“I have no time for analogies.”
“Social Unity is one of those men,” said Hawthorne. “You Highborn are the other. There is still much hatred between us, much distrust. That hatred and distrust might flare up on the battlefield. Therefore, we must change the parameters in order to forestall such an event. Instead of attacking as a united force and mingling together, I suggest we each accept specific spheres of action. You conquer your sphere and we shall conquer ours.”
“Have you forgotten?” asked Cassius. “We attack cyborgs. They will destroy your Homo sapien troops. Then we Highborn shall have to conquer both your sphere and ours. It is better if you Homo sapiens are stiffened with Highborn officers and fighters among you.”
“How easily did you conquer North America?” Hawthorne asked.
“No, no, that is the wrong example. In North America, in every battlefield on Earth, Social Unity enjoyed a vast numerical preponderance. Against the cyborgs, we have a limited number of elite units. It is a given that you lack such troops. And that is the nature of my call. The date is late. But I suggest that you allot half your Orion-ships to me. I will fill them with more Highborn commandoes. That will give us a greater margin of superior troops on the asteroids.”
“That’s out of the question,” Hawthorne said.
“The survival of Earth is at stake. What possible reason could you have to object to such a reasonable request?”
“Earthmen will ride the Orion-ships to do battle against our enemy,” said Hawthorne. “And instead of fighting under your command, they will fight separately under their own officers.”
“Unity of command is a primary principle for victory,” said Cassius.
“We are allies,” said Hawthorne. “We will fight as equals, not under Highborn dominance. In this, every director, field marshal and general has agreed.”
The lowing of cattle, Cassius thought, even as he forced a smile. “Highborn are better soldiers by several factors. You and I have witnessed this on every battlefield. Now under our guidance and protection, you premen—you Homo sapiens will survive longer on the asteroids and therefore do more damage against the cyborgs. Give us half your Orion-ship berths and even more Highborn can reach the asteroids. That will raise the probability of victory by many percentage points.”
“Never!” said Hawthorne.
“I fail to grasp your intransigence,” said Cassius. “My reasoning is flawless. Why then do you insist on weakening our attack?”
“I’m not weakening anything.”
“Replacing Homo sapiens with Highborn will raise the combat value of our limited number of troops,” Cassius said. “I know you are a logical person, gifted in strategic sense. You must see this. I know you see it. We’re speaking about the survival of Earth, of the billions living here. How then can you—”
“First,” said Hawthorne, as he stabbed a finger onto his desk. “I will not allow Highborn on Eurasian soil. Second, none of you shall see our launch sites or examine the inside of our ships. Third, we shall fight for our own survival and not rely solely upon you.”
“Supreme Commander, as a collective whole, you Homo sapiens will be providing the Orion-ships. You fashioned those vessels through your labor. Take joy in your craft.”
“I ask that you no longer refer to us as Homo sapiens,” said Hawthorne. “We are men.”
Cassius sat back. “Is this an elaborate ploy to attempt subterfuge against us?”
Leaning forward, Hawthorne said, “You are a proud people, Grand Admiral. It is the dominant trait among you.”
“Our excellence is our dominant trait.”
Hawthorne folded his hands on top of the desk as he looked earnestly at Cassius. “I think the easiest way for you to understand this is pride, human pride, our pride.”
“Is that a joke?” asked Cassius.
Hawthorne frowned. “…Grand Admiral, you and I have matched wits for several years now. Surely, you’ve learned something about me and about humanity, just as I’ve learned about you and the Highborn. We have our pride, and you must realize by now how stubbornly we can hold to our position.”
As much as he hated to do it, Cassius inclined his head. He’d learned that premen could be amazingly foolish in a vast multitude of ways. Here was simply another example. Pride, stubbornness—it would be more accurate to call it bovine dullness and a lack of imagination. He shouldn’t have expected more from them, not even from Hawthorne. Perhaps the better plan would be to reconfigure the attack, using the Orion-ships as fodder. He would subtly alter the schedule so the preman vessels absorbed the majority of the cyborg lasers and counter-missiles. Yes, he could already see the best way to do this.
“The size of the asteroid strike is fearsome,” Hawthorne was saying. “Earth’s survival is questionable. In this hour, we shall fight. We will not stand aside for anyone, least of all for Highborn. Neither shall we fight under anyone but our own.”
“Your racial prejudice is a weakness,” said Cassius, “lacking any bearing on reality.”
“We have fought bravely against you,” Hawthorne said. “And we will continue to fight bravely, no matter who comes against us. Will you stand with us in this final hour?”
Cassius attempted another facial gesture of good will. It was time to lull Hawthorne. He would definitely have to reconfigure the attack, setting the Orion-ships to absorb enemy weaponry. It would be the best use of such poor-quality fighting material.
“I see that I must adjust,” said Cassius. “What are your exact suggestions?”
“I’ll send you the data now,” said Hawthorne.
“Yes, excellent,” said Cassius. “Begin the transmission.”
-47-
Zero hour struck far too soon for Hawthorne’s comfort. It found him pacing deep in the control center in the Joho Mountains of China Sector.
Before him were banks of screens and their operators. They showed Orion-ship bunkers in the Eurasian heartland.
Hawthorne fixated on Kazakhstan Sector, on Bunker Ninety-Eight. Around the titanic installation were huge ferroconcrete pillboxes. The point-defense cannons in those pillboxes remained idle today. No one had ever envisioned such a situation as this. Instead, every tactician and strategist assigned to the think-tanks had envisioned the Orion-ships having to fight every inch of the way into space against Highborn missiles, lasers and orbitals.
After glancing around the underground control complex, Hawthorne frowned. He felt naked today, exposed. There were banks of screens and operators, with colonels and generals behind them, watching. In the background were hard-eyed men and women, Cone’s security people. They wore black synthi-leather jackets and ear-jacks. Captain Mune and his bionic soldiers were aboard the Orion-ships. It had been a hard decision for Hawthorne. Mune had been with him for so long and had guarded his back so often that now….
Hawthorne knew this was a political risk, and a risk to his personnel security. But the safety of the planet trumped his own. Could Cone’s people guard him as effectively as the bionic men had? The answer was no. The better question was: could Cone’s people do the job and keep him alive?
Above the whispering around him, Hawthorne heard an operator say, “Bunker Ninety-Eight is opening.”
First rubbing his tired eyes, Hawthorne peered at the nearest screen. It showed vast ferroconcrete bays sliding open. Something rose into view from the darkness. He glimpsed the nosecones of various modified attack-craft. Captain Mune was supposed to be in one of those.
“The countdown has begun,” said the operator, a red-eyed woman watching her board. “…Three, two, one, zero—we have ignition.”
Hawthorne shielded his eyes from the first blast before looking. The great Orion-ship rode a huge, roiling cloud of dust and brightly heated plasma into the air. It was a vast space-vessel, with a mammoth blast-shield of ferroconcrete, steel, construction-foam and titanium. Another nuclear bomb squirted out of its exhaust port. There was a second flash, and it forced the Orion-ship higher yet into the atmosphere.