Doom Star: Book 06 - Star Fortress (3 page)

“The cyborg was already damaged and lacked modern weaponry,” Ricardo said.

“It also slaughtered your men as if they were children,” Gomez said. “Under the circumstances, your feat was amazing.”

Ricardo nodded brusquely.

Gomez tapped the floor with her cane. “Tell me, Captain. What is your estimate of the war?”

“I’m not certain I follow you.”

“Then you are not the man I need and this entire situation was a costly waste of time.”

“You mean the wider war, the one against the cyborgs.”

“At the moment, it is the only war that matters.”

“I agree,” Ricardo said.

“How gratifying,” Secretary-General Gomez said dryly.

Ricardo refused to let that bother him. “We are losing the war,” he said.

Gomez became alert. “What is the probable outcome?”

“The maxim is simple,” he said. “To win, one must attack. We do not attack. Therefore, we will lose until we successfully take the offensive.”

“And we should attack where do you think?”

“The heart of the cyborgs lies in Neptune. You must attack there. I thought Social Unity and the Highborn planned exactly that.”

“Not Social Unity, Captain,” Gomez said. “Social Unity is merely one component of our allied front. The Jovians, Martians and Earthmen have formed an alliance of regular men, don’t you remember?”

“The Highborn, Social Unity and the Jovians have warships. We do not.”

Gomez leaned on her cane toward him. “Does our lack of a fleet bother you?”

Ricardo grew puzzled. If seemed as if his answer was important to her. What possible reason…his face grew slack. “We’re building warships,” he whispered. “Is that what this is about?”

Pain creased her features, and the fist holding the cane knotted. “Where did you gain this information? You will tell me, Captain. We have learned from our enemies and will resort to whatever means necessary to find what we must.”

“I fail to…” Ricardo saw it then—the reason why they had put SAMs here. Yes, the reason they had chosen Salvador Dome for a secret project.

“Secretary-General Gomez,” he said, “no one has informed me of anything. I merely added two and two together. Your line of questioning, the defensive perimeter erected here and the operator’s willingness to destroy a Martian jet all points to some highly secret project. Your last question points to the nature of the secret.”

“Go on,” Gomez said.

“Both Inner Planets and the Jovians have warships. Mars has none. The war for survival is
the
critical action now if humanity is to survive the next few years.”

Gomez lifted the cane, pointing it at Ricardo. “I have read your blog, Captain. You thrive on this war, on your association with Marten Kluge. You have a quick and agile mind. I seek those needed qualities. Even more, as you often point out in your blog, potential means nothing. The man of action who has
proven
himself capable should lead others into combat against the enemy.”

“You’re talking about my advancement because I killed the cyborg?”

“Exactly,” Gomez said. “You fulfilled Kluge’s maxims to a nicety. In the face of danger, you took a simple tool—your bayonet—and finished killing the meld. Mars needs men of your caliber, men who take what they have instead of complaining they lack the proper equipment. With the tools at hand, you achieved the needed goal. Mars has little to add to the armada. In many ways, I believe both Social Unity and the Highborn would torpedo our attempt to act the part of soldiers.” Gomez shook her head. “Mars will not be denied its place in the Sun. We will join hands with the others, helping kill the common enemy. Captain, you will come with me.”

Gomez turned around and limped out the door. Ricardo hurried after her. They moved down a steel corridor, toward the sound of humming and increasing vibration. Entering an elevator, they went down, the noise increasing the entire time.

The elevator stopped, the doors swished open and the two of them walked onto a balcony with a railing. Beyond was a cavernous area. Ricardo gripped the rail and carefully peered over. It was a good three hundred meters to the floor. Cables snaked everywhere and carts hurried here and there.

Ricardo swallowed as he gazed at a huge missile-shaped vessel. Metal scaffolding encompassed it. Most of the vessel was girders and fierce welding sparks. Workers crawled everywhere over it.

“The planet’s resources are badly stretched,” Gomez shouted into his ear. “Many of our people starve. The satellite defense is incomplete—the reason the cyborgs could slip their capsule through our net. Nearly every piece of military hardware on Mars is old and decaying. We should do everything else
except
build a warship. As we know, those are built in space, the best ones at the Sun-Works Factory.”

Ricardo tore his gaze from the skeletal vessel, staring into those dark sunglasses. “Mars will join the attack?”

“Many of the Local Bosses are against this,” Gomez said. “If the cyborgs launch a stealth fleet against us…”

“I understand,” Ricardo said. “I also know that to win you must attack. The cyborgs are winning. Humanity is going down to defeat unless we can turn this war around. We won’t turn it around building defensive satellites.”

“You speak the truth,” Gomez said.

Ricardo heard the fatigue in her voice. He saw the lines in her face. The Secretary-General was taking a risk, risking an entire planet on the edge of collapse. She likely risked her political career as well.

“What can I do to help you?” Ricardo asked.

Gomez limped to the railing, putting one hand on it. “You are a man of action, Captain. You are not a political infighter. There is little you can do to help me.”

“Granted,” he said. “Ah, I know. I’ll write on my blog—”

“You will do nothing of the kind,” Gomez said sternly. “Your blogging days are over.”

He glanced at her. Then he nodded. “Our vessel will need Commandos, will it not?”

“There will be little room for them, but a complement of Martian Commandos will board the vessel once the time comes.”

“I want a berth,” Ricardo said. He dared clutch the Secretary-General’s wrist. “You just said a few minutes ago that you agree with me that a proven man should lead. I killed a cyborg. Therefore, I should lead the Commandos.”

“No,” Gomez said.

Ricardo’s fingers slipped off her wrist. He blinked in confusion. “Why did you bring me here then and show me all this? Who is a better Commando?”

