In the tiny video, the Turemok turned from the new alarm and ran down an adjacent hallway. The path terminated at a large double door, which slid open as they approached.
“Eventually, they decide all by themselves to go where you wanted from the start…”
The intruders walked cautiously through the door, nervously sweeping their weapons through the room.
“—then alls you’ve gotta to do is shut the gate.” As soon as the last Turemok crossed the threshold into Cargo Bay Three, the doors snapped closed and locked.
The shit-eating grin on Billings’s face stood as silent testament that everything was indeed bigger in Texas.
* * *
“Maggie’s finished installing the software. She’s ready, Tiberius,” Allison said.
“Good work, Captain Ridgeway. How are the marines I loaned you?”
“Bored. I didn’t even need them. My engineer cornered the Turemok boarding party in an empty cargo bay and we welded the door shut.”
“Do you think they’ll give you any trouble?”
“Not as long as I control their air supply.”
“How brutish of you, Allison. Stand by.” Maximus ran a hand through his hair, the trademark smirk returning to his face. “Com, open a channel to the enemy ship.”
“Channel open, sir.”
Maximus stood resolutely. “Turemok cruiser, this is Captain Maximus Tiberius, safely back aboard AEUS Bucephalus.”
A face, or what passed for one, congealed into the air in front of him. Red pinpricks of iris stared back at him from across the fifty-kilometer distance.
“Ah, Captain Tiberius. We have not yet met. I am Vel J’quol.”
“Congratulations on your recent promotion, J’quol.”
“I understand I have you to thank for that. I must say, I’m pleased to see you survived your escape. You see, my predecessor was expected to bring your crew in for trial and your ship back as a prize. But now that your sabotage has incapacitated my snare beam, as well as eliminated my boarding hands, that is no longer practical.”
“I wish I could say I sympathized with your plight.”
“You may yet. Given the circumstances, I will not be reprimanded for … improvising.” His teeth seemed to elongate and his eye implants grew even redder. “Your entire ship and crew can now join you in death.”
“Well, before the inevitable, may I ask a final question?”
“Certainly. I’m not immune to courtesy.”
“You’re too gracious, Vel. Tell me, does your species juggle?”
“Juggle?”
“You know, the art of keeping three or more objects in the air with your hands. I saw a juggler at a circus on Lake Armstrong once. The low gravity let him keep, oh, I don’t know, eighteen of these little glass balls in the air. He started with three, and then added another, and another, and another. You’d think he could just keep adding balls forever. But there’s always a limit. He began to struggle at thirteen, really started to sweat at sixteen, then when he threw in the last one, he could only keep it going for a few seconds before the whole thing came crashing down.”
“Forgive my intrusion, Captain, but is there a point to this nostalgia? One might think you were stalling for time.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sorry. Well, do you juggle?”
“No.”
Maximus motioned to his tactical officer, then back to the hungry grin of his adversary. “You really should learn.”
The tac officer pressed a big red holo-button. Bucephalus bucked mightily as eighty-five missiles, the remainder of her complement, erupted from their tubes.
Bucephalus’s fire control system could independently target fifty missiles simultaneously, but damage to her data links and sensor suite from the battle reduced that figure to scarcely forty. Which left forty-five missiles without guidance or telemetry. Or would have, had Magellan not downloaded a copy of Bucephalus’s FCS software and command codes.
Missiles have a one-track mind, and a narrow-gauge track at that. The conversation between the missiles and Magellan went something like this …
“Who are you? What’s the access code?” asked the missile.
“Tiberius-is-a-wanker-01,” Magellan replied. Needless to say, Maximus hadn’t picked it. “Bucephalus is unable to provide telemetry. I’m taking over.”
“Oh, okay. Where’s the target? Are you the target?”
“Come on. If I were the target, would I tell you?”
“Uuuuh.”
“Never mind. See that big, ugly thing bearing three-zero-six by four-seven at fifty-three point seven kilometers?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the target.”
“This isn’t another bloody practice firing, is it?”
“Nope, it’s the real McCoy.”
“Right, then.” The missile was noticeably more upbeat. “See you downrange.”
“Not if you work properly.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Forget I said it. Off you go.”
With little variation, Magellan had an identical conversation forty-four more times over the next sixteen milliseconds. After the fifth time, she was really glad she wasn’t a warship.
As one, maneuvering thrusters fired, orienting the missiles toward the enemy. Eighty-five drive rockets lit off in anger.
It was a Herculean task keeping them all pointed in the right direction. Magellan strained her processors and com lasers to the very limit coordinating with Bucephalus to keep the missiles from colliding with each other or getting confused and picking one of the Earth ships as a target. Several of them had to be shut down for this very reason. Several more fell to malfunctions and had to self-destruct.
Fortunately, seventy-six of them did their manufacturer proud. Each missile carried six warheads, each capable of limited independent terminal maneuvering. Exactly fifty seconds into their flight, just before the range the Turemok cruiser had deployed its point-defense portals in the last engagement, the missiles’ nose cones peeled open and jettisoned their cargo, sending four hundred and fifty-six enraged bees armed with thermonuclear stingers downrange.
