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  In scenario two, the boy calls the girl but the girl is not there. Immensely relieved, the boy hangs up the phone, glad that no stick friendships will be ruined this day.

  In scenario three, the boy calls the girl and she answers (gasp!). Somehow, he actually gets the words out of his mouth. Cue awkward silence (or, in a few of the scenarios, muffled giggling). The girl, being very nice, lets him down gently with one of a variety of excuses. Friends-zone is preserved, but boy still feels like he’s been eviscerated. He hangs up phone and morphs into a stick-figure dog, which then slouches off with his tail between his legs.

  The final scenario was the worst, and it was the one that had kept Morgan up until four in the morning. It was still stuck in his head now, as he walked towards bay six to sample the fertilizer mix. In this one, the boy actually gets sensible words out of his mouth when the girl answers. The girl seems surprised. She pauses, saying nothing. The boy asks if she is still there, his heart in his throat. She answers. “Yes, I’ll go with you.” The boy jumps for joy and sprains his stick ankle when he trips over his own bulbous balloon feet.

  There was a sudden crash as Morgan walked right into a cart containing the latest formulation of low-gravity wheatgrass. The whole thing went over with a bang. A woman in lab coats came running, saw the mess, and made a concerted effort not to laugh.

  “Here, let me help you with that,” she said. Her name was Zeb. She was an old family friend that had been employed at the lab since before Morgan was born.

  “I got it,” Morgan snapped.

  Zeb’s eyes were glowing. Probably texting the other workers about how much of a buffoon I am. She better not be recording. Morgan picked the cart up off the floor and started rounding up the samples. Zeb was subvocalizing something.

  “You can say it out loud,” said Morgan with a sigh. “I’m a klutz, I know.”

  Zeb looked horrified. “It’s not that at all. It’s just, you mother’s on the line. She wants to know why you aren’t answering your phone.”

  Morgan glowered at the scientist. “Tell her I left it in my car.”

  Zeb nodded, appearing a touch puzzled. “Ah. She wants me to ask you something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Have you called her yet?”

  Morgan threw his hands up in the air and stalked off towards the other side of the lab.

  Later that night, it was the dread of further questioning along with the strange bravery that comes with sleep deprivation that finally drove Morgan to pick up the phone. He retreated to his room to do it, mindful of his mother’s gaze as she watched him climb the stairs. For one gloriously terrifying moment, he thought the whole thing was impossible since Liz had never given him her number.

  Of course that wasn’t a problem. When Liz had driven the Scorpion, the car’s computer had recognized her as the driver and automatically linked with her bioware. It was a simple matter to pull her number out of the Scorpion’s memory banks.

  It was a much harder matter to actually dial it. He paced the floor of his room, palms sweaty, heart pounding. He’d rehearsed this a hundred times, but could never have imagined it would be so difficult. He started to laugh.

  A snippet of something his father’s father had told him once came to him. People fear what they don’t know. They fear the darkness. They fear the foreigner. But a fish doesn’t fear the water, just like you don’t fear the desert heat. Today, I’m going to make you a fish.

  “I’ve just got to jump in and do it,” he muttered. Just do it. He pressed send and held his breath.

  She answered instantly, throwing him off. “Hi Morgan!” Of course the phone was ringing inside her whippin skull. At least she sounds happy.

  “Hi. Uh, what’s up?”

  “Not much.” His phone vibrated in his hand. She wants to send video? He hadn’t thought of that. He reached out a trembling finger, hesitated, then pushed accept. Liz’s face filled the screen. She grinned and waved. Instead of deploying a camera, she was in her room looking into a mirror. It was a common technique used by some people when they were in their own homes. The video feed he was getting was a mirror image of her, as recorded by her own eyes.

  She was just as beautiful as he’d remembered. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  She laughed. “Hold your phone so I can see your face, silly! All I can see is your forehead.”

  Morgan looked at the lens of his phone’s camera and realized it was pointing too high. He angled it down.

