Teelm’s tentacles shook as he weaved them into the complex gloves of his pressure suit. Beside him, the rest of the tactical team geared up, while across the ship, the marine detachment and Dreeden security force latched their power armor into place and checked their weapons.
He nearly jumped when Lt. Reald appeared at his side. “Nervous Teelm? Let me help you with those.” She held the gauntlets steady for him to slip his tentacles into and checked the pressure seals. “Just remember your training, and you’ll be fine.” She patted him on his back as she walked away.
Teelm took a deep breath and steadied himself before stepping toward the airlock. He latched onto the one thought that kept him away from the fear that loomed over him. He had always wanted to try to hack a dreadnaught.
Nesh paced nervously as the Bonthan courier ship approached the Flashing Hooves.
There had been no indication that the Flashing Hooves noticed the courier ship, and if the members of the flag ship’s crew who were loyal to Nuryaw had done their part, the Flashing Hooves would be blind to their approach for a precious few more seconds.
“You’re making me nervous, Nesh,” Baden complained.
“My pacing is making you nervous? Really Baden?” Nesh replied. “Not the fact that we’re on an intercept course with a Bonthan dreadnaught, or that our plan is then to try and take it by force with small arms?”
Baden shrugged. “It wasn’t my plan this time.”
“I know. I’m beginning to hate Nuryaw’s plans as much as your own.”
The courier ship raced toward the Flashing Hooves, and the mushroom-cap shaped dreadnought grew more massive in the courier ship’s magnified viewscreen. If Wenthan’s contact had done their job, the courier ship wouldn’t show up on the Flashing Hooves’ tactical plot. Instead, it would be tagged as a tiny piece of space debris, nothing that the Flashing Hooves navigational shields couldn’t handle, and dreadnaughts don’t yield to rubble.
The second job that Wenthan’s contact had was to recruit other crew loyal to Nuryaw in the engineering department. If she had been successful, the Flashing Hooves’ shields would flicker for a split second as the courier ship reached it. If not, the courier ship would instantly disintegrate as it impacts the dreadnaught’s shield.
Nesh closed his eyes, listening to the Bonthan bridge crew countdown the seconds.
“Three seconds to interpolation with the shield. Two. One. Zero.”
Nesh counted the fact that he could still feel his hearts thundering in his chest as a good sign and opened his eyes.
“Helm, set us down in the main docking bay,” Admiral Nuryaw commanded. “All passengers, brace for crash landing.”
Nesh’s tentacles gripped a nearby console tightly. Baden was smiling, which managed to annoy Nesh despite his fear. “I can’t believe you’re enjoying this.”
Topir System, Aboard ARTS Helena
Quet winced as the med-tech’s tentacles pressed the cold metal of the hypo-spray applicator into her neck, administering a dose of the neuroplasticity booster that every pilot received before a mission. It’s not that it hurts – not really. It’s that I know that this shot is full of nanites ready to mess around in my brain.
Across the hangar bay, Jester made a sympathetic face at her as he received his own injection.
“You’re good to go, ma’am,” the Dreeden med tech said, “go give ‘em hell.”
“I’ll do my best midshipman… Mevy.” Quet had to look down at the med tech’s name patch. “I thought I knew all the Dreeden on the Helena. When did you come aboard?”
“Just little less than a month ago, ma’am. Transferred straight from tech school.” Mevy dabbed the injection site with a disinfectant.
“No tour with 8th fleet? I thought you looked young.”
Mevy shrugged apologetically. “No ma’am, brass decided that Helena needed another qualified neural nanitic specialist, and here I am. Fly safe out there ma’am.”
The med tech turned to the next pilot, and Quet headed for her Bearcat, climbing up and in, closing the hatch behind her.
Bearcats, like most combat spacecraft, had no windows or canopy. Instead, the pilot sat in an enclosed, armored cockpit called the “pilot vault” on official documents, and called “the coffin” by pilots. Designed to survive the destruction of the fighter, the vaults contained the craft’s life support system, backup power, and a rescue beacon.
For a moment, Quet was surrounded by darkness. It was silent save for the sound of her breath and the soft hum of the life support system. Inhaling deeply, she leaned back in her seat and allowed the small port on the back of her neck to rest against the magnetic plug built into the cockpit chair. The plug snapped into place, and Quet gasped as the computer implanted in her brain connected with her fighter. Making the connection always felt a little bit like someone had tossed a cold glass of water on her head. But from the inside.
