Star Fortress

Pouting, Nadia said, “Why did Ah Chen have to come and ruin everything?”

Marten kissed his wife. He should have separated the women. But he hadn’t thought that a good idea at the time, not with all the fighting men around. He scowled. Morale was slipping and so was cohesion. It was simply too cramped in the boats and Omi and he where the only ones with girls.

Early next week, an alarm rang in the flight compartment.

Marten floated to the sensor screen.

Osadar looked up at him. “There’s your SU missile-ship,” she said. “It’s surrounded by Highborn shuttles.”

“Are they fighting?” Marten asked.

Osadar shook her head. “I don’t know yet,” she said, adjusting sensor controls. “But I intend finding out.”

Grabbing the back of her chair, Marten pulled himself closer, anxiously watching the screen…

-3-

The rehabilitation of General James Hawthorne was a slow process. First was the obvious fix to his finger, the one ruined by shooting Grand Admiral Cassius. Fortunately, the medical facilities aboard the Vladimir Lenin were top-rate. In short order, he had a new finger. The repair to his health and spirits was another matter.

There were several problems. Years of grinding work and intense pressure had taken a serious toll of his body. Mental fatigue made it worse, and guilt over the nuclear bombardment of the rebellious Soviets had been eating away at his conscience. The first few days aboard the Vladimir Lenin found him in a lone cubicle as he slept around the clock. He finally stirred, nibbling at his food and then lying on his bunk again, staring at the ceiling.

The days became weeks and then the Vladimir Lenin made the short flight to Luna. Before they began acceleration for Neptune, there was a knock on the wardroom door.

Hawthorne stared up at the ceiling with his long-fingered hands twined together on his chest. He’d been looking up at the ceiling for days, replaying a thousand decisions, seeing endless ways he could have made better choices. People who said they would never change anything in their life…he didn’t understand that. He would have done hundreds of things differently.

The knock became insistent. There had been others earlier. Hawthorne had ignored them and finally they had gone away. This one didn’t sound like it was going away soon.

“Who is it?” Hawthorne asked.

“Commodore Blackstone. Do you mind if I come in?”

“Joseph?” Hawthorne asked.

“It’s easier talking face-to-face.”

Hawthorne didn’t agree. Vaguely, he realized this was the Vladimir Lenin, Blackstone’s battleship.

His forehead wrinkled as he attempted to summon the energy to sit up. He found the willpower lacking. He never should have said anything.

Blackstone banged on the door again. “I need to speak to you, sir.”

Hawthorne might have shouted, “Go away!” but he lacked the willpower for that, too. “Enter if you must,” he finally said.

The door slid open and Commodore Blackstone floated in.

Hawthorne was shocked at how Blackstone had aged. The rings under the man’s eyes, the sagging skin… Is this what prolonged space exposure brought? Then he noticed how Blackstone looked at him. Hawthorne didn’t like it, so he turned away.

“You can’t just lie here,” Blackstone said.

Hawthorne remained mute.

“There’s civil war on Earth,” Blackstone said.

Hawthorne remembered someone else yelling that through the door several days ago.

“Someone faked your resignation,” Blackstone added.

A momentary tingle went through Hawthorne. The feeling died, fortunately. He didn’t want the job anymore. It had been killing him. He had killed millions of innocent civilians who had simply wanted something to eat. A leader who couldn’t feed his people needed to be dragged behind a barn and shot in the head. They should have shot him a long time ago.

“James, have you heard a word I’ve said?”

Hawthorne frowned. Was there someone in the room? Curious, he rolled onto his back and noticed Commodore Blackstone hovering nearby.

“Hello, Joseph,” Hawthorne said.

The Commodore blinked in confusion. Then the thin man scowled. “Now see here. You have to get it together. You’re the Supreme Commander of Social Unity. You’ve been thwarting the Highborn for years and—”

A stricken look crossed Hawthorne’s features as he began to shake his head.

“What’s wrong?” Blackstone asked.

“I resigned.”

“No you didn’t. Someone forged it.”

“Oh.”

“The forgery has caused a fracture on Earth. The directors voted one of their own into the leadership, a Director Backus.”

“A good man,” Hawthorne said. “I found him in an Algae Factory in Cairo. His production figures were amazing. I elevated him on the spot. He’s been a rising star ever since.”

“He’s trying to oust Vice-Chairman Cone.”

“Who?”

“Someone named Cone. Do you know anyone by that name?”

“Ah, Security-Specialist Cone. So she made a stab at power, did she? I thought she might.”

“She’s losing.”

“Not for long,” Hawthorne said.

“You have to broadcast something to them.”

Hawthorne turned his head, for the first time directly meeting Blackstone’s gaze. “You haven’t thought that through. If I speak, the Highborn will demand my blood. That could dissolve our shaky partnership.”

“The Grand Admiral attacked you. He set you up.”

“Yes, but no matter how you look at it, a preman killed a Highborn. That’s a grave offense to the supermen.”

“What are you going to do then?” Blackstone asked. “Stay in here forever?”

“The question is: what are you going to do? What have the Highborn done now that Cassius is dead?”

“They’ve created a triumvirate.”

“The Doom Star admirals are ruling by committee?” asked Hawthorne.

“Something like that,” Blackstone said.

“What have they decided?”

“To attack the cyborgs in the Neptune System.”

“What about you?” Hawthorne asked.

“We’re joining them, Vice-Admiral Mandela and me.”

“Who holds the highest command?”

“It’s a triumvirate,” Blackstone said.

“I understand. But who will make the command decisions in the heat of battle?”

“They each will, I suppose.”

Hawthorne thought about it, and shrugged after a time.

“That’s it?” Blackstone asked. “You shrug?”