The Praetor’s frown deepened, putting creases in his broad forehead.
“I see your doubts concerning my plan, and I accept it. I am blessed with superior sight. I will tell you a secret, Praetor. Sometimes it is a curse to see farther and more clearly than anyone else. Too often in the past, others I hold dear have doubted me. I would like to say that I’ve become inured to it, but that would be a lie. However, I can give you evidence that even you can comprehend, Praetor.”
The Praetor stiffened.
“The Social Unity space attack five days ago occurred in order to send a flotilla of vessels to Mars.”
“So their high command could escape the coming disaster?” the Praetor asked.
The Grand Admiral shook his head. “I’ve heard those rumors, and they’re absurd. If nothing else, these socialists are stubborn. They’ve been in control of human destiny too long to simply give up and flee to the Outer Planets. No. That was a supply convoy, and the majority of it now hides behind a growing prismatic crystal shield. I have ordered a cessation of laser attacks against it.”
“I see,” the Praetor said slowly. “The premen gather their fleet into one force and will capture Mars. We then send… two Doom Stars to smash their fleet and retake Mars.”
“You are almost correct.”
The Praetor’s cheek twitched. When was the Grand Admiral going to offer him command of the
Hannibal Barca
? “This fleet that lifted from Earth,” he said. “You called it a supply convoy. They will refit their warships?”
“Exactly,” the Grand Admiral said. “They will have surprises that we cannot yet foresee. But we too shall have a surprise.”
The Praetor blinked, waiting.
“It’s your move,” the Grand Admiral said.
It took the Praetor a moment to understand that the Grand Admiral meant the chessboard. He tried to concentrate on the game. The Praetor pondered for only a minute and then swept the Grand Admiral’s castle with his queen. He neatly placed the captured castle in a new, second line of pieces, one behind the smaller pawns.
The Grand Admiral moved immediately, seeming to make a blunder. He took a pawn, but left the Praetor’s queen open to maneuver.
As the Praetor bent forward to examine the possibilities, the Grand Admiral spoke.
“I know you’ve desired a field command in space. Until now, I’ve needed you in charge of supplies at the Sun-Works Factory. It was critical that we kept ourselves well-supplied.”
The Praetor looked up. Here it was, at last. “I am to head the expedition against Mars in the
Hannibal Barca
?”
“No. That position belongs to Admiral Brutus. He will command the
Hannibal Barca
. Nor are there any available positions in the other Doom Stars. But if you are agreeable, Praetor, I wish to award you the captainship of our secret weapon.”
Rage washed through the Praetor. He found it hard to speak. “If you would explain the weapon—”
“The Beamship
Bangladesh
gave me the idea,” the Grand Admiral said. “Even as we speak, a special weapons team is converting a captured missile-ship. They are rapidly adding stealth technology and installing our new drones. Your task, Praetor, will be to take the stealth ship and circle the Sun. The technicians are adding booster pods. As you build velocity, you will shed those pods. It will be a highly uncomfortable time as you circle the Sun, mostly spent on the acceleration couches. At a precise time, you will sling yourself out of the Sun’s orbit and head for Mars. Then you will shut off the engines and coast for the Red Planet. I will tell you now, Praetor, that your ship neither carries particle shields, nor will it employ a prismatic crystal cloud, nor aerosol gels with lead additives.”
“I will be defenseless?” the Praetor asked.
“You will effectively be invisible, a black object hurtling through the empty void of space. Your close approach to Mars will be timed so it coincides with the hard deceleration of the Doom Stars. You will attack with stealth drones dropped from your ship. Your second objective will occur once you’ve passed their positions behind the moons, the planet itself or their prismatic fields. You will then beam critical information concerning their formation to the Doom Stars.”
“They will fire at me once I beam these messages.”
“Their window of opportunity to do you damage will be small. Your speed will be great and the technicians will have supplied your ship with many escape pods.”
“Escapes pods and the ship together will drift at high velocity toward the Outer Planets.”
“Shuttles will already be on their way to pick you up, if that proves necessary.”
“The timing would need to be exquisite for the flyby.”
“I have computed the numbers,” the Grand Admiral said. “It is well within Highborn capacity. Praetor, it is a dangerous mission. It calls for iron nerves and a will to conquer. I know you possess each of those qualities. You will also be in possession of the spaceship that tilts victory hard toward the Highborn. Needless to say, you will be a hero.”
“If I survive,” the Praetor said.
“Glory inherently demands risks.”
“Excellence brings rank,” the Praetor recited.
“Then you accept the assignment?”
“What about my neutraloids?”
“They will train until such time as the Doom Stars leave Earth orbit. I have plans to use them to retake Rebel strongholds on Mars.”
The Praetor wanted to examine the captaincy in detail. Yet he feared hesitating lest the Grand Admiral offer the chance at field command to someone else.
The Praetor forced himself to mutter, “I would be honored, Grand Admiral.”
“I knew it would be so,” the Grand Admiral said. “Now, it’s your move.”
The Praetor examined the chessboard and captured another piece, a bishop. He pressed his fingertips against the top knob of the bishop and ran the edge of his thumbnail through the bishop’s crease. Then he clunked the piece down into his growing row of captures.
“Hm,” the Grand Admiral said. He made another seemingly strange move.
The Praetor captured a pawn.
The Grand Admiral moved his queen and said, “Checkmate in three moves.”
Stunned and disbelieving, the Praetor examined the chessboard. He saw it then. He looked up into the Grand Admiral’s face. It was at that moment a cold icicle of fear stabbed the Praetor’s heart.
The Grand Admiral had outmaneuvered him all down the line. Could the old man be that much more cunning than he was? The thought made the Praetor wonder if this field command was a suicide mission intended to get rid of him, his reward for the failed neutraloid ‘accident’.
