Doom Star: Book 05 - Planet Wrecker (27 page)

“Good luck against the cyborgs, my boy.”

“I’m not your boy. I’m your death waiting to happen.”

The pang of hurt touched Cassius heart again. With a deep breath, he buried that hurt. He steeled himself to the tasks at hand. Then he headed for the door, never once looking back, not even as Felix groaned, fighting to get up.

Unlike the Highborn in the Luna Missile Complex, Cassius slept an average of five hours a night. It was impossible to go days on end with stims without experiencing mental fatigue. As Grand Admiral, he needed mental acuity.

He presently rowed in a machine, his nine-foot body lathered in sweat. The rowing machine was in his quarters aboard the
Julius Caesar
, one of several personal luxuries. Three days had passed since he’d executed Senior Tribune Cato. It was true he’d asked the impossible from the Highborn. And Cato’s objections had been logical. None of that mattered, however.

There had been a particularly effective Marshal of the Soviet Union during World War Two. His name had been Georgi Konstanitinovich Zhukov. He’d been a hard preman and an outstanding general. Partly due to his tireless energy and ruthlessness, the Soviet forces had halted the dreaded German panzers before the gates of Moscow. Even more impressive, Zhukov had carefully husbanded his forces so he could unleash a devastating winter campaign on the exhausted German armies. During the fateful seven months of 1941 and the German blitzkrieg into Russia, Zhukov had been the chief troubleshooter for Dictator Stalin. One of Zhukov’s most successful ploys had been to shoot those generals and colonels who failed on the battlefield. The preman had ruthlessly dominated the situation by constantly demanding the impossible from his immediate underlings. Due to their fear of Zhukov, generals found themselves able to achieve feats surpassing their old performance levels.

As Cassius rowed, panting heavily, he was determined to shape reality by the power of his will. Time ticked away as the asteroids sped for Earth. More than ever, he needed strength and fierce will. Then he needed imagination to outthink the cyborgs.

There was a loud
ping
in the room. A red light flashed. The intercom crackled with life. “…Grand Admiral?”

Cassius released the handles and climbed out of the rowing machine. “Give me forty seconds,” he said.

“As per your request, the Supreme Commander of the Premen will be online in twenty.”

“I require ninety seconds,” said Cassius. “Make sure he stays connected.”

“Yes sir.”

Still breathing heavily, Cassius tore off his clothes, tossing them onto his cot. Then he entered the shower. A hot needlelike spray jetted against his sweaty skin and against scars and old bruises. There was a particularly nasty one on his left shoulder-blade, shiny tissue there showing where a force-blade had once cut him to the bone. He lathered shampoo in his bristly hair and then let the hot water wash it out. Seconds later, he exited the shower, toweled dry and stood before a blower. Cold air caused his skin to prickle. He gasped, and he felt alive. Soon, he put on a shirt, buttoning it fast, and he put a dress jacket over that. He strode to his desk, sat and ran his big fingers through his hair. Facing a video camera, he waited for the seconds to tick away.

“I’m ready,” he said.

The screen came to life, and Supreme Commander Hawthorne faced him. There was a bookshelf behind the preman. Cassius mentally made a note to check the titles of those books later, possibly giving him greater insight into the Supreme Commander. Then Hawthorne surprised Cassius by speaking first and immediately to the issue.

“We need to adjust the attack,” said Hawthorne.

Cassius practiced calm, staring at the preman. Maybe it would be better to hold these meetings in person. Let the preman feel his presence and the thin specimen would have to deal with physical fear. That might help curb the sub-human’s tongue.

“As we’ve scheduled it,” said Hawthorne, “there are too many possibilities for errors, for mistakes at precisely the wrong moment.”

“I summoned you for an entirely different reason,” Cassius said.

Hawthorne shook his head. “Grand Admiral, we are like two men fighting in a room to the death. Now a pack of wolves has crawled through the windows to kill us both. We have been forced to stand back-to-back and fight together. Otherwise, we shall both die.”

“I have no time for analogies.”

