The raid over Eurasia had repercussions in Highborn High Command. Soon, Cassius found himself under criticism.
Item: He had revealed the existence of collapsium. The axiom concerning a technological advantage was simple. It should remain a secret until a substantial number of units were deployed in order to achieve a strategic victory.
Item: To a lesser degree but with the same logic, the upgraded gel had been demonstrated. Now SU Command realized their proton beams lacked their former punch. They would likely compensate accordingly.
Item: The raid had achieved no appreciable advantage, and Highborn deaths had occurred. The deaths likely heartened the enemy. And even if only minimally, the deaths certainly weakened deployable military strength.
Cassius had weathered each criticism with a repeated counter-argument. Unfortunately, as the Solar System’s supreme strategist, he realized that the cumulative effect of the attacks had weakened his position among the Highborn as Grand Admiral.
The counter-argument was simple: the best ones usually were. Social Unity was on the defensive. Pressure had continuously mounted against them. The raid over Eurasia had added more pressure because a) superior technology had foiled the surprise proton-beam attack. And b) nuclear strikes had hit Eurasian food supplies despite the massive addition of point-defense systems. That meant c) nothing Social Unity did could prevent its ultimate demise. This had brought about d) demoralization and likely growing apathy among the SU leadership. In other words, the raid kept the pressure high. Soon, Cassius had predicted, there would be large-scale ruptures within Social Unity. That might well give them the Earth in one fell swoop.
It had been a heated meeting. Cassius now jogged through the corridors and hallways of the
Julius Caesar
to unwind. He wore a sweat suit, with a towel around his thick neck. His iron-colored hair was short and slicked with perspiration. With long, even strides and calm breathing, he’d raced two kilometers already.
He was getting older, but he still credited himself as the most dangerous Highborn alive. Not only was he a strategic genius, but in his opinion, he had few equals and no superiors in hand-to-hand combat. Physically, he feared no entity. It didn’t mean he was foolish or took foolish risks.
He saw the monofilament line stretched across the corridor. It was nearly invisible and a quarter-meter off the deckplate. Conceivably, it was meant to sheer through his ankle and deprive him of a foot. The implications were ominous.
Unfortunately, he saw the line too late to halt—he was running too fast through the ship corridor to stop on the spot. So he jumped over the monofilament line. While passing over it, he entered a hyper-state of readiness. Every sense tingled with awareness. His muscles rippled under his skin as his eyes shined with murder-lust. A yearning to kill surged through him as adrenalin hit him like a love-drug.
“Hello, old man.”
Cassius spun to his right, toward a viewing port. Through the ballistic glass was pockmarked Luna. There was a big black spot seemingly on the moon. It was the position of the
Genghis Khan
in orbit around it. Stars shined like a blanket of gems in the background.
After noting Luna and the Doom Star, Cassius promptly gave his full attention to the Highborn striding toward him. It was Felix.
Squinting, Cassius interpreted the monofilament line to mean that Felix had been monitoring him and analyzing his patterns. Given Felix’s chromosomes, it was possible the cockerel had predicted his run through this very corridor. The look of rage on the young Highborn’s face confirmed Cassius’s belief that Felix had meant the line to cut off a foot. Maybe as bad, the fool held an old-fashioned sap—a piece of synthi-leather filled with shot. Premen criminals used saps in the underground cities to beat each other to death.
Cassius’s options were limited. He noted the hardness of the youth’s muscles. They were like steel cables and fresh with youthful vigor. Likely, the cockerel was stronger than he was and quite likely Felix would prove faster.
It was an interesting tactical problem.
Mentally fanning his options like cards, Cassius chose with lightning speed. Suiting thought to action, he put his hands on his hips and laughed contemptuously.
Felix’s blue eyes squinted. The young god was the very image of anthropomorphic retribution. He wore combat-training fatigues and armored shoes, giving him yet another hand-to-hand weapon advantage.
“You’ve meddled in my life once too often, old man,” Felix said. “Now I’m going to beat you to death. Then I’m going to shove your carcass through a garbage-chute so they can never revive-to-life a piece of sewage like you.”
“You tried to hurt me once before,” Cassius said. “Do you remember?”
“I haven’t forgotten, old man.” Felix took another step closer. “This time you aren’t encased in combat armor.”
“But you’re still as lacking in wit,” Cassius said.
Felix spat on the deckplate, and he shook the sap. “You had your chance stranding me out there in the orbital.”
“The monofilament line and its strategic placement prove that you can reason at a high level,” Cassius said. “Why then do you insist on infantile statements?”
“Do you deny ordering an out-of-sequence launching of my squadron?”
“Why would I deny what is plain on the battle-tapes?” asked Cassius.
“What other rationale could you have for doing that other than trying to engineer my death?” asked Felix.
Cassius shook his head contemptuously. “Your grades were among the highest in Training Academy history.”
“They
were
the highest, old man. Believe me, I checked.”
“The records you checked were not complete.”
“You can’t know that!” snarled Felix. “You’re making that up.”
“I’m the Grand Admiral. There is nothing about the Highborn—”
“Just answer me this, old man. Why do you want me dead?”
“Come,” said Cassius, motioning Felix toward him. “Kill me if you can.”
“Oh, I can.”
“Because of your combat advantages?” sneered Cassius.
Felix grinned as he hunched his shoulders. “Good try, old man, but no one is talking me from discarding my advantages.”
“Good. That is one point in your favor.”
“Are you so old and senile that you don’t realize I’m about to kill you?” Felix asked.
