Doom Star: Book 06 - Star Fortress (29 page)

The Highborn grew still as he glared at Marten. Slowly, some of the madness drained away from him.

“Do I know you?” the Highborn asked in a raw voice.

“I’m Marten Kluge. You once ordered me off a planet-wrecker.”

Felix winced as if struck. Then he grinded his teeth and snarled like a beast.

 “They’ve driven him insane,” Omi whispered.

“Wrong,” Felix said. “They wanted information.”

“What kind of information?” Marten asked.

Felix laughed wildly.

“What are we going to do with him?” Omi asked.

The laughter turned sinister, maybe demented. “Does Titus think I’m that easily tricked?” Felix roared.

“Centurion Titus is dead,” Marten said.

“Prove it!”

“Get his body,” Marten told Xenophon.

The Jovian left in a hurry.

As they waited, Marten tore off the rest of the electrodes.

“Tell Titus it’s a mistake giving me this rest,” Felix said.

“I was tortured once by my own people,” Marten said. “I fought against them after that in the Free Earth Corps. I can understand your rage.”

Felix roared as he tried to wrestle himself free, making the frame creak at the strain. “I’ll kill him! I’ll kill all of you once I’m out of here!”

“He is insane,” Omi whispered, floating away from the Highborn.

“Maybe,” Marten said, drifting with him. There was a glitter of memory in his eyes. Maybe for the first time in his life he found himself sympathizing with a Highborn. It was an odd feeling.

Soon enough, Xenophon propelled Titus’s corpse into medical.

“It’s him,” Felix said in awe. He turned wondering eyes on Marten. “What happened? Quickly, tell me and don’t try to dissimilate.”

Marten told him the story.

Felix laughed often, and he nodded. Then something strange entered his eyes. He studied Marten, and it seemed as if the Highborn struggled to contain a raw emotion.

“Do you know why all this happened?” Felix asked.

Marten shook his head.

“Commandant Maximus desires the Grand Admiral’s chair.”

“Cassius is dead,” Marten said.

Felix frowned, and his breathing grew shallow. “Tell me how it happened.”

Marten did, telling the Highborn everything he knew. It told Marten that Felix must not have had regular channels with the main Highborn. That was interesting and odd.

“This is a fitting end,” Felix said, as he stared into an unseen place. “Grand Admiral Cassius slain by a preman, just like you killed Centurion Titus.” He turned to Marten. “I wanted to kill Cassius. I had several chances, squandering each one.” He grew thoughtful. “I cannot complain,” he said softly. Felix’s manner changed as he nodded. “So, Cassius is dead and Maximus attempts to fill his chair. I understand better. You did well, preman.”

“I am a man,” Marten said, “the man who killed Titus and thus stopped him from torturing you.”

“Yes. As strange as it seems, a Highborn owes a pre—a member of the lesser race a debt.” Felix scowled and he seemed to choose his next words with care. “Titus had orders to capture me and destroy any SU military ships he found out here. The reason is a secret weapon the likes of which has never been seen in the Solar System.”

“Do you mean the Sunbeam?” Marten asked.

Instead of shock, Felix grinned savagely. “It saves us time if you know about it. Time—what day is it, what month?”

Marten told him.

Felix snarled and tried to rip his arms free. He panted after a time, lying limping. Finally, he stirred and continued to speak. “Titus came with his shuttles. He hailed the
Mao’s
captain, made ready to dock, and then he directed hidden drones against the ship. After blowing away a shield and shocking the premen, Titus sent in the commandoes. They killed many, including several of my friends. By a fluke of battle, I was captured and later he had me strapped to this monstrosity. Titus desired the whereabouts of the rest of my men.”

“Do you care to tell me why?” Marten asked.

Felix lifted his head, glaring at Marten. “I will storm the Sun Station and take it over for myself. Then I will rule in Cassius’s stead.”

“You were here to enlist the
Mao’s
help?”

“Yes.”

“That means you don’t have enough Highborn to capture the Sun Station by yourself,” Marten said.

