Guardian

Fifteen

Even sixteen days could seem like a long time.

The regulations and procedures for entering Sol Star System had been dug out of the archives to be reviewed by all officers. Reading them in his stateroom, Geary was struck by two odd sensations. The first was a feeling of dusting off old records even though digital files never actually accumulated dust. The second was a dawning realization that he had read through these procedures once before.

When was it? I was an ensign, I think. At some point, I called up these procedures and read them, daydreaming that someday my ship would be the one chosen at the ten-year point for the visit to Old Earth. That feels so long ago.

How many ensigns have there been in the fleet since then? How many of those ensigns died during the century-long war? I’m sure none of them daydreamed about visiting Old Earth. They just hoped to survive, and maybe to be the heroes that young men and women dream of being before they become old enough and experienced enough to realize that real glory never comes to those who seek it.

They dreamed of being like Black Jack. It wasn’t my fault they did that. The government and the fleet needed a hero, and I guess I was plausible enough to be built into one even though I’m nothing like the legend they created. But they died wanting to be like me.

I don’t know what Black Jack could do to help the Alliance with the mess it is in. I don’t know what I can do. But I have to keep trying because people believed in who they thought I was. This trip isn’t going to solve anything, but once we get back, I have to think of something. Maybe something I see at Sol will give me some ideas.

There was a link near the procedures for entering Sol that also tickled Geary’s memory. He read it, a smile growing. One more thing that had been forgotten, but there was no reason it could not be revived.

His hatch alert chimed. Instead of Tanya, or Rione or anyone else whom Geary might have expected, Senator Sakai had come to see him.

For over a minute, Senator Sakai sat without speaking in the seat that Geary offered, just watching Geary with his usual enigmatic expression. Finally, Sakai spoke in a quiet voice that nonetheless commanded attention. “Admiral, you are a rare specimen. An anachronism.”

“You don’t need to point that out,” Geary said, wondering what Sakai was driving at.

“Someone from a hundred years in the past. It has served you well in command of the fleet,” Sakai observed, as if Geary had not spoken. “It has served the Alliance well. At least, so far. But this is not the past. We are not the people you knew. This is not the Alliance you knew.” Sakai sounded neither happy nor sad about that. He simply said the words as if discussing a fact distant in time and place. “Admiral, where do you believe my loyalties lie?”

“I think, Senator,” Geary said, once more choosing his words with care, “that you are loyal to the Alliance.”

“Interesting. Do you believe that makes me unusual, or typical among the politicians who lead the Alliance in this time?”

That was an explosive question, and one he might have had a great deal of trouble answering if not for his long experience with Victoria Rione. “I believe that most, if not all, of the politicians in charge of the government believe that they are loyal to the Alliance.”

“Again, an interesting choice of words, Admiral.”

“Do you disagree with me?” Geary asked.

“Your answer was incomplete,” Sakai replied obliquely. The senator frowned slightly, looking off into the distance. “Not all of us who are loyal, who believe we are loyal, believe in the Alliance anymore. Some of us look at the Alliance and wonder not if it will perish, but when.” He focused on Geary with an intent gaze. “And we wonder whether you, with your antiquated ideals born of another time, will contrive to hold together a little longer that which is coming apart, or if your presence and your ideals will only accelerate the collapse of the Alliance.”

Geary took a long moment to reply. “I would not do anything to harm the Alliance. I have made every effort to act as necessary to protect and preserve the Alliance.”

“Admiral, you believe you will not do anything to harm the Alliance. You believe your every effort has been for the good of the Alliance.” Sakai shook his head. “Perhaps I am too jaded, too bitter from watching destruction become a virtue. Perhaps you are the hero the Alliance needs. But I do not believe it.”

“Why would you say that to me?”

“Perhaps because you are one of the few left who would not seek to use my words against me. Perhaps because truth is spoken so rarely these days that I wanted the feel of it in my words at least once more.” This time, one corner of Sakai’s mouth bent very slightly upward in the barest of smiles. “I am a politician, Admiral. Do you know what happens to politicians who tell the truth? They get voted out of office. We must lie to the voters. Tell them the truth, and they punish us. Lie, and they reward us. Like the dogs in the ancient experiment we learn to do what brings rewards. Somehow the system stumbles onward, the Alliance survives, but the pressure on it builds with every refusal by its leaders and its people to face unpleasant truths.”

