dark tunic and held a computer stylus and a blue slate on his lap.
Chavez clicked off the vidscreen. With a trembling hand, he put the stimstick between his lips and puffed. Red smoke trickled from the glowing end. The smell of the stimulant permeated the room, a sweet odor.
“They’re buying time until the convoy reaches their military vessels.” Chavez dragged deeply on the stimstick before mashing it out in an overflowing ashtray. Then like some delicate dragon, he blew red smoke out of his nostrils. “If only the Highborn had left us warships. Our orbital defenses can’t match the SU fleet, not in our present state of disrepair.”
Chavez’s fingers brushed his goatee as he stared at some unseen point. “Take this down: The technicians have two months. Then the proton beam must be ready.”
General-Secretary Chavez referred to the proton beam installation on Olympus Mons. It had been badly damaged during the recent Mars Rebel liberation and had been taken offline. Technicians worked day and night attempting repairs. Whether it would be ready in two months was highly questionable.
“At least they stopped their air attacks out of the Valles Marineris Canyon,” Chavez said. “So we can begin to use the Harrington Launch Sites. Take that down. We must ferry more missiles and repair each laser focusing system in turn on the orbital stations. Social Unity will try to swamp us. We have to make it too costly for them. We have two months at the most. I fear, however, it will be less than four weeks. It’s simply not enough time.”
Chavez opened a drawer and shook another stimstick out of a half-crumpled pack. He put it between his lips and inhaled it into life. “Are you ready for more?”
The secretary nodded.
Chavez continued dictating, “To the Shop Steward of the Phobos Local, I send these emergency instructions…”
As he swam laps in an indoor pool in New Baghdad, Supreme Commander James Hawthorne listened to Director Danzig. Captain Mune stood farther off near the diving board.
Hawthorne swam strongly and despite his lankiness, with grace. Director Danzig walked along the side of the pool, reiterating his conversations with Secretary-General Chavez.
“I doubt we convinced him,” Hawthorne said as he flipped onto his back, doing a long-limbed backstroke. A small amount of chlorine-tasting water trickled into his mouth.
“They’re trying to buy time,” Danzig said.
“Obviously, and so are we. The question for us is: what do they need the time for? …have we intercepted any Rebel messages to the Highborn?”
“Just that the Rebels have appealed to them, not the nature of the queries.”
Hawthorne stopped and stood up in the pool so water sloshed around his waist. There was too much chlorine in it. The harsh odor stung his nostrils. He’d have to have a word with the manager. The man must know that he took a swim at this time everyday.
“The important thing is they’re not molesting our individual warships as they decelerate and match orbital speeds with Blackstone,” Hawthorne said. “It must mean Martian orbital defenses are weaker than we suspected. That’s both good and bad.”
“General?” Director Danzig asked.
“It’s a phony peace as we both prepare for war.” Hawthorne laughed. “We caught them flat-footed with the convoy fleet. That must be the truth of it. They didn’t expect us to appear at the Mars System so soon. Yes, they must be using the time for emergency repairs and re-supply. Let’s just hope the Highborn are as surprised.”
“Do you really think they are?”
Hawthorne examined the middle-aged director. The air was humid and Danzig’s suit was damp. The director looked tired. The man probably needed to exercise more. Hm. The Highborn had a plan. They always did. For a moment, Hawthorne had the chills as he wondered if the Highborn had already outthought him.
No. Such thinking was debilitating. He had to believe it was possible to outwit the super-soldiers.
“Of course the Highborn are surprised,” Hawthorne said. “The savagery of their space-borne attacks these last weeks on Eurasia prove it, as does their storming of half the habitats. We’ve enraged them, and that’s the best sign there is that we’ve gained a step on them.”
Director Danzig grinned. “That’s good to hear, sir. We need this victory.”
“We do at that,” Hawthorne said, and he began to wade toward the steps. The chlorine bothered his eyes. He was going to find the manager and have a word with him.
-5-
The long weeks passed in worry and hard deceleration for the clone Lisa Aster. She was in the safest central cargo-ship of the Earth convoy fleet, the
The general sat on his couch eating salted herring, a delicacy he ate regularly. It left a horrible fishy odor in the module. In the interest of politeness, Lisa kept her intense dislike of the smell to herself. However, she floated near the ceiling, as far away from the offensive odor as she could go.
“This trip has nothing to do with our sensibilities,” said General Fromm. Despite the relish with which he ate his herring, he had been losing weight. He’d become increasingly pale and somber. “The trip has everything to do with speed. We have accelerated and now decelerate near the acceptable limits of human endurance. Battlefleet Mars desperately needs these supplies.”
“The journey is killing us,” Lisa said.
“…yes,” General Fromm said after he’d torn off another length of dried herring with his teeth. He chewed thoroughly and swallowed. “…but eighty-five percent of us should survive. You’re healthy and young, so you should recover quickly from any debilitating effects.”
“Killing ourselves is foolish,” Lisa said.
General Fromm checked his chronometer. “Five minutes to continued deceleration. You’d better strap yourself in.” He slid the remaining herring into a container, sealing it. Then he lay back on the couching, strapping himself in and settling down for another six hours of pain and torment.
Lisa continued to float near the ceiling and waved her hand before her nose as the general occupied himself with his straps.
“We’re not killing ourselves to set speed records,” Fromm said, finally looking up. “We’re trying to outwit the Highborn. Our window of opportunity to defeat the Mars Rebels and reorganize the orbital defenses in time to face and destroy Doom Stars is narrow indeed. Our supplies are critical to the refitting of our united fleet.” He checked his chronometer again. “You really should strap-in.”
Lisa grinned tightly. General Fromm meant well. He was a brooder and a deep-thinker. He never took risks if he could help it, but carefully thought out the best way to do everything. She hated lying on the couch and she was unbelievably bored. Timing her landing on the couch and strapping-in to the exact second of the re-igniting thrusters had become one of her sole games. Having a brooder to scold her only made the game more enjoyable.
“Ms. Aster,” the general said, “your risk of debilitating injury far outweighs any juvenile pleasure you might gain in waiting so long. You must strap yourself in now.”
At least the general had learned not to try to order her. She
