Contents

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
End Note
Starfighter Sample Chapter

FINAL ORBIT

Battlecruiser Alamo: Book 22

Richard Tongue

Battlecruiser Alamo #22: Final Orbit

Copyright © 2016 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved

First Kindle Edition: December 2016

Cover By Keith Draws

With thanks to Ellen Clarke

All characters and events portrayed within this ebook are fictitious; any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Join the Triplanetary Universe Mailing List: http://eepurl.com/A9MdX

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

“Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!” he said.

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Chapter 1

 Lieutenant Pavel Salazar glanced across the crowded hangar deck, looking at the sleek interceptors resting on the elevator airlocks, technicians hastily readying them for battle. Before they'd left Copernicus, the Koltoc had provided them with seven fighters from their hidden reserves on the surface, part of their contribution to the war with the Xandari. Ever since he'd joined the Academy, long years ago, Salazar's dream had been to command his own squadron. Now that he was actually going to do it, the thought filled him with dread.

 Clustering around the status board, watching and waiting for Alamo to emerge from hendecaspace, his pilots fought their nerves with inane chatter, trying to wield arrogance to bolster their confidence. One of them stood apart from the others, trading worried glances with Salazar, the only veteran among them. Lieutenant Ryan, his second-in-command, a veteran of fighting with the Xandari both in a cockpit and on the bridge of a starship.

 As for the rest, the siege and occupation of Copernicus had wreaked a bloody toll among that world's defenders. All that remained were a corporal's guard of cadet pilots, none of whom had ever fought in space. He'd managed to recruit those who had joined in the resistance, so at least he could be certain that combat wouldn't phase them, but there was no substitute for the experience they lacked.

 Without thinking, he reached up to his eye-patch, pausing a second before scratching his non-existent eye. He'd lost it during the capture of Alamo, and the stolen Neander ship he'd commanded afterward lacked the facilities to fit him with an artificial replacement. Alamo's sickbay did, but the recovery time was a fortnight. He simply couldn't spare the time, not with the war kicking into what everyone hoped was its final phase.

 Two veterans, and the only one of those who had more than a single combat mission to their credit was flying with a waiver that had required a written order to extract from Doctor Duquesne. After six months, he was getting used to only having one eye, but he knew the effect it was having on his flying. Technically, he could have requested medical retirement. That he was instead leading a squadron into battle was testament to the desperation of their situation.

 He looked around at the work crews, shaking his head as he saw a technician drop a servospanner into an engine housing, cursing under his breath as he reached in to extract it. This crew was tired, bitterly tired, and they'd earned the right to go home, rather than continue on their quest to finish the war. Only a select handful had been briefed on their mission, the legacy that Lieutenant Cantrell had left them to bring the conflict to an end with one single, glorious battle.

 Deep in his heart, he felt that was a mistake. A mistake to push the crew and the ship further than they already had, and a mistake to keep them in the dark. Security considerations aside, they deserved to know what they were fighting for, what they were dying for. Shaking his head again, he turned back to the status screen, watching data stream down the display. In less than five minutes, they'd be emerging from hendecaspace at their target system, ready to begin their assault.

 Copernicus had proven to be only two jumps from the Xandari homeworld, the intermediate system a dull brown dwarf with a single planet orbiting it, nothing to distinguish it from a thousand other empty systems other than its strategic value. They had sufficient force to wipe out any conceivable defense, but that was only a portion of their mission. Simply smashing their way through wasn't enough. They had to take the base they knew was here. Had to harvest the intelligence stored there.

 “Four minutes to transition,” the voice of Lieutenant-Captain Margaret Orlova announced over the speakers. “All hands to battle stations. Pilots to their ships. That is all.”

 “That's our song, people,” Salazar said, gesturing to the cockpits. “We've flown this mission in the simulators a hundred times, but remember that the enemy doesn't know our script. Ryan and I will take point. The rest of you stick on our tails, and for God's sake keep your eyes open. I want this one to go clean and easy. Good hunting.”

 “And to you, sir!” one of the cadets, a raven-haired woman with the improbable name of Jezebel Murphy replied. She'd done well in the simulators, better even than Ryan, but that arrogance would be a fast way to a hole in the ground if she wasn't careful. Salazar looked at her as she walked to the cockpit, seeing the same cockiness he'd had in his first battle, the same assurance that he could defeat any opposition, no matter how strong. Time had taught him differently, and the price of that lesson had been higher than he had ever feared.

 Ryan walked over to him, a frown on his face, and said, “Kids, Pavel. They're just kids.”

 “I know,” Salazar said with a sigh. “If we end up against serious opposition, we could lose the whole squadron. We shouldn't be sending them up at all.” Clapping his hand on his friend's shoulder, he continued, “Keep ahead of them, don't let them take the lead. With a little luck we can protect them from the worst of it.”

 “I doubt the Xandari will cooperate,” he replied. “This is crazy.”

 “Captain's orders,” Salazar said. “Saddle up, Mike. Let's get this over with.” 

 He walked over to his fighter, past the Espatier team loading their equipment onto the assault shuttle, sharing a curt nod with Lieutenant Cooper, ground forces commander, before climbing into the cockpit, sliding into position on the pilot's couch, the pre-flight systems booting up as the canopy locked into position. All around, the rest of the squadron were mounting their steeds, readying themselves for battle. The odds were good that some of them wouldn't be coming home.

 Salazar glanced down at the fighter wings on his chest, the two small golden stars pinned above them, each of them registering five kills. The first double-ace since the war, but there was a brutal reality behind those numbers. The life of a fighter pilot had a tendency to be short and glorious, part of the appeal to the young. As he watched the rest of the squadron making their preparations, he felt far older than his twenty-four years.

 “Fighter Leader to Alamo Actual,” he said, pulling on his headset and clipping it into position. “Squadron is on one-minute readiness for launch. We're good to go on your order.”

 “Understood,” Orlova replied. “We'll be emerging in ninety seconds. Be aware that we might go for immediate launch if necessary. Good hunting.”

 “And to you, ma'am,” he said. He looked around the cockpit layout, setting the control panels to his preferred settings. He'd flown this type of fighter in battle before, but it was still strange to be sitting in a ship designed by what was effectively another race, even if it had been built with humans in mind. Everything was just a little bit off, the light levels a little bright, the atmosphere a little dry. Nothing serious, nothing that would hurt combat effectiveness, but it still contributed to the unreality of the situation.

 “Harper to Salazar,” a familiar voice barked into his ear.

 “I'm here, honey, go ahead.”

 “We're on a secure channel,” she replied. “I'm ready to go in the shuttle. Need you do to something for me.”

 “Sure.”

 “Don't get killed. I mean it. We've got three months' leave at the end of this ride, and I'm not going on it alone. Watch yourself.”

 “Right back at you,” he replied. “No stupid risks.” He paused, then added, “Well, no more than usual, anyway.”

 “Thirty seconds,” she said. “Good luck. Harper out.”

 Salazar shook his head as he ran his eye down the squadron status panel, checking that his pilots were prepared for the fight. They all seemed to know their duties on paper, at least, most of them faster on the checklist than he was. He peered around, trying to spot Harper, and finally caught her sitting in the copilot's couch of the shuttle ahead. He still wasn't quite sure how the two of them had become an item. Sometime near the start of her spell commanding Daedalus, it had just happened. Not that he had an objection.

 Those pleasant thoughts filled the last seconds before egress, the familiar lurch that heralded Alamo's return to normal space. Mankind had been traversing hendecaspace for more than a century, but there still seemed something innately wrong about the idea of traveling through a dimension they knew so little about. Only that direct exposure had a disturbing tendency to result in incurable insanity, and that any ship that stayed too long never returned.

 Information began to flood into his tactical computers from Alamo's sensor pickups, and he scanned the readouts as a picture of the local system built up. Professor Powell and the remnants of his science team had done a good job with their projections, but they were still wildly divergent from the reality. Two moons, not one, though one of them was so small it wasn't surprising he hadn't picked it up, and the largest comet he had ever seen, high over the ecliptic plane.

 And two enemy capital ships, directly ahead, moving into position to block Alamo and the accompanying fleet. When the Captain had decided to press towards the Xandari homeworld, she'd brought every ship she could gather with her, four Koltoc and two Neander, all of them still fighting to repair the damage they had sustained at the Second Battle of Copernicus. He and Harper had led that fleet together, and he was still surprised that they had managed to pull off a victory. At a price far higher than anything he would have willingly paid.

 “Fighters, Pavel,” Ryan said. “Orbiting the planet.”

 “Yeah,” he replied. “I see them.” Three enemy fighters, the usual Xandari design, all of them holding in a defensive formation close to an orbital refinery. A cluster of shuttles were scattering in all directions, trying for the safety of the far side of the planet, away from the battlespace. That maneuver made Salazar frown. Normally, the last thing their enemy considered was their own personal safety.

 “Alamo Actual to Fighter Leader,” Orlova said. “We're going for the capital ships, and we'll be launching your squadron and the shuttle in forty seconds. Full speed to the refinery, and make sure the assault team gets there in one piece. We've got to capture that installation before the enemy have a chance to destroy it.”

 “I can spare three fighters to help with the capital ships, Captain.”

 “We can handle them, Lieutenant. You worry about the fighters. I'll worry about the cruisers. Alamo out.”

 He took a deep breath, tapped a control, and said, “Leader to Squadron. This is it. We're launching in thirty seconds, mark. Remember your training, remember how we practiced in the simulators, and you'll get through this in one piece. Leader out.”

 The fighter started to slide through the deck as the elevator airlock engaged, the force of Alamo's acceleration already pushing him back into his couch. It was going to get a lot worse yet. If they had any chance of getting to the refinery in time, they'd be pushing themselves to the limit. A series of warning lights flashed on, and he was unceremoniously tossed clear of the ship into space, the centrifugal force that provided the artificial gravity giving him an additional boost.

 Ahead of him, the rest of the squadron scattered out into space, thrusters firing to stabilize them as they slid into arrowhead formation for the attack. Reaching down to an override control, he threw his engine to full, slamming him into his chair as his fighter moved to its pre-programmed trajectory, smoothly diving towards the planet ahead.

 Belatedly, the rest of the squadron followed, just as he had planned. He had three missiles slung on his hard-points, and there were three fighters ahead. With a little luck, he could at the very least deprive the enemy of their own ordnance, make them easy targets for the rookies behind them. Glancing at his sensor display, he frowned as he saw two other fighters moving into position, one either side. He'd expected Ryan to make the same move, but it looked as though one of the rookies had decided to jump the gun as well.

 “Fighter Leader to...”

 “Murphy here, boss. I didn't want to be left out of the fun.”

 “Not much fun where we're going, pilot, and damn little glory.” Shaking his head, he said, “Form in behind me. And keep an eye on the rookies, just in case the Xandari have come up with any surprises. Ryan, stay alongside.”

 Behind him, the rest of the squadron moved into formation, twenty seconds behind the advance guard. A cheap trick, but deploying them as ready reserves made tactical sense, and this way they might get some combat experience without risking them in battle. Nothing from the enemy capital ships could close on them in time, and the lumbering vessels seemed far more concerned with Alamo and her escorts than with the fighters racing for the station.

 “Two minutes to combat,” Salazar said. “Weapons free, but hold formation until I give the word.” Scanning the list of pilots in the rear formation, he picked the one with the most experience, and said, “Cox, take charge of the reserves. Hold with the shuttle and defend it at all costs.”

 “Roger, Leader,” the pilot replied, a faint tremble in his voice. “Will comply.”

 Gently, Salazar eased his fighter onto a smooth trajectory towards the target, bringing his attack computer online with a quick flick of a switch, firing solutions flashing across the screen. They had nine missiles to six. All being well, they could take them down in one salvo. He looked across at the tactical display, and frowned again. Those shuttles had taken off far too quickly, and were now completely out of range. Alamo's probe network was still being deployed, minutes away from removing local sensor blind spots.

 “One minute to combat,” Ryan said. “Missiles locked and loaded, skipper.”

 “All ready here, Leader,” Murphy added.

 “Steady as you go,” Salazar replied. “Wait for the command.”

 Alamo was moving in on the cruisers, her first missiles in the air, one of the enemy ships already drifting from damage to her flank. To the side, the escorts were swooping down into position, a textbook maneuver. Everything seemed to be going too perfectly as he moved into firing range, waiting for the warning light to flash.

 “That's it, lead section! Break and attack, full salvo, go!”

 Eight lights appeared on the sensor display as the formation launched their missiles. Murphy had held one back, but the remainder raced towards the enemy fighters, their opponents launching six warheads to counter them, trying to block the attack.

 “Leader to Murphy...”

 “Something stinks, Leader, and I thought we could do with a second salvo.”

 Salazar frowned, then replied, “Hold formation. Just in case.”

 Seconds later, a ripple of explosions smeared the sensor screen, three missiles remaining as the debris field expanded, all of them racing towards the enemy fighters. A smile crept across Salazar's face as he watched the Xandari formation scatter, desperately attempting to evade the incoming warheads. At least there was a chance this one would go right, that the rear formation would be kept out of combat. He glanced at the long-range sensor, and his smile evaporated.

 “Reserve Formation, I told you to keep up with the shuttle. You're pulling too far ahead.”

 “Sorry, sir, I guess...”

 “Tell it to the enemy!” Salazar yelled. “Cut thrust and let them catch up.” Playing on his thrusters, he swung around, immediately dropping back from the battle. Murphy, her instincts quick, followed his lead, holding her place in the formation, while Ryan followed the missiles, keeping course towards the refinery. “Salazar to Shuttle...”

 “We're moving at full thrust,” Harper replied.

 “Go to override.”

 “Incoming!” Ryan yelled. “Looks like a shuttle, moving as fast as a fighter, heading for our assault team. Estimated time to impact, eighty seconds!”

 “Evasive, Kris!” Salazar said, “Incoming kamikaze run! I'll try and block him.”

 He looked at the trajectory plot, his right hand dancing across the navigation computers as he locked his fighter on a collision course with the enemy shuttle. Reaching up to a little-used control, he disabled the safety controls on the throttle, ramping his acceleration as high as he dared, enough that his vision started to blur at the edges, a heavy weight pounding on his chest. Every breath was a struggle, but he'd make his intercept with three seconds to spare.

 Behind him, Murphy was scrambling to catch up, Ryan spinning around in a belated attempt to follow. The reserve formation were too far behind, and with the shuttle forcing itself to full power, were only dropping further back. He cursed himself for his shortsightedness, but there was no time to second-guess himself.

 Reaching across to the thruster controls, he prepared for a final evasive kick. It was unlikely that the Xandari pilot would settle for anything less than a collision with the assault shuttle, but if he could spoil his attack run, twelve missions would guarantee that he wouldn't get another try. He watched the trajectory plot, making minute adjustments to his course, nothing else in his universe other than his fighter and the shuttle.

