much bigger problem. The Militia’s clumsy actions had done everything but tach-comm every intelligence service in human space with the message, “The Caliphate thinks the space around Xi Virginis is very important. Please allocate all your spare resources toward determining why.”
“Do you believe in God?” he asked Ms. Columbia.
“I doubt the same one as you.”
“
“That seems to be human nature.”
“Or God’s will.” He turned around to start walking back to the consulate. “Please give my regards, and my thanks, to your employer.”
He and Ms. Columbia parted ways at the main consulate building. She left the grounds while he went deep into the bowels of the complex, to the secure tach-comm station. He slipped ahead of fifteen diplomats waiting for transmit time because he had the rank to do so, and because the messages he needed to send were probably the most important to ever cross this particular tach-comm array.
The Eridani Caliphate was going to have to send its ships to Xi Virginis years ahead of schedule, and Al-Hamadi needed to get ahead of events before things spun out of control.
It took Al-Hamadi’s tach-comm transmission four days to reach Epsilon Eridani and the capital of the Caliphate. The day after Ms. Columbia’s revelations propagated through the Caliphate government, Muhammad Hussein al Khamsiti, one of sixteen active-duty admirals in the Caliphate Navy, was enjoying the third week of an extended leave.
He was on a nearly eight-month leave while the Caliphate orchestrated a high-level reorganization of the Caliphate armed forces. Admiral Hussein, along with about a half dozen other admirals, had some time off while their new commands were created.
Until a few months ago, Admiral Hussein had been in command of the defensive fleet around Paschal. It was a position he expected to retire from, until he received the orders to prepare for a reassignment of his command. At first he thought he had offended someone in the bureaucracy, and that he was being ordered back to Khamsin to fill some pointless office role until he could be forced to retire. However, when he had tached into his home system, he had been met by the Minister of the Navy himself, who had assured him otherwise.
“You have been chosen to head one of the Caliphate’s newest fleets. Beyond that, all I can tell you is that it’s a great honor—until we call you back, enjoy your leave, spend time with your family.”
So now he stood in the back garden of his third son’s house in the suburbs of Al Meftah, playing catch with his youngest grandson. Little Rahman was barely a toddler and would run after the ball in a lurching gait that seemed always on the verge of toppling over.
Fortunately, the well-irrigated grass in the garden here was forgiving, and when Rahman did fall, which he did frequently, it was followed by a burst of laughter.
When he laughed with his grandson, Admiral Hussein believed that God had specially blessed him. Until two months ago he had not expected to spend any extended time with his family until he retired.
Rahman tossed the ball with a clumsy two-handed overhand throw that landed about a meter short of Admiral Hussein’s feet. The boy fell backward, sitting in the grass, and started giggling.
Admiral Hussein took a step forward to retrieve the ball when he heard his daughter-in-law’s voice from the back of the house. “Muhammad!”
He stood up, holding the ball in his hand, and saw the Minister of the Navy standing next to his son’s wife. He tightened his grip on the ball in his hand.
“Forgive me, Admiral Hussein, but we’ve been forced to advance the schedule.”
“My leave’s been cut short?”
