A gentle vibration quivered through the superdread-nougnt Alois Saint-Just as Engineering ran her final drive test, and her captain watched his read-outs with profound satisfaction. There was honor in commanding even the smallest unit of Task Force One, but to command the flagship -!
He turned his eyes to the tactical display. Only Saint-Just's squadron mates Helen Borkman and Wu Hsin lay close alongside, but the dots of other ships dusted the three-dimensional sphere with a thick coating of data codes, and the nav beacons marking the warp point pulsed amid the minefields and asteroid fortresses. A thrill of pride ran through him, and he forced himself to settle back, watching the chronometer tick off the last few hours.
"Captain to the bridge. Captain to the bridge."
The computer recording was both calm and unhurried; the wail of alarms was neither, and Least Claw Khardan-ish erupted from his quarters, still sealing his vac suit. A luckless maintenance rating bounced off a bulkhead as his captain ran right over him and bounded into the central access shaft, cursing softly but with feeling. He loved Znamae, old as she was, but her accommodations had been designed by eight-thumbed zarkotga. Destroyers had no mass to waste on intraship cars, and his quarters were the full length of the hull from her bridge. It was bad enough to take so long to reach his station, but the unseemly haste it forced upon him could not be reassuring to his crew.
He slowed abruptly as he spied the bridge hatch. By the time he reached it, he was moving with a warriors measured, purposeful stride.
Son of the Khan Yahaarnow'ziltakan, Znamae's exec, looked up with obvious relief as Khardanish dropped into his command chair and racked his helmet. He was, he noted sourly, the last to arrive. Even Johansen, whose cabin was almost as inconveniently placed as his, had beaten him this time.
"Report!" he said crisply.
"Unknown drive fields, sir." Observer First Hinarou' frikish-ahn's experience showed in her precisely enunciated report. "Bearing oh-seven-two level by on-three-three vertical. Range approximately three-point-two light-minutes. Estimated base course two-four-nine by oh-oh-three. Data are still rough, sir, but data base does not recognize them."
"Are you certain of that bearing, Observer?" Khardan-ish demanded.
"Positive, sir."
The least claw darted a quick look at Yahaarnow and Lieutenant Johansen and saw his own surprise on both faces.
"Astrogation, back-plot Observation's estimated base course."
"Aye, sir. Computing now." There was a moment of silence, and when the astrogator spoke again he sounded startled. "Sir, assuming Observation's course and bearing are correct, it looks like they came from warp point six!
Khardanish's tufted ears flicked in quick acknowledgment, but he was deeply puzzled. Point six was the warp point Lorelei's Human discoverers had named Charon'sFerry, and if no survey ship had ever gone into it and lived, how in Valkha's name could anything come out of it?
"Unknowns are now at two-point-nine-five light-minutes, sir. Coming up in the outer zone of your tactical display - now."
Khardanish glanced into his holo tank. Human designers preferred a more compact, flat-screen display, but Orion eyes had problems with such systems. Now he watched drifting lights blink alive, glowing the steady yellow of unidentified vessels. They blinked again, ana suddenly each bore a small light code denoting its estimated tonnage.
There were twelve of them, he noted digging his extended claws into the padded armrests of his command chair. Most were no larger than his own destroyers, but the largest was a heavy cruiser.
"Come to Status One," he ordered. "Prep and download courier drones." He waited for the acknowledgments, then made himself lean back. "All right, Communications - standard Alliance challenge."
"Aye, sir."
The range was still two and a half light-minutes - thirty minutes' travel for Znamae under full drive - and the five-minute wait seemed eternal.
"They are responding, sir. I do not recognize - wait! Coming up from data base now." The com officer paused, then continued flatly, "Captain, they appear to be using pre-Alliance Terran communication protocols."
Khardanish looked up sharply. Pre-Alliance? That would make them at least fifty Terran years out of date!
"Com Central confirms, sir. Their protocols match those used by the Terran Federation Navy at the time of the First War of Shame."
"Lieutenant?" Khardanish looked at his liaison officer, and Johansen raised her palms in the Human gesture of helpless ignorance. Which, he thought sourly, was a great deal of help just now.
"Can you unscramble, Communications?"
"Affirmative, sir. We have no visual, but audio is coming up now."
The com link was none too clear, and there was a hiss of static under the voice, but the distorted words were recognizable.
"Unknown vessels, this is the Terran cruiser Kepler. Identify yourselves."
"Khhepaahlaar?" Khardanish's tongue twisted on the word and he frowned at Johansen. `1 do not recognize the name, Lieutenant. Do you?"
"No, sir." She punched keys at her console, calling up the TFN navy list. "No ship of that name is listed in my files, either, sir."
"I see." Khardanish combed his whiskers for a moment. There might, of course, be one explanation, for one could never be certain one had located all the warp points in any system. "Closed" warp points were unde-tectable; they could be located only by passing through from a normal warp point at the far end. It was possible a Federation survey flotilla had done just that - that they were coming not from Charon's Ferry but from a newfound closed point on the same approximate bearing. But that would not explain unknown drive frequencies or archaic communication codes. Or why this Kepler was not in Johansen's data base.
He pondered a moment longer, but there was only one way to find out.
"Identify us and ask if we can render any assistance, Communications."
"Aye, sir."
"Maneuvering, slow to thirty percent." There was no point closing too rapidly. The range was less than two light-minutes now, and his old destroyers were slow; if he should have to run he wanted all the start he could get. There was another frustrating wait as the signals crossed, and then -
"You are in Terran space, Znamael" the voice from the speaker snapped, and Khardanish growled under his breath. This was becoming ridiculous!
"Sir!" Observer First Hinarou's voice was sharper. "Additional drive sources detected. Two new formations. Designate them Groups Two and Three. Group Two bears one-six-four by oh-three-three, range three-point-two light-minutes; Group Three bears oh-two-eignt by oh-three-two, range three-point-one light-minutes. Both are on converging interception courses!"
Khardanish's eyes slitted. That sort of spread suggested only one thing: an attack formation. The first group must have been an advanced screen, and the others had spread out behind their scouts, maneuvering beyond scanner range to position themselves to run down his squadron whatever ne did.
But why? If they were truly Terrans, they were allies, and if they were not Terrans, now could they have known to use Terran com protocols - even ones so sadly out of date? It made no sense! Unless.
No one had ever come back from Charon's Ferry, but JO Fleet records suggested that at least some of the Terran colony fleet annihilated here had fled down it in a desperate bid to escape. Was it possible they had survived?
It seemed fantastic, but it might be an explanation. After all, more than ninety Terran years had passed since then. Survivors might have managed to cling to their technology. But how could colony snips survive what survey ships could not? And how could they have produced sufficient population to build this many ships? And why wait this long to return? If -
"We have tentative classifications on Group Two, sir," Hinarou said tensely. "Coming up on your display."
Khardanish looked back down and tightened internally. At least seven of those ships were capital units; three were superdreadnoughts.
"Maneuvering, come about one-eight-oh degrees. Maximum power." Znamae swerved in a course change so radical it could be felt even through the drive field7 and Khardanish turned to Johansen. "Observations, Lieutenant?"
"Sir, they may claim to be Terran, but they don't match anything in my records. I don't know what they are."
"Could they be survivors of the colony fleet of 2206?"