 Warning alerts rang throughout the cockpit, the guidance computer screaming that he was making a fatal mistake, but he silenced them with the tap of a button, watching as the seconds trickled down. The Xandari pilot pressed on, and somehow he knew that he wasn't going to alter course.

 “Leader, evade!” Murphy yelled. “I've got a firing solution!”

 Instinct took over, and he slammed his fighter into a sharp turn as Murphy released her last remaining missile, the enemy shuttle having no time to evade, barely a chance to contemplate his demise as the warhead caught him amidships, leaving only a cascade of wreckage flying through space.

 “Nice shooting,” Salazar said. “Maybe you might make a fighter pilot yet. Leader to Shuttle, the path is clear. Go get 'em.”

Chapter 2

 Cooper paused at the airlock, waiting for the shuttle to glide into position by the refinery airlock. The mission they were about to attempt was as far from routine as he would ever care to go, an assault by inferior numbers into a killing zone against a prepared, ruthless enemy. Boarding actions were always hazardous, usually yielding high casualties, but this time they simply didn't have a choice. If the mission was to be completed, they needed to take the refinery before the Xandari could destroy it, and they needed to do it while inflicting minimal damage.

 He looked around at the waiting troopers, the best men he had, hand-picked for the mission. Back on Alamo, and dispersed around the rest of the fleet, he had a short company under his command, but far too few of them had received the training his Espatiers had. Veterans, yes. Combat-capable, yes. But for this sort of a battle, something more was needed.

 “All ready, sir,” Lance-Sergeant Hunt, a Corporal when their mission had started, said. He moved in beside Cooper, a grim smile on his face. The first two into the combat zone would take the brunt of whatever hell the enemy was planning to throw at them, and there was no way that the seasoned warrior would allow anyone else to take that position of honor.

 Behind them, the rest of the squad lined up, rifles in hand and plasma pistols at their belts, under orders only to use those devastating weapons unless there was no other choice. They needed to capture this refinery intact, not smash it to its component atoms. Another usual element of boarding actions, the destruction of large areas of the target. 

 “Harper,” Cooper said, “You stay at the back with Donegan. Don't come in until we've at least secured a beachhead and found a terminal for you to hack. Understand?”

 The hacker glared at him, and replied, “Whatever you say, Gabe.” He smiled in reply, knowing that she was a better shot than half of his men, but she had skills that he had to protect. She was the only person they had with sufficient knowledge of Xandari computer networks to have even a fighting chance of cracking into their systems in the time required.

 “In position in thirty seconds,” Acting Lieutenant Barbara Bradley, his wife, said, taking a position at the end of the column, rifle in hand. “And I'm coming for the ride, like it or not.”

 “Yes, ma'am,” he replied with a smile, hefting his weapon in his hands. He took one last look around at his squad, visually checking their suit armor, their rifles. All of them knew their job well enough not to make any stupid mistakes, but he couldn't help but think that if this went wrong, the rest of the company would be in a rather sorry state.

 Of the thirty-two Espatiers in his platoon when Alamo left Yeager Station, eighteen months ago, only seventeen were alive today, and two of those were facing medical discharges when they got back to the Confederation, confined to the ship on doctor's orders. He'd managed to reinforce his strength through recruitment along the way, more than half of the Espatiers in his platoon were Neander either from Thule or from the Free Peoples, but that still left him short of experienced troopers.

 The result of that was that his hand-picked squad was inevitably rank-heavy. Almost every survivor from the original platoon was now at least nominally a squad leader, and Hunt was a platoon commander in his own right, rejecting the battlefield commission he'd been offered for the role. His attack force had two Lance-Sergeants, four Corporals, three Lance-Corporals and a General, the gruff leader of the Free Peoples, Kelot, who had insisted on coming along for the ride.

 “Ten seconds to green light,” he said, looking at the forward hatch. He tapped a series of controls to drain the atmosphere from the cabin, then opened the double airlock doors with the emergency override, the shadow of the station leaking inside as the shuttle cruised alongside. Unlike most of the facilities they had encountered, the Xandari appeared to have designed the refinery themselves, a primitive collection of modules and framework that looked as though it belonged in a museum, not as a key strategic facility of a major interstellar power.

 Unfortunately, that also meant that the shuttle couldn't dock conventionally, and that they were going to have to get onto the station the old-fashioned way. Spacewalking. With a major fleet battle raging not ten thousand miles away, and the risk that one of the Xandari warships could double back at any moment.

 “Who came up with this crazy plan, anyway,” he muttered.

 “You did, sir,” Hunt replied, a wry smile on his face. “Relax, boss. Your crazy plans usually work. Usually.”

 “Optimist,” he said. “Green light! Let's go!”

 His suit thrusters fired, following a preset series of instructions, sending him gently gliding through the airlock, then on with more force towards the looming mass of the station ahead. Any ideas he had about the internal layout were purely guesswork. The Xandari were as alien a species as he had ever encountered, despite their common ancestry with human and Neander. Given the function the station served, though, there had to be at least some logical pattern to the design.

 As best he could determine from the all-too-brief opportunity he had to study it, the station had a single long pressurized corridor running along its whole length, huge fuel tanks connected as modules along the fringes, with the manned compartments in the middle. A similar facility in Triplanetary space would have a working crew of around fifteen. It was anyone's guess how many the Xandari would use, but he knew that they would all be warriors, all ready to fight, kill and die for their cause. Thus far, no matter what the context, he had yet to meet any Xandari he could classify as a civilian.

 He reached out for the airlock, sliding a safety line into position, and took a cursory look at the alien controls. There was no obvious way of opening the lock, but he hadn't really expected to find one. With Hunt sliding in by his side, he pulled out his plasma pistol, anchored himself carefully into position with a handhold and fired, the burst of green flame slamming into the door, melting the metal and sending shards of debris flying away, puffs of atmosphere coming with it.

 Waiting just long enough for the internal pressure to fade to nothing, he peered inside, the compartment no different from any other airlock space. Again, there was no obvious control, and this time the results of breaking in would be far more explosive. Gesturing for the rest of the squad to stay out of the way, he carefully adjusted the settings on his plasma pistol, reached it around into the hole, and fired, instantly withdrawing his hand as the bolt raced free, snatching his weapon back.

 This time, a fountain of air burst away as the airlock doors burst open, carrying a trio of bodies with it, Xandari soldiers, one of them partially into his spacesuit. Cooper gently slid out of the way as they drifted clear, doomed to drift through space forever, then peered inside, swinging his body through the gap he had drilled into the outer doors.

 The space between the hatches was a burned-out ruin, the path to the corridor beyond clear. His actions had bought some time, but they had to move, and move quickly. Firing a quick burst of his suit thrusters to drift inside, he slid his plasma pistol back into its holster and took his rifle in his hands as he gently slid into the corridor, looking from side to side, watching for an ambush. Hunt followed, and they advanced down the passage with the rest of the squad following, Bradley kicking off one of the walls to speed her way, moving to Cooper's side.

 “Wolmar, take Nash and McBride and head down the other way. First one to find an active terminal brings in Harper. We're fighting seconds, so move fast. As soon as we've got what we came for, we get out of here.”

 “Do we need to set charges, sir?” Wolmar asked.

 “I think the Xandari will deal with that little detail for us, Sergeant.” As the three troopers slid down the corridor, Cooper pressed on, to what he hoped was the control complex. They drifted past giant hatches, maintenance access to the titanic fuel tanks slung by the side of the station, each more than large enough to refuel every ship they had. He glanced at one of them, wondering if there was any way to salvage the complex, but he shook his head. By now, there could easily be a countdown under way.

 “Alamo to Cooper,” Orlova said. “Status?”

 “We're in, Captain, and moving down the central corridor now. How are things with you?”

 “Let's just say that I don't think you need to worry about any unexpected guests. We've got full control of orbital space, and there's still no sign of anything anywhere else in the system.” She paused, then said, “I've got shuttles standing by with fighter escort to pick you up. Watch yourself, Lieutenant. The whole mission is riding on this. Alamo out.”

 “No pressure, then,” Bradley said, shaking her head. “She just wishes she was over here with us. Must be murder sitting up there on the bridge.”

 “I'd swap,” Hunt replied. “Looks like we're almost there.”

 Nodding, Cooper pushed on, past the last of the large hatches, into an obviously well-used compartment. Here the paintwork was old, peeling away, text worn from constant use, scuff-marks on the walls and floors where countless technicians had worked over the years. Cooper turned to the squad, then felt himself being thrown back, alerts flooding across his helmet as the force of escaping air hurled him at a wall, sending him recoiling away. All around, his squad was tossed hither and thither as the menacing shapes of the Xandari soldiers drifted into the corridor, weapons in hand.

 A bolt of green flame raced through the mass of bodies, by a miracle missing the squad and slamming into the lead Xandari. Cooper looked around as his suit struggled to stabilize, and saw Corporal Rhodes, pistol in hand, a disbelieving smile on his face.

 The lucky shot had bought them the seconds they needed to rally, and two more carefully aimed plasma bolts smashed into the advancing enemy formation, the searing flames enveloping them. Tentatively, Cooper drifted forward, slow on his suit thrusters, and peered into the compartment from whence they had emerged, complex controls and instruments inside. 

 “We've found it!” he said. “Harper, get in on the double and start your hack. Rhodes, Faulkner, cover her, just in case they've managed another surprise.”

 “I make ten bodies, sir,” Hunt said. “We might have got the whole complement.” He paused, then added, “Lieutenant, they had a good idea but the execution was lousy. Worse than we'd expect.”

 “I know,” Cooper replied. “Either we're catching a break for once, or we're finally working our way through their front-line units. They couldn't have expected anyone to attack this installation, or they'd have done a hell of a lot more to protect it.” Shaking his head, he said, “Maybe we actually have found a weak spot.” Gesturing up the corridor, he said, “Move forward and set up a defensive perimeter. I'd better wait for Harper.”

 “Yes, sir,” Hunt said, drawing two more of the troopers forward as he pushed towards the far end of the station, eyes darting from side to side into the empty compartments. As far as Cooper could see, the Xandari had opened every hatch on the station at once, risked exposing the whole installation to vacuum in a bid to flush out the troopers. It was a technician's trick, not a soldier's. And proved that they'd given up any hope of holding onto the refinery.

 “Alamo to Cooper,” Orlova said. “We're picking up some signs of instability in the station's reactor. Slowly building power curve. Jack Quinn suspects that we're looking at a destruct sequence in progress. What's your status?”

 Looking back towards the airlock, Cooper said, “Harper's coming up now, Captain. Do we have any sort of a timeframe to work with?”

 “Three minutes at least.”

 “Have the shuttles stand by for pick-up.” Tapping a control on his sleeve, he said, “Cooper to Assault Squad. Time to go. Get to the nearest airlock on the double. That's a direct order.” Turning to Harper, he asked, “Kris, we've got two minutes minus.”

 “Let me at the controls,” she said, pushing past him into the room, swinging a holdall in her hand. She dived for the console, tugging equipment out of her bag and hastily setting it up, sliding a custom-designed cable into a data-port. “Give me a hundred seconds to establish the link.”

 Rhodes loitered at the hatch, and Cooper said, “Get out, Corporal. That's an order.”

 “How are you going to make it out, sir?”

 “Never mind that. I'll think of something. Just get moving, on the double, and have the shuttles clear the station as soon as the rest of the squad is on board. I don't want any risk of them getting hit by the debris. Now move, soldier!”

 For a second, Cooper thought Rhodes would disobey, but the trooper reluctantly ducked down the corridor, another shape drifting past after him, the last member of the assault team fleeing the doomed facility. They'd taken a risk launching the attack at all, and now it looked as though it all might have been for nothing.

 He turned back to Harper, watching the hacker quickly and carefully assemble her equipment, setting up the transmitter to dump the data back to Alamo, tugging at the connector to make certain that it was secure. Looking up at the top of his heads-up display, he saw the telemetry feed from the ship, the reactor getting closer and closer to a catastrophic end. He was no engineer, but even he could tell that the end was imminent.

 “How long?” he asked.

 “Thirty seconds,” she replied. “Time for you to figure us a way out of here.”

 “Don't worry about that,” he said. “Just get that datastream set up. Can you dump all the data in time?”

 “Depends how long we get,” she said, her fingers dancing across the controls. “We're streaming at about a gigabyte a second. Lousy pickup with all the debris flying around.”

 “It's going to get a hell of a lot worse in the very near future.” He pulled out his plasma pistol, drifting to the corridor, and looked up at the ceiling, trying to find a clear spot. His memory of the exterior was scanty at best, and they'd only have a single try to get this right.

 “Bradley to Cooper. I'm standing by near the airlock.”

 “Get moving, damn it!” he replied. “I'll never get to you in time. Don't worry, I've already got another way out. You should be able to pick me up in a couple of minutes.”

 “The station won't be there in a couple of minutes.”

 “Have a little faith,” he replied with a smile. “And ask Hunt about my crazy ideas.”

 “Done, Gabe!” Harper said, ducking out of the compartment. “The datastream is about as good as it's going to get.”

 “Fasten your safety line to me, and tie your thruster controls to my suit. Then hang on.” As she slammed the connector into place, he raised his pistol to the ceiling, took one last look at the power settings, and fired, melting a jagged hole, red metal fragments flying in all directions. Jamming his finger down on the thruster controls, he fired a quick pulse to drag them clear, then set them to burn their collective fuel on one long blast, the refinery falling away beneath them as they flew to safety.

 They had no way of knowing how much time they had to make their escape, only that there would be a large explosion in the very near future. Cooper's sensor display showed the shuttles racing for safety, all but one, likely with his wife at the controls, swinging around on an intercept course.

 “Critical!” a voice yelled in his ear, and the station beneath them erupted, brief tissues of flame dancing through the hull breaches as the reactor went critical, a blinding pulse of white light reducing the mass of the station to a billion drifting fragments, a rapidly dispersing debris field. Warning lights lit up on his suit, alerting him to potential collisions in the near future, but his thrusters continued to fire, he and Harper hurled clear of the blast radius just as the fuel ran dry.

 “I guess that's a wrap,” he said, shaking his head. “Alamo, how much data did you get?”

 “About a quarter terabyte,” Orlova replied. “We'll just have to hope that it's enough. Bradley, you might as well swing around and pick up our wayward children. I'm calling a full staff meeting in an hour, and I don't think either of you are going to want to miss it.”

Chapter 3

 Lieutenant-Captain Margaret Orlova waited for the elevator to reach its destination, for once not in a hurry for it to arrive. She looked down at the datapad in her hand, rubbing a sweaty palm on her trousers. Over the years, she'd fought battles all over this part of the galaxy, both on the bridge of a starship and in close-quarters combat, but somehow she had never felt as nervous as she did right now. Once she committed to this mission, there was no going back.

 The doors slid open, and she walked onto the hangar deck, the only space on the ship large enough for the mass meeting she wanted. Every senior officer from every ship in the fleet. In nine days, they'd be on their way to their final target, and nothing was going to stop them.