Sakai again sat without speaking for several seconds, his eyes hooded in thought. “We politicians lie for the best of reasons, for the best of causes,” he finally said in a monotone. “For the good of the Alliance. For the good of our people. Only by lying can we serve them. Do you believe me?”

“I do,” Geary said, bringing what might have been a glimmer of surprise to life in Sakai’s eyes. “Isn’t that the problem? Just about everyone thinks they are doing the right thing. Or they’ve convinced themselves that they’re doing the right thing, and that others must be both wrong and self-serving.”

Sakai regarded Geary again. “You have been speaking with Victoria Rione, I see. Are you aware of how much effort some politicians put into ensuring she was once more placed upon your flagship for your mission into enigma space?”

“I’ve guessed.”

“I am one of those politicians who backed such an effort.” A tiny smile once more bent Sakai’s mouth. “Though not, perhaps, for the same reasons as others.”

What did that admission mean? “Will you tell me your reasons?”

“In part. Emissary Rione—excuse me, Envoy Rione is, shall we say, not the sort of weapon which merely follows the path set for it by others. She is what you in the military would call a smart weapon, one that thinks for itself. Such a weapon may not act as those who unleash it expect.” Sakai shook his head. “Envoy Rione believes in the Alliance, too. She is willing to do any number of things that our ancestors would never have agreed to in order to preserve it.”

“But what did you expect her to do?” Geary pressed.

“Admiral.” Sakai paused again, then looked at Geary with another searching gaze. “The legend that grew around Black Jack said that he would return to save the Alliance. Everyone assumed that meant Black Jack would defeat the Syndics. But saving the Alliance is not simply a matter of ending the war. That has become very, painfully, clear to all of us. And now the people of the Alliance increasingly ask themselves whether Black Jack’s ultimate mission is not a military one, not aimed against any external foe, but is instead to save the Alliance from the inner forces that threaten to destroy it.”

Geary had to bite back an immediate, instinctive denial. Instead, he shook his head and spoke with care once more. “I wouldn’t know how to do that. I have never believed in the legend. I do not believe that I am destined or chosen or whatever term you want to use. I’m just trying to do my job, my duty, the best that I can.”

“Does what you believe matter?” Sakai asked in a low voice. “Belief is a very powerful force, Admiral, for good or for ill. Belief can destroy that which appears unshakable, and belief can accomplish what knowledge tells us must be impossible. I cannot save the Alliance, Admiral. If I believed that I could, I would be one with the fools who think that they alone know wisdom, that they alone know what must be right. But people look at you, Admiral, and do not see a fallible human. They see Black Jack. Do not deny it. I accompanied your fleet on the final campaign against the Syndics so I could see you and so I could see how others acted toward you. Even those who hate you, who wish to see you fail, see Black Jack. And Black Jack can do those things that those who believe in him think he can do. Perhaps even things I believe to be impossible.”

“Or that belief in me could be the last straw that breaks the back of the Alliance,” Geary said, not trying to hide his bitterness.

“Yes.” Sakai inclined his head slightly toward Geary. “An interesting dilemma.”

“Can you tell me whether you will help me hold things together?” Geary demanded. “Not as some mythical Black Jack but just doing what I can. Will you help?”

“Why do you ask me this?” Sakai said, this time smiling more openly. “I have already told you that I lie. It is my profession. It is what my people demand of me. You could not believe whatever answer I gave you.”

Geary sat back, watching Sakai. From somewhere, words came to him. “One way to avoid lying is to avoid actually answering the question, isn’t it? Give an evasive response, and let the listener read whatever meaning they want into it.”

Sakai’s smile vanished, replaced by an intrigued expression. “You have spent much time around Envoy Rione. I should have guessed how much you would learn from her. And so I will finally answer that question you asked. What did I expect Envoy Rione to do aboard your flagship? I believed that Envoy Rione would find creative ways to forestall any plans aimed at you. That is why I supported placing her on your ship. This in turn gave me access to some other… consultations to which I might otherwise have been barred.”

“Senator, that sounds suspiciously like you were trying to help me,” Geary said.

“Not you. The Alliance. Because whatever you do, however mistaken or correct your actions based on your prewar sense of right and wrong, you are not a fool. Unlike some of those pursuing other means to save the Alliance.” Sakai held up a single forefinger to forestall Geary from interrupting. “Admiral, you have been told that construction of new warships has been halted. In fact, a new fleet of sufficient strength to rival your own is being built, and I use the term ‘rival your own’ because that is a great part of its intended purpose.”

