We come from the land of the ice and snow,

From the midnight sun where the hot springs blow

The hammer of the gods

Will drive our ships to new lands,

To fight the horde, singing and crying,

Valhalla, I am coming!

Led Zeppelin - “Immigrant Song”

The suite of rooms that had become the de facto military headquarters still had something of an unfinished look. For convenience, they’d located HQ in the Ministry Center, though even that simple decision had been hotly debated. There were some who worried about the optics...that to outside observers it might appear as if Earth had staged a Coup d’état during the Triumvirate’s (or Tetrarchy’s, they had moved the subject to the back-burner for the duration) hour of need. So far none of the races had raised that point, but Minister Singh and some of the cannier human observers assumed it was only a matter of time.

There was a small but vocal minority that had suggested doing just that...after all, how would the Triumvirate stop them? The malcontents were quickly squelched, but Leandra couldn't help but worry the idea might gain traction, especially if things went south on the war front. She’d made it her business to stay abreast of any developments, and offer a political viewpoint when needed. Other than that she did her level best to stay out of the way of the professionals, and let them handle the business of running the war.

“Where are we at with the freighter conversions?” Marshal Antuma asked his Naval commander.

Admiral Fujimoto grimaced. “Nowhere near what I’d like,” she admitted. “We have twenty-seven converted, with another thirty-two in various stages of being upgraded. On the plus side, the spacedocks are hitting their stride, so those numbers should climb in the next few weeks.”

“And the minus side of the equation?” Antuma asked.

“Weapons production,” Fujimoto sighed. “Most of the fabricators simply aren’t capable of meeting our needs. They designed them for domestic consumption, and retooling them for our purposes would be a gigantic time-sink. The fabricators we can use are running three shifts nonstop, but we’re still falling behind on our quotas.”

The Marshal nodded, taking that in. “Is there anything we can do to increase production?”

Hélène shook her head. “I’ve crunched the numbers until I’m blue in the face, and I keep getting the same answers. Any personnel or resources I pull off fabrication and shift over to constructing new fabricators will give us increased output, enough to meet our quota...in eight to ten months.”

“By which time the war is likely to be over,” Antuma said, “one way or another.”

“Exactly,” Fujimoto agreed. “If you order me to I can rob Peter to pay Paul, but I’d advise against it. If it was just weapons for the freighters we were talking about, I might risk it, but we still have to build the Comets...and what we have planned for the Ronin.”

Marshal Antuma leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head and gazing up at the ceiling. Hélène had dubbed it his “Thinking Pose”, and she settled into her own as he worked through whatever problem his mind was tangling with.

“Amateurs study Tactics, Professionals study Logistics,” he murmured, drawing a chuckle from his counterpart.

“Even with fabricators and FTL drive, that hasn’t changed,” she agreed. The smile quickly left her face, as she leaned forward. “I still don’t like the stratagem we’ve come up with for the freighters,” she said grimly. “Assuming everything goes according to plan, we stand a decent chance of blunting their advance...but how often does that happen?”

“Never,” Antuma breathed.

Admiral Fujimoto nodded. “I’ve reached deep into my personal bag of tricks and pulled out every scheme and ruse to pull this off, but it’s a crapshoot at best.” She eyed him across the table. “No matter what happens, most of those crews won’t be coming back.”

“I know,” he said, “but what choice do we have? If we don’t slow their advance, we’ll have nothing left to defend.”

Hélène digested that for several moments, though it was nothing she hadn’t already known. “We need more intel,” she said at last. “I’ve been poring over the imagery we got from Wayfarer, but it doesn’t tell us much. Their ships didn’t face any resistance, so we know nothing about how well they’d stand up against someone who's willing to fight. But their formations are sound, with decent coverage between ships. That tells me they know what they’re doing.”

Kwasi simply shrugged. “Until your freighters meet them in battle, we won’t know how formidable they are.” He sighed, “But you’re right, we need more information.” He took a deep breath. “We need someone on the ground.”

The Admiral gave a low whistle. “Gonna be damn difficult, inserting a team under their noses. It’ll have to be pure human, you realize. The trainees from the other races are nowhere near ready for an Op like that.”

“Believe me, I’m all too aware of that fact,” the Marshal said. “But could you do it? Get a squad onto one of the occupied worlds if you had to, without being detected?”

Her eyes lost focus as she considered the problem. “I can get them in,” she said at last, “but getting them back out?” Hélène shrugged. “They’d have to find a way past the ships in orbit, and at the moment I’m not sure if that’s even possible. Plus it’ll mean pulling resources from our other commitments.”

“Can’t be helped,” he said. “We’re shooting blind here, and that will hurt us even more than a little slippage in our refit schedule.”

“It’s likely to be a lot of slippage, but I take your meaning.” She cocked her head, regarding him. “Have someone in mind?”

“A few,” he admitted. “I’ve been considering it for a while now, and I’ve been looking at who we have with the right skills. I’ll find the bodies,” he assured her.

“Make sure you tell them it’s likely to be a rough ride if I have to sneak them past an invasion fleet ” she warned him. “I just wish we had more of a pattern to work with. I’d prefer to send them in before an assault, rather than after. With only two worlds attacked it’s more than a little challenging trying to guess where they’ll hit next.”

