Starplex

Lights moved across Wineglass’s web. “Let’s get a look at it,” he said. The Ib at the helm station rotated the ship slightly so that the deck-seventy optical array was aimed at the intruder. A square frame appeared around part of the star, and within it a magnified view appeared. The approaching ship was illuminated on one side by the green star. The other side was a black silhouette, visible only because it eclipsed the background stars.

Wineglass spoke to Kreet, the Waldahud on his right. “That looks like a Waldahud design. The central engine pod, no?”

Waldahudin believed each ship—or building or vehicle—should be unique; they did not mass-produce from the same design. Kreet lifted all four of his shoulders. “Maybe,” he said.

“Any transponder signal, Denna?” asked Wineglass.

“If there is one,” the human said, “it’s lost in the noise from the star.”

“Please try to contact the ship.”

“Transmitting,” said Denna. “But they’re still over fifty million klicks away; it’ll take almost six minutes for any reply, and—God!”

A second ship was coming around the limb of the green star. It was similar in size to the first, but had a different, more blocky design. Still, the trademark Waldahud central engine pod was visible.

“Better get Keith down here,” said Wineglass.

Lights rippled across the Ib at InOps. “Director Lansing to the bridge!”

“Try to contact the second ship, too,” Wineglass said.

“Doing so,” said Van Hausen… “And— Jesus, I’ll try to contact that third one, as well.” Another ship, half emerald fire glinting off polished metal, half black nothingness, was emerging from behind the star. A moment later a fourth and then a fifth appeared.

“It’s a bloody armada,” said Van Hausen.

“They Waldahud ships clearly are,” said Melondent from his open pool to the left of the physics workstation. “Thruster exhaust signatures most characteristic.”

“But what would five—six, eight—eight Waldahud craft want here?” asked Wineglass. “Denna, where are they heading?”

“They’re doing parabolic paths around the star,” the human woman said. “Hard to say exactly where they’re planning to end up, but Starplex’s current position is within eight degrees of the most likely projected course.”

“They after us are coming,” said Melondent. “We should—”

A door appeared in the hologram. Keith Lansing strode onto the bridge, unshaven, hair matted down from sleep.

“Sorry to wake you early,” said Wineglass, rolling away from the director’s workstation, “but we have company.”

Keith nodded at the Ib, and waited for a polychair to emerge from the trapdoor in front of his console. It was already morphing into human configuration as it rose up from the floor. Keith seated himself. “You’ve tried contacting them?”

“Yes,” said Denna. “Earliest possible response is in forty-eight seconds, though.”

“They’re Waldahud ships, aren’t they?” said Keith, his workstation rising to the height he preferred.

“Very likely so,” said Wineglass, “although, of course, Waldahud ships are sold all over the Commonwealth. They could be crewed by somebody else.”

Keith rubbed sleep from his eyes. “How did so many ships arrive without our knowing it?”

“They must have emerged one at a time from the shortcut while it was shielded from our view by the green star,” Wineglass said.

“Christ, of course,” said Keith. He consulted the readout of who was operating which station. “Double-Dot, get Jag down here.”

The Ib at Internal Ops slapped his control panel with ropes, then, a moment later, said, “Jag has his communications routed to a voice mailbox. It’s his normal sleep period.”

“Override,” said Keith. “Get him down here right now. Denna, any reply to our messages?”

“Nothing.”

Keith glanced up at the glowing digital clocks floating against the starfield. “It’s almost shift change anyway,” he said. “Let’s get the full alpha-shift staff down here.”

“Alpha shift, report immediately to the bridge,” said Double-Dot. “Lianne Karendaughter, Thoraid Magnor, Rhombus, Jag, and Clatissa Cervantes to the bridge, please.”

“Thank you,” said Keith. “Denna, open a channel to all the approaching ships.”

“Open.”

“This is G. K. Lansing, Director of the Commonwealth research vessel Starplex. State your business, please.”

“Transmitting,” said Denna. “They’ve closed the distance between us and them considerably. If they care to respond to your latest message, we should have an answer in under three minutes.”

A door opened up in the part of the hologram displaying the framed close-up of the approaching craft. Jag walked through, his fur not yet brushed. “What’s wrong?” he said.

“Maybe nothing,” said Keith “but eight Waldahud ships are approaching Starplex. Do you know why?”

All four shoulders moved up and down. “I have no idea.”

“They are refusing to respond to hails, and—”

“I said I have no idea.” Jag turned around and faced the hologram where the door had been. All his eyes began tracking independently, each one watching a different approaching ship.

“What kind of ships are those?” asked Keith. “Scouts?”