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Surprise, the pith and marrow of war.

Admiral of the Fleet Lord Fisher

Standard year 1906

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Aboard the Confederacy Destroyer Escort DE-11201, The Lance, in hyperspace

An almost palpable sense of tension filled the control room as the Lance prepared to exit hyperspace and enter a solar system where anything could be waiting.  As with all Spear-Class ships the executive officer and the navigator sat to either side of the captain within a semicircular enclosure.  The rest of the bridge crew were seated one level below in what was often referred to as "the tub."  All wore spacesuits with their helmets racked beside them.  "Five-minutes and counting," Lieutenant j.g. "Tink" Ross reported, as he eyed the data that scrolled down the screen in front of him.

"Roger that," Lieutenant Commander Hol Tanaka acknowledged calmly, as he stared at the view screen and the blank nothingness of hyperspace beyond.  The naval officer had thick black hair, almond shaped eyes, and a compact body.  The Lance was his first command, and even though the DE was older than he was, Tanaka was proud of both the ship and his crew.  "Sound battle stations... . Bring primary and secondary weapons systems on-line... . And activate the defensive screens.  All Daggers will stand by for immediate launch.  Give me a quick scan as we exit hyperspace, followed by a full spectrum sweep, and a priority-alpha target analysis."

The ship's executive officer, Lieutenant KT Balcom, responded with a pro forma "Aye, aye, sir," but there was no need to actually do anything, because the orders had been anticipated and the crew was ready.  What couldn't be anticipated however was what the DE would run into as it entered normal space off Nav Beacon CSM-1802.  Because even though it was statistically unlikely there was always the possibility that the Lance would exit hyperspace within missile range of a Ramanthian warship.  Which, come to think of it, is exactly what we're supposed to do, Tanaka thought to himself.  So that the rest of the battle group will have time to drop hyper and respond while the bugs clobber us!  The thought brought no sense of resentment.  Just a determination to succeed.  Not just for the Confederation, but for Tanaka's parents, who had been among thousands killed when the bugs glassed Port Foro on Zena II.

Then the time for reflection was past as the last few seconds ticked away, and DE-11201 entered the Nebor system, which was only a hop-skip-and a hyperspace jump away from the battle group's final destination inside the sector of space controlled by the Clone Hegemony. Stomachs lurched as the ship's NAVCOMP shut the hyperdrive down and the Lance entered normal space.

What followed took place so quickly that Tanaka, his crew, and the ship's computers were just beginning to process what was waiting for them when ten-torpedoes scored direct hits on the destroyer escort and blew the ship to smithereens.  All there was to mark the point where the ambush had taken place was a steadily expanding constellation of debris and bursts of stray static. 

There was no jubilation aboard the Sheen vessels that had been positioned around the nav beacon for more than one-standard month.  Because the formerly free-ranging computer-controlled ships were entirely automated and therefore incapable of emotion.

But crewed or not, the remote controlled ships made excellent weapons platforms, a fact that was central to Commodore Ru Lorko's plan.  And, as luck would have it the stern if somewhat eccentric naval officer, was not only awake at the precise moment when the Lance was destroyed, but present in the Star Reaper's small control room as well.  Like all Ramanthians the naval officer had big compound eyes, a pair of antenna that projected from the top of his head, a hooked flesh-tearing beak, and a somewhat elongated body.  It stood on two legs and was held erect by a hard exoskeleton.  Which in Lorko's case had been holed in battle and patched with a metal plate.  A shiny rectangle that had given rise to the nickname, "Old Iron Back."

There was a burst of joyful pincer clacking that could be heard throughout the ship as the destroyer's crew celebrated an easy victory.  But that came to an end when Lorko spoke over the ship's intercom system.  "Do not be fooled!" the officer cautioned. "That was the easy part," he reminded the crew.  "It's possible that the destroyer escort was on a solo mission.  But, if this is the moment that we have been waiting for, then the DE was little more than the tip of a very long spear.  Prepare yourselves and know this... .  He who fails to do his best will feel the full weight of my pincer!"

And every member of the crew knew that Lorko was not only serious, but fanatically serious, since the Commodore, like approximately 20% of the Ramanthian officer corps, was a member of the rigid, some said inflexible Nira (Spirit) cult.  A semi-religious group determined to live their lives in accordance with the Hath, or true path, which required each adherent to follow a very strict code of behavior.  One that equated surrender with cowardice, mercy with treachery, and love for anything other than the Ramanthian race as weakness.  Which explained why Lorko, like so many other members of the Nira, had severed his relationships with his mates.

But what wasn't apparent to the crew was what the straight-backed officer felt deep inside.  Which was a tremendous sense of relief and anticipation.  Because in order to gain command of the Sheen ships, the carrier Swarm, and half-a-dozen smaller vessels, Lorko had been forced to go straight to Grand Admiral Imba for approval.  Thereby offending a number of superiors as well as risking what had been a successful career on what many considered to be a stupid idea.  Because the whole notion of waiting for an enemy convoy to drop out of hyperspace struck many as not only a tremendous waste of time but a poor use of scarce resources.  Which was why Lorko had been given exactly thirty-standard days in which to try his plan before returning to fleet HQ for reassignment.  Now, three full days past the end of his allotted time, Lorko had what he had gambled on: a victory.  Not a major victory, but a victory nonetheless, which might be sufficient to forestall a court of inquiry.  Or, as Lorko had just explained to the crew, the Confederate DE could be the precursor of a much larger force.  Which, were he to destroy it, would not only vindicate the naval officer but quite possibly result in a promotion.  But with the seconds ticking away, it was time to take action.  "You know what to do," the commodore said to the Star Breaker's Captain.  "Do it."

