Star Fortress

“You’re ill-advised to mock the men who will soon be administering your punishments.”

“I’m ill-advised to bow and scrape to a fool,” Marten said. “I have one life. I’ll live it free and tell it like it is, taking my lumps for it.”

Delos frowned, and she glanced at her screen, which she had turned back. No doubt, she spied a younger Marten Kluge pumping the handle in the glass tube. She continued to watch.

“In the first year of the war, the Highborn invaded Sydney,” Marten said.

“I’m aware of that. It’s what saved your life.”

“It almost ended my life. Political Harmony Corps tried to blow Sydney’s deep-core mine. I went deep into the Earth and stopped them. When I came back up, I was captured by the Highborn for my efforts.”

Delos turned away from the screen and stared fixedly at Marten. She sat back, and she pressed her fingers together.

“Listen to me,” Marten said. “I’ve been in tight spots before. I know what it means to face impossible odds and win. Humanity faces its doom, its extinction. We must band together now and fight as one. We have a fleet of Highborn and Humans, and we’re about to attack Neptune System. Release my space marines so we can join the armada.”

“If I do that, Director Backus will mark me for death.”

“The cyborgs have already done that.”

“Your few Jovians will make no difference to the fight,” Delos said.

“You’re probably right,” Marten said. “Yet you can’t know that. They might be the margin that gives us victory.”

“Please, Mr. Kluge,” Delos said with a laugh, “no melodrama.”

“War is melodrama. Torture is melodrama. Life is full of melodrama. Give me my men. Let me fight our true enemy.”

Delos continued to frown.

“Look!” Marten said, pointing at the mini-replica of the Pantheon. “Greece Sector is the land of melodrama. Long ago, men here learned to be free.”

“Enough!” Delos said. “Speak to me about realities.”

“A year ago, the cyborgs hit Earth with a planet-wrecker, or with part of one. How long will it be before they do it again?”

“I hope never,” Delos said.

“Then do everything you can toward hurting the cyborgs. Anything else is immaterial—at least in the long run.”

“Life is filled with short runs,” Delos said.

Marten stared at the old director. He glanced back at the hard-eyed bodyguards. When he faced Delos again, he noticed she watched the video.

“What about that intrigues you?” he asked.

Her eyebrows lifted. “Yes, I am intrigued. That,” she pointed at the screen, “is very odd behavior.”

“Do something odd for once. Go against your perfect calculations. Think of it as humanity’s last gamble against almost certain annihilation by a superior life-form.”

“Superior?” she asked.

“They’re better than us at fighting,” Marten said. “I’ve faced them several times, and I can attest to that.”

“Yet you’re still alive, as you so humbly pointed out.”

Marten waited.

Director Delos sat forward, and she stroked her chin. Then her eyes narrowed. “Maybe there is a way. Let me think about it.”

“We don’t have much time left.”

“No. You don’t have much time left. I have plenty. I will think about it and get back to you…soon.” She sat up. “Alexander, take him to the detention center. Let him join his precious Jovians.”

“What about my wife and Osadar, the cyborg?” Marten asked.

Delos thought a moment. “For now, they will join you. That is all,” she said, waving her hand. “Take him away. I have much to consider.”

-11-

Many thousands of kilometers from Athens, the Napoleon Bonaparte was in Near Luna Orbit. The Doom Star’s commander—Sulla the Ultraist—was taking his morning exercise in a pseudo-gravity chamber, a large, rotating pod.

The nine-foot-tall Highborn had oiled his face, giving him a warrior’s shine or glow. Many considered Sulla to be the deadliest combat fighter among the Highborn. He had thick dark hair and his eyes almost seemed to spark with hostility. If he lacked some of the strategic breadth of others, he made up for it with a tight-knit faction of Ultraists and a ruthless willingness to do anything required to achieve victory.

He had advanced high in a short time. During the planet-wrecker assault, Sulla had been a bridge officer aboard Grand Admiral Cassius’s ship. It had been the destruction of the Gustavus Adolphus that had changed so much, taking some of Cassius’s staunchest supporters. No Ultraists had died because the Gustavus’s commander had forbidden any of the cult aboard his warship. Because of that, the percentage of Ultraists among the Highborn had risen dramatically. It had no longer been possible to deny an Ultraist a major command slot.

Who would have believed such a thing possible? Sulla grinned at the thought. Cassius had made a temporary alliance with the premen. Then a preman had murdered the Grand Admiral. That Sulla had aided the premen in the act…well, that just made Cassius’s death even sweeter.

I must now discover all of Cassius’s secrets. Sulla flexed his fingers. Whom must I assassinate next? It was an interesting question. Then he shook his head, concentrating on the moment and the fighting robot in the chamber with him.

Sulla wore steel-reinforced gauntlets, a body-length synthi-suit and a fierce scowl.

The robot was a squat device rolling on treads, possessing five mechanical stalks. The stalks were as supple as whips. One had a three-inch knife on the end. The others had blunt knobs and could easily beat a man into submission. The robot had beaten six FEC traitors at a time to death. Sulla had witnessed the event on four separate occasions. The FEC soldiers had rebelled against the Highborn during the planet-wrecker attack and foolishly declared independence. Several thousand had paid the ultimate penalty for their disloyalty. Those facing the fighting robot had died hard, many begging for mercy.

Premen made such pathetic soldiers. Only in mass like a horde of lemmings did they present danger. Once more, Sulla shook his head, driving out extraneous thoughts. The robot attempted to outmaneuver and kill him.

Just as my enemies attempt to outmaneuver me, hoping that I make a fatal mistake.

Sulla shifted to the left. The robot paused, and a tread spun, rotating the machine. It would kill him here in the chamber if it could. Sulla never used the lower settings. That would be a mistake of the first order. You practiced at the same level you wished to fight. How otherwise could you hone your instincts to maximum efficiency?

“Come, little death,” he told the robot. “See if you can match the greatest fighting Highborn of all.”

A blue light blinked on the robot, indicating the beginning of a shutdown.

Sulla began to relax, although he was angered. Who dared to tamper with the fighting machine or interrupt his exercise?

As the blue “shutoff” light continued to blink, the robot’s treads spun as it advanced at speed. The whippy stalks moved like an octopus’s limbs, with the knife poised in back for a killing blow.