Activating it, he made several adjustments. Neptune appeared on the screen. He made further adjustments. Three pinpricks appeared in the dark void. The Doom Stars moved toward Triton’s orbital path. Hawthorne highlighted a number, nodding as he read it. The big moon was over 350,000 kilometers from Neptune, making it closer to the ice planet than Luna was to Earth.
Hawthorne ran more numbers. Triton’s orbital period was five point eight-seven-seven days, or almost six days to move in a full retrograde orbit around the planet. As Luna did to Earth, Triton always kept the same face toward Neptune.
Hawthorne sighed as he hooked the small monitor to his belt. In Neptune System terms, the Doom Stars had moved far away from Nereid as they readied themselves to greet Triton. When the moon finally swung around the ice planet’s rim—relative to the Highborn—the Genghis Khan would be nine hundred thousand kilometers away. So far, that had proved the perfect distance.
The SU battleships had closed the gap with the big vessels, and were presently fifty thousand kilometers from them, well within the range of the SU lasers.
Hawthorne grabbed a float-rail, propelling himself toward the bridge. The fleet moved slowly and carefully through the system, keeping well away from any asteroid or planetoid. The rule was simple: stay away from any possible hiding place for cyborg assault-pods. During the Third Battle for Mars, invading cyborgs had fought their way onto a Doom Star, blowing the core. No one wanted a repeat of that out here.
Hawthorne floated through a hatch, greeting Commissar Kursk as she stood by the command module in the center of the chamber.
The woman was grim, the module’s blue light bathing her face. She had aged during the trip. The glow highlighted the lines in her face. Once, she had been beautiful. At least she was still trim in her black Commissar’s uniform.
PHC, she used to belong to Political Harmony Corps. Does she hold it against me that I destroyed many of her comrades on Earth?
It troubled Hawthorne that he’d taken so long in the journey to think about that. His mind and ego were in better shape than when he’d first boarded the warship, but he felt they still lacked their former sharpness.
Hawthorne looked around. He saw tired people, worn down by worry and fear. Watching the Highborn beam the moons for long hours had done nothing to cheer the bridge crew. Everyone had worried about the first engagement with the cyborgs for eight dreadful months. Each AU closer had increased the tension. Now the inexplicable cyborg response to their presence here—the coming fight boded ill for the Alliance Fleet and the officers here knew it. The cyborgs had a plan. If they had willingly fed two heavily defended moons to the Alliance Fleet, it had to be for a horribly good reason.
“Attention!” Kursk said in a raw voice.
Hawthorne’s heart sped up as he turned toward her, wondering what she’d spotted. Instead of hearing a report, he saw Commodore Blackstone float through a side hatch.
Blackstone wore his dress uniform. He had hollowed-out eyes and folds of skin on his face.
He’s too thin. He hasn’t been eating enough. It’s getting to him, too. It’s getting to all of us.
“At ease,” Blackstone said, waving his people back onto their seats.
A frown creased Hawthorne’s face. Kursk had alerted the officers of Blackstone’s appearance, but not that of the Supreme Commander. He had run Social Unity too long to fail to understand the significance of that. Yes, he had failed to form a solid core of security people here. A few security men had paid him lip service, but he doubted their loyalty. Maybe two lower-ranked men would do his bidding, provided he didn’t ask them to do something morally difficult.
He recalled his attempts to build a following, sounding-out the security chief and his three top lieutenants. Each of them had been surprisingly loyal to Blackstone instead of to Social Unity. A little probing, asking the right questions, and Hawthorne had soon understood the reason. Commissar Kursk had been hard at work. At first, knowing that hadn’t overly troubled him. Blackstone had turned her from her intense loyalty to PHC, and she had turned ship security into his loyal guardians—to use a Jovian term. Now, seeing her in the old PHC uniform, he wondered if her animus against him ran deeper, was more political than personal.
Hawthorne grimaced. It might have been a mistake taking up residence on the Vladimir Lenin. Mandela was still here. Maybe he should have transferred to one of Mandela’s ships.
“Good morning, sir,” Blackstone said.
