33
Anlyn wrapped her hand in Edison’s and squeezed one of his large fingers. “How confident do you feel about this?” she asked.
“Ninety-two percent,” he said. “Rounding down, of course.”
Anlyn frowned; she let go of his finger and hovered her own over the hyperdrive button. The coordinates for a class V star were locked in the computer, a sight that ran counter to everything she knew about astral navigation. Red lights flashed and alarms sounded, warning her of the poor choice of arrival coordinates. Only once before had she ever jumped while overriding a hyperdrive’s alarms, and she was pretty sure that decision, for better or for worse, had been the most momentous of her entire life. This decision, however, seemed to rival that other one.
She closed her eyes, said, “I love you,” and then pressed the switch.
Her stomach dropped. More warning alarms went off.
Edison screamed beside her.
Anlyn opened her eyes and caught a wave of harsh light across her face right before the windshield darkened, returning things to normal. A thousand white dots crawled across her vision like albino ants. She blinked rapidly, trying to sort out the foreign alarms and worrying about Edison.
“Are you okay?” she yelled. She applied thrust, then gripped the steering column with both hands. Her stomach had dropped because they were in free-fall. And the spots of light seemed to be flurries of snow.
“Zero optical functioning!” Edison roared in English.
“Great Hori, we’re in atmosphere! I’ve got targets everywhere. Trying to get lift!”
A voice interrupted in a language she recognized, just as she knew the general look of their script: Bern. The words rattled for a few seconds, then stopped.
“Did you hear that?” Anlyn asked.
“Affirmitive,” Edison said, fumbling for the radio, “They find our arrival vector non-optimal.”
Anlyn grabbed the mic and pressed it into his groping paw. She had the ship leveled off and rejoining the other SADAR targets at altitude. She heard Edison grunt, clearing his throat; he launched into a conversation in Bern.
“That didn’t sound like our speech,” she said, once he was done.
Edison sat back in his seat, dabbing at his eyes with the back of his paws. “I’m ignoring our prior schematics,” he said.
“What?” Anlyn settled into formation, flying by the instruments, the outside world shrouded in white. “What did you say to them?”
“I said flight eight twelve four, Exponent, falling into line, apologies for the fright.”
“Why would you do that?” Anlyn glanced over at Edison. “We came here to talk!”
He shook his head. “Our surviving the jump obviates the need for talk,” he said. “Assumptions have been validated: there’s an invasion underway. By extension, the Bern are little interested in nonmilitant communications.”
Anlyn settled down, the shaking in her arms subsiding as the rush of jumping into the center of a star and surviving gradually faded away. She looked at the grid-like pattern of targets spread out over thousands of kilometers, the blips flickering and sporadic from some sort of interference. Still, there was no doubting what she was seeing. A massive invasion force was assembled all around her—in fact she was now a part of it. Edison had been right about everything.
The voice on the radio returned and carried on for half a minute.
“What did he say?”
“He expressed grievances with our flight commander followed by orientation procedurals for us. We are presently queued up for the rift, number four hundred eighteen. Maintain velocity and minimize chatter. Resume three hour shifts.”
Anlyn laughed, her voice shaking with all things but humor. “Three hour shifts? Great. Who’s gonna take over for us so we can get some sleep?”
Edison shrugged. “Such logistics normally fall upon the commander, Commander.”
Anlyn turned to frown at Edison and saw his furry cheeks peeled back—his teeth flashing.
Anlyn laughed at him. Once more, without humor.