Bio-Weapon

11.

Earth—Joho Mountains, China Sector

Taking a billion civilian casualties hardly seemed like a victory, especially when added to the loss of the Japanese home islands, the evaporation of 700,000 trained soldiers and the destruction of Earth’s naval and air fleets. In return, they had only bled the Highborn by several thousand personnel, a couple hundred orbital fighters and a nearly crippled Doom Star, the Genghis Khan. Still, to date, it was the best Social Unity had been able to achieve against their genetic superiors, and the tactics that had allowed it were the brainchild of General James Hawthorne.

Thus the Earth government’s propaganda mills proclaimed him the Savior of Social Unity, and the Directorate of Inner Planets, led by Madam Director Blanche-Aster, granted him vast powers for the further prosecution of the war.

That had been six months ago. Now General Hawthorne paced in his office in China Sector as he spoke via comlink with Director Blanche-Aster. The tall, gaunt Supreme Commander with his wispy blond hair and aristocratic bearing had worn a long path in his carpet. He thought best while pacing, a nervous habit. He wore a green uniform with red piping along the crease of his trousers.

“I can’t help you there, General,” said Madam Director Blanche-Aster. The holo-screen was blank. She had been operated on yesterday, and had said she didn’t feel like having people stare at her, gauging her health.

“Political Harmony Corps chips away at my authority,” said Hawthorne. “Six months ago PHC worked hand in glove with me. Now they’ve thrown a blizzard of red tape and bad will in my face.”

“You’ve scared them, General. You’ve shown them a Social Unity world where they wield diminished power.”

“Nonsense!”

“General Hawthorne,” she said. “For the last time. I can’t help you there. You must accept the reemergence of PHC hostility and concentrate on military matters. I hesitate to tell you this, but the other directors—Director Gannel has gained a following. I must tread carefully when arbitrating between you and PHC. There’s nothing more I can say.”

Hawthorne swung his long arms behind his back. So it had come to this. It was going to make everything that much harder.

“About the Bangladesh,” said Blanche-Aster. “The attack must not fail.”

“No military endeavor is without risks.”

“But you assured me we would catch the Highborn by surprise.”

“I still believe we shall,” said Hawthorne. “Yet a good commander has contingency plans. I cannot simply point my finger and say: Here I will win.”

“Don’t be fatuous, General.

“That wasn’t my intention.”

“We must win somewhere,” said Blanche-Aster. “We must hurt the Highborn. Make them bled.”

“The Sun Works Factory is such a place,” Hawthorne said. “It is their supply base and headquarters. It is their vulnerable point. The Bangladesh is the best tool we have to hit them, to hurt them, to surprise them—which is probably the only way we could do this.”

“Then… Do you think we will catch them by surprise?” asked Blanche-Aster.

“I wouldn’t have ordered the attack unless I thought so.”

“So it isn’t a gamble?” she asked.

“Director. War is always a gamble. It is the nature of the beast. We have weapons and will, they have weapons and will. Each side reacts to the other.”

“Yes, yes, but—”

“I urge you to relax. To wait patiently.”

“How can I wait?” asked Blanche-Aster. “How do you propose I sit patiently while Director Gannel rouses the others with his militant speeches? General, I don’t think you understand the precariousness of our position.”

“Social Unity is strong,” said Hawthorne. “We are all bound together as one: humanity against the Supremacists. In time our sheer numbers will tell against the genetic freaks.”

There was a pause before Blanche-Aster said, “I was speaking about our positions, General, yours and mine as Supreme War Leader and Madam Director. We can be replaced. Neither of our posts is as secure as only six months ago. The Bangladesh must be victorious.”

“I see,” said Hawthorne.

“I sincerely hope you do, General. PHC wants your head. Director Gannel is after my chair. Only victory somewhere will secure our posts. Now, my doctor has arrived. I must go.”

“Thank you for your time, Director.”

“Yes. Good-bye.”

The link closed.

General Hawthorne continued to pace. The Bangladesh sped toward Mercury, toward its destiny with the Sun Works Factory. Would they catch the Highborn by surprise? He wondered what the space hab’s defenses were like. How did the stationmaster spend his time? If the stationmaster should guess how the attack would be made…

General Hawthorne exhaled sharply. Much rested upon this attack. It was a wild gamble. He knew that. But the Highborn were winning the war and they had to hurt them somehow. He hoped the Bangladesh was the answer, or at the very least, that it would buy him some time until the Cyborgs from Neptune arrived.

12.

Training Master Lycon of the shock troops hurried to his appointment with the Praetor of the Sun Works Factory. Like all Highborn, the Training Master seethed with plans and programs, and never seemed to have enough hours in the day to see them through. Unlike a preman, however, what he did have was endless energy, boundless enthusiasm and a grinding work ethic.

He hoped the Praetor didn’t bring up that wild idea again of castrating his shock troopers. What a preposterous scheme!

Lycon strode down a “street”-sized corridor bustling with harried-looking aides and monitors. They were all premen, the hardest-working and most ambitious among them. Their very rank and unbelievably close access to their genetic superiors proved it.

The overhead lights blazed like miniature suns, while stunted and potted pines lent a forest-like feel to the corridor. The holo-walls had been imaged to look like old log buildings. Quaint, to say the least, and ruined by the modern uniforms everyone wore. The aides provided technical and mechanical help: shipping masters in their silk executive suits, chief industrialists in rough-cut jackets and heavy boots. They wished to show their nearness to the workers they had so recently risen from. There were white-coated computer specialists and solar engineers in their ubiquitous jumpsuits. The monitors were just a fancy name for secret policemen. They were the Highborn’s eyes and ears among the premen masses.

Lycon wore a smart blue uniform with crisscrossing white belts across his torso and another around his waist. A gold “Magnetic Star” First Class decorated his chest and a pitted sidearm rode his hip. Finally finished speaking, he flicked off the recorder in his hand. He loathed losing ideas, and thus spoke into the recorder in order to capture the purest essence of them the moment they arrived.

He was seven feet tall and powerful, and had lightning-like reflexes and pearl-white skin. Older than most Highborn, he had white hair cut close to his scalp so it seemed like panther’s fur. His dark eyes were intense beyond any normal man’s, but regular among Highborn, while his features were severely angular, as if a