun. It comes at the worst possible moment: when humanity is about to launch its counter-offensive. My space marines represent a tiny portion of that combined force, but they do represent an earnest of Jovian cooperation with the rest of humanity. Who knows when Jovian warships might hold a critical advantage for the rest of humanity?”

Cone held up a hand. “My time is short, as you’ve correctly surmised by going straight to the point. You want help freeing your marines. Is that right?”

“I’m trying to convince you of their importance.”

“Civil war has broken out, Force-Leader. I can hardly concern myself with one hundred marines.”

Marten shook his head. “For your own sake, you must do everything you can to keep my Jovians out of Backus’s hands. It he shoots them…if he publicly tries them and brings them before a videoed firing squad—”

“Hmm, yes,” Cone said, interrupting. “That would stir the masses and show his apparent strength and my weakness. Yes, I see what you mean.” She pursed her lips. “Greece Sector is rather small and unimportant compared to more pressing matters. I don’t know how to pressure Director Delos any more than I already am.”

“I’m not asking for that.”

“What are you asking for then?”

“Call Director Delos,” Marten said. “Show her the latest video from Jupiter. Remind her that humanity’s back is against the wall. Promise her more grain shipments if she will simply do her duty and free Social Unity’s allies.”

“Grain is difficult to come by these days.”

“It is hard currency during a famine,” Marten said. “That’s why you should offer it. I suppose I could point out that promises are not the same as shipments, but I’m not going to do that.”

Cone’s eyebrows lifted. “I did not realize you were an intriguer.”

“I’m not,” Marten said. “I’m desperate. I’m tired of running away and even more tired of losing. I want my Jovians and then I want to hit the enemy hard.”

“Yes, yes, we must fight the greater enemy. Your point is valid. Suppose I give you a hundred commandos to take with you into space, would that be enough?”

“I appreciate the offer, but I want my trained space marines.”

“We don’t all get what we want.”

“True,” Marten said. “The key is that my marines have been fighting cyborgs a long time now. They’re veterans against a foe who usually kills everyone. My marines have fought on Carme, on Athena Station—those names may not mean much to you, but they were hellholes. The veterans who survived those places: their fighting knowledge may make a great difference someday soon.”

“Doubtful,” said Cone. “It’s what they represent that is critical. If Backus should acquire them… I will do as you request, Force-Leader. How soon until you reach Greece Sector?”

“Several hours,” Marten said.

Cone turned, listening to someone off-screen. When she faced Marten again, she said, “An automated cargo vessel—very clever, Force-Leader, and resourceful. Once again, I wish you luck.”

“And I you,” Marten said.

Cone nodded, rising as the connection ended.

Twenty peacekeepers in riot gear waited for Marten, Nadia and Osadar in Piraeus, Athens’s port. Each of the police hefted a machine pistol as they stood on the nearing pier.

“Notice,” Osadar said from the cargo vessel’s deck. “They lack shock batons.”

“They’re Director Delos’s troops,” Marten said.

“They are police.”

“It shows you why Cone has any chance at all,” Marten said.

It had been like that in New Baghdad: few military personnel in the city. The reason was that Hawthorne hadn’t wanted the military caught underground, nor had he wanted them to fraternize with the people, in case he needed the military to put down rioters. The independent Soviets a year ago had shown the Supreme Commander the answer to dealing with citywide rebellion. Until now, Hawthorne’s method had worked. It meant that most military personnel were on bases instead of in the cities. Hawthorne had wanted the military were he could maneuver them against invading Highborn. It meant the directors had little access to military personnel, although they had large police forces.

As the ship docked, a police officer jumped onto the vessel’s deck. He had one thick eyebrow, with a chinstrap holding his red helmet in place. He alone lacked a machine pistol, although he had a regular gun holstered at his side.

“Force-Leader Marten Kluge?” the officer asked.

Marten stepped forward as he nodded.

“I am Commissar Cleon of the Athens Peacekeepers: Third Level, Fifth Precinct.”

“Glad to meet you,” Marten said, holding out his hand.

Commissar Cleon kept his hands at his side, and his features stiffened. “Director Delos wishes to inform you that she cannot accept your presence here in the city or anywhere in Greece Sector.”

Marten hadn’t anticipated this.

“Therefore—”

“A moment,” Marten said. He raised his hand and indicated Osadar.

She wore a large jacket and senso-mask, and that helped conceal the fact she was a cyborg. Unfortunately, it couldn’t totally hide her strangeness. She now walked to them, and her difference became more pronounced.

Commissar Cleon took a step back as his face paled. “She’s a cyborg?”

“One of the few to break their conditioning,” Marten said.

Cleon glared at Osadar, and his gun-hand dropped onto the butt of his weapon. “I’ve read reports. They say cyborgs can convert people into their likeness.”

“Osadar began as a Jovian,” Marten said.

“You mean those others—the space marines—they’re hidden cyborgs?”

“No. I mean Director Delos must speak with me. I am one of the few people who know how to detect pre-converted people.”

“What does that mean?”

“Have you read the reports of the Third Battle for Mars?” Marten asked.

Cleon shook his head.

“I have reason to believe the cyborgs have targeted Director Delos for infiltration tactics. It is why I sent my space marines to Athens. Surely, they made their report.”

“I know nothing about this,” Cleon said.

“It’s worse than I thought,” Marten told Osadar. “We must leave at once.”

“Why?” asked Cleon.

Marten glanced at the commissar sidelong. “If you’re wise, you’ll join us, you and your men. We could use them.”

“Do you mean to tell me that Director Backus is right?” Cleon asked. “The contamination has already occurred?”

“Yes,” Marten said. “We must flee. Go!” he told Osadar. “Back into the hold with you. There is little time left.”

“Wait,” Cleon said.

“There’s no time,” Marten told him.

Cleon drew his gun. It caused a stir among the peacekeepers on the pier. Several jumped onto the cargo vessel, hurrying near, with their machine pistols trained on Marten and Osadar.

“You will wait,” Cleon said. He pulled out a com-unit and walked away from Marten. The commissar spoke urgently, listened and spoke even more urgently. Finally, he put away the unit, approaching Marten once more.

“Director Delos believes you are lying about the cyborg danger,” Cleon said. “However, you have intrigued her. You will accompany me to the Director’s Building. Your cyborg and the woman will stay here as hostages for your good behavior. They will not be permitted to land on Greece Sector soil.”

Marten nodded.

“Give me your weapon,” Cleon said.

Hoping he was right and knowing things could go very wrong, Marten began unbuckling his gun-belt.

“Guard them,” Cleon told a peacekeeper. “Shoot them rather than letting them step onto a pier.”

“Yes, Commissar,” the guard said.

“Come with me,” Cleon told Marten.

“Good-bye, Marten Kluge,” Osadar said.

Marten nodded, and he glanced at his wife. There were tears in her eyes. It was possible he would never see Nadia again. He nodded once more, to her, and he turned away, hurrying for the pier.

Even though it was a sector capital, Athens was in worse shape than New Baghdad. Level after level, the buildings looked old and rundown. Their lift groaned and lurched and the air tasted stale. Too many sunlamps were missing in the ceilings, sometimes creating dark or shadowed zones. Potholes abounded, and garbage lay in heaps, sometimes worked upon by grungy men with rakes and wheelbarrows. Police with drawn guns watched them. Old women swept the streets and the children—they were skinny like Martians.

It was a little better on the Governmental Level, with more lights, less garbage and a battalion of street-sweepers in their mid-twenties. There were too many red-suited peacekeepers. Instead of machine pistols, however, the police wore shock-rods, although the higher-ranked had needlers.

Marten and Commissar Cleon moved at a brisk pace along the sidewalks. There were a number of official people about, most in hall leader uniforms or maroon, sector-bureaucrat colors.

“There,” Cleon said. With his chinstrap, the commissar pointed at the seven-story Director’s Building. It stood above the smaller buildings around it and the park on the other side. The building was octagonal in shape with several armored cars parked in front. A knot of peacekeepers stood near the glass entrances. The majority of them wore regular police body-armor.

Once again, Cleon showed his pass. A guard joined them, keeping his needler aimed at Marten’s back. They entered the building, and the guard turned them over to black-suited gunmen.

For the seventh time today, the commissar showed his ID card and the guards checked their slates.

Instead of one guard, three black-suited gunmen joined them. They rode up an armored lift to the fourth floor. More gunmen lined the halls.

“There been a lot of trouble lately?” Marten asked.

Hostile glances were his answers.

Finally, they marched into a large gray room. Marten and Cleon sat for several minutes. Then new black-suited gunmen appeared. They ushered the two into an even larger room. A red carpet on the floor, paintings on the walls, a Parthenon replica six feet high and deep couches decorated it. There was a large glass window on the far side of the room. The window showed gardens and promenades down below, with other governmental buildings beyond.

An older woman with gray hair sat behind a desk. She had an alert expression, with dark eyes and a wide mouth.

“Force-Leader Marten Kluge,” she said.

“Director Delos?” he asked.

“Commissar, you may return to the cargo ship,” she told Cleon. “You will await my orders to shoot the cyborg and the woman.”

Marten stiffened. The gunmen noticed, all of them drawing their weapons.

“Alexander,” Delos said, who ignored her gunmen’s reaction. “Your men may sit down.”

Commissar Cleon opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something.

Director Delos raised an eyebrow. “You’re still here?” she asked.

Cleon must have thought better about speaking. He turned smartly and marched out the door. The gunmen moved to nearby couches, sitting down. They each placed their gun on their lap as they stared at Marten.

“Please, have a seat,” Delos said, indicating a single chair before her desk.

“That woman you’re speaking about is my wife,” Marten said. “She’s innocent of any wrongdoing and is not deserving of death.”

Delos sat back in her chair. “I doubt that, Mr. Kluge. She is in your company. That is crime enough.”

Marten silently counted to five before he asked, “Have you spoken with Security Specialist Cone?”

“I’ve done even better than that. I’ve watched a rare video of a fool and a madman.”

Marten frowned.

Delos sat up and turned a computer screen on her desk. It showed an evil scene with several large glass tubes, surrounded by medical devices and medical personnel. In the nearest giant tube was a naked and obviously exhausted Marten Kluge, pumping a handle up and down as blue water gushed onto his head.

With an oath, Marten lurched toward the screen. That caused several gunmen to leap up, training their weapons at him. Marten was unaware of their reaction. His gut tightened as he stared at the video. A snarl curled his lips.

“I’ve been watching the clip,” Delos said, as she motioned her gunman to relax. “You pumped an amazing number of hours. All you had to do to end your suffering was speak.”

“I didn’t speak,” Marten whispered.

“And yet, here you sit before me.”

“Where did you get that?”

Delos frowned. It put wrinkle lines in her face. She was an old woman. “You are not here to ask me questions, Mr. Kluge. I am asking the questions. It appears that you were a poorly-behaved citizen and a malcontent.”

He stared into her eyes, and he shrugged.

That deepened her frown. “You are not a diplomatic man.”

“Have you seen cyborgs fight?” Marten asked. “I have, many times, and yet I am here, as you say.”

The lines in Delos’s face deepened. “How is it that you have a cyborg on your ship?”

“Her name is Osadar Di. She used to be a Jovian. Long ago, she fled to Neptune. There the cyborgs—”

“Spare me the history, as I don’t care enough to listen. Your warning to Cleon…it made me curious. I’ve glanced at your file before. I did it last month while studying the Supreme Commander’s latest advisors. I wonder what he saw in you.”

