A good deal of time and computer analysis had been spent coming up with what Lorko and his subordinate offi?cers believed to be the standard intervals employed by Confederacy battle groups as they entered potentially hostile systems. And that number was fi?ve standard minutes give or take thirty seconds. So, given the fact that one minute twenty-six seconds had already elapsed, it was time for the Sheen vessels to open fi?re. Not on a specifi?c target, but on the exact point where the ill-fated DE had left hyperspace. Because according to Lorko’s analysis, that was where the next ship would most likely exit as well. And the next, and the next, until the entire formation lay before him. An assemblage of ships that might be less than, equal to, or larger than Lorko’s modest fl?eet. A threat, but only if the enemy vessels were allowed to respond. So the remotely operated Sheen vessels opened fi?re with their extremely powerful energy cannons, and where their pulses of bright blue light converged, an artifi?cial sun was born. Lorko was committed at that point, because while the Sheen ships could maintain a sustained fi?re for up to eight minutes, their accumulators would have to recharge after that. And while the machine-ships were armed with missiles, they carried a fi?nite number. All of this meant that if the theoretical force arrived later than expected, it might break out of the trap and attack not only the Star Reaper but the more vulnerable Swarm, thereby turning what could have been a magnifi?cent victory into one of the worst naval disasters in Ramanthian history. Lorko would commit suicide, of course, assuming he survived long enough to do so, but it would be humiliating to arrive in the next world carrying such a heavy burden of shame. Nav Point CSM-1802 shimmered within a cocoon of lethal energy as the seconds ticked away.
ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY BATTLESHIP
The battleship’s primary Command & Control (C&C) computer was generally referred to as “Big Momma” mostly because she had a soft female voice. It echoed through miles of corridors, hundreds of weapons stations, and even found its way into the spacious cabin normally reserved for admirals but presently occupied by the Confederacy’s extremely competent but slightly pudgy President and Chief Executive Offi?cer Marcott Nankool. Who, being confronted with the plateful of pastries that had been brought in for 6
the enjoyment of his staff, was struggling to ignore the calorie-laden treats as the computer spoke via the ship’s ubiquitous PA system. “The ship will drop hyper in fi?ve, repeat fi?ve, minutes. Secure all gear, check space armor, and strap in. Primary weapons systems, secondary weapons systems, and tertiary weapons systems have been armed. All fi?ghter aircraft are prepared for immediate launch. . . . Marine boarding parties are on standby at locks one through thirty-six. All supernumerary personnel will don space armor and remain where they are until the ship secures from battle stations. I repeat . . .”
But none of the six men and women who had been sent along to assist the chief executive during high-level talks with the Clone Hegemony were interested in hearing Big Momma’s spiel all over again. And, having already struggled into their ill-fi?tting “P” for passenger space suits some fi?fteen minutes earlier, the staffers were content to let the C&C computer drone on as their discussion continued.
“That’s utter bullshit,” Secretary for Foreign Affairs Roland Hooks said contemptuously. “There’s no goddamned way that the clones are going to agree to an alliance with us. I mean, why should they? We’re getting our asses royally kicked while they sit around and congratulate each other on how superior their DNA is!”
The slender Dweller required a mechanical exoskeleton in order to deal with the Earth-normal gravity maintained aboard the Gladiator. One of his servos whined as the diplomat shifted his weight. “Maybe,” Ambassador Omi Ochi countered cautiously. “But consider this . . . Regardless of the way the manner in which they mate, or don’t mate as the case may be, the clones are still human. That means they think, see, hear, feel, and taste things just as you do. So, who are they going to side with? The bugs? Or beings similar to themselves?”
Foreign Service Offi?cer (FSO)-3 Christine Vanderveen had shoulder-length blond hair, very blue eyes, and full red lips. Though not senior enough to participate in the increasingly heated discussion, she thought the serious- faced Dweller was essentially correct. After dithering around for a shamefully long time, the famously insular clones would eventually be forced to align themselves with the Confederacy, which, while not exclusively human, was certainly humanistic insofar as its laws, culture, and traditions were concerned. “That makes sense, Ambassador,” Secretary Hooks allowed stolidly. “Or would, if the clones had a brain between them! How do you explain their continuing dalliance with the Thrakies? The furballs don’t look human to me.”
The discussion might have gone on indefi?nitely, but having given both sides an opportunity to express their opinions, Nankool wanted to move the meeting forward.
“Both of you make good points,” the moonfaced chief executive said soothingly. “But the fact remains. . . . We’re on the way to the Hegemony in an effort to gain support from the clones. And, based on the fact that they invited us to come, there’s the possibility that Omi is correct. So, let’s plan for success. Assuming the Alpha Clones are open to a military alliance, they’re going to want some say where command decisions are concerned. General Koba-Sa . . . How much input could you and your peers tolerate before your heads explode?”
All of Nankool’s advisors knew that General Booly and the rest of his staff wouldn’t want to surrender any authority, so everyone chuckled as the Hudathan worked his massive jaw as if preparing it for battle. The offi?cer had a large humanoid head and weighed 252 pounds. He wasn’t wearing a kepi, so the half-inch-high dorsal fi?n that ran front to back along the top of his skull was visible, as were his funnel-shaped ears and a thin-lipped mouth. Though white at the moment, the offi?cer’s skin would automatically darken when exposed to cold temperatures. The Hudathans had once been the sworn enemies of nearly every sentient 8
species; but rather than remain imprisoned on the dying planet of Hudatha, Koba-Sa’s people agreed to join the Confederacy. And a good thing, too, since the big aliens were fearsome warriors, and many of the Confederacy’s other members were not. Koba-Sa’s voice was reminiscent of a rock crusher stuck in low gear. “The clone army was bred to fi?ght,” Koba-Sa said approvingly. “And gave a good account of themselves during the rebellion on LaNor. But their senior offi?cers lack initiative at times—and spend too much time on the defensive. My people have a saying. ‘He who waits for the enemy should dig his own grave fi?rst.’ ”
Vanderveen didn’t like Undersecretary of Defense Corley Calisco for any number of reasons. Because Calisco was a man who could typically be found on every side of an issue. But what bothered her most was the way he would stare at her breasts, and then lick his lips, as if he were able to taste them. So, when the undersecretary opened his mouth, the foreign service offi?cer fully expected Calisco to slime the Hudathan. But that was the moment when the four-mile-long Gladiator exited hyperspace, passed through the remains of the three warships that had gone before it, and came under immediate attack. The ship shuddered as a volley of missiles exploded against her shields, Big Momma began a rhythmic chant, and the conversation was over.
ABOARD THE RAMANTHIAN DESTROYER
The third ship to emerge from hyperspace managed to kill one of the Sheen vessels with her weapons and destroyed a second by ramming it! A display of courage and determination very much in keeping with the code of the Hath and therefore to be admired by Commodore Lorko and his senior offi?cers.
And now, as the other Sheen ships expended the last of their ordinance, and the Swarm’s fi?ghters began to die by the dozens, the Ramanthians had to wonder if they were about to become victims of their own trap. But the fanatical Lorko wouldn’t back down, couldn’t back down, were he to face his peers again. So, despite the fact that his fl?agship was only a quarter of the Confederacy ship’s size, the commodore ordered the Star Reaper to attack. And waited to die. But Lorko didn’t die, nor did anyone else aboard the Ramanthian destroyer. Because as the
