Jon hesitated, but Lugo’s eyes had changed to an oily dark color. Evil radiated from the man. It came in waves, and it made Jon physically sick. He swallowed that and drew his gun. He’d been a gang member once. He knew that guns were powerful, but not if you let a man get too close. Lugo was fast. Lugo used to be a cage fighter—

  BOOM! BOOM!

  Lugo spun to the floor, one of his legs blown out from under him. He struggled to rise, looking up like a wild beast.

  Jon rushed forward as Gloria screamed not to get too close. With a steel-toed boot, Jon kicked Lugo under the chin.

  Lugo spun around and back down. But it didn’t stop him. Nor did the vicious kick knock him unconscious.

  “Stop,” Jon said, backing away to put some distance between them. “Stay down.”

  “Never!” Cronus in Lugo snarled.

  “Shoot him,” Gloria shouted. “He’s going to kill us if he can.”

  “Get out,” Jon shouted at Gloria. “Get marines.”

  “No,” Gloria said.

  Jon turned to her.

  She screamed loudly.

  Jon whipped back around as Lugo leapt to his feet. The bloody wound in his thigh didn’t seem to matter. His face twisted evilly, and the harsh laughter of Cronus echoed from his mouth.

  “I’m going to kill you, Hawkins!”

  Jon held the revolver with both hands. He didn’t want to kill Lugo just because Cronus possessed him.

  A red beam sliced against Lugo’s face. The ray opened up his forehead, drilling into his brain.

  Cronus roared with agony, and the eyes changed back to Lugo’s normal color. Alas, it was too late for the man. He stumbled and then went down hard, thudding onto the deck.

  Gloria put her laser pistol back in its holster.

  As the blood drained from Jon’s features, he stared at what was left of Lugo Malagate. Cronus had forced them to kill him. Damn Cronus and his evil ways.

  The hatch opened, and marines with pulse-rifles rushed in. As they looked on, Lugo stopped twitching. The man gasped a last word, “Kames,” and then he died.

  -15-

  Jon did not pace. He did not ask questions. He stared outward from a viewing port while his hands were clasped behind his back. Several hours had passed since the marines had cleaned up the corpse of Lugo Malagate. Gloria had stood with Jon for a time at the port, but she’d left ten minutes ago.

  Because Jon had hesitated too long, Gloria had killed Lugo. She would have to deal with the guilt. She was his wife. He should have slain Lugo from the get-go. Earth had lost a good man. The Confederation had lost one of its reps with the Kames. The Fleet had lost a critical man who could have helped them instantaneously communicate over many light-years.

  Gloria hadn’t been surprised the Kames couldn’t connect with Lugo from this far away. Being able to communicate in an instant across such a distance would have been fantastic. The Kames could have passed messages to their rep in the Solar System.

  Jon stared at the stars, knowing that one of those motes of light was Main 54. He shook his head. Cronus was out there, too, a nightmare creature from some dark mythos. Only…this mythical being was all too real. Even if Cronus could not break through, the Nathan Graham could not use the void here. That limited them severely.

  But if Cronus could break through…

  Jon blinked. He tried to imagine Cronus fighting Main 54. What would that look like? Or, horror of horrors, what if Cronus and Main 54 made a deal to unite against humanity?

  Jon frowned, smelling roast beef. His stomach rumbled because of it

  “Hungry?” his wife asked.

  He turned. She held a paper plate with a hot roast beef sandwich and fries on it and a bottle of water.

  “You need to eat,” she said.

  He turned from the viewing port, accepted the paper plate of food and water bottle, and headed to a nearby row of easy chairs. He sat down, balancing the plate on his knees.

  The viewing port was really a giant computer screen, but it felt like a real port.

  He ate the hot roast beef. It tasted just how he liked it. Lugo was dead, and here he was enjoying a good meal. Was that right? Was that just?

  He ate more anyway. He was famished. Soon, he’d finished the sandwich and fries and guzzled the water.

  “More?” his wife asked.

  “No thanks,” he said, standing, heading back for the viewing port.

  She followed him.