“We have enough,” Felix said, “but one can always use more, especially against a cunning warrior like Maximus.”

“How many Highborn follow you?” Marten asked.

“Forty-two now. How many…men follow you?”

“Thirty.”

“Release me, Kluge, and I will take you to our base. Together, we shall storm the Sun Station. It’s doubtful we’ll succeed, and if we do, one of us will surely die during the storming. If we both win, we can fight, you and I. The winner chooses where to fire the beam.”

“Let me first speak with my commanders,” Marten said. “Either way, however, I will free you.”

“Words,” Felix said.

Marten drew his vibroblade and hacked away the restraints.

With a roar, Felix sat up and massaged his wrists. Then he floated off the frame. “I need clothes,” he said, sounding like a king.

“We’ll get them,” Marten said. “Be cautioned, however. Only this chamber and the next are pressurized.”

“Yes, a wise precaution,” Felix said. “Now go, make your decision. And I salute you, Marten Kluge.” The nine-foot Highborn snapped off a precision salute. “You are a warrior indeed to release someone as dangerous as me.”

Marten, Omi and Osadar exited the chamber. None wore their helmet as they floated into the next room.

“Did you notice the tattoo on his triceps?” Osadar asked. “It showed a clenched fist, with an iron ring around the middle finger?”

“I did,” Marten said. “It means he’s an Ultraist.”

“Since you knew that, why did you free him?” Osadar asked.

“I’ve been tortured before,” Marten said.

“You have sympathy for a potential mass murderer?” Osadar asked.

“No, I have sympathy for a human in distress.”

“They’re not human,” Omi said. “They’re monsters.”

“Their genes have been warped,” Marten said. “They’re like hyper-myrmidons. Yet for all that, they’re still human. I won’t stand by and watch a man be tortured.”

“I do not trust him,” Osadar said.

“I don’t either,” Marten said. “But he needs us.”

“He needs our patrol boat.”

“I doubt he knows that yet,” Marten said.

“Since he is an Ultraist,” Osadar said, “he must be allied with Admiral Sulla. Sulla must know something about Maximus’s goals and this is one of his counters. We have likely stumbled onto a Highborn power play.”

“Seems reasonable,” Marten said.

“The Ultraists are little better than the cyborgs when it comes to humanity’s fate,” Osadar said.

“Like the man said,” Marten replied, “it’s doubtful both of us will survive the attack. So we’ll join forces for now and see what happens. The trick will be in turning against them a minute before they turn on us.”

“Treacherous allies may prove worse than no allies whatsoever,” Osadar said.

“No one said this was going to be easy,” Marten said. “It’s a fight to the finish with extinction staring us in the face. We’re near the last lap, and now we have our own Highborn to fight with us. It’s better than trying to storm the Sun Station with thirty marines.”

“Where is this secret base of his?” Osadar asked.

“That’s a good question,” Marten said. “Let’s ask him.”

Far from the Sun in the void of Outer Planets, the Alliance Fleet sped toward its destiny. There were four big SU battleships, the
Vladimir Lenin
among them, and one missile-ship. They were impressive warships, bristling with weaponry and protected by gigantic particle shields. The Doom Stars dwarfed the battleships, making the SU vessels seem like small scout destroyers.

They hurtled through space, having long ago achieved maximum velocity. Soon each ship would turn around and use a hot burn to decelerate so they could fight at battle-speeds in the Neptune System. Otherwise, they would fly past Neptune like comets and sail for the outer reaches of the Solar System.

Many tens of millions of kilometers behind the Alliance Fleet trailed three meteor-ships. Sub-Strategist Circe had hailed the fleet twice. The humans had replied each time. The Highborn had never even acknowledged the messages.

As the Alliance warships sped toward Neptune, a pod detached from the forward battleship of Vice-Admiral Mandela’s Fifth Fleet. The pod accelerated. After moving a kilometer-and-a-half in relative distance, it decelerated, carefully maneuvering into a hanger bay on the
Vladimir Lenin
.