Begin startup sequence Quet thought to the fighter, and the Bearcat came alive around her. Inside her helmet, screens blinked on, linking to external cameras. The soft hum of the life-support systems was now joined by a deep thrum as the fighter’s engines warmed up, and Quet felt her stomach flip as the inertial compensators kicked on. The ship’s computer began going through pre-flight checks, then Quet went through them again manually. Outside her fighter, the crew chief made a last walk around, gave a thumbs up to her forward camera, and signaled the Flight Deck Controller.
“Flight deck control, ‘cat 15 is taxi ready.”
“Roger, removing gear locks, beginning taxi.” Quet watched as her craft was towed to its launch position near the front of Helena’s bay. During combat, Helena’s fighters were catapulted from quick-launch tubes that dotted the length of the ship, but a scheduled combat space patrol such as this one allowed a more leisurely launch.
Quet watched as the front of the hangar bay slowly opened, massive clam-shell doors revealing the black expanse of space in front of her squadron. Hangar launches always made Quet a little uneasy, as it looked like the entire contents of the hangar bay should have been sucked out of the front of the ship in a violent decompression, even though she knew that powerful energy fields kept the hangar pressurized.
In pairs, the rest of her squadron launched, leaving just Bug and Jester’s fighters. Quet’s tentacles tightened on the throttle, waiting for the signal from the launch officer.
“Bearcat one-five, launch status.”
“My board is green, Bearcat one-five is go for launch,” Quet replied.
“Roger that Bearcat 15, launch in 10 seconds, 2% power, good flying.”
The launch control officer snapped a salute, and a handful of seconds later, Quet gave the throttle control a feather-light nudge. Her fighter slipped from Helena’s hangar bay and into space.
Assemblage System, Aboard the Flashing Hooves
Streams of sparks flew from the Bonthan courier ship as it slid across the decking of the Flashing Hooves’ cavernous boat bay. Docking bay crew scrambled to get clear of the hurtling vessel, and small shuttle craft were thrown tumbling across the deck as the courier ship crunched into them. Thick smoke streamed from the surface of the ship, obscuring the destruction behind thick roiling clouds.
Finally, the courier ship slid to a halt amid fleeing crew and scattered debris, leaving smoking ruts of torn deck plates in its wake. It was silent for a moment, then the hangar exploded into action. Bonthans with security insignia stapled to their carapace rushed into the bay, leveling flechette pistols at the courier ship’s primary airlock. Across the bay, more Bonthan’s armed with heavy particle rifles and wearing combat armor streamed from two black security shuttles. They took position around the ship, covering every airlock.
It’s a good thing we’re not on the ship anymore. Going EVA while on final approach with a dreadnaught and then leaping onto its deck while your ship slid across its deck wasn’t an experience that Teelm wanted to repeat, but exiting conventionally looked like an excellent way to get shot. Not that getting shot is off the table. They had expected Bonthan security forces, but the armored Bonthan’s were an unknown factor. They moved with the confidence of professionals that seemed to mark special forces no matter what species they belonged to. Probably hired by Moktep to keep the Flashing Hooves under control.
Teelm’s hearts pounded as he crept through the wreckage of the shuttle bay. With the Flashing Hooves security and black-armored Bonthan special forces focusing on the courier ship, the Dreeden tactical team slipped through the boat bay undetected. He glanced up at their objective, the boat bay’s control room, and then at the expanse of open deck between the team and the target. The steam from the courier ship’s vented coolant had begun to fade, and it would only take one Bonthan glancing the wrong way to expose them. Not good.
Another group of Bontan security forces marched into the bay. Two of the Bonthan’s lugged a large cutting laser between them. They’re going to try and cut their way in. Teelm shifted impatiently as the Bonthan security team set up the laser at the primary airlock. He held his breath as the laser flickered on, invisible but for the remains of the smoke that had filled the bay a few moments ago. Molten metal ran in streams from the courier ship’s airlock as the laser began to cut its way into the ship. Teelm clenched his tentacles tight and tried to control his breathing.
He slowly reached for the sidearm holstered at the small of his back. The rest of the tactical team already had theirs out; Faen, Nach, and Delv held small gauss pistols like his own. The lieutenant carried her human-style ballistic sidearm while Ploel unfolded the collapsible stock of his submachine gun. Teelm was gratified to see that he wasn’t the only one who was nervous, worry creasing the faces of the rest of the team other than Reald and Ploel. Like him, this would be the first time Nach, Faena, and Delv fired their weapons outside of the range.