  He stood at the port, staring at the stars.

  “Ready to decide?” she asked.

  He raised his eyebrows and turned around to stare at her.

  “To abort the mission or not,” she said.

  “How do we abort? Cronus is right there, waiting in the void. If the insertion ship turns around, Main 54 will destroy them at best and capture them at worst.”

  “That’s what we want, their capture.”

  “Aborting means we’re trying to get away, and we don’t want Main 54 capturing them.”

  “And if we do grab the Sacerdotes and have to run for it?” she asked.

  “We can’t run into the void. We’d have to leave by hyperspace. That means heading to the system’s Oort cloud. Do you know how many siege-ships are out there?”

  “Nine,” she said.

  “I didn’t mean that literally.”

  “I know. And I know we can’t defeat nine siege-ships while we’re in normal space.”

  “The Nathan Graham would be hard pressed to defeat one siege-ship with Vestal missiles launched from the void.”

  “So we can’t reasonably head for hyperspace.”

  “Agreed,” Jon said.

  “Can we defeat Cronus in the void?”

  “Tell me how?”

  Gloria shook her head. “I’m not Alexander the Great in space.”

  “Are you saying that to let me know that I’m not either?”

  “No. If anyone is, it’s you.”

  Jon snorted and went back to peering at the stars.

  “We can’t slip into the void,” Gloria said. “We can’t head for the Oort cloud. I guess that means we continue the mission.”

  “We’re trapped.”

  “We’re not going to give up, are we?”

  “No,” Jon said quietly. He turned around and peered at her. “What are you driving at?”

  “You’re the greatest strategist and tactician we have. This is what you do.”

  “What?”

  “Solve military puzzles.”

  “I usually have the means to do that.”

  “No, you don’t. That’s the point. Usually you have nothing. Okay, two fantastic antagonists have you trapped. We’ve lost Lugo, the only member of the team with any extrasensory powers. Some of our best people are in a tiny ship, hoping to insert into Main 54. Cronus is trying to get into time and space—”

  “How can he?” Jon asked, interrupting. “He’s the size of a planet, probably bigger than Main 63. We needed three void ships and three null-splitters to make an opening large enough to swallow a Mars-sized Main. We think Cronus is Earth-sized.”

  “So Cronus can’t come through?” she asked.

  “I don’t see how. That doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”

  “Is it worth finding out?”

  Jon searched her eyes. “You want to go back into the void so we can question Cronus?”

  “I never suggested that. I don’t want to, no. I find it interesting you think we should.”

  Jon shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You’re looking for answers. I don’t know anyone else who is going to find the answer. I guess I’ll leave you alone to wrestle it out.”

  Jon nodded absently, turning back to the viewing port. He had a military problem, all right. He didn’t know what to do. How could they succeed with the mission? He didn’t see a way. Heck, they would be lucky to survive.”

  Jon put his hands behind his back. How could he win this one? Furrow lines appeared on his brow. He began searching for a way to beat both Main 54 and Cronus.

  -16-

  The insertion vessel was on target, heading for Main 54. The black-as-night vessel had just passed the first asteroid of a new field.

  As Walleye peered out of the polarized window, he could make out the Main easily enough. It was vast, the size of Earth. Yet, it was constructed of metal, supposedly one layer at a time.

  How old was that thing?

  Soon, it would be time to begin braking with ion exhaust. Mathews was supposed to transmit the anti-AI virus before that. If it failed to work, they would probably all die in a quick burst of gravitational fire.

  Walleye was sick of waiting. He wasn’t particularly fond of space combat. A one-on-one mission was more suited to his tastes. Could they get inside Main 54? Soon, they would begin the process that would allow them. If they got in, could they find the Sacerdotes and get back out again with them?

  Walleye studied his controls. There was no more he could do for now. Until the vessel actually started braking…

  Walleye slid off the seat and turned to the mat. He lay on it, put his small hands behind his head and closed his eyes. In moments, he was asleep.

  ***

  Bast Banbeck stared up at the ceiling. Many of the marines were doing push-ups, keeping toned as they waited for the ground-pounding part of the mission to begin.