“No one is better,” she said, “at least in terms of killing cyborgs.”

“Then why not let me go?”

“I won’t let you go as the leader of the Commandos,” she said.

“Then—”

“I want you to
captain
the sole Martian warship,” Gomez said.

“What?”

“You will take orders directly from Marten Kluge, when and if we discover his whereabouts. Otherwise, you will make your decisions as the sole representative of the Mars Planetary Union Fleet.”

“A fleet composed of one ship?” Ricardo asked.

“It is all we can launch in time, if we can even manage that. What do you say, Captain Sandoval? Do you accept the commission? Are you willing to journey to Neptune in a cramped warship?”

Ricardo studied the skeletal vessel-in-building. The thrill in his heart—“I accept with everything in me. Even if it means my death, I want to attack the cyborgs. We must attack.”

Secretary-General Gomez nodded as a grim smile stretched into place. “You comfort me, Captain.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I want a man in command of our ship who will draw a bayonet and stab a cyborg seventeen times. I want a man who is willing to fight to the bitter end.”

“You want Marten Kluge.”

She laughed. It was a short, sharp sound. “Either that,” she said, “or the Martian version of him.”

Pride swelled in Ricardo’s chest. That was the greatest compliment of his life. Here and now, he vowed to do everything in his power to live up to the reputation. Mars must be free and humanity must survive the cyborgs!

Supreme Commander James Hawthorne sat before a screen as he spoke with Grand Admiral Cassius. The coiled ferocity of the Highborn never failed to impress him. It was like looking into the eyes of a psychopath. The sharp facial angles, the stark whiteness of the skin and the short hair like a panther’s pelt…at heart, Cassius was a killer. It was good to remember that.

Hawthorne sat in his office in New Baghdad. The years had worn him down. He was stooped and thin, with bags under his eyes. Massive crop failures and a strain of poisonous bacteria in the algae had caused grim malnutrition or outright starvation among eighty-three percent of the SU population. There were constant food riots and battalions of riot-control militia now. Misery abounded as extinction stared humanity in the face. He felt old and used up. The nuclear destruction of the Soviets last year—

Hawthorne forced himself to concentrate on Cassius. It was hard looking into those eyes. He yearned to turn away, but the Highborn would view that as a sign of weakness.

How are we supposed to destroy the cyborgs? I can’t even trust my allies
.

By all reports, the Grand Admiral was aboard the
Julius Caesar
. Each of the three Doom Stars had collapsium shielding now. Hawthorne had asked for collapsium to shield some of the SU battleships. Cassius had agreed, provided such warships came under the authority of Highborn commanders. Hawthorne couldn’t agree to that.

“Don’t you wish to save your species?” Cassius had asked.

Hawthorne could have told Cassius you don’t turn your back on a psychopath. However, he was too careful about what he told the
Master Race
to say such a thing. Highborn were proud and as ready to battle as dogs bred for the fighting pits. According to reports, the Highborn had been busy these last several weeks rearranging command slots. That was a surprise. Highborn usually made those changes immediately after a battle, not a year later. Scipio now commanded the
Genghis Khan
. The reports said that strengthened Cassius’s position. Analysis suggested Cassius might have ordered the old commander’s murder. That didn’t strike Hawthorne as Cassius’s way. The supreme Highborn was a soldier, not an assassin. It was one of the reasons Hawthorne could trust the Grand Admiral to the minimal extent he did.

“If you could give me some gesture,” Cassius was saying onscreen. “It would help me thwart Admiral Sulla’s position.”

Hawthorne knew about Sulla. The Highborn was an Ultraist. Military Intelligence had learned about them. Ultraists spoke about purity to the Race and an elimination of the
premen infestation
. Ultraists worried about the possible seepage of the weak emotions of mercy, kindness and humility from too much contact with the premen, with normal men.

“I thought Sulla was an officer aboard your ship,” Hawthorne said. He knew very well that Sulla had gained rank. He wanted to see how Cassius answered.

Onscreen, Cassius stiffened. “He is
Admiral
Sulla to you. He is Highborn and worthy of the proper respect.”

“Of course,” Hawthorne said.

“Admiral Sulla has gained a following and managed to oust the previous commander of the
Napoleon Bonaparte
.”

“I see,” Hawthorne said. That fit with his information. “What seems to be the problem then? Does Admiral Sulla not approve of our planned attack into the Neptune System?”

Cassius stared at him.

Hawthorne kept a poker face throughout the silence. Did the Grand Admiral know about the secret communication with Sulla? The new Highborn commander might be an Ultraist, but Sulla wanted the Grand Admiral’s chair more than purity to his theories—at least in the short term. According to reports, Sulla was
concerned
about Cassius. If was difficult and in most cases impossible for a Highborn to admit to fear. Apparently, concern was the most they could feel. Intelligence believed there was a power-struggle going on among the Highborn. Well, there was an
intensification
to the constant power-struggle. The Highborn lived like a pack of beasts, constantly jockeying for position.

Hawthorne decided that Cassius knew about the communication with Sulla. It would be a foolish mistake to underestimate the Grand Admiral.

“What sort of gesture are we talking about?” Hawthorne asked.

“Perhaps you should return North American Sector to Highborn control,” Cassius said, his eyes oily dark.

“I thought you and I had agreed to a freeze on territorial changes,” Hawthorne said. “The cyborgs would rejoice if we reopened hostilities against each other.”

“Hmm,” Cassius said. “Admiral Sulla has rightly pointed out that you broke the original agreement, taking North American Sector during the planet-wreckers’ approach. By the terms of our initial truce, you must return North American Sector to us.”

Hawthorne cleared his throat. This was a delicate topic. “Grand Admiral, I would like to speak frankly. Beginning in 2349 you bombarded Geneva and invaded—”