“They hit a probe,” Kursk said. “Make that two probes. That’s it,” she said a moment later. “They got all three.”
“How long until Nereid is in ultra-laser range?” Hawthorne asked.
“Three hours and sixteen minutes,” Kursk said.
Hawthorne wanted to hit Nereid now, but not as Sulla planned. The idea was right, the method too risky. An SU fleet would have decelerated long ago and built up a prismatic crystal cloud before it. The SU fleet would have sent heavy reflectors to the cloud’s sides, bouncing the beams from them in relative safety.
In Hawthorne’s opinion, the Highborn trusted their heavy lasers and collapsium shielding too much.
“I don’t understand this,” Blackstone said.
“What’s wrong?” Hawthorne asked the Commodore.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Blackstone said. “Will the cyborgs just let us sweep the moon with lasers?”
“I doubt it,” Hawthorne said.
“Then why haven’t they defended Nereid with P-Clouds?”
“The obvious answer is so they can fire at us,” Hawthorne said. “A P-Cloud defends, but it also halts an attack. They could use mirrors, but mirrors make precision targeting more difficult.”
“Permission to speak,” Kursk said.
“Granted,” said Hawthorne.
“We should have launched a swarm of missiles at them,” Kursk said.
Hawthorne remained silent. He hadn’t agreed to that before and he still didn’t. Maybe if he could have resupplied the missile racks in several weeks, he would have agreed. They had come a long way, however, and had a limited number of missiles. Each one had to count. The inability to re-supply quickly was a critical weakness of taskforces that traveled so far from home.
Hawthorne shivered on the couch as a chill worked up his back. The cyborgs were waiting for something. Did they have a longer-ranged beam than the Ultra-lasers? Why did they leave Nereid open like this? Were they daring the Highborn to strike, and if so, why?
“Where is their fleet?” Blackstone said. “We should have spotted something by now.”
“They don’t think like us,” Hawthorne said. He kept reminding himself of that.
“They’re aliens,” Blackstone said, with a quaver in his voice.
Hawthorne lifted his head to glance at the Commodore.
Blackstone had a far-off stare. He must have noticed Hawthorne gaze. With a guilty start, the Commodore gave a sheepish grin and said, “I was remembering the first time I saw them.” He shuddered. “They were horrifying. Why would scientists make something like that?”
Hawthorne let his head drop against the couch. He was staring at the monitor again, trying to wrest secrets from it. They had come an immense distance to fight the enemy. What horrible surprise did the Prime Web-Mind have in store for them? This not knowing—the waiting—it was the worst part of battle. Hawthorne hated it, hated the suspense.
The hours passed with agonizing slowness as the Alliance Fleet bored in. With majestic grace, the Doom Stars slid into position. The SU ships were several hundred thousand kilometers behind them and moving to flank Nereid. The Doom Stars would also flank the moon, passing at eight hundred thousand kilometers, well within range of the heavy beams and hopefully beyond anything the cyborgs possessed.
Finally, aboard the Vladimir Lenin, the heavy deceleration eased. The engines still burned, now slowing them at one G of thrust instead of many. Couches whined as they lifted their occupants to a sitting position and the bridge crew took up their normal stations.
Blackstone and Kursk climbed out of their couches, standing around the command module.
Thirty-four minutes later, Kursk said, “There’s an incoming call for you, Supreme Commander.”
“Thank you,” Hawthorne said, as he straightened his cap. A moment later, Admiral Scipio appeared on the screen.
“Have you detected anything unusual?” Scipio asked.
“Just the laser-turrets on Nereid,” Hawthorne said. “Believe me, Admiral, we’ll alert you the instant we spot anything important.”
“In seven minutes, we shall begin the attack,” Scipio said. “The cyborgs must surely know the range of our heavy beams. What do you think they’re doing?”
“Saving their fleet for later, would be my guess,” Hawthorne said.
“Or readying themselves for a relentless assault,” the Highborn said.
“From behind Nereid or from behind Neptune?” Hawthorne asked.
“If they’re accelerating from behind Nereid,” Scipio said, “they would begin with a low velocity.”
“You expect a surprise assault from behind Neptune?”
“It is the likeliest possibility.”
Hawthorne nodded in agreement. “There is another possibility.”
“There are many, in fact,” the Highborn said dryly.
“The cyborgs might have hollowed out Nereid, using it as a missile base. They will wait until we’re past and then launch as we near Neptune.”
“Clearly, they will attempt something, using the various moons as bases. For now, since they are luring us, we shall destroy as much of Nereid’s outer platforms as we can.”
“Good luck,” Hawthorne said.
Scipio studied him, and finally nodded. “Admiral Scipio out.”
The attack began shortly after that.
“The energy readings are building,” Kursk said.
She meant the Doom Stars. The huge fusion engines inside the massive vessels began to churn power. The engines are what made the Doom Stars so dangerous.
“Why aren’t the cyborgs building a prismatic cloud?” Blackstone asked.
“They’re firing now,” Kursk said.
Hawthorne examined the power wattage. The Julius Caesar, the Genghis Khan and the Napoleon Bonaparte—it was amazing! Three heavy lasers stabbed through the void. They traveled the eight hundred thousand kilometers at the speed of light, hitting and burning the first laser-turrets on Nereid.
Finally, the cyborgs began pumping prismatic crystals. Why wait until attacked? It simply made no sense.
“This is incredible,” Blackstone said. He looked up with a grin. “We’re annihilating their offensive capabilities.”
“Keep scanning at three hundred and sixty degrees,” Hawthorne said. “I can’t believe the cyborgs will just let this pass without hitting back.”
“There’s nothing near us,” Kursk said.
“Have they developed an invisible drive?” Hawthorne asked.
“That would be impossible,” Blackstone said.
Time passed as the heavy lasers methodically burned through the thin P-Clouds and obliterated the laser-turrets.
This must have been how it felt in the Colonial Wars, Hawthorne thought to himself. In the days of European Supremacy, English and French ships sailed the Earth’s oceans. In North America, in Africa and India particularly small bands of technologically-advanced soldiers had annihilated hordes of spear, sword and bow-armed natives. Cortez in Aztec Mexico used cannons and matchlocks to blow down rows of feather-clad warriors swinging obsidian-chip clubs. The British at Rouke’s Drift slaughtered attacking Zulus, using the long-ranged Henry rifle.
This is more like the Maxim machine gun. Superior battle-tech gave devastating advantages.
“Is this all we had to do all along?” Blackstone asked. “Have the cyborgs been playing a fantastic bluff?”
“One battle doesn’t settle a war,” Hawthorne said.
“The Highborn are launching a trio of missiles,” Kursk said.
“What type?” Hawthorne asked.
“Phobos’ killers,” Kursk said.
She referred to the missiles that had splintered and destroyed the Martian moon Phobos.
Hawthorne watched as the three missiles accelerated toward the distant moon. The missiles were big, with massive nuclear warheads. It would take time for them to reach Nereid.
During that time, the heavy lasers destroyed cyborg turrets. Then the Julius Caesar’s Ultra-laser went offline.