“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.”
-5-
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.