they walked. "But if FleetOps finds you've been hiding a stolen slaver computer on board ..."
"A rediscovered slaver computer," said the commodore.
"The distinction won't impress a tribunal. You took the thing off TNil's Revenge, on Terra's moon," said L'Wrona softly. "Fine. But then you hid it here"—he nodded toward the door—"and told no one. That's illegal. Now you plan to activate it, and that's criminal. FleetOps is going to do some profound reprogramming of your gray matter."
"We're hanging by our fingernails on the edge of forever," said D'Trelna. "FleetOps is not."
Ten rifles snapped to the salute as the two passed by, D'Trelna sketching a salute. "Where's Lieutenant S'Til?" he asked the NCO blocking the door.
"Dispensary, sir," said the sergeant.
D'Trelna frowned. "Odd. She's never sick."
"You going to let us in, Sergeant?" said L'Wrona.
"That's up to the computer, sir." The woman pointed to the security terminal set in the wall.
"J'Quel?" said the captain, deferring to his senior.
"Of course," said D'Trelna. He thumbed the red tab. "D'Trelna, J'Quel, Commodore."
"And L'Wrona, H'Nar, Captain," said the margrave over D'Trelna's shoulder.
The sergeant stepped aside as the door opened.
Stepping through the doorway, commodore and captain entered a wide, high-ceilinged room. Walking quickly, they passed rows of racked blasters, light artillery pieces, stacked crates of ordnance, then through a second, double-guarded door and a final security check.
"All right, J'Quel," said L'Wrona as the door slid shut behind them. "Show me."
It was a tiny room, almost a closet, its walls the same uniform gray as elsewhere—except for the wall to their left, which was white with small hexagonal niches. Sealed behind armorglass in each of the ten lighted niches gleamed a conical silver warhead. Large red lettering blazed above the warheads—lettering repeated in deathless blue flame etched into each piece of armorglass:
DEATH-WARNING! DEATH-WARNING! MO 18. G—PLANETARY-DESTRUCT WARHEAD! ANY ATTEMPT TO ACCESS WARHEAD WITHOUT FLEET-ISSUED BATTLECODE WILL DETONATE WARHEAD!
"Impressive, isn't it?" said D'Trelna. Before L'Wrona could move, he'd covered the distance to the first niche and slid the glass aside.
"J'Quel . . . !" said the captain, aghast as D'Trelna removed the warhead and began casually to unscrew it.
"When Fleet found Implacable and pulled her out of stasis," said the commodore, "she had only nine of those warheads. The first little baby here was gone from its creche. I appropriated the space."
L'Wrona had recovered, moving to D'Trelna's side. "So you created a dummy warhead as a hiding place." He laughed—shakily.
"I've often wondered," said D'Trelna, handing the captain the top of the hollow cone, "what poor rebel planet the Empire snuffed with it."
"We might also speculate on the nature of a culture that uses 'death-warning' as a compound noun," said L'Wrona, glancing at the red letters, "and went through eighteen generations of planet snuffers. . . . That's it?" he asked as D'Trelna held up a small golden egg.
"That's it," nodded the commodore. He handed the other half of the fake warhead to L'Wrona. "Would you replace this?" he asked.
By the time the captain had reassembled the casing and restored it to its niche, D'Trelna was standing beside the egg, blaster in hand.
"What now?" said L'Wrona.
"Now," said D'Trelna, twisting the MHA's muzzle to lowest power, "little egg grows up." He aimed two-handed at the spheroid.
L'Wrona held up a hand. "Wait, J'Quel. We'd better record this. Just in case."
"In case of what?" asked the commodore, lowering his weapon. "It eats us?"
"As I recall," said the captain, walking to the wall complink, "this unit's predecessor wanted your brain for use in some psychotic fantasy." He punched the On tab as D'Trelna grunted.
"Computer. Captain."
"Yes, Captain?" came the asexual contralto.
