Planet Wrecker

On Earth and deep underground in the Joho Mountains, Supreme Commander Hawthorne shrugged on his jacket. His fingers felt stiff as he buttoned it. He was so tired. He felt like an old man and his eyes burned from reading endless reports.

The probabilities and projections—

Hawthorne sagged into his chair, opened a bottom drawer and took out a small flask of old Scottish whiskey. Unscrewing the cap, he put it to his lips and threw back his head. The liquid slid down his throat, and it burned. Then warmth burst in his stomach and moved throughout his body. It made him shiver. Waiting a moment, he did it again. He was thinking about a third slug, when someone rapped at his door.

Screwing on the cap, he put the flask in the drawer. Then he hesitated. Maybe he should keep it with him. A second knock occurred, more insistent this time. With a clunk, Hawthorne dropped the flask and slammed the drawer closed.

“Enter,” he said.

Manteuffel opened the door, sticking in his head. “Cone would like a word with you, sir.”

Hawthorne blinked several times before the words registered. He nodded as he straightened his tie.

Frowning, Manteuffel hesitated before he asked, “Sir, are you well?”

“No,” said Hawthorne. “I’m sick with worry, with fear that we’re all about to die.”

“But the merculites, the proton beams,” Manteuffel said. “The news sites all declare an easy victory.”

“The probabilities and projections were altered for publication,” Hawthorne whispered. “They were propaganda lies.”

“What was that, sir?” asked Manteuffel.

“Nothing,” Hawthorne said. He wanted another sip of whiskey, a long one. He flattened his hands on the desk instead, spreading his fingers. “Let her in.”

Manteuffel nodded, withdrew and then followed Cone into the room. She moved briskly to a chair before the desk. Then she glanced at Manteuffel, who had taken his place in a corner.

“You wished to see me?” asked Hawthorne.

Cone took off her sunglasses. Her pale eyes added to her beauty. If only she could smile occasionally. She was like an ice queen. Hawthorne suspected her smile might transform her.

“Colonel Naga is having second thoughts,” Cone said.

It was difficult for Hawthorne to wrap his thoughts around the FEC traitors today.

“Naga says his men and tanks will be exposed to the asteroid-strike if they move today,” Cone said. “They’ll be on the surface.”

“It’s why he’ll take everyone by surprise,” Hawthorne said.

“I know that,” Cone said. “But we’re not the ones who are going to be on the surface. He is.”

“What can I do about it?” Hawthorne asked, irritation entering his voice.

“Talk to him,” said Cone.

Hawthorne frowned at his spread fingers. Slowly, he shook his head. “I don’t have the strength. I’m going to need it all for the battle against the asteroids.”

“Then empower me,” Cone said.

Hawthorne looked up as Manteuffel cleared his throat. Cone stared at him with those pale eyes. They hid her thoughts, but he recognized her thirst for power. How he envied Cone her relative youth. Was his time for command over?

“Empower how?” Hawthorne asked.

“Reinstate me as your Security Specialist,” she said.

Manteuffel tried to signal him with his eyes, but Hawthorne ignored the man.

“This is the moment to strike, sir,” Cone said. “I can motivate Colonel Naga, but I’ll need a position of authority to do it.”

“Very well,” said Hawthorne.

Manteuffel shook his head.

Hawthorne took out a scroll-pad and began to tap in the needed electronic-work. Doing it gave him energy. This was a risk. But the Earth needed hard, ambitious people. It might not survive the next twenty-four hours. If it did, then their window for retaking the planet from the vacant Highborn would be small indeed. Now was the time for energetic climbers to strike. Now was the moment for someone like Cone.

“There,” Hawthorne said, as he stood. “You’re back in, Security Specialist.”

Cone stood too. “You won’t regret this, sir.”

He already did, but the die was cast.

-97-

Aboard the Julius Caesar, Cassius gave the order. The two Doom Stars pulled away laterally from the final planet wreckers.

From in his command shell, Cassius closed his eyes. Despite his vast reservoir of energy, he was tired. He’d pushed the crews of both ships. They’d fired the ultra-lasers for so long that key components had gone critical. Cassius had also used up almost every shell of the point-defense cannons, blowing up the larger pieces of debris.

With a lurch and the snapping open of his eyes, he hailed the Sun-Works Factory through his communications. The fight against the cyborg-launched objects was nearly over. He had to be ready for whatever happened afterward. That meant a total re-supply of the Doom Stars, including point-defense cannon shells, missiles, reflex plating, collapsium slabs, coils, meld-synapses and key laser parts. It might be time to head for the Sun-Works Factory for a major overhaul. He doubted the war would give him that luxury.

Cracking his knuckles, laying back, Cassius allowed himself a moment of introspection. For him, that meant checking his mental files, opening them and seeing if matters had occurred how he’d desired. Hmm. Yes. He needed to send a call to the Luna Missile Complex. The Senior Tribune there should face a review board. Maybe that would be a good place to transfer Sulla, upgrade him off the Julius Caesar.

It occurred to Cassius then that he’d never received a confirmation from the Highborn sent to Kluge’s asteroid.

“Sulla,” he said. “Who was the officer in charge of the Asteroid-E pickup?”

Sulla swiveled to a different console, tapped on the screen and said a moment later, “First Maniple-Leader Felix of Ninth Iron Cohort, Commandoes.”

Cassius felt several things at once. The first was the oddness of the tone from Sulla. So he watched the Ultraist. The Highborn turned toward him, glancing at him too carefully, with too much calculation.

“You have something to add to the report?” asked Cassius.

It might have been his imagination, but Sulla’s mouth seemed to twitch. The oily, shiny face held inner gloating.

Cassius felt something else, too. Felix of his chromosomes had gone to collect Kluge. That didn’t seem like a chance assignment. His enemies among the Highborn must have engineered it, hoping for something to occur that would further mar his image as Grand Admiral.

“Has the Maniple-Leader returned yet?” asked Cassius.

“Felix landed long ago,” Sulla said.

The longing to unbuckle from his shell was nearly overpowering. Cassius wanted to beat Sulla’s face into bloody pulp. The tone and implications—this was the next thing to insubordination. Yet the Grand Admiral hesitated. It wasn’t fear of Sulla, but a grim understanding that his rank was under jeopardy. He needed to react with care.

Cassis asked, “In which shuttle-bay did he land?”

Sulla took his time answering. “Oh, the Maniple-Leader never arrived here. I misunderstood you, Your Excellency. I meant he landed on Asteroid E.”