15

T'Ral looked at the time. Smiling evilly, he punched into the commnet. "Commander K'Raoda," he called softly. "Wake up. We have company."

Five decks below, K'Raoda mumbled, turned over on his stomach and pulled the pillow over his head.

"Computer," said T'Ral, keying the complink, "where is the alert klaxon nearest Commander K'Raoda's quarters?"

"In corridor seven blue one-five, directly above his door," said the machine.

"Klaxon designation?"

"Seven blue one-five-six-zero."

"Mr. N'Trol," said T'Ral, turning toward the bridge engineering station, "please test battle klaxon seven blue one-five-six-zero. Three long bursts."

The first awoooka\ brought K'Raoda out of bed. The second found him ripping his Mil A from a drawer. He was at the commpanel when the third ended, calling T'Ral.

"Disregard battle klaxon." T'Ral's voice carried the length of seven deck. "Disregard battle klaxon."

"V'org slime," hissed T'Ral's communicator. "Pig shit," it added in English.

"Better get up here, T'Lei," said T'Ral. "Scans picking up three ships just clearing jump. No ID yet, but probably our reinforcements. That gives us about one watch to prepare for visitors."

"On my way," said K'Raoda, reaching for his uniform.

"Two things," said T'Ral, relinquishing the captain's chair to K'Raoda, a few minutes later. "The skipcomm buoy's no longer putting out a mark. And Ambassador Z'Sha wants to be part of the reception for the new units."

"Skipcomm's out?" K'Raoda frowned.

"Just after those three ships arrived."

A ship could jump from any point. But the closer she jumped to strong gravitational fields—planets, stars, large moons—the greater the degree of error in the jump. All jump drives were therefore calibrated for jump at null point: that point far enough from a system's nearest large body for minimum jump error, but within reasonable distance from point of origin at sublight speeds. "Null point" was a telltale reading, not the total absence of either gravitational fields or jump error.

Employing the same principles as the jump drive, the skipcomm provided almost instant communication with any other system having a skipcomm, jumping or skipping a message to the designated receiver, treating all intervening space as a porous, two-dimensional surface. Deploying a skipcomm at null point upon entering a new system was standard procedure—Implacable had done it when first arriving in the Terran system, over a year before. The original skipcomm had been blasted by the S'Cotar, as had its replacement. The skipcomm in question was the third, and had operated flawlessly for over eight months.

"Computer," said K'Raoda, "incidence of failure of skipcomm buoys, current model."

"One one thousandth of a percent," said the machine, speaking from the chair arm.

"Amazing coincidence," said T'Ral.

"Have we challenged?" asked K'Raoda, looking at the analysis T'Ral had run on the new ships' ion trails: the usual conical spiral rotated on the small screen.

"No. You saw from the ion patterns—they're ours."

"K'Lana," said K'Raoda to comm officer, "ship-to-ship, fleet priority channel."

"All yours, Commander."

K'Raoda spoke into the commlink. "This is K'Ronarin Confederation cruiser Implacable to unknown ships. Identify, please."

K'Raoda grimaced at the high-pitched blast from the armchair. "K'Lana, what. ..."

The noise ended as the young subcommander did something at his console. "Sorry. He's using old code." The comm officer looked at a telltale. "Very old—wartime code."

"Have him repeat in clear, using one-time battlecode."

"Why is he using old code, Y'Tan?" K'Raoda asked T'Ral.

"He may have been sent here direct from deep patrol, without putting into base. FleetOps has done that before."

"You'd think they'd have couriered him new code."

"There's a tendency to get sloppy with the war over."

"Ship IDs received, in clear," said K'Lana. "The S'Raq-class light cruiser New Hope, the escort frigates G'Lar Seven and P'Dir Four."

T'Ral gripped the back of K'Raoda's chair, knuckles whitening. "Repeat first ship."

"The S'Raq-class light cruiser New Hope, Commander."

"Wasn't that ..." said K'Raoda.

T'Ral nodded curtly. "My brother's ship," he said. "Captain P'Rin T'Ral, lost at the battle of D'Lan."

