Vaughn Heppner - Star Fortress

“Yes.”

“That means you don’t have enough Highborn to capture the Sun Station by yourself,” Marten said.

“We have enough,” Felix said, “but one can always use more, especially against a cunning warrior like Maximus.”

“How many Highborn follow you?” Marten asked.

“Forty-two now. How many…men follow you?”

“Thirty.”

“Release me, Kluge, and I will take you to our base. Together, we shall storm the Sun Station. It’s doubtful we’ll succeed, and if we do, one of us will surely die during the storming. If we both win, we can fight, you and I. The winner chooses where to fire the beam.”

“Let me first speak with my commanders,” Marten said. “Either way, however, I will free you.”

“Words,” Felix said.

Marten drew his vibroblade and hacked away the restraints.

With a roar, Felix sat up and massaged his wrists. Then he floated off the frame. “I need clothes,” he said, sounding like a king.

“We’ll get them,” Marten said. “Be cautioned, however. Only this chamber and the next are pressurized.”

“Yes, a wise precaution,” Felix said. “Now go, make your decision. And I salute you, Marten Kluge.” The nine-foot Highborn snapped off a precision salute. “You are a warrior indeed to release someone as dangerous as me.”

Marten, Omi and Osadar exited the chamber. None wore their helmet as they floated into the next room.

“Did you notice the tattoo on his triceps?” Osadar asked. “It showed a clenched fist, with an iron ring around the middle finger?”

“I did,” Marten said. “It means he’s an Ultraist.”

“Since you knew that, why did you free him?” Osadar asked.

“I’ve been tortured before,” Marten said.

“You have sympathy for a potential mass murderer?” Osadar asked.

“No, I have sympathy for a human in distress.”

“They’re not human,” Omi said. “They’re monsters.”

“Their genes have been warped,” Marten said. “They’re like hyper-myrmidons. Yet for all that, they’re still human. I won’t stand by and watch a man be tortured.”

“I do not trust him,” Osadar said.

“I don’t either,” Marten said. “But he needs us.”

“He needs our patrol boat.”

“I doubt he knows that yet,” Marten said.

“Since he is an Ultraist,” Osadar said, “he must be allied with Admiral Sulla. Sulla must know something about Maximus’s goals and this is one of his counters. We have likely stumbled onto a Highborn power play.”

“Seems reasonable,” Marten said.

“The Ultraists are little better than the cyborgs when it comes to humanity’s fate,” Osadar said.

“Like the man said,” Marten replied, “it’s doubtful both of us will survive the attack. So we’ll join forces for now and see what happens. The trick will be in turning against them a minute before they turn on us.”

“Treacherous allies may prove worse than no allies whatsoever,” Osadar said.

“No one said this was going to be easy,” Marten said. “It’s a fight to the finish with extinction staring us in the face. We’re near the last lap, and now we have our own Highborn to fight with us. It’s better than trying to storm the Sun Station with thirty marines.”

“Where is this secret base of his?” Osadar asked.

“That’s a good question,” Marten said. “Let’s ask him.”

Far from the Sun in the void of Outer Planets, the Alliance Fleet sped toward its destiny. There were four big SU battleships, the Vladimir Lenin among them, and one missile-ship. They were impressive warships, bristling with weaponry and protected by gigantic particle shields. The Doom Stars dwarfed the battleships, making the SU vessels seem like small scout destroyers.

They hurtled through space, having long ago achieved maximum velocity. Soon each ship would turn around and use a hot burn to decelerate so they could fight at battle-speeds in the Neptune System. Otherwise, they would fly past Neptune like comets and sail for the outer reaches of the Solar System.

Many tens of millions of kilometers behind the Alliance Fleet trailed three meteor-ships. Sub-Strategist Circe had hailed the fleet twice. The humans had replied each time. The Highborn had never even acknowledged the messages.

As the Alliance warships sped toward Neptune, a pod detached from the forward battleship of Vice-Admiral Mandela’s Fifth Fleet. The pod accelerated. After moving a kilometer-and-a-half in relative distance, it decelerated, carefully maneuvering into a hanger bay on the Vladimir Lenin .

The chief occupant of the pod was Vice-Admiral Mandela himself. He shook hands with the deck crew and then hurried away.

Using a screen, Hawthorne watched the exchange. He was in Blackstone’s wardroom. Hawthorne had his doubts about Mandela, although once he had been an outstanding flag officer. Mandela’s extended stay in deep space and time among the Highborn during the planet-wrecker emergency seemed to have wrung something out of him. Hawthorne would withhold final judgment until after the meeting. He vowed, however, that mankind’s existence would not fail because he was too sentimental. Now was the time for hard decisions, maybe the hardest of this life.

Soon, Hawthorne spoke earnestly with Blackstone and Mandela. They met in the wardroom, at a low table with bulbs of steaming coffee resting in slot-holders. Mandela had been grumbling and upset, until he did a double-take upon seeing Hawthorne.

Mandela now sat at the table. He was a tall black man with curly-white hair, large eyes and a badly rumpled uniform. That had always been his trademark: a sloppy dresser but a hard-charger. His Fifth Fleet was the strongest one left to Social Unity.

“You have to believe me, sir,” Mandela was saying. “The Highborn won’t listen to us. They never have and aren’t going to change their habits now.”

Hawthorne wore a crisp uniform and during the journey out, he’d regained some of his former presence. His nose might have been longer or maybe his face was thinner than it used to be. It gave him a hawkish look. He had been doing a lot of reading lately and even more thinking.

“The Highborn listen to strength,” Hawthorne said, who watched Mandela closely. “They are never swayed by sentiment. Appealing to their better nature is useless.”

“That’s just it, sir,” Mandela said, leaning forward, taking his bulb of coffee and sipping from it. “They can destroy our warships any time they want. I doubt we could destroy any of theirs before we were vaporized. It means we lack bargaining power.”

Hawthorne took his time answering. He didn’t like the wheedling tone, the obvious fear of the Highborn. Mandela had done his duty two years ago. He’d aged since then and his nerves…

“You’re looking at it from the wrong perspective,” Hawthorne said.

Mandela shook his head, and it seemed he might take another sip of coffee. Then he thrust the bulb into the table-slot and spoke without looking up. “Sir, what matters is how the Highborn will view the situation. They control the Doom Stars.”

Hawthorne glanced sidelong at Blackstone.

The Commodore stirred uneasily. Maybe he sensed the scrutiny. First clearing his throat, Blackstone said, “The Vice-Admiral has a point.”

They’re both tired, just as I was tired. They haven’t had a rest and both have served in deep space for too long . He couldn’t sack both flag officers, however. It would hurt morale too much, especially after his strange behavior these past months. The crews might lose faith in him.

Hawthorne decided his lesson needed a short preamble. “Before I reached flag command and then the supreme office, I was a historian. It’s given me perspective. I have long studied the conquerors of the past, the Great Captains of history. Later, I studied the Highborn. Gentlemen, I have studied them and learned much. One critical thing I’ve discovered is that it’s a mistake to take the arrogance, the loud voices and bullying tactics at face value. The Highborn are cold-bloodedly ruthless and quite able to make lightning-quick calculations despite their bluster.”