“That I was a fighter, one who has faced the great enemy and survived,” Marten said.

“Hmm. There you were,” Delos said, indicating the screen where Marten still pumped. “And here you are: the Jovian Representative to Earth. You fought in the Jovian System?”

“And helped them defeat the cyborgs.”

“Always fighting, are you, Mr. Kluge.”

“It’s better than surrendering.”

“Why are you here in Athens? I want the real reason?”

“To collect my space marines,” Marten said.

Delos pressed a button. A speaker blared into life. The voices belonged to Marten and Cone, and it replayed their conversation a few hours ago.

“Promise me grain, eh?” Delos asked, after the conversation ended.

Marten closed his eyes. He thought of Nadia, of Commissar Cleon putting a pistol to her head and blowing out her brains. It made him clench his teeth with growing frustration. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

“I despise Social Unity,” Marten said in a low voice. “All my life, the thugs of Social Unity have been trying to tell me how to think. They killed my parents and made my early life hell. They told me God didn’t exist and then they tried to take His place. I spit on Social Unity.”

“Is Jupiter so much better?”

“No!” Marten said. “They have a different form of tyranny, one based on supposed philosophic splendor. But that has changed, or it did while I was there.”

“You are a born rebel, Mr. Kluge. You are a complainer instead of a builder.”

“I’m in love with freedom, yes, that’s true. I want to think for myself, to decide without being punished for my thoughts. As long as I don’t interfere with my neighbor, I want to do as I please and think as I please.”

“I have heard of your species of malcontent before: a libertarian. It is an old word, and it means: chaotic instability throughout society.”

Marten scowled. “I hate Social Unity and I despise the Dictates. I refuse to knuckle under either system. Yet I will join hands with SU soldiers and Jovian guardians to fight the living death that are the cyborgs. I have a cyborg in my company. She used to be human. They tore her down to her component parts and then rebuilt her into a meld of machine and flesh. They programed her brain, using mini-computers to enslave her soul. When cyborgs win, when Web-Minds take over, they capture humans and put them into converters. They manufacture more cyborgs. I never thought it was possible, but out there I found something worse than Social Unity.”

“Very stirring, I’m sure,” Director Delos said in a bored voice.

“You believe yourself immune, is that it? Look at those thugs sitting on your couch. Look at their snappy black uniforms. They’ll stop the cyborgs for you?”

“You’re ill-advised to mock the men who will soon be administering your punishments.”

“I’m ill-advised to bow and scrape to a fool,” Marten said. “I have one life. I’ll live it free and tell it like it is, taking my lumps for it.”

Delos frowned, and she glanced at her screen, which she had turned back. No doubt, she spied a younger Marten Kluge pumping the handle in the glass tube. She continued to watch.

“In the first year of the war, the Highborn invaded Sydney,” Marten said.

“I’m aware of that. It’s what saved your life.”

“It almost ended my life. Political Harmony Corps tried to blow Sydney’s deep-core mine. I went deep into the Earth and stopped them. When I came back up, I was captured by the Highborn for my efforts.”

Delos turned away from the screen and stared fixedly at Marten. She sat back, and she pressed her fingers together.

“Listen to me,” Marten said. “I’ve been in tight spots before. I know what it means to face impossible odds and win. Humanity faces its doom, its extinction. We must band together now and fight as one. We have a fleet of Highborn and Humans, and we’re about to attack Neptune System. Release my space marines so we can join the armada.”

“If I do that, Director Backus will mark me for death.”

“The cyborgs have already done that.”

“Your few Jovians will make no difference to the fight,” Delos said.

“You’re probably right,” Marten said. “Yet you can’t know that. They might be the margin that gives us victory.”

“Please, Mr. Kluge,” Delos said with a laugh, “no melodrama.”

“War is melodrama. Torture is melodrama. Life is full of melodrama. Give me my men. Let me fight our true enemy.”

Delos continued to frown.

“Look!” Marten said, pointing at the mini-replica of the Pantheon. “Greece Sector is the land of melodrama. Long ago, men here learned to be free.”

“Enough!” Delos said. “Speak to me about realities.”

“A year ago, the cyborgs hit Earth with a planet-wrecker, or with part of one. How long will it be before they do it again?”

“I hope never,” Delos said.

“Then do everything you can toward hurting the cyborgs. Anything else is immaterial—at least in the long run.”

“Life is filled with short runs,” Delos said.

Marten stared at the old director. He glanced back at the hard-eyed bodyguards. When he faced Delos again, he noticed she watched the video.

“What about that intrigues you?” he asked.

Her eyebrows lifted. “Yes, I am intrigued. That,” she pointed at the screen, “is very odd behavior.”

“Do something odd for once. Go against your perfect calculations. Think of it as humanity’s last gamble against almost certain annihilation by a superior life-form.”

“Superior?” she asked.

“They’re better than us at fighting,” Marten said. “I’ve faced them several times, and I can attest to that.”

“Yet you’re still alive, as you so humbly pointed out.”

Marten waited.

Director Delos sat forward, and she stroked her chin. Then her eyes narrowed. “Maybe there is a way. Let me think about it.”

“We don’t have much time left.”

“No. You don’t have much time left. I have plenty. I will think about it and get back to you…soon.” She sat up. “Alexander, take him to the detention center. Let him join his precious Jovians.”

“What about my wife and Osadar, the cyborg?” Marten asked.

Delos thought a moment. “For now, they will join you. That is all,” she said, waving her hand. “Take him away. I have much to consider.”

-11-

Many thousands of kilometers from Athens, the Napoleon Bonaparte was in Near Luna Orbit. The Doom Star’s commander—Sulla the Ultraist—was taking his morning exercise in a pseudo-gravity chamber, a large, rotating pod.

The nine-foot-tall Highborn had oiled his face, giving him a warrior’s shine or glow. Many considered Sulla to be the deadliest combat fighter among the Highborn. He had thick dark hair and his eyes almost seemed to spark with hostility. If he lacked some of the strategic breadth of others, he made up for it with a tight-knit faction of Ultraists and a ruthless willingness to do anything required to achieve victory.

He had advanced high in a short time. During the planet-wrecker assault, Sulla had been a bridge officer aboard Grand Admiral Cassius’s ship. It had been the destruction of the Gustavus Adolphus that had changed so much, taking some of Cassius’s staunchest supporters. No Ultraists had died because the Gustavus’s commander had forbidden any of the cult aboard his warship. Because of that, the percentage of Ultraists among the Highborn had risen dramatically. It had no longer been possible to deny an Ultraist a major command slot.

Who would have believed such a thing possible? Sulla grinned at the thought. Cassius had made a temporary alliance with the premen. Then a preman had murdered the Grand Admiral. That Sulla had aided the premen in the act…well, that just made Cassius’s death even sweeter.

I must now discover all of Cassius’s secrets. Sulla flexed his fingers. Whom must I assassinate next? It was an interesting question. Then he shook his head, concentrating on the moment and the fighting robot in the chamber with him.

Sulla wore steel-reinforced gauntlets, a body-length synthi-suit and a fierce scowl.

The robot was a squat device rolling on treads, possessing five mechanical stalks. The stalks were as supple as whips. One had a three-inch knife on the end. The others had blunt knobs and could easily beat a man into submission. The robot had beaten six FEC traitors at a time to death. Sulla had witnessed the event on four separate occasions. The FEC soldiers had rebelled against the Highborn during the planet-wrecker attack and foolishly declared independence. Several thousand had paid the ultimate penalty for their disloyalty. Those facing the fighting robot had died hard, many begging for mercy.

Premen made such pathetic soldiers. Only in mass like a horde of lemmings did they present danger. Once more, Sulla shook his head, driving out extraneous thoughts. The robot attempted to outmaneuver and kill him.

Just as my enemies attempt to outmaneuver me, hoping that I make a fatal mistake.

Sulla shifted to the left. The robot paused, and a tread spun, rotating the machine. It would kill him here in the chamber if it could. Sulla never used the lower settings. That would be a mistake of the first order. You practiced at the same level you wished to fight. How otherwise could you hone your instincts to maximum efficiency?

“Come, little death,” he told the robot. “See if you can match the greatest fighting Highborn of all.”

A blue light blinked on the robot, indicating the beginning of a shutdown.

Sulla began to relax, although he was angered. Who dared to tamper with the fighting machine or interrupt his exercise?

As the blue “shutoff” light continued to blink, the robot’s treads spun as it advanced at speed. The whippy stalks moved like an octopus’s limbs, with the knife poised in back for a killing blow.

Sulla bellowed with rage. Here was base trickery. Then a knob struck his thigh. Another hit a rib with enough power to crack a preman’s bones. A third—Sulla’s gauntleted hand caught the mechanical stalk and yanked savagely, ripping it out of the machine. Bits of metal went flying, skipping across the floor. He took a blow to the back of the head. That staggered him, and the knife flashed. He barely twisted in time, taking a stab in his shoulder muscle instead of his throat. With a bound, he retreated, circling the treacherous robot.

The fighting machine rotated, and the blue light blinked more rapidly. It seemed like an act of mockery now.

Sulla’s eyes narrowed. Whoever had tampered with the robot had just done him a favor. He would not forget the lesson. He even had enemies aboard ship.

Spitting at the robot, Sulla took a Shaolin stance. He had never used the ancient Kung-fu technique against the fighting machines. The robot would run a quick analysis on it now, giving him a second. Sulla attacked. He took a blow to the shoulder and another one on his thigh. A red weal had already appeared from a previous strike. The robot’s knife-arm struck, and he grabbed the stalk just below the blade. A mongoose couldn’t have done better against a cobra. Sulla ripped the stalk out of the machine, removing its most dangerous weapon. He jumped back, pivoted and backpedaled.

His thigh throbbed, so did his rib and blood-dripping shoulder. Those were good hurts, however. They told him he was alive.

Lately, the cyborgs had put the Highborn on the defensive and the premen had regained conquered territory on Earth. South American Sector was gone in terms of industry and life. During the planet-wrecker attack, North American Sector had rebelled and rejoined Social Unity. The reason the war went poorly was clear—the Highborn had lost their edge and waited for others to attack. It was time to show the Solar System the Highborn fist.

The blue light on the robot had turned off. Now it blinked again. Sulla pretended to relax. The robot’s treads spun, and the fighting machine lurched closer. Sulla stood transfixed as if surprised. The stalks whipped, and Sulla attacked by moving forward. As the knobs struck, he delivered five hammering blows against the chassis. It smoked as circuits shorted-out, and the pummeling arms fell limply to the chamber’s floor.

That was how you obliterated your enemy, by going in and finishing it, delivering harder blows than you received. It was time to speak with the other high commanders and convince them of this elemental truth.

A day later, Admiral Sulla sat in his chamber. His cut shoulder was still sore, but he had used quick-healing agents to speed the process. The agents repaired his tissues faster than they could have done naturally. Some Highborn disliked Quick-heal and said prolonged usage began to affect one’s judgment. Sulla’s reply was that being wounded and weak affected one’s judgment even more. He was strong and thus attacked his problems head-on as a vigorous warrior should.

Sulla made himself comfortable in the chair. Behind him on the wall was a neural whip, two cestuses and a gyroc pistol. He believed it symbolized his fighting prowess, his willingness to fight any foe one-on-one anywhere, knowing he would always be victorious as the superior soldier.

