Tyspin looked the other woman in the eye. “So, I plan to take one of the captured transports, load a tactical nuke. and pay the fur balls a visit. They will see one of their own ships, open the bay doors, and invite me in. End of story.”
“No shit,” Chang said feelingly. “Even if I had good officers to spare, which I sure as hell don’t, I wouldn’t approve your plan.”
“Why not?”
“Because the nuke might trigger the twins,” Chang replied, “and destroy our entire fleet. Not to mention Arballa.
We’re supposed lo defend the worms—not blow ‘em to hell and gone.”
“Might,” Tyspin responded. “You said might. I took the liberty of doing some research, and three out of four of the propeller heads I spoke with rated my plan at eighty percent or better.”
“And the fourth?”
Tyspin grinned. “He said I was out of my frigging mind.”
“How very astute of him,” Chang said dryly. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll take the idea to the President. If he decides to roll the dice, I will green light the mission. If we were able to destroy the twins without detonating them, we’d be way ahead.”
Tyspin started to say something, but the other woman raised a hand. “Not with you at the controls, however ... not while I’m in command.”
“Then how ...”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Chang replied, getting to her feet. “We’ll talk to General Booly, followed by President Nankool... Assuming the slob can make time to talk with us that is.”
Tyspin gave a crooked grin. “Slob? What did he do to deserve that?”
“Nothing,” Chang replied solemnly. “Like a lot of people ... he just pisses me off.”
Andragna’s day cabin was spacious, as befitted a person of his rank, and had once served as the ultimate status symbol. But that was back during the time when the Runners held sway, when entire lives were lived on ships, when most families were allotted a thousand square units of space and felt lucky to have that.
Now, after the colonization of Zynig47 and time spent on the surface, the day cabin felt more confining. That, plus the fact that it had been stripped of personal effects, made the compartment seem cold and impersonal. One more indication of how much their lives had changed. For the better? Maybe, but that remained to be seen.
A tone sounded, and the officer cleared his throat. “Yes?” The bulkhead opposite his work surface played host to a mosaic of images ranging from lists of fleet related data, to video of the control room, and randomly selected shots from throughout the ship. A new picture blossomed at the center. Weapons Officer Trewa Mogus looked worried. Very worried. Sorry to bother you, Admiral, but a problem has arisen.”
Andragna’s ears rotated in opposite directions. There was something about Mogus that brought out the worst in him. “And what? You want me to guess what the difficulty is?”
“No, sir,” the unfortunate officer said hurriedly. “It appears that the twins were configured to ride a delivery system that was replaced more than 150 annums ago.”
The first emotion that Andragna felt was anger—followed by an almost overwhelming sense of shame. He had been a weapons officer once and should have thought of the issue himself. “I’m sorry, Mogus, we should have thought of that. Very few people knew about the twins and most were priests. What’s being done?”
Mogus felt a vast sense of relief. He knew Andragna disliked him and was expecting the worst. “Four Class in Penetrator missiles are being retrofitted to accept the new payloads.”
“Four?”
“To provide 100 percent redundancy should one of them prove faulty.”
“Excellent. And time?”
“We need about six standard units, sir, four to do the work and two for tests.”
For perhaps the hundredth time that day, Andragna wondered why the Sheen seemed reluctant to attack. It didn’t make much sense, but it was a gift, and one he was happy to accept. He nodded his approval. “That will be fine,