The Marshal started to reply, but as he began to speak an Ophipteran aide, who silently slid a tablet onto the table before withdrawing, interrupted him. Antuma picked up the pad and started to read...only to close his eyes in pain as he set it back down.

“...make that three,” he hissed.

Dhyaksh Jiyazh Ghuuyaz stepped off the Assault craft and onto the surface of the horde’s latest conquest. This planet belonged to the machine race, making its architecture and infrastructure unsuitable for the needs of the Khonhim.

But that was a problem for tomorrow. Tonight...they burned.

The first two worlds had fallen like overripe fruit, and Jiyazh knew this planet would be no different. The sagas of their forebears had spoken of terrible battles, but whatever their enemy might have been long ago, they were now mere shadows of their former selves. They had followed the Path of Peace for so long they had forgotten their past, forgotten them, and had become little more than mindless prey animals. There was a part of him that regretted that, for what challenge was there for a warrior against an enemy that would not...could not...fight?

Against any other species, he would have shown mercy. Taken their surrender as a matter of course, and treated them with the respect due a fallen adversary. But his forebears demanded otherwise, their spirits crying out for vengeance, and until all the enemy’s worlds lie broken and ravaged at his feet, they would not slumber. They had waited many long years for this day, and he would not deny them their revenge.

The riven and shattered housings of the machine minds lay scattered everywhere, as he walked alone through the strange alien city. Like their soft fleshy allies, the machines had tried to run, tried to hide, but there was nowhere they could go that the Khonhim would not discover, sooner or later. It did not make up for the lack of struggle, but it would entertain the horde for a time, as they tracked them to their warrens and dug them out of their holes.

They would find uses for the ones they allowed to live, if one could call a machine alive. They had taken prisoners from the other worlds, and even if those pathetic creatures could not fight, they could still serve the Khonhim in other ways. They could man their factories, till their farms, serve in their homes. Even the poorest of the horde might have their share to choose from, though that concerned him. What would happen to the people then? The Flaming Star had shown them the error of their ways once before, bringing them back to the Path of War so long ago. It now formed the centerpiece of the horde’s banner...but once they had slaked their thirst for vengeance, would they still remember the lesson it had taught them?

He had searched long and hard for the answer to that question, but their forebears were silent on that subject. If in the fullness of time they sent yet another rock from the heavens to show them their error, then so be it. He would accept their judgment, for he had already given them what they had desired for so very long.

The flames burned higher in the shattered community, the smoke filling his nostrils even as he spied a machine attempting to flee. It housed its mind in some wheeled contraption, a delivery vehicle of some sort, and even before he could make a conscious thought his weapon was in his hands, barking as he fired. The first shot appeared to have done no damage, but the second and third rounds did. A screeching cry erupted from the machine creature, the sound of metal being torn apart by a saw blade as it ground to a halt, its lights dimming before going dark for good.

“Dhyaksh!” he heard one of his officers cry, “We have found something!”

Jiyazh holstered his weapon and turned towards the sound, spotting a squad moving towards him, bearing something on a litter. As they drew nearer he recognized the polished metal sphere they carried, the brain of one of the machine folk. The squad came to a halt before him, as the officer pounded his clenched fists to his chest in salute.

“Speak,” he commanded, as the officer bowed his head.

“During the sack, I discovered this creature,” he answered, pointing to the sphere. “It wore the body of a four-legged walker, and I thought to have some fun with the beast. I tore away its limbs, leaving only stumps, and we laughed as it still tried to escape.” A sneer appeared on his face as he looked with contempt at the machine.

“And this interests me how?” Jiyazh asked.

“We soon grew bored of the game,” the officer blurted out. “I was preparing to dispatch it when it begged for its life.”

Jiyazh’s features darkened. “As do they all,” he growled. “If there is a point to be made here, I suggest you find it.” He was swiftly losing his patience with this warrior.

“Forgive me, Dhyaksh,” he answered. “I will speak plainly. As it pleaded to me, it claimed it had information...information of great interest to us. At first, I assumed it to be a ruse, a desperate attempt to survive, but then it spoke of something that stayed my hand.”

“Indeed?” Perhaps there was something to be learned here after all. He turned towards the sphere. “Speak, machine.”

A small tinny voice came from the orb. “If I tell you, you will allow me to continue my existence?” it whispered.

“I can show you what will happen if you do not tell me,” Jiyazh snarled. He withdrew his weapon once more and pressed it against the shiny metal. “Choose, machine.”

“...you are in danger!” the machine howled, trying to stave off its impending doom. “Even now, forces are being gathered to fight you!”

Jiyazh threw back his head and laughed. “Let them come! They will pose as little threat as you have!”

“You do not understand,” the machine whimpered. “The ones coming for you...they are not of the Triumvirate! The humans are a primitive species, but they are warlike and dangerous!”

The Dhyaksh froze, staring at the sphere. Slowly, he returned his weapon to its holster.

“...tell me more of these humans,” Jiyazh commanded.