The days became weeks and then the Vladimir Lenin made the short flight to Luna. Before they began acceleration for Neptune, there was a knock on the wardroom door.
Hawthorne stared up at the ceiling with his long-fingered hands twined together on his chest. He’d been looking up at the ceiling for days, replaying a thousand decisions, seeing endless ways he could have made better choices. People who said they would never change anything in their life…he didn’t understand that. He would have done hundreds of things differently.
The knock became insistent. There had been others earlier. Hawthorne had ignored them and finally they had gone away. This one didn’t sound like it was going away soon.
“Who is it?” Hawthorne asked.
“Commodore Blackstone. Do you mind if I come in?”
“Joseph?” Hawthorne asked.
“It’s easier talking face-to-face.”
Hawthorne didn’t agree. Vaguely, he realized this was the Vladimir Lenin, Blackstone’s battleship.
His forehead wrinkled as he attempted to summon the energy to sit up. He found the willpower lacking. He never should have said anything.
Blackstone banged on the door again. “I need to speak to you, sir.”
Hawthorne might have shouted, “Go away!” but he lacked the willpower for that, too. “Enter if you must,” he finally said.
The door slid open and Commodore Blackstone floated in.
Hawthorne was shocked at how Blackstone had aged. The rings under the man’s eyes, the sagging skin… Is this what prolonged space exposure brought? Then he noticed how Blackstone looked at him. Hawthorne didn’t like it, so he turned away.
“You can’t just lie here,” Blackstone said.
Hawthorne remained mute.
“There’s civil war on Earth,” Blackstone said.
Hawthorne remembered someone else yelling that through the door several days ago.
“Someone faked your resignation,” Blackstone added.
A momentary tingle went through Hawthorne. The feeling died, fortunately. He didn’t want the job anymore. It had been killing him. He had killed millions of innocent civilians who had simply wanted something to eat. A leader who couldn’t feed his people needed to be dragged behind a barn and shot in the head. They should have shot him a long time ago.
“James, have you heard a word I’ve said?”
Hawthorne frowned. Was there someone in the room? Curious, he rolled onto his back and noticed Commodore Blackstone hovering nearby.
“Hello, Joseph,” Hawthorne said.
The Commodore blinked in confusion. Then the thin man scowled. “Now see here. You have to get it together. You’re the Supreme Commander of Social Unity. You’ve been thwarting the Highborn for years and—”
A stricken look crossed Hawthorne’s features as he began to shake his head.
“What’s wrong?” Blackstone asked.
“I resigned.”
“No you didn’t. Someone forged it.”
“Oh.”
“The forgery has caused a fracture on Earth. The directors voted one of their own into the leadership, a Director Backus.”
“A good man,” Hawthorne said. “I found him in an Algae Factory in Cairo. His production figures were amazing. I elevated him on the spot. He’s been a rising star ever since.”
“He’s trying to oust Vice-Chairman Cone.”
“Who?”
“Someone named Cone. Do you know anyone by that name?”
“Ah, Security-Specialist Cone. So she made a stab at power, did she? I thought she might.”
“She’s losing.”
“Not for long,” Hawthorne said.
“You have to broadcast something to them.”
Hawthorne turned his head, for the first time directly meeting Blackstone’s gaze. “You haven’t thought that through. If I speak, the Highborn will demand my blood. That could dissolve our shaky partnership.”
“The Grand Admiral attacked you. He set you up.”
“Yes, but no matter how you look at it, a preman killed a Highborn. That’s a grave offense to the supermen.”
“What are you going to do then?” Blackstone asked. “Stay in here forever?”
“The question is: what are you going to do? What have the Highborn done now that Cassius is dead?”
“They’ve created a triumvirate.”
“The Doom Star admirals are ruling by committee?” asked Hawthorne.
“Something like that,” Blackstone said.
“What have they decided?”
“To attack the cyborgs in the Neptune System.”
“What about you?” Hawthorne asked.
“We’re joining them, Vice-Admiral Mandela and me.”
“Who holds the highest command?”
“It’s a triumvirate,” Blackstone said.
“I understand. But who will make the command decisions in the heat of battle?”
“They each will, I suppose.”
Hawthorne thought about it, and shrugged after a time.
“That’s it?” Blackstone asked. “You shrug?”
“What else do you expect me to do?”
“We need a leader, an overarching commander for us and them.”
“Can you convince the Highborn of that?”
“I can’t,” Blackstone said. “Maybe you can.”
Hawthorne gave a short, brittle laugh.
“With divided commands, we’re doomed to defeat,” Blackstone said.
“Not necessarily.”
“Unity of command is vital to victory.”
“I could name you several historical fleet actions that show the contrary. They were important victories, too, against an enemy with cyborg-like unity of command.”
“I can’t think of any,” Blackstone said.
“What about the Battle of Lepanto?”
“Never heard of it.”
“It was a naval battle on Earth. It occurred in 1571 as Europeans fought the conquering Turks. The Venetians, Spaniards and Papal forces quarreled right up until the moment of cannon-fire. Or take the Battle of Salamis in ancient times. The Athenians, Spartans, Corinthians and others debated fiercely as the Persian King of kings moved his fleet to annihilate the arguing Greeks. It was a Persian debacle. Victorious committees running a campaign—especially fleet actions—are nothing new.”
“It still seems like a poor way to coordinate our last desperate action to save humanity,” Blackstone said.
“Yes,” Hawthorne said.
Blackstone made an explosive sound. “At least Social Unity should fight together. It is the mantra of our political existence.”
“Why wouldn’t we fight united?”
“Because we have two senior officers with the remnants of their fleets,” Blackstone said. “Neither Vice-Admiral Mandela nor I care to take orders from the other.”
“Vice-Admiral outranks Commodore,” Hawthorne said.
“His was a political appointment!” Blackstone shouted.
It made Hawthorne wince.
Calming himself, Blackstone said, “Under no circumstances will I take orders from him that jeopardizes my ships.”
Hawthorne managed a nod.
“What’s wrong with you, man?” Blackstone said. “How come you’re just lying there? The least you could do is give me an order.”
Hawthorne made a vague gesture before he turned away.
Blackstone spoke more, but Hawthorne tuned him out. Eventually, the Commodore left.
Hawthorne closed his eyes, falling into a troubled sleep. He ate, slept and stared until alarms rang thought the Vladimir Lenin. The noise wouldn’t stop. Finally, Hawthorne realized it was the warning sounds before hard acceleration. He hurried to the bathroom and then strapped himself onto his bed.
Ninety-three minutes later, the grueling acceleration began. It leveled off after several hours, maintaining one-point-five Gs.