Teelm tensed as the laser cutter finished his work, fighting his panic down. The Bonthan’s crowded behind the cutter, fingers slipping to the triggers of their weapons. Your team needs you Teelm, don’t fuck this up. Just as the cutter cut the last piece of hatch away, Lt. Reald gave them the signal, and the Dreeden tactical team popped out of cover and opened fire.
He had never considered himself a good shot, but Bonthan’s were utterly unaware, backs turned to the tactical team as they faced the courier ship. They were also really, really big. Teelm heard the rest of his team open up on the Bonthans, picked his target, and squeezed a tentacle around his weapon’s firing stud. His target staggered as a section of its dorsal carapace was blown away, dropping to all six legs. Teelm’s stomach rebelled, and he thought he might vomit in his vac suit, but he pressed his lip nubs together, leveled his gauss pistol again and continued shooting.
The Bonthan’s were caught completely unaware by the tactical team’s fire. Screams and angry shouts filled the bay, punctuated by the staccato rhythm of Ploel’s submachine gun, the pops from four Gauss pistols and the rumbling boom from Lt. Reald’s handgun. The Bonthan security forces fared the worst, most of whom weren’t wearing combat armor. The black-armored Bonthans fared better, but even so, two went down from well-aimed shots from Ploel’s submachine gun and the lieutenant’s over-sized pistol.
Still, the Bonthan’s were professionals, and in a moment they were darting for cover and returning fire, spraying the team’s position with flechette fire and scorching particle beams.
“Down!”
Teelm was all too eager to follow the lieutenant’s order, flattening himself behind the shuttle wreckage. The shuttle rattled and shook as flechette rounds impacted on its hull again and again. He flinched as a particle beam shot pierced through the shuttle, scoring the deck on the opposite side, missing Faen by centimeters. Keep it together Teelm, it’s all part of the plan. More security forces poured into the hangar, and a group of Bonthan’s moved to flank the Dreeden tactical team’s cover.
Next to him, Lt. Reald spoke calmly on the comm channel. “Captain Gupta, I think we have their attention.”
From behind the Bonthans, marines leaped from the courier ship’s airlock, which had been left uncovered when the tactical team opened fire.
Teelm had watched the marine’s progress through his security feeds as they had fought their way through the Assemblage, but he didn’t have an appreciation for how much they had been pulling their punches until now. Instead of short, careful bursts aimed to incapacitate and not kill, the marines opened up with full automatic fire, their rifles spraying thousands of rounds a minute. Instead of concussion grenades, high-explosive ordnance shot from under-barrel launchers, blowing literal holes into the Bonthan formation. Lt. Carlsen knelt behind the charging marines, her long rail rifle sending impossibly loud booms through the hangar every two seconds with metronomic precision. Whenever it sounded, an armored Bonthan would fall, cored through by hypersonic railgun slugs.
Behind the Marines, the Dreeden embassy’s security detail followed, led by chief Beur. Their machine pistols joined the cacophony of weapons fire as they sprinted toward the enemy lines.
Bonthans galloped for cover, sending return fire back at the human marines. More Bonthans spilled from the main access corridor to the hangar, recoiling at first at the sight that greeted them. The hangar bay was a charnel house of blood and fire, flashing alarm lights casting a macabre red glow over a scene of destruction, accented by strobe-light like flashes of grenade detonations.
These security forces were better armed and armored. Teelm thought they must have stopped at the Flashing Hooves’ armory first. Along with the remains of the Bonthan special forces, the reinforcements took cover among the wreckage, and human marines were forced to take shelter among the burning ships that littered the deck.
“Your turn, Teelm,” Lt. Reald nodded to him. “We’re counting on you specialist.”
No pressure, Teelm thought. He exhaled slowly and nodded back to the lieutenant.
“In three, two,” Lt. Reald counted down, “One, go go go!” She popped up from behind the shuttle wreck and fired toward the Bonthan defenders, and specialists Faen, Nach, and Delv followed suit.
Teelm sprang from cover and sprinted toward the control room at the far side of the boat bay. Poel ran beside him, somehow just as fast as Teelm despite firing short bursts from his submachine gun as they ran.
Running in a vac-suit wasn’t easy, no matter how flexible it was. Teelm’s lungs burned, and his legs ached. He felt lilliputian in the enormous hangar, and the control room seemed an unreasonably long way away.
Flechette rounds impacted beside him, and he bit back a scream as shrapnel punctured his suit and dug painfully in his side. He tried to ignore the pain and ran faster. More rounds impacted around them. He caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of Ploel spinning 180 degrees before dropping to one knee and firing three short bursts. In a moment Ploel had caught back up.
