Narrator: Less than an hour has passed since the formation of the fleetmind, but it has been a very busy hour. The 950 million falling objects Petey and the rest of the fleet must rescure are falling amid a cloud of billions of other objects. Space is awash with the frequencies of active scanning.
Narrator: While capital ships without advanced fabrication gear work as spotters, Petey, some 300 carriers, and 20-odd factory ships orbiting further out begin manufacturing new terapedoes.
Narrator: They're not beating their swords into plowshares, exactly. They're beating them into pickup trucks.
Narrator: A single terapedo can acquire a target, 'port into it, and then 'port that target into safe orbit in just four seconds. To save everyone in the twenty-eight days available, the fleetmind must coordinate the efforts of fifteen-hundred terapedoes.
Narrator: The fleetmind is smart enough to know that it might not have the full twenty-eight days to work with. Fabbers work 'round the clock.
Jaksmouth: Good news, admiral. Within three days, all of the prisoners will be in safe orbits. In the final hours, there'll be nearly a hundred thousand terapedoes 'porting prison modules to safety.
Breya: I thought we'd depleted our supplies of missiles and fabber matter.
Jaksmouth: We've been feeding the fabbers scrap. Which reminds me... You didn't have any special emotional attachment to that custom transport of yours, did you?
Fabbys: