“Great day in the morning,” Colin muttered. Then, “All right. Take a good look, then get back over here. We’re having an all-departments meeting in four hours to discuss plans for reactivation.

“Understood,” Chernikov said, and broke the connection. He and Baltan exchanged eloquent shrugs and bent back to the study of their prize.

”…can’t be specific until we’ve got the computers back up and run a complete inventory,” Geran said, “but about ten percent of all spares required controlled condition storage. Without that—” He shrugged.

Most of Colin’s department heads were present in the flesh, but a sizable force from the recon group was prowling around other installations, and Hector MacMahan and Ninhursag attended via holo image from the battleship Osir’s command deck. Now all eyes, physical and holographic alike, swiveled to Colin.

“All right.” He spoke quietly, leaning his forearms on the crystalline tabletop to return their gazes. “Bottom line. Mother’s time estimate is based on sixteen-hour shifts for every man and woman after we put at least one automated repair yard back on line. According to the reports from Hector’s people, we can probably do that, but I expect to find ourselves pushing closer to twenty-hour shifts by the time we’re done. We could increase the odds and decrease the workload by concentrating on a dozen or so units. I’m sure that’s going to occur to a lot of people in the next few weeks. However—” his eyes circled their faces “—we aren’t going to do it that way. We need as many of these ships as we can get, and, ladies and gentlemen, I mean to have every single one of them.”

There was a sound like a soft gasp, and he smiled grimly.

“God only knows how hard they’re working back on Earth, but we’re about to make up for our nice vacation on the trip out. Every one of them, people. No exceptions. We will leave this system no later than five months from today, and the entire Imperial Guard Flotilla will go with us when we do.”

“But, sir,” Chernikov said, “we may ask for too much and lose it all. I do not fear hard work, but we have only a finite supply of personnel. A very finite supply.”

“I understand, Vlad, but the decision is not negotiable. We’ve got highly motivated, highly capable people aboard this ship. I feel certain they’ll understand and give of their very best. If not, however, tell them this.

“I’ll be working my ass off right beside them, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be keeping tabs on what they’re doing. And, people, if I catch anyone shirking, I’m going to be the worst nightmare he ever had.”

His smile was grim, but even its micrometric amusement looked out of place on his rock-hard face.

“Tell them they can depend on that,” he finished very, very softly.

Assistant Servant of Thunders Brashieel of the Nest of Aku’Ultan folded all four legs under him on his duty pad as he bent his long-snouted head, considering his panel, and slid both hands into the control gloves. Eight fingers and four thumbs twitched, activating each test circuit in turn, and he noted the results cheerfully. He had not had a major malfunction in three twelves of twelve watches.

Equipment tests completed, he checked Vindicator’s position. It was purely automatic, for there could be no change. Once a vessel entered hyper space it remained there, impotent but inviolate, until it reached the pre-selected coordinates and emerged into normal space once more.

Brashieel did not understand those mysteries particularly well, for he was no lord—not even of thunders, much less of star-faring—but because Small Lord of Order Hantorg was a good lord, he had made certain Vindicator’s nestlings all knew whither they were bound. Another yellow sun, this one with nine planets. Once it had boasted ten, but that had been before the visit of Great Lord Vaskeel’s fleet untold high twelves of years before. Now it was time to return, and Vindicator and his brothers would sweep through it like the Breath of Tarhish, trampling the nest-killers under hooves of flame.

It was well. The Protectors of the Nest would feed their foes to Tarhish’s Fire, and the Nest would be safe forever.

“Outer perimeter tracking confirms hyper wakes approaching from galactic east,” Sir Frederick Amesbury said.

Gerald Hatcher nodded without even looking up. His neural feed hummed with readiness reports, and his eyes were unfocused.

“Got an emergence locus and ETA, Frederick?”

“It’s bloody rough, but Plotting’s calling it fifty light-minutes and forty-five degrees above the ecliptic. Judging from the wake strength, the buggers should be arriving in about twelve hours. Tracking promises to firm that up in the next two hours.”

“Fine.” Hatcher acknowledged the last report and blinked back into focus, wishing yet again that Dahak had returned. If Colin MacIntyre had been gone this long, it meant he hadn’t found aid at Sheskar and must have decided he had no choice but to hope Earth could hold without him while he sought it elsewhere. And that he might not be back for another full year.

He activated his com panel, and Horus’s taut face appeared instantly.

“Governor,” the general reported, knowing full well that Horus already knew what he was about to say and that he was speaking for the record, “I have to report that I have placed our forces on Red Two. Hyper wakes presumed to be hostile have been detected. ETA is approximately—” he checked the time through his neural feed “—seventeen-thirty hours, Zulu. System defense forces are now on full alert. Civil defense procedures have been initiated. All PDC and ODC commanders are in the net. Interceptor squadrons are at two-hour readiness. Planetary shield generators and planetary core tap are at stand-by readiness. Battle Squadrons One and Four are within thirty minutes of projected n-space emergence; Squadrons Two and Six should rendezvous with them by oh-seven-hundred Zulu. Squadrons Three, Five, Seven, Eight, Nine, and Ten, with escorts, are being held in-system as per Plan Able-One.

“Have you any instructions at this time, Governor?”

“Negative, General Hatcher. Please keep me informed.”

“I will, sir.”

“Good luck, Gerald,” Horus said softly, his tone much less formal.

“Thanks, Horus. We’ll try to make a little luck of our own.”

The screen blanked, and Gerald Hatcher turned back to his console.

Assistant Servant Brashieel checked his chronometer. Barely four day twelfths until emergence, and tension was high in Vindicator, for this was the Demon Sector. It was not often the Protectors of the Nest encountered a foe with an advance technical base—that was why they came, to crush the nest-killers before they armed themselves—but five of the last twelve Great Visits to this sector had been savaged. They had triumphed, but at great cost, and the last two had been the most terrible of all. Perhaps, Brashieel thought, that was the reason Great Lord Tharno’s Great Visit had been delayed: to amass the strength the Nest required for certain success.

That alone was cause enough for concern, yet the disquiet among his nestmates had grown far worse since the first nest-killer scanner stations had been detected. More than one scout ship had been lured to his death by the fiendish stations, and the explosions which slew them meant their surviving consorts had learned absolutely nothing about the technology which built those stations … except that it was advanced, indeed.

But this star system would offer no threat. Small Lord Hantorg had revealed the latest data scan shortly after Vindicator entered hyper for this last jump to the target. It was barely three twelves of years old, and though electronic and neutrino emissions had been detected (which was bad enough), there had been none of the more advanced signals from the scanner arrays. Clearly the Protectors must see to this threat, yet these nest-killers would have only the lesser thunder, not the greater, and they would be crushed. Nothing could have changed enough in so short a time to alter that outcome.