communications with the rest of the subfleet, and. ..”
And what? The naval officer asked himself. There were so many possibilities.. . The lead ships had emerged by now—into a heavily defended system. Were they fighting for their lives? While he sat and stared? Cursing his name as missiles flashed through the darkness, shields fell, and red-orange flowers blossomed in the darkness. Or had the Confederate ships withheld their fire? And allowed the Thraki vessels to enter? Anything was possible.
The countdown rippled toward zero, systems were checked, and the crew went to battle stations. The precision of it made Andragna feel better. Defeats, like the one suffered on BETA018, had occurred on the ground. Here, in deep space, the Thraki were at their best. No race had been persecuted as they had, fought a more relentless enemy, or won so many battles. They were warriors, tired warriors, but warriors nonetheless. The Confederacy would come to know that, and, assuming it survived, to respect it.
Andragna had left all the moon-sized arks, plus fifteen hundred of the armada’s best ships, to protect Zynig47. That left him with more than three thousand vessels, less than what the Sheen could bring to bear, but more than the Confederacy could cobble together.
Besides, the admiral thought to himself as the final moments ticked away, we have the twins, and if all else fails, they will see us through.
The battleship lurched, stars flooded the screens, and communications came online. The first ship to follow the drones into the Araballazanie system was a destroyer commanded by Captain Algo Portatious. He knew what Andragna wanted and needed most. His face appeared on a corn screen. The tone was lighthearted. He knew his peers would monitor the conversation and played to the invisible gallery. “Greetings, Admiral. .. Welcome to assembly area one.”
The officer’s demeanor spoke volumes. Andragna felt an enormous sense of relief. “Thank you. Is there anything to report?”
Portatious offered the Thraki equivalent of a grin. “If threats were missiles we’d be dead by now.”
The bridge crew laughed, and Andragna looked to his screens. With each passing temporal unit three more ships arrived. That’s how quickly his forces were entering the system. It wouldn’t be long before the defenders were outgunned. Then, with the Confederate vessels as a screen, the battle could begin. Would the Sheen take the bait? Yes, the naval officer thought to himself, as surely as the universe continues to expand.
The Hoon, along with its electromechanical minions, had long been able to follow its prey through hyperspace, a capability that so far as it knew was completely unique. That’s why it had been able to track the Confederate ship back to its lair, record all of the necessary navigational data, and download it to the fleet.
So now, as the Ninja hurtled through time and space, a long silvery snake followed behind. A snake comprised of countless Sheen ships all having the same destination. Tyspin, who had no way to know about the menace that followed, was on the bridge at the moment when the Ninja popped into normal space. Data rippled across previously vacant screens, the corn techs struggled to deal with an avalanche of high priority corn calls, and the naval officer did her best to take it in. The displays told the story.
The Confederate forces, more than before, were clustered around well-established transit points, while a host of Thraki vessels had coalesced into three “war” globes, all of which continued to grow as more ships arrived. The naval officer was still in the process of absorbing that, of dealing with it, when Captain Hashimoto yelled in her ear. “We’ve got trouble. Admiral! It looks like the Sheen managed to follow!”
Tyspin struggled to combat the rising sense of panic. Follow? No, it wasn’t possible’ Or was it? My god, what had she done?
The Hoon answered the human’s unspoken question by ordering a wing of fighters to sweep past the Ninja, all flying in formation, blasting everyone with the same message. “Hold your fire! We come in peace!”
It might have been ignored except for one extremely important factor: Rather than broadcast an image of itself, clad in a metallic body, the Hoon sent video of a human being instead. And not just any human being, but Jorley
Jepp, who watched with slackjawed amazement as his countenance appeared on the main corn screen, and words poured from his mouth. Not his words but those that the Hoon had given the electronically generated doppelganger to say. The syntax was wooden, but who would know the difference?
“Hello, my name is Jorley Jepp. The Sheen were kind enough to rescue me after my ship was destroyed. I have lived with them for many months. In spite of the endless persecution imposed by the rapacious Thraki, the Sheen come in peace, and call on the Confederacy to sponsor meaningful negotiations. Thank you.”
There was a pause followed by a holo of President Marcott Nankool. His face was stem. “Given hostile actions by both the Thraki and the Sheen—the Confederacy takes small comfort from their proclamations of peace. If both parties are truly willing to negotiate, the Confederacy is willing to help, if the following conditions are met: The warships within both fleets will take all targeting systems offline, cut power to primary weapons systems, and remain where they are. In the meantime, our offensive capabilities will remain at the highest state of readiness. Should either side violate the conditions just put forth—the Confederacy will side with the opposing group and open fire. That’s our best offer... take it or leave it.” The video snapped to black.
It was a gutsy position, especially in light of the fact that the Confederacy possessed less firepower than the other potential combatants, and stood to lose its government as well. It could work, however—since all three of the groups had the technology necessary to determine when weapons systems were online. Tyspin held her breath as millions waited for some sort of reply. If the combatants were to ignore the offer, if a fullscale battle ensued, the
