Radar and teleoptic scopes had discovered that the Doom Stars no longer accelerated, but used their velocity to travel the 100-million kilometers between Mars and Earth that presently separated the two. The enemy had traveled three weeks and at present speeds could pass Mars in a flyby in four more weeks. It was more than possible, however, that the Highborn planned to decelerate hard to match orbits with Mars. In that case, the Highborn million-kilometer ranged lasers would need another four and a half weeks before they could reach the SU space defenses.
Blackstone thought carefully. If the Highborn planned a flyby, wouldn’t the Doom Stars continue to accelerate to reach here even faster? A flyby seemed unlikely, however, for the simple reason that it would take the Highborn much too long to decelerate later and head back for Mars or for Earth. If the Doom Stars sped past the Red Planet in a flyby, it might behoove Social Unity to stab with every spaceship it had for Earth and drive off whatever Doom Star defended the mother planet.
Blackstone’s gloved fingers twitched with his impatience for the hatch to pressurize.
Would the Highborn begin to decelerate soon? Would it be four weeks or four and a half weeks until the battle started? This battle would likely decide the fate of the Solar System. Would it be a slugfest as Supreme Commander Hawthorne and Toll Seven envisioned, or would the Highborn attempt something completely different that would confound everyone?
Blackstone chewed the inside of his cheek. Three Doom Stars filled with Highborn—even with two bristling moons and nearly four-fifths of the remaining SU war-fleet at his disposal, and with a planetary proton beam—
They had to get the proton beam online! That beam was amazingly deadly. The brutal and astonishingly quick death of the Ho Chi Minh had proved the planetary proton-beam’s worth.
Eleven battlewagons, two fortress moons, a massive support fleet and sundry other vessels could still lose to three Doom Stars. That’s what made the proton beam so important. Yet they could only use it at near orbit. Its range was so pathetically short in space combat terms. That’s why they would need Toll Seven’s battle pods and stealth packs. Their planned use was a revolutionary tactic, and the cyborgs were perhaps the only troops able to pull it off.
Blackstone shook his head. Much depended on the Highborn. Would they use their long-range lasers and slowly devour everything in Mars orbit? At present, Social Unity lacked a million-kilometer weapon. Therefore, the Doom Stars standing off seemed like the wisest enemy strategy. It seemed like it at first blush, but it wasn’t. The Earth convoy fleet had brought enough prismatic crystals to absorb extended laser fire, and the plants on Mars churned out more and more defensive crystals. If the Highborn remained at long laser range, it would give them extra time to fix the moons and bring online their own million-kilometer ranged lasers.
The Highborn were impossibly clever concerning tactics and strategy. That meant the three Doom Stars might bore into close orbit, using prismatic crystals and aerosol-gel screens to shield them. Three Doom Stars massed together, all pouring laser fire at one target at a time, chewing through everything fast and annihilating ship after ship—
Sweat prickled Blackstone’s face. He hoped Supreme Commander Hawthorne knew what he was doing. Was this all simply a mad gamble? Were the Highborn invincible? It made Blackstone’s stomach churn just thinking about it.
Commodore Blackstone finally heard hisses from the other side of the hatch. A green light flashed. With a gloved hand, he touched the switch. The hatch opened and he climbed through into a pressure chamber with his security detail following. They waited, and soon the inner hatch slid open. Blackstone led the way into a larger chamber with vacc-suit racks and emergency breathing masks dangling from hooks.
He noticed Commissar Kursk. She stood with her arms crossed and as she tapped the toe of her jackbooted foot.
As Blackstone unclasped his helmet, he wondered idly what it would be like to pull off her cap and muss up her hair. Then he would grab her face and force a passionate kiss on her. It was the least he could do before he died in battle. A man deserved a woman before he risked his life for victory.
“Ah, breathable air,” Blackstone said. He pitched the helmet to one of his security detail. Then he rubbed his eyes. That felt so good. He was so tired. His ex-wife used to rub his shoulders at times like this. Would Commissar Kursk consent to rub his shoulders?
“Where have you been?” she snapped. She sounded angrier than usual. Now that he looked, he noticed she glowered.
Blackstone sighed. He needed a nap, not an angry PHC Commissar. “Will you walk me to my quarters?” he asked.
“I need to speak to you now.”
“This is hardly the place. I’m tired. I’ve been shuttling back and forth for the past four days and now I need—”
“Did you grant Toll Seven the use of Olympus Mons for his continued interrogations?” Kursk asked.
Blackstone stared at her. Why did it always have to be about Toll Seven? Irritated, he shrugged.
“The proton beam is a primary weapon,” Kursk said. “Now you’ve installed the cyborgs there and have effectively given them control of it. What if the cyborgs decide to blackmail us at the critical moment?”
Blackstone became cross. “We are all part of Social Unity. That’s why they won’t. They need us.” He wondered if that was true. Did the cyborgs need anybody? “I desperately need a nap, Commissar. I’m exhausted. So what I’m going to do now—”
“If you’re wise, you’ll head straight to Olympus Mons with a regiment of drop-troops,” she said.
Couldn’t she even let him finish a sentence? “I’m not drop trained,” he said tonelessly.
“Use fast shuttles,” she said.
Blackstone glanced at his security chief. The man stonily stared into space. Blackstone rubbed his neck. He hated these vacc-suits. He hated living in a battleship for months on end. Three weeks ago, they had won a brisk battle and now three Doom Stars headed for Mars. He didn’t have time for the commissar’s imaginary worries.
“I’m taking a nap,” he said. “Write a report if you think it’s so important.”
She took a step closer, and now worry replaced her anger. “Toll Seven has become too secretive. He’s doing something down there that—”
“Did you send operatives to Olympus Mons? I know you were talking about it.”
“…I did.”
“And?” he prompted.
Commissar Kursk licked her lips.
Blackstone found it stimulating. He wished she would do that under more pleasing circumstances. Perhaps it was time to arrange that.
“My operatives have reported that everything is well,” she said.
A dull headache throbbed into existence so Blackstone rubbed his eyes again. Kursk was unhinged concerning the cyborgs. He hated them, too. But the Battlefleet had to use what fate had given them. He attempted a smile as he said, “Don’t tell me you think Toll Seven has suborned your best operatives.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t think that,” she said, “But I do. Their reports… there was something odd about them that I can’t quite decipher.”
“Do you want to go down to Mars yourself?” he asked.
Fear put lines on her face. Blackstone wondered about her age, if she was older than he suspected.
“…I’d only go down with a full regiment of your best combat troops,” she said.
Commodore Blackstone raised his eyebrows. “The cyborgs are our best hope for victory against the Highborn. So I hardly think that now is the time to anger Toll Seven. I’m going to take a nap. Once I’m awake, talk to me again. Until then, I can’t even think straight.”
Blackstone floated past her, and the security detail followed. He heard her garments rustle as she turned, probably to watch him. He felt her eyes on him and wished it were her hands running over his skin. He grinned. It felt good to have put her in her place. Maybe he needed to do it more often.