Planet Wrecker

“I’m going to make you piss blood before you die, old man.”

“But you’re too foolish sometimes. You need a guiding hand if you’re to survive the war.”

“Get ready to die,” said Felix.

Cassius abruptly turned and ran. The move caught Felix by surprise.

“I knew it!” the young Highborn roared. “You’re a coward.”

Cassius glanced over his shoulder. The youth gave chase. Running away was ignoble. It was un-Highborn. Yet he was the Grand Admiral for a reason. There were times to retreat. There was an ancient but valuable adage concerning that: better to run away to live and fight another day. Not that he planned to run away for long.

Cassius sprinted over the monofilament line, slowed his speed and then roared as he spun around. Felix was hot after him, and the cockerel’s eyes widened at the shout. It wasn’t fear, but knowledge that the old man was going to fight after all. It was then Felix remembered the monofilament line. Cassius had wondered if he would. Leaping over the line caused Felix to break his stride. Timing that, Cassius leaped, and he put everything into the flying kick. The sap hit, but not powerfully enough. A foot connected against Felix’s chest. With a grunt, the youth went backward. Cassius landed on top of him, and his big hands flew to the cockerel’s throat. It likely took Felix a second to understand, a critical amount of time in this sort of combat. Then he likely realized the sap was useless now. He dropped it and wrapped his hands around Cassius’s throat. They both squeezed, and Cassius found it impossible to breath. His iron-like fingers ground into youthful flesh as he tightened his own throat muscles. Suddenly, it was hard to see. He kept squeezing. Who was winning?

Something snapped. Was it his neck? It hurt like Hades. Cassius blinked repeatedly and vision slowly returned. Felix lay under him, with his neck broken and tongue protruding.

Groaning, Cassius struggled to his feet and to a com-unit. It was time to call medical. He needed to work fast if he was going to save the stupid cockerel from final death. The medics would have to bring Felix back through Revival so he could live again.

-21-

Far from Cassius and the Julius Caesar, the weeks blurred as Marten Kluge worked hard. It seemed there was always something going wrong.

The worst was the fusion core. Its outer shell produced a crack, a leak. Before the technicians could fix it, eighteen crewmembers had been irradiated. Marten attempted communication with Fleet HQ. It was then he found that channels were inexplicably blocked.

“It’s part of the new directive,” Nadia told him later. He’d made her his com-officer. It had meant a lot of technical reading and study for her, which had meant fewer hours alone together for them.

“You mean the directive from Circe?” he asked.

They were in the command center, which looked identical to the one Yakov had used aboard the Descartes. There was the same central chair, the main screen and the many cubicles for the officers along the circular wall. Unlike other Jovian warships, however, this one lacked statues. The cyborgs must have removed them when they’d taken over the vessel.

“Circe sent around a memo,” Nadia said. She sat in her com-officer cubicle. It was cramped for Nadia, as she was bigger than the average Jovian. “You know Circe prefers the title Sub-Strategist.”

“Whatever,” Marten said, who stood outside the cubicle.

Nadia looked concerned. “You should try to get along with her better.”

“Me?” Marten said.

“She has a high-handed manner,” said Nadia. “But she does represent the Jovians. If you anger her too much, she could have you replaced.”

“She represents a pain in my rear.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that.”

He nodded, and said, “What’s this about the directive? I need to get these sick people off the ship. And I need replacements.”

“That part of it has already been taken care of—the replacements.”

“Did the Sub-Strategist order it?”

Nodding, Nadia said, “The replacement personnel will be here in ten days.”

“That long? I want to be ready to leave in ten days. Who are these new people?”

Nadia turned to her screen, tapping it. A manifest appeared and she scanned it. “Oh,” she said.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s an arbiter with several more myrmidons coming.”

Marten scowled. Just how many myrmidons did Tan plan to pack onto his ship?

“Arbiter Neon—” Nadia was saying.

“What?” Marten said. He leaned into the cubicle and studied the screen. “Can you show me a pic?”

Nadia tapped the screen. An image appeared of Arbiter Neon. It was the white-haired man who had been aboard the dreadnaught.

“I thought he died when the master super-cyborg attacked,” Marten muttered.

Nadia did more tapping. “Look at this,” she said. “There’s a demerit in his profile. It says something about being absent from his post during combat.”

Marten laughed sourly and shook his head. “That’s all we need. Hmm. Maybe Tan is packing all her unwanted personnel onto my ship.”

“She gave you this post because of your experience.”

“What she tells me and why she does something can easily be two different things,” Marten said. “It doesn’t matter now anyway. What I need to know is how I can get permission to communicate with headquarters?”

“You’ll need to see the Sub-Strategist for that.”

“See her?” asked Marten. “I’ve been avoiding her.”

Nadia shook her head. She wore a military cap. It suited her, especially the way her hair flowed out in the back. None of the Jovians had hair like Nadia. Many of the Jovian women didn’t have hair at all.

Thinking about it caused Marten to bend deeper into the cubicle and kiss Nadia on the lips. His wife smiled and stroked his cheek. Marten kissed her again.

“This is most unseemly,” Circe said, “and it is further proof of your barbarism.”

Marten withdrew from the cubicle as Nadia blushed.

Sub-Strategist Circe stood in the command center with three of her orange-uniformed myrmidons. Today she wore a white gown and black slippers. She was so small, yet she had an exotic way to her, leaving no doubt that she was a woman. Black makeup lined her eyes, highlighting them.

Marten felt Nadia’s hand touch his back. Turning, he helped her out of the cubicle.

“I’ve to decide if it is appropriate for your wife to be in the command center,” Circe said. “It distracts you from your duties.”

“What distracts me is a lack of communication with headquarters,” Marten said. “I need—”

“Your tone is improper.” Circe shook her head. “This is most distasteful. I do not wish to reprimand you in front of your sex partner, but I refuse to shirk my duties simply to ease your prickly ego.”

“Nadia is my com-officer,” Marten said. “And you’d better watch how you speak about her to me. She’s my wife, not my sex partner.”

The three myrmidons closed in around Circe and eyed Marten.

“False bravado doesn’t impress me,” Circe said. “I doubt it impresses your sex partner either.”

“I’m going to tell you again—” Marten said as Nadia pressed her hand against the small of his back. Her touch made Marten pause, and that made him wonder why Circe annoyed him so easily. Maybe it was her myrmidons. These acted differently toward her than Arbiter Octagon’s myrmidons had acted toward him. These myrmidons seemed possessive of Circe, more easily angered. They seemed more eager to attack, and that made him uneasy.