Hawthorne managed a nod. Then he floated to his couch and strapped himself in. Taking a deep breath, he flicked on his screen.
The Doom Stars were ready, with the Genghis Khan in the lead. He checked his chronometer. In less than thirty minutes, Triton would appear on Neptune’s rim.
“That’s it,” said Kursk.
Everyone looked up, Hawthorne included. He saw fear on several faces. They expected the worst, some nefarious and evil tactic.
“The last probe near Neptune has stopped reporting.” Kursk looked up, the blue glow of the module making her seem witch-like. “The cyborgs must have destroyed it.”
“Did the probe scan anything worthwhile?” Blackstone asked.
“Negative,” Kursk said.
The Commodore floated toward the command module. As he moved, he glanced at his crew. Then he looked at Hawthorne, meeting his gaze.
His eyes are more hollowed-out today. He’s worried, maybe more worried than his crew is.
“Trouble, Commodore?” Hawthorne asked.
Blackstone tilted his head as a quizzical look appeared. “Yes, sir. Triton…” Blackstone frowned. “The cyborgs have to strike soon, sir. They can’t let us demolish Triton’s defenses, not like we’ve done to the other moons.”
“We’ve done nothing to the other moons,” Hawthorne said.
“The Doom Stars then.” Blackstone licked his lips. “I keep wondering if we’ve made a terrible mistake.”
Hawthorne waited, trying to assess the Commodore. Has he lost his nerve? I did eight months ago. I was lucky and had time to recoup. Joseph may not be given that luxury.
With a slight head-twitch, Hawthorne dismissed the thought. He couldn’t worry about Blackstone now. He would save his worry for the last SU fleet. He needed this crew ready. They were too brittle, too wound-up.
Clearing his throat, Hawthorne said, “I don’t like heading this deeply into Neptune’s gravity-well before locating their main fleet. But if we’re going to force them into showing themselves and fighting us, we have to attack something they hold dear.”
“I don’t mean that.” Blackstone hesitated before blurting, “Sir, is it possible the cyborgs have taken everything useful from here and moved to a different system?”
Several officers turned around in wonder. One man laughed in obvious relief, no doubt glad the cyborgs had fled—at least in his mind.
“No,” Hawthorne said. “What you’re suggesting is impossible. We would have spotted something given the nature of such a move.”
“We couldn’t move so stealthily,” Blackstone said. “But the cyborgs are masters at cloaked movement. I think it might be within their power.”
“They’re not gods,” Hawthorne said sternly. He needed to quash this idea. “First, what would be the point of it? If they lacked the time to make Neptune a fortress, how could they prepare Saturn or Uranus in time?”
“The moons were fortresses,” Blackstone said. “Social Unity could have never taken them. The Doom Stars—how long can they keep the heavy lasers operational? Our beams have a shelf life of forty hours. I can’t imagine the heavy beams can last much longer, probably less.”
“We caught the cyborgs by surprise,” Hawthorne said. “There’s your answer.”
“Do you really believe that, sir?”
Hawthorne could feel the many eyes on him. The worry and fear was growing. Men could face terrible things and stand. The unknown, however, terrified them. The threat of ghosts was more fearful than actually seeing ghosts.
“I believe the cyborgs have held back their main fleet,” Hawthorne said. “They want us in Neptune’s gravity well and near the ice planet. To get us here, they’ve allowed us to destroy two heavy fortresses. They’re gambling and we’ve made it a heavy one for them.”
“Triton appears in less than a half hour,” Blackstone said. “Your reasoning would lead me to believe their main fleet will attack in less than a half hour.”
Hawthorne nodded thoughtfully. Had the cyborgs attempted to fashion their own Doom Stars? Sensors hadn’t been able to pick up any evidence of floating construction areas near Neptune’s atmosphere. Where else could they have built such ships without leaving evidence of it?
Shaking his head, Blackstone said, “The cyborgs love using cloaked ships.” He looked up in surprise. “Maybe we’ve been sending the probes in the wrong direction. We’re fixed on Neptune and the Neptunian moons. What if during our long approach, the cyborgs moved their fleet out-system or farther out-system than we’ve been checking? Maybe even now they’re sneaking ships behind us.”
