“Fleet Master, we are receiving a transmission.”
The fleet was thirsty. The massive helium fusion reactors of the ships required enormous quantities of fuel and while any gas giant would do, gathering it was time consuming. But they had three extractor ships working on it full time as the few remaining corvettes watched in trepidation for the Dreen.
“The Caurorgorngoth?” Lurca asked hopefully.
“No, Fleet Master,” the communications officer said. “An alien race. They are sending over not only sound but also a translation program that they appear to have gotten from the Caurorgorngoth as well as a message from Ship Master Kond. Shall I pulse their words?”
“Show me the message from Kond, first.”
“Greetings, Fleet Master. If you are receiving this then our new acquaintances have been true to their word. We received damage to our unreality generator in the last battle and with their help have completed repairs and are preparing to enter unreality. These humans are friendly but primitive in their technology. The exception is their ship drive which they claim is an artifact that they found. Having pulsed their other technology, I believe them. Their ship is very fast and very quiet, though, so they have scouted our back-trail. One dreadnought, at least, remains. It will be to the unreality point in forty. With the help of the humans, we will be gone by then. We will meet you at the rendezvous in six hundred kleng. By then, if you’re sounding this, the humans will have arrived.
“This is the first potential ally we have found. It is to be hoped they can assist us but their ship is so unbelievably primitive I fear they will be of little use.”
“Where are they?” Lurca asked. “Why have we not detected them?”
“We have, now,” Fleet Strategy Master Matulain replied. “The Laegr picked up their transmission. But their signature is very low and they are stopped ten scrick away. I think they do not want us to fire upon them.”
“Let me see their transmission,” Lurca said.
“Greetings, Fleet Master Lurca. I am Ship Master Spectre of the Sharp Sword. We are humans, enemy of the Dreen. We have assisted Kond in repairs and now await his arrival as do you. We wish to open communication and friendly relations and to communicate about ways that we might battle our mutual enemy. We also have three survivors from the Klingoddar. We are aware that you have minimal supplies and cannot take on extra passengers. But we are in need of experts in technology and advanced battle to assist us in fighting the Dreen. We are wondering if you could wake up some experts and replace them with the passengers we have. We await your response.”
“It’s taking a while,” Spectre said, looking at the viewscreen. They hadn’t even gotten a “we got it” reply. The screen just showed a speckle of dots clustered by a Jovian. “What do you think they’re doing?”
“Refueling,” Weaver replied. “Pulling hydrogen or helium out of the atmosphere to refill their bunkers. And it’s a lot for him to assimilate all at once. They’ll get back to us.”
“The transmission included one of the Caurorgorngoth’s security codes,” the communications officer said.
“And if they have been taken over by the Dreen, the Dreen could own all their security codes,” Matulain pointed out. “This could be a ruse.”
“The Dreen used no ruses,” Lurca said. “They used naked power. We will take them at their word. We must discuss what we can do to aid them as well. Matulain, you will communicate with them on this. If they can help us shake the Dreen from our tail, that will help much.”
“I will wake Scientist Rimmild as well as Combat Master Dugilant,” Matulain replied.
“Wake Philosopher Baelak as well,” Lurca ordered. “She is a great thinker of the possibility of other races.” He looked at Matulain and pinged a note of humor. “And a great pacifist, yes?”
“I did not disagree, Fleet Master,” the strategy master replied. “I had long converse with her before she went into sleep. She was already adjusting some of her notions of other races.”
“Having whole worlds wiped out will do that,” Lurca said. “Communications Technician, open a channel to these humans. Let us talk of peace and war.”
The ship the Blade was parked by was, if anything, larger than the Dreen dreadnought. But it wasn’t a warship; it was a converted bulk freighter packed with Hexosehr in hibernation. Three of whom were headed for the Blade as their previous three passengers swarmed across to the freighter.
“So what are we getting?” Spectre asked.
“I’m still trying to parse it out, sir,” Commander Weaver replied. “But I think we’re getting three experts. A scientist that specializes in defense, one of their premier generals or an academic strategist, I’m not sure on that one, and their expert on dealing with alien races. I’d translate it as a Beltway Bandit, but a good one and I used to be one, a general or an admiral, and a diplomat. They’re also bringing communication devices so we can talk.”
“Can they handle our air?” the CO asked.
“No, but they’re bringing respirators.”
“Well, I want you and Miss Moon to meet them at the airlock,” the CO said. “Oh, hell, I guess I need to get down there, too. And get a platoon of Marines as honor guard.”
“Damn, they’re funny looking,” Himes subvocalized.
Up close, the Hexosehr were covered with purple fur and had, apparently, no eyes. Other than that they looked a bit like oversized otters with hands. They only came up to thigh-height on a human, but were long and sleek.
“Their ships are better than ours,” Berg replied. “They’ve got their own hyperdrive that they created, their computers are better than ours and they’ve been fighting the Dreen for a while. Treat them with respect.”
One of the Hexosehr broke off from the greetings, apparently not noticing the astonished expression on the CO’s face, and walked along the line of Marines. He stopped at the end and looked up at Lieutenant Monaghan.
“You are the boss man?” the Hexosehr asked. The communicator rendered the sound very high. Berg was reminded of the time the ship got filled with helium.
“I am the platoon leader of First Platoon, Bravo Company,” Lieutenant Monaghan said. “The Marine commander is among the greeting party you just left. As is the commander of the ship.”
“These are squee or ground fighters?” the Hexosehr asked.
“Ground fighters,” Lieutenant Monaghan replied.
“They are experienced in fighting the Dreen?”
“We have two people with experience fighting the Dreen,” the platoon leader said, looking over at the greeting party helplessly. “We have others experienced in fighting other species. We also still fight among ourselves. Most of these, however, are not veterans.”
“Show me veteran,” the Hexosehr ordered.
“Sergeant Berg, Front and Center!”
Berg stepped out of rank, did a precise right face and marched down to face the Hexosehr.
“Sergeant Eric Bergstresser, reporting as ordered,” he snapped, rendering a hand salute.
“What is thing to head?” the Hexosehr asked.
“It is a salute,” Lieutenant Monaghan explained. “It is rendered to a superior officer.”
“How to tell him to stop?”
“Either I order it or you return it,” the lieutenant said. “Are you a fighter. A soldier?”
“I am boss of soldiers,” the Hexosehr replied, rendering Berg something like a salute. “You are veteran?”
“I am, sir,” Berg replied, dropping his salute sharply.