Two Hundred and Thirty-five Angels

A cordite charge ignites. Ninety pounds of uranium are launched at another sixty pounds at a thousand feet per second,

The mothership slides out of F-space just beyond the beacon perimeter. It is a massive and sluggish craft, but the forward zetarays make short work of the nearest defensive platform before it can launch intercept fighters. The whole thing goes up in a big green cloud.

Five turns to optimal delivery range. The natives will likely catch up to them in three. Power is diverted to the torches. The gunners taking potshots with the zetarays stand down, even the softly pulsing lights on the command deck dim. The mothership fires off toward the sun.

It was not being done with callousness or wrath. It was the only logical solution. A shockwave hit fifteen orbits ago. Nothing but blue haze was detected at the furthest reach of the observers in the outer arm galaxies at thirteen. At twelve orbs, they knew.

It could not be allowed to happen. Collision with another universe would wipe out an expected ten percent of the colony. An additional seventy would be scattered through the nothing beyond by the erratic gravity patterns. The leadercaste found this unacceptable, and so they made a plan.

Four turns into the run and the mothership passes close enough to a ringed giant to see it from the viewports. It is a green dot twice the size of the stars beyond. Periodically, the zetarays flare up and destroy debris, small beacons, and civilian ships. Even with decreased power, sensors get a read on the enemy craft. A dense formation of warships that mustered near the inner planets are rushing to meet them while a sea of smaller vessels -- pickets and patrollers from the outer defense platforms -- are swarming in from behind.

The order is given and the young pilots file into their small fighters. The mothership will not stop to engage the defenders. There is no time. The simple laborcaste soldiers plug a series of pipes into sockets on all four arms. Not only do these devices allow the operators to interface directly with their crafts, but they pour a cocktail of substances into their bodies which enhance performance and free them of the worry that whether or not the run is successful, it is a one-way trip for the escorts.

Makercaste minds used the five orbs after the discovery to make the plan a reality. They dramatically increased the range of listening devices. They honed F-drive technology. They created the device.

There was no hesitation, no decision to be made when they found that large portions of the incoming universe were occupied by advanced sentient lifeforms. The plan had to be carried out.

Three turns left and the mothership's pursuers reach weapon range and begin firing. The blast shields take the brunt of the damage, but the commander deems the risk to the engines too great to ignore.

Armored panels blast open and fly off the rear portion of the mothership, exposing the great fighter bays beneath. Five hundred thousand fighters spill out, their pilots jacked up into a frenzy.

Their pursuers are far less maneuverable than the mothership's escorts. They fire their primitive weapons, but seldom hit anything. Their numbers seem limitless, however, and the fighters are hard-pressed to keep them at bay.

As the plan slowly came to fruition over the intervening seven orbits, it became clear that the native species of the other universe were far less advanced than the colony. Still, some had established galaxy-spanning civilizations with a degree of technology that could pose a threat. After all, the plan called for the destruction of every incoming star. The colony's resources would be spread thin.

Two turns and the inner planets' fleet is arrayed ahead. The mothership's rear guard is disintegrating, but they have managed to stall the enemy long enough. The delivery is on schedule.

The remaining dock gates rocket outward and two million fighters form a giant wedge ahead of the mothership. Frigates and Battleships melt in the first barrage. The fighter spear plunges into the enemy formation, viciously attacking any craft that may impede the mothership's progress.

A few of the natives did manage to gather enough information to cobble together a modest defense. They developed a system of beacons that would broadcast F-space static in a protective bubble. Any starship would have to use far slower means of transport within or be torn to pieces.

The motherships were built -- craft that could penetrate the target system, defend themselves long enough to reach the star, deliver the device and have a small chance of escaping if the beacon network was damaged enough in the assault.

One turn and the ragged remains emerge on the other side of the defenders' fleet. Few fighters remain, their pilots too inebriated to resist the urge to attack targets many times their size with reckless fervor, much less hold a formation.

The mothership is badly damaged. Most of the forward blast shields have been torn away. Atmosphere and fuel are leaking from great breeches in its side. However, it lumbers on unopposed.

The plan called for a lightning strike. A simultaneous assault on every star in range of the motherships' F-drives. They were to leap across the nothing and destroy their targets before their gravity wells and defenders could threaten the colony.

Optimal range achieved. The mothership has split into four sections, exposing a gigantic projectile inside its mostly hollow superstructure. The engines ignite, and it screams toward the sun. The mothership breaks off and slowly comes about. Its systems are so badly savaged that they barely notice the glow.

They have turned around entirely, and what remains of the mothership is facing the way they came. Every hand hoping they managed to punch through the beacons. The stars are practically gone now. The whole universe is pulsing with light.

The coordinates are set. The commander gives the order. The F-drive sparks into action.

And everything goes white.

and everything goes white.