“Yet ’twas done to Sheskar,” Jiltanith pointed out.

“True, but Sheskar was primarily a military base, ’Tanni, not a civilian system. The decision to attack it would be evaluated purely in terms of military expedience, like nuking a well-armed island base in the middle of an ocean. It’s a lot easier to decide to hit a target like that.”

“All right,” Colin nodded. “But if they didn’t wipe themselves out, why didn’t they come back?”

“That’s probability two,” MacMahan said flatly. “They did so much damage they backslid. They could have done a fair job of smashing themselves without actually destroying all their planets. It’s hard for me to visualize a high-tech planet which wasn’t nuked—or something like it—decivilizing completely, but I can accept that more easily than the idea that all their planets look like this.” He gestured at the holo display.

“Besides, they might have damaged themselves in other ways. Suppose they fought their war and found themselves faced with massive reconstruction closer to the heart of the Imperium? Sheskar is—was—a hell of a long way from their next nearest inhabited system, and, as Dahak has pointed out, this area isn’t exactly prime real estate. If they had heavily damaged areas closer to home, they could’ve decided to deal with those first. Afterward, the area on the far side of the Imperium, where damage from the Achuultani hadn’t wrecked so many planets to begin with, would have been a natural magnet for future expansion.”

“Mayhap, yet that leaveth still a question. Whyfor, if Sheskar was so vital, rebuild it not?”

“I’m afraid I can answer that,” Ninhursag said unhappily. “Maybe Anu wasn’t as crazy—or quite as unique in his craziness—as we thought.” She shrugged as all eyes turned to her. “What I’m trying to say is that if things got so bad the Imperium actually fought a civil war, they weren’t Imperials anymore. I’m the only person in this room who was an adult at the time of the mutiny, and I know how I would’ve reacted to the thought of wiping out a Fleet base. Even those of us who didn’t really believe in the Achuultani—even the ‘atheists,’ I suppose you might call them, who violently rejected their existence—would have hesitated to do that. That’s why Anu lied to us about his own intent to attack the Imperium.”

She looked unhappily at the holo for a moment, and none of the others intruded upon her silence.

“None of you were ever Imperial citizens, so you may not understand what I’m trying to say, but preparing to fight the Achuultani was something we’d societized into ourselves on an almost instinctual level. Even those who most resented the regimentation, the discipline, wouldn’t have destroyed our defenses. It would be like … like Holland blowing up its dikes because of one dry summer, for Maker’s sake!”

“You’re saying that disbelief in the Achuultani must have become general?” Colin said. “That if it hadn’t, the Fleet would never have let itself be caught up in something like a civil war in the first place?”

“Exactly. And if that’s true, why rebuild Sheskar as a base against an enemy that doesn’t exist?” Ninhursag gave a short, ugly laugh. “Maybe we were the wave of the future instead of just a bunch of murderous traitors!”

“Easy, ’Hursag.” MacMahan touched her shoulder, and she inhaled sharply.

“Sorry.” Her voice was a bit husky. “It’s just that I don’t really want to believe what I’m saying—especially not now that I know how wrong we were!”

“Maybe not, but it makes sense,” Colin said slowly.

“Agreed, Captain,” Dahak said. “Indeed, there is another point. For Fleet vessels to have participated in this action would require massive changes in core programming by at least one faction. Without that, Fleet Central Alpha Priority imperatives would have precluded any warfare which dissipated resources and so weakened Battle Fleet’s ability to resist an incursion. This would appear to support Fleet Commander Ninhursag’s analysis.”

“All right. But even if it’s not the Imperium we came to find, there may still be an Imperium somewhere up ahead of us.” Colin tried to project more optimism than he felt. “Dahak, what was the nearest piece of prime real estate? The closest star system which wasn’t purely a military base?”

“Defram,” Dahak replied without hesitation. “A G2-K5 binary system with two inhabited planets. As of the last Imperial census in my data base, the system population was six-point-seven-one-seven billion. Main industries—”

“That’s enough,” Colin interrupted. “How far away is it?”

“One hundred thirty-three-point-four light-years, Captain.”

“Um … bit over two months at max. That means a round trip of just over eleven months before we could get back to Earth.”

“Approximately eleven-point-three-two months, Captain.”

“All right, people,” Colin sighed. “I don’t see we have too much choice. Let’s go to Defram and see what we can see.”

“Aye,” Jiltanith agreed. ” ’Twould seem therein our best hope doth lie.”

“I agree,” MacMahan said, and Ninhursag nodded silently.

“Okay. I want to sit here and think a little more. Take the watch, please, ’Tanni. Dismiss from battle stations, then have Sarah get us underway on sublight. I’ll join you in Command One when I finish here.” Jiltanith rose with a silent nod, and he turned to the others.

“Hector, you and ’Hursag sit down and build me models of as many scenarios as you can. I know you don’t have any hard data, but put your heads together with our other adult Imperials and Dahak and extrapolate trends.”

“Yes, sir,” MacMahan said quietly, and Colin propped his chin in his hands, elbows on the table, and stared sadly at the holo as the others filed out the hatch. He expected no sudden inspiration, for there was nothing here to offer it. He only knew that he needed to be alone with his thoughts for a while, and, unlike his subordinates, he had the authority to be that way.

“Well, Marshal Tsien?”

Tsien regarded Gerald Hatcher levelly as they strode down the hall. It was the first time either had spoken since leaving the Lieutenant Governor’s office, and Tsien crooked an eyebrow, inviting amplification. The American only smiled, declining to make his question more specific, but Tsien understood and, in all honesty, appreciated his tact.

“I am … impressed, Comrade General,” he said. “The Lieutenant Governor is a formidable man.” His answer meant more than the words said, but he had already seen enough of this American to know he would understand.

“He’s all of that,” Hatcher agreed, opening a door and waving Tsien into his own office. “He’s had to be,” he added in a grimmer voice.

Tsien nodded as they crossed the deserted office. It was raining again, he noted, watching the water roll down the windows. Hatcher gestured to an armchair facing the desk as he circled to reach his own swiveled chair.

“So I have understood,” Tsien replied, sitting carefully. “Yet he seems unaware of it. He does not strike one as so … so—”

“Grand? Self-important?” Hatcher suggested with a grin, and Tsien chuckled despite himself.

“Both of those things, I suppose. Forgive me, but you in the West have always seemed to me to be overly taken with personal pomp and ceremony. With us, the office or occasion, not the individual, deserves such accolades. Do not mistake me, Comrade General; we have our own methods of deification, but we have learned from past mistakes. Those we deify now are—for the most part—safely dead. My country would understand your Governor. Our Governor, I suppose I must say. If your purpose is to win my admission that I am impressed by him, you have succeeded, General Hatcher.”

“Good.” Hatcher frowned thoughtfully, his face somehow both tighter and more open. “Do you also accept that we’re being honest with you, Marshal?”