Those laser beams originated from big SU Battleships. Those warships accelerated hard for near-Mars orbit.
The prismatic crystals were the orbital launch station’s primary defense against such killing beams. The crystals were highly reflective and contained all the colors of the rainbow. Their purpose was to bounce or reflect the laser’s light and dissipate its strength. If deep enough, a prismatic crystal field could completely absorb a laser.
The intense strength of these battle-beams slagged the crystals by the bucketful. That stole the reflective power and meant the full force of the beam soon hit them. In space-battle terms, the lasers did a
burn through
.
Zapata shouted questions at the few people still at their screens.
“Eighty percent of the crystal supplies are gone, commander.”
To stop his hands from trembling, Zapata gripped a monitor as he stared at the main screen.
“Emergency deployment,” he whispered.
Computer keys told him someone carried out his command. He swallowed hard as sweat prickled his back. Most of the station personnel were abandoning the station. The last of the orbital fighters were even now catapulted from the hangers. He could have ordered them to burn for Phobos. Maybe a strafing run over the moon would kill some of those metallic horrors. Somehow, he doubted it. Besides, the Planetary Union needed those orbitals. Mars couldn’t give up just like that. It had taken so many grueling years gaining their precious freedom. To return to serfdom so easily—who were those metallic soldiers? What were they? Where had Social Unity found them?
Zapata made a sound deep in his throat. All those years of hiding, of gunning down PHC police, making secret plans.… He couldn’t throw it all away now on a gesture.
His hands hurt he was gripping a monitor so hard. He had elected to remain behind and run a last ditch defense. They had to save the orbitals and anyone else they could. He had to scrape something together out of this disastrous defeat.
He thought about the shuttle, the one the ex-shock troopers had used. Several days ago, he’d ordered its codes broken. Engineers had entered the shuttle, refueled the tanks and stocked it with supplies. He wondered who else knew about it. Surely, a few of those fleeing would have entered the Highborn shuttle and tried for somewhere.
“Burn through,” someone whispered.
Commander Zapata looked up with his one good eye. The power of Social Unity was too much. After everything the Highborn had done to Inner Planets, how was it possible that the SU military still possessed so many warships? He shook his badly scarred head. At least, Mars had tasted a few months of freedom. It had been a good feeling. For the first time in twelve years, a Martian had been able to hold his head up again. Despite their arrogance, he wished the Highborn had stayed at Mars. Social Unity would have never dared attack if a Doom Star had orbited the planet. Zapata frowned. Could the genetic super-soldiers have known this would happen? After a moment’s thought, he shrugged. They couldn’t have known. No one could have.
On the main screen, incredibly powerful lasers burned holes through the drifting field of prismatic crystals. Those lasers now speared toward the station. The armored hull could withstand the hellish beams for a few seconds. More lasers now burned through the crystals.
Zapata turned to those who had remained at their screens. He saluted them. “For the Mars Planetary Union!” he shouted.
Chairs scraped back as one by one the others stood. They glanced at the large screen. Tears ran down one man’s face. They saluted, and shouted, “For the Mars Planetary Union, sir!”
Seconds later, the powerful lasers punched ten-meter wide holes through the orbiting structure. Terrific explosions began and fires roared. Then the vacuum of space stole the needed oxygen to let fires burn. Long before that, however, the personnel aboard the command center were dead, charred into horribly shriveled things that barely resembled humans.
Parts of the gutted station tore free or had been shredded free and drifted. Among those sections was the
Mayflower
. No one had entered the shuttle. The engineers who had broken in had failed to let the others know it could be used an escape vehicle. No beam had touched it and ignited the fuel in its tanks. Instead, the former Highborn shuttle floated high above Mars, another piece of debris formed by the deadly Inner Planets civil war.
As the cyborgs stormed Phobos and Deimos and as the SU Battlefleet destroyed the rest of the Martian space defense, the Highborn were on the move. Nearly 249 million kilometers away, the Highborn Praetor circled the Sun.