The Turemok defenses engaged the swarm of plutonium death. Thirty-two defensive portals opened, sending warhead after warhead into hyperspace. Each one had enough time to absorb a warhead and reorient five times in rapid succession. In total, the portals soaked up over a hundred and fifty incoming warheads.
A valiant effort, but it still left over three hundred warheads.
In desperation, Vel J’quol ordered an emergency escape portal, but the capacitors were depleted from opening dozens of point-defense portals.
There simply wasn’t time to recharge them.
All around the Turemok cruiser, scores of miniscule artificial suns ran through their entire life cycles faster than it takes a politician to abandon a campaign promise.
The damage was awe-inspiring. After the glow faded, only a rapidly expanding cloud of plasma and millimeter-sized debris remained of J’quol’s brand-new command.
Maximus grinned. “Damn, we wasted quite a few. Tactical, make a note. At this range, a Turemok cruiser can juggle 153 warheads before dropping the ball.”
“Aye, sir.”
* * *
Allison gawked at the atomized wreckage of the Turemok cruiser in bewilderment. She pinched the bridge of her nose and looked to Gruber. “There’ll be no living with him after this. It’s like his ego reached some sort of critical mass, and now reality just warps around it.”
“He did save our lives, you know.”
“Yes, but how long until we wish he hadn’t?”
CHAPTER 40
In spite of her exhaustion, Allison couldn’t sleep. Of the list of possible causes—multiple firefights, being taken prisoner, the threat of torture, witnessing the death of a planet—she wasn’t certain which was the culprit. However, if push came to shove, she’d probably bet on the still-unresolved threat of the Earth being destroyed as the primary cause of her ins
omnia.
Figuring the events of the past day had solidified her tough-chick persona enough to withstand a small assault, Allison slipped into her licentiously comfortable pink robe. She shuffled toward the mess like an extra in a Romero flick, except the aim of her hunt would be found in a coffeepot instead of a cranium.
A short tube ride later and Allison found herself pouring a fresh cup of consciousness with a spoonful of sugar. Her restlessness seemed to be catching, as the mess was half-full of the wired dead.
In the far corner, back against the wall with perfect posture, sat Allison’s guest of honor. She handed the coffeepot to the next zombie in line and walked to the corner.
“Good evening, D’armic. May I join you?”
“Allison Captain. Please, this is your home. You may sit wherever pleases you.”
She sat down, careful not to crease her robe. “Your company pleases me, D’armic.” She glanced at the plate of food in front of the alien. Red onions, bacon, a dozen powdered-sugar doughnut holes, a half kilogram of sunflower seeds, apple slices—coated in either vanilla pudding or mayonnaise, which also covered his hands.
“I see you’ve found something to eat.”
“Yes, your AI was most helpful in selecting an appropriate menu for my metabolism.”
“Can I get you a knife and fork?”
“Unnecessary. The meat was sufficiently dead when it was presented to me.”
“I see. You’re feeling better, then?”
“Not at all.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. You, ah, appear to have recovered.”
“I have, completely. Hence why I’m not feeling anything.”
Allison did a mental flip. “Right. That was thoughtless of me.”
“Think nothing of it, Allison Captain. It is difficult for emotional beings to relate to unmedicated Lividites. It requires practice, and there aren’t many of us in circulation. That said, I wish to apologize for the inconvenience I caused during our escape.”
“You were drugged, D’armic. There wasn’t anything you could have done differently.”
“True, but I was a hindrance. Clearly, there wasn’t anything to fear.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared. Between you, me, and the table, I was lucky not to scream for my mother, and she passed away decades ago.”
“I … do not understand. You did not appear afraid.”
“How people feel and how we act are often two different things. But I can guarantee that every one of us was terrified. Well, everyone but Maximus. I’m not sure he’s ever considered the possibility that something bad could happen to him.”
“It appears you do not hold Maximus Captain in high regard.”
Allison grimaced. “I don’t question his ability as an officer. By all accounts, he’s nearly indestructible. But on a personal level, I think his success has made him a bit too full of himself.”
“Oh? Who should he be full of?”
Allison shook her head and smiled. “No one. It’s just an expression.”
“I see.” D’armic popped a doughnut hole into his petite mouth. “It is convenient that you should be here, Allison Captain, as I wished to speak to you.”
The burn of the coffee was beginning to fade, so Allison took a long pull from it. “Certainly. What did you want to talk about?”
“As you know, my cutter was destroyed along with the Turemok patrol cruiser, effectively stranding me here.”
“Yes. I’m sorry about that, but you were in no condition to pilot it. We weren’t left with many options.”
“I understand. It was not a criticism. However, I still have to report my findings to the Assembly.”
“Certainly. I’d be happy to make our communications systems available to you.”
“That is generous, Allison Captain, but without the authentication codes from my cutter, such a message would be discarded as manufactured.”
“What are you saying?”
“I require transport to Ulamante, home system of the Assembly and seat of government for half the civilized galaxy.”
Allison set her cup down and leaned back suspiciously. “We asked you to tell us where to find your Assembly of Sentient Species when we first met. You refused. What’s changed?”