Geary did his best to feign surprise followed by outrage. “Why would the government mislead me like that?” He could think of any number of reasons but wanted to see which ones Sakai offered up.

“The government is not misleading you. Certain powerful individuals within the government are misleading you. Others do not ask questions whose answers might prove too difficult. Others delude themselves that destructive means will serve creative ends. Here is what you must know. A decision has been made to give command of this fleet to an officer who will, depending upon whom you ask, safeguard the Alliance, or actively counter the threat posed by a certain hero to whom the existing fleet is extremely loyal, or act as a passive counterbalance to the threat posed to the Alliance by you.” Sakai paused again. “The reasons all come down to one broad strategy. A majority of the grand council have been convinced that the way to fight fire is with fire. If they fear an ambitious high-ranking military officer with a fleet firmly at his back, the solution is to create another.”

“That’s insane. Are they trying to create a civil war?”

“They believe,” Sakai said, “that they are saving the Alliance. That saving the Alliance requires creating the means to destroy it and giving that means to a man whose desires will destroy it. You said it is insane? You are right. They see only what they wish to see.”

Geary stood up and paced slowly back and forth before Sakai, unable to sit still any longer. “If the government persists in actions that are likely to destroy the Alliance, what the hell can I do to save it?”

“I do not know. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps your best efforts will only precipitate the civil war you spoke of.”

“Then why are you even helping me this much by telling me about what the government is doing and why?” Geary demanded.

Sakai let out a slow sigh. “Because, Admiral, your most powerful weapon, the belief of others in you, might enable you to save an Alliance I believe to be doomed. Might, I say. It is something. Something small. Yet preferable to surrendering to despair and watching others oh-so-cleverly and oh-so-cunningly bring about the loss of all we and they hold dear.”

“Who is getting the command of that new fleet?”

“Admiral Bloch.”

That answer had come directly, with no evasion or delay. Why? “Even though the grand council must know that Bloch intended to stage a military coup if his attack on the Syndic home star system at Prime had succeeded?”

“Even though.” Sakai looked off into the distance again as if he could see something there that was invisible to Geary. “I wonder why I still try. Then I think of my children and their children. What might happen to them if the Alliance falls apart? I think of my ancestors. When the day comes that I face them, what will I say I had done with the life granted me? How will they judge me and my actions?” He shrugged. “My wish is to be able to face them and say I did not quit. Perhaps my efforts are doomed to failure, but that will not be because I ceased trying.”

“You don’t really believe that it is hopeless,” Geary suggested.

Senator Sakai stood up to leave, his expression unreadable once more. “Say rather, Admiral, that I am afraid to admit that it is hopeless.”

After Sakai had left, Geary found his gaze returning to the link he had opened about returning to Sol Star System. Anachronism, am I? Fine. Traditions hold us together, but a lot of those traditions faded under the pressure of the war. Maybe it’s time for this anachronistic admiral to introduce a few more anachronisms.

“We’re going to cross the line,” Geary said.

Tanya, called to his stateroom, gave him a puzzled look. “What line?”

“The line.”

“That helps. Not.”

“The boundary of Sol Star System,” Geary explained patiently.

“Star systems don’t have boundaries.” She tapped in some queries, then waited for the results to pop up. “Oh. You mean the heliosphere. The region around the star that defines the boundaries of a star system. I never heard of that before.”

That news should have been astounding coming from a battle cruiser commander whose career had taken her across hundreds of light-years and scores of stars. But it wasn’t. “That’s because the heliosphere of any star is well beyond the places where jump points are found or hypernet gates are constructed,” Geary explained. “The heliosphere of any star is well out in the dark between stars, in the places where human ships never go. Or rather, where they long since stopped going.”

“All right. Why does it matter now?”

“The heliosphere of Sol sets the limit for Sol Star System,” Geary said. “That’s the region where Sol’s solar wind predominates.”

“Yes,” Desjani said with exaggerated patience as she read the results of her query. “In the case of Sol, the heliosphere extends out about twelve light-hours,” she quoted. “Or about one hundred astronomical units. What the hell is an astronomical unit?”

“A very old way of measuring distance. You know, like a parsec.”

“A what?”

“Never mind,” Geary said.

“Fine,” she replied. “This is the line you were talking about? The edge of the bubble that defines the heliosphere for Sol? But it’s way past anything. Nobody goes that far from a star in real space. Why would they? There’s nothing there but dead, wandering rocks.”

