Ruk na Graz stared at the display screen numbly, gazing at his own destruction.
It had taken several moments for the import of the data to sink in. One of the Oracles had started to transmit an "I am tampered with" duress code, along with a rogue transmission channelled through it. The unit had then simply dropped off-line, blocked in mid-transmission by sophisticated electronic jamming from a ground-based source. Once he'd realized what that meant—that the humans knew the Oracles existed and had literally taken one over with their own broadcast in Tersae sub-dialect—it was far too late to prevent the damage.
The continued jamming had prevented his technicians from accessing on-site camera systems to see what was happening down there. Ultimately, of course, it didn't matter. It was enough to know that something was jamming the Oracle's signal. If the humans knew enough to do that, they knew far too much. It was disaster of the first magnitude. Utter shame and disgrace . . .
How had the humans learned about the Oracles? Presumably the same way they'd learned to speak the Melconian sub-dialect the Tersae had been taught. One of the damned experimental animals had done the unthinkable: it had defected. Ruk na Graz wanted to howl his rage and frustration. He bit down on it until he had his ragged temper under tenuous control, then snarled at his aide, "Get Science Leader Vrim in here! Now!"
Vrim arrived three minutes later, panting from the exertion of his hasty journey. "War Leader?" he gasped out.
"One of your filthy experimental creatures has defected to the humans." Ruk na Graz shoved a transcript of the Oracle's final broadcast into the aging scientist's shocked hands. "Would you care to explain how?"
Vrim's ears went desperately flat against his skull. "This is terrible," he whispered, "just dreadful. Merciful ancestors, we never dreamed their grumbles would lead to this . . ."
"What grumbles?" Ruk na Graz roared to his feet, slamming his fists against the desktop.
The Science Leader flinched. "We've been hearing complaints from most of the clans over this business of deforming the males' genetic material through the blessing chambers—"
Ruk na Graz stared, unsure whether to snarl or simply shoot the fool. "You heard seditious talk," he whispered in a dreadful rage, "and didn't bother to report it?"
"It was valid data!" Vrim cried. "Don't you see? We were trying to understand the social ramifications of their discovery that the damage to their eggs in the blessing chambers was causing the violent trend in their young males! We didn't expect them to make that connection at all. The sociological data have been utterly fascinating. If we'd reported it right away, we'd have lost the chance to fully study it, because the military caste might have shut the whole thing down in knee-jerk reaction.
"We just never dreamed they could do anything about it. Except grumble, of course, and hold back a few of their eggs. We've spent generations inculcating a pathological fear of 'devils from the stars.' That ethnocentric conditioning should have worked to prevent this." He rattled the transcript in his hands. "You're sure one of them has actually defected? The humans could simply have taken live prisoners—"
"That hijacked broadcast was made in fluent, properly inflected Melconian," Ruk na Graz snarled. "Not pidgin. Not a few random words cobbled together from the babblings of terrified prisoners. Either one of those damned animals has taught the humans its language or it crafted the message for the humans. Or possibly both. Your failure to report the Tersae's discovery of genetic tampering, not to mention widespread sedition over it, has put the entire Melconian Empire at risk! Do you begin to comprehend everything the humans now have access to?"
Vrim was shaking, eyes wide and panic-stricken. "I-I'm sorry, War Leader, I just didn't realize the danger—"
"Then realize this! We have no choice but to evacuate immediately. This project ends now, whether you like it or not. And unless I am very much mistaken, the Emperor will order us both to suicide, when we return home. Now, get out. And take your gods-cursed data with you!"
The aging scientist fled, whimpering.
Ruk na Graz was pondering which of a ghastly list of things to do next when a technician from the monitoring center arrived, trembling and gulping. "War Leader . . ." he began, voice shaking.
"Out with it!"
"The communications relay satellite . . . the humans have captured it. Taken it aboard their warship. Several hours ago, we think. We didn't realize it until just now, when the emergency broadcast from the compromised Oracle was relayed through it. The relay showed it seriously out of position, inside the human vessel. . . ."
Ruk na Graz sat down slowly, unable to say anything at all for several seconds. He finally asked, in a terrible, strained whisper, "Why in the seventeen moons didn't you order it to self-destruct?"
The technician gabbled out, "We—we can't. It's so antiquated, War Leader, it has no destruction mechanism on board."
Worse and worse . . .
So far as he knew—and he prayed to all his ancestors, to let it be true—the satellite hadn't been programmed with Melcon's home coordinates, since its use had been strictly limited to in-system signal relay. But the enemy now had access to the master codes of the Melconian Empire's entire military communications system and the frequencies used by both civilian and military agencies. These humans were clever beasts. After what they'd done already, he could imagine only too clearly what they would accomplish, with that much information about Melcon.
They must not capture this moon base.
In it were star charts, military and trade routes, a thousand useful details to an enemy bent on conquest. If the humans figured out how to operate that captured satellite, they could send a pulse that this base would automatically answer, giving away their location instantly. Paw shaking, he called up the program necessary to initiate the auto-destruct sequence, then pressed the intercom buzzer to summon his personal aide.
"Yes, Colonel?"
"Order the immediate evacuation of this base. Personnel only. If it cannot be carried in one bag, it must be left behind and destroyed. I want this base cleared within one hour. One hour, do you understand that, pup? I have already set the auto-destruct program in motion. This base will be blown to its component atoms a quarter hour after that deadline. And disable the entire communications system before the humans figure out how to sound us out. Move, pup!"
Ears pinned flat to his skull in distress, the shaken young aide ran. An instant later, the emergency intercom blared the news. Between strident pulses of the alarm siren, he could hear shouts and shrill wails of protest. The sound of ignominious defeat . . . He made himself move very deliberately, downloading copies of his most critical files, dumping the data cubes into a carryall, abandoning even the holos of his wife and pups, which occupied a cherished corner of his desk. Their escape ship must be stripped for running. He would see his family soon enough as it was, right before his court-martial.
The last thing he did before leaving was key in the Oracles' auto-destruct code, which the moon base's powerful transmitter would send planetwide seconds before the base blew itself to hell. He snarled as he punched in the command, his last official act as Military Leader of a failed project. Then he stalked into the corridor and headed for the transport that would take him home to die. At least the damned experimental beasts would precede him by a good, long margin.
Humanity could not get their stubby hands on more Tersae if he'd already destroyed them.
Given even one planet cracker, he could have destroyed the humans, as well.