SIX

There was silence on the flagship's bridge, and then a muttered obscenity from the admiral.

When none of the other officers came up with anything to add to that comment, Gregor offered: "Well. I suppose we might have done the same, to anything it sent toward us."

Radigast was still staring at the stage. "Bah. We'd have responded reasonably when hailed, not let things get to this stage. I'd say our motherless visitor displays a definitely unneighborly attitude."

The captain was persistent. "A Huvean attitude, sir?"

The admiral only grunted.

Gregor was thinking: The world has changed, and unexpectedly, the way it always does. Probably he had just witnessed the beginning of a war, though it was not the war that anyone had foreseen, and it had started in a totally unpredictable way.

Around him, on the bridge and elsewhere, a full complement of people in comfortable couches, aided by some vastly greater number of machines, were continually taking readings, studying every scratch and dimple on the visitor's surface, trying to plot every meter of its predicted course.

Another crew member, one that Gregor had not met, was talking to the admiral. "Sir, we can't identify anything about the spectrum of that weapon flash, can't pin it down as resulting from any armament from any known world. In particular, I certainly can't see this, this thing, as the product of any Huvean shipyard. Of course we haven't had a good look at its capabilities yet."

"Well, keep trying. That goes for everyone, people. We have to nail this thing down, what it is, especially as it might connect to Huvea, what it can do. Guessing is not an option."

"Yes sir, I realize that, we all do. Admiral, our people have been in practically continuous contact with Huvea for many years, ever since both sets of colonies were founded. We know them, their society, their capabilities. I'll take my oath, they have never built a ship or a machine like that."

Gregor was keeping silent, letting the military experts talk. Identifying strange ships in space was part of their business, not of his. But in his private thoughts he kept coming back to the point that if this was some Earth-descended artifact, it was way beyond the innovative possibilities of Huvean strategy. Who else was ready to attack Twin Worlds?

Knowing that was part of his business, as a diplomat. And the answer was: no one.

Radigast was moving in the same direction, following his own lights. "If it's not Huvean, and not some crazy bloody tactical trick some motherless ED psycho on some other world has thought up, the only answer left is that it's non-ED. It's truly alien."

An officer of lesser rank, who until now had been keeping quiet, spoke up. "Carmpan?"

There was a silence, as if no one on the bridge thought the suggestion really deserved a comment. As far as anyone on this ship knew, no one in the Galaxy but Earth-descended humans and their remote Carmpan cousins ever built spacecraft of any kind.

But nobody observing this odd intruder could really believe it was a Carmpan construction. That passive and introspective race built spaceships only on rare occasions, when they deemed it absolutely necessary, and their vessels were always on the modest side. Never anything like this.

The extensive data bank on board the admiral's flagship was ready to be decisive when asked to find a match for the discovery:

ALIEN, OF UNKNOWN ORIGIN.

Gregor, and several others aboard the Morholt who were well traveled among the stars, agreed with the staff experts that no world colonized from old Earth had ever constructed a thing like this; no one on the flagship had even seen the like. And it was hard to believe that any of the planets colonized from Earth, all of them in frequent contact with one another, had somehow managed the feat in secrecy.

Meanwhile, the object of their curiosity was suddenly accelerating. Remaining in normal space, piling on the gravities swiftly for an object of such bulk, holding steadily to its course that carried it smoothly in the direction of the sun and inner planets. It seemed that whoever or whatever was in control of the visitor felt no uncertainty at all in choosing a destination. Morholt's own astrogational computers, looking at that course, reported it was fine-tuned to a point of intersection with the planet Prairie in its orbit.

Presently Gregor decided to visit his assigned cabin, the plumbing there was notably less spartan and more private than that offered by an acceleration couch in a crowded room. Besides, he wanted a brief rest.

His assigned quarters turned out to be small but elegant. Luon must have been listening for his arrival, for she promptly put her head in through the door to the adjoining room and began to prod him: "Sir? What's going to happen to the hostages?"

