Vaughn Heppner: Star Fortress

“Granted,” he said. “Ah, I know. I’ll write on my blog—”

“You will do nothing of the kind,” Gomez said sternly. “Your blogging days are over.”

He glanced at her. Then he nodded. “Our vessel will need Commandos, will it not?”

“There will be little room for them, but a complement of Martian Commandos will board the vessel once the time comes.”

“I want a berth,” Ricardo said. He dared clutch the Secretary-General’s wrist. “You just said a few minutes ago that you agree with me that a proven man should lead. I killed a cyborg. Therefore, I should lead the Commandos.”

“No,” Gomez said.

Ricardo’s fingers slipped off her wrist. He blinked in confusion. “Why did you bring me here then and show me all this? Who is a better Commando?”

“No one is better,” she said, “at least in terms of killing cyborgs.”

“Then why not let me go?”

“I won’t let you go as the leader of the Commandos,” she said.

“Then—”

“I want you to captain the sole Martian warship,” Gomez said.

“What?”

“You will take orders directly from Marten Kluge, when and if we discover his whereabouts. Otherwise, you will make your decisions as the sole representative of the Mars Planetary Union Fleet.”

“A fleet composed of one ship?” Ricardo asked.

“It is all we can launch in time, if we can even manage that. What do you say, Captain Sandoval? Do you accept the commission? Are you willing to journey to Neptune in a cramped warship?”

Ricardo studied the skeletal vessel-in-building. The thrill in his heart—“I accept with everything in me. Even if it means my death, I want to attack the cyborgs. We must attack.”

Secretary-General Gomez nodded as a grim smile stretched into place. “You comfort me, Captain.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I want a man in command of our ship who will draw a bayonet and stab a cyborg seventeen times. I want a man who is willing to fight to the bitter end.”

“You want Marten Kluge.”

She laughed. It was a short, sharp sound. “Either that,” she said, “or the Martian version of him.”

Pride swelled in Ricardo’s chest. That was the greatest compliment of his life. Here and now, he vowed to do everything in his power to live up to the reputation. Mars must be free and humanity must survive the cyborgs!

Supreme Commander James Hawthorne sat before a screen as he spoke with Grand Admiral Cassius. The coiled ferocity of the Highborn never failed to impress him. It was like looking into the eyes of a psychopath. The sharp facial angles, the stark whiteness of the skin and the short hair like a panther’s pelt…at heart, Cassius was a killer. It was good to remember that.

Hawthorne sat in his office in New Baghdad. The years had worn him down. He was stooped and thin, with bags under his eyes. Massive crop failures and a strain of poisonous bacteria in the algae had caused grim malnutrition or outright starvation among eighty-three percent of the SU population. There were constant food riots and battalions of riot-control militia now. Misery abounded as extinction stared humanity in the face. He felt old and used up. The nuclear destruction of the Soviets last year—

Hawthorne forced himself to concentrate on Cassius. It was hard looking into those eyes. He yearned to turn away, but the Highborn would view that as a sign of weakness.

How are we supposed to destroy the cyborgs? I can’t even trust my allies .

By all reports, the Grand Admiral was aboard the Julius Caesar . Each of the three Doom Stars had collapsium shielding now. Hawthorne had asked for collapsium to shield some of the SU battleships. Cassius had agreed, provided such warships came under the authority of Highborn commanders. Hawthorne couldn’t agree to that.

“Don’t you wish to save your species?” Cassius had asked.

Hawthorne could have told Cassius you don’t turn your back on a psychopath. However, he was too careful about what he told the Master Race to say such a thing. Highborn were proud and as ready to battle as dogs bred for the fighting pits. According to reports, the Highborn had been busy these last several weeks rearranging command slots. That was a surprise. Highborn usually made those changes immediately after a battle, not a year later. Scipio now commanded the Genghis Khan . The reports said that strengthened Cassius’s position. Analysis suggested Cassius might have ordered the old commander’s murder. That didn’t strike Hawthorne as Cassius’s way. The supreme Highborn was a soldier, not an assassin. It was one of the reasons Hawthorne could trust the Grand Admiral to the minimal extent he did.

“If you could give me some gesture,” Cassius was saying onscreen. “It would help me thwart Admiral Sulla’s position.”

Hawthorne knew about Sulla. The Highborn was an Ultraist. Military Intelligence had learned about them. Ultraists spoke about purity to the Race and an elimination of the premen infestation . Ultraists worried about the possible seepage of the weak emotions of mercy, kindness and humility from too much contact with the premen, with normal men.

“I thought Sulla was an officer aboard your ship,” Hawthorne said. He knew very well that Sulla had gained rank. He wanted to see how Cassius answered.

Onscreen, Cassius stiffened. “He is Admiral Sulla to you. He is Highborn and worthy of the proper respect.”

“Of course,” Hawthorne said.

“Admiral Sulla has gained a following and managed to oust the previous commander of the Napoleon Bonaparte .”

“I see,” Hawthorne said. That fit with his information. “What seems to be the problem then? Does Admiral Sulla not approve of our planned attack into the Neptune System?”

Cassius stared at him.

Hawthorne kept a poker face throughout the silence. Did the Grand Admiral know about the secret communication with Sulla? The new Highborn commander might be an Ultraist, but Sulla wanted the Grand Admiral’s chair more than purity to his theories—at least in the short term. According to reports, Sulla was concerned about Cassius. If was difficult and in most cases impossible for a Highborn to admit to fear. Apparently, concern was the most they could feel. Intelligence believed there was a power-struggle going on among the Highborn. Well, there was an intensification to the constant power-struggle. The Highborn lived like a pack of beasts, constantly jockeying for position.

Hawthorne decided that Cassius knew about the communication with Sulla. It would be a foolish mistake to underestimate the Grand Admiral.

“What sort of gesture are we talking about?” Hawthorne asked.

“Perhaps you should return North American Sector to Highborn control,” Cassius said, his eyes oily dark.

“I thought you and I had agreed to a freeze on territorial changes,” Hawthorne said. “The cyborgs would rejoice if we reopened hostilities against each other.”

“Hmm,” Cassius said. “Admiral Sulla has rightly pointed out that you broke the original agreement, taking North American Sector during the planet-wreckers’ approach. By the terms of our initial truce, you must return North American Sector to us.”

Hawthorne cleared his throat. This was a delicate topic. “Grand Admiral, I would like to speak frankly. Beginning in 2349 you bombarded Geneva and invaded—”

“Supreme Commander, I am not interested in listening to objections that originate from preman moral philosophies. We attacked Social Unity because we are the stronger species and were in subjection to a lesser race. The situation was unnatural, as the only true imperative is survival of the fittest. The laws of Nature are immutable, particularity in this regard. We have stopped attacking because the cyborgs represent a unique threat to both of us. What use is our victory in Inner Planets if the cyborgs swallow us afterward? You originally thought to use the cyborgs against us and realized the error of your strategy only after they had turned on you. Now at last you have turned to us for aid. We both understand that it is in our combined interests to work together. This unity cannot function, however, if you will not abide by the agreed-upon terms.”