* * *
Waiting in one of the many convoy vessels, was the prime clone of the late Madam Blanche-Aster. This clone had been the bodyguard who had survived the detonation of Mother aboard Hawthorne’s bullet train.
The clone’s name was Lisa Aster. As a former bodyguard, she knew guns, knives, unarmed combat and security arrangements. She was a master at kinetics and reading body language, trained to note the subtle signs of those readying themselves to kill. The late Madam Director’s death infuriated Lisa. She attributed it to the Neptune clone, the one tampered with by the cyborgs. Thus, Lisa hated the cyborgs and wanted to see them destroyed.
The clone Lisa Aster waited with thousands of other people aboard the Orion ships because Supreme Commander Hawthorne had given her a mission. Once the supply convoy reached Mars, she was supposed to study the cyborgs and discover their weaknesses.
Lisa Aster lay on an acceleration couch. Like stout General Fromm on the other couch, she wore a vacc-suit and a helmet. She had a buzz cut of pale hair and a narrow face with intelligent features.
Words sounded in her ears, something about four, three, two, one—
Then Lisa Aster’s world dramatically changed. The first nuclear bomb exploded with a mighty sound.
BANG!
It shoved her hard against the acceleration couch and made everything rattle around her. She clenched the bars beside her and then clenched her teeth.
BANG!
BANG!
The gigantic, Orion ship lifted from an underground launch-bunker in Kazakhstan Sector.
It was a crude booster and one of the most powerful propulsion systems known. Weapons-grade U-235 was the fuel, nuclear bombs. A bomb detonated under each booster. An immensely thick metal plate absorbed the blast as it was blown spaceward. It looked like a city block, with tall buildings, lifting out of the Earth and heading for the clouds. Those ‘buildings’ were supply spaceships. Lisa Aster peered at a screen in her ship and saw the clouds jump nearer at each bone-crushing BANG! After the Orion ship’s thick metal plate, was tons of hardened ablative foam. The foam’s single purpose was to cushion the shock to the riding spaceships clustered and perched at the front.
Each nuclear blast poured x-rays, heat and neutrons onto the planet. It had been a hard decision, a terrible choice, but the Orion ships had several key advantages. The weapons-grade U-235 moved the boosters fast. Each exploding warhead tremendously increased velocity. If the convoy fleet was to get past the waiting Doom Stars, it would need velocity. The other gift the Orion ships gave was the ability to lift tons of mass. No other propulsion system in the Solar System provided as much quick lift out of the Earth’s gravity well as nuclear bombs.
In the center spaceship of the second Orion ship, the original clone of the late Madam Director endured the explosions that hurled her closer to the waiting Doom Stars.
* * *
On many of the screens in the Joho Command Center, the Orion ships exited the stratosphere and headed into the space of near-Earth orbit.
“Your gamble is paying off, sir,” Captain Mune whispered.
Hawthorne wasn’t ready yet to accept that.
“They’re attacking,” someone said.
Hawthorne and Captain Mune walked to a different vidscreen. It showed a kilometers-huge Doom Star, a spherical spaceship of outlandish size. Its primary lasers stabbed into the darkness of space. They could fire a million kilometers accurately. No other surviving warship had such range. Once, Social Unity had possessed the experimental Bangladesh. Its range with its single weapon had been 30-million kilometers, a breakthrough in space combat technology.
The Orion ships had two protections against the deadly lasers. The first were packets of prismatic crystals. The normal procedure was to accelerate and then shut off the engines and drift toward the enemy. Only then would spaceships spew the prismatic crystals in their tanks to form a cloud of shiny particles that floated before, beside and behind at the same velocity as the spaceship. Unfortunately, because the Orion ships still accelerated, any prismatic crystals spewed out were soon left behind. In such a situation, combat procedures called for the spewing at carefully timed intervals. The second defense against the lasers was the massive metal plate of each booster and the hardened ablative foam behind it. For those to come into play, however, the Orion ships had to be flying away from the Doom Stars, not toward them. At this point, the supply ships clustered on the boosters were in the direct-line of laser fire.