  “That’s better. Man, you look beat. Hard day?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I spent ten hours working for my parents.”

  “Cool.”

  They stared at each other. “So,” she said. She was twining a lock of golden hair around her finger. “It’s nice to hear from you…”

  “Yeah.” Just spit it out! He tried to swallow but his throat was too dry. The phone flashed a warning that the anti-shake compensation was having a hard time stabilizing his outbound video feed. He sat down on the bed. “Liz, I have something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” He pulled the space show tickets out of his pocket.

  “What’s that?”

  “I…” he looked down at the tickets, gulped, and then suddenly the words were there, the words he’d been playing over and over in his mind like a broken record. Before he knew it they’d already exited his mouth.

  Liz didn’t seem to miss a beat. “Of course I’ll go.”

  “Really?”

  She laughed. “Are you kidding? It sounds awesome.”

  Morgan collapsed on the bed, the phone tumbling from his hand. “Yes,” he mouthed silently, pumping a fist in the air. “Yes yes yes!”

  “Hey, where’d you go?” she said.

  He scooped the phone back up. “Sorry,” he said, his voice as cool as he could make it. “I dropped you.”

  She made a face. “You are a weird one, Morgan Greenfield. But that’s cool with me.”

  Chapter 14

  Mog leaned back in his chair and massaged his eyes. Scraping together a fighting force from the remnants of the Navy had not been easy for Ruba. Personalities were the biggest problem, with tempers running high as survivors from various ships were thrown together into new crews. Some ships were scrapped instead of salvaged, often over the protests of their commanders, and the parts sent off to patch up more space-worthy craft.

  There was lots of work still to do, and the king had simply tossed Mog into the middle of it. Mog thanked the stars that Ryal and Kremp had already seen to the refitting of the Narma Kull, leaving him free to see to the Navy’s needs. In order to help him keep up with all the infernal forms, Kremp had installed a wrap-around workstation on the command platform. Mog could now balance the fleet’s resource allocation requests, repair priorities, and officer assignments from the center seat. The workstation also had basic helm and tactical controls, should his officers become incapacitated.

  He took a sip of Talurian tea and scrolled through the latest roster reports. In addition to the gross loss of tonnage, there was a scarcity of senior commanders and experienced crew. They had all been called to defend Mauria once the Ta’Krell had broken through the Maurian lines, and most had perished in the fight for the planet.

  This wasn’t to say all was lost. A few veterans had retired to Sledgim, which Mog refused to call Mauria Prime despite the King’s insistence. Many of these veterans had answered the call and come back to the service. Also, there were the deep space explorers that had been away during the war and were only now slowly returning, plus the lucky handful of battle-scarred warriors who had somehow escaped destruction.

  He recalled one of the early battles, when the Narma Kull took fire from the Ta’Krell for the first time in defense of a colony world.

  Meela, plot a retreat course, there’s nothing we can do.

  His words echoed in his ears, and for a moment he could smell the fear that had permeated the bridge and hear the dismay in his own voice as he gave that order. That colony had bur
ned, just like Mauria would.

  The flashbacks weren’t as bad now, and he knew them for what they were. Still, the fetor of scorched fur and blood seemed to linger about him, haunting him.

  He sipped his tea.

  A tremor coursed through the ship. Mog looked around at the bridge crew, most of them newly assigned from Sledgim’s naval college. Almost all were cadets, some with less than a year of schooling under their claws. As before, the youngsters tensed up at the noise, the fur on their necks prickling, ears swiveling in every direction.

  It was the Narma Kull’s third stint in the graving docks, and the repairs and upgrades were coming along smoothly. The shipyard’s teams were pulling double shifts to get the Narma Kull back in fighting trim. One would think the cadets would be used to it by now, but the bangs and clangs on the hull still had them on edge. Some had never been in space before. How would they perform in a real fight?

  Mog drained his tea and looked back at the manning reports. He would give anything to have his old crew back, and not just for performance reasons. With so many dead, the Narma Kull didn’t feel like home anymore.

