The Praetor allowed himself a small smile. “After Lycon’s departure, I took the liberty and assumed leadership of the shock trooper regiment. Those that remained on the Sun-Works Factory were gelded and converted into neutraloids.”
“You castrated high-quality premen?”
“Your statement is illogical. I turned questionable premen into trustworthy neutraloids.”
“I admit that your neutraloids have unique fighting qualities, at least in a primitive setting. But their rage, Praetor—”
“I have already successfully altered three platoons of neutraloids. They are now undergoing space combat training. Incidentally, that is why you’ve been assigned to me.”
“You wish me to attempt to train these neutraloids?”
“To space combat efficiency. Yes, Training Master.”
“…I’ve read your reports, Praetor. You hand me a daunting task.”
“Do you feel it is beyond your capabilities?”
The Praetor watched the other sidelong. The Training Master had a harsh face with muscles in odd places. They tightened and bulged at his jaws and near his temples. A vein across his forehead grew and throbbed with blood. Oh, how this Lot Sixer wished to challenge him. The Praetor hoped he would. He would break this one in single combat and force the Grand Admiral to send him a real Highborn as Training Master.
The Praetor’s communicator beeped and temporarily broke the tension.
“Yes,” he said, speaking into a wrist communicator. Ah, he spoke with the Grand Admiral.
“Praetor, I have sent a shuttle to pick you up. You will bring your suite with you.”
“At once, sir.” The communicator winked off. The Praetor’s pink eyes seemed to glitter.
The Lot Sixer lost his truculent manner, as he seemed to notice the change come over the Praetor.
“You heard him,” the Praetor said, his voice rougher than before. He slapped the baton into his open palm, enraged that as Fourth he had been bypassed twice for command of a Doom Star. This time, it would be different. Commander Scipio had committed suicide. Now there was no excuse for the Grand Admiral. That cagy old soldier would have to give him command of the
The Praetor and Grand Admiral Cassius sat in a lounge aboard the
The Grand Admiral’s skill was legendary. He had three of the Praetor’s pawns and a knight. The Praetor had four enemy pawns, each carefully lined up in a row beside his ivory baton.
The Highborn likened the Grand Admiral to the Great Captains of the premen, those uncanny soldiers of history: Alexander the Great, Hannibal Barca, Julius Caesar, Genghis Khan, Napoleon and others. Instead of a premen genius, however, Grand Admiral Cassius was a
That genius radiated from the iron-haired admiral. It was a palpable force, as the Grand Admiral exuded a fierce presence.
The Praetor felt that force, just as he felt the Grand Admiral’s merciless attack on the three dimensional chessboard. The Praetor refused to succumb to a legend, however. He silently berated himself and jeered his nervousness. He was the Praetor. He was a superior Highborn. He was Fourth in the unbelievably competitive world of the genetic super-soldiers. He would ignore the stories about Cassius’s legendary chess assault. He would play his own highly aggressive game and catch the Grand Admiral in a long-term trap.
The room possessed bronze busts of generals of the past and various famous battle paintings. A subtle vibration told the Praetor that the
Grand Admiral Cassius decisively moved a pawn, clicking the metal piece onto the glass tile. He then stared at the Praetor across the three dimensional board.
“I do not approve of the gelding of fighting troops.”
The Praetor nodded crisply. “I have sent your office a recording of the battle files of the Storm Assault Missiles. A percentage of the shock troopers sent against the beamship spoke treason against us.”
“Those were words, Praetor. The shock troopers’ action spoke loudly enough about their ultimate loyalty.”
“In the storming of the
“You have files concerning that?”
“The Grand Admiral knows I do not. The experimental beamship was destroyed.”
“It’s your move.”
The Praetor studied the chessboard. After a moment, he looked up. “My neutraloids are superior to the shock troopers.”
“In a primitive setting, you may be right. The shock troopers were high-tech soldiers. We will need a four hundred percent increase in space combat premen to help secure the remaining farm habitats in Earth orbit. If the neutraloids could function as police, they could perform some useful task. They are, however, too savage to be policemen.”
“I have taken steps to modify their savagery.”
The Grand Admiral grunted in a noncommittal manner.
The Praetor shifted in his chair and resumed studying the chessboard. He willed his thoughts onto the game and spent the next five minutes mentally moving the chess-pieces five, six and then seven moves ahead. Finally, he dropped his bishop two levels and captured another pawn. This piece he lined up precisely with his other captured pawns.
“If—” the Praetor began to say.
Grand Admiral Cassius held up a big hand, signaling for silence. He then clasped his left wrist again and leaned forward like a statue. After three minutes, he captured the bishop with a castle.
The Praetor nodded, trying to hide his smile.
“I appreciate your dedication to solving the space combat dilemma,” the Grand Admiral rumbled. “We have too few Highborn and need additional population if we’re to conquer the Solar System.”
The Praetor yearned to hold up his hand and halt the Grand Admiral’s words. He recognized the tactic of only talking during his turns. The Grand Admiral used his position of strength, of possessing the higher rank. The Praetor did not think that was unfair. A position of strength should be exploited for all the advantages it could give. He simply wished he had the high ground, not the Grand Admiral.
“It is a pressing dilemma,” the Praetor agreed.
“This training of premen space-combat soldiers fails to engage your talents to the full benefit of the Highborn.”
The Praetor blinked slowly, the game forgotten now. He trembled with seething vitality, his rage only held in check by his will. He yearned to flex his big hands. He wanted to lunge across the chessboard, wrap his fingers around the Grand Admiral’s throat and
“The premen of Social Unity have moved more quickly than I’d foreseen.”
“They surprised you?” the Praetor asked.
The Grand Admiral shook his iron-haired head. “Surprise is the wrong word. I have set a trap for them. It is a delicate trap, however. I have debated with myself whether their side had a commander worthy enough to see the possibility and thereby find himself lured by my bait.”
The Praetor waited as he wondered what the Grand Admiral was talking about. He was too proud to admit that he didn’t know.
“Five days ago, Social Unity launched a surprise assault.”
“I’m obviously well aware of that,” the Praetor said.
“You are probably also aware that we probe the Earth’s defenses with the
