Fifty-five percent of the Earth Fleet had survived.
Cassius shook his head. The premen had fought harder than he had expected. Because of that, he was going to lose his good friend, Scipio. The Praetor’s people would expect him to give the Praetor the open command slot.
Cassius crackled his knuckles and began to make plans.
-12-
The former Praetor of the Sun-Works Factory walked with a lesser Highborn, a Lot 6 creature. The Praetor believed it was his dire luck to find himself forever saddled with inferior Highborn.
The two of them strode through a utilitarian steel corridor on a combat training station in near-Lunar orbit. The station was torus-shaped and rotated to simulate one hundred and thirty percent Earth gravity. The extra thirty percent helped to harden the training soldiers.
The Praetor towered over the Lot Sixer, an earlier subset from the vats and many years his senior in age. The Praetor possessed broader shoulders, a deeper chest and a more sharply angled face. They both had short cut, thick hair reminiscent of panther’s pelts. The Praetor’s eyes were pink, intense and perhaps possessed more than the usual Highborn ferocity. Each officer had abnormal vitality, at least when compared to sluggish Homo sapiens.
The Praetor’s hands were massive and strong. He clutched an ivory baton, a symbol of the successful destruction of the experimental Beamship Bangladesh. No other SU warship had so impressed the Highborn with its deadliness.
The Lot Sixer wore the green uniform of an infantry specialist and he had pitted features. He’d earned those scars in South America, destroying his twentieth bio-tank. He was the Praetor’s new training master of the subhumans. The last one had died after the failed neutraloid ‘accident’ concerning the Grand Admiral.
Grand Admiral Cassius had no doubt secretly engineered the foisting of yet another Lot 6 upon him. The Grand Admiral was First. He, the Praetor, was Fourth in the strictly graded hierarchy. The Grand Admiral was wise to fear him, wise to try to sabotage him with inferior officer material.
“I’ve read Training Master Lycon’s paper concerning shock troopers,” the Lot Sixer was saying. “He has many credible points.”
The Praetor stopped and stared down at the Lot Sixer. “Training Master Lycon has fled Highborn service. He is a traitor.”
“Perhaps he was killed and the premen—”
“Do not strain logic, Training Master. Do you seriously suggest that half a dozen shock troopers could overpower a Highborn?”
“I’ve read his reports. Lycon trained them to a razor’s edge of premen lethality.”
“That begs the question. Could half a dozen premen defeat you?”
“If I was unarmed and they possessed high technology, it would certainly be possible.”
“Let me rephrase the question. If you possessed a shuttle and picked them up and then they overpowered you, would that be possible?”
“I stand corrected, Praetor.”
The Praetor nodded and began striding down the corridor. The new Training Master hurried to catch up.
“Lycon’s shock troopers did capture the Bangladesh,” the new Training Master said.
“All the shock troopers are dead or converted.”
“Praetor?”
The Praetor allowed himself a small smile. “After Lycon’s departure, I took the liberty and assumed leadership of the shock trooper regiment. Those that remained on the Sun-Works Factory were gelded and converted into neutraloids.”
“You castrated high-quality premen?”
“Your statement is illogical. I turned questionable premen into trustworthy neutraloids.”
“I admit that your neutraloids have unique fighting qualities, at least in a primitive setting. But their rage, Praetor—”
“I have already successfully altered three platoons of neutraloids. They are now undergoing space combat training. Incidentally, that is why you’ve been assigned to me.”
“You wish me to attempt to train these neutraloids?”
“To space combat efficiency. Yes, Training Master.”
“…I’ve read your reports, Praetor. You hand me a daunting task.”
“Do you feel it is beyond your capabilities?”
The Praetor watched the other sidelong. The Training Master had a harsh face with muscles in odd places. They tightened and bulged at his jaws and near his temples. A vein across his forehead grew and throbbed with blood. Oh, how this Lot Sixer wished to challenge him. The Praetor hoped he would. He would break this one in single combat and force the Grand Admiral to send him a real Highborn as Training Master.
The Praetor’s communicator beeped and temporarily broke the tension.
“Yes,” he said, speaking into a wrist communicator. Ah, he spoke with the Grand Admiral.
“Praetor, I have sent a shuttle to pick you up. You will bring your suite with you.”
“At once, sir.” The communicator winked off. The Praetor’s pink eyes seemed to glitter.
The Lot Sixer lost his truculent manner, as he seemed to notice the change come over the Praetor.
“You heard him,” the Praetor said, his voice rougher than before. He slapped the baton into his open palm, enraged that as Fourth he had been bypassed twice for command of a Doom Star. This time, it would be different. Commander Scipio had committed suicide. Now there was no excuse for the Grand Admiral. That cagy old soldier would have to give him command of the Hannibal Barca.
The Praetor and Grand Admiral Cassius sat in a lounge aboard the Julius Caesar. Each hulking Highborn was bent before a three dimensional chessboard.
The Grand Admiral’s skill was legendary. He had three of the Praetor’s pawns and a knight. The Praetor had four enemy pawns, each carefully lined up in a row beside his ivory baton.
The Highborn likened the Grand Admiral to the Great Captains of the premen, those uncanny soldiers of history: Alexander the Great, Hannibal Barca, Julius Caesar, Genghis Khan, Napoleon and others. Instead of a premen genius, however, Grand Admiral Cassius was a Highborn genius. That meant he was superior by a probable factor of ten than when compared to the greatest warlord ever born to Homo sapiens.
That genius radiated from the iron-haired admiral. It was a palpable force, as the Grand Admiral exuded a fierce presence.
The Praetor felt that force, just as he felt the Grand Admiral’s merciless attack on the three dimensional chessboard. The Praetor refused to succumb to a legend, however. He silently berated himself and jeered his nervousness. He was the Praetor. He was a superior Highborn. He was Fourth in the unbelievably competitive world of the genetic super-soldiers. He would ignore the stories about Cassius’s legendary chess assault. He would play his own highly aggressive game and catch the Grand Admiral in a long-term trap.
The room possessed bronze busts of generals of the past and various famous battle paintings. A subtle vibration told the Praetor that the Julius Caesar was under acceleration. It approached Earth, linking with the second Doom Star in the Earth System.
Grand Admiral Cassius decisively moved a pawn, clicking the metal piece onto the glass tile. He then stared at the Praetor across the three dimensional board.
“I do not approve of the gelding of fighting troops.”
The Praetor nodded crisply. “I have sent your office a recording of the battle files of the Storm Assault Missiles. A percentage of the shock troopers sent against the beamship spoke treason against us.”
“Those were words, Praetor. The shock troopers’ action spoke loudly enough about their ultimate loyalty.”