“Estimates?” Hawthorne demanded.
The uniformed captain at the console tapped computer keys. “At this rate, sir, it seems like seventy to eighty-five percent destruction of the convoy.”
Hawthorne kept his features stoic. He could accept thirty percent destruction, could endure thirty-five and grudgingly go with forty percent. This was the only supply convoy he was going to be able to launch from Earth. The scattered SU warships in the voids had been operating on their own for far too long. They needed re-supply. They needed these munitions.
Hawthorne glanced at Captain Mune. The bulky, bionic soldier watched the staff, not the screens. Mune was more interested in the personnel than the battle. His hand was on the butt of his gyroc pistol. If anyone thought to assassinate the Supreme Commander, that potential assassin would die.
Hawthorne took a deep breath and then another. His insides seethed. He could not accept a seventy percent destruction of the supply convoy. There was only one way they might be able to defeat the Doom Star that was sure to join the battle. The risks, however, were terrible. It was not a present risk, but a future one. This was a dreadful moment. Hawthorne’s shoulders slumped. A trickle of sweat ran down his back. He waited, unwilling to give the order. He risked billions of lives. He risked his position as Supreme Commander. He risked even his life giving the order. Did he believe his own rhetoric? Had it all been a sham? He desperately wanted to ask someone else his or her opinion. His stomach seethed. He realized that no one else on Earth could help him. The terrible command decision was his alone. He would never be able to shift the blame onto someone else. How would history regard this decision?
No. He couldn’t worry about that. The Great Captains in the past had taken awful risks. Hannibal had lost the war against Rome because he’d been afraid to risk his splendid cavalry on a hell-ride to the gates of Rome after the annihilating Battle of Cannae.
Seventy percent of the convoy destroyed.
Supreme Commander Hawthorne lifted a trembling hand. He willed it still. Then he put his hand on the captain’s shoulder at the vidscreen. The woman looked up at him in alarm. “Issue Code Valkyrie.” Hawthorne was grateful his voice remained firm.
“Sir?” she whispered.
“Now, Captain.”
The woman leaned toward her microphone. She opened her mouth but nothing came out. She cleared her throat and spoke harshly. “Initiate Code Valkyrie,” she said, and then she added a string of numbers and letters to verify the command.
The Space Command Center grew deathly quiet as others realized the dreaded order had been given.
The order went out via radio beams. The seconds ticked by. Then select personnel on gigantic farm habitats at far-Earth orbit began to initiate desperate code sequences. Over a period of many months, they had emplaced heavy lasers onto the habitats. Social Unity had been able to achieve this feat because of the open farm habitat policy of both sides. That policy would no doubt change very soon because of Hawthorne’s order. The lasers were only supposed to be used if Earth was in imminent danger of being overrun.
There would be starvation in parts of Earth if the Highborn destroyed or captured the many habitats. Many would question the order. Hawthorne knew that. Some would believe him mad, but the full impact of his decision would not occur until months from now.
Maybe by that time, he could give Earth the news of a stunning victory at Mars. This entire campaign was a terrible gamble. Hawthorne had recognized that from the start and it had only weighed more heavi
ly on him as the days passed. One thought gave him the strength to continue. Social Unity was losing. If they couldn’t turn the tide of the war soon, nothing would help.
Showing on countless vidscreens deep in the Space Command Center in the Joho Mountains, lasers from many farm habitats began to chew into the thick hull of the Hannibal Barca. The vast warship had massive particle shields composed of asteroid rock. Lasers chewed into that rock so dust, stones and even boulder-sized pieces began to slag off.
“Enemy lasers have changed targeting,” the captain said at her console.
The minutes ticked by as the Orion ships accelerated hard. The needed bombs dribbled one after another under the metal blast pans. The gigantic boosters gained velocity and freedom from the fierce gravity well that was the Earth.
Then, “Taping Habitat is under attack.”
Several minutes later: “Chicago Seven Habitat has taken a direct hit to its fusion core.”
“Caesar Chavez Habitat is breaking up!” someone else shouted.
