Star Fortress

possible hiding place for cyborg assault-pods. During the Third Battle for Mars, invading cyborgs had fought their way onto a Doom Star, blowing the core. No one wanted a repeat of that out here.

Hawthorne floated through a hatch, greeting Commissar Kursk as she stood by the command module in the center of the chamber.

The woman was grim, the module’s blue light bathing her face. She had aged during the trip. The glow highlighted the lines in her face. Once, she had been beautiful. At least she was still trim in her black Commissar’s uniform.

PHC, she used to belong to Political Harmony Corps. Does she hold it against me that I destroyed many of her comrades on Earth?

It troubled Hawthorne that he’d taken so long in the journey to think about that. His mind and ego were in better shape than when he’d first boarded the warship, but he felt they still lacked their former sharpness.

Hawthorne looked around. He saw tired people, worn down by worry and fear. Watching the Highborn beam the moons for long hours had done nothing to cheer the bridge crew. Everyone had worried about the first engagement with the cyborgs for eight dreadful months. Each AU closer had increased the tension. Now the inexplicable cyborg response to their presence here—the coming fight boded ill for the Alliance Fleet and the officers here knew it. The cyborgs had a plan. If they had willingly fed two heavily defended moons to the Alliance Fleet, it had to be for a horribly good reason.

“Attention!” Kursk said in a raw voice.

Hawthorne’s heart sped up as he turned toward her, wondering what she’d spotted. Instead of hearing a report, he saw Commodore Blackstone float through a side hatch.

Blackstone wore his dress uniform. He had hollowed-out eyes and folds of skin on his face.

He’s too thin. He hasn’t been eating enough. It’s getting to him, too. It’s getting to all of us.

“At ease,” Blackstone said, waving his people back onto their seats.

A frown creased Hawthorne’s face. Kursk had alerted the officers of Blackstone’s appearance, but not that of the Supreme Commander. He had run Social Unity too long to fail to understand the significance of that. Yes, he had failed to form a solid core of security people here. A few security men had paid him lip service, but he doubted their loyalty. Maybe two lower-ranked men would do his bidding, provided he didn’t ask them to do something morally difficult.

He recalled his attempts to build a following, sounding-out the security chief and his three top lieutenants. Each of them had been surprisingly loyal to Blackstone instead of to Social Unity. A little probing, asking the right questions, and Hawthorne had soon understood the reason. Commissar Kursk had been hard at work. At first, knowing that hadn’t overly troubled him. Blackstone had turned her from her intense loyalty to PHC, and she had turned ship security into his loyal guardians—to use a Jovian term. Now, seeing her in the old PHC uniform, he wondered if her animus against him ran deeper, was more political than personal.

Hawthorne grimaced. It might have been a mistake taking up residence on the Vladimir Lenin. Mandela was still here. Maybe he should have transferred to one of Mandela’s ships.

“Good morning, sir,” Blackstone said.

Hawthorne managed a nod. Then he floated to his couch and strapped himself in. Taking a deep breath, he flicked on his screen.

The Doom Stars were ready, with the Genghis Khan in the lead. He checked his chronometer. In less than thirty minutes, Triton would appear on Neptune’s rim.

“That’s it,” said Kursk.

Everyone looked up, Hawthorne included. He saw fear on several faces. They expected the worst, some nefarious and evil tactic.

“The last probe near Neptune has stopped reporting.” Kursk looked up, the blue glow of the module making her seem witch-like. “The cyborgs must have destroyed it.”

“Did the probe scan anything worthwhile?” Blackstone asked.

“Negative,” Kursk said.

The Commodore floated toward the command module. As he moved, he glanced at his crew. Then he looked at Hawthorne, meeting his gaze.

His eyes are more hollowed-out today. He’s worried, maybe more worried than his crew is.

“Trouble, Commodore?” Hawthorne asked.

Blackstone tilted his head as a quizzical look appeared. “Yes, sir. Triton…” Blackstone frowned. “The cyborgs have to strike soon, sir. They can’t let us demolish Triton’s defenses, not like we’ve done to the other moons.”

“We’ve done nothing to the other moons,” Hawthorne said.

“The Doom Stars then.” Blackstone licked his lips. “I keep wondering if we’ve made a terrible mistake.”

Hawthorne waited, trying to assess the Commodore. Has he lost his nerve? I did eight months ago. I was lucky and had time to recoup. Joseph may not be given that luxury.

With a slight head-twitch, Hawthorne dismissed the thought. He couldn’t worry about Blackstone now. He would save his worry for the last SU fleet. He needed this crew ready. They were too brittle, too wound-up.

Clearing his throat, Hawthorne said, “I don’t like heading this deeply into Neptune’s gravity-well before locating their main fleet. But if we’re going to force them into showing themselves and fighting us, we have to attack something they hold dear.”

“I don’t mean that.” Blackstone hesitated before blurting, “Sir, is it possible the cyborgs have taken everything useful from here and moved to a different system?”

Several officers turned around in wonder. One man laughed in obvious relief, no doubt glad the cyborgs had fled—at least in his mind.

“No,” Hawthorne said. “What you’re suggesting is impossible. We would have spotted something given the nature of such a move.”

“We couldn’t move so stealthily,” Blackstone said. “But the cyborgs are masters at cloaked movement. I think it might be within their power.”

“They’re not gods,” Hawthorne said sternly. He needed to quash this idea. “First, what would be the point of it? If they lacked the time to make Neptune a fortress, how could they prepare Saturn or Uranus in time?”

“The moons were fortresses,” Blackstone said. “Social Unity could have never taken them. The Doom Stars— how long can they keep the heavy lasers operational? Our beams have a shelf life of forty hours. I can’t imagine the heavy beams can last much longer, probably less.”

“We caught the cyborgs by surprise,” Hawthorne said. “There’s your answer.”

“Do you really believe that, sir?”

Hawthorne could feel the many eyes on him. The worry and fear was growing. Men could face terrible things and stand. The unknown, however, terrified them. The threat of ghosts was more fearful than actually seeing ghosts.

“I believe the cyborgs have held back their main fleet,” Hawthorne said. “They want us in Neptune’s gravity well and near the ice planet. To get us here, they’ve allowed us to destroy two heavy fortresses. They’re gambling and we’ve made it a heavy one for them.”

“Triton appears in less than a half hour,” Blackstone said. “Your reasoning would lead me to believe their main fleet will attack in less than a half hour.”

Hawthorne nodded thoughtfully. Had the cyborgs attempted to fashion their own Doom Stars? Sensors hadn’t been able to pick up any evidence of floating construction areas near Neptune’s atmosphere. Where else could they have built such ships without leaving evidence of it?

Shaking his head, Blackstone said, “The cyborgs love using cloaked ships.” He looked up in surprise. “Maybe we’ve been sending the probes in the wrong direction. We’re fixed on Neptune and the Neptunian moons. What if during our long approach, the cyborgs moved their fleet out-system or farther out-system than we’ve been checking? Maybe even now they’re sneaking ships behind us.”

“Wouldn’t the Highborn already have thought of that?” Kursk asked.

Hawthorne slapped an armrest. “We can’t let the Highborn do our thinking for us. And the answer is no. Or have you spotted Highborn launching probes behind us?”