Cassius leaped, and he shot his left foot out in a flying kick. The sap connected with the foot, instantly numbing it, and Felix twisted in the narrow corridor, allowing Cassius passage. The Grand Admiral landed heavily on his hip and shoulder, and he rolled right, bumping against a bulkhead. An armored shoe whistled past his head, kicking the bristles but missing his skull. With heightened speed, Cassius caught the foot and twisted. Felix grunted, letting himself roll so he smashed against the other bulkhead. Releasing the boy, Cassius jumped to his feet. So did Felix.
“I want you to think,” Cassius said. His numbed foot made it hard to maneuver, but he’d make do.
Instead of thinking, Felix chopped. And for the next few seconds they engaged in blows and counter-punches. Each time the sap struck flesh, it deadened muscles or pulped skin and bruised bones. It was then Cassius realized the cockerel was good. Maybe as good as he was at hand-to-hand. With the sap and armored shoes, the young Highborn might even be better. A glance into Felix’s eyes showed him the cockerel knew it, too.
“I killed the girl to save your life,” Cassius panted.
“What irony then that your nobility is about to get you killed.”
“Your talents were wasted in ground combat. It was the reason I moved you into Space Command.”
“I liked it where I was, old man. You should have left well enough alone and lived another few years in High Command. Now it’s too late for that.”
Another flurry of blows produced low-throated grunts, the meaty sounds of fist or sap striking flesh and the crack of ribs.
“That will slow you down, old man.”
Despite the pain in his ribs, Cassius grinned, showing blood on his teeth. The blood dripped down from his mashed nose.
Felix’s features were equally pulped, although in different areas. Blood welled in his right eye, causing him to paw at it every few seconds.
“You’re good, boy,” Cassius said.
“I’m going to make you piss blood before you die, old man.”
“But you’re too foolish sometimes. You need a guiding hand if you’re to survive the war.”
“Get ready to die,” said Felix.
Cassius abruptly turned and ran. The move caught Felix by surprise.
“I knew it!” the young Highborn roared. “You’re a coward.”
Cassius glanced over his shoulder. The youth gave chase. Running away was ignoble. It was un-Highborn. Yet he was the Grand Admiral for a reason. There were times to retreat. There was an ancient but valuable adage concerning that:
better to run away to live and fight another day
. Not that he planned to run away for long.
Cassius sprinted over the monofilament line, slowed his speed and then roared as he spun around. Felix was hot after him, and the cockerel’s eyes widened at the shout. It wasn’t fear, but knowledge that the old man was going to fight after all. It was then Felix remembered the monofilament line. Cassius had wondered if he would. Leaping over the line caused Felix to break his stride. Timing that, Cassius leaped, and he put everything into the flying kick. The sap hit, but not powerfully enough. A foot connected against Felix’s chest. With a grunt, the youth went backward. Cassius landed on top of him, and his big hands flew to the cockerel’s throat. It likely took Felix a second to understand, a critical amount of time in this sort of combat. Then he likely realized the sap was useless now. He dropped it and wrapped his hands around Cassius’s throat. They both squeezed, and Cassius found it impossible to breath. His iron-like fingers ground into youthful flesh as he tightened his own throat muscles. Suddenly, it was hard to see. He kept squeezing. Who was winning?
Something snapped. Was it his neck? It hurt like Hades. Cassius blinked repeatedly and vision slowly returned. Felix lay under him, with his neck broken and tongue protruding.
Groaning, Cassius struggled to his feet and to a com-unit. It was time to call medical. He needed to work fast if he was going to save the stupid cockerel from final death. The medics would have to bring Felix back through
Revival
so he could live again.
Far from Cassius and the
Julius Caesar
, the weeks blurred as Marten Kluge worked hard. It seemed there was always something going wrong.
The worst was the fusion core. Its outer shell produced a crack, a leak. Before the technicians could fix it, eighteen crewmembers had been irradiated. Marten attempted communication with Fleet HQ. It was then he found that channels were inexplicably blocked.
“It’s part of the new directive,” Nadia told him later. He’d made her his com-officer. It had meant a lot of technical reading and study for her, which had meant fewer hours alone together for them.
“You mean the directive from Circe?” he asked.
They were in the command center, which looked identical to the one Yakov had used aboard the
Descartes
. There was the same central chair, the main screen and the many cubicles for the officers along the circular wall. Unlike other Jovian warships, however, this one lacked statues. The cyborgs must have removed them when they’d taken over the vessel.
“Circe sent around a memo,” Nadia said. She sat in her com-officer cubicle. It was cramped for Nadia, as she was bigger than the average Jovian. “You know Circe prefers the title Sub-Strategist.”
“Whatever,” Marten said, who stood outside the cubicle.
Nadia looked concerned. “You should try to get along with her better.”
“Me?” Marten said.
“She has a high-handed manner,” said Nadia. “But she does represent the Jovians. If you anger her too much, she could have you replaced.”
“She represents a pain in my rear.”
“Don’t let her hear you say that.”
He nodded, and said, “What’s this about the directive? I need to get these sick people off the ship. And I need replacements.”
“That part of it has already been taken care of—the replacements.”
“Did the Sub-Strategist order it?”
Nodding, Nadia said, “The replacement personnel will be here in ten days.”
“That long? I want to be ready to leave in ten days. Who are these new people?”
Nadia turned to her screen, tapping it. A manifest appeared and she scanned it. “Oh,” she said.
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s an arbiter with several more myrmidons coming.”
Marten scowled. Just how many myrmidons did Tan plan to pack onto his ship?
“Arbiter Neon—” Nadia was saying.
“What?” Marten said. He leaned into the cubicle and studied the screen. “Can you show me a pic?”
Nadia tapped the screen. An image appeared of Arbiter Neon. It was the white-haired man who had been aboard the dreadnaught.