The Praetor and his Highborn crew had endured the Gs for some time as the Thutmosis III build up speed. Highborn could endure greater Gs than a Homo sapien, who blacked out at a sustained 6 or 7 Gs.
The former SU missile-ship had undergone radical transformation at the Sun-Works Factory. First, the massive particle shields had been removed. Then it had received a new low radar signature hull and a new coat of anti-teleoptic paint. Massive, detachable tanks and huge warfare pods had also been added. The tanks contained propellant for the fusion engines. The warfare pods held specially designed drones and missiles.
The Praetor lay on the couch, enduring and mentally cursing himself as a fool to have trusted Grand Admiral Cassius. If the Praetor were to design a clever punishment module, he would use the Thutmosis III. Instead of having the freedom and energy to plot to unseat the Grand Admiral, the Praetor had lost weight under the emergency acceleration. He was no longer near the center of power, the Doom Stars in Earth orbit, but tucked away near the Sun. If the constant acceleration didn’t kill him, the Sun’s radiation would. In his opinion, they flew much too near the nuclear ball of matter. And the warship’s velocity—if this went on much longer, the Praetor’s ship would reach speeds for a trip to Alpha Centauri.
The Praetor had studied the files about the Bangladesh. The SU beamship had reached respectable speeds, but the acceleration of the Thutmosis III dwarfed what the SU ship had achieved.
As he lay on the acceleration couch, the Praetor made a grotesque grin. The acceleration deformed his features and made bowel moments a horror. But if a Homo sapien could do a thing, a Highborn could do it twice as well, even three, or four times better. The Bangladesh’s attack plan had been clever, and it had employed its fantastically-ranged beam to good effect. The new Highborn strategy for drones and missiles would be even cleverer.
Yet it would only be clever, if Social Unity moved as the Grand Admiral had predicted. If not, then soon the Thutmosis III would have to begin deceleration. The Praetor made a grotesquely wry face. The Grand Admiral had never been specific about how the Thutmosis III was to stop its terrific velocity. The only reasonable method would use Jupiter or Saturn’s gravity to brake the Thutmosis III. Would the lords of Jupiter or Saturn allow that?
Like all Highborn, the Praetor was well aware of his superiority. The Grand Admiral might assume that those of Jupiter or Saturn would fear Highborn too much to harm a lone ship. Unfortunately, he’d learned one thing as the governor of the Sun-Works Factory: Premen were strangely resistant to rational behavior. Some preferred death to the logical submission to their betters.
The Praetor slowly shifted upon his acceleration couch. He had learned through his crew that anything but slow moves could cause muscle tears. Already, several Highborn lay in mortal agony on their couches. Groin, gut and sexual organ tears were the worst. Pulled hamstrings and triceps were also bad, but not necessarily fatal.
For the upcoming battle, the Thutmosis III was the Highborn secret weapon. It would win them the war for Inner Planets. On that, Grand Admiral Cassius had been certain. The Praetor had studied the plan in detail. He had even received reports that the SU Battlefleet Mars had finally made its stab at the planetary defenses. The Grand Admiral had correctly predicated each of those moves. Soon, the Doom Stars would accelerate for Mars. Then the fateful clash between the space fleets would determine who controlled the high ground between the planets. Whoever controlled space could quarantine the separate planets.
Were the premen truly foolish enough to think they could destroy Doom Stars? Would they actually remain at Mars to do battle? That seemed incredible to the Praetor. Yet the Grand Admiral was certain the premen would possess a secret weapon of their own and that the premen would be brash enough to think their secret weapon could give them victory over their superiors.
The Praetor grinned harshly. The Thutmosis III was the weapon that would trump anything the premen could cobble together. It would shatter the preman surprise. His drones and missiles would hit their fleet at precisely the worst time for them. It would cause the premen to panic. They would then make even more foolish tactical decisions than otherwise and face annihilation.
“Good,” the Praetor whispered. He yearned to burn premen hopes into ashes. He’d suffered for too long aboard this death-ship. The Highborn under his command had suffered as well. But their suffering would end the Inner Planets war. Yes, after such an annihilating blow, the hope would drain from the lower order. Many would drop their weapons and meekly seek the good graces of their genetic superiors. Premen would cower in fear, and they would finally realize that a New Order had come to the Solar System.
“Then,” the Praetor whispered. Then he would have achieved his dream. He would have won military glory in the most stunning victory of the war. That would catapult him into every Highborn’s thoughts. The Praetor had patiently videoed every aspect of his ordeal. He would replay the files and show the others what he had endured to bring them unqualified success. He already had a following. That following would grow, and in time, he would topple Grand Admiral Cassius from his high seat of supreme power.
As he pondered such lovely thoughts, the Praetor of the Thutmosis III missile-ship groaned as his stomach cramped. He feared a muscle tear. He panted, but slowly the pain faded. He tried to shift to a more comfortable position. He could not take many more days of this.
The screen before him crackled. It was fuzzy, and it told him better than anything else could that his ship was too near the Sun.
“Praetor.”
“Here,” the Praetor whispered. Through screen static, he barely made out Grand Admiral Cassius’s features.
“The premen of Social Unity have finally made their move,” the Grand Admiral said in a distorted voice.
The Praetor wanted to groan with relief. Instead, he glared at the Grand Admiral’s fuzzy image.
“In two days, you will begin the breakout from Sun orbit,” the Grand Admiral said. “The exact data and angle of your attack are already entering your tactical computer.”
“Yes,” the Praetor whispered.
“I admire your fortitude, Praetor. Your ship will bring us ultimate victory. I personally salute your courage and your daring.”
The Praetor managed a terse nod, and almost tore a neck muscle doing it.
“Grand Admiral Cassius out.” The fuzzy image faded away.
Two more days, the Praetor thought. Two more days and the Thutmosis III would break out of Sun orbit and shut off its mighty engines. Then the stealth ship would zoom at terrific velocity for Mars. The final battle for Inner Planets was about to begin.
-19-
SU jets jumped Marten’s skimmers at the worst possible moment. He had time to wonder how long they had been under observation. Then Marten screamed at Omi to take the controls as he turned and grabbed the rocket-launcher between the frozen knees of the raider sitting behind him.
They climbed out of the Noctis Labyrinthus Canyon using the skimmer’s VTOL jets. Each skimmer did it in stages. It made the skimmer’s rotary engine whine so Marten’s teeth ached, and it made the metal craft shake as if it was about to burst apart from stress.
One moment, Marten watched the skimmer ahead of him. The dark craft wobbled as it rose higher and higher, its engines screaming to gain enough lift as the skimmer climbed beside a wall of red rock. Then a missile streaked out of the pink sky. It streaked and exploded, and the skimmer that had wobbled was now hot shards of metal and bloody body chunks flying in all directions. Some of those chunks smeared against the red rock wall, leaving gore and hot streaks of gashed basalt.