troopers. No one could match Osadar. No one could match the cyborgs, or match the Highborn for that matter. But that didn’t mean you should curl up and die. He had killed Highborn before. He’d even killed cyborgs. If free men were going to rise up, if they were going to win, then they needed the best space marines he could train.
He regarded Yakov. The silver-haired Force-Leader watched him. Those dark eyes were too knowing. Marten understood then why Yakov had been the hussade captain.
“If I have to go through Hell to be free,” Marten said, “I’ll do it.”
Yakov remained quiet.
“And if I have to do that so others can be free, yeah, I guess I’ll do what every soldier knows is the stupidest thing of all. I’ll volunteer for the shitty job because no one else can do it better than I can.”
Yakov said, “Being a Force-Leader sometimes means you have to understand that you’re the best man for the task, or that you’re the best at hand to do a thing.”
“Yeah,” Marten whispered.
Yakov’s lips tightened. He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a bulb and two shot glasses. The
Marten waited until Yakov had filled his. They raised their glasses and touched them, causing them to clink.
“To victory,” Yakov said.
“Victory,” Marten said. He tossed the Jovian whiskey into his mouth and swallowed fast. It hit in his stomach with a blast of warmth. Then his face flushed with the heat of alcohol. This was better than the synthahol he used to drink in Greater Sydney.
Yakov swept up both glasses and the bulb, depositing them back into the bottom drawer. His grin was wider than Marten had ever witnessed. That’s how Yakov must have looked on the day Ganymede U won the hussade trophy.
“In a fight,” Yakov said, “I’ve noticed that you’re a man that stands. You’re one I want on my side.”
“I’ve thought the same about you,” Marten said.
“We are guardians,” Yakov said. The grin vanished as an inner fire lit his eyes. “The philosophers who wrote the Dictates believe they should rule. They are wrong. The ones who dare should rule.”
“Men should rule themselves,” Marten said.
Yakov snorted. “You’ve fought long enough to know that most men cannot rule themselves. They need others to tell them what to do.”
Marten didn’t want to argue, not now, not with Yakov. Besides, he wasn’t going to change Yakov’s opinion today. And he was learning that maybe only he among humanity knew that freedom for everyone was the greatest prize. The time to preach that would come later. First, humanity had to survive. The people of the Jupiter System had to live through the cyborg assault.
“I just want you to know that I’m staying until we win or die,” Marten said. “If that means going down to Ganymede with a laser carbine, then that’s what I’m going to do.”
“You’re too valuable for ground action,” Yakov said.
“Come again?” Marten asked.
“That’s part of your skills. You’ve fought through terrible perils more than once. You know more about Social Unity, the Highborn and possibly the cyborgs than anyone else here does. That knowledge is vital.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because knowledge of your enemy is always vital,” Yakov said.
“Yeah,” Marten nodded, “the HBs have a maxim about that.”
“Who are these HBs?” Yakov asked.
“It’s what the shock troopers called the Highborn.”
Yakov ingested the information before he bent toward the computer desk and began to adjust controls. They had been studying known warship locations.
“The first phase of our strategy is to keep the Guardian warships from attacking Ganymede,” Yakov said.
Marten agreed with a snort, meaning, that was obvious.
The two of them had been carefully studying the strategic situation. It wasn’t just about who had the most ships. Position was critical too.
Marten pointed at the red cluster of the so-called supply vessels that had launched from Athena Station. “This shows us the cyborgs are frightened.”
“An open attack shows that?” asked Yakov.
“Their stealth campaign indicates they would have preferred to strike Callisto with a secret attack. Now, they’ve launched an open strike.”
“Most sensor date indicates they are supply vessels of the
“Osadar did some checking.
“I am well aware of that.”
“Good ECM could be masking some sensor data.”
“I have radioed Su-Shan again,” Yakov said, “arguing the same thing.”
“What did she say?”
“That she would relate my words to Callisto High Command,” said Yakov.
“I believe the cyborgs are striking openly instead of in secret for a reason,” Marten said. “The reason is fear.”
“Can cyborgs fear?”
“Maybe not as men fear,” Marten admitted. “So call it something else. The point is they’re striking now, probably before they were ready to do so.”
Yakov adjusted the controls, bringing the fourth Galilean moon into sharper focus. Heavy laser satellites ringed Callisto. On its surface were large missile installations and point-defense cannons.
“If the cyborgs can smash Callisto, they will surely attack Ganymede next,” Yakov said. “If they can destroy Callisto… they will have gone more than halfway to achieving victory.”
“Would the cyborgs have launched an open strike if they believed it would fail?” Marten asked.
“Are the cyborgs infallible?”
“Their destruction in the Mars System would say no,” Marten said. “But I’d hate to bet against them in their first open strike here. They will have studied the matter in depth. If they didn’t believe they could smash Callisto, I doubt they would have attacked.”
“Did your Osadar cyborg suggest these things to you?”
Marten nodded as he said, “You have to call Su-Shan again. You have to convince her to target the so-called supply vessels.”
“You and I know it is the most rational course,” Yakov said. “The philosophers will believe otherwise.”
Marten bit his lip, wondering how you woke a blind man to his doom. He recalled an ancient quote his father had used. It was from an ancient philosopher named George Orwell. Orwell had said,
-8-
As the Jovians and cyborgs readied for the next round of battle, the Highborn ship continued its desperate circuit around Jupiter. Unfortunately for them, things were going badly, and it had forced the Praetor to act directly to save the warship.
In his battleoid armor-suit, the Praetor clanked through the hard decelerating vessel. Deck lighting flashed erratically, creating strobe-light conditions. One light shattered, showering sparks onto the gunmetal-colored
