Vaughn Heppner - Star Fortress

The nine-foot-tall Highborn had oiled his face, giving him a warrior’s shine or glow . Many considered Sulla to be the deadliest combat fighter among the Highborn. He had thick dark hair and his eyes almost seemed to spark with hostility. If he lacked some of the strategic breadth of others, he made up for it with a tight-knit faction of Ultraists and a ruthless willingness to do anything required to achieve victory.

He had advanced high in a short time. During the planet-wrecker assault, Sulla had been a bridge officer aboard Grand Admiral Cassius’s ship. It had been the destruction of the Gustavus Adolphus that had changed so much, taking some of Cassius’s staunchest supporters. No Ultraists had died because the Gustavus’s commander had forbidden any of the cult aboard his warship. Because of that, the percentage of Ultraists among the Highborn had risen dramatically. It had no longer been possible to deny an Ultraist a major command slot.

Who would have believed such a thing possible? Sulla grinned at the thought. Cassius had made a temporary alliance with the premen. Then a preman had murdered the Grand Admiral. That Sulla had aided the premen in the act…well, that just made Cassius’s death even sweeter.

I must now discover all of Cassius’s secrets . Sulla flexed his fingers. Whom must I assassinate next? It was an interesting question. Then he shook his head, concentrating on the moment and the fighting robot in the chamber with him.

Sulla wore steel-reinforced gauntlets, a body-length synthi-suit and a fierce scowl.

The robot was a squat device rolling on treads, possessing five mechanical stalks. The stalks were as supple as whips. One had a three-inch knife on the end. The others had blunt knobs and could easily beat a man into submission. The robot had beaten six FEC traitors at a time to death. Sulla had witnessed the event on four separate occasions. The FEC soldiers had rebelled against the Highborn during the planet-wrecker attack and foolishly declared independence. Several thousand had paid the ultimate penalty for their disloyalty. Those facing the fighting robot had died hard, many begging for mercy.

Premen made such pathetic soldiers. Only in mass like a horde of lemmings did they present danger. Once more, Sulla shook his head, driving out extraneous thoughts. The robot attempted to outmaneuver and kill him.

Just as my enemies attempt to outmaneuver me, hoping that I make a fatal mistake .

Sulla shifted to the left. The robot paused, and a tread spun, rotating the machine. It would kill him here in the chamber if it could. Sulla never used the lower settings. That would be a mistake of the first order. You practiced at the same level you wished to fight. How otherwise could you hone your instincts to maximum efficiency?

“Come, little death,” he told the robot. “See if you can match the greatest fighting Highborn of all.”

A blue light blinked on the robot, indicating the beginning of a shutdown.

Sulla began to relax, although he was angered. Who dared to tamper with the fighting machine or interrupt his exercise?

As the blue “shutoff” light continued to blink, the robot’s treads spun as it advanced at speed. The whippy stalks moved like an octopus’s limbs, with the knife poised in back for a killing blow.

Sulla bellowed with rage. Here was base trickery. Then a knob struck his thigh. Another hit a rib with enough power to crack a preman’s bones. A third—Sulla’s gauntleted hand caught the mechanical stalk and yanked savagely, ripping it out of the machine. Bits of metal went flying, skipping across the floor. He took a blow to the back of the head. That staggered him, and the knife flashed. He barely twisted in time, taking a stab in his shoulder muscle instead of his throat. With a bound, he retreated, circling the treacherous robot.

The fighting machine rotated, and the blue light blinked more rapidly. It seemed like an act of mockery now.

Sulla’s eyes narrowed. Whoever had tampered with the robot had just done him a favor. He would not forget the lesson. He even had enemies aboard ship.

Spitting at the robot, Sulla took a Shaolin stance. He had never used the ancient Kung-fu technique against the fighting machines. The robot would run a quick analysis on it now, giving him a second. Sulla attacked. He took a blow to the shoulder and another one on his thigh. A red weal had already appeared from a previous strike. The robot’s knife-arm struck, and he grabbed the stalk just below the blade. A mongoose couldn’t have done better against a cobra. Sulla ripped the stalk out of the machine, removing its most dangerous weapon. He jumped back, pivoted and backpedaled.

His thigh throbbed, so did his rib and blood-dripping shoulder. Those were good hurts, however. They told him he was alive.

Lately, the cyborgs had put the Highborn on the defensive and the premen had regained conquered territory on Earth. South American Sector was gone in terms of industry and life. During the planet-wrecker attack, North American Sector had rebelled and rejoined Social Unity. The reason the war went poorly was clear—the Highborn had lost their edge and waited for others to attack. It was time to show the Solar System the Highborn fist.

The blue light on the robot had turned off. Now it blinked again. Sulla pretended to relax. The robot’s treads spun, and the fighting machine lurched closer. Sulla stood transfixed as if surprised. The stalks whipped, and Sulla attacked by moving forward. As the knobs struck, he delivered five hammering blows against the chassis. It smoked as circuits shorted-out, and the pummeling arms fell limply to the chamber’s floor.

That was how you obliterated your enemy, by going in and finishing it, delivering harder blows than you received. It was time to speak with the other high commanders and convince them of this elemental truth.

A day later, Admiral Sulla sat in his chamber. His cut shoulder was still sore, but he had used quick-healing agents to speed the process. The agents repaired his tissues faster than they could have done naturally. Some Highborn disliked Quick-heal and said prolonged usage began to affect one’s judgment. Sulla’s reply was that being wounded and weak affected one’s judgment even more. He was strong and thus attacked his problems head-on as a vigorous warrior should.

Sulla made himself comfortable in the chair. Behind him on the wall was a neural whip, two cestuses and a gyroc pistol. He believed it symbolized his fighting prowess, his willingness to fight any foe one-on-one anywhere, knowing he would always be victorious as the superior soldier.

A red light blinked on his screen. It showed him that the other two admirals on their Doom Stars were ready. There was Admiral Scipio, a tall, retiring Highborn known for his ability to work with the premen. It was a somewhat embarrassing trait, but useful as long as the cyborgs represented a threat. The other was Admiral Cato. He had moved up into Cassius’s vacated chair aboard the Julius Caesar . Cato was stern and taciturn, and was probably more concerned with consolidating his new position than moving on the great enemy at Neptune. Lastly, there was Commandant Maximus, the fourth highest ranked Highborn, having maintained his post at the Sun-Works Factory for several years. It was surprising he hadn’t tried to gain command of a Doom Star. It was odd, in fact. What lay behind it?

Sulla shook his head. He would have to think about it later. The four-way meeting was about to begin.

MAXIMUS: I shall begin since the time lag is the worst for me. I have read Admiral Sulla’s opinion. It is convincing. We should attack Neptune and burnout the cyborg home base. One cannot win a war while remaining on the defensive. However, there are several considerations to keep in mind. One, the news from the Jupiter System is grim. The cyborgs have launched eight planet-wreckers from Uranus. It means the cyborgs control Neptune, Saturn and Uranus and will likely conquer or destroy the Jupiter System in short order.