Five women and eight men sat around a long table shaped like an elongated capital "U" in the center of a large, dimly-lit room, small potted plants and name placards spaced at regular intervals around the surface. There was a large bay window, about twenty feet long, made of triple-paned glass to one side and maps, charts and dry erase boards lined the facing, with a large white projector screen pulled down to cover the wall that the room tapered towards from the doors.

      Normally when Council was in session a fully armed guard would stand on either side of those doors, made from the original armored, pitted white metal paneling of the Mars Explorer. Hundreds of years ago, the Explorer had been the ragtag flagship of a bare-bones fleet that decelerated into space around the star Alpha Centauri after an equally long acceleration towards light speed- a speed just recently re-achieved by the people represented by these thirteen representatives. People from whom the cream of could someday hope to leave their compounds, cities and orbital platforms and venture out into the void of space.

      Today there were no guards present. All trained military, and many able-bodied men and women from the planets populated by the people represented here had suddenly been called into service by the unexpected appearance of the ships that were themselves represented by a grainy image projected onto the screen at the head of the room. A man, scientist by the looks of him, stood behind a low podium to the left of the screen.

      "... This particular class of vessel," laser pointer indicating a reflexively plated thing resembling a tall submachine gun, "rarely enters front-line combat with our naval forces, tending to hang back in odd spatial orientations to battle, so we are inferring that the aliens' command structure is based on these ships."

      "How many of these command ships have we counted this far, Reginald?" asked a gaunt man with gray wings in his sandy blonde hair, his military uniform of a distinctly different design than that of the others. 'Thomas Lansing- Sho're' read the plaque in front of him, beside a potted poinsettia.

      "Six," answered Reginald. "Each one seems to command several of these ships," pressing a button on a pad mounted in the podium and the scene changed to that of a grotesque-looking bulbous object that resembled a single-barreled shotgun poking through the open pages of a book after being rammed through the spine. On an ancillary screen, a computer schematic flashed up, labels listing a truly frightening number of places identified as offensive weaponry. "These seem to be an analogue of our Dardenelle-class destroyers, with an extremely powerful main cannon, the technology of which we cannot even begin to guess at. In addition, this ship type seems to posses seven other capital-class guns, with literally hundreds of secondary and territary batteries."

      Reginalds' hands shook as he made a valiant attempt to not spill his glass of water as he took a sip, dry throat continues: "They have a definite weak spot here," pointer again. "This tall structure on the dorsal sector seems to be a control center of some kind. These towers here and here- definite evidence of radar. This one- some kind of electromagnetic scanner or ECM, we think. This large exposed half-dome conceals a battle bridge, we currently guess."

      Jennifer Towers now. Across and two towards the door from Mr. Lansing, her black hair and rounded features young for her place in this most august of company. "But this vulnerability..." -she drags out that last word like a violist and a whole note- "it has done us no good, no? Our fighters can't get close enough to hit it and our Dardenelle- and Paris-class destroyers don't even have weapons range to engage it!"

      "We've been modifying the Paris-class in dock with new weaponry systems." A man so tall as to be shoulders above his chair, listed Martin Gibson, President, by a small cactus. "I've heard that the new systems will rely on the noted electrical charge the aliens' ships have to arc a current across space. Hopefully this will penetrate where our projectile weaponry has not." His past history as the CEO of a weapons company obvious, sweat beads still on the deep brown skin of his forehead, a like sentiment expressed by many of the other people in this cool chamber.

      Nods in agreement. Only the man representing Sho're seems plussed.

      "Do you forget, ladies and gentlemen, that as so far these aliens posses at least one weapon with a known infinite range?" He presses a button, news footage of a ship. The front of it opens as a luminescent cloud envelops three projecting towers radially placed amidships and suddenly a white-hot blue hell erupts from between the front booms of it like a joy buzzer gone horribly wrong- it looks that unexpected. Three Dardenelle-class destroyers, a Sho're Dragoon carrier and an unknown number of smaller craft are within the radius of the beam, which expands slightly as it leaves the confines of the outstretched palms of the booms of it's main gun, enveloping the entirety of the fleet. In seconds, the beam is gone, leaving only twisting eddies of what resembles lightning and fleeting sparks and secondary minor detonations where the assembled fleet once stood.

      Reginald: "We don't know how this cannon or gun operates. We have nothing in our physics to evaluate the properties that it operates under."