“Tanya, once upon a time, people couldn’t use hypernet gates or jump points to travel to other stars. The missions to the first stars reached by our ancestors had to cross that line, physically cross it in real space. It meant something very important. It meant humanity had left the star that had given birth to us and humanity was now reaching into the universe.”

“It was important to our ancestors?” Tanya regarded the display over Geary’s desk with new respect. “Yes. Of course it was. That marked the point where a ship and the people on it left Sol.”

“Exactly. They had a celebration. And even after we discovered jump technology and no longer had to physically leave and enter the heliosphere, ships still used to mark when they crossed that line. Any other star’s heliosphere didn’t matter. But Sol’s did. It was a very big deal to say you’re a Voyager.”

“A… Voyager?”

“Once you’ve crossed the line, you can call yourself a Voyager,” Geary said. “That’s the tradition.”

“Our ancestors did this?”

“Yes.”

Desjani nodded. “Then we should. How did you happen to remember this? I can’t recall anyone ever saying anything about it.”

“The fleet used to send a ship back to Sol every ten years,” Geary said. “To commemorate the anniversary of the launch of the first interstellar mission from Old Earth’s orbit. We only sent a ship at decade intervals because it was a long haul without hypernet capability. I never went, but I talked to some people who did, and at that time the whole crossing-the-line ceremony was still a big deal.”

“But during the war, we couldn’t afford to send any ships,” Desjani said. “I get it. Those early years were desperate. We couldn’t have spared a ship for that long in those days.”

Geary nodded. “The next ship was supposed to be sent less than a year after the initial Syndic attacks hit. I remember that everyone was wondering who would be selected. It seems strange to think about it now, but wondering which ship would get to make the trip was one of the biggest topics of conversation in the fleet before the fight at Grendel.”

Tanya looked back at him blankly. “That was your biggest concern?”

He felt a flush of shame. Tanya, like all of the officers and crew in the fleet, had spent her career, had spent her entire life, worried about the war with the Syndics, worried about life and death and the lives and deaths of those she knew and loved. How can she imagine a universe where the biggest concern in the fleet was which ship would get to go on a joyride to Sol? How can I ever feel superior to those whose lives have been consumed by issues far more grave than the little things I once had the luxury of being concerned with?

“Yes,” Geary finally said.

“I… guess that was important back then,” Tanya said in a way that made it clear she was trying to grasp the concept and failing. “I can understand the crossing-the-line thing,” she added. “And commemorating the first mission to another star. That was so big. They actually traveled at sublight speed across the dark between stars. I read about that when I was a little girl.”

Her eyes went distant with memory, and she smiled. “The Ship to the Stars. I remember the book because I read it so many times. It was about a girl and a boy on the ship. They had been born on the ship because it was a generation ship. The trip would take so long that the crew who had left Old Earth would all die of old age on the way. Their children were brought up to run the ship and continue the journey, and their children would actually reach the other star.”

Geary smiled, too, recalling the story. “I read the same book. I wanted to be that little boy. Anyone could travel to another star, but only people like him ever crossed the dark between stars. Ever since we discovered how to use jump drives, no one has gone into the Great Dark.”

“I talked to Jaylen Cresida about that once,” Tanya said in a low voice, her expression saddened at these memories of their dead comrade. “The observations those people and their instruments recorded are still used. Jaylen had studied some of them. We still depend on that data about the nature of space far from any star because no one else has ever gone out there to collect it.”

“Really?” Geary looked toward a bulkhead as if he could see through it to the space beyond the bubble of nothing in which Dauntless was heading for Sol. “Instruments must have gotten a lot better since then. You would think someone would propose an automated mission to get new data.”

Desjani shrugged. “We’ve been busy,” she said.

He wanted to slap his forehead over his boneheaded statement. Busy. With a century of desperate warfare. “I know. Um… there was a ceremony when you crossed the line. This is your ship, so it’s up to you, but it is a tradition.”

“What sort of ceremony?” She started reading. “Are you serious? That’s— All right, we can— No. Not that part. But the rest looks doable. Absurd, but doable. I guess our ancestors had more of a sense of humor than I’ve given them credit for. Are our Very Important Senators and Not So Important Envoys going to participate in this?”

“It’s voluntary,” Geary said.

“Meaning I have to invite them?”

“Yeah. You have to invite them.”

