Thus, as a matter of reality, because spaceships jinked, shifted and changed headings, lasers were close-in weapons, usually used at a distance no greater than 100,000 kilometers. She recalled her training teacher and his comparison reference. The average distance of the Moon from the Earth was 385,000 kilometers. Under 100,000 kilometers, the time lag of the speed of light became much less of a tactical military problem.
Long-range missiles, although infinitely slower than beam weapons, became the tools of choice in distance-duels because of their self-adjusting abilities. A missile was launched toward a cone of probability: to where the enemy ship would most likely be at the time of the missile’s arrival. Then the nearness to the target would allow more accurate readings and the missile could readjust. Sometimes there were laser-firing missiles, and sometimes—
Admiral Sioux shook her head and scrunched her brow. The entire point of a 30 million-kilometer flyby was that by the time they first fired their beam, the Highborn would be unable to launch any missiles from Mercury that could reach them before the missile’s fuel exhausted itself. The Bangladesh’s head start would make missiles catching them a near impossibility. Or rather the ship’s much greater velocity, as it shot past the planet, would do that. But if the Highborn knew where they were now… This radar ping might turn the entire mission into a close run thing.
“Do we kill the radar probe?” whispered the First Gunner.
“Ship’s AI has backtracked the pulse?” asked Admiral Sioux.
The First Gunner pointed at his screen.
“If we kill it,” she said, “the HBs will have no doubt that we’re hostile.”
“In my opinion, Admiral…” The First Gunner trailed off as she peered at him.
“Yes? For the record, First Gunner?”
He swallowed, perspiration slicking his brow.
“You don’t want to stick out your professional neck, is that it, mister?”
The First Gunner licked his lips and said, “They already know we’re a ship, Admiral.”
“I agree,” she said. “Destroy the radar probe.”
His hands flew over the controls.
Admiral Sioux shouted to propulsion. “Warm up the engines. We’re going to jink.” She peered at her screen. Then she turned sharply. “Everyone out of their vacc suits, and let’s take showers, people. This place smells like a gym.”
22.
Marten strolled down a corridor, one they were allowed to use during a break period such as this. He checked for spy-sticks, to see if they’d put in a new one. He’d deactivated the one already in place. Satisfied, he pried open a secret wall panel and took out his recorder and clicked it. Nadia had secured another bug in place of the one he’d used on Hansen. The bug was linked to this device.
He clicked on the recorder.
NADIA: It’s fueled and ready to go. All I need is the entrance code and you and your friends. Then… Well, you know what I mean. I love you. Please hurry. Out.
He hefted the recorder, smiling, and then shook his head. After all this time, it was really going to happen. His features hardened. He wasn’t aboard yet. So he erased the message and replaced the recorder.
He checked his chronometer: forty-five minutes until the end of break. With a rueful smile, he strode to a hatch at the end of the corridor. It was specially coded, but he’d cracked that several weeks ago. It was with surprise that he now saw it open. He didn’t know of anyone else who used it.
Hansen stepped through, together with Ervil and two other backup men. The backup men were big and tough looking. One of them had a nasty scar across his forehead and two obviously false teeth. They aimed projacs at Marten, grinning the entire time.
“Marten Kluge,” said Hansen. “This is a surprise. Well, a surprise for you, I would imagine. I’ve been itching to speak with you again. So have Dalt and Methlen. They’ve reminded me more than once than they owe you several beatings.”
“This is a restricted area,” Marten said.
“Is it now?” asked Hansen. He glanced about. “Who enforces the restriction?”
“There are spy-sticks recording every move,” Marten said.
“How can that be?” asked Hansen. “You removed them. Or should I say you short-circuited them?”
Marten glanced at the projacs. If he made a break—
Ervil stepped near, reaching. Marten struck the wide hand. Ervil moved with the economical speed of a close-combat expert and used his other hand to grab. He caught Marten’s sleeve and jerked Marten toward him. Marten lowered his head and butted Ervil’s nose.
A whistle blasted.
Hansen hissed.
Ervil released Marten’s sleeve and stepped back. Marten jumped away, warily eyeing the projacs. Ervil held his bloody nose and eyed Marten with those strange, dead eyes.
A whistle blasted again, and a beta Highborn marched into the hall.
“Hurry to the auditorium!” the Highborn shouted at Marten.
Marten backed away from Hansen.
“I know what you’re up to, Mr. Kluge,” Hansen said, just loud enough for Marten to hear. “Unless I get my product back I’ll blow the whistle on your little game.”
“You premen,” the Highborn said, “you aren’t shock troopers. Identify yourselves.”
“Chief Monitor Hansen, Highborn.”
“Why are you in shock trooper territory?”
“We came at the Praetor’s express orders, Highborn. We enforce the curfew.”
Marten paused.
“Yes,” said Hansen quietly. “I’m the new Chief Monitor.”
“Training Master Lycon enforces the curfew,” the Highborn shouted.
“I beg your pardon, Highborn. In my zeal I have perhaps overstepped myself.”
“Hurry, shock trooper,” the Highborn told Marten. “The entire corps will be addressed in fifteen minutes. It is an A-One priority message.”