      President Gibson: "The Paris-class are the top of the line. They pack third-generation armor technology that uses not only metal and carbon, but reflective ceramic and ablative fibers that deflect incoming fire, and absorb and dissipate what they cannot reflect. Their Arcing Cannon systems have destroyed asteroids a kilometer long in tests! They are the first ships, ladies and gentlemen," pride beaming through the tense words he speaks- "to achieve the speed of light without an immense time accelerating, vulnerable to incoming firepower. She can even recharge her light speed engines in flight, avoiding the vulnerability of refuelling under testing circumstances..."

      Breaking in, a voice that hasn't spoke in some time, tired, tall, glasses: Chesnut hair past her shoulders in archaic tradition, deep blue robes, the crossed hook black on yellow backgrounded circle, Rebecca Spalding from Hooks, Priestess. Some sneer at the mere thought of her religion. "You speak in great confidence of the Parisine classed ships, President Gibson. You boast their great firepower, their reflective and ablatively qualitated armors and power'd engines great, President Gibson. You fail to mention that the Paris have failed to be crewed, have even failed to pass flight certification. We know many things on Hooks, you see, that you do not give us credit for when we ourselves fail to play your reindeer games." Gibson frowns a politicians' frown, furrows across his forehead dry now with aid from a white handkerchief rapidly replaced and pocketed.

      A short man from Khyre speaks up, cracked mousy voice: Robert Bowen. "The Priestess makes good points, President. Without a crew to man them..."

      "A crew from your planet..." sneers someone.

      "Not enough people on Khyre to fit on a Paris," another.

      Both voices melt back into the silence, unaccredited. A tenseness settles on the room: staring back and forth at each other, the politicians no longer register the presence of Dr. Reginald Bertramm, who looks on them in pity. We have these people to lead us, these people to tell us how to fight the aliens... At that, an interruption breaks the silence: Two beeps. Red-faced by habit, Dr. Bertramm places his communication device to his ear, "we are in conference!" Hastily whispered.

      Face goes pale.

      Thirteen tense, expectant, dreading faces have eyes that dig into the very soul of the man whose science is expected to save them.

     

     

      "Send it in..." whispers the suddenly pale face of Dr. Bertramm, clammy hands suddenly numb and unable to deactivate the communication device as it drops to the floor in a failed attempt to reenter the pocket of his long coat. He shakes visibly, so do thirteen other people in the room.

      "We have been made aware of..." he gulps. Almost retches.

      Some mentally wager that Bertramm dies on the spot before revealing his news. A man from Sho're can't help but to see the driving scientific force behind his planet's competition dead on the floor, the Sho're path to freedom wide open with the unfinished Paris-class burning in dock. A woman from Hooks longs to be anywhere else than here, four hooks embedded in her skin, hanging by them in bliss as the world spins meaninglessly around her. Thirteen different people around the great capital "U"-shaped desk feel thirteen different senses of foreboding and apprehension as Bertramm finally gets it out.

      Gulping back the rest of his water, unashamed or unregestering the streams that flow down the front of his shirt and coat from the corners of his mouth, a wet sleeve wiping moisture from his nose and dry tears of panic from under his eyes, Bertramm spits it out.

      "A radio transmission has been directed at this very system, this very planet and this platform in space that we sit upon. It has both audio and video components."

      A dry heave, it passes. His terror immense, death being better than this he feels, as a mobile large-screen video device is wheeled in by an attachÚ' officer who would command a small ship by rank but never by experience.

      "It must be from the aliens... It does not use any of our codes..."

     

      Lights down. Fourteen faces are lit from the not-dimmed screens still relaying battle statistics, projections and charts upon the walls, thier glasses illuminated as if from the sick blue light from their Destroyers. Hearts literally stop as humanity comes face to face with an alien for the first time upon the screen: Someone passes out, a thud of a chair knocked over.

     

      It looks like a tall-ceiling room, indicators and lights, screens visible in the background. Sound seems odd as the eyes of the alien being seem to look into those of each surrounding council member with derision, down the long nose and long face of a powerfully built man, deep olive skin and exotic eyes decrying an obvious human heritage, uniform highlighted by a wide collar made of obvious gold and precious gems. A sneer, he speaks, the audio delayed enough to make it terrifying: A thickly accented voice, unidentifiable language:

      "Entuten aha abten sekhemu aputi'emta Iumai-ent-Sbaiiu em Tauii en Kemet, arit'a er sekher em bakh en tenten!" A disdainful look: "Entuten kher a'n sep ta ankh am then, aru entuten ter."

      At this the communication ended. Fourteen people looked back and forth at each other, not comprehending what they had just seen.