The protective shields, which were effective against anything packing sufficient mass and velocity to damage the energy cannons, were useless when it came to a lowtech infantry assault. The legionnaires moved forward, felt a tingling sensation as they entered the force field’s footprint, and set about their tasks. The cannons continued fire, and the Blue Team continued to suffer as the explosives were put in place.
Then, having moved everyone back, the Hudathan gave the order. “Lasker, you know what to do, pull the plug.” The human nodded, flipped the safety cover off a remote, and pressed the big red button. McGowan, looking up from below, saw two flashes of light, heard two overlapping explosions and fell as the shock wave knocked her off her feet. The first thing she noticed was how peaceful it was, lying on her back, watching chunks of debris somersault through the cold, frosty air. They would land—she knew that—but couldn’t quite muster the energy to deal with it. Most fell short of Blue Team, however—for which she was thankful. That’s when a strange sort of silence fell on the valley, when McGowan wondered if her eardrums were damaged, or if everyone else was dead. Then came the first reedy cheer, soon joined by others, until the officer heard her own voice join the rest.
The Blue Team rose like ghosts from so many graves, marveled at the fact that they were still alive, and knew the ultimate truth: This day was theirs. Not through good fortune—but by force of arms.
Chapter 15
Beware of false prophets which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.
Matthew 7:15
First printing
Circa Standard Year 1400
Transit Point NS690193, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
The combined fleets, now numbering more than six thousand ships, emerged from hyperspace in groups of one hundred, formed clusters around the transit point, and waited for instructions. If the Hoon had been something other than a machine and if the Hoon had been possessed of emotions, it might have been excited. For here, after a journey that spanned half a galaxy, the quarry was finally at hand.
But there were variables, factors the computer had never encountered before, and these argued for a certain degree of caution. Early reports, along with those that continued to trickle in, suggested the same thing: The Thraki were not only present in that particular sector of space, but present in large numbers, and showed no sign of trying to escape. This was unprecedented ... and therefore of concern. Adding to that concern was the fact that non-Thraki probes, hundreds of them, had already arrived on the scene, with more popping out of hyperspace all the time. Who were the interlopers? How strong were they? And what if any relationship had been established with the Thraki? Such questions deserved answers, and the Hoon was reluctant to proceed without them.
If the computer was cautious, however—Jepp was ecstatic. The news sent the human dashing back and forth, powerless to affect what took place, but desperate to do so. Hopeless though it had seemed at times, his faith had finally paid off There was a plan. God’s plan, and it was his job to see it through. Though no longer invested in a ship of its own, the Navcomp named Henry still took a passionate interest in things navigational and had taken advantage of Jepp’s momentary credibility to monitor the fleet’s progress.
The realization that the Sheen had entered Confederate controlled space in a system known as NS680193 came as a shock, since the human designed intelligence had given up any hope of scanning familiar constellations a long time before. It hurried to notify its human master and, if not capable of joy, processed a sense of satisfaction.
But now, with Jepp literally jumping up and down, and running around like a madman, the computer wasn’t so sure. The Sheen brought nothing but pain and misery to the systems they had visited in the past, and there was no reason to think this stop would be any different. There could be an increased possibility of escape, however—which the computer was quick to bring to the human’s attention.
“What?” Jepp responded, his face filled with consternation. “Are you out of your silicon packed mind?
This is the moment we’ve been waiting for! The fleet is God’s instrument—his way of bringing the sinners around. Judgment Day is upon us.”
Henry had heard such pronouncements before, most recently in connection with some very dead Thraki, but knew better than to comment. Jepp was Jepp, and whatever would be, would be. The cabin was dark, air whispered through ducts, and Tyspin was asleep. More than that she knew she was asleep and relished the knowledge. The officer heard the intercom bong, resolved to ignore it, and swore when it sounded again. She regretted the words the moment they were spoken. “Yes? What the hell do you want?”
“Sorry, Admiral,” the OOD said apologetically, “but a probe was waiting at Transit Point WHOT89653452. It appears that the Sheen have arrived.”
Tyspin sat up, rubbed her eyes, and swung her feet off the bunk. “Where?”
“In system NS680193 . . . about halfway between the Ramanthians and the Arballazanies.”
“Notify the general—I’m on the way.”
The OOD had notified the general—but didn’t see any need to say so. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am.” The intercom popped and went dead. The officer scanned the bridge, spotted one of the less essential ratings, and made eye contact. “The admiral is on her way—how ‘bout getting her a cup of coffee?”
The tech said, “Yes, sir,” and disappeared.
Tyspin liked, no needed coffee, and everyone knew it. The bridge crew looked at each other and chuckled as the OOD considered what he knew. If the Intel was correct, and there was no reason to doubt it, the machines had six thousand ships. Booly was one hell of an officer, and so was Tyspin, but that was twice the number of vessels the Confederacy could bring to bear ... Not to mention the fact that the Thraki armada consisted of more than four thousand ships.
The OOD’s father had opposed his son’s choice of careers urging the youngster to pursue the law instead. Now, knowing what he knew, it appeared that dad was correct.
Planet Zynig47, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
Sun poured down through rose-colored glass to bathe the Chamber of Reason with soft pink light. Much of it was trapped there, blocked by the carefully laid stone, but some found its way to the beings below.
Grand Admiral Hooloo Isan Andragna had been listening to negative reports for the better part of three days now, and he was tired of it. The initial news had come as a shock. He had expected more time. A lot more time. The fact that the Sheen had arrived—were only weeks away—frightened him. But now, having accepted the situation, the naval officer was ready to fight and more than that to win. All he needed to do was put the resources in place, execute his carefully considered plan, and do something about morale. Regardless of where he went. the gloom was palpable. Most of the negativity was centered on the Sheen—but the constant stream of refugees from planets like BETA018 certainly didn’t help. Each convoy, each ship, was like a harbinger of doom. There was something strange about that, something suspicious, but there hadn’t been time to focus on it. Not with thousands upon thousands of killer machines to cope with. But that was for later—this was now. Sector 19 was late as usual, murmured her apologies, and slipped into her assigned chair. The chamberlain struck the Shield of Waha, and a single note reverberated between the walls. That was the signal for the rest of the Sectors to retrieve their forms. Signals went out, and the miniature robots crawled, walked, and tumbled back to their owners, where they were deactivated and restored to cases, bags, or laps Though normally the subject of considerable discussion, not to mention competition, there was little interest in the forms on that particular day.