“Wouldn’t the Highborn already have thought of that?” Kursk asked.
Hawthorne slapped an armrest. “We can’t let the Highborn do our thinking for us. And the answer is no. Or have you spotted Highborn launching probes behind us?”
“No,” Kursk said.
Hawthorne eyed the Commodore. “It’s thinking like that which first won you an independent command.”
Blackstone stood a little straighter. “Launch probes behind our present heading.”
Kursk tapped her screen on the command module. “Probes launched,” she said. “It will take time for them to accelerate into position.”
The minutes ticked slowly as Hawthorne spoke with the other battleship commanders and read their readiness report summaries.
“Sir,” Kursk said. “I have a request from the Vice-Admiral. He would like to return to his battleship.”
Hawthorne shook his head.
“Admiral Scipio is hailing you,” Kursk said.
“Put him onscreen,” Hawthorne said.
Scipio appeared. The Highborn sat rigidly in his command chair. The Highborn’s face seemed fuller, while a sunburst symbol adorned his hat. It was a Nova Sun class-one medal.
“We must tighten the fleet,” Scipio said. “I…request that you bring your battleships to within one thousand kilometers of our last Doom Star.”
“Is there a particular reason for the request?” Hawthorne asked.
“Strength in numbers,” Scipio said.
“I would agree except for one troubling fact.”
“Yes?”
“What if the cyborgs have installed long-ranged beams on Triton? Doom Stars can far out-accelerate our battleships.”
“You mean that Highborn can withstand a higher number of Gs for a much longer time than a Homo sapien.”
“We’re keeping our fifty thousand kilometer distance from you until we know what Triton holds.”
The Highborn studied him, nodded curtly, and the screen flickered off.
“Do you think Sulla will try to make the request a demand?” Blackstone asked.
“I doubt it,” Hawthorne said.
The minutes kept crawling and the Alliance Fleet made its last adjustments.
“Five minutes until Triton appears,” Kursk said.
The muttering between the bridge officers slackened. They watched their screens with the avidness of prey in a forest searching the trees for predators.
Hawthorne’s armpits grew slick. He could feel it in his bones now. The waiting was harder than the time he’d launched the Orion-ships for Mars.
“Have the probes spotted anything yet?” he asked.
Kursk shook her head. “If the cyborgs have cloaked ships behind us in the void…they must be truly invisible.”
At three minutes before Triton’s appearing, Hawthorne stood up and swung his arms. He twisted his neck and moved his jaw until it popped. He winced at the sharp pain. Then the flutters hit his stomach. He sat on his acceleration couch, trying hard not to shout.
“One minute,” Kursk said.
“No more countdowns,” Hawthorne said.
Everyone was tense, watching their screens. The Commodore gripped the edges of the command module. He looked up across the chamber, his face pale.
Hawthorne nodded. “You’ve done a splendid job, Commodore. No man fulfilled his duty to Social Unity better than you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Blackstone said. “May I say that it’s been a pleasure serving under you.”
“We’re not dead,” Kursk said. “Nor are we about to die.” She glanced at Hawthorne. “Triton will appear in another ten seconds.”
Hawthorne sat up as he stared at the screen above his couch. Everyone grew silent. The vibration of the main engine was the loudest sound now, a steady hum.
“There,” Kursk whispered. “Triton.”
Hawthorne watched the edge of the moon appear on Neptune’s blue rim. He waited a moment. Then he wondered if this was going to be anticlimactic.
“I’m picking up hot exhausts!” an officer shouted. “The specs—sir, they’re drones, missiles, hundreds of them.”
Hawthorne saw it: a blizzard of blips on his screen. Hundreds? This looked like thousands. Then tiny white spots appeared on his screen. Each misshapen spot hid drones and missiles. Where there had been thousands, now there were several large clots.
“What just happened?” Hawthorne shouted.
“My monitor is showing white!” an officer shouted. “Splotches, over ten of them. What’s happening?”
