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.”
“I won’t argue with you about it, sir,” Mandela said. “I suppose it could be as you say.”
Hawthorne stiffened. No, he didn’t like Mandela’s manner at all.
“My point is that the minute you appear on the screen,” Mandela said, “they will demand your life. If you defy them, they will probably destroy the weakest of our ships. They might even destroy several.”
“You are completely wrong,” Hawthorne said.
Mandela looked up sharply. “I’ve worked with them more closely than either of you two has.”
Hawthorne stared at the Vice-Admiral.
“Sir,” Mandela added.
Blackstone coughed slightly. They both turned to him. “I’m curious, sir,” he told Hawthorne. “Why didn’t you feel that way earlier?”
“Can you be more specific?” Hawthorne asked.
“I mean seven months ago after you killed the Grand Admiral,” Blackstone said.
“Ah,” Hawthorne said. “The answer is simple. At Earth, they could have demanded my head and probably gotten it. There might have been an uproar, but in the end, the chiefs and directors would have realized they needed to work with the Highborn in order to keep mankind alive. The same SU warships would have joined the fleet. Now, however, the Alliance has what we have and that is all we’re going to have in the Neptune System. Despite their bluster, the Highborn need our warships. That is our position of strength. They cannot afford to weaken the Alliance Fleet just because we refuse to meet one of their demands.”
“What about afterward?” Blackstone asked.
“Can you be more specific?” Hawthorne asked.
“If we defeat the cyborgs, what happens next?”
“The strategy is obvious,” Hawthorne said. “The Alliance Fleet must attack Uranus or Saturn. Since Uranus is presently on the other side of the Sun, I suspect Saturn will be the next target. We must clean out the cyborgs system by system.”
“Do you think the Saturn-based cyborgs are building up their defenses?” Mandela asked.
“I’m not worried about that now,” Hawthorne said. “I accept the Highborn assessment that Saturn and Uranus used their strategic strength constructing the various planet-wreckers. The present battle is everything.”
“Not if we lose everything,” Blackstone said.
Hawthorne straightened in his chair. “It’s time for me to speak with the Highborn.”
Mandela shook his head as lines creased his face. “I don’t agree, sir. You will be risking too much by showing yourself to the Highborn. You’re risking humanity, and for what?”
Steel entered Hawthorne’s voice as he said, “I’m glad you feel free to speak your mind, Vice-Admiral.”
A look of fear crept over Mandela.
“No, no,” Hawthorne said. “I mean what I’m saying. There is no hidden barb in my words.”
Commodore Blackstone was nodding. “I do agree with you, sir. The Vice-Admiral’s reaction shows me he sees the old James Hawthorne. You’ve held the Highborn at bay for more years than anyone would have thought possible. You’ve pulled plenty of surprises out of your hat. If anyone knows the supermen, it’s you. I think it’s time to let them know James Hawthorne is back in the saddle. I think it’s also time to beam the information to Earth.”
“No,” Hawthorne said. “We’ll keep the information to ourselves for a time.”
“Why?” asked Blackstone. “It will stop the civil war.”
“I doubt it will now,” Hawthorne said. “Director Backus has tasted power and so has Cone. Neither will freely give it up. Besides, I don’t want endless communications with Earth as people ask for my advice. Every ounce of my intellect will be devoted to winning the battle at Neptune.”
Mandela and Blackstone traded glances.
Hawthorne noticed, and he realized he might have sounded arrogant. It used to happen in his youth, before he learned to hide his superior reasoning abilities.