Then, finally, they were at the entrance to the control room. Teelm collapsed against the doorway, his chest heaving and his head light. He reached down to his side and brought his tentacles to his face. They were slick with blood. Ploel knelt to inspect his wound, and Teelm found himself annoyed that the Kethkan didn’t even look out of breath.
“Superficial,” Ploel said.
It certainly didn’t feel superficial, but Teelm had never been shot before, so he kept quiet as Ploel slung his submachine gun and knit his suited tentacle gauntlets into a loose step. Teelm took the proffered step, letting Ploel boost him up to where he could reach the door control. He attached a wire lead to the control switch and folded his computer terminal out from its chest mount.
Opening the door was child’s play for Teelm, requiring only a few keystrokes as his supercomputer brute-forced the door code. With a hiss, the security room door slid open. Teelm dropped down to the floor and peered inside the room.
The room was full of Bonthan security. One raised are fore-hoof to point at the open door and cried out, their hackle-spines fully extended.
“Oh hell,” Teelm said to no one in particular.
“Stay behind me,” Ploel said, then ran toward the eight Bonthans. Teelm was only too happy to oblige. He half-covered his eyes with his tentacles as Ploel leaped from the floor and drew two molecular-bladed knives mid-jump.
The first Bonthan looked down in shock at the two bleeding holes in her carapace and tried to swat at Ploel, but the Kethkan was already gone, using her as a springboard to leap to the next closest Bonthan, slicing a diagonal line across its face.
The Bonthan were shouting in panic now, and Teelm winced as one fired their flechette pistol, missing Ploel but hitting another member of their security team. Ploel was on the ground now, racing between the Bonthan’s legs to cut at leg joints and softer stomach chitin. Teelm drew his gauss pistol with shaking tentacles, but didn’t fire, afraid of hitting Ploel as he wove between the Bonthans.
The flexibility and reach of tentacles made bladed weapons especially deadly in the hands of a well-trained Kethkan, and there was almost a savage beauty to Ploel’s movements. If there wasn’t so much blood, that is. Despite Ploel’s dance of death among the Bonthan, there were still four still standing. Teelm’s stomach clenched as Ploel wove between a forest of kicking hooves for a moment, only to emerge in front of Bonthan flechette pistol.
Teelm fired, his shot blowing the Bonthan’s flechette pistol out of their forehooves.
It was over a moment later. The last Bonthan dropped to the floor of the control room, and Ploel emerged, his vac suit smeared in blood. He nodded to Teelm, “Nice shot.”
Teelm considered telling Ploel that he had been aiming for the Bonthan’s head, but decided that they had more pressing things to worry about.
Using Ploel to give him a boost again, Teelm clambered onto the central control console and plugged his supercomputer into the terminal. Outside the windows of the control room, Teelm saw more and more Bonthan security forces pour into the bay. He needed to hurry, he knew that the marines and Dreeden embassy security forces didn’t have the numbers or ammunition hold for long.
Teelm wiggled his tentacles and went to work.
Hacking the network of a military vessel was altogether different than a private network. For starters, there was the need for a physical connection. Unlike civilian networks, where Teelm could access systems with a wireless connection, military ships kept many of their core systems completely air-gapped from any wireless network, which is why Teelm had to sprint across the hangar deck to get to the closest access point rather than just sitting comfortably in the courier ship.
Usually, Teelm would infiltrate a network stealthily, hiding his presence behind carefully crafted self-deleting sub-routines and shell programs, camouflaging his intrusions so that the system and its administrators would never know he was there. After all, Dreeden tactical teams were in the espionage business, and the value of finding a secret is lessened if the one you stole it from knows that you found it.
This time, Teelm didn’t have time for subtlety.
With a keystroke, Teelm unleashed hell on to the Flashing Hooves’ network, releasing a torrent of adaptive attack programs developed by Dreeden intelligence services. They ripped through the Flashing Hooves’ systems, commandeering nodes, rerouting traffic, and deleting security sub-routines wherever they found them.
Behind them, Teelm dumped thousands of individual self-replicating digital agents. Within seconds, they numbered in the billions, rewriting the network in their path. With a beachhead established, it was Teelm’s turn. He dove into the system, tentacles moving in a blur across the holo-screen of his supercomputer. Encryption was torn apart like tissue paper, firewalls bypassed in milliseconds, ports forced open, and core systems compromised.