The chief occupant of the pod was Vice-Admiral Mandela himself. He shook hands with the deck crew and then hurried away.

Using a screen, Hawthorne watched the exchange. He was in Blackstone’s wardroom. Hawthorne had his doubts about Mandela, although once he had been an outstanding flag officer. Mandela’s extended stay in deep space and time among the Highborn during the planet-wrecker emergency seemed to have wrung something out of him. Hawthorne would withhold final judgment until after the meeting. He vowed, however, that mankind’s existence would not fail because he was too sentimental. Now was the time for hard decisions, maybe the hardest of this life.

Soon, Hawthorne spoke earnestly with Blackstone and Mandela. They met in the wardroom, at a low table with bulbs of steaming coffee resting in slot-holders. Mandela had been grumbling and upset, until he did a double-take upon seeing Hawthorne.

Mandela now sat at the table. He was a tall black man with curly-white hair, large eyes and a badly rumpled uniform. That had always been his trademark: a sloppy dresser but a hard-charger. His Fifth Fleet was the strongest one left to Social Unity.

“You have to believe me, sir,” Mandela was saying. “The Highborn won’t listen to us. They never have and aren’t going to change their habits now.”

Hawthorne wore a crisp uniform and during the journey out, he’d regained some of his former presence. His nose might have been longer or maybe his face was thinner than it used to be. It gave him a hawkish look. He had been doing a lot of reading lately and even more thinking.

“The Highborn listen to strength,” Hawthorne said, who watched Mandela closely. “They are never swayed by sentiment. Appealing to their better nature is useless.”

“That’s just it, sir,” Mandela said, leaning forward, taking his bulb of coffee and sipping from it. “They can destroy our warships any time they want. I doubt we could destroy any of theirs before we were vaporized. It means we lack bargaining power.”

Hawthorne took his time answering. He didn’t like the wheedling tone, the obvious fear of the Highborn. Mandela had done his duty two years ago. He’d aged since then and his nerves…

“You’re looking at it from the wrong perspective,” Hawthorne said.

Mandela shook his head, and it seemed he might take another sip of coffee. Then he thrust the bulb into the table-slot and spoke without looking up. “Sir, what matters is how the Highborn will view the situation. They control the Doom Stars.”

Hawthorne glanced sidelong at Blackstone.

The Commodore stirred uneasily. Maybe he sensed the scrutiny. First clearing his throat, Blackstone said, “The Vice-Admiral has a point.”

They’re both tired, just as I was tired. They haven’t had a rest and both have served in deep space for too long
. He couldn’t sack both flag officers, however. It would hurt morale too much, especially after his strange behavior these past months. The crews might lose faith in him.

Hawthorne decided his lesson needed a short preamble. “Before I reached flag command and then the supreme office, I was a historian. It’s given me perspective. I have long studied the conquerors of the past, the Great Captains of history. Later, I studied the Highborn. Gentlemen, I have studied them and learned much. One critical thing I’ve discovered is that it’s a mistake to take the arrogance, the loud voices and bullying tactics at face value. The Highborn are cold-bloodedly ruthless and quite able to make lightning-quick calculations despite their bluster.”

“Meaning what?” asked Mandela, puzzled.

“They can reason with great objectivity.”

“I still fail to grasp your point, sir,” Mandela said.

“If a normal man acted like a Highborn,” Hawthorne said, “we would think him unhinged, unreasonable and prone to rash behavior.”

“In other words,” Mandela said, “he would be acting like a Highborn.”

Hawthorne frowned, not liking Mandela’s manner. Did the Vice-Admiral think him powerless? Hawthorne paused in his thoughts, considering the idea. He was alone on the warship, without bodyguards or bionic soldiers. He couldn’t change that at the moment. But after the meeting, he would speak with the security chiefs and reassess their loyalty.

“Highborn arrogance is a front,” Hawthorne said. “Don’t get me wrong. They
are
arrogant. But it also hides their razor-sharp rationality. In a sense, they are hyper-rational, which to most men seems like arrogance.”