“The decision has already been made,” Fludenoc stated, firmly but not belligerently. Again, he pointed to the Doge corpses. “We have no choice now, brothers. Let us make Transit to the human planet. The answer can only be found there.”
There was no further opposition. Fludenoc swiveled to the Pilot.
“Take us there,” he commanded.
The Pilot left the chamber immediately. Fludenoc turned to examine the Medic.
“Do not not mind me,” the Medic immediately trilled. “I am just just a bystander.”
All the Gha, now, barked their humor.
“But are you still interested?” asked Oltomar.
“Oh, yes yes! Very interested interested!”
IV
Not so many days later, after Transit was made, the Medic was still interested. Fascinated, in fact.
“What what in the name of Creation is that that that?”
There was no answer. Everyone in the control chamber was staring at the viewscreen.
Staring at that.
The Pilot finally broke the silence. “I think it’s a boat,” she whispered.
“What is a—a boat?” asked Oltomar. He, also, spoke in a whisper.
“I think she’s right,” muttered Fludenoc. “I saw a hologram of a boat, once. It looked quite a bit like—that. Except that’s a lot bigger. A whole lot bigger.”
“I say it again!” hissed Oltomar. “What in Creation is a boat?”
“It’s a vessel that floats on water,” replied Fludenoc. “Very large bodies of water, such as don’t exist on our planet.”
Oltomar stared at the screen. “Water?” he demanded. “What water? We’re still in the outer fringes of this solar system!”
A hum from the communication console announced an incoming message.
“I think we’re about to find out,” said the Pilot. She shuffled toward the console. “Let’s hope they speak some language the computer can translate.”
Fludenoc was suddenly filled with confidence. That was the strangest-looking spacecraft he had ever seen. But, then again, he had thought the Romans were the strangest-looking soldiers he had ever seen, too.
“The computer will be able to translate,” he predicted. “Latin has been programmed into it for over two thousand years.”
He was not wrong. The Latin phrases which the computer received were spoken in a very odd accent, it was true. Quite unlike the original input. But the phrases were simple enough:
“Unknown spacecraft: you are ordered to hold position. Any movement toward the inner planets will be construed as a hostile act.”
“There are more of those—boats—coming,” said Uddumac. “Lots of them. Very big boats.”
“We repeat—hold your position. We are sending a boarding party. Any resistance will be construed as a hostile act.”
Fludenoc instructed the Pilot: “Send a message indicating that the boarding party will be allowed ingress without obstruction. And tell them we seek a parley.”
“These are Romans?” queried Oltomar. His tone wavered pure confusion.
“Pilot,” said Fludenoc. “Ask them to identify themselves as well.”
The reply came quickly:
“This is Craig Trumbull speaking. I am the Commodore of this fleet and the Captain commanding this vessel. The CSS Scipio Africanus.”
V
“I feel like an idiot,” muttered Commodore Trumbull. His eyes, fixed on the huge viewscreen, shifted back and forth from the sleek, gleaming Guild vessel to the nearest of the newly arrived ships of his flotilla.
The Confederation Space Ship Quinctius Flaminius, that was. As she was now called.
Standing next to him, his executive officer grinned. “You mean you feel like the guy who shows up at a formal ball wearing a clown suit? Thought he’d been invited to a costume party?”
Trumbull grunted. Again, he stared at the CSS Quinctius Flaminius. As she was now called.
The USS Missouri, in her former life.
“I can’t believe I’m trying to intimidate a Guild vessel with these antiques.”
Commander Stephen Tambo shrugged. “So what if it’s a World War Two craft dragged out of mothballs?” He pointed at the ancient battleship on the viewscreen. “Those aren’t sixteen-inch guns anymore, Commodore. They’re lasers. Eight times as powerful as any the Guild uses, according to the transport’s computer. And the Quinctius’ force-screens carry the same magnitude of superiority.”
“I know that!” snapped the commodore. “I still feel like an idiot.”
The executive officer, eyeing his superior with a sideways glance, decided against any further attempt at humor. The North American seemed bound and determined to wallow in self-pity.