“Are they jamming us?” Blackstone asked quietly.
Then Hawthorne recognized what had happened. For a moment, he felt dizzy. Was this going to be the cyborg tactic?
“My monitor is showing the splotches, too,” Kursk said. “Have they infected the ship with a computer virus?”
“No,” Hawthorne said.
“Do you know what’s happening?” Kursk asked.
“I do,” Hawthorne said. “They’re exploding nukes.”
Blackstone glanced up in shock. Another officer slapped his screen hard, as if he understand the significance of what Hawthorne said.
Hawthorne nodded to himself. A nuclear explosion sent out a blast of heat and radiation. On thermal and other scanners, that would show up as white splotches, at least for a short time.
“They’re lighting nuclear weapon,” Hawthorne said, “extremely powerful ones that send out heavy electromagnetic pulses, EMPs.”
“Do you know why?” asked Blackstone.
“Can’t you see?” asked Hawthorne. “The blasts shield the missiles behind them. The blasts temporarily blind our sensors.”
“At that extreme range why bother?” Blackstone asked. “I don’t understand.”
Hawthorne grunted. That didn’t surprise him. Probably he was the only one who could see it. If he was right…this was going to prove to be the deadly battle that everyone had been expecting.
* * *
Through a vast array of sensors, the Prime Web-Mind watched the masses of drones accelerate from behind Neptune, burning past Triton as they sped toward the hated enemy.
Every sixteen seconds, a nuclear-tipped drone exploded. The bombs were specially shaped so over half the weapon’s energy sped directly at the enemy fleet. The explosion temporarily blinded sensors in a small area.
The logic was simple. What an enemy failed to spot precisely, it couldn’t destroy with a laser. The distances in space combat demanded incredible precision for long-ranged beams. The Doom Stars and especially the SU ships were far away, hours away at the highest acceleration. That meant thousands of detonated drones would be needed to hide the mass missile attack. Fortunately, it had tens of thousands of drones and missiles. They were simple weapons, cheaply-made but in incredible abundance.
The targeting would come later from Lurkers. Until then, the lemming-like horde of drones continued to accelerate around Neptune and pas
t Triton as they headed for the enemy. Every sixteen seconds, another forward drone detonated to hide its fellow missiles behind it from enemy sensors.
The final battle for survival had finally begun.
* * *
“This fight isn’t going to be won with finesse!” Sulla roared over the screen. “Look at their numbers.” For a second, the Highborn’s image disappeared from the screen. In its place was another image showing swarms of projectiles, a blizzard of them. As his harsh features reappeared, Sulla said, “We must counter them with mass. Hawthorne, use your missiles, all of them. You can destroy thousands now.”
“Use your lasers to thin the horde,” Hawthorne replied.
Sulla shook his head. “The white-outs are perfectly timed. Until they reach to within one hundred thousand kilometers, we’ll just be shooting in the dark.”
“That sounds like cyborg finesse,” Hawthorne said.
Sulla snarled. “Use your missiles or I’ll turn my ship around and—”
“Stop!” Hawthorne said, as he held up a hand. “Threats won’t work today. We need unity.”
“We need missiles to take out their mass,” Sulla said.
“I’ll order the missile-ship forward,” Hawthorne said, “and it will make a mass launching.”
Sulla glared at him, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. Then his image faded away.
After giving the needed order, Hawthorne rested his head against the couch. He closed his eyes. The number of enemy drones…
“Sir,” Kursk said, “the Number Seven Probe is picking up a reading.”
Hawthorne sat up as his heart began to pound.
“Sir,” Kursk said, “the readings—it’s a cyborg ship, a cloaked vessel.”
“Range?” Hawthorne hissed.
Four hundred thousand kilometers behind us,” she said.
“It’s well outside our laser range,” Hawthorne said, “but not outside the range of the Highborn. Patch me through to Admiral Scipio.”
Soon, the Doom Stars began to beam behind the SU battleships. The heavy lasers destroyed Lurkers, but only the handful they had managed to spot.
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