“Social Unity is one of those men,” said Hawthorne. “You Highborn are the other. There is still much hatred between us, much distrust. That hatred and distrust might flare up on the battlefield. Therefore, we must change the parameters in order to forestall such an event. Instead of attacking as a united force and mingling together, I suggest we each accept specific spheres of action. You conquer your sphere and we shall conquer ours.”

“Have you forgotten?” asked Cassius. “We attack cyborgs. They will destroy your Homo sapien troops. Then we Highborn shall have to conquer both your sphere and ours. It is better if you Homo sapiens are stiffened with Highborn officers and fighters among you.”

“How easily did you conquer North America?” Hawthorne asked.

“No, no, that is the wrong example. In North America, in every battlefield on Earth, Social Unity enjoyed a vast numerical preponderance. Against the cyborgs, we have a limited number of elite units. It is a given that you lack such troops. And that is the nature of my call. The date is late. But I suggest that you allot half your Orion-ships to me. I will fill them with more Highborn commandoes. That will give us a greater margin of superior troops on the asteroids.”

“That’s out of the question,” Hawthorne said.

“The survival of Earth is at stake. What possible reason could you have to object to such a reasonable request?”

“Earthmen will ride the Orion-ships to do battle against our enemy,” said Hawthorne. “And instead of fighting under your command, they will fight separately under their own officers.”

“Unity of command is a primary principle for victory,” said Cassius.

“We are allies,” said Hawthorne. “We will fight as equals, not under Highborn dominance. In this, every director, field marshal and general has agreed.”

The lowing of cattle
, Cassius thought, even as he forced a smile. “Highborn are better soldiers by several factors. You and I have witnessed this on every battlefield. Now under our guidance and protection, you premen—you Homo sapiens will survive longer on the asteroids and therefore do more damage against the cyborgs. Give us half your Orion-ship berths and even more Highborn can reach the asteroids. That will raise the probability of victory by many percentage points.”

“Never!” said Hawthorne.

“I fail to grasp your intransigence,” said Cassius. “My reasoning is flawless. Why then do you insist on weakening our attack?”

“I’m not weakening anything.”

“Replacing Homo sapiens with Highborn will raise the combat value of our limited number of troops,” Cassius said. “I know you are a logical person, gifted in strategic sense. You must see this. I know you see it. We’re speaking about the survival of Earth, of the billions living here. How then can you—”

“First,” said Hawthorne, as he stabbed a finger onto his desk. “I will not allow Highborn on Eurasian soil. Second, none of you shall see our launch sites or examine the inside of our ships. Third, we shall fight for our own survival and not rely solely upon you.”

“Supreme Commander, as a collective whole, you Homo sapiens will be providing the Orion-ships. You fashioned those vessels through your labor. Take joy in your craft.”

“I ask that you no longer refer to us as
Homo sapiens
,” said Hawthorne. “We are men.”

Cassius sat back. “Is this an elaborate ploy to attempt subterfuge against us?”

Leaning forward, Hawthorne said, “You are a proud people, Grand Admiral. It is the dominant trait among you.”

“Our excellence is our dominant trait.”

Hawthorne folded his hands on top of the desk as he looked earnestly at Cassius. “I think the easiest way for you to understand this is pride, human pride, our pride.”

“Is that a joke?” asked Cassius.

Hawthorne frowned. “…Grand Admiral, you and I have matched wits for several years now. Surely, you’ve learned something about me and about humanity, just as I’ve learned about you and the Highborn. We have our pride, and you must realize by now how stubbornly we can hold to our position.”

As much as he hated to do it, Cassius inclined his head. He’d learned that premen could be amazingly foolish in a vast multitude of ways. Here was simply another example. Pride, stubbornness—it would be more accurate to call it bovine dullness and a lack of imagination. He shouldn’t have expected more from them, not even from Hawthorne. Perhaps the better plan would be to reconfigure the attack, using the Orion-ships as fodder. He would subtly alter the schedule so the preman vessels absorbed the majority of the cyborg lasers and counter-missiles. Yes, he could already see the best way to do this.