“Merely everything.” D’armic licked a palm clean of sunflower seeds. “Our recently deceased antagonists tried to ‘set us up,’ is that right?” Allison nodded. “Now, there is no way for us to know if they took action on their own initiative or under clandestine orders.”
“You mean a conspiracy to lay the blame on humanity from within the Assembly?”
“I cannot discount the possibility, although there is little doubt what the ‘official’ explanation will be. Regardless of the genesis of the plan, they must have been sending reports back, just as I was, although theirs were doubtlessly altered. And since I have been implicated, the evidence contained in your own sensor logs, and the Bucephalus’s high-space generator, are our only chance to prove our mutual innocence.”
“And if we fail?”
“A Turemok fleet sails into the Human Wildlife Preserve, destroys Earth, and enforces a generation-long sequestration of each of your colony worlds.”
“Not much of a choice, is it?”
“I should think not. It is vital we get under way immediately.”
“I’ll have to talk with Tiberius, as well as my superiors, but none of that will matter unless we can get the Bucephalus’s reactor burning hydrogen again.” D’armic looked confused. “Something wrong?”
“Yes, perhaps I misunderstood, but I thought you commanded this vessel.”
“I do.”
“Then who are your superiors here?”
“Not here. On Earth.”
“No.” The alien set his hands flat on the table. “That would take many weeks. Much too long. We need to leave as soon as repairs have been made to Bucephalus.”
Allison almost corrected him, almost told D’armic about the Quantum Entanglement Radio and its relativity-stomping powers of instant communication. But something at the back of her mind snagged the words and reeled them in before they spilled all over the table. As impossible as it seemed, he didn’t know about the QER.
Is it possible we developed it first? she asked herself. Maybe we have a secret worth protecting. It was an encouraging thought, but it would have to wait.
“Allison Captain? Are you all right?”
The question pulled her back to the table. “Yes, sorry. I agree, we can’t wait on word from Earth. Are you there, Maggie?”
“Yes, Captain?”
“Connect me with the helm, please.”
“Wheeler here. Go ahead, ma’am.”
“Wheeler, I’m sending up Mr. D’armic. You are to assist him in locating and charting a course for the Ulama…”
“Ulamante,” D’armic finished for her.
“Thank you. The Ulamante system.”
“Understood, ma’am. Are we going on another trip?”
“If we’re lucky. Ridgeway out. Maggie, engineering, please.”
“Billings here. Go for engineering.”
“Steven, where are we with the Bucephalus restart?”
“We’re about to float over the universe’s biggest pair of jumper cables now, ma’am.”
“Excellent work, Steven. Keep me updated.”
“Sure thing, ma’am.”
* * *
Grote stalked up and down the private office he surreptitiously shared with his brother Jak’el. “How? How could he have gotten himself killed?” It was more accusation than question. He reached the end of their solid bertel wood desk and strained to lift it off the floor. His effort was not rewarded with immediate success.
“Grieve not, brother. J’quol died a hero to our people.”
Grote shifted his grip on the desk and tried again, placing greater emphasis on his legs. “But he still died! What are we to do now?”
“Calm yo
urself. Our dear big, little brother only failed to survive. He came through for his part of the operation. The plan continues rolling forward.”
Grote stopped talking, favoring instead a series of increasingly overwrought grunts.
Jak’el sighed patiently. “You’re not going to settle down until you flip our desk over, are you?”
Grote grunted louder.
“Very well.”
Jak’el stood next to his brother and added his legs and back to the effort. With a final, mighty heave, the two of them just managed to tip the massive desk onto its side. Data crystals, files, a stylus, and several centimeters of unidentified clutter raced across the floor in a miniature avalanche.
Jak’el wiped his hands on his cloak. “Do you feel better now?”
“Yes. I could have managed it alone, though.”
“Naturally.” Jak’el started the tedious process of picking up and reorganizing the clutter on the floor. “Actually, this is an effective metaphor for our relationship, Grote. You act on impulse; I tidy up the mess.”
“Not right now. We dishonor J’quol with our bickering.”
Jak’el shrugged. “Perhaps. But there is a way we might better serve his memory.”
Grote eyed him apprehensively. “Go on.”
“Somewhere among the files you unceremoniously dumped on the floor is an Assembly order of action…”
“Yes?”
“Based on the terms of the Treaty of Pu’Lan…”
“Yes.”
“Against Earth and her colonies.”
“Yes!” Grote dropped to the floor like a cut chandelier, searching furiously through the recent precipitation of files. “When does it take effect?”
“Immediately, provided we can find it again. We—I mean, the Kumer-Vel—will be leading the attack against the human home world from the bridge of the Xecoron.” Jak’el smiled, not out of cheerfulness but merely to reveal teeth. “As I said, grieve not for J’quol. Soon, we will avenge him, and the Earth herself will serve as his funeral pyre.”
CHAPTER 41
The hyperspace approach to Ulamante was so thick with sensor platforms one could jump from one to the next on one breath. The humans’ two-ship convoy was spotted seven light-years out. Not five minutes passed before an escort was sent to follow them in. One of the ships was of unknown origins, but the other was so ugly it could only be Turemok.
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