* * *
The Praetor and Grand Admiral Cassius sat in a lounge aboard the Julius Caesar. Each hulking Highborn was bent before a three dimensional chessboard.
The Grand Admiral’s skill was legendary. He had three of the Praetor’s pawns and a knight. The Praetor had four enemy pawns, each carefully lined up in a row beside his ivory baton.
The Highborn likened the Grand Admiral to the Great Captains of the premen, those uncanny soldiers of history: Alexander the Great, Hannibal Barca, Julius Caesar, Genghis Khan, Napoleon and others. Instead of a premen genius, however, Grand Admiral Cassius was a Highborn genius. That meant he was superior by a probable factor of ten than when compared to the greatest warlord ever born to Homo sapiens.
That genius radiated from the iron-haired admiral. It was a palpable force, as the Grand Admiral exuded a fierce presence.
The Praetor felt that force, just as he felt the Grand Admiral’s merciless attack on the three dimensional chessboard. The Praetor refused to succumb to a legend, however. He silently berated himself and jeered his nervousness. He was the Praetor. He was a superior Highborn. He was Fourth in the unbelievably competitive world of the genetic super-soldiers. He would ignore the stories about Cassius’s legendary chess assault. He would play his own highly aggressive game and catch the Grand Admiral in a long-term trap.
The room possessed bronze busts of generals of the past and various famous battle paintings. A subtle vibration told the Praetor that the Julius Caesar was under acceleration. It approached Earth, linking with the second Doom Star in the Earth System.
Grand Admiral Cassius decisively moved a pawn, clicking the metal piece onto the glass tile. He then stared at the Praetor across the three dimensional board.
“I do not approve of the gelding of fighting troops.”
The Praetor nodded crisply. “I have sent your office a recording of the battle files of the Storm Assault Missiles. A percentage of the shock troopers sent against the beamship spoke treason against us.”
“Those were words, Praetor. The shock troopers’ action spoke loudly enough about their ultimate loyalty.”
“In the storming of the Bangladesh you are correct. What occurred afterward?”
“You have files concerning that?”
“The Grand Admiral knows I do not. The experimental beamship was destroyed.”
“It’s your move.”
The Praetor studied the chessboard. After a moment, he looked up. “My neutraloids are superior to the shock troopers.”
“In a primitive setting, you may be right. The shock troopers were high-tech soldiers. We will need a four hundred percent increase in space combat premen to help secure the remaining farm habitats in Earth orbit. If the neutraloids could function as police, they could perform some useful task. They are, however, too savage to be policemen.”
“I have taken steps to modify their savagery.”
The Grand Admiral grunted in a noncommittal manner.
The Praetor shifted in his chair and resumed studying the chessboard. He willed his thoughts onto the game and spent the next five minutes mentally moving the chess-pieces five, six and then seven moves ahead. Finally, he dropped his bishop two levels and captured another pawn. This piece he lined up precisely with his other captured pawns.
“If—” the Praetor began to say.
Grand Admiral Cassius held up a big hand, signaling for silence. He then clasped his left wrist again and leaned forward like a statue. After three minutes, he captured the bishop with a castle.
The Praetor nodded, trying to hide his smile.
“I appreciate your dedication to solving the space combat dilemma,” the Grand Admiral rumbled. “We have too few Highborn and need additional population if we’re to conquer the Solar System.”
The Praetor yearned to hold up his hand and halt the Grand Admiral’s words. He recognized the tactic of only talking during his turns. The Grand Admiral used his position of strength, of possessing the higher rank. The Praetor did not think that was unfair. A position of strength should be exploited for all the advantages it could give. He simply wished he had the high ground, not the Grand Admiral.
“It is a pressing dilemma,” the Praetor agreed.
“This training of premen space-combat soldiers fails to engage your talents to the full benefit of the Highborn.”
The Praetor blinked slowly, the game forgotten now. He trembled with seething vitality, his rage only held in check by his will. He yearned to flex his big hands. He wanted to lunge across the chessboard, wrap his fingers around the Grand Admiral’s throat and squeeze the life from him. Surely, the Grand Admiral had to offer him the command of the Hannibal Barca.
“The premen of Social Unity have moved more quickly than I’d foreseen.”
“They surprised you?” the Praetor asked.
The Grand Admiral shook his iron-haired head. “Surprise is the wrong word. I have set a trap for them. It is a delicate trap, however. I have debated with myself whether their side had a commander worthy enough to see the possibility and thereby find himself lured by my bait.”