The nine-foot tall Highborn lay on an acceleration couch and endured debilitating G-forces. The Sun was vast, with a diameter of 1,392,000 kilometers. If the Earth were the size of a dime, the Sun would be two meters in size. The Sun had 109 times the diameter of the Earth. The distance from the Earth to the Moon was approximately 350,000 kilometers. Thus, orbiting one full circuit around the Sun would roughly be like Luna orbiting twice its normal distance from Earth. The
Bangladesh
had orbited the Sun much nearer than the Praetor did now. His ship lacked the special shielding that had allowed the experimental beamship to survive the Sun’s terrible x-rays and radiation at so close a range.
The Praetor and his Highborn crew had endured the Gs for some time as the
Thutmosis III
build up speed. Highborn could endure greater Gs than a Homo sapien, who blacked out at a sustained 6 or 7 Gs.
The former SU missile-ship had undergone radical transformation at the Sun-Works Factory. First, the massive particle shields had been removed. Then it had received a new low radar signature hull and a new coat of anti-teleoptic paint. Massive, detachable tanks and huge warfare pods had also been added. The tanks contained propellant for the fusion engines. The warfare pods held specially designed drones and missiles.
The Praetor lay on the couch, enduring and mentally cursing himself as a fool to have trusted Grand Admiral Cassius. If the Praetor were to design a clever punishment module, he would use the
Thutmosis III
. Instead of having the freedom and energy to plot to unseat the Grand Admiral, the Praetor had lost weight under the emergency acceleration. He was no longer near the center of power, the Doom Stars in Earth orbit, but tucked away near the Sun. If the constant acceleration didn’t kill him, the Sun’s radiation would. In his opinion, they flew much too near the nuclear ball of matter. And the warship’s velocity—if this went on much longer, the Praetor’s ship would reach speeds for a trip to Alpha Centauri.
The Praetor had studied the files about the
Bangladesh
. The SU beamship had reached respectable speeds, but the acceleration of the
Thutmosis III
dwarfed what the SU ship had achieved.
As he lay on the acceleration couch, the Praetor made a grotesque grin. The acceleration deformed his features and made bowel moments a horror. But if a Homo sapien could do a thing, a Highborn could do it twice as well, even three, or four times better. The
Bangladesh
’s
attack plan had been clever, and it had employed its fantastically-ranged beam to good effect. The new Highborn strategy for drones and missiles would be even cleverer.
Yet it would only be clever, if Social Unity moved as the Grand Admiral had predicted. If not, then soon the
Thutmosis III
would have to begin deceleration. The Praetor made a grotesquely wry face. The Grand Admiral had never been specific about how the
Thutmosis III
was to stop its terrific velocity. The only reasonable method would use Jupiter or Saturn’s gravity to brake the
Thutmosis III
. Would the lords of Jupiter or Saturn allow that?
Like all Highborn, the Praetor was well aware of his superiority. The Grand Admiral might assume that those of Jupiter or Saturn would fear Highborn too much to harm a lone ship. Unfortunately, he’d learned one thing as the governor of the Sun-Works Factory: Premen were strangely resistant to rational behavior. Some preferred death to the logical submission to their betters.
The Praetor slowly shifted upon his acceleration couch. He had learned through his crew that anything but slow moves could cause muscle tears. Already, several Highborn lay in mortal agony on their couches. Groin, gut and sexual organ tears were the worst. Pulled hamstrings and triceps were also bad, but not necessarily fatal.
For the upcoming battle, the
Thutmosis III
was the Highborn secret weapon. It would win them the war for Inner Planets. On that, Grand Admiral Cassius had been certain. The Praetor had studied the plan in detail. He had even received reports that the SU Battlefleet Mars had finally made its stab at the planetary defenses. The Grand Admiral had correctly predicated each of those moves. Soon, the Doom Stars would accelerate for Mars. Then the fateful clash between the space fleets would determine who controlled the high ground between the planets. Whoever controlled space could quarantine the separate planets.