A sliver of Teelm’s consciousness was aware of Ploel’s submachine gun firing, then knives flashing at the door, but he dismissed it as unimportant. Ploel would do what he was good at while Teelm would do the same.
The Flashing Hooves didn’t make it easy, but eventually, it yielded control, fighting system by system. In the end, though, the dreadnaught was a product of a Council race, and the Council and their opponents didn’t fight with subterfuge or electronic warfare. Meanwhile, the humans had taught the Dreeden how to do so in the first Vorshan war a century ago.
Access. Teelm grinned. Now, to really ruin their day.
Bonthan weaponry, it turned out, was networked. In theory, it allowed Bonthan command to remotely track where hand weapons were and alerted security if they were fired. In practice, for someone like Teelm, it was nothing more than another vulnerability.
Teelm typed in a series of commands. He held his breath for a handful of seconds until suddenly the bark of flechette guns and the high-pitched discharge of particle beams fell silent. Sparks and smoke spewed from the Bonthan weapons in the bay. Most dropped their weapons in alarm. Those that didn’t received a nasty shock as the weapon’s power systems overloaded.
Keying his comm, he sent the pre-arranged signal that the humans had insisted upon. “This is Specialist Teelm. The fox is in the henhouse. Transmitting message now.” He resolved to look up what the hell a “henhouse” was when had had time, and why it would be bad for a “fox” to be in it. Humans and their idioms.
On every screen and PA system on the Flashing Hooves, a pre-recorded message played. Nuryaw stood tall, flanked by her bridge officers. “My beloved and brave crew of the Flashing Hooves. Your admiral has returned.”
Ensign Yathed had done her job well, surreptitiously contacting loyal crew on the Flashing Hooves through discrete messages and instructing them to act when the time was right. Teelm watched through tapped security feeds as throughout the Flashing Hooves, the crew set upon Moktep’s security forces. Outnumbered and without weapons, they were quickly subdued.
In the boat bay, the Dreeden embassy security team rushed forward with stun-sticks drawn. A moment later, the hangar was silent save for the moans of the wounded.
Nesh gaped at the majestic columns of marble that lined the colossal hall inside the Flashing Hooves. Artwork and statuary covered every surface, and ponderous chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceilings.
Nuryaw led the procession through the ship, pointing out especially valuable works of art or on what planet a specific luxurious material was sourced from. Being back on her flagship seemed to be good for her. She stood taller, her eyes were brighter, and she radiated pride for her ship.
“This is a warship?” Nesh whispered to Baden.
Baden gave a low whistle in response. “This hallway alone could pay for a destroyer.”
Nuryaw must have heard Baden because she stopped to turn to him. “The Flashing Hooves isn’t just a warship. Hundreds of treaties have been signed on board, and it has hosted thousands of state dinners over the centuries. The Flashing Hooves has been a symbol of Bonthan power and council stability for the past three millennia.”
Nesh was stunned. “Three thousand years?” He reached out a tentacle to feel the cool marble, steadying himself and gazing toward the frescoed ceiling with newfound appreciation. “We always knew that some Bonthan ships were in service for centuries, but this…” He gestured wordlessly.
Nuryaw smiled. “Yes, the Flashing Hooves is special. It was the first Bonthan dreadnaught constructed. Historians believe that it wasn’t even built by our species, but was gifted to us by an older civilization to help the Bonthans and the Arkone create a lasting peace in this sector.” Nuryaw’s booming voice grew softer. “We don’t know much from that time. A great digital memory plague scoured much of our history from our records. All that remains is the knowledge that the Bonthan and Arkone were set upon on all sides by countless enemies. The conflict nearly consumed us. We were nearly defeated until this elder species became our benefactors, ensuring our survival.”
“This elder species, where are they now?” Nesh asked.
“We don’t know,” Nuryaw admitted. “All record of them was wiped out in the digital and neurological plague. The plague was transmitted by nanites, capable of infecting both digital and biological systems. It was remarkably thorough, erasing any mention of the elder species and those that we fought against. Nanitic agents that spread throughout our populations, attacking the memory centers of the brain, targeting specific pieces of knowledge.”
“What about written records? Hard copies?” Nesh asked.
Nuryaw shook her head. “Almost none were kept. We had been using digital records for centuries. Other than the holes in their records and their minds, they only way we know what was stolen from us was the one thing that couldn’t be erased. Art.”
