“Lasers!” Kursk cried. “The cyborgs are firing lasers.”
All three Highborn lasers opened up again, lashing across eight hundred thousand kilometers. It took almost three full seconds for them to travel to the target. That made little difference when firing at something “stationary” like turrets on the moon. In this case, the enemy couldn’t jink to escape.
During that time, cyborg lasers targeted and hit the moon-killers. Those were armored missiles, however, able to absorb punishing damage.
The seconds ticked away. Then heavy beams melted the newest cyborg turrets to pop up on the surface.
A bloom of light on Hawthorne’s screen showed that one moon-killer ceased to exist.
“How much time until impact?” Hawthorne asked.
Another bloom appeared. The Supreme Commander grimaced.
Before Kursk could answer him, a third bloom appeared on the screen. The cyborgs had annihilated the three missiles.
“It appears the cyborgs desire to keep Nereid intact,” Blackstone said.
“They’re testing us,” Hawthorne said.
“By letting us destroy their defenses?” Blackstone asked.
“I’m not sure,” Hawthorne said, wishing he’d kept the thought to himself. How subtle was the Prime Web-Mind? They knew so little about the enemy. They didn’t know how he or it thought.
That had been one of his secrets against the Highborn. He’d known how the super-soldiers thought and how to predict their actions. The cyborgs were aliens, with strange ways and thought patterns.
“What else can we do other than what we’re doing?” Hawthorne whispered to himself.
“Maybe they want us to head for Nereid,” Blackstone said.
Hawthorne didn’t believe that. The main enemy fleet must be hiding behind Neptune.
“Nereid will be out of Doom Star range in another seventeen minutes,” Kursk said.
Hawthorne found it hard to swallow as his throat turned dry. That sounded ominous. They were plunging into the Neptune System, with a damaged but still intact moon behind them. The trick, it seemed, was to make sure they kept at least eight hundred thousand kilometers between them and any potential weapons platform. Yet it also appeared that to destroy a moon or base, they would have to go in close enough to land their missiles.
“It’s time to launch probes,” Hawthorne said. “I want to know what’s behind Neptune.”
“A set of probes, sir?” Blackstone asked.
“No. Make it nine probes,” Hawthorne said. “It’s time to figure out the cyborgs’ war plan.”
-9-
As the Alliance Fleet crawled past Nereid and headed closer toward the ice giant, the
Everyone wore combat-armor. Marten sat before the com-equipment as Osadar piloted the boat.
Marten charted the parameters on the screen. Venus was in direct line-of-sight, although it was well behind them and to the boat’s objective right as the planet orbited away. Mercury would appear around the Sun’s horizon in another thirty-seven days. Long before that, they would pass Mercury’s orbital path as they headed closer to the nuclear fireball. Nearly invisible to their sensors was the vast, Highborn interferometer. Somewhere behind it was the Sun Station, while farther behind it were the huge mirrors.
With Ah Chen’s help, Marten had been searching for the focusing system. In effect, the focuser was like a giant magnifying glass. When the mirrors aligned perfectly, they reflected the Sun’s rays, shooting them at the focuser. When all the mirrors reflected in unison, they would pour an immense amount of sunlight through the focusing system. That system narrowed the sunlight. According to Ah Chen, it shot a relatively tight beam that was an eighth of a kilometer in diameter.
She told them that the giant interferometer was the station’s sighting system.
“Theoretically, the interferometer can see anything in the Solar System,” she told Marten.
“How far can the Sunbeam shoot?”
Ah Chen shrugged. She didn’t have an answer for this critical question.
A light appeared on Marten’s screen. A check showed him someone sent a strong radio wave. It wasn’t to him directly, but a broadcast. He tapped the screen and routed the message to his earphones.
“Marten Kluge, calling Marten Kluge.”
Marten sat up in surprise. It was a Highborn’s voice. He tapped again, bringing the information onto his screen.
A Highborn appeared with blond hair and high cheekbones, with a chevron or scar under the right eye. The eyes were feral, with a frightful intensity.
“Maximus,” Felix rumbled.
Marten scowled. He didn’t like people sneaking up behind him, and he disliked even more high-ranking Highborn attempting to hail him.
“We have received your message, Kluge,” Maximus said.
“What does he say?” Felix asked, sounding annoyed.
Marten scowled. He was the Force-Leader here, not Felix. Then he realized he was becoming mulish. With an effort of will, he submerged his anger and switched on audio.
“I recognize your warning as valid,” Maximus said. “If it will comfort you, know that the personnel on the Sun Station are ready to repel any cyborgs foolish enough to attempt boarding. Your message was received. It is clear you launched a message drone from the gravity-captured planet-wrecker. The conclusion is obvious: you launched in secret from the wrecker and are headed for the Sun Station.”
“It was a mistake warning them,” Felix said.
Maximus’s features grew taut. “I don’t know how you achieved it, Kluge, but you thwarted me at the
Behind Marten, Felix growled like a beast. It tightened Marten’s shoulders and made him wary.
Onscreen, Maximus became more earnest. “I officially warn you, Kluge. Felix is unhinged. He died once, and it destroyed his—the word is untranslatable to a preman. It is sufficient to say that he no longer possesses a Highborn’s keenness, the sharp intellect or will. I am unsurprised to learn he cast his lot with premen. It is fitting, really.”
Felix leaned over Marten and roared an oath, shaking a fist at Maximus.
“Back off!” Marten shouted, shoving Felix, or trying to. The Highborn was like an unmoving statue. Something snapped in Felix. The Highborn glared down at Marten, and he moved like greased death.
“No preman touches or commands me!” Felix roared, clutching Marten by the throat, lifting him from the chair.
Marten drew his needler and shoved the muzzle against Felix’s temple. “Let go,” he whispered.
The wild light in Felix’s eyes became a gleam of murder-lust. Marten applied pressure to the trigger. A hair more, and steel needles would puncture the Highborn’s brain. Marten had no intention of waiting for the Highborn to crush his throat before he fired.
The nearness of death brought a level of sanity to the Highborn. Felix blinked, and he released Marten, pushing back, floating away. The Highborn clenched his hands into fists and he began to shake his head.
Maximus was still talking. “It doesn’t matter. Felix will die with you. You have been an annoying gnat to us, preman. I destroy what annoys me. Therefore, I have destroyed you. It is simply a matter of time before my will is accomplished.”
“What’s that mean?” Omi asked. He had his long-barreled .38 hanging beside his leg, with his hand on the grip.
Maximus grinned onscreen. “You have cloaked your patrol boat. Oh yes, I know you have a modified Jovian craft. I leave nothing to chance and therefore I accessed Earth files concerning you. I tell you these things because