Marten Kluge sat in the pilot’s chair of the
Mayflower
. He had renamed the shuttle after a mythical ship of freedom seekers. His mother had told him the story many times. The ancient Pilgrims had left the tyranny of one land, seeking a new country where they could breathe the air and practice their beliefs as their consciences dictated.
Marten considered himself a new Pilgrim in a Solar System seething with tyrants. Social Unity had slain his mother and father. It had forced him to flee to Earth. Then Social Unity had stolen Molly and Ah Chen from him. Day and night, hall leaders, the holoset, the sheep-like philosophies spouted during the hum-a-longs had all tried to grind him down. Social Unity had tried to turn him into a cog to fit into the machine of State. Major Orlov had sent him to the slime pits and later the punishment tube. Every aspect had been calculated to break his spirit and his will.
Marten had refused. He would always refuse. He had learned about freedom and truth from his parents. His mother and father had trumped the State. His first allegiance was to God and to his conscience, then to his family and friends, and lastly to the State.
Marten grinned as he stared at the stars. He had beaten Hall Leader Quirn. He had beaten Major Orlov. He had slain mad Colonel Sigmir, the Highborn who had made his life hell during the Japan Campaign. Now he had beaten Training Master Lycon and owned a spaceship, the
Mayflower
.
It was a small spaceship, a shuttle. But it
was
a spaceship just the same. It gave him liberty and freedom of movement. If he calculated it right, if he used his wits at Mars, he could reach the Jupiter Confederation yet. He could escape the Social Unity fanatics and the bigoted Highborn Supremacists.
A klaxon wailed. It shattered the quiet peace that Marten had known for weeks. He whirled around and blinked five times before he realized the significance of the noise.
“Omi!” he shouted.
Marten fumbled at his buckles. He took a deep breath and told himself to calm down. With greater concentration, he unsnapped the last buckle and pushed himself toward the hatch. He floated through the
Mayflower
to the medical unit.
Omi looked up through the clear cylinder.
Marten grinned like a maniac. With practiced speed, he opened the cylinder and slid Omi out.
“Take it easy,” Marten said.
Omi frowned and opened his mouth, but no words came out. He was dreadfully thin compared to the muscled shock trooper he had been eight weeks ago.
Daily, Marten had slid the unconscious Korean from the cylinder and massaged his muscles with a specially designed machine. The machine had worked on similar principles as their acceleration suits aboard the Storm Assault Missiles. It had massaged and moved the muscles so they wouldn’t deteriorate too much, wouldn’t atrophy altogether.
“Where are we?” Omi finally whispered.
“You’re aboard my spaceship,” Marten said proudly.
Omi’s frown deepened. With methodical slowness, he turned his head, looking around.
“Where…” Omi wet his lips. “Where are the Highborn?” His voice was hoarse and hard to understand.
“Let’s get you set up first,” Marten said.
Marten found him clothes, a one-piece jumper. He let Omi sip concentrates and had him float throughout the shuttle with him.
“We’re alone,” Omi said at last.
Nodding, Marten laughed.
“I don’t understand,” Omi said.
Marten pointed at the heavily polarized window in the pilot compartment. “Training Master Lycon is floating with the stars.”
Omi’s eyes narrowed.
With barely restrained glee, Marten told Omi how he’d spaced the three Highborn. A part of Marten scolded himself for his enthusiasm. He had killed three humans in cold blood. It was true the Highborn had treated him like an animal. They had caused the death of all his friends. Yet there was something too bloodthirsty about taking such inordinate joy in having spaced three of the Master Race.
Omi stared at him, with that cold, hard smile playing along his lips. “I would like to have seen them die.” Then Omi closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Commodore Joseph Blackstone’s body ached most of the time from radiation poisoning. He sat before his vidscreen in his tiny wardroom aboard the
Vladimir Lenin
. It was a
Zhukov
-class battleship in far-Mars orbit.
The
Vladimir Lenin
had taken hits from a Doom Star. The super-ship had previously been orbiting Mars. They had finally repaired the engine damage and stopped the radiation leakage, but his crew and he had been weakened by the ordeal. Now, everyone took anti-radiation tablets and tissue regeneration drugs.
Commodore Blackstone was a short man, noted for his decathlon victories in his younger years. Once, he had been vigorous, a dynamo of energy and self-confidence. Unfortunately, he had seen better days. He had seen better years. The war, the extended voyage and the grim encounter with the Doom Star had caught him at the worst possible moment in his life.
He had dearly loved his wife, had always looked forward to their time together during his shore leave. Then his wife had sent him a divorce decree through official channels. He’d discovered that she’d had a string of lovers for years. Worst of all, she had kept a careful dossier on his sarcastic comments regarding Political Harmony Corps and the Directorate of Inner Planets. Learning those things had been horrible enough. The fourth blow had arrived a month before the beginning of the Highborn Rebellion. His only daughter had been horribly mutilated in a flyer accident on Venus. For some inexplicable reason, she hadn’t taken to regeneration therapy. He desperately wanted to see her, to hold and comfort her as he had when she’d been a little girl after her hoverpad accident that had chipped her two front teeth.
His once smooth features had become slack as he lost weight. He had bags under his eyes and too often forgot to shave. He was listless and thin, never smiled, and lived far too much in his memories of happier days.
Blackstone doubted that Supreme Commander Hawthorne was aware of any of his personal problems. Hawthorne had been an old friend from Academy days. Blackstone suspected that he knew nothing of the attributes of the political officer assigned to the
Vladimir Lenin
. Because of his ex-wife’s files, the political officer had boarded the battleship with a company of PHC enforcers and with extra-military authority. She was a three-star commissar, a daunting woman with a bruising personality and heavy-handed attention to protocol.