Given the nature of the weapons Nogosek had described, Booly had no difficulty believing that once unleashed, the twins might inflict as much damage on the Thraki as the Sheen. The aliens could and probably would be destroyed by their own weapons. Cold comfort to any bystanders who happened to be in the neighborhood.
The threat was more than physical however. The bombs, if that’s what they could properly be called, would introduce more uncertainty into an already uncertain situation. Booly felt an almost panicky sense of urgency. Approximately 80 percent of the Thraki bases had been dealt with—and the time had come for him leave. Others could deal with the remaining 20 percent of the problem while he traveled to Arballa. That’s where the decisions would be made, that’s where a significant portion of the Confederate navy was starting to gather, and that’s where the twins could do the most damage. He met the old, somewhat cloudy eyes. “Thank you, Sister Torputus. In spite of the present state of conflict, the Confederacy feels no animus towards your race, and seeks only to protect itself. I will do everything in my power to ensure that the twins continue to sleep.”
“May the gods bless you.” came the reply.
The legionnaires left shortly thereafter, followed a ramp to me surface, and stepped out into the sun. The heat fell like a hammer, the landing platform shimmered in the distance, and a scavenger circled high above. Booly looked at McGowan. “You were right, Major.. . The trip was worthwhile.”
The other officer nodded. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead. “Sir, yes sir. What do you think? Can we put a lid on things?”
Booly shrugged. “Beats me, but we’ll give it a try. Come on ... the last one to board the shuttle gets to brief the Senate.”
Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
The planet Arballa was crowned with white, robed in brown, and floated on a sea of black. She was beautiful, very beautiful, and the naval officer liked to start each day by gazing at her from his command chair on the bridge and drinking his first cup of coffee, which, as the entire crew knew, was a critical component of his physical as well as psychological welt being. Knowing that, they left him alone. Boone dreaded the day ahead. Until very recently, the Friendship and her coterie of warships, dispatch vessels, and freighters had the system pretty much to themselves. Now, as a variety of naval units dropped insystem, and took up defensive positions, his life had turned to shit. Not because of the ships themselves and the traffic problems they caused, but the officers who commanded them. Worst of all were two or three admirals, who, unhappy with the slot to which they had been assigned, or resentful due to some perceived breach of protocol, wanted to speak with his admiral, a rather crotchety individual named Mary Chang, who planned to retire in a year or so and enjoyed telling her peers to screw off. Fun for her, but not for Boone, since he’d have to deal with the victims of the old lady’s wrath long after she was gone. The naval officer sighed, took another pull from his coffee, and swore when the alarms went off. Reports flooded his earpiece.
“Robotic sensors report a system incursion at Transit Points NS426021, 022, and 023. The first ships through register a 98.2 percent match for Thraki recon droids ...”
“. .. Incoming transmission, sir, text only: ‘Greetings on behalf of the Thraki race—we come in peace.’ “
“Admiral Guinn on tight beam four, sir, requesting permission to engage.”
Coffee forgotten, Boone eyed the bridge screens. Red deltas poured out of hyperspace and took up positions around three closely grouped Transit Points. Closely being defined as being within fivehundred thousand miles of each other.
One of the recently arrived naval groups, the 404thDestroyer Wing, was stationed in close proximity to Transit Point 021 and was in the perfect position to attack. If there was a state of war, if the rules of engagement allowed for it, and if Boone had the balls to make that kind of call. The repercussions of any decision could and probably would be enormous. If Boone said no and the Thraki proceeded to attack, an important advantage would have been lost, along with who knew how many casualties, and perhaps the Friendship herself. If he said yes, and it turned out that the Thraki had been friendly, and a war resulted, he would be at fault.
The naval officer gritted his teeth. Where the hell was Chang anyway? She was paid to make those kinds of decisions and as Chief Naval Officer InSystem, (CNOIS) had responsibility for anything more than thirty thousand feet above a planetary surface. But seconds were passing—and Guinn needed an answer. Boone had opened his mouth and was just about to speak when a familiar voice sounded in his ear. It was Chang. Still in her cabin, just out of the shower, dripping on the navy blue carpet. She was five feet tall, skinny as a rail, and in good shape. Her hair, which she had allowed to turn white, was worn in a crew cut. All the bridge communications were piped to her cabin where she monitored them via overhead speakers.
‘Tell Guinn to hold his goddamn fire ... but to remain at battle stations. Same for every other group in the system. Get the President on the horn. Tell the worthless bastard that we have visitors. Contact the fur balls ... Tell the little shits that if they so much as blow a sack of garbage through their disposal tubes we’ll blow their butts off. Got it?”
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am.”
“Good. And tell my steward to get some breakfast in here ... I’m hungry.”
The control area had the same subdued lighting—the same sense of carefully guarded quiet associated with great libraries. There was no sense of motion, the view screens were filled with. electronic confetti, and the battleship could have been anywhere. Except that hyperspace was closer to nowhere than to somewhere. A diagrammatic control display claimed the forward bulkhead. Icons stood in for systems, colors conveyed status, and numbers provided data on everything from speed to time in transit. Grand Admiral Hooloo Andragna looked up at the steadily dwindling numbers and saw that a little less than twelve temporal units stood between the present and the future of his race. Once the numbers disappeared, the battleship would emerge from hyperspace, reestablish