 She walked to the podium, placed behind the fighters, and looked up at the flags hanging on the wall, the allies who had joined forces to fight the Xandari. The resplendent black-and-green of the Triplanetary Confederation, next to the gold-and-white of the Koltoc Commonwealth, the green-and-blue of the Republic of Copernicus, and the savage red of the Free Coalition.

 Nelyubov and Cooper walked over to her side, the latter now wearing the double-pip insignia of a Lieutenant-Major, one of the brevet promotions littering the crew roster. He was commanding a company on active duty, and she believed he deserved to hold the rank that position merited. That he had a General as one of his platoon commanders was strange enough as it was.

 Carefully, she placed the datapad in position, locking it to the connectors that threw the display onto the wall, and raised a hand to call the meeting to order, the babel of conversation fading as the crowd came to attention. The Koltoc, pink-skinned and white-haired, had all clustered by themselves in a thick pocket around their commander, Colonel Kilquan, while the Neander under Colonel Skeuros had dispersed themselves around. The fighter squadron gathered around Salazar, Harper the only non-pilot among them, the hacker giving a dirty look to a raven-haired pilot with freshly-sewn flight leader stripes on her sleeve.

 “Good morning,” Orlova said. “First of all, Lieutenant Harper, how much data did we retrieve from the refinery before it was destroyed?”

 Turning to face her, Harper replied, “Enough to provide us with a good tactical overview of the current situation at the Xandari homeworld.” A murmur passed through the crowd, and she continued, “We should have a good briefing ready before we leave. Senior Lieutenant Nelyubov has everything we've gathered up till now.”

 “Mr. Quinn,” Orlova said, turning to the engineer in the corner. “What is the current condition of the Fleet from a combat viewpoint?”

 “We only sustained a single missile hit during the last battle, on Red Avenger,” he replied. “I've got a work crew over there right now, and she should be patched up by this time tomorrow.” He paused, then continued, “That doesn't take into account the effects of our prolonged cruise, Captain. We're well behind on all the maintenance schedules, and there are a lot of secondary systems on all the ships that require attention.”

 “Bottom line, Lieutenant. Are we fit for battle?”

 Quinn waged a war within himself before replying, “Yes, ma'am.”

 Looking around the room, Orlova continued, “When I brought the fleet to this system, I passed the word that this was a reconnaissance in force, an attempt to hold back the Xandari and force them into a defensive posture. I must tell you know that this was never our primary objective. Instead, our goal is a simple one. To end the war, right now. In a little more than a week.” The murmur built, and she let it rumble for a moment.

 “Mr. Nelyubov, can you outline what we know of the defensive posture of our target?”

 Nodding, he stepped forward, and tapped a button on the datapad to bring up an image of a twin planetary system, an Earth-like world with a smaller, desert world close by. At a second tap, a swarm of dots appeared in the orbital space surrounding the two bodies, constellations of communications and surveillance satellites, refineries and construction yards, squadrons of fighters on permanent patrol, and a missile defense network guarding the whole sub-system.

 “You want us to attack that?” Kilquan said, shaking his head. “There are faster ways to commit suicide, but I don't see one any more certain.”

 Turning to him, Skeuros rebutted, “A hit and run could do some real damage. If we could knock out their spaceports, we'd set them back by years.”

 “We'd lose our whole attack force trying,” another of the Koltoc said, “and I don't think we'd get any serious hits anyway. A few missile strikes, a couple of weeks' repair at the most, and they're back in business again.”

 Raising a hand, Orlova said, “Under normal circumstances, Colonel, I would agree with you completely, but we have a weapon up our sleeve that we weren't expecting. Before she died, Lieutenant Cantrell left us a legacy. The first element was the location of the Xandari homeworld and the tactical information she gathered, including the information we used in our attack on this system. The second was the weapon that could bring the war to an end. Major Cooper?”

 Nodding, Cooper said, “During the Interplanetary War, the Triplanetary Confederation did a lot of work on orbital denial weapons. The goal was the development of a bomb that could sweep orbital space clear of all installations, satellites and ships, and leave a debris field that would effectively isolate the planet for years, maybe decades.”

 “A doomsday weapon,” Senior Lieutenant John Powell, Alamo's Science Officer said. “Never completed, though.”

 “I'm afraid you are wrong about that, Professor,” Cooper said. “The weapon was completed, but by the time it was ready for deployment, the war was almost over. No test models were ever built, and the design was classified as Ultra Secret.” He paused, then added, “Lieutenant Cantrell brought the blueprints with her, along with authorization by the Combined Chiefs for its deployment.”

 “You cannot be seriously suggesting using a weapon like that,” Powell said, wide-eyed, stepping forward from the crowd. “I remember the studies of what would happen to Earth if it was used. More than half of the population wiped out, technological civilization brought to its knees. A weapon of mass murder on an apocalyptic scale. It was at best meant to be a bluff, not something that should ever actually be used.”

 Cooper looked at Orlova, who replied, “Our orders give me approval to use the weapon if I believe it necessary, Professor. I'm afraid that in my judgment, it represents the best hope we have of bringing this war to an end.”

 “There must be another way,” Powell pressed. “Something that would spare the lives of the innocent civilians on the planet. We're fighting a government, Captain, not a race.”

 “I'm not so sure about that,” Cooper said. “I've never met a non-violent Xandari.”

 “Because you're always facing them with a gun in your hand!”

 “They conquered our planet, enslaved our people,” Ryan said. “This seems a lot like justice as far as I'm concerned. And the only way that we can guarantee our safety. Your reinforcement task force is months away, maybe half a year, and in that time the Xandari can start to rebuild their fleet, get themselves back onto a full combat footing.”

 “I agree,” Kelot said. “We can't show them the mercy they would deny us, Professor. I've looked at the intelligence estimates of their industrial strength. They could have another four battlecruisers in five months. Enough to present a serious threat to the task force. In a year, they could double that number. For today, they are vulnerable, due to the sacrifice of far too many of our people. If we don't take this opportunity, we might never get a second chance.”

 “Does anyone here seriously believe that the Xandari wouldn't use the Kessler Bomb if they had it?” Nelyubov asked. “They wouldn't even think twice.”

 “Is that a good reason?” Salazar asked, frowning. Powell turned to him like a drowning man handed a lifeline, as the young officer continued, “If the only way we can win this war is to be more savage than our enemy, do we really deserve to win?”

 “Pavel's right,” Powell said, nodding. “Can't you see what you are doing? Condemning an entire civilization to die at our hands? Captain, I beg you, tell me that you are not seriously considering this course of action.”

 “A civilization,” Kilquan said, “that would happily conquer, enslave or exterminate every inhabited planet for fifty light-years. A race whose philosophy demands that the weak perish.” The Koltoc commander paused, turned to Orlova, and said, “I have yet, however, to hear a viable battle plan.”

 “The weapon is too large to be deployed by anything other than a shuttle,” Nelyubov said. “We can modify a search-and-rescue pod for the mission, stripped of all excess weight and with modified booster rockets.” He tapped a control on the datapad, and a red dot appeared on the screen, low down, well within the defense perimeter. “The placement of the weapon is absolutely critical, down to the meter. It will be the work of a few minutes to gather the necessary sensor data.”

 “And how exactly do we get into position?” Kilquan asked, shaking his head. “If you've got an accurate projection, I make at least four missile satellites covering every potential approach vector, to say nothing of the fighter squadrons. And I'd be astonished if there weren't more capital ships stationed there also.”

 “True,” Orlova replied. “No strike operation could succeed unless the approach had been cleared first, and that will be the goal of the first wave of the attack.” She pointed at the moon, a dry, desolate wasteland, and continued, “Our information has the core of the Xandari defensive system based here, not on the homeworld.”

 Frowning, Quinn said, “That seems rather convenient. And I'd assume they could switch control to other installations in a second.”

 “Not necessarily,” Harper said. “I don't see any way to hack into the system, but I'm confident that it would be possible to delay switch over for a while. Long enough for a targeted fighter strike to take out enough missile satellites to permit our bomber to make its attack.” Salazar looked at her, shaking his head.

 “I'm with you, Pavel,” Skeuros said. “I presume those are our ships you're planning on throwing into harm's way. Lieutenant, if you get this wrong, we'd lose everything.”

 “One fast pass,” Orlova pressed. “A decoy attack to draw away their mobile defenses, and the real strike consisting of our fighter squadron and the Neander forces in support. Lieutenant Salazar will lead the assault.” Salazar's eyes widened as she continued, “Once the attack has been pressed home, Alamo will swing around the moon, and deploy the bomber.”

 “And how do we disable the satellites?”

 “With a ground assault,” Cooper said. “The surface of the moon is habitable, albeit barely. We'll deploy our full strength, the entire company.” He turned to the image of the system behind him, and continued, “There is an orbital defense network, but there are gaps. Enough that we could sneak a shuttle flight through, traveling at full speed.”

 “You might get down,” Quinn replied. “I don't know how you get back up again.”

 “For that, we'll be reliant on Alamo's second pass. We'll have twenty-one minutes to complete our mission, and then return to orbit at full speed. With Alamo and the Koltoc escorts to provide covering fire, Lieutenant Bradley is confident that the shuttle flight can get clear in time. Risky, certainly, but...”

 His arms folded, Kilquan said, “And just how many troops do you believe are waiting for you on the surface, Major? If that was my installation, I'd have thousands of soldiers guarding the place. Dug-in defenses to fight off any potential assault. This is more than just a risk, Major. It's insanity.”

 “I don't think so,” Cooper replied. “We'll have the element of surprise on our side, and the ability to take the initiative. We choose where we attack, and our shuttles will deploy kinetic warheads on the descent to wreak havoc. When we go down, it will be against a disorganized, disrupted formation, not a prepared unit.” Turning to Orlova, he continued, “All of my men have volunteered for the attack.”

 “Did you think any of them would refuse to go, Gabe?” Salazar asked. “They'd sign up even if they knew they weren't coming back.” Turning to Orlova, he said, “May I have permission to speak freely, Captain?”

 “Of course, Lieutenant.”

 Looking at the tactical outline, he said, “This plan is far too complicated, Captain. Reliant on too many things to go perfectly. If anything goes wrong, then the mission fails, and failure in this case means that we lose the entire fleet. And more besides. If we don't bring the reinforcements forward, then the Xandari will have months, maybe as long as a year, to rearm. We could lose everything we've gained, all the way back to Testament Station.”

 “For all we know,” Nelyubov rebutted, “Commodore Marshall could already be on his way here. He isn't the type to sit back and wait.”

 “No, sir, but the Combined Chiefs are, and it is not entirely his decision.” Shaking his head, Salazar continued, “We can't count on that support getting here when we need it. More than that.” Looking around the cavernous hangar, he continued, “This crew is tired, Captain. Half of them have been rotting in a prison camp for the last four months, and the rest have been in a constant state of combat readiness. They've already gone further than we have any right to ask them to go. And while none of them will admit it, they want to go home.”

 “In a fortnight, we'll be on our way,” Orlova said.

 “Unless someone makes a mistake, and we all get killed.” Taking a deep breath, he continued, “Then there are the moral implications of this plan.”

 “What alternative is there?” Ryan said.

 “If we didn't deploy the K-Bomb, we'd have to sweep orbit the old-fashioned way. That would take the entire Triplanetary Fleet, and we could never deploy it this far out. And then they wouldn't surrender. We'd have to bombard them from orbit.” Nelyubov looked at the young pilot, and said, “Do you want to press a button and destroy a city, Pavel?”

 “As it stands,” Powell said, “You're asking someone to press a button and destroy a world.”

 “Not necessarily,” Nelyubov replied. “Remember that the Xandari haven't been spacefaring for long. Their technology is mostly stolen, their economy totally militarized. I doubt they have many civilian assets in orbit.”

 “We don't know,” Powell pressed. “Which is the largest problem with this entire operation.”

 Quinn looked around, and added, “I'd have to be on Pavel's side, as well. Technically, this ship is fit for battle, but that's a long way from launching a strike on this scale. The Xandari controlled this ship for months, and I'm not completely confident that we don't have any unpleasant surprises waiting for us.”

 Salazar turned to Quinn, and said, “There are no sides here, sir. This meeting was called to ask for the opinions of senior officers, and I've given mine.” Looking back at Orlova, he continued, “If you give the order, Captain, I'll do my damnedest to carry it out.”

 Shaking his head, Powell said, “I'm afraid I don't feel the same way. Captain, if you proceed with this course of action, I will have no choice but to issue a formal written protest.”

 Quinn nodded, and added, “On the grounds of the condition of the ship, Captain, I'm forced to agree.”

 Orlova looked at Salazar, and asked, “Lieutenant?”

 “If you are asking me whether I would do this, Captain, then I must in all honesty say that I wouldn't. I think we're riding our luck further than we should, and I think that the mission is too risky.” With Powell and Quinn looking at him, he continued, “Nevertheless, I respect the chain of command, and I respect your decision. I will make no formal protest, and will lead the attack as directed.”

 “Captain, please,” Powell said.

 “Colonel Skeuros,” Orlova asked. “Your opinion?”

 “Bring down those bastards once and for all?” the Neander said. “Count me in.”

 “General Kelot?”

 “The Free Peoples have suffered more than most at the hands of the Xandari, Captain, and we know better than anyone else what we're fighting for. If we lose this war, then billions of people will be murdered and enslaved. Those people are counting on us to do the right thing, and I don't think we can let them down. I'll commit.”

 “Colonel Kilquan?”

 Shaking his head, he said, “Even some of your own officers oppose you in this, Captain.”

 “We can bring the war to an end in a fortnight, Colonel,” Harper said. “After this, it will just be a question of mopping up the few remaining garrisons. We've pushed them back to their home system. Most of their fleet strength must be there.”

 “Reluctantly, I suppose I am forced to agree,” Kilquan replied. “I don't like this, Captain, I don't like this at all. I don't care about the morality of it, I'm just concerned about the strategic implications should we fail. Nevertheless, I presume you'll be going whether I agree or not, so I am duty bound to commit my forces to the battle.”

 Orlova looked around the room, then said, “Then we will depart on schedule for the Xandari homeworld in four days, nine hours and eleven minutes. All commanding officers will report for a tactical conference tomorrow, and Major Cooper will be briefing the Espatier force this afternoon.” Turning to Quinn and Powell, the latter now looking far older than his years, she continued, “Any formal protests are to be submitted to me before we leave, and I will note them in my log.”

 A defiant smile on her face, she added, “We didn't start this war, but we're damned well going to finish it. Dismissed.”

Chapter 4

 “Here we go!” Salazar yelled, running the modified bomber to full thrust as he dived for the enemy defense perimeter. “Ryan, you take left. Murphy, take right. Break off as soon as we're through the missile screen and get back to Alamo. No heroics.”

 He settled down in the couch, reaching down to the throttle as he attempted to urge more speed from his ship, following the pre-selected trajectory. Ahead, the oddly inviting green and blue world loomed in the monitor, growing closer by the second. Glancing across at his sensor display, he allowed a brief smile to flash across his face. Everything was going according to plan, the formation heading right for the gap they'd torn in the satellite defenses in the first attack.

