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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 sca
But why? If they were truly Terrans, they were allies, and if they were not Terrans, how could they have known to use Terran com protocols—even ones so sadly out of date?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 Fleet records suggested that at least some of the Terran colony fleet a
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 ships 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 field, 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?"
Johansen blinked, then frowned. "I suppose it's possible, sir, but if they are, where have they been all this time?"
"I do not know, but if that is the case, they ca
"Sir," Observer Hinarou broke in, "we are picking up additional sensor emissions. Battle Comp estimates they are targeting systems."
"Acknowledged, Observation."
Their pursuers were far outside weapon range, but that would change. The capital ships were gaining only slowly as they cut the angle on the squadron's course, but their escorts were twenty percent faster than his ships. They would reach missile range in little over two hours, and the first group was far closer. They would have the range in less than eighty minutes, and it was thirty hours to the nearest warp point.
Khardanish beckoned, and Johansen crossed to his side. He leaned close to her, speaking softly.
"Either those ships truly are Terran, however and wherever they have come from, or they are not. In either case, we ca
"I understand, sir," the lieutenant said when he paused.
"But perhaps we can avoid that eventuality. So far we have used only our own com techs, and they are Zheeerlikou'valkha
"I'll try, sir."
"I know you will, Saahmaantha." He waved her back to her console, then turned to his com officer. "Patch the lieutenant into your link."
"At once, sir." The communications officer touched a key, then flicked his ears to Johansen, and she drew a deep breath.
"Kepler," she said slowly and distinctly, "this is Lieutenant Samantha Johansen, Terran Federation Navy, aboard the Orion destroyer Znamae. You are not in Terran space. This system was ceded to the Khanate under the Treaty of Tycho. The Federation is not—I repeat, not—at war with the Khanate. We are allies. I say again, the Terran Federation and the Khanate of Orion are allies. Please acknowledge my transmission."
Lieutenant Johansen's words winged across space to the cruiser Kepler, and a stu
"What did she say?!" The admiral commanding Task Force One stared at his flag captain in disbelief.
"That the Federation and the Orions are allies," the captain repeated shakenly.
"Holy Terra!" the admiral murmured. "It's worse than we feared possible!"
The captain nodded silently, trying to grapple with the blasphemous possibility, then shook himself.
"Shall we reply, sir?"
"Wait," his admiral commanded, rubbing his prominent nose as he thought. He was silent for several seconds, then looked back up with cold eyes. "Instruct Kepler to reply, Captain. Emphasize that we've been out of contact for many years. Tell this Lieutenant Johansen"—the name was an epithet in his mouth—"we must investigate her claims. Request, politely, that the Orion ships halt and permit the screen to close with them."
"Aye, sir." The captain's voice was flat with disapproval, and his admiral's eyes flickered with cold amusement.
"If the infidel agrees, we'll halt the remainder of the task force while the screen closes, and then..."
The long delay between Johansen's transmission and the response was agonizing, but it finally came, and all eyes on Znamae's bridge turned unobtrusively to the least claw.
"Comments, Saahmaantha?" he asked quietly.
"I don't like it, Captain," she said flatly. "They don't feel right, but they've got the speed to catch us if we run."
"I share the lieutenant's suspicion, sir, and I must point out that if they close to such a short range, their weapons would—"
"I know, Yahaarnow," Khardanish said, "but we have small choice, and the Alliance serves both our Khan and the Federation well. If we risk our lives to preserve it, we do no more than our duty." He held the exec's eyes until his ears twitched agreement, then looked at Johansen.
"Very well, Lieutenant, inform them we will comply." He turned back to the exec. "Maintain Status One, but I want no active targeting systems."
The Orion Tenth Destroyer Squadron hung motionless, watching a handful of sca
He watched Kepler's light dot. The heavy cruiser was now at eight light-seconds and closing at a leisurely two percent of light-speed with two light cruisers and three of her brood of destroyers. The other six destroyers had halted at ten light-seconds, just within standard missile range. It looked as if the other side was doing exactly as agreed.
"Range six light-seconds, sir," Observer Hinarou reported.
"Lieutenant, request that they come no closer until we have established visual communications."
"Aye, sir." Johansen activated her com once more. "Kepler, this is Lieutenant Johansen. Our commander requests that you come no closer until visual communications have b—"
"Incoming fire!" Yahaarnow snapped, and the display was suddenly alive with missile traces.
"Return fire!" Khardanish slammed his clawed fist against his armrest. "Enemy flagship is primary target!"
"Aye, sir, opening fire now!"
The Tenth Squadron belched homing missiles, but the reply was pitiful beside the holocaust racing for it, and the enemy drive fields peaked as they charged in for the kill.
"Evasive action!" Khardanish commanded, and his ships, too, leapt to full power. They swerved in frantic evasion maneuvers, and Znamae lurched as the first warhead burst against her shields. The energy gu