“Let me make one thing very clear,” Desjani had announced to her officers and senior enlisted, her voice taking on all the depth and force of command. “This must remain in fun. We have all been through hard and long years in which fun usually meant short, hectic times on a strange planet or orbital facility between campaigns and battles, the sort of fun that often ended up producing as many injuries to the crew as a battle would have. This is different. You all must ensure that it remains enjoyable. If there is any hint of its becoming something else, any hint of real hazing or real hurt of any kind, you are to step in and stop it before it happens. I will be walking the passageways of Dauntless throughout this entertainment, and I expect the same of all of you who are not part of the ceremony. Are there any questions? No? Then go out, have a good time, and ensure everyone else has a good time.” Desjani finally relaxed her stern expression, smiling at the assembled officers and senior enlisted. “That’s an order.”

A number of main passageways had been converted into gauntlets designed to inflict mock injury and real, though slight, humiliation. In one passageway, the deck sailors responsible for much of the routine maintenance aboard Dauntless had rigged up devices to spray fake tattoos using dyes that faded within minutes. As Geary walked through it, getting a large and elaborate WHAT WOULD BLACK JACK DO? design emblazoned on the front of his uniform, he noted that the tattoos near him were considerably tamer and less suggestive than those he had spotted emerging from that passageway earlier.

In another passageway, the code monkeys had set up a maze from which you could only escape after figuring out the right pattern.

In a third place, Dauntless’s food-service specialists were handing out ancient Syndic ration bars the fleet had picked up off an abandoned facility during the fighting retreat from the Syndic home star system. Those who in the past had complained the loudest about the food aboard the ship were forced to gag down a few bites before being allowed to proceed.

Another gauntlet lined the passageway leading to the shuttle dock. The weapons wielded by the sailors and Marines lining that passageway ranged from stuffed bunnies to balloons, with the occasional rubber chicken or a fluffy, fake stobor. Geary walked down the passageway, grinning, as the veterans of countless battles laughed and pelted him with silly, harmless weapons.

The main show was in the shuttle dock, the largest single compartment on the ship, where the unworthies seeking entry into the fellowship of the Voyagers were forced to pass muster before the “rulers” of Sol Star System.

Master Chief Gioninni, playing the role of King Jove, sat on an impressive throne created by modifying a high-g survival seat. His face boasted a long, bushy, fake beard, and Gioninni had somehow acquired an actual trident, an ancient weapon with a two-meter-long shaft and three wickedly barbed points. He wore a crown fashioned in one of Dauntless’s machine shops, gleaming with gold plating that should have been used in electronics repair. Geary resolved to make sure that gold ended up back in the ship’s repair stockpiles and didn’t get diverted for any personal uses, then realized that Desjani had surely already seen to that.

The crown had nine points, each bearing a representation of one of the planets in Sol Star System, the largest, in the center, Jove itself. There had been some debate about how many planets should be on the crown, as the ancestors had apparently been unable to decide how many planets there were in Sol’s orbit. Throughout history the numbers had fluctuated from nine to eight to twelve, then six, before returning to eight, then nine in the latest official records. Geary had finally chosen the latest number, and nine it was.

On the right side of King Jove sat Queen Callisto (usually known as Senior Chief Tarrini), wearing a crown identical to King Jove’s. But instead of a trident, Callisto bore a bow of ancient design. The arrows in her quiver appeared to be just as real and dangerous as the trident Gioninni waved about with a carelessness that was most likely false, but from the way Senior Chief Tarrini held her bow, she looked prepared to use it as a club on the king and anyone else she thought required a little extra discipline.

On Jove’s left sat Davy Jones, in the form of Gunnery Sergeant Orvis, the commander of Dauntless’s Marine detachment. Orvis held a gavel of judgment as if it, too, were a weapon.

“I understand Jove,” Charban said from where he stood near Geary, a GROUND APE tattoo with appropriate illustration fading on his chest. “That’s the largest planet in Sol Star System. And Callisto is one of the largest moons of Jove and at one time was the largest human colony in the outer star system. They make sense. But who or what is Davy Jones supposed to represent? I looked into it, and there were no early spaceship commanders by that name.”

“Davy Jones was a mythical figure,” Geary explained, “that sailors on Earth thought ruled over the bottom of the ocean, caused disasters at sea, and took the spirits of dead sailors.”

“I see.” Charban glanced at the three senators, who had cautiously entered the shuttle dock and were looking about with varying expressions. “That makes sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Senator Suva complained. “What do the oceans of Earth have to do with space?”

“We’re still sailors, Senator,” Geary said. “We sail a much vaster ocean, one lacking in water and all else, but the job is the same.”