“The size of the asteroid strike is fearsome,” Hawthorne was saying. “Earth’s survival is questionable. In this hour, we shall fight. We will not stand aside for anyone, least of all for Highborn. Neither shall we fight under anyone but our own.”

“Your racial prejudice is a weakness,” said Cassius, “lacking any bearing on reality.”

“We have fought bravely against you,” Hawthorne said. “And we will continue to fight bravely, no matter who comes against us. Will you stand with us in this final hour?”

Cassius attempted another facial gesture of good will. It was time to lull Hawthorne. He would definitely have to reconfigure the attack, setting the Orion-ships to absorb enemy weaponry. It would be the best use of such poor-quality fighting material.

“I see that I must adjust,” said Cassius. “What are your exact suggestions?”

“I’ll send you the data now,” said Hawthorne.

“Yes, excellent,” said Cassius. “Begin the transmission.”

Zero hour struck far too soon for Hawthorne’s comfort. It found him pacing deep in the control center in the Joho Mountains of China Sector.

Before him were banks of screens and their operators. They showed Orion-ship bunkers in the Eurasian heartland.

Hawthorne fixated on Kazakhstan Sector, on Bunker Ninety-Eight. Around the titanic installation were huge ferroconcrete pillboxes. The point-defense cannons in those pillboxes remained idle today. No one had ever envisioned such a situation as this. Instead, every tactician and strategist assigned to the think-tanks had envisioned the Orion-ships having to fight every inch of the way into space against Highborn missiles, lasers and orbitals.

After glancing around the underground control complex, Hawthorne frowned. He felt naked today, exposed. There were banks of screens and operators, with colonels and generals behind them, watching. In the background were hard-eyed men and women, Cone’s security people. They wore black synthi-leather jackets and ear-jacks. Captain Mune and his bionic soldiers were aboard the Orion-ships. It had been a hard decision for Hawthorne. Mune had been with him for so long and had guarded his back so often that now….

Hawthorne knew this was a political risk, and a risk to his personnel security. But the safety of the planet trumped his own. Could Cone’s people guard him as effectively as the bionic men had? The answer was no. The better question was: could Cone’s people do the job and keep him alive?

Above the whispering around him, Hawthorne heard an operator say, “Bunker Ninety-Eight is opening.”

First rubbing his tired eyes, Hawthorne peered at the nearest screen. It showed vast ferroconcrete bays sliding open. Something rose into view from the darkness. He glimpsed the nosecones of various modified attack-craft. Captain Mune was supposed to be in one of those.

“The countdown has begun,” said the operator, a red-eyed woman watching her board. “…Three, two, one, zero—we have ignition.”

Hawthorne shielded his eyes from the first blast before looking. The great Orion-ship rode a huge, roiling cloud of dust and brightly heated plasma into the air. It was a vast space-vessel, with a mammoth blast-shield of ferroconcrete, steel, construction-foam and titanium. Another nuclear bomb squirted out of its exhaust port. There was a second flash, and it forced the Orion-ship higher yet into the atmosphere.

The blast-shield protected the attack-craft parked on the ship’s front. The Orion used nuclear pulse propulsion, with each bomb providing the violent pulse. Nothing humanity had yet devised could lift so much mass, so quickly from Earth.

Hawthorne marveled at the ship. It had been under construction ever since he’d sent the supply fleet to Mars several years ago. If anyone could absorb the punishing liftoff of nuclear bombs, it would be Captain Mune and his men. Glancing at other screens, Hawthorne saw other Orion-ships lifting from their bunkers, seven altogether. These Orion-ships had been part of a two-year-long project to take back near-Earth orbit and possibly capture the Moon. Now the seven giant craft sped toward the stratosphere, smashing their way up out of Earth’s gravity so they could reach the asteroids in the coming weeks. These Orion-ships dwarfed those sent on the Mars mission by two hundred percent.

Watching them, Hawthorne felt a lump in his throat. This could be the last SU Fleet ever launched from Earth. If the soldiers in them failed—extinction! Hawthorne straightened and lifted his arm in a crisp salute. “Good luck, Captain Mune,” he whispered. “I wish you well…friend.”