A red light blinked on his screen. It showed him that the other two admirals on their Doom Stars were ready. There was Admiral Scipio, a tall, retiring Highborn known for his ability to work with the premen. It was a somewhat embarrassing trait, but useful as long as the cyborgs represented a threat. The other was Admiral Cato. He had moved up into Cassius’s vacated chair aboard the Julius Caesar. Cato was stern and taciturn, and was probably more concerned with consolidating his new position than moving on the great enemy at Neptune. Lastly, there was Commandant Maximus, the fourth highest ranked Highborn, having maintained his post at the Sun-Works Factory for several years. It was surprising he hadn’t tried to gain command of a Doom Star. It was odd, in fact. What lay behind it?

Sulla shook his head. He would have to think about it later. The four-way meeting was about to begin.

MAXIMUS: I shall begin since the time lag is the worst for me. I have read Admiral Sulla’s opinion. It is convincing. We should attack Neptune and burnout the cyborg home base. One cannot win a war while remaining on the defensive. However, there are several considerations to keep in mind. One, the news from the Jupiter System is grim. The cyborgs have launched eight planet-wreckers from Uranus. It means the cyborgs control Neptune, Saturn and Uranus and will likely conquer or destroy the Jupiter System in short order.

SCIPIO: The Jovians have begun defensive preparations. I have read the reports. They possess two mobile asteroids. It is possible they will defeat the Uranus planet-wreckers just as we defeated the Saturn-launched wreckers.

SULLA: I disagree. The Jovians have a paltry fleet. It cannot compare to our armada and to your strategic use of the Earth’s farm habitats.

SCIPIO: The premen worked hard on the old habitats, aiding us during the emergency.

SULLA: They worked hard under Highborn guidance and forethought. It is inconceivable they could have done anything less. Otherwise, they would have faced our wrath.

SCIPIO: In light of the cyborg menace, I have reassessed our use of the preman. While it is truth that they are smaller, weaker—

SULLA: And less courageous.

SCIPIO: It takes courage to continue fighting against their superiors.

SULLA: You mistake mulish stubbornness for courage. They are too foolish to understand their shortcomings.

SCIPIO: Whatever the cause, they fight to the bitter end.

CATO: Gentlemen, the Commandant’s message is incoming.

MAXIMUS: I’m not sure this four-way conference will work. The time lag for me is too great. Because of that, let me finish my statement and then I will listen to your arguments, responding only when requested.

The cyborgs presently control the majority of the Outer Planets. If—or should I say—when we destroy their outposts on Neptune, we will have to finish them off in the Saturn and Uranus Systems and possibility in the Jupiter System as well. I am convinced that the cyborgs have used up their strategic assets in Saturn and Uranus Systems. A careful study of the planet-wreckers and data from the first Cyborg Assault against the Jovians leads me to believe they cannibalized conquered vessels and military stores in order to construct the planet-wreckers. Given the time needed to build large warships—often three to four years—it seems unlikely that they can launch newly constructed fleets from those bases in the near future. Therefore, we must strike now before they can consolidate their gains and build larger warships.

SCIPIO: You speak with the strategic wisdom of Grand Admiral Cassius.

SULLA: Are we agreed then?

SCIPIO: Agreed to what?

SULLA: An immediate and massive assault on the Neptune System.

SCIPIO: In theory, it appears to be a sound idea.

SULLA: It is a sound idea.

SCIPIO: There are many variables that we need to consider first.

SULLA: I cannot think of any.

SCIPIO: I will number the obvious ones then. As we attack Neptune, the cyborgs might launch another attack upon the Inner Planets.

SULLA: Didn’t you just agree to Maximus’s analysis? The cyborgs do not possess the means to mount another large-scale assault.

SCIPIO: What if the cyborgs launch stealth fleets from Neptune, Saturn and Uranus? Even given that they are small fleets, they could converge at Mars perhaps, moving on to attack Earth with a substantial fleet—substantial at least in terms of the warships left around Earth.

SULLA: I do not win my combat matches by fearing my enemy’s moves. I attack and make him fear my moves.

SCIPIO: You raise an interesting point. Do cyborgs fear? If so, how can we tell? Frankly, I doubt they fear to any appreciable degree.

SULLA: (shouting) They will fear as we smash their circuits and pulp their flesh! They will howl in agony as we laser their habitats and send nuclear missiles onto their moons! They will gnash their teeth as we crush them out of existence!

SCIPIO: Contain yourself, Admiral Sulla. I can hear you quite well.

SULLA: Then tell me if you can hear this. I challenge you to a—

CATO: Gentleman! We are the admirals and the cyborgs are our enemies. Let us focus our resolve and fighting skills against them, not against each other.

SULLA: I am used to respect and will accept nothing less.

CATO: We are not matched on the wrestling mats or in the fighting ring. We are the strategic team that must forge our strategy. We must outperform the greatest conqueror to date—Grand Admiral Cassius.

SULLA: He led us to victory for a time.

CATO: We were mere fighting slaves for the premen until Cassius showed us the way to greatness.

SULLA: Enough about Cassius. As you said before, we have a war to run. We should stick to that.

SCIPIO: Yes, a war and a feasible strategy. Since you didn’t like my first one, let me offer you a different quandary. What if during our absence, the cyborgs drop a thousand nuclear bombs on Earth? Here is another possibility. What if during our journey to Neptune, the preman re-conquer Antarctica and Australian Sectors?

SULLA: I will answer the second first. We must force the preman warships to go with us to Neptune. This should be easy to achieve, since they have already agreed to it.

SCIPIO: That solves one dilemma, but leaves Inner Planets open to any hidden cyborg fleet. The present crises in the Jupiter System shows us the distinct possibility that the cyborgs have stealth vessels where we are unable to spot them.

SULLA: You have stated your fear. Now how would you solve it?

SCIPIO: It is not a fear, but a strategic possibility. The answer, however, is simple: We should leave a Doom Star behind in the Earth System.

SULLA: No! That was Cassius’s mistake in the Third Battle for Mars. He didn’t attack with the full preponderance of his force. He lost a Doom Star because of it.

SCIPIO: We will have Social Unity’s battleships with us in lieu of the third Doom Star.

SULLA: I cannot believe a Highborn speaks these words. You equate warships under preman control as being as excellent as a Doom Star?

SCIPIO: I am growing tired of your continuous slander, Admiral Sulla.

SULLA: (laughs) Tell me this, Admiral, which Doom Star do you recommend stays behind?

SCIPIO: We must arrive at our decision logically and consider the sensibilities of our allies.

SULLA: I hope you do not mean that we pamper the premen.

SCIPIO: We use them. We trick them as we have been doing. Obviously, it is easier to trick them when they have a feeling of trust. They will not trust you, an Ultraist.

SULLA: But you are their friend?

SCIPIO: I’ve worked with them in the past and we achieved a level of success. It is logical, therefore, that they would trust me more than any other Highborn.

SULLA: What do you other commanders think? Is this not rankest cowardice we hear? Admiral Scipio fears to face the cyborgs at Neptune.

SCIPIO: I have warned you once already, Admiral Sulla. I spit on your slurs.

SULLA: Do you challenge me to individual combat then? I will accept any manner of fighting that you decide.

CATO: Admirals, we must unite. The cyborgs have all but conquered the Outer Planets. They have heavily damaged Earth, the greatest industrial prize in the Solar System. Admiral Scipio, I do not believe it is wise to travel to Neptune with two Doom Stars. The cyborgs are clever fighters. We must destroy them totally and with massive force. I submit we use every Doom Star and SU warship in our possession. War is a risk. Now we must take acceptable risks to annihilate our great foe.

SCIPIO: How does it help us to burnout Neptune System but lose our base and the majority of the Highborn? Those on the Sun-Works Factory, in and around Venus and Earth, and on Luna Base—

SULLA: There is your answer. Luna Base helps defend Earth. Up to this point, we have not subdued Eurasia. I do not believe the cyborgs could succeed where we have failed until now.

SCIPIO: They just showed us how to destroy Earth: with planet-wreckers.

MAXIMUS: I have the answer.

CATO: I suggest we wait for the Commandant’s words.

SCIPIO: Yes. I will wait.

SULLA: Speak, sir, we attend you.

(Several minutes of unintelligible whispering follow.)

MAXIMUS: The Grand Admiral initiated several secret projects. Here at the Sun-Works Factory we are hard at work on them. Cassius believed that superior technology often achieved victory quicker and with less causalities. The collapsium plating on each of your Doom Stars is one of technologies that will give us the Solar System. Another is a long-distance beam, much like the Beamship Bangladesh employed against this station.

SULLA: My…confederates have heard of a new distance beam. Can you tell us more about this technology?

MAXIMUS: We are several months away from deployment. Once in place, it will prove to be a powerful defensive weapon, particularly of the Sun-Works Factory. As long as we hold the Mercury System, we can regain any lost territories on Venus, Earth and those already lost on Mars. In the event of the appearance of a large cyborg stealth fleet during the Doom Stars’ absence, I recommend a complete Highborn pullback to the Sun-Works Factory. Then, on the return of the Doom Stars, our conquest shall resume.

SCIPIO: What if during our absence, the cyborgs launch more planet-wreckers against Earth or Venus?

SULLA: Didn’t you hear the Commandant? The Highborn will regroup on the Sun-Works Factory, thereby maintaining our numbers and weapons systems. Meanwhile, the cyborgs will be eliminating premen for us.

SCIPIO: And destroying our industrial basin.

SULLA: The Sun-Works Factory is our home base, not any of the planets, including Earth. Gentlemen, this is a war of extinction. We must eliminate the cyborgs before they kill us. Let us accept terrible loses for the privilege of annihilating our enemies. Once the cyborgs and premen are gone, we will have won everything. Then we can rebuild at our leisure, the victors of a genocidal campaign.

CATO: I agree in the first principle: we must attack and destroy the cyborgs. The obvious place to start is Neptune.

SULLA: You are a true Highborn, Admiral Cato. Your courage is inspiring.

SCIPIO: Grand Admiral Cassius spoke to me before about unity of command. The cyborgs have it. We…have excellent soldiers but often our high commanders are too combative. Even though I have endured slanders and slurs here today, in the greater interest of Highborn victory, I will concur with the majority instead of basking in a feud. However, I will only agree if Commandant Maximus believes likewise.

MAXIMUS: I agree with Admiral Sulla. It is time to speak with the premen, gather their warships and set out for Neptune no less than two or three weeks from now. We have rearmed and retooled our Doom Stars. Now let us finish the fight in true Highborn style.

SCIPIO: As I said a moment ago, in the interests of unity, I will concur, although I have my doubts. The cyborgs are cleverer than we are giving them credit for.

SULLA: (grudgingly) You may be right, Admiral Scipio. They are clever, but we are the Highborn, and our fighting prowess will trump their stealthy moves as we ram our armada down their throats.

-12-

On Earth, in Athens, in the detention center, a man shook Marten Kluge awake.

Marten sat up in his cell. He’d been here for three days already. They’d separated him from his wife, Osadar and from the Jovian marines.

Commissar Cleon stood before him. The cell door was open, and outside stood a guard of red-suited peacekeepers.

A cold feeling filled Marten. He debated lunging at the commissar, trying for his gun. The peacekeepers would shoot him, but at least he’d go down fighting.

“You’re about to escape captivity, Force-Leader,” Cleon said gravely.

Marten blinked several times, unsure of what he’d just heard. He felt groggy, as if it was still night. “What did you say?”

