An ensign shouted, “Attention on deck!” but Trimble waved the honor off, and made her way down a gently sloping ramp toward the center of the dimly lit control room. It consisted of a huge windowlike vid screen, that was largely useless at the moment, since there was nothing to look at except a couple of escorts that were half-lit by the sun. So Trimble went straight to the 3-D holo tank located at the center of the bridge, where Baraki and two members of his staff were monitoring the Ramanthian incursion. The entire solar system could be seen fl?oating inside the containment, including a miniature sun, eight realisticlooking planets, their moons, numerous planetoids, asteroids, comets, and even the larger pieces of man-made junk—like the abandoned hab in orbit around Venus. And there, headed toward Jupiter, were the green geometrical shapes that represented the home fl?eet. The other offi?cers looked up as Trimble stepped into the glow that surrounded the holo tank. Their faces were lit from below, and their expressions were grim. “So, how does it look?” the admiral inquired hopefully.
“Not good,” Baraki said darkly. The fl?ag captain had neatly combed dark hair, serious brown eyes, and a long face. “Especially now. . . . Look at what popped out of hyperspace two minutes ago.”
The enemy fl?eet was represented by geometric symbols. Each signifi?ed a particular type of ship, and all of them were red. However, the incoming object that Baraki had referred to didn’t conform to any known classifi? cation of warship. It was too big for one thing, shaped like a sphere, and seemingly under the protection of the bug battle group that was clustered around it. “I see it,” Trimble acknowledged. “But what is it?”
“We’re not absolutely sure yet,” the other offi?cer answered cautiously. “But it looks like the Ramanthians strapped a hyperdrive to a small planetoid, and are using pressor beams to nudge it toward Earth. Kind of like a soccer game.”
“My God!” Trimble exclaimed, as the implication of that became clear. “They plan to push the planetoid in, hit the planet, and lay waste to the surface!”
“Yes,” Baraki agreed bleakly. “That’s the way it looks.”
“Well, they aren’t going to succeed,” Trimble said grimly, as she brought a fi?st down on the rail that circled the holo tank. “We’re going to hit that thing with everything we have, knock it off course, and send those bastards to hell! Notify the escorts, accelerate to fl?ank speed, and prepare to engage.”
Baraki nodded. “Aye, aye, ma’am.” Then, having turned to his XO, the fl?ag captain growled, “You heard the admiral. Let’s grease the bastards.”
ABOARD THE BATTLESHIP
In marked contrast to human warships, where the bridge was often located toward the vessel’s bow, Ramanthian architects preferred to bury their control rooms deep inside the hull, where they were that much safer. So that was where the newly promoted Admiral Ru Lorko was, standing in front of a fl?oating holo, with pincers clasped behind his wings. The naval offi?cer had large compound eyes, a pair of antennae that projected from the top of his head, a hooked beak, and an elongated exoskeleton that had been holed in battle and patched with a metal plate. A shiny rectangle that was the genesis of the nickname, “Old Iron Back,” and of which he was secretly proud.
Though once considered too eccentric for promotion to higher rank, Lorko was the offi?cer who had been responsible for the destruction of the Gladiator and her entire battle group. The victory had brought the commodore to the Queen’s attention, catapulted the often-irascible offi?cer to the rank of admiral, and led to his latest mission: Attack, occupy, and govern Earth. A diffi?cult task under the best of circumstances, but made even more so by the presence of the warrior queen, who was forever asking questions, making unsolicited comments, and offering gratuitous advice. And now, as the enemy came out to meet him, she was there at Lorko’s side. “You were correct,” the royal said unnecessarily. “They took the bait.”
The naval offi?cer’s response was little more than the Ramanthian equivalent of a grunt. But the Queen had been briefed regarding Lorko’s personality and took no offense. Because to her way of thinking, the admiral and the rest of her staff were tools, and so long as the tools functioned as they were supposed to, nothing else mattered. Even though the two fl?eets were coming at each other at incredible speed, many hours were to pass before the leading elements of each battle group would make contact. There were plenty of things for Trimble to do at fi?rst. But eventually, after the proper notifi?cations had been made, all the admiral could do was wait as the distance between the two fl?eets continued to diminish. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Ramanthians were within range. The fi?rst missiles were fi?red, and even though Trimble knew most of them would be intercepted, she was looking forward to drawing fi?rst blood. But then, just as the fi?rst weapons neared their targets, the enemy fl?eet disappeared!
Both the Admiral and the other offi?cers who were gathered around the holo tank assumed they were looking at a technical glitch, until Gertrude’s calm, nearly infl?ectionless voice came over the PA system. “With the exception of the spherical object, presently designated as P-1, all other enemy vessels reentered hyperspace. Destination unknown.”
The immediate response was a loud cheer, as the bridge crew celebrated what looked like a rout, as the fl?eet continued to close with P-1. But Trimble felt something cold trickle into the pit of her stomach as the Ramanthian planetoid continued to grow larger. No damage had been infl?icted. No casualties had been suffered. So why abandon the fi?eld of battle? There had to be a reason. A strategy of some sort. But what was it?
That was the moment when the planetoid exploded, a new sun was born, and 72 percent of the home fl?eet was destroyed as successive rings of white-hot plasma radiated out to vaporize everything they touched. One moment the SternKrieger was there, and the next moment she wasn’t, as both the fl?agship and most of her escorts ceased to exist. The roar of static fi?lled the ether, and the debris fi?eld continued to expand outwards, all without the loss of a single Ramanthian life. And there, with practically nothing to protect it, lay planet Earth.
PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY
Night had fallen hours before, but having nothing to fear from above, the Ramanthian base was lit up like a double helix on Founder’s Day. That made it easy for Colonel Six and his men to see what was going on inside the razor wire and pick targets for their 81mm mortars. The weapons had a range of approximately six thousand yards, which meant they would be able to reach everything within the perimeter. To prevent such an attack, groups of civilian POWs had been placed adjacent to, and in some cases right on top of, key targets, including the command bunker, shuttle pad, and ammo dump. And, based on hours of careful scrutiny, Colonel Six knew that the hostages weren’t free breeders but law-abiding founder folk. Which put the offi?cer in something of a moral quandary. Because as a soldier it was his job to protect civilians rather than kill them. So what should he do? Break off the attack? So the Ramanthians could kill more civilians? Or attack the base, knowing full well that POWs would die along with the enemy, in hopes that other innocent lives would be saved?
It was an extremely diffi?cult decision, but one the founder had anticipated, and provided for in her book, The Great Design. “When forced to choose between genetic lines,”
Hosokawa had written, “the hierarchy must always choose the action that will benefi?t the greatest number of