Supreme Commander James Hawthorne closed his eyes. He was consigning millions to their deaths. Millions more on Earth might come to curse his name.
“There is a burn-through in Taping Hab.”
“Sir, Tel Aviv Hab has fifty percent greater firepower. They hotshotted their lasers, sir.”
Supreme Commander Hawthorne opened his eyes. He should have thought of that. Someone else should have thought of that. Next time—
Hawthorne swallowed. There would be no next time with these habitats. He stared at the vidscreen, at the lasers pouring from the many habitats and at the nearly impregnable Doom Star. He had ordered this. He would watch the grim consequences and remember. He deserved nightmares in his sleep for the rest of his life. Why did he feel so dreadfully alone?
-11-
For a brief time, the orbiting farm habitats poured laser fire into the Hannibal Barca’s heavy particle shields. Normally, the Doom Star would never have gotten close enough to have any laser hit so hard, but the habs had the element of surprise on their side. The Hannibal Barca was close indeed. Those lasers were hot and on target.
More than the massive merculite launch, more than the six proton beams, even more than the gigantic Orion ships, the heavy lasers on the farm habitats took the Highborn by surprise.
Grand Admiral Cassius roared for more speed. He sat in his command chair aboard the Julius Caesar at Lunar orbit. The clever premen had timed their attack well. Luna was presently on the opposite side of the Earth as compared to the launching Orion ships. Many of the farm habitats also used the Earth as a shield against the Julius Caesar’s lasers.
“Faster!” Cassius shouted.
Highborn could take greater G-forces than premen could, about twice as many before blacking out. The Doom Star already accelerated at six gravities. The super-ship surged through far-orbital space, moving to gain a clear line-of-fire.
“Sir, it is Commander Scipio.”
Cassius could see the holoimage of Scipio before him, a Highborn with a jutting nose.
“Destroy the farm habitats!” Cassius shouted. “Above all, keep your Doom Star intact and unharmed.”
The holoimage nodded curtly before fading out.
Cassius studied the other hologram image before him. It showed the massive Orion ships. Most of them had made it off Earth and into space. They headed for Mars. First, he would save the Hannibal Barca. Then the premen would see what long-range heavy lasers could do to the fleet heading for the Red Planet.
* * *
Three days after the battle, Grand Admiral Cassius hardened himself to demote Commander Scipio of the Hannibal Barca. It was a painful decision, as Scipio was one of his most ardent supporters. This humiliation might well cause Scipio to commit suicide.
Cassius piloted a shuttle to the Doom Star, using the quiet of the ship to think.
Scipio had targeted the Orion ships for too long before engaging the farm habitats. The Hannibal Barca had taken more damage than the Genghis Khan had on 10 May 2350. Better that Scipio had let more of the Orion ships survive than allow his ship to be damaged.
Cassius was going to need the Hannibal Barca soon and thus he could not send it to the Sun-Works Factory for repair. They would have to repair it here in the little time left them.
After a brief glance at the Earth above, Cassius studied reports. Long-range laser fire had destroyed forty-five percent of the Orion ships and the spaceships they carried. The surviving boosters spread prismatic crystals, shielding the SU spaceships headed for Mars from the long-range lasers of the two Doom Stars.
Fifty-five percent of the Earth Fleet had survived.
Cassius shook his head. The premen had fought harder than he had expected. Because of that, he was going to lose his good friend, Scipio. The Praetor’s people would expect him to give the Praetor the open command slot.
Cassius crackled his knuckles and began to make plans.
-12-
The former Praetor of the Sun-Works Factory walked with a lesser Highborn, a Lot 6 creature. The Praetor believed it was his dire luck to find himself forever saddled with inferior Highborn.
The two of them strode through a utilitarian steel corridor on a combat training station in near-Lunar orbit. The station was torus-shaped and rotated to simulate one hundred and thirty percent Earth gravity. The extra thirty percent helped to harden the training soldiers.