"Computer," said K'Raoda, "last known disposition of the escort frigates G'Lar Seven and P'Dir Four."

"Assigned eight squadron, Second Fleet. Lost, presumed destroyed at the battle of D'Lan."

"Three possibilities," said K'Raoda, fingers gently drumming the chair arm. "One, it's a S'Cotar ruse. Two, those three ships are who they say they are and did what other ships did, cut off by the S'Cotar advance—hit and ran through the S'Cotar sectors. And three"—he looked his friend in the eye—"they went bad."

"You dishonor my brother's memory," said T'Ral stiffly. "P'Rin would never turn corsair."

"Y'Tan," said K'Raoda gently, laying a hand on the other's arm. "He's probably dead. Others may have. ..."

"Incoming task force commander calling," said K'Lana.

"I'll take it," said K'Raoda. "What's his name?"

"Captain T'Ral," he said, glancing at the Tactics Officer.

"Don't raise your hopes," said K'Raoda as T'Ral's face lit with joy. "Stay out of the pickup, monitor from your console and say nothing. Do you understand?"

"But. . . ."

"Do you understand, Commander?"

"Yes, sir," said T'Ral, expressionless. Turning, he went to his console.

Save a ship, lose a friend, thought K'Raoda. If this is command, they can keep it. Pressing a key, he took the feed from communications. "Commander K'Raoda here."

The man on the console screen bore no resemblance to T'Ral. He was older, square-jawed, with high cheekbones and receding hairline. K'Raoda noted the silver starship of a captain on his collar and the double hash marks of the Second Border Fleet above the right pocket of his tunic.

"Captain T'Ral, Task Force Eight-Three," said the officer. "Commodore D'Trelna, please."

"The commodore is indisposed, sir."

The captain frowned. "Captain L'Wrona, then."

"He's offship, sir. I command here."

"Very well, Commander K'Raoda. What is your command's status?"

"I will not tell you that, sir," said K'Raoda evenly, "until you authenticate."

The pickup was small but perfectly detailed. K'Raoda could see Captain T'Ral's face cloud with anger. "I am senior here, Commander. Report status."

"Sir, your, codes are pathetically obsolete and your ships listed as missing in action."

"Check with FleetOps, Commander. You'll find we were sent here directly from U'Tria quadrant. We've been operating behind enemy lines since the S'Cotar wiped Second Fleet."

"Our skipcomm buoy is not operational, sir. You are closer to null point than we. Have you one you could deploy?"

"No. Sorry. Cannibalized ours years ago."

"Then, sir, I must ask you to remain outside the orbit of the fourth planet until I can deploy a new buoy at null point. We'll have that done in no more than two watches."

The captain shook his head. "No. My orders say I'm to assume orbit around the third planet 'with dispatch.' And I will do so. With dispatch."

"Sir, if you proceed insystem without my permission, I will consider you hostile and will open fire under the authority of Fleet Regulation seven-five-one, 'Authentication of Incoming Vessels.' "

The captain jabbed a finger at the pickup. "You fire a bolt at one of my ships, Commander, and your ass is mine. We're coming in." The scan swirled into a kaleidoscope of color, then went blank.

"Tell me that wasn't your brother," said K'Raoda, turning to T'Ral as the latter walked over from the tactics station.

"That wasn't my brother," said T'Ral with a ghost of a smile. "Sorry, T'Lei."

"For what?"

"For being such a child." K'Raoda waved a hand. "It's not important. "Who the hell was that, using your brother's name and rank?"

"His first officer, Commander K'Tran. P'Rin was about to bring K'Tran and the third officer up on charges of commercial misconduct when the war broke out."

"What were they doing, smuggling?"

T'Ral nodded. "Running heavy drugs through their patrol quadrant—orgjags, sensedeps."

"Nice." Orgjags put the user on an orgasmic high, the brain's pleasure center—creating sensations just as powerful as direct current, but with greater variety. Sensedeps deprived the user of all sensory input: sound, sight, touch, smell. About eighty percent of the drugs' users became addicts. Orgjag addicts invariably died of exhaustion and starvation. Sensedep addicts just as invariably became hopelessly catatonic.