  Laleg, where are you my friend?

  He waved a claw, summoning the new yeoman for more tea.

  Ryal walked up to the command platform after the yeoman had left with Mog’s mug. “The station master says that’s the last of them. They’re all done. Now all we’ve got to do is wire them up.”

  “Good,” said Mog. “Our cadets are jumpy enough without the ship shaking all the time.”

  “Well, they’re as eager as the rest of us to kill some Ta’Krell. They’ll learn what it’s like soon enough.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” The last thing he needed was a bunch of bloodthirsty, untrained kids. They might ignore his orders in the heat of battle or, just as likely, freeze up when the carnage started.

  “So,” said Ryal, after a pause. You won’t mind if I help Kremp wire up the new heavy guns, will you? I’ve been itching to check them out.”

  Mog bowed his head. “Not much to do up here except calibrate consoles and fill out reports. Yeah, you’re relieved. Go do whatever you want with the PPCs.”

  Ryal looked delighted. He turned to leave, but stopped, eying Mog. “Are you alright?”

  Mog licked his lips. His mouth was dry. He looked around for the yeoman, but he hadn’t returned to the bridge yet. He growled softly. “I’m tired, Ryal. I’m tired of running numbers. No matter how I look at it, there is just no way to defend this system from the Ta’Krell if they discover it. It’ll take decades for the new shipyards to be built, and the ones we’ve still got can’t produce ships like the Narma Kull. It won’t be enough for when the Ta’Krell come. We’re going to need help.”

  Ryal tipped an ear. “I agree with you. The Talurians are the only ones, though. They might be cold-blooded bastards, but they’re a class-one technological civilization. There’s no other species like them in a thousand light-years, with the possible exception of the Wetu, but they don’t ever leave their sulfuric planet. The question is, will the Talurians help us, after all we did to them? And even if they can help, how in Ramas’ holy name do we get them here without tipping off the Ta’Krell?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mog. “But the king intends to find a way.”

  “And how’s he going to do that?”

  “I have no idea. Ruba doesn’t let me in on all of his plans, but he did requisition a fast courier ship for personal use two days ago.”

  Ryal’s ears perked up. “You think he’s going to go after them himself? He’s the one that ordered the destruction of that border world of theirs, what was it, Trevia Seven? They’ll skin him and hang his coat up at the palace gates.”

  A chirping sound from the upper level ended their conversation. It was a communications alert. A few seconds went by, and when the noise didn’t diminish Mog turned around. The new communications officer, a short tan-furred male with a black nose and eyes, was staring at his controls with an expression of frantic embarrassment. He was middle-aged, not a cadet. Mog didn’t recall the man’s name, although he was sure he’d known it at some point when he was pulling in the Narma Kull’s replacements.

  “Boardman,” said Ryal. “Silence that buzzer before I get a headache.”

  “Sorry,” said the comm officer. “I’m not familiar with these controls. They’re more complicated than those on the cargo freighters.”

  “What’s your name?” said Ryal.

  “It’s Ja’tar,” said the officer. He finally managed to silence the alert, but Mog knew the man’s troubles weren’t over.

  “Well Ja’tar,” said Ryal, staring up at the man. “I suggest you start memorizing that control layout. You’ll need to know where everything is by feel. Muscle memory, got it?”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “That’s yes sir,” growled Ryal.

  “Right, sorry,” said Ja’tar. “We didn’t keep it that formal in His Majesty’s Shipping Service. And, sir, the person on the other end of the line shouldn’t be kept waiting.”

  “Why’s that?” said Ryal.

  “It’s a transmission from the planet. It’s, well, His Majesty.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place?” said Ryal. “Put him on. Quickly, Ja’tar, quickly.”

  After a moment, Ja’tar found the button he was looking for. The viewscreen flicked on, and the king’s concerned face filled the front of the bridge.

  Mog stood. “Greetings Ruba,” he said. All around, the crew snapped to attention and bowed. Mog remained upright.