The Praetor towered over the Lot Sixer, an earlier subset from the vats and many years his senior in age. The Praetor possessed broader shoulders, a deeper chest and a more sharply angled face. They both had short cut, thick hair reminiscent of panther’s pelts. The Praetor’s eyes were pink, intense and perhaps possessed more than the usual Highborn ferocity. Each officer had abnormal vitality, at least when compared to sluggish Homo sapiens.
The Praetor’s hands were massive and strong. He clutched an ivory baton, a symbol of the successful destruction of the experimental Beamship Bangladesh. No other SU warship had so impressed the Highborn with its deadliness.
The Lot Sixer wore the green uniform of an infantry specialist and he had pitted features. He’d earned those scars in South America, destroying his twentieth bio-tank. He was the Praetor’s new training master of the subhumans. The last one had died after the failed neutraloid ‘accident’ concerning the Grand Admiral.
Grand Admiral Cassius had no doubt secretly engineered the foisting of yet another Lot 6 upon him. The Grand Admiral was First. He, the Praetor, was Fourth in the strictly graded hierarchy. The Grand Admiral was wise to fear him, wise to try to sabotage him with inferior officer material.
“I’ve read Training Master Lycon’s paper concerning shock troopers,” the Lot Sixer was saying. “He has many credible points.”
The Praetor stopped and stared down at the Lot Sixer. “Training Master Lycon has fled Highborn service. He is a traitor.”
“Perhaps he was killed and the premen—”
“Do not strain logic, Training Master. Do you seriously suggest that half a dozen shock troopers could overpower a Highborn?”
“I’ve read his reports. Lycon trained them to a razor’s edge of premen lethality.”
“That begs the question. Could half a dozen premen defeat you?”
“If I was unarmed and they possessed high technology, it would certainly be possible.”
“Let me rephrase the question. If you possessed a shuttle and picked them up and then they overpowered you, would that be possible?”
“I stand corrected, Praetor.”
The Praetor nodded and began striding down the corridor. The new Training Master hurried to catch up.
“Lycon’s shock troopers did capture the Bangladesh,” the new Training Master said.
“All the shock troopers are dead or converted.”
“Praetor?”
The Praetor allowed himself a small smile. “After Lycon’s departure, I took the liberty and assumed leadership of the shock trooper regiment. Those that remained on the Sun
-Works Factory were gelded and converted into neutraloids.”
“You castrated high-quality premen?”
“Your statement is illogical. I turned questionable premen into trustworthy neutraloids.”
“I admit that your neutraloids have unique fighting qualities, at least in a primitive setting. But their rage, Praetor—”
“I have already successfully altered three platoons of neutraloids. They are now undergoing space combat training. Incidentally, that is why you’ve been assigned to me.”
“You wish me to attempt to train these neutraloids?”
“To space combat efficiency. Yes, Training Master.”
“…I’ve read your reports, Praetor. You hand me a daunting task.”
“Do you feel it is beyond your capabilities?”
The Praetor watched the other sidelong. The Training Master had a harsh face with muscles in odd places. They tightened and bulged at his jaws and near his temples. A vein across his forehead grew and throbbed with blood. Oh, how this Lot Sixer wished to challenge him. The Praetor hoped he would. He would break this one in single combat and force the Grand Admiral to send him a real Highborn as Training Master.
The Praetor’s communicator beeped and temporarily broke the tension.
“Yes,” he said, speaking into a wrist communicator. Ah, he spoke with the Grand Admiral.
“Praetor, I have sent a shuttle to pick you up. You will bring your suite with you.”
“At once, sir.” The communicator winked off. The Praetor’s pink eyes seemed to glitter.
The Lot Sixer lost his truculent manner, as he seemed to notice the change come over the Praetor.
“You heard him,” the Praetor said, his voice rougher than before. He slapped the baton into his open palm, enraged that as Fourth he had been bypassed twice for command of a Doom Star. This time, it would be different. Commander Scipio had committed suicide. Now there was no excuse for the Grand Admiral. That cagy old soldier would have to give him command of the Hannibal Barca.
Battle Pod ds-3 Page 6