A good deal of time and computer analysis had been spent coming up with what Lorko and his subordinate officers believed to be the standard intervals employed by Confederate battle groups as they entered potentially hostile systems.  And that number was five-standard minutes give or take thirty-seconds.  So, given the fact that one-minute-twenty-six seconds had already elapsed, it was time for the Sheen vessels to open fire.  Not on a specific target, but on the exact point where the ill fated DE had left hyperspace.  Because according to Lorko's analysis that was where the next ship would most likely exit as well.  And the next, and the next, until the entire formation lay before him.  An assemblage of ships that might be less than, equal to, or larger than Lorko's modest fleet.  A threat but only if the enemy vessels were allowed to respond.

So the remotely operated Sheen vessels opened fire with their extremely powerful energy cannons, and where their pulses of  bright-blue light converged, an artificial sun was born.  Lorko was committed at that point, because while the Sheen ships could maintain a sustained fire for up to eight-minutes, their accumulators would have to recharge after that.  And while the machine-ships were armed with missiles they carried a finite number.  All of which meant that if the theoretical force arrived later than expected it might break out of the trap and attack not only the Star Reaper but the more vulnerable Swarm.  Thereby turning what could have been a magnificent victory into one of the worst naval disasters in Ramanthian history.  Lorko would commit suicide of course, assuming he survived long enough to do so, but it would be humiliating to arrive in the next world carrying such a heavy burden of shame.

Nav Point CSM-1802 shimmered within a cocoon of lethal energy as the seconds ticked away.

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Aboard the Confederacy Battleship Gladiator, in hyperspace

The battleship's primary Command & Control (C&C) computer was generally referred to as "Big Momma" mostly because she had a soft female voice.  It echoed through miles of corridors, hundreds of weapons stations, and even found its way into the spacious cabin normally reserved for admirals but presently occupied by the Confederacy's extremely competent, but slightly pudgy President and Chief Executive Officer Marcott Nankool.  Who, being confronted with the plate full of pastries that had been brought in for the enjoyment of his staff, was struggling to ignore the calorie laden treats as the computer spoke via the ship's ubiquitous PA system.  "The ship will drop hyper in five, repeat five, minutes.  Secure all gear, check space armor, and strap in.  Primary weapons systems, secondary weapons systems, and tertiary weapons systems have been armed.  All fighter aircraft are prepared for immediate launch... .  Marine boarding parties are on standby at locks one through thirty-six.  All supernumerary personnel will don space armor and remain where they are until the ship secures from battle stations.  I repeat... ."

But none of the six men and women who had been sent along to assist the Chief Executive during high-level talks with the Clone Hegemony were interested in hearing Big Momma's spiel all over again.  And, having already struggled into their ill-fitting "P" for passenger space suits some fifteen-minutes earlier, the staffers were content to let the C&C computer drone on as their discussion continued.

"That's utter bullshit," Secretary for Foreign Affairs Benjamin Hooks said contemptuously.  "There's no god-damned way that the clones are going to agree to an alliance with us.  I mean, why should they?  We're getting our asses royally kicked while they sit around and congratulate each other on how superior their DNA is!"

The slender Dweller required a mechanical exoskeleton in order to deal with the Earth normal gravity maintained aboard the Gladiator.  One of his servos whined as the diplomat shifted his weight.  "Maybe," Ambassador Omi Ochi countered cautiously.  "But consider this.  Regardless of the way the manner in which they mate, or don't mate as the case may be, the clones are still human.  That means they think, see, hear, feel, and taste things just as you do.  So, who are they going to side with?  The bugs?  Or beings similar to themselves?"

Foreign Service Officer (FSO)-3 Christine Vanderveen had shoulder-length blonde hair, very blue eyes, and full red lips.  Though not senior enough to participate in the increasingly heated discussion she thought the serious-faced Dweller was essentially correct.  After dithering around for a shamefully long time, the famously insular clones would eventually be forced to align themselves with the Confederacy, which, while not exclusively human, was certainly humanistic insofar as its laws, culture, and traditions were concerned.  "That makes sense ambassador," Secretary Hooks allowed stolidly.  "Or would, if the clones had a brain between them!  How do you explain their continuing dalliance with the Thrakies?  The furballs don't look human to me."

The discussion might have gone on indefinitely, but having given both sides an opportunity to express their opinions, Nankool wanted to move the meeting forward.  "Both of you make good points," the moon-faced Chief Executive said soothingly.  "But the fact remains... .  We're on the way to the Hegemony in an effort to gain support from the clones.  And, based on the fact that they invited us to come, there's the possibility that Omi is correct.  So, let's plan for success... .  Assuming the Alpha Clones are open to a military alliance they're going to want some say where command decisions are concerned.  General Koba-Sa... .  How much input could you and your peers tolerate before your heads explode?" 

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