 “Missile launch!” Ryan yelled.

 “Relax,” Murphy said. “I've got it.”

 Two more targets appeared on his screen, missiles racing for mutual destruction, and Salazar concentrated on his approach vector. His escort knew their jobs, giving him the window to press his attack home. Behind him, the bomb nestled in the modified cargo space, and he twisted the key on his control that enabled the launch mechanism.

 “Break and return!” Salazar yelled, and the fighters peeled away, Ryan first, then Murphy, scant seconds later. He frowned, knowing that she was risking destruction, but there was nothing he could do for her now. The countdown clock flashed into view, and at last he realized that he was going to make it. All around, Xandari fighters screamed towards his position, but there was no way they could intercept him in time.

 “Bomb release!” he yelled, hitting the control an instant after the computer, the shuttle instantly leaping forward from the release of its payload. The countdown clock reset, down to thirty seconds, and he slammed switches to disable the safety systems, pushing his shuttle to the limit in a bid to gain speed and distance.

 There was no way he could execute a turn at this speed. The only safety was to go deeper,  to swing around the planet and away, and he dived towards the surface as chaos erupted all around him, a trio of Xandari fighters attempting to destroy the bomb before it could detonate, others racing on their own desperate bids to escape the blast radius.

 A white flash announced that the bomb had exploded behind him, the cascade effect under way as the debris field swept into position, fragments of molten metal racing towards him in all directions. Bare seconds later, his damage control computers started to record impacts on the outer hull, small fragments first, then larger, red warning lights sweeping across the readouts, bathing him in their light.

 Behind him, Alamo was moving away, one of the fighters following, another already vanished from the screen. Murphy, a few seconds slow. It didn't seem to matter. He was about to share her fate. A siren blared, the decompression alarm, and before he could make a move, it was all over. The viewscreen briefly blanked out, flickered, and returned to the starfield, the controls reset to the beginning of the simulation run.

 The hatch slid open, Harper and Ryan waiting for him outside, Murphy red-faced by the cockpit. Tugging free of his headset, Salazar slid out onto the deck, shaking his head.

 “I'm getting tired of dying,” he said.

 “I don't blame you,” Harper replied. “That's eleven times in a row, just today.”

 “Murphy…,” Salazar began.

 “I know, I know,” she said. “One of the satellites was swinging into position for a shot. If it had released, it could have taken out the bomb. I figured if you were going to commit suicide out there, you might as well have some company in your trip to the next world.”

 “This isn't a suicide mission,” Salazar pressed.

 With a sigh, Ryan replied, “I hate to disagree with you, Pavel, but from where I'm standing that's exactly what this is. That was one of the smoothest runs we've had, and you still weren't even close. Hell, Alamo took damage in that run, and she was at extreme range. We might as well face facts. Whoever sits in that shuttle isn't coming back from this mission. We'll be lucky to get the escort fighters clear. Isn't there some other way we could deliver the bomb?”

 “We can't send the bomber in unmanned,” Harper said, shaking her head. “Too much risk of interference. Someone needs to be sitting in the pilot's seat in case something goes wrong at the last minute. And we can't use a projectile. The bomb's too large for any missile we have, and it would take too long to put something bigger together. There's only one delivery system that's going to work.”

 “Then it's a suicide mission,” Ryan said. “And I volunteer.”

 Shaking his head, Salazar replied, “Sorry, Mike, but that's not your seat. You've never even flown one of our SAR shuttles. It needs to be someone who knows those controls blind and backwards, and that just isn't you.” Clapping him on the shoulder, he continued, “Though I certainly appreciate the gesture.”

 “I don't,” Harper said. “This doesn't have to be you, Pavel.”

 With a shrug, he replied, “I'm going up to brief the Captain right now, and I already know what my recommendation is going to be.” Shaking his head, he said, “Take half an hour and get something to eat. I think we all need a break. I'm not giving up on this. We've still got four days to find a way through the gap.” He turned for the elevator, and Harper walked after him, just ducking through the doors in time. 

 “We're going to have a conversation,” she said.

 A thin smile spread across his face, and he replied, “No, you aren't coming with me. That's a one-man ride the way it's configured now, and we don't have time to fit another couch. I can handle whatever needs to be done, and your place is on the ground, with Cooper's strike team. You've got to disable those satellites so we can clear the path for the bombing run.”

 “Damn it, Pavel, you don't even agree with this mission!”

 “No, I don't,” he said. “I think we're taking far too big a risk, and I think the odds of us getting away with this are far shorter than anyone cares to admit.” Shaking his head, he added, “We're long overdue. Months overdue. By now, someone back home is wondering whether or not to officially classify us as missing in action. We were meant to be on a six-month patrol, Kris. As of yesterday, we've been out for eighteen, and even if everything goes well, we'll be lucky to get back to Mars in six more.”

 “Everyone knew what they were signing up for.”

 “Kris, for me it doesn't actually matter. Alamo is the closest thing I've ever known to a home, and her crew the closest thing I have to a real family.”

 “Then….”

 “Ben Bartlett has a daughter he's never seen. He was meant to be home in time for the birth. She's probably taken her first steps already, said her first word. Arkhipov was meant to be getting married more than a year ago. God knows whether his fiancee is still waiting for him. I can tell you a dozen stories like that.” Turning to her, he continued, “And don't tell me what they signed up for. No one signed up for an endless crusade across the stars.”

 “Pavel, we're the only ones who can do this.”

 Pointing a finger at her, he continued, “And it is that arrogance that is the worst part of this. And that's what it is. Imagine if we were contemplating launching a decapitation strike against Earth, say. We'd have the whole damned Fleet lined up for the battle, a dozen capital ships, hundreds of fighters, thousands of troopers. A full Admiral in command with a staff spending months working on the battle plan.”

 Taking a deep breath, he continued, “Instead, we've got one capital ship, battle-scarred, with a rag-tag collection of escorts and a scratch company. A battle plan thrown together by three people over the course of a week, based on intelligence so limited that any staff officer would throw up his hands in despair. And we're betting the outcome of the whole war on this. If the mission fails, we lose.”

 A scowl on her face, Harper replied, “Then in God's name why didn't you put in your own written objection? If you are so certain that this is the wrong thing to do…

 “Because that would have changed nothing,” Salazar said. “Except that someone else would have ended up commanding the assault, and that person might not have been good enough. Fast enough. And I'm loyal enough to the Captain that I won't go against her publicly.” Shaking his head, he said, “I get Powell. He's half-civilian, and he has a point. I'd thought better of Jack Quinn.”

 With a faint smile, Harper said, “You realize you're talking about two senior officers. Technically, comments like that are grounds for insubordination.”

 “I won't tell them if you don't.” He paused, then said, “Under other circumstances, I might have pushed it further.” Looking at her, he continued, “Never mind what Lieutenant-Captain Salazar might have done. What would Lieutenant-Captain Harper do?”

 “Resign,” she replied.

 A smile burst across his face, and he said, “Probably the best answer.” The doors slid open, and he stepped out onto the bridge, Harper lingering in the elevator. “I'll see you at the mess in a few minutes. If it isn't asking the impossible, see if you can find something edible for dinner.”

 “You don't want much, do you?” she replied, as the doors slid shut. Salazar walked across the deck, nodding at the duty helmsman, Sub-Lieutenant Foster moonlighting from her post as Security Officer, his old assignment. He paused outside the Captain's office for a moment, then glanced around the bridge. Everywhere he could see signs of battle, too-hasty repairs, the cosmetic touches ignored due to lack of time. Alamo was scarred, and so was her crew.

 “Come in, Pavel,” Orlova said, and the door slid open. He walked into the office, taking the proffered chair, and placed his datapad on the desk. “I take it you don't have good news for me.”

 “I'm afraid not, Captain. We'll keep trying, and I certainly haven't given up yet, but the reality is that whoever climbs into that shuttle isn't going to come back.” With a forced smile, he added, “Don't write me off, though. The simulators are usually a bit conservative, and I might be able to squeeze some more acceleration after deployment.”

 “What makes you think you're going?”

 “To be blunt, I'm the best small-ship pilot on the ship, whether I have one eye or two. I might have a chance of pulling off some sort of miracle and getting home. No one else will.”

 “Confident, aren't you?”

 “Frank Nelyubov, Jack Quinn and Barbara Bradley all tried a run on the simulators yesterday. None of them even got close.”

 “There are other pilots.”

 “None of whom should be forced to take the risk. I know what I'm getting into, Captain, and I know what I need to do to pull this off. I'm confident that I can find a way to make this work.”

 “I'm not,” she replied, shaking her head. “And neither are you. You're just trying to make the pitch to convince me to authorize you to fly the mission, and hoping to make me feel a little better about it.” Raising a hand, she continued, “None of which matters, because I've already chosen the pilot for this mission. I'll be taking the shuttle out myself.”

 “Captain, with all due respect, your place is on the bridge. Alamo will be taking part in the biggest battle she's ever fought.” Tapping the wings on his chest, he said, “I'm a fighter pilot. This is my job. This is what I do.”

 “You're that desperate to throw your life away on a mission you don't believe in?” Sitting back in her chair, she continued, “You made your feelings quite clear at the briefing.”

 “I did not make any formal protest, Captain, and I have no intention of issuing one.”

 “Powell, Quinn and Duquesne were less generous. And to an extent, I agree with them, and with you. I know the risk we're running, and I know the moral implications of what we're doing.” She paused, then said, “At the end of the Second World War, President Truman didn't need to drop the atomic bomb on Hiroshima to win the war. Japan could have been blockaded. Except that millions of people would have died in the consequent famine, the country ruined.”

 Nodding, Salazar replied, “Instead of which, tens of thousands died, and the war ended.”

 “Then you see why?”

 “Frankly, I don't. War isn't a numbers game, and you can't reduce casualties to statistics. We don't know what the outcome of the attack is going to be. Can't know, until we've done it. And once this bomb is deployed, it will be a Sword of Damocles hanging over the head of every civilized world. How long before the United Nations has a weapon of the same type? The Lunar Republic, the Cabal, the Koltoc? Then the same arms race begins again, the one which led to the Third World War, a century after that bomb was dropped.”

 “The parallels aren't perfect,” she replied. “But really, Pavel, what choice do we have?”

 Taking a deep breath, Salazar said, “I respect the chain of command, Captain. I can't agree with you, but I will follow where you lead.” Leaning forward, he continued, “Which means I should be the one flying the shuttle. Even if it means my death.”

 Shaking her head, Orlova replied, “No, Pavel. It has to be me. Whoever drops that bomb will go down into history as the person who destroyed a civilization, and there will be people cursing their name for centuries. It wouldn't be fair for it to be someone who didn't believe in the mission, especially when there is no chance they're coming back.”

 “Captain...”

 “Maybe, if we weren't so certain this is a one-way mission, I might think differently. I might allow you to take the risk.” Reaching for the datapad, she scanned the report, and said, “A hundred and nine simulation runs, and a hundred and nine times, you've died. Eleven today, so far. We're not talking about finding a few more seconds, Pavel. You need minutes, and you can't get them.”

 “Sometimes that's the price. One life for billions doesn't sound like a bad trade.”

 “I've made my decision, Lieutenant, and I'm afraid that it is final. I'll be flying the shuttle myself. You and Ryan can be my escort, and I hope you turn around faster than Murphy did on that last run.” She paused, then asked, “What's the status of the fighter squadron?”

 “Inexperienced at best. Ryan, Murphy and I will try to keep the fire from them, but...”

 “What about Murphy?”

 Salazar shrugged, then said, “A natural. Given time and training, she'd be one of the best. Hopefully she'll live long enough to get both.”

 “She's applied for a transfer to the Triplanetary Fleet.”

 Raising an eyebrow, Salazar said, “I'll sign off on it, if she's serious. We can certainly use her. I feel a bit bad about robbing Copernicus of another officer, but given the circumstances...”

 “I agree. We'll get that arranged before we leave hendecaspace. Then you can begin your new assignment.”

 “New assignment? I figured I'd revert to Operations Officer after the mission was over. Assuming, of course, that we make it through in anything approaching one piece.”

 “Close,” she replied. “I already talked to Frank Nelyubov about this, and we're both in agreement that you should serve as Executive Officer on the return journey.” Reading his expression, she continued, “I know everything you are about to say, but Frank's going to need someone good watching his back, and you've already proven yourself as a command officer.”

 “I'm twenty-four. One of the youngest officers of my rank in the Fleet. Second-in-command of a ship like this is a job for a second-term Senior Lieutenant.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Jack Quinn, or Powell...”

 “Neither has the temperament for command. The trip back to Triplanetary space might not be as smooth as we're all hoping. Both Frank and I are confident that if something goes wrong, you could get the ship home. I suspect the only person who doesn't have faith in you is yourself.”

 “I just don't think I'm ready.”

 “And we all hope you won't have to be. I don't think you realize just how much you have grown from that angry young man I meant back at Ragnarok, before the mission really started. You've earned the respect of everyone on board, and turned into a fine officer. A fine commander. We wouldn't be sitting here right now if that wasn't the case. That's one more reason I can't let you go. The Fleet's going to need you.”

 “I could say the same about you, Captain.”

 “Maybe, but this is something I have to do. Besides, I'm not exactly a bad pilot myself, and I know a few old smugglers' tricks that might surprise you. I don't do suicide missions either. With a little luck, we'll all be heading home together after all.”  She looked into his eyes, the two of them both knowing that she was lying. After a second, Salazar broke the silence.

 “I hope so, Captain. I hope you're right.”

 “So do I,” she replied. “So do I.”

Chapter 5

 The deck was silent, the bulk of the crew in their quarters, trying to get some sleep before the battle that was to come. As soon as Alamo arrived at the Xandari homeworld, all hands would need to be at their best, rested and refreshed for the fight. Orlova glanced at her watch, and shook her head. In a little over six hours, she'd be standing on the bridge, waiting for the ship to emerge from hendecaspace. And there was nothing she could do to change that, not now.

 She turned a corner, walking through the empty hangar deck, the bomber that was destined to destroy a civilization still hanging from the ceiling, modifications all completed, the ship ready to launch. A lone technician wandered in through a side door, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand, snapping a salute as his noticed his commanding officer.

 “Sorry, ma'am,” he said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

 “No, thank you, Spaceman,” she replied. “Carry on.”

 The technician returned to his duties, walking over to a wall console and pulling up maintenance schedules. Technically, he should probably be in his quarters, trying to sleep, but she could say the same about herself. With a nod, she turned back to the corridor, walking towards the elevator, the doors sliding open as she approached.

 Down to the sensor decks, the outer layer of the ship, sparsely inhabited even under normal circumstances. Cramped and confined corridors, twisting around the pickups that reached deep into the ship, maintenance hatches everywhere to allow easy access. One of them was burned and blackened, damage from one of the recent firefights that Quinn and his team hadn't had a chance to repair, warning tape wrapped around to prevent access.