Were the premen truly foolish enough to think they could destroy Doom Stars? Would they actually remain at Mars to do battle? That seemed incredible to the Praetor. Yet the Grand Admiral was certain the premen would possess a secret weapon of their own and that the premen would be brash enough to think their secret weapon could give them victory over their superiors.
The Praetor grinned harshly. The
Thutmosis III
was the weapon that would trump anything the premen could cobble together. It would shatter the preman surprise. His drones and missiles would hit their fleet at precisely the worst time for them. It would cause the premen to panic. They would then make even more foolish tactical decisions than otherwise and face annihilation.
“Good,” the Praetor whispered. He yearned to burn premen hopes into ashes. He’d suffered for too long aboard this death-ship. The Highborn under his command had suffered as well. But their suffering would end the Inner Planets war. Yes, after such an annihilating blow, the hope would drain from the lower order. Many would drop their weapons and meekly seek the good graces of their genetic superiors. Premen would cower in fear, and they would finally realize that a New Order had come to the Solar System.
“Then,” the Praetor whispered. Then he would have achieved his dream. He would have won military glory in the most stunning victory of the war. That would catapult him into every Highborn’s thoughts. The Praetor had patiently videoed every aspect of his ordeal. He would replay the files and show the others what he had endured to bring them unqualified success. He already had a following. That following would grow, and in time, he would topple Grand Admiral Cassius from his high seat of supreme power.
As he pondered such lovely thoughts, the Praetor of the
Thutmosis III
missile-ship groaned as his stomach cramped. He feared a muscle tear. He panted, but slowly the pain faded. He tried to shift to a more comfortable position. He could not take many more days of this.
The screen before him crackled. It was fuzzy, and it told him better than anything else could that his ship was too near the Sun.
“Praetor.”
“Here,” the Praetor whispered. Through screen static, he barely made out Grand Admiral Cassius’s features.
“The premen of Social Unity have finally made their move,” the Grand Admiral said in a distorted voice.
The Praetor wanted to groan with relief. Instead, he glared at the Grand Admiral’s fuzzy image.
“In two days, you will begin the breakout from Sun orbit,” the Grand Admiral said. “The exact data and angle of your attack are already entering your tactical computer.”
“Yes,” the Praetor whispered.
“I admire your fortitude, Praetor. Your ship will bring us ultimate victory. I personally salute your courage and your daring.”
The Praetor managed a terse nod, and almost tore a neck muscle doing it.
“Grand Admiral Cassius out.” The fuzzy image faded away.
Two more days, the Praetor thought. Two more days and the
Thutmosis III
would break out of Sun orbit and shut off its mighty engines. Then the stealth ship would zoom at terrific velocity for Mars. The final battle for Inner Planets was about to begin.
SU jets jumped Marten’s skimmers at the worst possible moment. He had time to wonder how long they had been under observation. Then Marten screamed at Omi to take the controls as he turned and grabbed the rocket-launcher between the frozen knees of the raider sitting behind him.
They climbed out of the Noctis Labyrinthus Canyon using the skimmer’s VTOL jets. Each skimmer did it in stages. It made the skimmer’s rotary engine whine so Marten’s teeth ached, and it made the metal craft shake as if it was about to burst apart from stress.
One moment, Marten watched the skimmer ahead of him. The dark craft wobbled as it rose higher and higher, its engines screaming to gain enough lift as the skimmer climbed beside a wall of red rock. Then a missile streaked out of the pink sky. It streaked and exploded, and the skimmer that had wobbled was now hot shards of metal and bloody body chunks flying in all directions. Some of those chunks smeared against the red rock wall, leaving gore and hot streaks of gashed basalt.
At the same moment, something higher up flashed into view and out of view at almost the same instant. Marten recognized it as a jet. He knew because of the afterburners that glowed orange long him for him know they were all about to die.