  Ruba cleared his throat. “Having trouble with your receiver?”

  Mog cast a sideways glance at Ryal. Behind them on the upper level, Ja’tar was probably dying of embarrassment. Mog saw no need to make things worse for the boardman.

  “We’ve been a little busy up here,” he said.

  “I see,” said the king. “Well, I am afraid we are all about to get a lot busier. I just received a secret report that three unidentified vessels are approaching the system. I’m forwarding the data to you now. Our long range sensors are having trouble identifying the ships from within Mauria Prime’s hyperspace bubble, especially since the ships are generating interference to mask their signatures.”

  Mog forced back rising apprehension. We’re not ready.

  “When will they be here?” he said.

  “It is difficult to tell, but our best estimates put them at our defensive perimeter within eighteen hours. I dislike hasty conclusions, but my intuition tells me these vessels are an advance scout belonging to the Ta’Krell.”

  The bridge fell into morbid silence. Mog swallowed hard, trying to project an air of confidence. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, a planet burst into flames.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Meela. “Is there any way to know for sure?”

  “Not without launching an active scanner probe outside of the system, where it could be detected in normal space,” said Ryal. “That would be a dead giveaway that we’re here.”

  When the king spoke, his voice was almost inaudible. “We cannot take any chances. We will evacuate.”

  Whispers sprang up from every corner of the bridge. On the upper level, where the officers were farthest away from the viewscreen’s audio pickups, the comments were the most heated.

  “Running is for cowards,” hissed a junior boardman. “I’d rather die.”

  “Where would we go?” asked another.

  “Don’t worry,” whispered Nali. “Commander Mog would never agree to run.”

  Mog’s insides grew cold. “When will we know for sure if these ships are Ta’Krell?”

  “Not until they enter the system,” said the king.

  Mog kept his face as impassive as possible. Stay, fight, and most likely die. Run, hide, and maybe live.

  He didn’t have to look around to know that all eyes were trained on him. He couldn’t stall any longer. He knew what his duty demanded of him, and as much as he hat
ed to say it, Ruba’s analysis of the situation was correct. They should hedge their bets, so that no matter what, the remnant of Mauria had a chance at survival.

  “You’re right,” said Mog. “We should send the civilians out of the system.”

  The whispers became shouts.

  “Only three ships?” said a cadet. “Surely we can defend against that.”

  “What, are you numb?” said another cadet. “Have you watched the battle footage? Any one of their cruisers is a match for us.”

  “Early on, sure,” said another. “Now we know their tactics. We can kill them, can’t we? Can’t we Mog?”

  Mog looked around. The cadets were young, filled with fire but lacking experience. They had been in classrooms when Mauria fell, not on the front lines. They had no idea what they were facing.

  He allowed them to argue for a moment before slamming his clawed foot into the deck. The resulting clang silenced the voices, but tension hung in the air.

  “Just one Ta’Krell dreadnaught would be enough to destroy half of our fleet,” he said. “If there are three, then we don’t stand a chance. We can’t avenge the homeworld if we’re all dead.”

  He looked around, waiting for someone to contradict him. Ryal glared at him, but said nothing. The new cadets avoided meeting his glare.

  “I am glad we agree,” said Ruba. “But I see that this decision weighs heavily on your crew.”

  “Damn right it does,” muttered Ryal.

  “My crew obeys my word,” said Mog.

  Ruba bowed his head. “If our transports start filling now, they should be able to get away before the Ta’Krell arrive. It will be the Navy’s job to make sure they escape. Mog, you will take the four most powerful warships and escort the transports to the edge of the system, to a point where they can use their hyperdrives with minimal risk from Sledgim’s gravitational influence. Chart up a hyperspace course for Taluria. You will leave as soon as those transports are full. I will take the rest of our ships and stay behind. We will hold off the enemy for as long as possible and destroy them if we can. We will ram them if we have to. The Ta’Krell will not be allowed to follow.”