 Here, as near as she could get to cold vacuum, she could see the damage her ship had suffered on its long cruise. All along the corridors, replacement panels were fitted to cover hull breaches, scrawled text scribbled on the walls, notes for later maintenance routines. Bandages to cover Alamo's wounds, scars that were silent testament to the battles she had fought.

 A brown mark covered the floor outside Astrogation, a stain on the deck that was almost certainly blood. Under normal circumstances, it would have been cleaned up long ago, but the damage suffered as a result of the fights with the Xandari had left no opportunity for simple cosmetics. They'd have to wait until they turned for home, another long flight back to the Confederation.

 Orlova sighed, and shook her head. Even after this battle was over, they'd be lucky to get back home in four months. Most of them through barely explored space, though at least they had more friends to call on for their return than they had on the trip out here. By now, Alamo would almost certainly have been listed as missing, long overdue from the original mission, families notified of the peril their loved ones were facing. Worrying about the unknown, not knowing whether to pray or to mourn.

 She walked past a countdown clock, attached to the wall, just as the '6' became a '5'. Soon enough the crew would be returning to their posts, completing the thousands of critical tasks required to make the ship ready for battle. They were as prepared as they possibly could be, but she still had a feeling of dread about what was to come.

 In all likelihood, by this time tomorrow, she would be dead. And that thought bothered her a lot less than she had expected. In the years she had worn the uniform, she'd faced death a dozen times over, had expected to die more than once on some forgotten wasteland, or in some lonely star system light-years beyond explored space. It was something she'd mentally prepared herself for long ago, but now that the reality of the situation was sinking in, she felt disconnected, as though already the crew was leaving her behind. All being well, they'd be going home. She wouldn't.

 After she'd told Pavel about her decision, she'd spent hours flying the simulator herself, trying to find something he'd missed. From the beginning, she'd known it was a fool's errand. Her training in the cockpit had been brief, and she hadn't logged a tenth of the flying time he had. That he might have missed something was possible, but for her to find it if he had was improbable.

 Which meant that in about eight hours, she'd be climbing into the fighter, waving off at Chief Kowalski, and flying into oblivion. Already she could run through the mission plan in her mind, every step of the way. Getting into position with the bomb was comparatively easy, assuming Alamo and Cooper's team did their jobs. Getting back would be impossible. All she had was the slender hope that the simulation wouldn't match the reality, that she might find some way to survive that had escaped everyone else. It didn't seem likely. The cold equations were easy enough to define.

 In a strange way, she didn't mind. This battle was going to be analyzed and studied for decades, a lesson in tactical and strategic insanity, as well as the morality of warfare. No matter how she might attempt to justify it, no matter how right a decision she believed it was, she was going to be directly responsible for the death of hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of people. Perhaps the Xandari could adapt to the loss of their orbital installations more easily than Earth, or Mars. Another hope to cling to.

 The Professor's words were still haunting her, the damning text of the written statement running through her mind. Did they have the right to do this terrible thing? She'd often wondered what it must have been like to live through the Nuclear Century, on Earth, when the major powers had weapons of annihilation aimed at each other, until finally they were deployed in one terrible spasm of destruction.

 And now she was bringing those nightmares to life once again. They'd kept the K-Bomb a secret, but once it had been deployed, it would be duplicated. In a matter of years, perhaps months, the United Nations, Lunar Republic, the Cabal would have their own versions. Maybe the Koltoc, as well. An arsenal of bombs too deadly to use. Whether that would prevent their deployment was another matter entirely.

 Colonel Paul Tibbets and Lieutenant-Captain Margaret Orlova. Two names that would be linked in history from this moment on, whether she survived deployment or not. He'd flown a mission to end a terrible war with a terrible weapon, but at least he hadn't been the one to make the decision. That had been higher up, at the very top of the chain of command.

 So this was, at least in theory. The orders Lieutenant Cantrell had carried bore the signature of Counter-Admiral Remek, and behind her those of the Combined Chiefs. Which meant that at some point, the President had authorized this attack. Cold comfort. The orders had given the use of this weapon to her as an option, but she was still the one required to make the final decision.

 She envied the certainly of Nelyubov, whilst doubting his sincerity in stating it. There were billions of people counting on what this ship did next, on the success of their mission. No one could doubt what the Xandari would do if they rebuilt their fleet, and they were poised to do that all too quickly. Long before reinforcements could arrive from the Confederation, Copernicus would have fallen again, every world back to Testament Station and beyond. Peoples that she had sworn to protect. Alamo was one ship. She couldn't wipe out the enemy fleet by herself. Not without a special advantage, a bomb designed for another terrible war.

 Would they have used it, back then, if things had worsened? By the time Triplanetary scientists had developed the K-Bomb, the war had turned again, raiding ships like her own Alamo bringing Earth's economy to the brink of ruin and dragging the politicians back to the negotiating table. Had that not been the case, could some cold, calculating Admiral have ordered Earth's civilization wiped out? And could anyone back on Mars have lived with themselves while the cradle of humanity was ruined, billions of innocent lives destroyed?

 Maybe she was taking the coward's way out. The one to make the decision would die in the process of enacting it, and never have to face the consequences of her actions. No Board of Inquiry, no attacks by the press, no second thoughts. And yet, she couldn't allow someone else to take responsibility for her decision. Couldn't allow Salazar, Bradley or anyone else to face that sort of a legacy. Better that it all rested on her.

 She walked past a theoretically empty compartment, one of the storage bays that had long-since been stripped bare during their long voyage, and saw a cluster of crewmen sitting in a corner of the room, a risque holomovie playing on the wall. She shook her head, making sure they didn't spot her, not wanting to spoil their evening, and quietly continued along the corridor.

 They'd gone through hell with her, over the last year and a half. The longest combat cruise in the history of the Confederation. And hopefully, all of that would soon be coming to an end, with a triumphant march home to look forward to.

 Footsteps echoed down the corridor towards her, and she saw Nelyubov walking in her direction, a benign smile on his face. She nodded at him, pausing to allow him to catch up, before the two of them resumed their aimless wandering.

 “Couldn't sleep,” she said. “Always the same before a battle. The waiting's the hardest thing.”

 “I think everyone feels the same way,” he replied. “Doc Duquesne was handing out sleeping pills like confetti earlier. Whether anyone actually took them I don't know. There's a pretty good party that I've made sure not to know about going on in the Chem Lab right now.”

 “No,” she said. “We'd just make everyone uncomfortable. God knows this crew have earned a chance to loosen up a little.” She looked around, shook her head, and said, “By this time tomorrow, if we're successful, the war will be over.”

 “That's the plan,” he replied. “Seems strange, doesn't it. A year and a half since we found that first assassin at Ragnarok, and now we're out here to bring it all to an end with a weapon we didn't even know we had.” He paused, then added, “Can I talk you out of getting into that cockpit?”

 “No.”
 “It isn't your place, Maggie, and you know it.”

 “You've talked to Pavel, haven't you.”

 “I didn't need to,” he said, a smile crossing his face. “I think I know you well enough to know what you are planning before you do. You never had any intention of allowing anyone else to fly that mission, even if you didn't have an excuse to hold Pavel back.”

 Turning to him, she said, “This is my decision, Frank, and I'm not going to ask any member of the crew to take a risk that I'm not willing to take myself.”

 “You know it doesn't work that way,” he replied. “This is about responsibility, not risk. We're about to do something terrible. Justified by the circumstances, but still terrible, and you want to take all the responsibility on yourself.”

 “The prerogative of a commanding officer,” she said. “Did I ever tell you anything about the Desdemona mission? About four, maybe nearly five years ago.” She smiled, then added, “My first as a commissioned officer.”

 “I thought all the details of that operation were top secret. Besides, I was still in that Cabal prison at the time, remember.” Frowning, he said, “I heard rumors of some sort of scandal regarding the Belt Republic.”

 “I guess the details don't matter too much, except that a very good man, and a friend, gave his life for the sake of peace. Sacrificed himself to start a war before it could begin, and to keep a secret that kicked the Triplanetary economy back into high gear.” Shaking her head, she continued, “It seems so long ago.”

 “What's the connection?”

 “I said then that the reason I was staying in the fleet was because sometime, someplace, I was going to be in a position to make a difference. To make a sacrifice of that magnitude that would save a lot of lives.” She shook her head, and said, “I know what we're doing has to be done. I also know that there is no way the pilot can come back from the mission.” Looking across at him, he continued, “And that's why I have to be the one to go.”

 “Maggie...” 

 “My mind is made up, Frank,” she said. “Come on. I suppose we should at least try and get some rest. We've got a big day tomorrow.”

Chapter 6

 Orlova walked onto the bridge, the countdown clock running down the final moments before Alamo emerged from hendecaspace in the enemy home system. Nelyubov stood waiting for her at the central holotable, Sub-Lieutenant Scott taking his place at the tactical station. Next to Maqua at the helm, Sub-Lieutenant Foster stood, ready to replace anyone who fell at their posts.

 She looked at the slowly rotating image of the enemy homeworld, defensive emplacements in position based on the data they'd accumulated. Reality would wash over the display soon enough, giving her the first true idea of what they were up against. For a brief second, doubt flooded her mind, a fear that Salazar had been right, that perhaps this time they'd taken too great a gamble. She looked at Nelyubov, cold reassurance in his eyes, and smiled, reaching for a microphone.

 “Bridge to Fighter Leader. Report status.”

 “Salazar here. All fighters are ready to launch on thirty-second alert.”

 “Strike team?”

 Cooper's voice replied, “Locked and loaded, assault shuttles ready to launch on your order.”

 “Flight deck, bomber status?”

 “Pre-flight checks completed,” Chief Kowalski replied. “All systems go.”

 Nodding, Orlova turned to Weitzman, and said, “Spaceman, connect me to the ship.”

 Throwing a switch, the communications technician replied, “You're on, ma'am.”

 “This is the Captain,” she began. “In a little over four minutes, Alamo will be arriving in the Xandari home system, the heart of their empire. This is what we've been working towards for eighteen months. Our opportunity to bring this threat to an end, to ensure that billions of people on dozens of worlds no longer have to live in fear of annihilation.”

 She looked around the bridge, all eyes on her, and continued, “Today we participate in the most important battle this ship has ever fought, one that will determine the destiny of our worlds for decades to come. I can think of no other crew, no other ship I would rather serve on for such a battle. Remember this day, remember every detail, because you're going to be telling the story of this fight for the rest of your lives. All hands, battle stations.”

 “All decks to the alert!” Nelyubov said, moving to the secondary position at the holotable. “All areas responding, Captain.”

 “Missile salvo ready,” Scott said, working her controls. “Laser cannon is charging. We'll be ready by the time we emerge. Rules of engagement?”

 “Follow the battle plan where possible, but you my engage targets at your discretion,” Orlova replied. “We've got to clear a path into the system, Sub-Lieutenant. Sweep the road.”

 “Yes, ma'am,” she said, turning back to her console.

 “Emergence in three minutes, Captain,” Maqua said.

 “Very good, Sub-Lieutenant. You have the call.”

 “Aye, Captain. I have the call.”

 She looked at the Neander for a second, the eager officer hunched over his controls, positioning the ship for dimensional transition. As much as anything else, Sub-Lieutenant Maqua illustrated the journey Alamo had taken over the last year and a half. Back then, he was a slave held captive on a Xandari resource world, his very survival in doubt. Today he was a trusted junior officer, the first Neander to hold a commission in the Triplanetary Fleet. Somehow, Orlova had the idea that he wouldn't be the last.

 Stepping through the doors, Colonel Kilquan moved to a position opposite Nelyubov, offering Orlova a nod. The Koltoc commander had opted not to travel on one of his own ships for this mission, leading his squadron from Alamo. Tactically, it was logical enough, as the primary duty of his four ships would be to escort the battlecruiser, but she couldn't help but suspect that he was more interested in keeping an eye on her.

 “Two minutes, Captain,” Maqua said.

 “All decks are ready for action, ma'am,” Nelyubov said. “We're clear to execute the battle plan as soon as we emerge from hendecaspace. Senior Lieutenant Powell is ready to calculate the firing position of the bomb, and I've got Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo on standby to double-check his work.” Left unspoken was their shared suspicion that Powell might opt for sabotage, to prevent the mission's success. If the bomb was even a quarter of a mile out of position, the cascade effect would fail.

 “Ninety seconds,” Scott said. “I'm ready here, Captain. Six missiles' worth of hell to throw at anything standing in our way.”

 “We've got to assume they'll have a garrison force standing by at the hendecaspace point,” Kilquan said. “I doubt they'll think we're coming, but if I was commanding the defenses, I've have at least one squadron of fighters on standby. We should consider scrambling ours as soon as we emerge. There will be time for the attack pass after they rearm.”

 “We aren't changing the battle plan with seventy seconds to go,” Orlova replied. “The faster we move, the less reaction time we allow the enemy. Unless we're facing more opposition than we expect, Alamo and the escorts should be able to do the job.”

 “Escape vector calculated,” Maqua said with forced optimism. Theoretically, Alamo and the rest of the fleet could run to the innermost planet in the system, an uninhabited rock with an egress point, but no one believed that the Xandari would allow them to reach it. They had no realistic abort option, and everyone knew it. Part of the risk they were taking.

 “Thirty seconds,” Maqua said. “Ready for transition.”

 “Scanners prepared for full analysis as soon as we enter the enemy system,” Spinelli said, turning from the sensor controls. “We should have a good map of the local sub-system in less than a minute, and threat potential in ten seconds.”

 “Fifteen seconds,” Scott said, her hands resting on the controls.

 “Preparing full acceleration as soon as we clear the egress point,” Maqua said. “I have prepared a random walk trajectory, just in case.” Glancing to the side, he said, “Ten seconds.”

 Orlova nodded, turning to the viewscreen. By any realistic measure, the holotable would provide a more accurate representation of the battlespace they were entering, but somehow, nothing quite compared with viewing the new system for herself. As far as they knew, the only humans to ever arrive at the Xandari homeworld had done so in chains. They were moving in as liberators.

 With a blinding flash, Alamo emerged into normal space, and sirens sounded all around as data cascaded onto the screen. The main engines roared, kicking the ship clear of the transition point, and all around them, more ships appeared, the six escorts flying through in formation, ready for battle.

 “All ships in position,” Spinelli said. “Threat warning! Two enemy warships, heading our way! Estimated intercept in two minutes minus, Captain!”

 “Scott, I want a firing solution on those ships immediately.” A magnified image of the enemy ships appeared on the display, the lines undoubtedly those of a Xandari vessel, but different from anything they had encountered so far. They were moving at speed, though, sliding into an attack run on the invading force.

 “Assessment?” Orlova asked.

 “Smaller than the usual battlecruiser design,” Nelyubov said, “but I'd say they were derivative. Maybe an earlier model. Look at that communications array, aft. Downright primitive.”