  He picked up the computer slate that the Centurion had loaned him. With his big fingers, Bast manipulated the slate. He viewed Main 54 through insertion-vessel teleoptics.

  Using a zoom function, Bast began studying the metal surface in earnest. There were thousands of entry ports or hangar bay exits. Cloud cover obscured parts of the metal surface. That was insane. It wasn’t a real world, but a ship. Who had ever heard of a ship with cloud cover?

  Bast spied launch pits, gravitational dishes to fire beams, large areas of mere metal—

  The Sacerdote cocked his head. He zoomed the display in even closer. There was something odd going on that he didn’t understand. It seemed like movement upon the surface.

  The distance was too great. Bast made a few more manipulations to zoom in even closer. Hmm… That looked like a tight, dark cloud, or a rain or thundercloud. Would it rain on Main 54? He doubted the giant ship held atmosphere.

  “No,” Bast rumbled. “That is weak thinking.” If there were clouds, there was an atmosphere.

  Bast continued to watch the small dark cloud. It was inky black, not just gray. The black seemed ominous. Was it more than just a cloud? It seemed to slither across the surface in a deliberate manner. Why would Main 54 employ such a cloud?

  Bast frowned, turning the slate this way and that. Something seemed off about the cloud. Should he ask the Centurion about it? Would such a question make him look stupid?

  Bast did not want to look stupid to the Centurion. He was the philosopher. If he was—

  “Oh, Hell,” Bast muttered. “Sir,” he called.

  The Centurion was doing push-ups with the lads. Some of the giants over there were panting, trying to keep up. The Centurion kept doing push-ups like a machine. This wasn’t the time to bother the man.

  Suddenly, the Centurion leapt to his feet and clapped his hands. He gave off the impression that his push-ups had been a form of entertainment for him, nothing more.

  The Centurion ambled to Bast while accepting a pitched towel from a marine. The Centurion made a show of wiping away sweat that wasn’t on his face.

  Several of the young giants shook their heads in obvious admiration for the team leader.

  “What is it, Bast?” the Centurion asked.

  Bast patted a spot beside him on the floor.

  The Centurion slid down beside the huge Sacerdote.

  “There…” Bast said, pointing at the screen. The Sacerdote raised the screen, bringing it closer to his face. He squinted at it, looking for the strange cloud.

  “Something the matter?” asked the Centurion.

  “I saw a cloud…” Bast said.

  “I’ve noticed them, too. The Main has an atmosphere.”

  “I know, but…”

  “You okay?”

  Bast nodded slowly as he lowered the slate. The strange inky cloud he’d seen moving oddly on the Main’s surface was gone now. Could he have imagined it?

  “You seem troubled,” the Centurion said.

  Bast set aside the slate, embarrassed. Was he becoming so frightened that he’d been seeing hallucinations, trying to think up reasons to avoid the insertion?

  “How much longer until we go in?” Bast asked, trying to cover his embarrassment.

  The Centurion eyed him, but only for a moment. Maybe he sensed Bast’s fear or uncertainty. “Three days,” the Centurion finally said.

  “That soon, huh?”

  “Having second thoughts?”

  Bast considered that, and with relief, he realized that he didn’t. “No,” he said honestly. “I want to do this. Hawkins saved the human race. Now, I want to save the Sacerdote race.”

  “Good,” the Centurion said, “Because I feel the same way.”

  The smaller humanoid lurched up, raised an arm and shouted at the lads. They responded with enthusiasm.

  Bast smiled. He liked the marines. Then, he frowned and picked up the slate again, peering at it, studying the distant scene, looking for the cloud again. He didn’t find it, and that made him feel worse.

  PART V

  FIGHT TO THE FINISH

  -1-

  Jon was agonizing over a decision while in the map room, rolling dice on the large map table. He had two normal red dice with white pips, rolling them repeatedly over the surface showing the red dwarf system: the star, Main 54 and nine siege-ships, key asteroids and fields and other items.