The Praetor waited as he wondered what the Grand Admiral was talking about. He was too proud to admit that he didn’t know.
“Five days ago, Social Unity launched a surprise assault.”
“I’m obviously well aware of that,” the Praetor said.
“You are probably also aware that we probe the Earth’s defenses with the Hannibal Barca.”
“You’re bringing the Julius Caesar into near-Earth orbit to help?”
“The premen expect it, so it’s best to comply and keep them from thinking too deeply,” the Grand Admiral said.
The Praetor’s nostrils flared. He wished the Grand Admiral would get to the point and offer him command of the Hannibal Barca.
“Consider the problem, Praetor. We possess five Doom Stars. There are four planets in the inner system. We could pin down each planet with a Doom Star and have one extra warship for duty wherever the primary objective happens to be. That extra warship, however, took damage. Fortunately, the Genghis Khan nears completion of its repairs. The problem still remains, however, especially with the damage sustained by the Hannibal Barca.”
“Our Doom Star left Mars for just that reason,” the Praetor said. “Mars is now in Rebel hands so it’s out of Social Unity’s hands. That means we have five Doom Stars for three planets.”
“The Bangladesh highlighted our dilemma,” the Grand Admiral said, as if he hadn’t heard the Praetor.
“Guerilla attacks?” the Praetor asked.
“Would you call the pounding your Sun-Works Factory took a guerilla attack?”
“We destroyed the Bangladesh,” the Praetor said.
“But we have not yet solved the situation. Mind you, it could become worse if the other planets came to Social Unity’s aid.”
“The Outer Planets?” the Praetor asked in jest.
“The Jupiter Confederation once came to the aid of the Mars Rebels.”
“Those Rebels now control Mars.”
“I will frame the situation exactly, Praetor. We own Mercury but must guard it with at least one Doom Star to insure its safety. We pin down Venus with a Doom Star and thereby cut it off from the rest of Inner Planets. Soon, we will have three Doom Stars in Earth orbit. Yet if we wish to travel anywhere else in the Solar System, we must leave at least one Doom Star on guard duty here and preferably two.”
“Go on,” the Praetor said.
“As I’m sure you understand, the problem is the Social Unity space fleet. As long as it exists, we must scatter our Doom Stars in this inefficient manner. The longer the war progresses, the longer the Outer Planets have to come to their senses and join their fellow premen against us. Premen are slow-witted and often foolish to an amazing degree. They still do, however, have overwhelming numbers.”
“Has the Intelligence Service discovered communications between Inner and Outer Planets?”
The Grand Admiral
nodded.
The idea made the Praetor uncomfortable. There were two million Highborn, more or less. The training schools graduated just enough young Highborn to make up for combat losses. Earth System alone still contained over thirty-eight billion premen. If the entire Solar System of premen should unite against the Highborn—
“You spoke about a trap,” the Praetor said.
“I believe the director of the premen war effort possesses elementary cunning. The Bangladesh affair proves that. The stiffening of their war effort on Earth also points to it. Our days of easy victories are over for the present. I therefore withdrew the Doom Star from Mars in order to give him a golden opportunity.”
“You left the Rebels in charge of the orbital defenses.”
“Yes. Now you’re beginning to see. Our exit from Mars seemed reasonable from their limited view. The SU premen will think we believe we’ve garrisoned the planet against them.”
“But we have not done so sufficiently?” the Praetor asked.
“No. I say this for two reasons. One, Social Unity still possesses many powerful warships, a more than credible force if combined. Two, that force will have another surprise for us.”
“Of what nature?” the Praetor asked.
The Grand Admiral chuckled. “This is nothing the Intelligence Services have discovered. It is something I have logically deduced.”
The Praetor frowned.
“We are superior, Praetor, but we are not infallible. The premen have among them intelligent scientists and able tacticians. They will have a surprise, maybe even two surprises, that we have not foreseen. I accept that and plan accordingly. The trick is to use their surprises against them.”
The Praetor waited, having expended his willingness to ask questions.
“I have enticed Social Unity to gather their scattered warships into one place,” the Grand Admiral said. “This place is Mars. Using their trick, they will likely capture the Rebel orbital defenses in short order. If it is bloody for them, that will be even better for us. The point is they will set their space forces and orbital defenses to face us. They will no doubt believe they’re setting a trap for us.”
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 kn
ob 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’.
Cyborgs
-1-
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.
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