 Nodding, Kilquan added, “And the sensor pickups, as well. I make four missile tubes, but too small for their heavier ordnance. If I was to guess, I'd say we're looking at their reserve formation, ships not deemed fit for front-line duty.”

 The image over the holotable jumped as the first batch of sensor data came in, and Spinelli reported, “Two more cruisers at the other hendecaspace point, Captain. They're holding position for the moment. I'm picking up eighty-two fighters in orbital track, as well as a couple of dozen shuttles. Twenty-four missile satellites, just as we expected.”

 Tapping a control, Orlova said, “Bridge to Astrogation. How long before we get our target?”

 “A few minutes, Captain,” Lombardo replied. “We're computing it now.”

 “Sixty seconds to contact,” Spinelli said. “We're out of range of all defensive satellites. They don't have anything stationed near any hendecaspace points.” Glancing across at a second monitor, he continued, “Lots of activity in the rest of the system. Outposts, colonies, stations, but only a minimal defensive presence elsewhere.”

 Nodding, Kilquan said, “They've concentrated everything into the heart of their defenses. We might have them more worried than we thought.” Squinting at the display, he turned to Spinelli, and said, “Spaceman, can you give me a better view of that station in the hundred-mile orbit?”

 “Yes, sir.”

 The image that appeared on the display made Orlova's blood run cold. Suddenly every decision she had made had proved correct, their projections of potential enemy fleet strength far underestimating the reality they were facing. Spread across a long series of frameworks, she could see the hulls of a dozen battlecruisers in various stages of construction, some of them almost ready to fly. She glanced at Nelyubov, who shook his head in response.

 “If we'd waited a month, we'd have been too late.”

 “Thirty seconds to contact, Captain,” Scott said. “I have a firing solution on Cruiser Alpha.”

 “Both of them are on courses to swing them around the moon for a second pass,” Nelyubov said. “We'll only get a single salvo at them this time. Not likely we'll disable them on the first try.”

 “Colonel, I want your forces to concentrate on Cruiser Beta. We'll handle Cruiser Alpha. Have them do as much damage as they can, contingent on their survival of this attack pass. We're going to need those ships at full strength for the second phase.”

 “Firing range, ma'am!” Scott said. “Helm, I need a shot, now!”

 “Coming around,” Maqua replied, gently guiding Alamo into position, nose swinging around into line with the enemy ship. The laser cannon fired at Scott's command, pulsing gigawatts of energy into the Xandari vessel, the winglike heat radiators glowing a dull red from the discharge. An angry black line ran down the nose of the enemy craft, puffs of atmosphere leaking from ruptured compartments, but still the two ships pressed on towards their target.

 “Salvo launched, Captain,” Scott said. “Enemy has responded.”

 “Eight Xandari missiles in the air,” Spinelli added. “Fourteen of our own.”

 “I like those odds,” Nelyubov said. 

 Orlova watched as the battle unfolded on the screen before her, intersecting trajectory tracks as the missiles danced into position. None of the defenses orbiting the planet had moved, nor had the two other capital ships hanging close to the other egress point. Some Xandari commander was probably concluding that Alamo's attack was a feint, a ruse designed to draw away the defenses to allow a second, larger fleet to strike by surprise. If he wanted to make such an error, she certainly wasn't going to discourage him.

 “Fratricide, Captain,” Scott said, and the trajectory plot thinned out. All of the incoming Xandari missiles had been destroyed, six of theirs still running towards their target, three for each of the enemy cruisers. She looked across at the engineering station, projections of the enemy capital ships flashing on the monitors, little more than educated guesswork but still encouraging. They might not destroy the ships on this pass, but they were certainly going to hurt them, and for little expenditure, if all went well.

 “They still aren't moving,” Kilquan replied, shaking his head. “I don't buy it. If we can make tactical assessments of fleet strength, so can they. Unless that task force of yours is a lot closer than we thought, they're planning something.”

 “Based on what?” Nelyubov asked.

 “Experience. The Xandari never fight fair, and they always have something up their sleeve other than their wrists.”

 “Impacts,” Scott reported. “Six good hits, three apiece.”

 “Damage assessment?” Orlova asked.

 With a frown, the officer replied, “Uncertain, but they're holding course and acceleration. I can't tell how badly they've been hurt, but I am detecting organic residue among the debris. They're bleeding, skipper, if nothing else.”

 “One minute to shuttle launch,” Maqua said. “Altering course according to battle plan.”

 “Commence phase two,” Orlova said, picking up her microphone again. “Captain to Shuttle Flight. Prepare for departure in forty-five seconds. Make it fast, and good hunting.”

 “Koltoc squadron moving into reinforcement position,” Spinelli reported. “Getting a little close to the missile screen, ma'am.”

 “No choice, Spaceman,” she replied. “They've got to push this attack home.”

 Alamo arced in towards the moon, the cruisers soaring past on their loop around the far side, into a sensor blind spot. Spinelli had launched the recon probes as soon as they arrived, but it would be minutes before they had all of local space covered, assuming the Xandari didn't shoot them down as fast as they launched them.

 “What about the surface installation?” Kilquan asked.

 “As advertised, Colonel,” Scott said, looking at her readouts. “Size of a small town, estimate two thousand inhabitants, with defensive fortifications on the perimeter.” She frowned, then added, “It's almost as though they were expecting someone to attack them on the ground, actually. If I'm reading this data right, there are surface-mounted plasma turrets in operation. Trenches around the perimeter.”

 “Mars Defense Headquarters is well guarded too, Sub-Lieutenant,” Nelyubov noted.

 “Yes, sir, but this looks more like they're worried about a bayonet charge than an orbital bombardment. We'll get some better images when we make our closest approach. I'll feed them through to the assault team.”

 “Signal from all ships, Captain,” Weitzman said. “Strike team are ready for deployment.”

 “Five seconds,” Nelyubov said. “This is it, Maggie. We're committed.”

 “We were committed five days ago,” a dour Kilquan replied.

 “Shuttle flight launched,” Scott said, and nine more tracks popped onto the screen, the assault craft beginning their swift descent to the surface. Orlova watched as they weaved their way into the atmosphere, burning their engines as hot as they dared with their human cargo on board, descending into range of the missile satellites guarding the moon.

 “Launches,” Spinelli said. “Eight of them. Due Diligence and Profitable Venture have responded.”

 Orlova nodded, stepping over to the sensor display, watching as the dots of the screen followed the carefully-calculated trajectories down to the surface. It seemed so soulless, cold green lines on a black display, no clue of the hundred souls riding those shuttles to their fate. On the surface, they'd be facing odds of ten to one at best, attacking a prepared enemy in the heart of their defenses, only surprise to help them on their way.

 Nelyubov glanced at her, and she forced a reassuring smile as the two waves of missiles intersected, the screen clearing after a series of flashes heralding their mutual demise. Only the shuttles remained, easing their way into the atmosphere, maintaining the formation they would hold until they reached the surface.

 There was no attempt to deceive the enemy as to their intent, no other targets worth attacking on the surface. Frowning, she scanned the data coming in from the close pass over the moon. She'd have expected more activity down there, even if no major economic exploitation was underway. Back home, every Jovian moon outside the radiation belt had some settlers, no matter how insignificant, if only a garrison to prevent unwanted intrusion.

 And yet the moon was habitable, if barely. A living could be scrubbed from the surface, terraforming a realistic possibility in a comparatively short time frame, decades rather than centuries. There was something else down there, something they were missing, and the anxiety she had forced away earlier returned with a vengeance.

 “We're passed periapsis, Captain,” Maqua said. “Heading away from the planet.”

 “Another missile launch,” Spinelli said.

 “I'm on it,” Scott replied, and the ship lurched as six more missiles raced into space, aimed at the incoming enemy salvo. “Should have them all knocked out in a minute.”

 “Status of enemy cruisers?” Nelyubov asked.

 “Still around the far side, sir,” Spinelli said. “We won't get any...damn. They just took out two of our probes. No signal for three minutes plus, sir.”

 “I don't like this,” Kilquan said, as the shuttles decelerated for atmospheric entry. “All of this is going too damned easy. This is an attack on the enemy homeworld, and so far they're just sitting back and taking it.”

 Scott turned from her console, and replied, “They're waiting on us, Colonel. Let's face it, this attack makes no sense from a conventional point of view. Meaning they know we've got some sort of a plan, and they want to see what it is before committing to a course of action. While we're flying around the outer fringes of their sub-system, we don't present a threat.”

 “Lombardo to Orlova,” the loudspeaker crackled. “We've got the coordinates for the bombing run. Feeding them through now. Pretty close to our original estimates.”

 “Pass them to Lieutenant Salazar,” Orlova replied, turning to Nelyubov. “We should be launching fighters in thirty seconds.”

 “We've got to,” Nelyubov pressed. “If we don't, we'll miss our window. The next launch time is fifty-one minutes away, and if all goes well...”

 “I'm not so sure all is going well, Lieutenant,” Kilquan said.

 “The Rubicon is crossed, Colonel,” Orlova replied, tapping a control. “Alamo Actual to Fighter Leader. Scramble. Immediate launch. We're feeding the coordinates through to you now.”

 “Fighter Leader to Alamo Actual. Roger, launching now.”

 “Ten minutes to target,” Scott said, as the fighters raced away, thrown clear of the ship on the first stage of their journey to the Xandari homeworld. “Let's hope the ground force can do the job in time.” Looking across at the sensor display, she added, “They should be on the deck any second now.”

 “Threat warning!” Spinelli said, turning to Orlova, his face growing pale. “Cruiser squadron coming around the far side, ma'am. Ahead of schedule.”

 “How the hell did they manage that?” she replied.

 “Wait one,” the technician replied, shaking his head. “My God.”

 “Report, Spaceman!” Nelyubov barked.

 “No sign of damage to the cruisers coming around the far side, sir. That means...”

 “That means we're facing four cruisers, not two,” Orlova said, shaking her head. “Time to intercept?”

 “Twelve minutes, Captain,” Spinelli reported.

 “The Koltoc escorts are moving to support the fighters,” Scott said. “Unless we recall them...”
 “Do that, and we lose the whole squadron,” Nelyubov replied.

 “I'm afraid I agree with you, Frank,” Orlova said. “We're just going to have to try and weather the storm.”

Chapter 7

 Cooper, plasma pistol in hand, stood at the hatch as the shuttle settled into position, looking around at the squad gathered with him. When they'd attacked the refinery, he'd taken a hand-picked strike team, the best troopers he had, knowing that he could afford to select a crack team. This time, everyone was going to the party, every soldier in his improvised company, many of which had only had the briefest basic training. All of them had one thing in common, though. They'd all suffered at the hands of the Xandari. Either former slaves, members of the Copernican Underground, or troopers who had been with him since the start of the mission.

 “Landing in twenty seconds!” Bradley said, yelling from the cockpit. “Get ready!”

 “Listen up,” Cooper said. “Once we hit the ground, get out of the shuttle and run like hell. You'll have thirty seconds before takeoff. We can't afford to leave the shuttles exposed. Find cover, then assess the situation. If in doubt, your best bet is to keep moving forward. Remember that we've got only a few minutes to seize the communications station.”

 The landing jets roared as the shuttle completed its descent, landing legs digging into the sand, dust kicking into the air all around them. The hatch slid open, and Cooper charged through the airlock, sprinting towards the towering buildings ahead. There would be time for him to get his bearings later, but as bullets rattled around him, he needed to find cover, any cover, immediately.

 Ironically, the Xandari themselves provided the sanctuary he was seeking, a trench cut into the ground a few meters from the shuttle. A pair of troopers were standing guard, but the landing had caught them by surprise, and they struggled to turn their rifles to face the approaching enemy. A wave of bullets slammed into them, leaving twisted corpses in their wake, and Cooper dived into the ditch, the rest of his squad moving in by his side.

 “Set up the plasma cannon,” he replied. “We're going to need all the covering fire we can get.” Behind him, the shuttle engines roared again, the vehicles seeking the safety of a valley a couple of miles to the west. They'd be ready when they needed them, but he couldn't risk their landing craft to enemy fire.

 The roar of an explosion to his left provided an example to the others, a precise shot ripping one of the Koltoc shuttles to pieces, a tower of flame leaping to the sky, dragging a plume of smoke with it. Cooper looked around, trying to get a sense of the battlefield. Seven of the shuttles seemed to have disgorged their passengers with relative safety, but one of them had moved too slowly, half a dozen bodies clumped together.

 “Cooper to Platoon Leaders,” he said, pulling out his communicator. “First Platoon, you're going to take point. Second and Third to cover.” Peering into the smoke, he said, “There's a second trench system just ahead. We've got to take it. Third, once First and Second advance, I want you to establish a rear perimeter. If we don't hold this beachhead we've had it.”

 “Sir,” Hunt replied, “My force is scattered to hell and gone.”

 “As long as they all move at once, that won't matter.” Glancing around, he continued, “Best as I can see, I'm on your right. We move in fifteen seconds, mark. Wolmar, you come forward as soon as the second trench system falls. You'll be running for the communications complex. Harper, you with us?”

 “With Corporal Faulkner.”

 “Stick with Second Platoon, and for God's sake keep your head down. Move!”

 As one, the twenty-eight surviving members of the platoon surged forward, bursts of green flame racing over their heads, slamming into forward defensive positions. As yet, the Xandari had yet to launch a counter-attack, a mercy that bought them a chance to press their attack home. His feet dug into the sand as he struggled to gain ground, his rifle all but forgotten in his hands. Second Platoon would have to do the killing until they reached the trenches. All his force could do was try to gain speed, to seize the defensive ground they needed.

 So far, they'd been on the surface for less than a minute, and he'd already lost a tenth of his attack force. He had to press on, make the sacrifices they had already made worthwhile. To his left, he heard a scream, saw one of the Neander troopers fall, blood running down his leg. Racing to the wounded man's side, he dragged him through the sand, another burst of plasma energy flying over his head, leaving a trail as they went.

 One of the other troopers, the caduceus armband denoting his status as a field medic, charged across the battlefield to help Cooper, and between them they managed to reach their goal. Already a firefight had erupted as the platoon stormed the trench, the air filled with the stink of cordite and the slick odor of blood, periodic surges of ozone from the plasma bolts passing over their heads.

 Cooper turned just in time to see a Xandari warrior charging towards him, knife in hand, and swung his rifle as though it was a club, unable to line up a shot in time, acting on instinct rather than logic. The blow struck his opponent on the hand, his blade dropping to the dirt, but his full weight still fell upon him, leaving the two struggling on the ground.

 A blast rang around the trench, and the warrior slumped on Cooper's chest, blood running down his side. The wounded Neander, pistol in hand, flashed a smile at him as the medic began to work on his leg, and with an effort, Cooper pushed the dying Xandari clear and rose to his feet. As far as he could see, his force was winning the battle of the second trench, and the communications center was just ahead, the doors invitingly open.

 From all around, he could see figures moving in their direction, the rattle of gunfire filling the air as his troops struggled to dig in. They'd caught the Xandari defenses by surprise, giving them too little time to react to their attack, but their brief advantage would soon fade. He glanced at his watch, shaking his head. Three minutes since they'd landed, and they'd only been in the system for twenty.

