“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
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.
The blast-shield protected the attack-craft parked on the ship’s front. The Orion used nuclear pulse propulsion, with each bomb providing the violent pulse. Nothing humanity had yet devised could lift so much mass, so quickly from Earth.
Hawthorne marveled at the ship. It had been under construction ever since he’d sent the supply fleet to Mars several years ago. If anyone could absorb the punishing liftoff of nuclear bombs, it would be Captain Mune and his men. Glancing at other screens, Hawthorne saw other Orion-ships lifting from their bunkers, seven altogether. These Orion-ships had been part of a two-year-long project to take back near-Earth orbit and possibly capture the Moon. Now the seven giant craft sped toward the stratosphere, smashing their way up out of Earth’s gravity so they could reach the asteroids in the coming weeks. These Orion-ships dwarfed those sent on the Mars mission by two hundred percent.
Watching them, Hawthorne felt a lump in his throat. This could be the last SU Fleet ever launched from Earth. If the soldiers in them failed—extinction! Hawthorne straightened and lifted his arm in a crisp salute. “Good luck, Captain Mune,” he whispered. “I wish you well…friend.”
The bionic soldiers were a secret weapon against the cyborgs. Hawthorne supposed a person could make the point that Mune was a cyborg. Theoretically, it was true. Mune had mechanical parts and graphite bones in his limbs. But his brain was still pure human, or Homo sapien as the Highborn would say.
An immense flash occurred down the line of screens. Men and women there groaned as they stared at a screen, at the terrific explosion shown. One colonel sobbed.
“What happened?” shouted Hawthorne. He expected the worst: that an Orion-ship had malfunctioned. He strode toward that screen, passing operators in their chairs twisting their heads in that direction.
There was more shouting. It came from the shadows, from the security people in their synthi-leather jackets. They seemed to be responding to the flash shown on the screen. Cone’s people drew guns. A woman rapidly spoke into her headset. Other security people clamped a hand over their ear-jacks. Harsh orders tumbled from the security personnel as they ran toward the bank of screens. The security people aimed their guns at everyone. Operators, colonels and generals turned around in surprise at this new development. Then a dozen security people shouted at