“Do you request further investigation of our actions, Highborn?” Hansen asked.
“No, but leave at once.”
“Yes, Highborn.”
Hansen sneered at Marten before motioning his men.
23.
The shock troopers stared silently, eyes forward. Each black beret was perfectly aslant and their black boots the regulation twelve inches apart as they sat in the auditorium seats. Two white-coated techs stood by the front screen. Ten beta Highborn stood against the walls, heavy blasters holstered on their belts. Training Master Lycon wore his blue dress uniform with a gold “Magnetic Star” First Class on his chest.
“Men,” said Lycon, in his bear-deep voice.
The shock troopers swiped away their berets in a single, fluid motion.
Lycon inclined his head and cleared his throat. “Men, the moment has arrived to put theory to the test, to see if practice matches reality. You have trained these many months and you are now more capable than any human before you could have dreamed possible. Most of you were already combat veterans. Clearly, you are the best of the best that Homo sapiens have to offer. But,” he held up a single finger. “How will you react in space combat? Does our faith in you always have to rely upon possibilities and probabilities? No, it does not. The enemy—”
Training Master Lycon closed his eyes. His lip-less mouth twitched. Then he regarded them, peering at his shock troopers.
“I shall be frank. There are those on the Grand Admiral’s Command Staff who feel that it is unworthy of us to allow… to allow the Homo sapiens among us. They do not mean on the planets. The FEC Armies are useful allies. But in space, where the Highborn are supreme, do the… the Homo sapiens truly belong here as well?
“Certainly we shall soon find out,” Lycon said. “This great test, this honor. It is difficult to express the glory put upon you. As your trainer I am keenly anxious.” He smiled. “Yes. Sometimes Highborn can know the flutter of uncertainty. Have you soldiers been able to absorb my theories, my lessons so painstakingly given you? In that sense, I am anxious about the outcome of your
coming combat. Naturally, only the best maniples will be chosen for this assignment, although I understand that if you could fight among yourselves for this privilege, that no doubt not one of you would be left standing.
“Now. I have but a single question. What is the ingredient for true glory?”
The Training Master scanned the throng. Not a shock trooper moved. “Come now, this is rare moment. I have given you leave to speak. Surely, one of you… ah, very good.”
An arm stretched.
“Marten Kluge, Leader of the 101st Maniple. Speak.”
A sinking, dreadful feeling made Marten reckless. “Training Master,” he said, too loudly perhaps, “HB glory is gained through insane risks.”
A profound silence descended upon the auditorium.
Marten glanced about and then snapped his head forward to stare in regulation pose at Lycon. “Um. Please forgive me, Training Master. Not HB, I meant Highborn.”
Lycon’s eyes seemed to glitter.
A cold sweat broke over Marten. Beside him, Omi dug the toe of his boot into his leg. Otherwise, no one moved or looked at the doomed maniple leader.
“Because I have selected you and your maniple as first team, Marten, this… this breach of protocol will be treated as not to have occurred.”
Shock troopers widened their eyes in disbelief. Such a gesture was unprecedented.
“Lights,” said Lycon.
One of the techs touched his wrist. The auditorium went dark.
Click.
On screen blazed the Sun, with swirling dark sunspots and spewing solar flares.
Dwarfed by the image of the Sun, Lycon stood beside the screen, clicker in hand, as he spoke.
“The Highborn Battlefleets have swept the four inner planets of orbital enemy. However, for good or for ill, the various units as well as single ships of the SU Space Fleets fled precipitously. Some have gone to the Jupiter Confederation, and there been confiscated and incorporated into the Jupiter navy. Others hide in the void between the planets. A few crept near Venus to ply a misguided guerrilla-duel. Those perished. One ship in particular has been hiding here, very near the Sun.
“This ship has now dared leave its sanctuary and try a sneak-run to points unknown. Cleverly, most of our robot radar probes near the Sun have been destroyed. But one probe arriving on station a mere few hours ago spotted them. Before the probe was destroyed we learned among other facts the ship’s configuration.”
Click.
A strange sort of spacecraft filled the screen. It was massive, oblong-shaped, with heavy particle shields making it look like a smooth asteroid with engine nozzles in the rear. When the 600-meter shields rolled away—like a visor on a helmet—big laser tubes and missile launch systems would be visible.
“The spotted ship’s mass conforms to the Zhukov-class Battleship you see on the screen, but with several interesting peculiarities that are of little matter to you. Further analysis of this ship has led the Grand Admiral’s Command Staff to a single clue, a name.”
Click.
X-Ship Bangladesh.
“An experimental spacecraft of battleship size,” said Lycon, “the Bangladesh. Again, it is meaningless to you, but of great interest to the Grand Admiral. Apparently, SU Military Intelligence has been able to keep this ship’s capabilities secret. We have reason to believe that our greatest interest lies in the ship’s ability to orbit near enough to the Sun to hide from our detectors. That is a feat of value and the reason why the Grand Admiral wants this ship intact.”
Click.
The Sun Works Factory circling Mercury leaped onto the screen.
“If it keeps its present heading, the Bangladesh will flyby Mercury at 30 million kilometers when Mercury reaches perihelion.”