Nuryaw gestured to an enormous mural that covered the opposite wall. Twenty meters high and stretching forty meters across, it dwarfed even Nuryaw. Rich oil paints depicted a battlefield, strewn with the dead. On one side, an Arkone and a Bonthan stood in the midst of raging battle, while on the other, a host of slavering beasts lunged toward them. Between the two sides, however, was a glowing figure of light, holding the creatures away.
Nesh studied the painting. It was a masterwork, no doubt, but the figures on the picture bothered him. “I see talons. Claws. Were the elder species protecting you from predator species?”
“The interpretation has always been that the depiction of our foes was symbolic, not literal. Now,” Nuryaw paused. “Now I’m not as sure.”
Nesh’s eyes shifted to the figure in the middle of the painting. It was blurry, indistinct, shafts of light obscuring the details of the creatures form. It was unclear whether the artist had painted the figure as it appeared, or if the artist just didn’t know what it looked like in the first place. If it weren’t for the suggestion of a head and several limbs, it wouldn’t have been recognizable as a being at all.
Nuryaw answered his unasked question. “This is one of the few paintings that remain from that time. All depict our benefactors that way. Glowing, indistinct. Beings of great power and technology.” She gestured to the ship around them. “The Flashing Hooves could once stand against entire fleets alone, impenetrable to weapons, wielding energies that we haven’t been able to replicate. But over the millennia, even our benefactor’s technology failed, and while our scientists poured over the designs, we never were able to maintain it or replicate it. They were replaced over the centuries with League technology. Technology we could understand and maintain. She is now a shell, holding the last memories of a race that saved us, then tried to wipe themselves from our history. That is why the Flashing Hooves is such an honor to command. She is a monument to the past that we still use to forge our future.”
Nuryaw was quiet for a moment, then shook herself. “But come, we must get to the bridge.”
Several well-appointed corridors and an in-ship transit car later, the group arrived on the bridge of the Flashing Hooves. Ensign Yenthan snapped Nuryaw a salute. “Admiral on the Bridge!”
The rest of the Bonthan crew on the bridge stood and saluted as well. “Ma’am, we’re still rounding up the last of Vice Admiral Moktep’s security teams and the special forces platoons, but the ship is yours,” Yenthan gestured to the Admiral’s grav-couch in the middle of the bridge. “It’s good to have you back, Ma’am.”
“And it’s good to be back, Ensign. Good work.” She turned to Wenthan, “can you retrieve the battle recording?”
“With pleasure, Admiral.” Wenthan slid into a grav couch and typed on the station’s holo console. After a moment, he held up a portable memory chip and smiled. “Got it!”
Nesh’s shoulders slumped in relief, and he ran his tentacles over his face. Finally. After all this effort and chaos, they had got what they came for. Now all they needed to do was to turn the Flashing Hooves around, return to the Assemblage, and submit their evidence to the Council.
He staggered as Baden clapped him on the back, but was too exhausted to be annoyed.
“All’s well that ends well, right Nesh?” Baden’s grin was insufferable.
Nesh opened his mouth to reply, but his comm unit buzzed in his ear. “Yes?”
“This is Specialist Teelm. We’ve got a problem.”
It was easy to feel omnipotent when inside a network. Omniscient. Godlike. Thousands of cameras were Teelm’s eyes and a million different functions and subsystems at his beck and call. Teelm could control every variable in the ship, see every part of it. Except for one. A large, blank space without functioning cameras, right where the Flashing Hooves’ primary reactor should be.
He could monitor the systems. He could access the reactor’s power output – nominal. Ensure that the cooling was operating correctly, that every piece of circuitry was in its proper place. But he couldn’t see what was happening there, and that bothered him.
Teelm accessed the backup footage, rewinding time until the cameras were active again. He watched as a troop of black-suited Bonthans entered the reactor control chamber, lugging a bulky box between them. Teelm switched from camera to camera as the Bonthan’s in the recording began destroying them, trying to get a better angle on the device they brought into the room. Eventually, he found a perspective that wasn’t blocked by the Bonthan’s bodies, and nearly fell from his perch on the command console. He triggered his comm. “This is specialist Teelm. We have a problem. There’s a bomb in the reactor control room.”
On the edge of the frame, a second group of Bonthans in black armor drug a crate behind them. Teelm wished he had another camera, but the rest were already destroyed. Just before the last camera was knocked out, he saw the Bonthan special forces remove rectangular shapes from the crate. He tried to enhance the image, cursing at its relatively low resolution. A cold feeling settled in his gut. What were these Bonthans doing with Arkone weaponry?