Commissar Cleon removed a computer scroll from under his left arm. Kneeling on the floor, rolling it open, he touched the screen. A political map of Europe appeared, filled with red and green colors of various shades.

“It’s chaos,” Cleon declared. “More European sectors are declaring for Backus every day. Italia Sector has strongly sided with the director, together with Macedonia, Bulgaria, Serbia, Bosnia, Hungary and Slovakia Sectors. Romania and Moldova Sectors therefore are isolated.”

Except for the last two, the named sectors were red-colored. The last two were green.

“Romania and Moldova Sectors have sided with Cone?” Marten asked.

“They have little choice,” Cleon said. “The Sixth Army is stationed throughout them. As you can see, Ukraine and Belarus Sectors are for Backus. They block you from reaching the Moscow launch-sites.”

“Director Delos is letting me go?” Marten asked.

“You fail to grasp the situation,” Cleon said. “You are about to overpower me and my men and free your marines. Then you will run outside and overpower the guards holding several magnetic lifters. In a daring attempt, you will escape from Athens and likely head for Albania Sector.”

Marten saw that Albania Sector was lightly green-colored. Ah, the lighter colors were only nominally for Backus and Cone, while the deep red and deep green represented strongly for that person.

“Why is Delos doing this?” Marten asked.

“Spain, France and Bavaria Sector are all strongly with Cone,” Cleon said. “They also hold the major European military units.”

Marten knew that had been to stop a possible amphibious invasion from Highborn-held England Sector.

“The nearest launch-site is in Geneva,” Cleon continued. “They are still boosting from there and supplying the fleet. Director Delos suggests you attempt to escape Earth from there.”

“What about Italia Sector?” Marten asked. He knew there were launch-sites there, too.

“That is the complication. The military units stationed there have gone over to Backus. They’ve also gone on the offensive to take Austria and Slovenia Sectors, presumably, which presently side with Cone.”

Those last two sectors were lightly green, Cone’s color.

Cleon looked up from where he knelt on one knee. “Backus has called on all the police and peacekeepers everywhere to do their duty to Social Unity. He asks that they help suppress the renegade military forces that refuse to acknowledge the duly elected government. He means himself, of course. It looks like this is war, real civil war.”

“Who does Delos side with?” Marten asked.

Cleon became thoughtful. “At one hundred and twenty-seven years of age, Delos is among the oldest directors. She prefers to play a waiting game and to let the two sides court her. Therefore, she is unable to release you. But she has grown tired of the pressure Backus keeps putting on her to hand you and your marines over to him. Luckily for you, she doesn’t wish to anger Cone, who has the stronger military, at present.”

“I see. That’s why we’re escaping?”

Cleon rolled the computer scroll and climbed to his feet. “The hour is dark. Those are Delos’s words to you.” The commissar frowned. “I actually saw a real cyborg,” he said quietly, “your pet creature. The idea of cyborg armies landing on Earth—it terrifies me. You fought them, and your marines fought them. Now you want to go back out there and fight them again?”

“It’s better than being converted.”

The police commissar with the single eyebrow studied him. “Can we defeat them?”

“If we band together,” Marten said.

“Do you really believe that?”

“I’ve beaten them before.”

Cleon nodded. “I’ve watched the video of you in the glass tube. The director, she’s watched it many times, I’ve heard. She made us watch it. She says you’re mad. That only a lunatic would keep pumping while he’s exhausted when all he has to do to escape further punishment is talk. She said that only a lunatic who doesn’t know when to quit might have a chance of stopping the cyborgs.” Cleon grinned. “I think your madness has won you a reprieve, Force-Leader.”

“You said magnetic lifters. Why shouldn’t we use the same automated cargo vessel and return to Lebanon Sector. There is a launch-site—”

“The Black Sea Flotilla has declared for Backus. Submarines have already entered the Aegean and Mediterranean Seas. You could try that route, but you’d risk capture and a possible trial. That’s what Backus keeps demanding.”

The com-unit on Cleon’s belt beeped. “It’s time,” he said. “Follow me.”

The magnetic lifters were big, although not as large as a cybertank. Each vehicle had three warfare pods, with heavy cannons and anti-air missile launchers. The lifters had an inertialess drive but were slower than helicopters. They were still faster and more maneuverable than tracked vehicles. They would need to refuel several times if they were to reach Geneva. Cleon had downloaded the information, showing them possible supply depots open to them.

The Jovians with Osadar, Nadia and Marten were evenly spread among the nine magnetic lifters.

Thus, at two in the morning, in the darkness, Marten’s magnetic lifter rose several feet into the air. Around him were other lifters painted in camouflage white. Jovians manned the guns and weapons ports. Armed and armored Jovians waited inside on berms.

Marten slid into the commander’s chair. He clicked on the restraints and gave the nod. The engine revved, and the lifter sped for Albania Sector.

Marten glanced at Group-Leader Xenophon, who manned a turret. Like the other Jovians, he was a tough space marine, although he didn’t look the part. Xenophon was a small man with a round face and blond fuzz for hair, but he was fast and deadly, especially with a gyroc rifle. He glanced down at Marten. “Glad you came for us, sir.”

“Glad you’re back,” Marten said.

By mid-morning, they reached the Adriatic Sea along the coast in Albania Sector. The lifters were parked alongside a road overlooking the slate-gray water. Marten stuck his head out of the hatch. The water was rough, with higher whitecaps than the previous Mediterranean voyage.

Despite the blistering cold, it was good to climb outside and walk around the lifters, listening to the crunch of snow. He was sick of sitting.

Osadar hurried to him, looking intent.

“What do you have for me?” Marten asked.

Director Delos had provided a new and improved senso-mask in Athens. It could emulate any face, provided one had a photograph to scan through the mask’s computer. After searching the databanks, Osadar had found a picture of herself from her days in the Jovian Guardian Fleet. That had been many years ago, however. Now the senso-mask showed her former features as a young pilot. She had possessed a small nose and open face, with a light sprinkling of freckles. During their ride in the lifter, Marten had watched Osadar continually examining her new face in a mirror.

As interesting as the simulation of her former features, the senso-mask could track moods. Unfortunately, Osadar no longer had moods like a normal person, nor could the senso-mask “read” them from her skin. By tapping a sensory interface-pad on her arm, however, Osadar could change settings to happy, angry and surprised, and she could meld a variation of the different moods.

“I have several items of note,” Osadar said.

The wind howled and snow flurries swirled around the fighting machines. Dead trees stood on the nearby slope.

“First,” Osadar said, “There is heavy fighting in the Po Valley. Cone sent armored units from Switzerland Sector and they have crossed the Italian passes. I suspect Cone wishes to secure the proton beam in Milan.”

“Omi visited Milan,” Marten said.

“If Omi were wise, he will have already escaped to a more peaceful region. If he didn’t escape, there is little likelihood of our ever seeing Omi again.”

“There has to be something we can do,” Marten said.

“Cone is attempting to capture Milan, but I believe it is costing her politically. She is using cybertanks, as the police units have little that can face them. Backus’s propagandists are calling the cybertanks ‘cyborg troops.’ Because of that, some military colonels have switched sides, complicating our situation.”

“I don’t know why Cone doesn’t request help from the battleships in orbit,” Marten said.

“Didn’t you hear?” Osadar asked. “The SU battleships have left orbit for Luna. They are joining the Doom Stars and will begin acceleration for Neptune in a week.”

“What?” Marten shouted. “Next week? That doesn’t give us much time to get to our patrol boats and join them.”

“Should we join the fleet?” Osadar asked.

“What else should we be doing?”

Osadar shook her head. “I do not think we will make the Luna rendezvous in time.”

Marten scowled as he gazed at the whitecaps. Too many good space marines had died killing cyborgs in the Jupiter System and en-route to Earth on the planet-wreckers. He wanted to finish it. He wanted to root out the Prime Web-Mind on Neptune as the Praetor had destroyed one on Carme. Now the fleet was planning to leave without him?

“Come on,” Marten said. “Let’s gather the others. I want to move while there’s still time to join the expedition.

The next twenty-four hours was a blur of travel and fighting as they sped through sectors that had declared for Backus. Fortunately, as elsewhere, the countryside was almost devoid of people. They lived in the underground cities. The only ones allowed outside were farm workers, military personnel and those who paid for the privilege of vacationing on the surface or those with the political pull to do as they pleased. Police units patrolled the roads.

It meant for some ugly sights. Several times, they passed a single, half-charred body. The corpse dangled by wire from a tree. One could only presume the man had been judged a saboteur or a traitor. The police must have sentenced him to torture and death.

Once they spotted an old woman gathering sticks. On sight of them, she shrieked, dropped her sticks and hobbled away. At least three times, they saw a red-uniformed peacekeeper. One had been hacked to death. Another had three sharpened sticks in his body. More people must have slipped out of the cities than Marten had realized.

In Bosnia Sector, an attack-jet screamed down at them, launching rockets. The Jovians were ready and sent up a hail of anti-rocket fire, bringing down all but one missile. That missile took out a warfare pod and injured a marine. Xenophon launched a SAM at the jet. There was an explosion in the air, and a burning jet plummeted earthward.

Several hours later, under Marten’s command, they scattered a battalion of police trying to block their path. It was a lopsided fight. With the greater numbers, the police should have easily destroyed the lifters. But they were unused to combat, to having people fire back. The Jovians sent the police running, although it cost them two marines and several wounded.

“The attrition will wear us down long before we reach Geneva,” Osadar said.

“I think the police units are still getting used to maneuvering outdoors,” Marten said. “And I don’t think they’re in any hurry to reach Italia Sector and face cybertanks. If we keep moving fast, we should be able to reach Cone territory before the police learn what to do.”

The next few hours were uneventful as the lifters zoomed across the terrain. Then Nadia swiveled in her seat and mutely handed Marten a hand-computer.

He took it, and goosebumps jumped onto his arms. Omi stared out of the screen. The muscled Korean had his patented blank look, with a .38 in his hand. He was obviously on the run when this picture had been taken.

“Look at the next one,” Nadia said, with an odd note in her voice.

Marten touched the screen, and his eyes widened. “Ah Chen,” he said.

“So you do know her,” Nadia said.

“What?”

“The caption says it’s your girlfriend.”

Marten looked up, seeing Nadia glaring at him. He began to read the report. The police had picked up Ah Chen in Russia Sector. She had made it halfway across the Eurasian continent. At first, the police believed her to be a Highborn spy, as she had come from Sydney, which was in occupied territory. Under interrogation, she admitted that she searched for Marten Kluge, the Jovian Representative.

“Why is she looking for you?” Nadia asked.

“I have no idea,” Marten said, puzzled and bemused.

Nadia folded her arms, her features hardening.

Marten knew the trouble signs, but he kept reading. Ah Chen had been transported to Italia Sector, joining Omi in detainment. Their execution had been set for tomorrow. During the fighting in the Po Valley, however, Omi had made his escape, taking Ah Chen with him. Now the two fugitives were on the run. Any person with information was to report it to the authorities. The last known whereabouts of the two was near the outskirts of Venice.

Marten checked. Venice was one of the few places in Italia Sector that had declared for Cone. That’s probably why Omi had been running for it. The Security Specialist had sent several vessels there, unloading troops to help in the attack in the Po Valley.

“We have to change course,” Marten said.

“So we can pick up your girlfriend?” Nadia asked.

“I helped her once,” Marten said. “She doesn’t mean anything to me now.”

“Then why did she cross half of Eurasia looking for you?”

“That’s a good question.”

