“You mean to use the Praetor for that?” Yakov asked.
Marten tapped a finger on the Praetor’s forehead. “This bastard is finally going to do me his first good deed. If we beat the cyborgs, the trick will be staying alive long enough to appreciate our victory.”
-12-
The Praetor seethed as he rechecked his battleoid-armor. Time conspired against him. The Grand Admiral, this puny Chief Strategist and the hateful cyborgs—
The Praetor roared an oath as he slammed his fist against a bulkhead, denting metal. He began to pace like a caged beast.
The missile-ship was under one-G acceleration. The Thutmosis III left Demeter behind. The tactical game against the planet-wrecker and its shepherding dreadnaught had begun. Soon, he would give the critical orders.
The Praetor whirled around, and he stalked back to the ten-foot battleoid-suit. It was a marvel of engineering, a thing of deadly beauty with a titanium shell of exoskeleton strength. On Earth, battleoid-armored Highborn leaped one hundred meters, sometimes assisted by Dinlon jetpacks. Hi-powered slugthrowers, lasers, plasma rifles and tiny tactical nukes gave the battleoids massive firepower.
The Praetor found it difficult to believe that battleoid-Highborn had failed to stop attacking cyborgs on the Hannibal Barca. He’d learned that the Grand Admiral had lost a Doom Star at Mars. Another had taken critical damage.
The Highborn Fleet was weaker today than at any other time. Three Doom Stars held Earth, Venus and Mercury. Social Unity regrouped at Mars, gathering its last warships. On Earth, Social Unity fought like crazed beasts, successfully resisting in South America. Now the cyborgs attempted to launch a planet-wrecker from Jupiter.
The Praetor pressed his palms together in front of his face. He breathed deeply as he lowered his pressed palms to his stomach. He practiced a calming technique, taught him in the Youth Barracks.
Time conspired against him. If he’d reached the Jovian System even two months earlier, he could have already reached Jupiter’s inner system. Then he would be among the Galilean moons, able to lead the overawed Jovians against the cyborgs.
The Praetor picked up an electro-analyzer and carefully began checking his armor. It beeped by the right elbow-joint. He adjusted, frowning at the tiny screen. It flashed red and showed the words: photonic coupling.
The Praetor set aside the analyzer and opened his battleoid-kit. Like all Highborn, he could take apart and rebuild any weapon. The same held true for a battleoid-suit. He set to work, immersing himself in the task, momentarily forgetting his rage.
Later, he clicked each tool back into its foamed indention. Then he took up the electro-analyzer and continued to sweep it over the armor.
Short by two months—time conspired against him. Worse, Grand Admiral Cassius continued his sly tricks.
The Praetor showed his horse-sized teeth in a feral grin. It lacked all humor and lacked any warmth. He—the Praetor—had won the Battle for Mars with his missiles. He had risked his life later to bring the High Fleet critical intelligence concerning the enemy. Because of his courage, the Thutmosis III had almost left the Solar System forever. Only through cunning, relentless fervor and an indomitable will had he saved his ship and crew.
Now the Grand Admiral dashed his dream of Jovian conquest. He must throw away the Thutmosis III on a mad attack against a heavily fortified moon. Meanwhile, in the inner system, the cyborgs outmaneuvered the foolish Jovians. The premen had already lost Callisto and Io. Now the cyborgs lunged at Europa as the Jovian fleet vainly waited at Ganymede.
The Praetor shook his head. Social Unity possessed several clever tacticians. It appeared the Jovians didn’t even have those.
He cracked his knuckles and flexed his big fingers. He was tempted to disregard the Grand Admiral’s orders. The old man was cunning, however. During the lightguide transmission, the Grand Admiral had sat among the High Command, and their accompanying vote had been unanimous. To disregard the order would now mean acting against the unified will of the High Command.
The Praetor squinted at his battleoid-suit. He must use what he had. He must twist fate and time into his service. If the cyborgs won here because the premen lacked even basic tactical skills, it still meant he could fight gloriously.
An insightful preman, General George S. Patton, had once said: As a man thinketh, so is he. The fixed determination to acquire the warrior soul and, having acquired it, to conquer or perish with honor is the secret of success in war.
The Praetor made a fist. He’d been born with a warrior’s soul. Since then, his determination had become legendary.
The cyborgs accelerated Carme. But an asteroid-moon, even a small one, had immense mass, much more than the combined Doom Stars and the Highborn orbital stations of Venus and Earth. It would take the cyborgs time to build-up velocity, giving him time enough to configure his attack.
The Jovian’s original plan to storm Carme had been suicidal folly. With his ship and genius, victory became a possibility.
“Conquer or perish,” the Praetor rumbled. His chest swelled. “I will conquer, and I will set my foot on the Jovians and on the cyborgs. Then—”
The Praetor smote his chest. “Then I will return to Earth and deal with you, Cassius. On that, I vow the essence of my warrior soul.”
-13-
Marten paced in the Descartes’ rec-room. Mechanics had dragged out the exercise mats and set up rows of folding chairs.
Osadar waited by the main door. She wore combat-armor, hiding her cyborg body and limbs. With her greater height, her plasti-flesh head almost reached the ceiling.
Omi opened the door. He wore a Gauss needler and a stern expression. Behind him were the squad-leaders. They filed into the room, filling up the back rows first.
The meteor-ship was under half-a-G of deceleration. After the meeting, Yakov would increase the Gs, slowing the ship even more. The taskforce already followed the Praetor’s instructions. The decisive moment was fast drawing near.
Earlier, Marten had stood to the side, out of camera range, as the Praetor had given Yakov his orders. The voice had sent a chill of loathing down Marten’s spine. The Praetor was the same arrogant prick from the Sun-Works Factory. Nothing had changed about the lordly Highborn. Hearing the Praetor’s voice had confirmed Marten’s decision that he’d remained hidden.
In the rec-room, the last space marine sat down. Most stared blankly. A few scowled. A few gave him a deathly stare. Their muscles showed as they shifted in their seats, tightening the fabric of their tunics.
With his hands behind his back, Marten stared at the assembled squad-leaders. It caused him to recall Training Master Lycon, the day of the briefing of the Bangladesh assault. That seemed like a lifetime ago. He’d been in the Mercury System then, now he was in the Jupiter System. Now he was a free man, a commander of shock troopers. Well, they weren’t shock troopers, but they were space marines. They were about to engage in the greatest assault of the war, stopping a planet-wrecker. It was too bad most of them were going to die. Maybe they were all going to die. Who could defeat cyborgs on the ground?
Marten stood at attention and he snapped off the crispest salute of his life.
Squad-leaders stirred, and there was a murmur of whispering among them.
He backed beside the screen on the wall and touched a button. A grainy shot of Carme appeared with its long plasma tail.
“Gentlemen and ladies,” he began, “this is our objective. As you know, the cyborgs accelerate one of your Jovian moons. They call it a planet-wrecker. If Carme builds up enough velocity, it will be able to break Jupiter’s gravitational grip and leave its orbit. The name suggests the cyborg tactic: to ram Carme into a large moon or a terrestrial planet. The outcome of such a collision is obvious: total extinction for the humans and animals on the target world.”