For just a moment Gregor, his mind filled with new developments, had no idea what she was talking about, then memory rushed back. He made an impatient gesture. "I don't see that their situation is changed at all. If this peculiar, thing, is not Huvean, then it should not affect their status one way or the other."

"And it's not Huvean. It can't be!" Luon was emphatic.

Struck by her vehemence, the old man looked at her more closely. "That's how the admiral's coming to see it, and I agree. So do most of his advisers." He paused. "I take it your certainty is not born of some special insight into the matter?"

The girl ignored the question. She appeared relieved, but not entirely. "But it's really up to the people down on Timber, isn't it? The president, the high military command? If they become convinced that this is some Huvean weapon?"

True enough, if the president is even paying attention to any of this. If he and his robot counselor are not off in some world of their own. "Luon, all we can do is tell our people on the ground what's happening up here. Now I'm going to rest for a few minutes, and I suggest you do the same."

Half an hour later, having grabbed a few minutes' rest, Gregor returned to the bridge. Before leaving his cabin, he advised Luon that she had better stay in hers for the time being.

As soon as he came in sight of the central holostage again, he saw that the admiral had got his whole fleet in motion, though not all of it was following the stranger. If the bulky mystery was not a Huvean super dreadnought, it might be a special creation intended simply as a distraction.

When Gregor returned to the bridge, the admiral looked up blankly at him for a moment, as if wondering how this intrusive civilian had got in here. Meanwhile, Captain Charles was saying: "I don't like the look of this."

Radigast snorted. "You're developing bloody understatement into an art form, Charlie."

The couch Gregor had previously occupied was still available, as if it might have been reserved for him, and he got into it. When the admiral looked at him, Gregor said: "I'd say every human in the system will be getting nervous, and I would imagine the people on Prairie especially so. I presume that by now they've had some word of what's been going on. And that a full alert has already been called, at least on Prairie, perhaps on Timber."

"I'm presuming it too, because I just don't know. They're all getting the same information we are, as fast as we can send it, so that's their motherless problem. Our problems are out here." Radigast paused. "Except we also have one big difficulty down there on the ground." He abruptly lowered his voice, so that it seemed only Gregor could hear him. "Just where in bloody hell's the president?"

A young spacer was standing in front of him, saluting, holding a message capsule. "Incoming message, sir. From Timber."

The admiral brightened slightly. "Looks like this might be something. Right on cue."

It turned out to be from presidential headquarters on Timber, a direct and very simple order:

STOP IT.

(signed) belgola

Radigast seemed relieved. He chortled. "There's a sign, my colleagues, dear motherless friends. Not a great strategic insight, true, but it may be our glorious leader's waking up at last."

The bulk of the Twin Worlds fleet, deployed in space long days ago in the expectation of a move by the Huvean fleet, now moved to intercept the intruder.

"No, I'm not calling in my whole force, by any means." Radigast was all professional calm. "Can't afford to leave the far side of the system empty. Homasubi just might decide to come at us from that direction."

Against the possibility that this bizarre display was only a diversion, Radigast left a substantial force on station on the opposite side of the solar system, a billion or two kilometers from the current action, some of his suspicious military planners were still expecting the real attack to come from that direction.

Showing respect for the stranger's impressive size and unknown capabilities, and keeping in mind the itchy trigger finger it had already demonstrated, the admiral ordered an approach to be made, in force and in accordance with historic military theory.

His general order set out rules of engagement. "Deal with anything you get incoming. Otherwise, no one, repeat, no one in our fleet is to fire the first shot."

The small fast craft were spreading into a broad formation, ready to close with the unknown intruder as soon as their heavier support had come up: cruisers and intermediate, specialized vessels, then the battleships.

Minute after minute, the thing maintained its deliberate course, ignoring what it must be able to see of the deployment it faced. It also continued to ignore a steady barrage of human messages coming at it over all communication channels. That an object of its size might actually intend to land on Prairie was preposterous, of course; but in a couple of standard hours it would be in a position to do soor, more rationally, to go into a low orbit around the planet.