“She’s beautiful,” Nadia said.

“Omi is on the run,” Marten said. “We have to go back for him.”

Osadar had been listening to the exchange. She now swiveled around. “We may not reach Geneva in time if we do.”

Marten read the reader, seeing what else the article had to say. He began shaking his head. “If we don’t help our friends, we’re useless. We’re heading for Venice.”

“It’s a possible hot zone,” Osadar said.

“There is fighting near Milan. But I don’t think it has reached Venice yet.”

“This is a risk,” Osadar said.

“What do you want me to do?” Marten asked, looking from Osadar to Nadia. “We stick together or we’re no good. Force-Leader Yakov taught us that.”

Nadia frowned, but she began to nod. “We have to go back for Omi.”

Osadar threw up her hands. “I cannot counsel you on this. You know my thinking.” She turned to her computer.

Marten picked up his com-unit and began to issue orders.

It was anti-climactic in one sense. They didn’t run a gauntlet for Omi. They spoke no lies and forewent trading shots and shells with police units or Army battalions that had declared for Director Backus.

Three hours after changing course, Nadia received a radio signal from Cone. She informed Marten.

He straightened his uniform and found a cap, fitting it over his head. Then he turned on his screen.

“Hello, Security Specialist,” Marten said.

Cone wore her sunglasses but her skin looked slack. There was an old-fashioned bookshelf behind her. With a start, Marten realized it was Hawthorne’s old quarters. The Supreme Commander had given recorded talks from the room. Maybe Cone thought it would give her authenticity if people saw her there.

“I am Vice-Chairman Cone,” she said, “the acting representative of Supreme Commander Hawthorne.”

“An interesting choice,” Osadar said quietly.

“Congratulations,” Marten told Cone. “Does this mean Hawthorne is alive and is broadcasting from the battleships?”

Cone gave the smallest of head-twitches, which could have meant anything. “I’m sure you are aware of the fighting between the illegal police units and the military backing me.”

“Sure,” Marten said.

“Force-Leader Kluge, while I appreciate all you’ve done, you have become too…politically charged to remain on Earth. I’m afraid I will have to insist that you depart the planet.”

“Let’s not play games,” Marten said. “You’re fighting for control of Earth and Director Backus is challenging you.”

“He has been illegally elected, as Supreme Commander Hawthorne still governs Social Unity.”

Marten knew Hawthorne had written a resignation, but it looked like Cone had decided to ignore that. This woman thought fast on her feet. If the people wouldn’t accept her, maybe they would accept a deputy acting in Hawthorne’s name.

“You don’t have to convince me,” Marten said. “I’m with you. I don’t forget the people who helped me.”

“I’d rather not speak about that,” Cone said. “This communication may be monitored.” Cone pursed her mouth before she said, “You must immediately head for Geneva and leave Earth.”

“I’ll do that as soon as I pick up Omi.”

“There is no—” Cone glanced to her left off-screen and listened as someone spoke. She faced the screen again. “My people have contacted your friend. Actually, it appears he raced into one of their encampments in the company of a woman.” Scowling, Cone glanced left again as someone spoke urgently. “What? Oh, I see.” Cone faced Marten. “The woman is a Highborn spy.”

“I doubt that,” Marten said. “Her name is Ah Chen. I saved her life once in Sydney during the initial Highborn invasion.”

“I see,” Cone said. “You lead an interesting life, Force-Leader.”

“If you give me my two friends,” Marten said, “I’ll be on my way and headed for Neptune.”

Cone nodded. “The faster you leave Earth, the better. I hope you will not hold this against us.”

“Not at all,” Marten said. “Where are they?”

Cone gave him the coordinates, adding, “You’d better hurry. The fleet begins acceleration in several days.”

As Cone signed off, Marten wondered why the little engineer had come hunting for him. It seemed strange, not at all like her.

The answer came an hour and forty-seven minutes later. The lifters halted at the defensive perimeter of a tank brigade. The lifters touched down beside a wall of sandbags, with skeleton trees on the hill behind the perimeter. He noticed there weren’t any bio-tanks, but low-built vehicles with monstrous cannons.

Marten climbed down the lifter and spoke with the brigadier, a youngish man in a black uniform and low-billed cap slung low over his eyes. Soon, Omi and Ah Chen stepped out of a bunker, escorted by grim-eyed soldiers with machine guns.

“Didn’t think I’d see you anytime soon,” Marten said, fiercely gripping Omi’s hand.

Omi nodded as if nothing mattered, although he gripped Marten on the shoulder, squeezing painfully.

“Are you ready for our last run against the cyborgs?” asked Marten.

Omi gave him a blank look, one he had perfected long ago in the slums of Sydney. Then he jerked his thumb at Ah Chen. “Remember her?”

She looked small and demure, if a little older than Marten recalled. There were wrinkles at the corners of her eyes that hadn’t been there several years ago. She stared at him, and she seemed burdened. He remembered seeing her naked as he decapitated Major Orlov of PHC hundreds of kilometers underground of Sydney.

“Is anything wrong?” Marten asked.

She shook her head and sidled closer to Omi, putting a hand on his biceps.

Marten raised an eyebrow. He hoped that meant what he thought it did. It would go a long way toward keeping Nadia happy.

“I’m married,” he said.

“That is good,” Ah Chen said in her soft voice. “I am glad for you, Marten.”

“We’d better get going,” Omi said, and he gave Marten a significant look.

It finally got through to Marten. They knew something important, something they wanted to tell him, but not in front of the military people of Social Unity. Oh, he really got it then. Ah Chen knew something.

“Yeah, we’d better get going,” Marten said. “The Security Specialist—excuse me. The Vice-Chairman wishes for our quick departure.”

“Those are my orders too,” the brigadier said.

“Then if you don’t mind…” Marten said, as he glanced at the lifters.

“Please, be on your way.”

“Omi, Ah Chen, you’ll ride with us,” Marten said. “I’d like to introduce you to my wife.”

Soon the lifters were turned around, once more heading for Geneva.

“What’s all the secrecy about?” Marten asked in the lifter.

It was a tight fit. Ah Chen sat on the floor with her legs crossed. Omi hovered protectively near her.

Ah Chen swallowed nervously as she glanced at Nadia. “I have wondered a long time what to do with my information. Then Chief Monitor Quirn saw you on the Nancy Vance Show.”

“Old hall leader Quirn?” asked Marten, bemused.

Ah Chen nodded.

“Were you two friends?” Marten asked.

Ah Chen blushed. “It is a complicated story. He lives with Molly.”

“Oh,” Marten said.

“Who is Molly?” Nadia asked.

Marten opened his mouth, uncertain what he should say.

Ah Chen glanced from Marten to Nadia. Then she said, “Molly was a mutual acquaintance that went through the invasion with us. In any case, once I learned you were on Earth, and that you were the Jovian Representative, I believed that fate had given me the answer.”

“To what?” Marten asked.

“Yes,” Nadia said. “I’d like to know that, too.”

Hunching toward Marten, Ah Chen said, “I was slated to leave for the Sun Station. It is in Near Sun Orbit.”

“I’ve never heard of this station,” Marten said.

“Nor have I,” Osadar said.

“The Sun Station is new and experimental,” Ah Chen said. “Without going into the science of it, it represents the next great leap in battlefield technology. The Highborn are attempting to deploy giant reflectors very near the Sun. The reflectors will direct some of the Sun’s energy at a breakthrough focusing system many kilometers in diameter. It will act as a gargantuan lens. With enough reflectors, the Sunbeam can conceivably shoot at Mars.”

“The Sun already shoots its rays that far,” Marten said.

“The Sunbeam will shoot a coherent ray with vast killing power,” Ah Chen said.

“We could use that against the cyborgs,” Marten said.

Ah Chen nodded. “And after the cyborgs are gone, who will the Highborn use it against?”

Marten sagged against his seat as he glanced at Osadar. “Just how potent is this Sunbeam supposed to be?”

“The Highborn are taking deep-core mine specialists to the Sun Station,” Ah Chen said. “It has led me to believe that the ray is many factors more powerful than the greatest beams deployed so far.”

“Whoever has the Sunbeam can fire at anyone in Inner Planets,” Osadar said. “The only protection would be to hide behind an asteroid or planet.”

“The focusing problem needed to hit a ship in Mars orbit…it would be impossible,” Marten said.

Ah Chen shook her head. “To save time and so you will understand that I am privy to highly classified information, I will tell you my shame. The Highborn…have taken to seeing the women of Earth. One of the Sun Station’s chief engineers has been testing deep-core personnel in Australia Sector. He liked me and then he demanded I please him. After our times together, he spoke about many things. He was very boastful and proud.”

“They all are,” Marten said.

“How awful for you,” Nadia said.

Ah Chen nodded as she stared at the floor, speaking in a quiet voice. “I learned that the premier Highborn of the Sun-Works Factory—a Commandant Maximus—has declined a command position on a Doom Star several times already. According to the chief engineer, there are some Highborn who consider Maximus as Grand Admiral Cassius’s equal in strategic ability.”

“You think Maximus has declined the combat position because he’s found something even deadlier than a Doom Star?” Marten said.

“I do,” Ah Chen said.

“I can accept this,” Osadar said. “What I don’t understand is why you came all the way across Eurasia to tell Marten.”

“He is the Jovian Representative,” Ah Chen said, shyly glancing at the others. “He has space marines, and I remembered Marten Kluge. He did not like others controlling him.”

Marten laughed. It was a grim sound. “You think I should take my marines and try to storm this Sun Station.”

“I do,” Ah Chen said.

As the magnetic lifters raced for Geneva, silence descended upon the compartment.

Nadia turned frightened eyes upon Marten, shaking her head. She obviously didn’t like the idea. Marten scowled, with his eyes narrowed as he stared at an unseen place, thinking deeply.

“How can we do something like that?” asked Osadar, the first to break the silence. “These are Highborn we’re speaking about. We cannot defeat them with our handful.”

“To begin with,” Marten said, “we have to get off Earth. After that…after that, we’re going to have to do some serious thinking.”

His words left Nadia stricken. She stared at Ah Chen with growing hostility.

-13-

The civil war turned ugly fast.

The magnetic lifters passed a column of cybertanks heading for the Po Valley and ultimately for Milan, one would presume. The one hundred ton tanks were massive vehicles. Their treads churned up the road as their automated warfare pods scanned the skies and hunted for enemy on the ground.

Marten counted twenty of them. A half hour later as they began to climb the Ouster Pass, he spotted another two columns. Sixty new cybertanks headed for the front.

“Cone must be emptying the northern cities of them,” Osadar said. “She means to crush Italia Sector.”

“Or to gain Milan’s proton beam,” Marten said.

They had watched a Backus broadcast earlier. For seemingly cryptic reasons, the director had threatened to destroy the boosters launching from Geneva to supply the fleet.

“Cone is taking Backus’s threats seriously,” Marten added.

“Force-Leader!” Xenophon shouted. The small Jovian was pale as he said, “They’re using nuclear weapons, sir.”

Marten looked up at Xenophon’s screen. A mushroom cloud rose in the distance.

“It ignited in the Po Valley,” Xenophon said.

“Button the hatches!” Marten shouted. “Ground the lifters!”

The nine magnetic lifters soon thudded onto the ground as one after another they came to a halt. Then more mushroom clouds rose skyward.

“Madness,” Osadar said.

They waited, but the nuclear explosions were far enough away so that no screaming winds or intense heat washed over them.

