So, even though a planet-bound human would expect someone to spot the forty-five ice-chunks barreling straight at Phobos, the probability of that was low. Teleoptic scopes were like a person’s eyes. To see an object they had to be looking in that direction. Just as it would take many people standing all around the moon to watch every quadrant of space, so it would take many teleoptic scopes pointing everywhere to do likewise. Radar would have a better chance picking up the icy chunks once they were near Phobos, as radar could more easily cover broad sections of space.
That radar-probability had entered Supreme Commander Hawthorne’s original plan and Toll Seven’s adjustments to it. Therefore, two critical elements now affected the success of the cyborg assault. First, the arrival of the ice-embedded pods near Mars was timed with Phobos’ orbit around the planet. The moon circled Mars three times during the Martian day or once every 7.3 hours. The pods used Mars as a shield and reached Phobos just as it came around the curvature of the planet. The radar stations on Phobos thus had less time than otherwise to spot the approaching ice. Deimos could still catch the pods by radar or one of the laser or orbital platforms in close-Mars orbit could. Yet Toll Seven had suggested that those stations would be less likely to radar-spot the ice as Phobos would, since the ice-coated pods came at the moon and not at those platforms. Still, the probability existed. And to lessen that probability, Toll Seven, with Commodore Blackstone’s agreement, had decided to add one more factor. They would inundate Martian space defense with data, giving the Martians something else to worry about than faint radar signals.
Commodore Blackstone’s gut churned. He had slept poorly, knowing that the next wake cycle would either begin the end of everything he knew or begin the end of Highborn arrogance. Because of the cyborgs, there was also the possibility it would do both.
Blackstone now stood in the cramped command center of the Vladimir Lenin. Commissar Kursk and General Fromm stood with him around the holographic map-module. For once, Toll Seven was absent. The cyborg remained in his command pod, he said overseeing the moving of the pods to the safest location in the Battlefleet. It seemed like a strange reason, but perhaps it made logical sense to a cyborg. Whatever the reason, Blackstone appreciated Toll Seven’s absence and would have liked to make it permanent.
“It’s time,” Commissar Kursk said. With Toll Seven’s absence, she had regained some of her composure. She even wore lipstick, and her stance was more aggressive, more like the commissar Blackstone remembered.
Blackstone stared at the holograph, his thoughts weighted by his responsibility.
Months of lonely waiting out here, months of dodging the Doom Star a half-a-year ago and then weeks of gathering the Battlefleet now came down to this moment. The sneak attack on Mars orbital defense had begun nearly two days ago. Before that, the warships had received much needed material. The supply convoy from Earth had brought new coils, missiles, foodstuffs, cloths, laser parts and sundry other items that humans needed to survive in cramped quarters in outer space. Each of the warships had come in ragged. Months of running from Doom Stars or floating uselessly in deep space had badly affected morale. These last few weeks had changed much of that, but not all. The Battlefleet wasn’t as sharp as it could be. If he lost too many warships in the coming hours and days, it would mean disaster.
Commodore Blackstone’s gut churned, his mind shying away from that brutal thought. If he lost too many warships, Social Unity would never get another chance to make a new fleet. He could lose the future of Inner Planets here in the next few hours. If he won, the gamble for survival continued.
“Toll Seven is on line three, sir,” the communications officer said.
Blackstone continued to stare at the holograph, switching views so he could study the many spaceships that made up his fleet. This was it. This was the moment of decision.
“Commodore Blackstone,” the communications officer said. “Toll Seven is insistent.”
Blackstone felt warm flesh touch his wrist. He looked up into Commissar Kursk’s brown eyes. They stared with worry, while the brim of her cap was low over her eyes. The curve of her cheekbones—the commissar was quite beautiful. She still held his wrist as she touched his skin. His wife’s touch had felt like that. Blackstone glanced at the commissar’s hand. What if he twined his fingers with hers? What if they lay on his bed together, naked?
“Commodore Blackstone, are you well?” Kursk asked.
Blackstone squeezed his eyes shut and then snapped them open. “It’s time,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Open a channel to all ships,” he told the communications officer. “It’s time we began the Mars Attack.”
Burn-scarred Commander Zapata, the orbital launch officer and the Martian with an eye-patch, had been busy the past two hours. The strange, SU Battlefleet maneuver almost two days ago still bothered him. It had been bothering him ever since the klaxons had wailed that day.
Then, Zapata had ordered a layer of prismatic crystals sprayed from the containers and between the SU Battlefleet and his satellite. He had given the order to protect his station from sudden laser-strikes. Then he had launched probes to keep an eye on the Battlefleet. The layer of prismatic crystals had blocked his teleoptic scopes from watching the SU warships. The probes had therefore radioed their data back to him. He had been certain then that the layer of aerosols laid by the Battlefleet had been a prelude to a sneak attack.
Now, almost two days later, he had been proved wrong. They had all been wrong. Most of the strategists now believed it had been a maneuver to upset them and to make them waste prismatic crystals and aerosol gels. The new SU Battlefleet disposition had also started endless debates.
Commander Zapata hadn’t accepted any of those explanations. He had ordered a radar and teleoptic sweep on the Battlefleet. Those sweeps had discovered nothing other than the new formation.
“There has to be something more,” he said.
He stood on his command bridge. It was more spacious than Commodore Blackstone’s command center. Space was a premium on the Vladimir Lenin. On the orbital launch station, they had extra room.
Zapata stared up at a main screen. Other officers and personnel behind consoles faced the same way, but most of them studied their smaller vidscreens.
“The Battlefleet is accelerating!” someone shouted.
That created a babble of noise.
“Put it on the main screen,” Zapata ordered.
With powerful teleoptic scopes at full magnification, the commander was able to view the SU Battlefleet. Over one hundred spaceships engaged their engines. It created a bright burn behind each vessel. The majority of those vessels were the convoy supply ships from Earth. The huge battleships and missile-cruisers led the way.
“Where are they headed?” Zapata shouted. He wanted to speak in a quiet, confident voice. He was too excited for that, too scared.
“For Mars, sir!”
The babble of noise intensified.
“Sir,” someone else shouted. “I’m picking up strange readings.”
“From the Battlefleet?” Zapata asked.
“No, sir. It’s in near orbit.”
“Show me.”