 “Sergeant Wolmar!” he said, yelling into his communicator in a desperate bid to be heard, his lungs filling with choking dust. “Second Platoon needs to move forward, right away!”

 “We're pinned down, sir!” the Neander replied. “Heavy attack from the rear. If I pull anyone away we're going to lose the landing ground. We'll never get out of here.” An explosion rumbled in the distance, and the trooper continued, “Damn it, they're coming again!”

 “We've got to take that building, Sergeant!” Cooper said. “Our fighters will be closing on target in seven minutes. They'll be wiped out if we don't.” He peered back at the battle unfolding before him, taking a quick swig from his canteen to clear his throat. “Send two men with Harper. We'll try and do this the hard way.”

 “Will do, sir!” Wolmar replied. “I'll get them moving.”

 “Hunt?” Cooper asked, looking around. Failing to spot the platoon leader, he picked the first stripe-laden trooper he could find. “McBride, you're up. Form a squad to provide covering fire. I'm going back to pick up Harper.”

 A rumble of machine gun fire almost drowned out the veteran's reply, “In that, sir? You won't get ten feet out there!”

 “Set up the second plasma cannon and fire on either side of me. The smoke should give me a chance.” At McBride's doubtful gaze, he continued, “Damn it, Corporal, we've got to get on the move! Covering fire, now!”

 Before the trooper could protest the impossibility of his action any further, Cooper staggered out of the trench, leaving his rifle behind in his haste. Sprinting towards the rear trench, he felt a burst of heat on his side, a plasma bolt narrowly missing him, coming from a tower on his right. Before he could shout an order to deal with the problem, he saw a flash out of the corner of his eye, an armor-piercing missile silencing the plasma tower.

 Bullets were flying through the air all around him, but he could just see the trench ahead, Harper moving towards him with a single trooper at her side, before he felt his legs topple from under him, his feet catching in something on the ground, sending him falling to the dirt. He twisted around, spotting the body he had tripped over too late, and saw a pair of Xandari troopers racing towards him, leveling their pistols at him.

 Two gunshots rang out, and the enemy troopers collapsed to the ground. Cooper turned, and saw Rhodes charging towards him, rifle in hand, a beaming smile on his face.

 “You forgot something, sir!” he said, dragging Cooper to his feet. Together, they sprinted the remaining paces to Harper and her bodyguard, the four of them diving for shelter in a recently created crater. Glancing around, Cooper shook his head, trying and failing to spot any of his men.

 “We've got five minutes,” he said. “Harper, are you ready?”

 “Get me to that building, and I'll knock those satellites dead,” she replied, waving a holdall. “Where the hell are we?”

 Rhodes was pouring over his datapad, beads of sweat on his forehead, and said, “I think we're at Charlie Four on the grid. The communications building is that way.” He gestured into a bank of smoke, a plasma bolt flying through the air close by. “Sir, we'll never make it by ourselves. I don't even think we could get back to the trench from here.”

 “We don't have a choice,” Cooper replied. He looked at the trooper accompanying Harper, a Koltoc he didn't recognize, and said, “You got a plasma weapon?”

 “A pistol, sir, but only five shots in my pack. I burned through most of it fighting off the last attack.”

 “You'd better make each one of them count, Private. The three of us are going to charge, two second intervals, and I want you to blast anything you can see.” He reached for his communicator, a loud whine the only response. “They've got a jamming field going.”

 “I should be able to deal with that as well,” Harper replied.

 “We've got to get there first,” Rhodes said.

 “On my mark,” Cooper said, but before he could move, Rhodes broke and ran towards the communications center, firing a trio of wild rounds ahead of him, weaving from side to side to avoid the lancing blasts of machine gun fire raining in his direction. Cooper shook his head, then followed, the Koltoc trooper firing one of the precious plasma blasts after him, the heat searing his head as the bolt missed him by inches.

 Finally he saw some of his own troops, a fire team setting up a plasma cannon, bolts of energy bursting towards the buildings ahead, another defensive tower toppling under their onslaught. An explosion rippled into the ground by his side, almost sending him flying, and he struggled to stay on his feet, not knowing anything other than that he had to advance, had to charge forward, had to keep moving no matter what.

 He risked a brief glance behind him, spotting Harper on his tail, hugging the holdall to her side. Another figure ran out of a bank of smoke, Hunt with a plasma pistol in his hand moving towards him, gesturing to the left. With a nod, Cooper followed his direction, dodging over the smoking remains of a Xandari gun emplacement, coughing from the fumes leaking from the smashed weapon.

 “Keep moving!” he said, looking around to see a squad racing from the trench to his left, a general advance under way without anyone specifically ordering it. With the communications network broken, the battle had deteriorated into barely controlled chaos, each isolated group knowing only that they had to advance to their target, had to complete their mission. The thick shroud of smoke that was billowing across the battlefield only complicated matters. He was straining to see Rhodes up ahead, struggling to keep up with the fast-moving trooper.

 Belatedly, he remembered the plasma pistol at his belt, tugging it free of its holster and hefting the weight in his hand. He fired a burst at another trench, three Xandari in his sights, a near-miss that still sent the sides of the fortification crumbling down upon its occupants, taking them out of the battle for at least a few moments.

 Almost before he realized it, they had reached the building, Rhodes and Utemaro taking out the defenders with a trio of well aimed shots, black outlines on the walls where the soldiers stood. To the right, he heard an earth-shattering scream, one of his troopers killed in his tracks, and he slammed into the side of the building, dropping for cover, peering into the gloom to find targets.

 “Covering fire!” he yelled, and as Hunt slid into position next to him, occupying a barricade manned only by enemy corpses, he fired a trio of rapid shots from his pistol, knowing that the odds of hitting anything were remote, content instead to keep the enemy pinned down.

 He glanced at his watch, and shook his head. Amazingly, they were two minutes ahead of schedule, but the mad dash from the shuttles had cost him at least a quarter of his attack force already, the dead and the dying scattered across the battlefield. That they had certainly brought down more of the enemy was cold comfort as he watched another of his troopers fall, killed by burst of machine gun fire that almost ripped him in half.

 Finally, Harper arrived, tossing her holdall to the ground. She ripped out her equipment, slapping the aerial lead into position on the metal wall of the building, while Cooper stood over her, pistol in hand, ready for the inevitable attack. The gunfire seemed to be thinning, and he could hear shouted orders in the background.

 “They're forming for a counter-attack,” Hunt said. “Pulling back to reorganize. We've got minutes at most, sir.”

 “Three minutes, and we'll be on our way out of here, Sergeant,” Cooper said. “Come on, Kris.”

 “Almost there,” she said, frantically typing commands into the jammer's keyboard, compensating for the attempts of the technicians inside to stop her work. The device she was operating had been key to the success of the battle plan right from the start. They might not yet know enough to truly hack into Xandari systems, but now that they could read the data being transmitted, they could start to make an electronic mess of their signals.

 The building they had temporarily taken housed the powerful transmitter, the link that coordinated the missile satellites that defended the Xandari homeworld. They couldn't stop control being transferred forever, but sixty seconds of confusion would be more than enough for the fighters to press their attack home. 

 “You should be able to transmit now,” Harper said. “Thirty seconds, and I'll be killing the missiles. You'd better get ready for an attack. I think they know what I'm doing.”

 Tugging out his communicator, he said, “Cooper to all squad leaders. Assume defensive positions for five minutes, mark. After that, withdraw to the shuttles as best you can.” He glanced around, noting that the bulk of the men assembling with him were Second Platoon, and added, “Third to cover at the perimeter while First and Second move to catch up, then we proceed to the evacuation zone as fast as we can. For the moment, hold.”

 “Movement, sir,” Hunt said, pointing into the shadows. Cooper looked down at Harper, still engrossed in her work, the rest of the world shut out as she concentrated on her duty. Rhodes moved forward, hunched low, taking a firing position behind a pair of Xandari bodies, glancing across at a dying Neander, shaking his head.

 “No good, sir,” Rhodes said, blood streaming down his face from a cut on his forehead.

 “Kelot to Cooper,” the gruff General said. “We've formed our perimeter, but we're too spread out. One serious attack will rip us in half.”

 “Understood,” Cooper said. “Hold them as long as you can, but if you have to run, proceed by squads. We're all set here.”

 The barking orders in the distance were growing in intensity, and Cooper knew that the brief peace that had swept across the battlefield was transient at best. The dust was beginning to disperse, and he could see the bloody remnants of the brief firefight, bodies littered everywhere, columns of thick, viscous smoke rising to the sky, flickering flames where plasma bolts had rained down.

 “Come on, Harper,” he said. “They'll be starting the attack run any second now.”
 “Almost there,” she replied.

 For an instant, he saw a ruby laser running across the hacker's back, and he quickly followed it back to its source with his eyes, taking a shot at a Xandari sniper lodged in the remnants of one of the plasma towers. Almost on cue, the battle erupted again, a wave of machine gun fire cracking into the steel above him, bullets ricocheting in all directions, sending him dropping to the deck.

 The indicator on his plasma pistol began to flash, a warning that half of the energy clip at his belt had been expended. From what he could see of the rest of his men, none of them were in much better condition.

 “Just remember, everyone,” he joked. “I don't do glorious last stands. Prepare to set a new galactic sprint record once we get on the move.”

 “We've got it!” Harper said. “Signal isolated. They can't transfer control, not for at least sixty seconds.”

 Tapping a control on his communicator, Cooper said, “Strike Team to Alamo. Phase Two complete. Clear to begin Phase Three.” Looking around, he added, “Two minutes, people, and we're out of here. Now it all comes down to the fighters.”

Chapter 8

 “Alamo Actual to Fighter Leader,” Orlova said, her voice crackling through Salazar's headset. “Phase Two complete. Clear to proceed with Phase Three. Good hunting.”

 “Roger, Alamo, will comply,” he replied, switching the channel to talk to the rest of his squadron. “Fighter Leader to Squadron. The assault team has done its job, and now its time for us to do ours. The enemy satellite network is just ahead. We're going for swarm formation. Two missiles each, and be ready with the third if you need it.”

 “Harris to Leader,” one of the rookies replied. “Shouldn't we fire all three missiles at once?”

 “We need something left in case this goes wrong. Hold it for an emergency.” He paused, then said, “This is it, people. Break and attack.”

 Salazar drove his fighter forward, sweeping towards his objective. The enemy fighters had been slow to respond, probably considering that the missile satellites would be able to defend themselves. Under normal circumstances, they'd have been perfectly right, but with the jamming system operating, they had one chance to open the corridor they needed.

 “Ryan to Salazar!” an urgent voice called. Salazar looked across at his scanner, and shook his head at the updated information flashing onto the display.

 “I see it, Lieutenant. Enemy bandits inbound.”

 “Alamo Actual to Fighter Leader,” Orlova said. “We have forty-plus bandits inbound. Four cruisers on our tail. We can't help you.” She paused, then said, “You have permission to abort and return to base. I repeat, you have permission to abort.”

 She knew he wouldn't. Couldn't.

 “Fighter Leader to all pilots. We're pressing the attack. Keep your eyes open. We're going to have to ride the missiles all the way in. Switch to shotgun mode, and release at minimum range. Pull out as soon as you've fired and make for home. Forget the formation.”

 “With you, Leader,” Murphy said, swinging onto his tail. Almost every fighter in orbital space was now sweeping in their direction, the Xandari commander belatedly realizing that he had been fooled. They'd hoped to convince them that this was a bluff, but the jamming field must have alerted every enemy force in the system to their plans.

 “Damn it,” he muttered, too quietly to trigger the microphone. “This isn't going to work.”

 Seven fighters against forty, and the seconds of safety were dropping away, enemy hackers laboring to overthrow the jamming field. As soon as they succeeded, the fighters would have dozens of missiles coming at them from all sides. Then there was Alamo. His long-range scanner showed their worst nightmare, four capital ships swinging around from the far side of the moon, fast enough to catch the battlecruiser in a matter of moments. Even if they lived through this battle, they might not have anywhere to go home to.

 Forty seconds to contact. That was the easy part. The missile satellites were simply inert objects, tumbling in space. Reaching across to his targeting computer, he began the simple process of establishing a firing solution, the two warheads soaking trajectory data, locking onto their target. Running his eyes over the squadron status monitor, he frowned. The rookies were still moving far too slowly, despite the countless simulation runs. Only Ryan and Murphy seemed to be working as they should, smoothly preparing to launch their combined salvo. It seemed all too likely that six missiles were going to have to be enough.

 The rookies shouldn't even be out here at all. Even Murphy. That she seemed to have natural talent was a fluke, something they had no right to expect. Taking those kids into a battlespace as crowded as this one was murder, and the thought of it made him sick to his stomach. Eager chatter filled the communication channels, the pilots urging each other on. He briefly thought about ordering them to keep quiet, but it didn't seem to matter. If they needed the support their comrades were providing, taking it away could be disastrous.

 “Twenty seconds to missile release,” he said. “Cartwright, you're lagging behind. Harris, watch your trajectory track. You've drifted two degrees out.”

 He rested his finger on the launch control, knowing that the computer would almost certainly beat him to the draw, but unwilling to trust the systems. Already he could see the Xandari attempting to infiltrate his systems, a planet of hackers swarming all over his craft. He looked at the squadron status board again, his eyes growing wide.

 “Harris, what the hell is going on! You're thirty degrees off!”

 “I don't know, Leader! Controls aren't responding!”

 “Cold reboot, Harris, right now!”

 “It isn't working. Manual override doesn't respond. I can't pull out!”

 “Damn it, Harris, if you don't...”

 The explosion to his right made his order moot, the fighter twisting around beyond the ability of the hull to withstand the stress being placed upon it. Shaking his head, Salazar turned back to the approach, barely able to spot his target up ahead, only a few thousand miles away. Everything had to drop away now, the missile satellite the only object he could permit in his universe for a second. Up to the last, the targeting computer refined the attack path.

 His fighter rocked back as the two missiles raced away. At the same instant, Ryan and Murphy released their deadly payload, six warheads flying together towards the three satellites up ahead. Seconds later, four more joined the volley of death, ten trajectory tracks leaping forward to connect with their target.

 “Leader to Cartwright...”

 “Malfunction, sir. No infiltration, but I can't seem to launch.”

 “Veer off, Cartwright. We'll have to hope ten missiles do the job.” Shaking his head, he glanced at the status board, tapping for clarification. Two steps missed in the checklist, a rookie mistake. Not the pilot's fault, given the circumstances. He'd had only eighty-five hours in the cockpit before the mission. Less than a tenth of the time Flight School would have given him.

 Two of the missiles erupted into flame, the self-destruct systems engaging as the ultimate resistance to enemy infiltration. The remainder dived towards their targets, recklessly burning fuel, while the fighter formation held its course, heedless of the enemy vessels moving in on all sides. If this attack failed, they'd have one more chance, though it would certainly mean their death. Even optimistically, the missile satellites would only be silenced for a few seconds more.