What its actual intent might be was as great a mystery as ever, except that it was still on the same heading, methodically taking the most mathematically efficient curve to get to Prairie.

The fleet was really moving now, demonstrating some of the speed of which it was capable in normal space. The flagship and several other craft of comparable size were adjusting their positions incrementally, so they remained directly in the advancing behemoth's path.

Ignoring peaceful requests in twelve of the most common Earth-descended languages, followed by demands and verbal warnings, the invader responded only when a warning missile was detonated in its path. The response was a missile of its own, full normal space drive, nothing so crude as rocketry. And nothing so indirect as a warning shot, but fired directly at the ship that had launched the final warning. There was no doubt it was intended as a direct attack, burned out of space at the last moment by a defensive counter from the Twin Worlds ship.

Gregor had a feeling of inward hollowness, of unreality. And so it seems we are at war, just like that. But at war with whom?

The flagship was perhaps ten light minutes from the battle when the serious shooting started. Precisely who had fired next, after that first exchange, was more than the diplomat could have said. Radigast now had the Morholt darting closer at the highest subluminal velocity her captain would allow, accepting some element of danger from microcollisions in normal space.

Gregor, hurriedly revisiting his cabin to find and put on the spacesuit that was now required, found Luon looking overwhelmed. Her expression might have been appropriate if they had been ordered to abandon ship. Warning messages on intercom had reached this room and all the others. Raising her haunted eyes to her grandfather as he entered, she said quietly: "The war has started." It was not a question.

Gregor was brisk but calm. "I'd like to be able to contradict you, but I can't. Where's your spacesuit, girl? Come on, there'll be at least one stowed in your cabin somewhere. One size fits all. Find a suit and put it on."

Even as he spoke, he was moving to his room's closet and getting out the suit he had already noted there. Dragging the bulky sections with him, he sank down wearily on his comfortable berth, thinking how the smooth artificial gravity worked to make the whole business feel deceptively normal. Normal, and unreal at the same time.

Luon was still sitting where she had been, looking at him as if she expected to be told that everything was going to be fine.

Gregor said: "You're right. Fighting has broken out, though it doesn't seem to be the war we were all expecting. But cheer up! We haven't lost yet. And we're not going to lose, unless a lot of enemy reinforcements suddenly show up. Now, do you mean to ask me again about the hostages?"

Her eyes accused him. "Of course, that's what I want to know about. What's happened to them?"

"Nothing at all that I know of." Once he got started putting on the suit, the proper method came back to him. "My dear, the Citadel must have gone on full alert. So, they are sitting inside the double or triple walls of a state-of-the-art shelter, dug down into the bedrock of what may well be the most strongly defended planet in the Galaxy. And this intruder, whatever it is, is not even moving toward Timber." Gregor paused. "I get the impression that you have some special interest in them."

Her voice was suddenly so soft that it was hard to hear. There was water in her eyes, threatening to overflow. "In one of them I do."

"Aha. How is that possible?" But even as Gregor spoke, he thought he knew. He ought to have realized it sooner, but his mind had been on other matters.

She had just opened her mouth, as if to continue with her revelation, when an abrupt twitch shook the hull and the cabin walls around them, like the first half-second of a severe earthquake. Then everything was steady once more. Luon jumped up, startled. "What was that?"

"That was only routine. But it means we're starting to move more quickly." Gregor could easily identify the slight shifting sensation as the dreadnought's artificial gravity went into high gear, maintaining stasis, milliseconds before the first burst of combat acceleration grabbed hold. The system worked, it virtually always did, or there would be few live travelers in space. Even in the midst of intense maneuvers, human bodies rode the ship in armchair comfort, instead of being mangled by g-forces. Should the AG cushion fail entirely, no padded couch would have been of the slightest use against the acceleration that a battleship's drive could pull. It was the occasional partial stutters, often measured only in microseconds, that the couches were meant to guard against.