“Who launched those?” Osadar asked.

Marten shook himself out of his stupor. He was remembering long ago on the Pacific Ocean as Social Unity launched nukes on their convoy. He had been on his way to Japan Sector then.

“Rev up the engines,” Marten radioed his troops. There was heavy static on the line. “We need to get off-world before Cone and Backus destroy each other and us with them.”

During the next two hours, they picked up several interesting broadcasts. Through it, they began to piece together what had happened. The added cybertanks had told almost immediately on the push toward Milan. Soon thereafter, Director Backus must have made his monumental decision: using nuclear missiles. Backus’s propagandist claimed total annihilation of the invading cybertanks, and the announcer added they were akin to cyborg troops, making Cone a stooge of the terrible enemy.

Seventeen minutes later, Osadar signaled Marten. “You have a message from Cone.”

He nodded, and tapped his screen. A harried Vice-Chairman Cone peered at him. High-ranking officers moved in the background amid a babble of sounds.

“The Geneva launch-site is under attack,” Cone said in her clipped way. “You should reroute to a different site.”

“To where?” asked Marten.

“Moscow would make the—”

“We have to lift now,” Marten said.

“Backus has infiltration agents everywhere,” Cone said. “There are viruses in much of our European software. We’ve hit the Milan proton-beam…” She shook her head. “An air-wing has gone over to him. They used missiles. Now interceptors are headed for Geneva. We have reason to believe they carry nuclear payloads. I urgently suggest you head elsewhere.”

“We’re fifteen minutes from the launch-site,” Osadar said quietly.

Marten squeezed his eyes closed. His heart thudded in his chest. He wanted to get off-planet now. He wanted to get back onto his patrol boats. Who knew how this civil war would go?

“No,” Marten said, opening his eyes. “We’re headed for Geneva. Keep a booster on the ground for us.”

“You’re taking a terrible risk,” Cone said.

“Yes,” Marten said. “Now I have to go. Leave us that booster.”

“…I’ll see what I can do.”

Marten radioed the other lifters. “I know these roads are treacherous and we’re in the Alps, but let’s push it.”

Soon, the nine magnetic lifters whined with power. And the Jovian pilots proved their worth this day as they revved, increasing speed along the Swiss Sector road.

Eleven minutes later, the nine vehicles roared onto the launch-site. Most of the blast-pans were empty, devoid of the giant boost-ships. Craters dotted the area. Several buildings had been hit and they showed gaping holes. One squat orbital vessel remained, however, waiting in the number fourteen blast-pan.

“Park beside it!” Marten radioed his troops.

Ninety seconds later, sirens wailed as they sprinted from their grounded lifters. Marten breathed the crisp air, and he noticed a faint white cloud high in the sky. Then he plunged through the hatch, running for the seats.

Amid shouts, everyone shoved into a seat and strapped in. Seconds later, the mighty engines roared into life and the heavy launch vehicle began to lift. A cheer went through the compartment and Jovians pumped their fists.

Marten turned his head, glancing out the window even as the Gs began to press him into the cushions. As they gained speed, the spaceport shrank and individual mountains merged into a range and then became the Swiss Alps. They’d made it, and just in time. There was a streak outside. It was far away and coming closer fast. Marten spied another streak rushing up from the surface, and there was a brilliant flash.

Ground defense got the first one, Marten thought.

He didn’t see if there were other enemy interceptors. The thunder of liftoff drowned out all speech. The launch vehicle shook and the G-forces pressed harder.

I’m leaving Earth again. Despite everything, a pang filled Marten. Would he ever return? Would Earth still be here when this was over?

It was no longer blue outside, but beginning to darken. Struggling against the Gs, Marten craned a look down, seeing clouds. Soon, Europe became distinct as a landmass. Then he saw the curve of the Earth. As he looked, the Gs lessened. Marten realized the thunder of liftoff had stopped, although there was ringing in his ears.

Nadia sat beside him, and beside her was Osadar. The cyborg turned to him. Her “face” showed worry.

“The Doom Stars can easily destroy us now,” Osadar said.

Three Doom Stars were in orbit around Luna. The average distance from the Earth to the Moon was 385,000 kilometers. A Doom Star’s Ultra-laser could fire one million kilometers with destructive power. It would be the simplest thing in the world for a Highborn to beam them out of existence—if they wanted to.

“Cassius had a vendetta against me,” Marten said, “and he’s dead.”

“Do you believe the other Highborn love you?” Osadar asked.

“I wouldn’t call it love, no.”

“Presumably, the Highborn have mapped the important structures and craft in Earth orbit. I am not sure they would approve of Marten Kluge regaining access to space.”

“How would they know I’m leaving?” Marten asked.

“Spies,” Osadar said. “Or perhaps they monitor communications.”

As the launch vehicle’s engines cut out, bringing weightlessness to the ship, Group-Leader Xenophon turned in his seat. “The Highborn can’t fire on us. They need Social Unity’s battleships. If they fire, they break the alliance.”

“We are not part of Social Unity,” Osadar pointed out.

“True,” Xenophon said. “But as Jovians, we’re part of the Alliance.”

“What if Director Backus declares us outlaws?” Osadar asked. “He might ask the Highborn to shoot us for him. Then they could legally destroy Marten Kluge.”

“Why would Backus do that?”

“Why do the directors and Cone fight for power?” Osadar countered. “There’s chaos on Earth. The nuclear missiles and the interceptors just now prove their madness. That madness has been growing, spreading. Cassius tried to murder Hawthorne. The Supreme Commander resigned at precisely the worst possible time. If all this weren’t proof enough of madness, now the Highborn appear to be maneuvering against each other.”

“How have you deduced that?” Marten asked.

“Why is the Sunbeam a secret?”

“The Highborn aren’t telling us about it,” Marten said. “We don’t know they’re not telling each other.”

“I read the signs differently,” Osadar said. “Commandant Maximus remains at the Sun-Works Factory, never bothering to fight for the command of a Doom Star. We know the Highborn pattern is to struggle for higher rank. According to Ah Chen, Maximus has never broadcast the reason to the other Highborn why he is content to stay at Mercury. Therefore, I believe he has kept the Sunbeam a secret.”

“Such a thing would be difficult to keep hidden,” Xenophon said.

“Maybe Osadar has a point,” Marten said. “I remember Social Unity hiding a beamship near the Sun. It’s hard spotting things close to that blazing inferno.”

“How can anyone build anything near the Sun?” Xenophon asked. “That I do not understand.”

“Ah Chen explained it,” Marten said. “They don’t build the sections near the Sun, but father away. Then they maneuver the sections into position. The mirrors need to be closest and she said they’re fully automated. I just thought of something else. Remember the Highborn interferometer, the giant one near the Sun?”

“I recall it,” Osadar said.

“It helped spot the planet-wreckers a year ago,” Marten said. “According to what I’ve heard, it’s massive, hundreds of satellites working in coordination. Could Maximus be pretending to add to the interferometer even as he secretly builds the Sunbeam?”

“I deem that to be highly likely,” Osadar said. “It is also beside the point at the moment. The Highborn hate you. They have not forgotten that you’ve killed some of their own when you were a shook trooper under their command. We must pretend to be another supply ship.”

No more supply boosters lifted from Geneva, but there were other launch-sites.

“Here is my suggestion,” Osadar said. “Let us wait to reengage our engine until orbital drift puts the Earth between us and the Moon, blocking their line-of-sight and thus their lasers.”

Marten saw her logic and the need for haste. He began to unbuckle and pointed at Omi and Osadar. “You’re coming with me.”

“What are you doing?” Nadia asked.

“I need to speak to the pilot about Osadar’s plan,” Marten said.

“Just call him on your com,” Nadia said.

“He might need a little persuading to stay up here with us for a few days longer,” Marten said. He checked his needler, the preferred weapon on a spaceship. The .38’s slugs had the potential of shattering windows and depressurizing the cabin.

“You’re hijacking the launch vehicle?” Nadia asked.

“Only temporarily,” Marten said, as he grabbed a seat and propelled himself toward the pilot’s cabin.

After persuading the pilot, the hours ticked away until Luna crept over the horizon and then passed behind Earth, shielding them from the Doom Stars. As Osadar piloted them, she maneuvered to the patrol boats. Inflatable skins hid each boat. Techs had used the skins so they could work on them without suits in a regular atmosphere.

Normally, a patrol boat had a crew of five. In the Jupiter System where the patrol boats had been designed and built, they often went on a yearlong cruise and were therefore a relatively spacious craft. The vessel contained a control chamber, living quarters, a galley, gym and engine room.

During the boat’s stay in Earth orbit, however, changes had occurred. On Hawthorne’s orders, techs had begun its transformation into a cloaked ship.

“The Highborn control the space of Inner Planets,” Hawthorne told Marten when he’d first landed on Earth. “Therefore, I’ve issued a directive on new ship construction. We’re taking a leaf out of the cyborg’s strategic book—stealth-craft. We might as well begin with your vessels.”

Marten didn’t know of any new SU stealth-craft, although the Jovian boats had benefited from the change. During his stay on Earth, the technicians had added troop-pods. That greatly increased each vessel’s carrying capacity. Then the techs had fitted special “dark” polymers over every inch of hull. It wasn’t up to the standards of cyborg stealth-technology, but it changed the nature of the boats, making them difficult to find when they were running cold. Lastly, the techs had torn out the old fusion engine, installing an ion one. It was very fuel-efficient and long-endurance, but had low acceleration compared to the old engine. The exhaust reached three hundred degrees Centigrade now at its hottest, which made it thousands of degrees cooler than its former exhaust and thus harder to detect while accelerating.

The troop-pods added space, but it would still be a tight fit. The boats used to be rakish in appearance, now they were ungainly-looking vessels. Lacking heavy armor or even thick hulls, they relied on cloaking, anti-missile pods and point-defense canons for protection.

Docking beside an airlock, they began transferring people and supplies to the two vessels. Everyone was tense—the interceptors showed that anything could happen. The surface proton-beams were linked to the cities that energized them with deep-core power. It meant Director Backus had several under his control. If he desired, he could shoot them out of orbit.

Marten and Osadar debated in the control cabin of the first patrol boat. He wanted to name it the Spartacus II, but the space marines were too superstitious. They vetoed the idea because the first Spartacus had been destroyed. Therefore, Marten christened the boat the William Tell, the name of another of his childhood heroes.

In olden times, William Tell had been a Swiss patriot who fought against an Austrian tyrant named Gessler. The Austrian overlord had nailed his hat to a post in the village square, decreeing that everyone passing the hat must bow down to it. William Tell came to the village with his son and strode past the hat. Gessler saw that and in anger, he sent his men after Tell. Knowing that William Tell was a master crossbowman, the Austrian said Tell would enter the dungeons unless he shot an apple off his son’s head. They paced off a good distance, set his son against a tree and put an apple on the boy’s head. Grimly, Tell took out two bolts. He loaded the first, aimed carefully and split the apple in two.

Gessler applauded the feat. But he seemed troubled. Leaning down from his saddle, he said, “Well done, man. One thing troubles me, however. Why did you take out two bolts instead of just the one you needed?”

“If I’d killed my son,” Tell said, “the next bolt would have been for you.”

Furious with the answer, Gessler made William Tell his prisoner, and they rowed to his island fortress. A storm arose on the way. Because Tell was a strong man, they cut him loose and made him steer the boat, which he did. But he escaped onto the rocks near shore. Tell roused the people, according to legend, and he killed Gessler while the people defeated his Austrian knights. Ever since, William Tell had stood as a symbol: a man who loved freedom and refused to bow down to tyranny.