  He’d taken the dice years ago in the Neptune System, out of a casino habitat orbiting the cold blue ice giant. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember the name of the habitat or the dive where he’d been playing craps. He had been unlucky that evening.

  That had been a few weeks before everything had changed and the first AI Destroyer entered the Solar System. Things had been so much easier back then. He’d been an officer cadet in the mercenary Black Anvil Regiment for one thing, not the commanding officer for a confederation of worlds. Colonel Nathan Graham had been alive back then. A human-crewed enemy fleet from the inner system Solar League had been decelerating, readying to do battle against the people of the Neptune Planetary System.

  Jon had been drunk that night. He’d lost and lost at the craps table, and had finally gotten suspicious, picking up two dice, not these two dice, but the two loaded dice that had been helping the dirty casino take his paycheck. Finally, drunk as he’d been, he had picked up the dice, pulled a magnet out of his pocket and watched the dice stick to the magnet.

  “How about that?” Jon had drunkenly told the dealer.

  “I don’t want no trouble,” the thin old man had said. He’d been wearing a golden casino vest, fingering a button on it suspiciously. Was that a buzzer?

  “Maybe you don’t want it,” Jon had told the old cheater, “but you got it.”

  The lapel must have been a buzzer. Security had shown up in the form of two bruisers and a slick-haired man with the most insincere smile Jon had ever seen.

  Jon showed Mr. Slick Hair in his own golden casino vest the magnet and the two sticking dice. “This place cheats, huh?”

  “You looking for trouble, soldier?” Mr. Slick Hair asked.

  “No,” Jon said. “But you found it.”

  The two bruisers had flanked Mr. Slick Hair. Of the big boys snickered. The other slipped a pair of brass knuckles over his right-hand fingers.

  Luckily, Sergeant Stark had been in the casino.

  Jon smiled as he remembered the big man.

  Huge Stark had appeared behind one of the bruisers. Then, one of Stark’s big hands had clapped onto Brass Knuckles’ left shoulder. Stark had spun the man around and punched him in the jaw, knocking the bruiser out with one blow. Stark hadn’t stopped there, but pounded the other bruiser and bitch-slapped Mr. Slick Hair until the man’s mouth and nose were profusely bleeding.

  “I tried to tell you,” Jon said when Stark was done. The rest of the gamblers in the dive had fled. Habitat Security would be coming soon.

  “You’ll be sorry you did this,” Slick Hair mumbled past his bruised and puffy lips.

  “Should I kill him?” Stark asked.

  “Yes,” Jon said.

  “Wait!” Slick Hair said, fear finally shining in his eyes. “What do you want?”

  “My cash back,” Jon said, “a little extra for my troubles. And a pair of honest dice.”

  Slick Hair had paid him, as the thin old dealer had run away some time ago.

  Jon had pocketed the cash and dice and headed for the main exit.

  “No,” Sergeant Stark had told him. “Go that away.” He pointed to the back.

  They’d escaped just in time. It was one of the only times Jon and Stark had worked together before the AI cybership had shown up.

  In the map room on the Nathan Graham, Jon picked up the dice. Stark. There had been a fighting man. Stark was dead now, killed in action in the Saturn System. Too many people had died during these past years.

  Jon squeezed the dice, remembering the man, remembering how Stark had saved his life. Jon rolled the dice onto the table. They came up boxcars, two sixes.

  Jon stared at the sixes. Did that mean anything? “Chance,” Jon said. “It means sixes rolled up. If I roll them again, they will not be sixes.”

  He picked up the dice, rolling them, coming up three and four, seven. That last was the most common number for two dice.

  “What are the odds we’ll win?” Jon asked himself quietly.

  The odds had become miserable. But he’d just rolled boxcars. Could he roll boxcars in the heat of the moment?

  He had his plan. If things went sour, his big plan would be piss-poor consolation, and would probably not help them win in the slightest.

  Jon exhaled, picked up the dice and pocketed them. He turned for the exit and walked resolutely toward it. He’d just made his decision about whether to abort or go ahead. Now, he had to tell the others.