She had got as far as the doorway between rooms, where she paused momentarily, looking back over her shoulder, holding on to the frame. "What's going to happen, Gramp?"

Gregor was suited though not yet helmeted, sitting relaxed, which took some conscious effort. He kept his voice calm and reasonable. "We'll be all right. I'll tell you about it. But while we talk, get your spacesuit out, it's probably in the back of your closet. Then put it on, over your regular clothes, it's pretty much self-explanatory."

When his granddaughter began to move again, he went on. "You ask what's going to happen. I expect that in another few minutes, maybe half an hour, the admiral and his fleet are going to kill that thing, whatever it is, turn it into a cloud of vapor. That's the consensus among the experts, and they generally know what they're doing. Then we'll try to find some little pieces of it still intact, and analyze them in an effort to figure out where it came from. Now get into that spacesuit."

Luon had the suit, and was carrying it back to the doorway between rooms, while it murmured recorded instructions at her. She said: "But it's so big."

He didn't think she meant the suit. "It is. But we have a whole battle fleet deployed against it. Our ships may be comparatively small, but I assure you they are very powerful. I've been aboard during some of the maneuvers." Glancing through the open door between rooms, Gregor observed with approval that already his granddaughter had almost completely wrestled herself into the spacesuit. Suiting up was, he thought, almost certainly an unnecessary precaution, but aboard ship you obeyed orders. Gregor caught her looking extremely solemn for once, and gave the girl what he hoped was a reassuring nod.

The admiral had not ordered him to stay away from the bridge, so of course he was soon making his way back. Reaching the command center, fully and properly suited and helmeted, he found the couch he had used still waiting for him.

Settling in, he soon observed that, as was the norm in simulators and live ship maneuvers, such verbal exchanges as took place between crew members were lagging notably behind the action. The real command and control decisions were being made in helmets and consoles, organic brains and optelectronic, at a speed that left mere speech a long way behind.

Since they were approaching the scene of fighting at high speed, the tempo of the action that people on board observed was notably compressed.

Gregor soon discovered that without interfering with business he could talk on intercom to Luon in her cabin. He tried to keep on being reassuring. "We may not want to destroy it utterly. The more that's left of it, the easier it should be to find out where, and who"

The interruption felt and sounded like some god of superb strength, swinging a house-sized sledgehammer against the Morholt's outer hull. It was as if the enemy had waited until the battleship got in nice and close before it really opened up.

Nearby, Radigast seemed for a moment completely paralyzed. Then he burst out on helmet intercom: "Great motherless gods of the Galaxy. What was that?"

In the background, some defensive systems officer was intoning, like a litany: "Shields up. Shields up!"

"Trying to get them back up, sir. The generators've overloaded"

Slam, and slam again

The images on the central holostage were dancing, scrambled

Slam and crunch

When the heavy ships began to fire at the intruder it had replied at once, with devastating effect and shocking power, Gregor was drifting, half dazed, he had the impression that the giant who swung the hammer had dropped the weapon and made a fist, and was rhythmically squeezing his acceleration couch, trying to knead the padding and its contents, his body, into a paste

For a moment Gregor had totally blacked out. But for a moment only.

The dreadnought rocked under yet another impact, after the hits that had already flattened its full shields almost to nothingness. This one hit metal, and Gregor thought that he was dead. Alarms were chanting, shrilling, bellowing. The gravity stuttered, horribly, setting up a bad vibration, and for a long moment all the lights went out. All except for the glowing holostage, where symbols jittered in a manic dance. In the darkness a deep male voice was calling out on intercom, hoarse sounds already gone over the edge and into panic.

Alarms had settled into an endless chorus. Light flared intensely, died away. The gravity twitched with real violence, barely fending off a killing shock, and something that flew past Gregor in the darkness spattered drops across the faceplate of his helmet. When the emergency lights came on, a moment later, he could see that it was blood