“We don’t have much time until Luna reappears,” Osadar said. “I think we should wait until it disappears again behind the Earth.”

“Let’s risk leaving now,” Marten said.

“Our burn won’t take us far enough out of orbit. We’ll still be in range of the Doom Stars.”

“First, we blast our way to the other side of the Earth so they can’t directly target us,” Marten said.

“That will give Earth Defense time to pinpoint us,” Osadar said.

“Backus and the directors hate aliens, hate anyone foreign to Social Unity. I doubt they’re allied with the Highborn.”

“Sulla is an Ultraist and he accepted premen help,” Osadar said. “Why can’t Backus act similarly and accept Highborn help?”

“Sulla is a Highborn and they bend their own rules more easily if it helps them gain their objectives,” Marten said. “Backus is a fanatic, with all that implies. There’s no way I want to spend an entire day in range of the Doom Stars. We move now while we can.”

“I do not approve.”

“It would have surprised me if you did.”

“Is my opinion so meaningless?” Osadar asked.

“On the contrary,” Marten said. “Your previous suggestion is the reason I want to leave now. Time has become critical and our journey is going to be a long one. The sooner we start, the better I’ll feel.”

Fifteen minutes later, air expelled into space as the inflatable skin ruptured and collapsed.

“We’ll use minimal thrust,” Marten said, who sat in the William Tell’s pilot seat.

The patrol boat’s ion engines burned hot for fifteen minutes. It built up velocity as they curved around the planet. Five minutes later, they changed heading for the Sun. Then they cut the ion engines. The two patrol boats slowly drifted away from Earth, cold targets now.

For the next day, they continued to drift away from the planet. Only as Luna passed behind the Earth again in relation to them, did they engage the engines for a longer burn.

Then eight massive blips appeared on the sensor screen. Three of the blips were much bigger and hotter than the others.

“The Alliance Fleet has begun acceleration for Neptune,” Nadia said.

Three Doom Stars, four SU battleships and one missile-ship accelerated away from Luna orbit. They were big warships, the last fighting fleet of Inner Planets, and possibly humanity’s last chance to defeat the cyborgs.

“Godspeed,” Marten said, as a sense of awe swept through him. Here it was. They were finally hitting back. What would the soldiers find in the Neptune System?

“How long will it take them to get there?” Xenophon asked, as he floated near.

“That depends,” Marten said.

“What’s the shortest possible travel time?”

“Osadar?” asked Marten.

“That also depends,” she said. “Given human endurance limitations—”

“I know the answer,” Nadia said. “I read some specs on the expected journey a few days before we left New Baghdad. It was something on the order of eight months, give or take several weeks.”

“I remember our acceleration as we left Jupiter,” Xenophon said. “I do not envy them.”

As he watched the blips, Marten did envy them. He wanted to kill cyborgs. Instead, he had a different mission.

-14-

Far away from Earth and Marten Kluge, the Chief Strategist of the Jupiter System landed on Ganymede, taking up quarters in a deep bunker. Three weeks had passed since the discovery of the moon-wreckers and her meeting with Sub-Strategist Circe. The Guardian Fleet was still accelerating at the enemy.

Tan’s headquarters contained a huge holo-screen. There, she watched the unfolding drama with the eight moon-wreckers of Uranus, keeping in direct link with the Advisor of Europa. He continued to conduct governmental business from Europa’s capital city. The two of them had come to an understanding. Now that she considered it, Tan realized what had happened. The entire Jovian System was in shock. People watched in disbelief as the moon-wreckers approached. The Advisor was no different from the masses. He wanted to end his life well. At this point, he probably still hoped for the impossible and wanted to maintain face and keep his position as a courageous war-leader.

Tan found sleep difficult in the sterile facilities. The majority of her time was spent before the large holo-screen with her primary archons in attendance, including Euthyphro the Advocate. From time to time, they attempted to engage her in debate on some arcane topic. She tried to humor them, but found herself staring at the screen, watching the Jovian defensive moves unfold with agonizingly slow motion.

The two Jovian asteroids broke out of Jupiter’s orbit, heading toward the wreckers aimed at Ganymede’s projected position in two weeks’ time. A monstrous plasma tail lengthened behind each of the two asteroids. On either side and behind the kilometers-huge objects followed the Guardian Fleet, also building up velocity. With the eight warships came nine helium-3 tankers and four Jovian space-liners. They were big spacecraft, and each was part of Europa’s defensive strategy.

With hands clasped behind her back, the Chief Strategist often spoke to Circe. The Sub-Strategist advised the three Force-Leaders of her meteor-ships. Circe maintained her quarters aboard the Erasmus, no doubt spending many hours starting at the pictures of Marten Kluge taped to the walls.

“It is unusual for a governor to actually ride into battle with her ships,” Euthyphro said of Circe.

Tan nodded absently as she studied the holo-screen. The eight moon-wreckers were visible. With giant interferometers, Carpo’s astronomers mapped the enemy structures. Tall towers with focusing mirrors were laser turrets. There were one hundred and twenty lasers and sixty launch-sites on the eight projectiles. It was an overwhelming number, too much for the Guardian Fleet. From time to time, there was movement behind the projectiles. It proved that warships—or cyborg spacecraft of some kind—followed close behind the moon-wreckers.

The hours passed in tedium and growing despair. The pictures were highly classified. Tan and her archons agreed that broadcasting the precise information would create system-wide panic. For the benefit of humanity, however, the detailed images were beamed to Mars and Earth.

The hours grew into days and the days became a week. Battle drew near and Tan paced endlessly before the holo-screen.

Then one moment among the tedium brought everything home. The holo-screen wavered and Sub-Strategist Circe’s face appeared where a second earlier it had shown the eight wreckers.

“We will commence the attack,” Circe said, speaking through tight-beam communication. “We will launch our decoy drones first. Let the record show, we cheerfully defended our system and entered battle with high resolve. Sub-Strategist Circe reporting.”

The image disappeared and the eight wreckers resumed their place on the holo-screen.

Soon, sixteen decoy drones detached from the vessels of the Guardian Fleet. Their utility was predicated on a different type of battle. The decoys were meant to mimic a meteor-ship, its mass, radiation and radio-signals. The hope was enemy missiles would target the drone instead of the real vessel.

Now the sixteen drones accelerated, passing the two Jovian asteroids and heading for the eight moon-wreckers. Fifteen minutes passed. Then large Zeno Drones detached from the meteor-ships. The new Jovian drones or missiles also accelerated. They were ship-killers, one of the primary weapons of the fleet. They too, sped at the enemy.

A day passed as the two “fleets” closed toward one another. Then the cyborg laser turrets targeted the approaching decoys and Zeon Drones, destroying one hundred percent of the Jovian projectiles.

Sixteen hours later, the lasers began chewing into the two Jovian asteroids, which had finally come into destruction range.

“Begin pumping the prismatic clouds,” Circe ordered the crews on the asteroids.

Because of the time lag, Chief Strategist Tan heard the order four minutes after it was given. The battle took a predicable course after that.

The lasers burned into the tiny reflective particles sprayed out of the Jovian asteroids. The asteroids no longer accelerated, but drifted toward the enemy. Giant pumps on the asteroids’ surface sprayed the cloud before them, the prismatic crystals reflecting the laser light and dissipating their strength. The laser heat slagged the crystals as a “burn through” took place. The situation was a mathematical formula of prismatic-mass versus laser-fuel and overheating.

By the time the asteroids ran out of P-clouds, sixteen cyborg lasers had stopped beaming. The remaining lasers now began to chew on the asteroids, heating the base material. If given enough time, mass would burn and boil away, and pieces would fracture and possibly drift apart.

As they continued to beam, the cyborgs launched several hundred missiles at the two asteroids.

“They mean to blow our two wreckers apart,” Circe radioed headquarters. So far, the Guardian Fleet and the accompanying spaceships hid behind the two asteroids, using them as shields.

Tan stood transfixed before the holo-screen deep in Ganymede. The time lag was minimal and soon forgotten. The Chief Strategist’s stomach clenched as she watched the seven meteor-ships and the lone dreadnaught maneuver out from behind the shielding asteroids so they could fire directly at the enemy’s missiles.

Lasers beamed from the Jovian warships, striking cyborg missiles, destroying many. Jovian defensive missiles burned long contrails as they launched and accelerated into the void, maxing out at one hundred and twelve Gs. Cyborg lasers now began to target the prone meteor-ships. The minutes passed as hellish rays burned into armored nosecones or boiled away meteor shielding.

Tan heard Circe’s orders. They were recording everything, beaming the information to the Inner Planets. One-by-one, as their mass disintegrated and threatened to splinter into sections, the meteor-ships moved back behind the Jovian asteroids, once again using them as defensive shields.

Now the remaining cyborg lasers targeted the Jovian rockets, destroying eighty-eight percent of them. The few to survive the attack reached the nearest cyborg missiles. The rockets exploded like grenades, creating masses of shrapnel that moved at hypervelocity at the cyborg missiles.

Forty-eight enemy missiles disintegrated or were otherwise destroyed by the shrapnel. Combined with those destroyed by Jovian lasers, one hundred and fifty-nine cyborg missiles were still intact, heading for the twin asteroids.

“They have too much ordnance,” Circe said, appearing on the holo-screen again.

Behind her back, Tan’s grip tightened so she squeezed her fingers. Behind her, the archons watched in silence. Tan wanted to scream the question: Couldn’t they even save Ganymede? Was the enemy about to destroy the Jovian asteroids before the kilometers-huge objects could hit and deflect at least two enemy moon-wreckers? Who would have expected the cyborgs to launch moon-wreckers from Uranus anyway? Who knew the cyborgs had successfully conquered the system? The enemy moved and attacked with such unbelievable stealth. It was unnerving and debilitating.

“I await your orders,” Circe added.

Not knowing what to say, Tan turned to the archons.

In his purple robes, Euthyphro the Advocate strode forward. “Our fleet can still use the asteroids as shields,” he said, “gaining proximity so the warships can ram the wreckers once near enough. They ought to at least be able to deflect the two wreckers headed toward Ganymede.”

Tan faced the holo-image. What should she tell the Sub-Strategist? The Jovian System was doomed. That was clear. The enemy simply had too much firepower and too much mass in the eight moon-wreckers. Her appreciation of the Highborn-Social Unity defeat of the Saturn planet-wreckers last year rose in estimation. Even if Jupiter had possessed the entire Guardian Fleet of several years ago…

Tan pried her fingers apart and smoothed her robe. She took several steps nearer the holo-image. What should she tell Circe? What made the most sense given the system’s certain demise?

Tan swallowed in a raw throat, and she said, “Listen to me carefully, Sub-Strategist. I am giving you precise orders. You are sworn to obey me and therefore you must proceed as ordered.”

“Yes,” Euthyphro said. “It is wise to remind her of her duty.”

Tan wanted to order the man from the chamber, but it was all she could do to say these words.

“Sub-Strategist Circe, as philosophers we are beholden to do the most good for the greatest number of people. You have reaped the rewards of the best education given anyone anywhere at any time. I now call upon you to do your duty to humanity. You must use the two asteroids to close in on the moon-wreckers. Our computations show that our two projectiles will not survive long enough for impact with the wreckers. You cannot deflect even one of the enemy projectiles. It is a bitter truth. Therefore, you must survive contact with the enemy. You must survive, escape, and then do as you feel best afterward. This is a war to the finish with an alien life-form, one we humans created in our folly.”