Click.
The edge of the Sun filled one end of the screen, Mercury the other.
Click.
A bright dot appeared a bit over a third of the way from the Sun to Mercury.
“The Bangladesh’s present location.”
Click.
A dotted line went from the Bangladesh to past Mercury.
“As is well known, effective beam range is one hundred thousand kilometers. During a recent wargame, however, the Doom Star Napoleon Bonaparte hit with lasers at ranges exceeding a million kilometers. The proviso was that a stable target, like the Sun Works Factory, was selected. Perhaps Social Unity could do likewise, although High Command gives this a low probability. A million kilometers would be a revolution in space beam warfare. Let us then note once more that this X-ship approaches Mercury no nearer than 30 million kilometers.”
The Training Master let that hang. Then he smiled, the way a tiger might as it appraised a baby deer.
“Men, Social Unity is getting desperate. Command believes this new ship to be a missile carrier of unique capacity. To try to sneak past us as near as 30 million kilometers—no, the SU Fleet is much more cautious than that. The nearness can only signal one thing. This must be another attempt to duel via missile. They hoped to slip this X-ship very near the Sun Works Factory and launch a surprise attack. Normally a quick spread of our missiles would take care of such folly. However, this is no ordinary ship. This is perhaps the most secret and modern weapon developed by the former lords of Inner Planets.”
Training Master Lycon fixed the shock troopers with an eagle-like stare.
“Grand Admiral Cassius wants this X-ship.”
Click.
A squat sort of missile-ship hybrid filled the screen.
“The Storm-Assault Missile,” Lycon said.
Clothes rustled in the darkness as shock troopers squirmed. They’d heard about this missile, none of it to their liking.
Click.
On screen, a swarm of missiles flew in perfect formation. In front were EMP Blasters and X-ray Pulse Bombs. Behind them came ECM drones, used to jam enemy radar and optics, and finally followed twenty Storm-Assault Missiles.
“There are those on the Grand Admiral’s Command Staff who don’t believe that… that Homo sapiens are capable of combat-precision feats. I argued otherwise. Highborn of exalted rank were swayed by my impassioned pleas, to let this be a test of the shock troopers. Men.”
Lycon’s eyes shone with brilliance.
“The honor of the shock troops rides upon this performance, this chance granted me. Your mission will be to fly out to the Bangladesh, storm aboard and capture it before the X-ship escapes out of range.”
24.
Marten stared at his feet. From the auditorium, they’d marched in formation to the shuttles. All shock trooper-Highborn with their weapons had marched with them. He’d had no chance to break and run. He’d had no way to slip out and scurrying into hiding. What would Nadia think when he didn’t show up? How could he warn her about Hansen? Marten peered past the pilot’s window. He saw orbital fighters flying with them. Even if he overpowered the pilot and took control of this craft, it was all senseless.
A void within stole his strength. He was so tired. He was only vaguely aware of people speaking.
“What?” Vip said. “Are you crazy?”
“It’s perfectly safe,” the young tech said. He had slick black hair and wore an air of bored superiority. He kept pursing his thin lips and tapping his chin as he made his pronouncements. He slouched in his crash-seat as if he didn’t care what they thought about what he said.
“I ain’t no vampire,” Vip said, his eyeballs jittering. “Weeks of sleep, no, sorry, that ain’t for me.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” the tech said. “You’ll be awake most of the time.”
“What?” Vip asked.
“Drugged, though.” The tech tap-tapped his chin. “Some of the testers said it felt like being buried alive.”
Vip’s eyeballs slued around.
They rode in a tiny shuttle, a teardrop-shaped van. The pilot was crammed low up front so they could barely see the top of her head. The maniple sat on a U-shaped padded couch and faced the tech in his white coat.
He explained the particulars of the Storm-Assault Missile they shuttled to.
“But you’re not mere test subjects,” the tech said, grinning, “you’re the military elite. You could probably do this whole, three-week trip while standing on your head. This’ll be nothing for you guys.”
With the twitch now in his voice, Vip asked, “What do mean: buried alive?”
The tech pursed his lips.
Marten, although sunk in gloom, shook his head at the young tech. Vip more than any of them was freaking out about the particulars of the SA missile.
“A smothering sensation,” the tech said, ignoring Marten. “Like being several kilometers deep in the ocean.”
Vip moaned.
“What’s the matter with you?” Marten said.
“Me?” asked the tech. “Just answering questions as ordered.”
“Did you see me shake my head?” asked Marten.
“I can’t help it if you have a nervous tic,” the tech said. “I thought it was better to pretend I didn’t notice.”
Kang raised his head. He’d been resting his chin on his massive chest. Omi also peered at the tech.
“You could put me under though, couldn’t you?” asked Vip. “As a favor? Just shoot me full of Suspend or something, timed until we’re almost there.”
The tech shrugged.
“I’m talking to you,” Marten said, now fully alert to his surroundings and deeply angry.
The young tech frowned, maybe realizing how close he was to these shock troopers. With a sudden move he swiveled his crash-seat and said to the pilot, “How much longer, Kim?”
“Ten minutes,” said the pilot, the Sun Works Factory passing outside her view-screen.
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