Senator Costa snorted. “From what little I remember of my ancient history, sailors on the seas of Earth spent most of their time drunk, which probably explains all this. It must have made sense to someone who was three sheets to the wind.”

Senator Sakai did not comment. He appeared to be busy studying the Sirens standing to either side of the two monarchs and the judge. The Sirens, one female and one male, had been chosen from among the enlisted sailors and Marines by popular vote. In accordance with the old traditions, the Sirens wore uniforms modified to be alluring. Geary had heard of celebrations in the past in which this had sometimes led to overly enthusiastic modifications that ended up requiring remarkably small amounts of uniform fabric, but Captain Desjani had made it clear that the outfits of any Sirens on her ship had better fit an official definition of alluring and not go one millimeter less than that.

On their left hips, both Sirens wore one of the multipurpose tools known as a Swiz knife. On their right hips, each carried a roll of duct tape. That symbolism, Geary thought, even the Dancers could easily grasp if they saw it. But the aliens probably wouldn’t be able to tell that the Sirens not only represented a chance of help when other aid was too far distant, but also the sort of temptations far from home that could create problems in the first place.

An unfortunate sailor had just fumbled his explanation of how the mythical devices called mail buoys were supposedly positioned to relay transmissions between stars. At a brusque gesture from King Jove and an imperious sweep of her bow by Queen Callisto, Davy Jones directed the sailor to stand in a far corner and loudly recite a long, satirical, and risqué song called “The Laws of the Fleet” for the benefit of his fellows before returning for another try.

A roar of welcome sounded as Captain Desjani entered the shuttle dock. She walked past cheering sailors and Marines until she reached Master Chief Gioninni and fixed him with a warning look.

But Gioninni just grinned. “Captain Desjani! Your reputation proceeds you!”

Senior Chief Tarrini nodded. “Queen Callisto can find no fault with Captain Desjani.”

“She is judged worthy to enter your realm by Davy Jones,” Gunnery Sergeant Orvis added.

Gioninni’s smile faded, and he cocked a stern eye on her. “Captain Desjani, you are hereby sentenced to command of the battle cruiser Dauntless, the finest ship in the fleet, but one crewed by the biggest band of slackers, misfits, scoundrels, deadbeats, and slovenly sailors ever to sail the stars! Can you turn such a crew into real sailors, Captain?”

Desjani’s reply could be heard easily over the laughter following King Jove’s sentence. “I already have!”

“Then enter into my realm of Sol Star System, Captain Desjani, and be a member in good standing of the ancient and revered order of Voyagers!”

Amid renewed cheers, Tanya walked out past Geary with a salute and a wink. He returned the salute, then looked over at Charban and the senators. “You’re welcome to meet the King and Queen as well.”

Charban squared his shoulders with dramatic exaggeration and marched toward the Royal Family of Sol, but Costa and Suva hesitated. Sakai, after a few seconds, shook his head. “This is an event for the military, Admiral. We should not intrude.”

“This is an event for anyone who travels in space,” Geary corrected.

“We’re not… like you,” Senator Suva said, her voice tinged with what sounded like regret.

“Are you sure of that?” Geary asked.

The senators looked back at him as if they had never considered that question before.

The next day, they arrived at Sol.

All signs of merriment and celebration had vanished except for a single stuffed bunny that a hell-lance battery had adopted as a mascot. But those weapons were powered down for arrival, as were all other weapons aboard Dauntless. The shields were at full strength, because that was a necessary secondary protection against radiation and other hazards to navigation, but otherwise the warship was in as peaceful a configuration as a battle cruiser could be.

“I don’t like it,” Desjani grumbled for the hundredth time as she sat on the bridge.

“The requirements for entering Sol don’t allow for exceptions,” Geary reminded her for at least the fiftieth time. “And Sol Star System is demilitarized. There are no weapons and no threats.”

“There is no place where humans are that fits that description,” Desjani objected.

“Two minutes to hypernet exit,” Lieutenant Castries announced.

Near her, the three senators jostled each other for position near the single observer seat on the bridge. Rione and Charban were also on the bridge for the historic moment, but well off to one side where Lieutenant Yuon had made some room for them.

The last minute passed in silence, everyone lost in their own thoughts.

Nothing was abruptly replaced by Everything as they left the hypernet. Off to one side, a distant spark of light marked Sol, the home star of humanity.

But Geary couldn’t spare time to sightsee. Instead, his eyes went to another part of his display, where warning signs had sprung to life on a dozen warships of unfamiliar design.