“What are you saying?” Euthyphro cried. “Our meteor-ships must ram the wreckers and save us from annihilation.”

Tan shook her head. “The Jovian System is doomed, Sub-Strategist. But it may be that your warships will help turn the tide of the war elsewhere. It is a vain hope, but I choose to grasp at that hope so my death will have meaning.”

“No!” Euthyphro shouted.

“Escort the Advocate from the chamber,” Tan said.

Three waiting myrmidons leapt to obey, hustling a protesting Euthyphro out of the room.

Tan waited for the time lag to pass as her message reached the meteor-ship and as Circe thought about her response and then gave it. Part of Tan hoped Circe would disobey the orders and tell them she and the others planned the ram the enemy asteroids.

I want to live, Tan thought. It is such a powerful emotion. Yet my reason tells me it is impossible given the situation. I now choose to end my existence as a philosopher of Callisto.

Finally, the holo-image of Circe moved. “You give us a hard order, Chief Strategist Tan. We are reluctant to obey it. But we are true to the Dictates. Therefore, we shall attempt to survive and join those on Mars, possibly. We salute your courage and your wonderful rationality. As long as one of us breathes, we shall carry the germ of a new Jovian System in us. Long live the Dictates!”

“Long live the Dictates,” Tan whispered.

The days passed as the Jovian people learned of their fate. The Advisor of Europa was unable to keep his calm. By tight-beam laser, he raged at the crews of the helium-3 tankers and the space-liners. He implored them to keep to their solemn oaths and ram the wreckers aimed at Europa.

The two Jovian asteroids splintered under the hammering strikes of the cyborg missiles. The enemy laser turrets then began to beam anew.

The Guardian Fleet and the accompanying spacecraft used the last debris and floating boulders until contact with the moon-wreckers. As the Jovian vessels passed the asteroids of Uranus, giant jets rotated the moon-wreckers and the turrets fired into the Jovian ships. The helium-3 tankers and the space-liners quickly parted into separate sections, spilling their crews and other debris into the void. The dreadnaught bore the brunt of the remaining lasers, and soon drifted into several burnt and glowing sections. The lasers next targeted the dreadnaught’s escape pods, crisping all of them. There were no survivors. Of the seven meteor-ships, three survived the accelerating enemy missiles, the Erasmus among them.

Once out of range of the lasers, the three meteor-ships began to accelerate and slightly change their heading in a curving angle. It would take a long time for them to loop around so they would be headed in the other direction. By that time, they would be far away from Jupiter and aimed toward the Sun. Once headed that way, Circe would have to decide their destination.

Before the wreckers hit the four Galilean moons, cyborg craft began to decelerate from behind the Uranus projectiles.

Tan had remained in the deep bunker on Ganymede, watching the holo-screen. Most of the archons had departed, rushing to their private space-yachts, planning to begin the long journey to Inner Planets. The Advisor of Europa was already on a luxury liner, headed for Mars.

There was a vast exodus from the Jovian System, but ninety-eight percent of the people had no means of leaving. There were riots in the domed and underground cities, mayhem, madness, along with random acts of kindness and generosity. Each Jovian reacted to the coming doom as his nature bade him or her.

In the bunker, Tan waited in philosophic contemplation. She did not want to live in a world without the examined life. She had fought and struggled too long to run elsewhere.

Once she realized that Circe’s meteor-ship would survive the battle, Tan sent the Sub-Strategist a last message. In it, she informed Circe of the Fuhl Mechanism, and the possibility that the cyborgs were on the verge of developing an FTL drive.

Afterward, the days passed until the enemy projectiles became visible to anyone on a Galilean moon’s surface. Then a moment in time occurred, a moment of infamy and extinction.

In the bunker, Tan reclined on a sofa, with a chalice of wine in her hand. One of the younger girls danced slowly. She was drugged so her eyes gleamed. The girl twirled around, spinning long ribbons gripped in her small hands.

Tan considered a syllogism as she took another sip of her choicest wine. Looking at the holo-screen, she saw that a moon-wrecker filled it. Tan spotted a crater. In it was a gleaming laser tower. With fantastic speed, the laser grew until she saw its focusing system and then the individual crystals making it up.

The tip of the chalice remained on her lip. Her heartbeats accelerated as her eyes grew wide. From the corner of her eye, she saw a ribbon and heard a final childish laugh.

Then the moon-wrecker that had been launched nine-and-half months ago from the Uranus System collided with Ganymede. The impact hurled Tan from her chair so she violently crashed against a splintering wall. The young girl forever stopped laughing as the bunker crumpled and collapsed upon itself.

A few Jovians survived in various habitats. Some had aimed their telescopes at Ganymede, thereby witnessing a spectacular event of rarest occurrence. The wrecker created much friction, heat and millions of tons of debris.

All the while, those of the Jupiter System who possessed spaceships continued to accelerate for the last bastion of human life: the Inner Planets.

-15-

Far away in the distant Neptune System, the Prime Web-Mind of the cyborgs received data of the successful Jupiter Strike.

Each of the four Galilean moons had been hit, eliminating the bio-forms on them. Even now, small attack-craft hunted through the system, capturing Homo sapiens on the remaining moons, asteroids and habitats. Many Jovian spaceships had escaped, although half would disintegrate under a barrage of accelerating missiles that followed them into the Great Dark.

The Prime Web-Mind was on the verge of completing the conquest of Outer Planets. Pluto, Neptune, Uranus, Saturn and now Jupiter were almost under its complete control. An outpost existed on Charon and there was data of an experimental group in the Oort Cloud. Otherwise, the Outer Planets were secured. It was a heady feeling, one that it had always known it could achieve. Reality, however, was so much more enjoyable than simulations.

Already, the accelerated campaign had begun on Inner Planets. Once the conquest of the Solar System was completed…

The Prime Web-Mind ran through known data and parameters on the struggle. It tested several new theories, ran through different scenarios and listed several unique hypotheses.

Once, it had been located on a habitat constructed of weird ice, orbiting Neptune. That had been a frightening time. A single missile could have destroyed its wonderfulness. That would have been a crime of the highest order. Now it was hidden safely in a deep bunker on Triton, one of the few moons with an atmosphere.

The Prime Web-Mind was a complex cyborg, an exciting meld of man and machine. The primary model was constructed of rows of clear bio-domes. In the domes were sheets of brain mass, many hundreds of kilos of brain cells from as many unwilling donors in the Neptune System. Green computing gel surrounded the pink-white mass. Cables, bio-tubes and tight-beam links connected the domes to backup computers and life-support systems. The combination made a seething, pulsating whole. The bio-tubes gurgled as warm liquids pulsed through them. Backup computers made whirring sounds as lights indicated a thousand things.

A panel opened on the floor. A small robotic device with multi-jointed arms moved out. At the ends of the arms were laser welders, melders and calibrating clippers. The various arms moved as the robotic device made a routine checkup through the primary chamber.

Except for a few trivial holdouts in the Jupiter System, on Charon and in the Oort Cloud, it controlled the Outer Planets. The assault-craft and cyborg troops would capture and begin conversion of the last Jovians. Already, a Web-Mind installed itself on Ganymede, although it had sent communications, complaining about seismic shockwaves continuing to reverberate through the moon. Three small ships traveled to Charon to capture the scientists there.

The Prime Web-Mind paused in its ruminations, playing back an unsatisfying memory. Because of its design and unique functions, the memories had the clarity of a holo-video.

In a white sterile room, cyborgs strapped a struggling Homo sapien with a high forehead and frightened although shrewd eyes onto a gurney. His shredded robes of office lay on the floor. Despite his advanced age, the human had supple muscles and joints. He was designated as Dominie Banbury, one of the chief capitalists of the Neptune System. Capturing him had cost seven cyborgs and two assault craft, an unwarranted expenditure of hardware.

Banbury’s personnel were in the process of boarding a cargo vessel and heading to the Number Nine converter. The Prime Web-Mind had recognized Banbury’s uniqueness, the subtly of the human’s mind. It had desired the specialist knowledge and wished to enslave the mind.

“I will pay good money or services—anything—if you will let me go!” the human shouted.

The cyborgs ignored the pleas as they remorselessly laid him down and strapped him to the gurney. Dominie Banbury soon began to rave as he thrashed, forcing the cyborgs to immobilize him with their titanium-reinforced hands. They wheeled him into an operating chamber.

“Please,” Banbury wept. “Let me go.”

The cyborgs rolled the gurney to a brain extractor, shoving his head into a helmet-like device. The unit vibrated and the lasers began to slice open the skull.

“No!” Banbury howled, his eyes bulging.

An injector stabbed his flesh, pumping various drugs into his system. Soon, Banbury’s eyes closed and he breathed evenly, relaxing.

Twenty-nine minutes later, the unit teased Banbury’s brain-mass from the skull cavity. Normally, choppers would divide the tissue as chemical scrubbers deleted old memories and pathways. The tissue would be rearranged on slates and later inserted into computing gel. Banbury’s fate was different. The Prime Web-Mind desired his memories. Thus, the brain-mass entered an obedience cylinder as a fine web of melds attached directly to the tissues.

Theoretically, it should have worked. The Prime had run through ninety-seven thousand possibilities. Banbury’s brain had taken the ninety-seven thousand and first choice—suicide.

It was the first of twenty-nine failures. Twenty-nine Homo sapien minds of unusual quality each chose or inflicted self-elimination rather than exist as a cyborg-slaved brain. The Prime had thus lost the special services of those minds.

That was a bitter loss indeed. For each of those minds had contained creativity that Web-Minds with their mass integration of human brain tissue lacked. The Prime had not yet discovered the reason for this. And that was angering.

Therefore, it kept several unmodified Homo sapien scientists and technicians alive in special chambers on Nereid. It tortured critical information from him or her, and it learned what each human feared the most.

The Prime had long ago concluded that fear was induced, love was given. Therefore, it was better to be feared than loved, leaving the decision of the action to itself.

I am the greatest being in the Solar System. Thus, it is right that I choose for everyone.

The scientists and technicians were on the verge of an incredible discovery: an FTL drive. If they succeeded, no combination of events could defeat it.

The campaign for the Inner Planets was already underway. The Prime Web-Mind was aware of the alliance of the humans. Fortunately, it was too late for the unmodified bio-forms. It had methods for splintering the alliance, as it had agents on several of the worlds. The Highborn were the most dangerous, but they were also incredibly volatile.

With part of its conscience, the Prime continuously ran through simulations and hypotheses. It had concluded that the Highborn would have one secret weapon it would not discover until the moment of employment. Therefore, it needed the greatest flexibility in order to respond to whatever presented itself. To that end, it had sent several Lurker Assault-ships to the Inner Planets.

Those stealth missions neared their objectives. Mars was the first on the list. As the humans struggled in their chaotic manner, it would continue the war with unrelenting pressure.

One other thought gave it pause. The Prime wanted those scientists on Charon. Through a small lead, the tiniest tidbit of data, it now believed a critical human had escaped from Dominie Banbury’s service. If that key Homo sapien added his knowledge to the captured scientists, the breakthrough technology, the FTL drive, was all but assured.

A feeling of contentment surged through the brain-tissues of the Prime Web-Mind. The war proceeded well within the parameters. The Jupiter System was nearly enslaved and the Mars Stealth Assault would soon enter its next phase.