"With the usual prewar scum crewing those ships, it was no problem for K'Tran to kill your brother and go corsair.''

"What are we going to do, T'Lei?" asked K'Raoda. "First, we're going to make absolutely sure those ships are corsair. Somehow." He stared at the main screen. The Moon was just rising above Earth.

"Pocsym," said K'Raoda.

"Pocsym? He's dead."

"But his observation satellites aren't," said K'Raoda, turning to his friend. "This system's littered with Pocsym's scan-shielded observation satellites!"

He keyed the complink. "Computer. Have we the grid interlock protocols for the satellite observation system deployed by Pocsym Six?"

"We have," said computer.

"Is there such a satellite near this system's null point?"

"There is."

"Interlock with that satellite and give us visual scan of the last known position of our skipcomm buoy."

"Implementing."

It came up on the mainscreen in a moment, the image growing larger as the satellite moved closer.

"Interesting," said K'Raoda, stepping down from the command tier to walk with T'Ral to the base of the screen. Together they stared up at finely detailed image. Twisted, scorched chunks of metal were drifting slowly apart, moving out to all points of the galactic compass.

"Consistent with a Mark 88 hit, wouldn't you say, Y'Tan?" The Mark 88 was Fleet's principal ship-to-ship energy weapon.

"Yes."

"Computer, from drift pattern of onscreen fragments, calculate approximate time of skipcomm buoy destruction. Postulate instrument of destruction to have been a Mark 88 fusion beam at standard setting."

"Time of destruction approximately two-point-four-one t'lars ago," said the machine.

"Computer," said K'Raoda. "How long ago did incoming task force arrive at null point?"

"Two-point-four t'lars ago."

They returned in silence to the command tier, K'Raoda carefully avoiding T'Ral's face.

"K'Lana," said K'Raoda, resuming the captain's chair, "quarantine is abolished. Send recall, priority one. Get as many crew back up from Terra as you can by watchend. Then get me the ambassador.''

"The ambassador is calling in now, sir."

"Ambassador," said K'Raoda as comm screen came to life. "I was just about to call you, sir."

"Subcommander K'Raoda," said the ambassador. "Why did you not return my call?" Born of the old aristocracy, over forty years a diplomat, Z'Sha was a grandmaster of implied slight and cutting innuendo. K'Raoda had tolerated the old patrician's disdain in the past—he had no time for it now.

"Sir, I am a commander, not a subcommander."

Z'Sha waved a negligent hand. "Whatever. I always confuse military ranks.

"I wish to be part of the reception for the incoming reinforcements, Commander. With the commodore indisposed, I suppose I should address you on the subject. How many people can you comfortably entertain, if helped with food and refreshments?"

"Ambassador," said K'Raoda, "three corsairs have just passed null point. I doubt you want to be part of the reception we're planning."

Z'Sha's eyes narrowed at the word "corsairs."

"How . . . ?"

"They'll be here in eight Terran hours. As you can imagine, I'm very busy." He touched the commkey.

"Wait!" The ambassador's voice rang with steel. Startled, K'Raoda stopped.

"Yes?"

"Can you stop them? Honestly."

"Not with fusion fire, sir. No."

"D'Trelna would stop them, Commander."

"I am not D'Trelna, Ambassador."

"Terra has no defenses against our weapons, K'Raoda. Those murderers will butcher millions, loot the planet. Our expedition to Terra Two will be lost. The S'Cotar and their allies will come through that portal, take what's left of this world and push on into the galaxy."

"I know."

"You've advised Fleet?"

"They blasted the skipcomm buoy the instant they came in."

"I must alert the Terrans. Keep me advised." Z'Sha disconnected.

K'Raoda stroked the soft leather of the chair arm with his right palm, staring at the view screen, eyes distant. The bridge was quiet, a few officers speaking softly, the occasional chirp of instruments. Hard to believe it would soon be part of a blasted, corpse-filled hulk.

"Y'Tan," said K'Raoda after a time. "There's a way to take them. But we'll need Z'Sha's help. And luck. Lots of it."