The Kilrathi prince gave him a grasped-claw gesture in response. Murragh was on the carrier’s flag bridge, surrounded by other Kilrathi officers and enlisted ratings from amongst his castaway group. Dahl had assured them that he could use the ship’s computers to morph Murragh’s features into those of his uncle, drawn from the communications files, in a real-time program that would allow Murragh to provide the interactive movements and the phrasing of his uncle far more effectively than a pre-programmed simulacrum. With luck, what the picket ship’s captain would see would be a convincing imitation of a bridge full of Kilrathi.
Tolwyn hoped it would work. If the picket ship got off a warning, they would never penetrate to Baka Kar to take out the dreadnought. Everything was riding on this ploy, and Geoff Tolwyn carried the whole weight of responsibility for the operation squarely on his shoulders. Admiral Richards had transferred his flag to the Xenophon at Hellhole to take command of the Terran-made warships of the battle group, leaving Tolwyn to handle the approach to Baka Kar entirely on his own.
The last time he’d held command had been the Behemoth mission. Memories of the battle passed through his thoughts from time to time, reminding him of just how much was riding on his performance as a commanding officer.
Right now, though, it was Murragh’s performance as an actor that counted most.
“This is Cakg dai Nokhtak,” Murragh intoned solemnly. It was strange to see his familiar face and figure on the intercom screen, but beside it, on the interchip monitor, the computer-altered image of his uncle, shorter, stockier, with touches of silver around his blunt-faced muzzle. “It is good to see another Kilrathi face again after all this time, Captain. We have been cut off for many eight-days…over a Kilrah-year, in fact.”
The captain of the escort was looking unsure of himself. “Your authentication codes are not current…”
“Didn’t I just say we’ve been out of touch!” Murragh roared, flexing his claws in evident agitation. “Karga was badly damaged in battle with the apes. All his battle group destroyed! We have been stranded in a system in ape space, our engines useless, since then. Only recently were we able to effect repairs! Of course our codes are invalid. Check your records for the period when we left on our mission! And be quick about it!”
Tolwyn had to smile. Murragh hadn’t actually uttered a single untruth. He had simply omitted a few crucial things. And he was doing a credible impersonation of an irritable and irritated aristocrat about to have a junior’s head, quite possibly literally. In the Imperial fleet, junior officers did not offend a senior officer’s sense of honor and live to tell the tale.
But the look on the picket ship captain’s face bothered Tolwyn. He isn’t buying the story, he thought grimly. And he’s already sent out a message alerting them that something’s on the way. If we don’t get him to pass us through, we’re finished…
Command Bridge, KIS Wexarragh
Jump Point Nine, Vordran System
2329 hours (CST)
Vharr’s claws flexed nervously. The admiral’s anger was enough to make him cringe. But there was something that nagged at him, something not quite right.
He studied the monitor more closely. There…that was what was bothering him. An almost unnoticeable distortion in the video image. It seemed to be localized right around the admiral. If it had been a systems problem, surely it would have disrupted the whole screen…
A trick of some kind? Or just a communications glitch? Vharr didn’t like the choices he was being offered. A wrong choice either way could lead to the utter disgrace of the Vharr hrai, not to mention his own execution.
“Lord Admiral,” he said cautiously, thinking fast. “I am required to send over a shuttle. To verify…and to assist.” He turned away from the monitor, gesturing to his Executive Officer. With the transmission briefly muted, he gave his orders. “Send a detachment of assault troops on the shuttle. The admiral is to be given all due deference…but we must verify his story. I don’t like the smell of it.”
A squad of troops would be useless against what could be aboard that carrier, but they, like the ship himself, were a tripwire. If there was trouble, they would alert him to it, and he could alert Baka Kar…before he died in turn.
Combat Information Center, FRLS Mjollnir
Jump Point Nine, Vordran System
2330 hours (CST)
“He is within his rights,” Dahl said. “And if he truly does have orders to inspect passing ships, he would not yield even to an admiral. It would cost his honor to do so.”
“Yeah,” Tolwyn said. “And we just look more suspicious if we try to argue it. Okay, Murragh, give him the go-ahead. And get me Bhaktadil and Bondarevsky on the intercom circuit. Time for Operation Welcome Wagon.”
Starboard Flight Deck, FRLS Mjollnir
Jump Point Nine, Vordran System
2345 hours (CST)
Bondarevsky crouched behind a bank of instruments, uncomfortable in full space armor. With his helmet set to infra-red imaging to compensate for the dim lighting of the flight deck, he was starting to get a headache. And the waiting was starting to get to him. He wondered how the marines could bear it. This was nothing like being in the cockpit of a fighter on the way into battle…or even holding down the command chair on the bridge. There you had enough to do to keep you from having to think about what was coming. All he could do now was hunker down and try to keep from worrying.
The Kilrathi shuttle passed slowly through the airlock force field and stooped in for a landing on the flight deck. It was an older design than those used aboard the Mjollnir, somewhat smaller but standing high on landing gear that gave plenty of clearance for the loading ramp that opened from its belly. The design allowed for savings in space aboard cramped ships like the escort, where the ventral ramp would open up into an airlock through the outer hull of the escort when the shuttle was secured to its piggyback position aft of the bridge.
Bondarevsky could almost feel the intensity of the emotion on the flight deck now. He wondered what they were thinking aboard the shuttle. With no Kilrathi in sight to greet them, they were probably getting edgy.
He gave a hand signal that he knew Sparks could see from the windows of Primary Flight Control overlooking the flight deck. They had planned for the contingency of boarders, and the sequence had been rehearsed, but Bondarevsky’s heart still beat a little faster, knowing that this time it was for real.
If all was going according to plan, the carrier was now broadcasting on the same frequency they’d picked up from the shuttle on its way across, a panicky broadcast as if from the CSTCC claiming the shuttle was in trouble on final approach. There was a localized jamming field here on the flight deck, though, to keep the Cats from realizing they were featuring in an imaginative drama playing for the benefit of their suspicious friends. The Kilrathi communications expert, Dahl, would be playing his role to the hilt. The tough old peasant had seemed to enjoy the notion of putting one over on the aristocracy when he’d helped them hatch the scheme during a council of war at Oecumene.
The ventral ramp opened slowly, and a pair of Kilrathi in armor came cautiously down. After a moment they were joined by more. It looked as if there was entire squad of assault troops there, plus a single Cat in the cockpit of the shuttle. With the troopers beginning to fan out, and no more in evidence, Bondarevsky gave a second hand-signal for Sparks.
In an instant, the silent, darkened environment of the flight deck changed dramatically. The lights came up to full intensity, a siren began hooting an urgent warning, and the artificial gravity cut off.