"Full scan of special vault, Armory One, commencing now. Record to
"A rediscovered slaver computer," said the commodore.
"The distinction won't impress a tribunal. You took the thing off TNil's Revenge, on Terra's moon," said L'Wrona softly. "Fine. But then you hid it here"—he nodded toward the door—"and told no one. That's illegal. Now you plan to activate it, and that's criminal. FleetOps is going to do some profound reprogramming of your gray matter."
"We're hanging by our fingernails on the edge of forever," said D'Trelna. "FleetOps is not."
Ten rifles snapped to the salute as the two passed by, D'Trelna sketching a salute. "Where's Lieutenant S'Til?" he asked the NCO blocking the door.
"Dispensary, sir," said the sergeant.
D'Trelna frowned. "Odd. She's never sick."
"You going to let us in, Sergeant?" said L'Wrona.
"That's up to the computer, sir." The woman pointed to the security terminal set in the wall.
"J'Quel?" said the captain, deferring to his senior.
"Of course," said D'Trelna. He thumbed the red tab. "D'Trelna, J'Quel, Commodore."
"And L'Wrona, H'Nar, Captain," said the margrave over D'Trelna's shoulder.
The sergeant stepped aside as the door opened.
Stepping through the doorway, commodore and captain entered a wide, high-ceilinged room. Walking quickly, they passed rows of racked blasters, light artillery pieces, stacked crates of ordnance, then through a second, double-guarded door and a final security check.
"All right, J'Quel," said L'Wrona as the door slid shut behind them. "Show me."
It was a tiny room, almost a closet, its walls the same uniform gray as elsewhere—except for the wall to their left, which was white with small hexagonal niches. Sealed behind armorglass in each of the ten lighted niches gleamed a conical silver warhead. Large red lettering blazed above the warheads—lettering repeated in deathless blue flame etched into each piece of armorglass:
DEATH-WARNING! DEATH-WARNING! MO 18. G—PLANETARY-DESTRUCT WARHEAD! ANY ATTEMPT TO ACCESS WARHEAD WITHOUT FLEET-ISSUED BATTLECODE WILL DETONATE WARHEAD!
"Impressive, isn't it?" said D'Trelna. Before L'Wrona could move, he'd covered the distance to the first niche and slid the glass aside.
"J'Quel . . . !" said the captain, aghast as D'Trelna removed the warhead and began casually to unscrew it.
"When Fleet found Implacable and pulled her out of stasis," said the commodore, "she had only nine of those warheads. The first little baby here was gone from its creche. I appropriated the space."
L'Wrona had recovered, moving to D'Trelna's side. "So you created a dummy warhead as a hiding place." He laughed—shakily.
"I've often wondered," said D'Trelna, handing the captain the top of the hollow cone, "what poor rebel planet the Empire snuffed with it."
"We might also speculate on the nature of a culture that uses 'death-warning' as a compound noun," said L'Wrona, glancing at the red letters, "and went through eighteen generations of planet snuffers. . . . That's it?" he asked as D'Trelna held up a small golden egg.
"That's it," nodded the commodore. He handed the other half of the fake warhead to L'Wrona. "Would you replace this?" he asked.
By the time the captain had reassembled the casing and restored it to its niche, D'Trelna was standing beside the egg, blaster in hand.
"What now?" said L'Wrona.
"Now," said D'Trelna, twisting the MHA's muzzle to lowest power, "little egg grows up." He aimed two-handed at the spheroid.
L'Wrona held up a hand. "Wait, J'Quel. We'd better record this. Just in case."
"In case of what?" asked the commodore, lowering his weapon. "It eats us?"
"As I recall," said the captain, walking to the wall complink, "this unit's predecessor wanted your brain for use in some psychotic fantasy." He punched the On tab as D'Trelna grunted.
"Computer. Captain."
"Yes, Captain?" came the asexual contralto.
"Full scan of special vault, Armory One, commencing now. Record to
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