fighters. Again, it was splendid, unbelievable success against negligible Highborn defense. It was unprecedented. No Thor missiles (rocks hurled down from orbit and sped by gravity) bombarded strong points.

The staff officers showed their nervousness in various ways. They wiped their hands on their pant legs or they lit non-narcotic stimsticks or they kept their faces impassive or they checked their chronometers every ten seconds or—only one man paced, his shoes click, click, clicking on the tiles.

None of them, despite the tension, the grimness of not knowing, of waiting, glanced at the bionic security men who even now guarded against treachery. Those carbines, those surgically enhanced muscles had one purpose, one goal: to slaughter anyone who lifted his hand against the State, which was to say against Lord Director Enkov.

General James Hawthorne stopped and blotted his mouth with his wrist.

Air Marshal Ulrich growled, “We have them!”

General Hawthorne thoughtfully pursed his lips.

“We’ve caught them by surprise,” agreed Commander Shell. “We’ve cleared near-orbital space of them. Japan is ours for the plucking.”

General Hawthorne studied the TV screens showing deep space. It was empty, devoid of enemy craft. Subtlety, his bony features shifted from unease, to suspicion and then to a grim certainty. “Scramble the interceptors,” he said.

The staff of Space Control turned sharply. Commander Shell took several steps nearer the general before he clicked his heels together. “Sir! Interceptors have limited fuel capacity. They are only to be launched at intervals, thus always keeping a reserve for when the others are forced to land and refuel.”

“I know very well what their limits are,” said General Hawthorne. “Scramble them all.”

“But sir—”

“This instant, Commander.”

The interceptors were planet-based space fighters, a turbine-rocket hybrid. The interceptors’ magneto- hydro-dynamic turbines used atmospheric oxidizer until they reached the vacuum of space, then they switched to chemical rockets. The use of the MHD power plant in the atmosphere saved the bulky chemical fuel for vacuum use alone, increasing the pitifully short range of the interceptors. Even so, the range limits called for utterly precise use. Those uses had been drilled into every space control officer from the moment he began his training.

“We’ve gained tremendous successes,” argued Commander Shell. He was a small, hawkish man, young for one of such high rank. “Now is the time to hold our cards and wait for whatever moves the enemy can make.”

General Hawthorne stared in dread at the screens showing deep space. His gut boiled. Something, a thing he couldn’t see but feel, oh yes, he felt it twisting his innards—He refused to acknowledge Commander Shell.

Commander Shell shot an imploring look at Air Marshal Ulrich.

The bull-shouldered Ulrich stepped near Hawthorne. “James,” he said. “We have them. But if they have something that can catch us when all the interceptors have landed…”

“No,” said Hawthorne, sweat glistening on his face. “If we had really surprised them they’d have thrown something at us by now, some backup, emergency reserve we couldn’t have seen before this.”

“That’s madness!” said Shell. “We took out everything they had in orbit.”

“Yes, much too easily.”

“Their arrogance was their undoing,” said Shell. “The Lord Director was right. We must not let our… fear of them unhinge us.”

Hawthorne glanced at Shell.

“I implore you, General, stick to procedure.”

“This is a trap,” Hawthorne dared say.

“What? Nonsense!”

“Highborn don’t go down so easily. We all know that.”

Commander Shell snorted. “They aren’t really supermen after all. We’ve simply fallen for their propaganda. Our success today proves that.”

Hawthorne stubbornly shook his head. “Launch all your interceptors, Commander.”

Commander Shell hesitated. “Perhaps a call to the Lord Director is in order, General.”

General Hawthorne faced the smaller man. “Anyone disobeying my orders will be immediately shot. Is that understood, Commander?”

Commander Shell thought about that. Finally, he clicked his heels and issued the needed orders.

Air Marshal Ulrich grunted as he stepped beside his friend. He whispered, “You’d better know what you’re doing, James.”

A soft, cynical laugh fell from General Hawthorne’s lips. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace again.

15.

Not all of the electronic gear on the space habs orbiting Earth was trained starward. Several passive optic sensors of great power watched the planet, the East Asian Landmass to be precise. Its operators squirted a message to a special satellite that sent it on to the Doom Star Julius Caesar, presently hidden behind the largest space habitat in the Solar System, the gigantic Tiaping Hab in ‘high’ L-5 orbit. The vice- commander in charge immediately beamed a message to Grand Admiral Cassius aboard the sister Doom Star Genghis Khan, also lurking behind Tiaping Hab.

The Grand Admiral, his eyes alight with the need for bloodshed, barked quick commands. The two Doom Stars—each kilometers in diameter—pumped gravity waves and glided forward under emergency acceleration. Although it had occurred much sooner than anticipated, the premen had at last tripped the wire so carefully set for them. Each Doom Star had taken station eight weeks ago in a stealth move and maintained practically zero radiation and radio signature. Now the admiral would pay the premen back for the arrogance of their nuclear strikes and for daring to destroy the space stations. Now they entered phase three of his intricately mapped strategy. Premen were so naively predictable. He just hoped the entire Free Earth Corps in Japan wouldn’t have to be written off. To start training a new Earth Army all over again… he shrugged. As the brilliant preman Napoleon Bonaparte had once so insightfully said, “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.”

16.

“Commander!” shouted a staff officer, breaking the quiet of the command center.

Commander Shell growled, “Report.”

“Doom Stars, sir.”

All eyes turned to the staff officer as Commander Shell and General Hawthorne strode to screen S-Fifteen. They hovered behind the staff officer. With unconcealed dread, they studied the growing shapes. The massive Doom Stars gained momentum as they streaked earthward. Spherical as moons and bristling with weaponry, they were launching squadrons of orbital fighters: squat, wicked craft that every person on Earth had learned to hate.

“They’ve never used Doom Stars this near Earth,” said Hawthorne.

“What are they doing here?” muttered a staff officer.

“We’ve been tricked,” said another.

“They’re deep space vessels,” Commander Shell said. “Caught in Earth’s gravity they’ll be easy prey for us.” He frowned at the screen, at the mass of orbital fighters that were spewed from the two Doom Stars. “How many orbitals do they hold?”

“I thought we destroyed the bulk of them at their stations,” an appalled staff officer whispered.

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