 “Impact!” Ryan said. “One down, two to go!”

 Another light winked out, and Salazar added, “That's one more.”

 “Come on, you bastard,” Murphy said. “Die, damn it, die.” Almost reluctantly, the third satellite vanished from the screen, and the pilot yelled, “Clean sweep!”

 “Run for home, everyone. Break for Alamo, as fast as you can!” Salazar pulled his fighter around, tapping a sequence of commands into his navigation computer. The enemy formation was surging after them, a narrow window that might allow a missile launch, but that wasn't what interested him at that moment.

 “Murphy to Leader. I think we've got a shot at Cruiser Gamma.”

 A smile crept across Salazar's face, and he replied, “You read my mind. Duvall, Tarhiki, return to the battlecruiser at full speed. The rest of you, form on me.”

 “Roger, Leader,” Cartwright replied. “About the launch...”

 “Just follow every step on the checklist this time, pilot,” Salazar said. “And we're going to need those missiles on target if we're going to have any chance of salvaging this. Unlock your safety overrides and push your engines as hard as you can. This is going to be tricky.”

 The force of the acceleration slammed him back into his couch as his formation broke into two, scattering across space from the unplanned maneuver. At least he'd fooled the enemy defenses, the bulk of the fighters moving on the assumption that they were returning to base, not launching a strike on the cruisers pursuing Alamo and the fleet.

 “Duvall, you're going to have to move faster!” he yelled. “They'll catch you if you don't ramp up your acceleration.”

 “On-board systems...” the rookie replied.

 “To hell with your on-board alerts, pilot! Override and throw to automatic. You'll be in firing range any second if you don't.” Glancing to his left, he saw Cartwright flying past him, praying that the pilot was simply fitter than he was, that he hadn't overestimated his tolerance to acceleration and blacked out.

 “Missile launch!” Tarhiki said. “I've got four on my tail, sir! Duvall has three!”

 “Executing random walk,” Duvall said.

 “No!” Ryan yelled. “More thrust and burn. You can't throw them off that way, not at this range! Throw your throttle full on and hope for the best.”

 “Evasive pattern,” Duvall replied. Salazar would never know whether the pilot had chosen to ignore the order, or whether he had simply failed to hear it, as a missile caught his tail, the explosion ripping his fighter into pieces.

 “Andre!” Tarhiki said. At least she was moving faster now.

 “Pilot,” Salazar said, “Get home. Right now. Don't turn back. They won't follow you all the way to the deck. They don't have the fuel load. Just move.” He looked down at the sensors again, and shook his head. “I said move, Tarhiki! Come on!”

 “Trying, sir,” she replied, panting for breath. “Warning alerts...”

 “Let yourself go under. Someone can pick you up later.”

 “Enemy squadron on our tail, sir,” Murphy said. “Ten fighters, bearing directly, and if I'm reading this right, they'll be intercepting us just past the cruisers. And they'll have a place to come down. They don't need to go back to the planet.”

 “We'll worry about that in five minutes, Sub-Lieutenant,” he replied. “Prepare your attack run on Cruiser Gamma. We've got to knock it out if Alamo is going to have any chance of stopping them. We've come this far, damn it, and we're not going to let this mission go wrong now.”

 “Cartwright,” Ryan said. “Cartwright, reply at once!”

 Shaking his head, Salazar flicked a switch, sending a shrill turning signal running through the squadron channel, enough to make him wince as the burst of noise shredded into his ears.

 “Wha…,” Cartwright said.

 “Cut back on the throttle,” Ryan said. “You blacked out.”

 “Pilot,” Salazar said, “You're running way ahead of us now. Report fuel status.”

 “Uh, twenty-five percent.”

 “Then trim back, drop your load and see if you can make it back to Alamo, or one of the other ships in the fleet. Any port in a storm. Worst case, throw yourself onto an escape vector and wait for a shuttle to pick you up.” He paused, then added, “Go for missile tubes and sensor controls. Never mind the engines. They'll make contact with Alamo whatever we do. Pull their sting.”

 “Tarhiki to Leader!” a panicked voice yelled. “They're closing, sir! I can't shake the missiles!”

 “Drop your last bird,” Salazar replied. “Try for fratricide when they get close. If you get it right, you might be able to knock out the whole salvo. If not, bail out. Get clear of the debris field.”

 “Pavel, if she does that, the Xandari…,” Ryan began.

 “While there's life, there's hope, Mike, no matter how slim.”

 “Cruiser Gamma coming up in two minutes. Eighty seconds for you, Cartwright,” Murphy said. “Moving into attack formation. I assume we use all our missiles?”

 “In time-on-target salvo fire,” Salazar replied. “Take my mark, Sub-Lieutenant. We've got to get this right. We'll go in as close as we dare.”

 “And if they launch missiles against us?”

 “We'll worry about that when they do.” He grimaced, knowing that the enemy gunner would have a solid firing solution on the incoming fighters by now. Looking across at the sensor display, he saw a flash that told him that Tarhiki had lost her race with the enemy missiles. The debris field was too dispersed for her to have lived through bailing out.

 “Enemy squadron still pursuing,” Murphy said. “They'll be on us sixty seconds after we make contact with the cruiser.” She paused, then added, “Lieutenant, from where I'm sitting, they're set up for an attack run on Due Diligence as well. They won't need twenty missiles to finish us off.”

 “Don't you worry about that, Sub-Lieutenant. I'm about to give you a quick lesson in advanced small ship tactics. Just press your own attack and get back to the barn. Let me worry about the enemy fighters.” He reached across to his control and killed his acceleration, relaxing forward in his restraints as his fighter started to coast.

 Instantly, he fell behind the rest of the formation as they raced to their destiny, while he quickly recalculated his course to take him as close as possible to the enemy cruiser. After allowing the approaching fighters to close, he fired his engines again, roaring back up to maximum speed as he dived for the cruiser.

 Up ahead, Cartwright was firing his missiles, this time a perfect launch as they raced towards their assigned targets. Salazar had something else in mind, and he frantically scanned the schematic they'd pieced together of the enemy ship, trying to find the oxygen reservoir. With one missile, placed correctly, he ought to be able to get it to rupture. It wouldn't cripple the ship, but he was rather hoping the first three fighters would render it combat-ineffective. What interested him far more was the possibility of using the cruiser itself as a weapon.

 “Missile launch!” Ryan said. “Three missiles in the air, bearing directly!”

 “It won't make any difference,” Salazar replied. “Burn for home. If they're heading for you, with a little luck you'll be inside the fleet's defensive perimeter by the time they become a threat.”

 “They're heading your way, Lieutenant!” Cartwright protested.

 “Then you can just relax, pilot,” he said with cultivated calmness. “And nice shooting, by the way.”

 He watched the first three missiles slam into the enemy ship as Ryan and Murphy took their last shots, a trio of explosions ripping across the hull, sending a cascade of debris flying from the gaps torn in the hull plating. Shaking his head in frustration, his left hand started to dance across the controls of his targeting computer. If his shot was going to be difficult before, it would be downright impossible now.

 “Enemy fighters in firing range!” Ryan said. “Pavel, if you've got some sort of a plan, now might be a good time to put it into action.”

 “Any second now,” he replied, watching as the enemy ship formed into a tiny shape on his viewscreen. A red light flashed into view, his fighter now within range, but he waited to close the distance, knowing that the enemy missiles were heading towards him. A shrill alarm announced that the fighters behind him had taken their first shots, another dozen missiles tracking in his direction. A complement to his skills, perhaps, but he prayed they hadn't guessed what he was planning.

 “Missile away!” he said, as his warhead raced from the hard-point, diving towards the enemy ship. He fired a long burst from his lateral thrusters, hurling his fighter to the side, placing himself on a collision course with the enemy cruiser, forcing it to respond to his move, the missile's guidance controls taking full advantage of the maneuver.

 “Bail out, Pavel!” Ryan yelled. “You've still got a dozen missiles on your tail, and the cruiser's too fast for you to kamikaze.”

 He glanced behind him at the approaching fighters, reducing the speed on his missile almost imperceptibly. The timing on this attack had to be perfect, the warhead exploding exactly on time, or he'd be dead. As would at least two of the escorts, with ten missiles left to tear them apart.

 “Five seconds to impact,” he muttered, and he watched as he found his target, the enemy helmsmen choosing to absorb the blow. A mistake, albeit an understandable one. As the sixth warhead found its mark, the cruiser's oxygen reservoir ruptured exactly as he'd hoped, sending the capital ship tumbling from his track. At the last instant, he hurled his fighter to the side, debris flying all around him, rattling on the outer hull.

 “It worked!” Murphy yelled, and Salazar smiled at the sensor display. A dozen explosions flared in the sky, the Xandari missiles detonating rather than risk friendly fire, and the enemy fighters dived in all directions to avoid a collision with the capital ship Salazar had tossed into the path. With grim satisfaction, he watched one of the fighters turn too late, slamming into the rear section, the explosion sweeping through the ship and tearing it in two, a second blast wave of debris surging towards him. 

 “Is that one kill, or two?” Ryan asked.

 Before Salazar could muster a reply, he felt an agonizing pain in his arm, and a decompression alarm began to sound, sparks flying from the console ahead of him. He looked down at his side, his vision already blurring, and saw blood running down his sleeve, a neat hole just above his wrist.

 “I'm hit,” he gasped. Sirens sounded as the atmosphere began to leak out, the ship struggling to keep up with the rate of loss.

 “Hold on, I'm coming,” Ryan said, cutting his thrust to pull in alongside Salazar. “Switch to control circuit three. I'll guide you in.”

 “Three,” Salazar muttered, looking over the controls, red lights flashing all around him. “Got it.”

 “Ryan to Alamo Actual. Prepare to accept casualty. Salazar's been hit.”

 “Flesh wound,” Salazar gasped, as his fighter gently slid into position under Alamo, the cradle snapping into place beneath him, drawing him up into the elevator airlock. His vision began to fade as the pressure dropped, but the loud hiss all around him rapidly filled his cockpit with air once again, the hatch opening to bring him up to the deck.

 As he settled into position, he reached down with his left arm, using the last of his strength, to open the lower hatch, slapping his chest buckle to free the restraints. He slid down to the hangar deck, collapsing onto the floor, blood trickling down his arm as figures ran towards his fighter.

 “Phase Three,” he said, at the blurred man standing before him. “Complete.”

Chapter 9

 “Way to go, Pavel!” Scott yelled, raising a fist into the air. “Cruiser Gamma's destroyed, and he's ruined the enemy squadron's attack run.” 

 “That cuts the odds back a bit,” Nelyubov said with a satisfied smile. “Three cruisers against Alamo and six escorts. I like that a lot more than what we were facing a few minutes ago.”

 Nodding, Orlova turned to Spinelli, and asked, “Time to contact, Spaceman?”

 “Two minutes minus, Captain,” the technician replied.

 “All surviving fighters home, ma'am,” Weitzman said. “Lieutenant Salazar is on his way to surgery right now.”

 “What happened?” Scott asked.

 “Impact wound from shrapnel. Doctor Duquesne says he'll be fine.”

 “Keep me informed,” Orlova said, stepping over to the helm. “Go for Phase Four, Sub-Lieutenant. Take us around the moon, and we'll prepare to launch the bomber. With a little luck, this will all be over in a quarter of an hour. Any word from the surface, Weitzman?”

 “Jamming field has been reestablished, Captain. I can't get through.”

 Spinelli looked up, and added, “I got a few shots of the surface, ma'am. Looks like a lot of hell has been unleashed down there, but seven of the shuttles made it to the pickup point.”

 “That's going to be a tight squeeze for the return,” Scott said.

 “Based on the casualty projections,” a dour Nelyubov replied, “I suspect they'll have quite a few empty seats.” Frowning, he asked, “Spinelli, have we managed to get any shots of the far-side of the moon yet?”

 “No, sir. Our third set of probes were shot down before they could reach their station.”

 “What the hell are they hiding?” he asked. “When the cruisers were waiting to spring their ambush, I could understand, but what's the point now?” Looking at Orlova, he said, “There's something wrong, Captain.”

 “I was thinking the same thing,” she replied. “Weitzman, contact Chief Kowalski, and ask him how long it would take to get a fighter ready for launch.”

 “Recon run?” Nelyubov asked.

 “Unless you can think of a better idea.”

 Shaking his head, Weitzman said, “Sorry, Captain. Seven minutes plus before any of the fighters can be cleared for launch. They landed with dry tanks. Ryan and Murphy are on standby to escort the bomber to position. The Chief says that he'll have them ready in time.”

 “Captain, maybe we should consider an abort.”

 “Now?” Scott said. “We're eight minutes from launching the bombing run, sir, and as far as we can see, we're winning this fight!” Turning back to her console, she continued, “We've got a two-to-one edge on missiles for the first four salvos. More than enough time to get us clear.”

 Maqua glanced back from the helm, and said, “Captain, I need a decision in the next thirty seconds.”

 “Commit,” Orlova replied. “We're going for the attack.” She glanced at the trajectory plot, and continued, “Give us all the speed you can, Sub-Lieutenant. Let's get this over with.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” the Neander said. “Moving to maximum acceleration.”

 “Retract radiators,” Nelyubov ordered. At Orlova's glance, he continued, “We don't need the laser for this battle, and they're too damn fragile. If we need them, we can always deploy them again once we've completed the flyby.”

 “Firing range in thirty-five seconds, Captain,” Scott said. “And in fifty, we'll know what's on the far side of the moon for ourselves.” Rattling controls, she continued, “Request firing instructions.”

 “Prioritize defensive, but take any advantages you can.” Orlova paused, then said, “Let's concentrate on Cruiser Alpha first, knock it out of the fight. Then we'll work our way down the line of battle.” Frowning, she asked, “Spinelli, any activity at the planet?”

 “Enemy fighter squadrons are moving into position to fill the gap we made, Captain, but we've got at least fifteen minutes before they have full coverage. I'd say we're clear to proceed with Phase Four. Missile defenses are online, but we should be able to stay well out of range.”

 “Twenty-five seconds,” Scott said. “I have a good firing solution on Cruiser Alpha. We should get at least three good shots at them, maybe four if we push it. By the time we're done, there won't be anything left but scrap metal.”

 Frowning, Spinelli replied, “Captain, there's something wrong. The enemy squadrons...”

 “What?”

 “They're not moving to intercept. Just to plug the gap.” He gestured at the screen, and said, “At least eighteen fighters have potential windows for intercept on our swing-round, but they aren't taking advantage of that. And those cruisers at the far hendecaspace point are just sitting there. If they'd started moving, they could have caught us easily.”

 “Maybe they still think this is a decoy?” Maqua suggested.

 “Not likely,” Nelyubov replied. “We've done too much for that, and telegraphed our intentions a little too much. By now they must realize that this is the main assault.” Turning to Orlova, he continued, “We're being corralled, Captain. They want us to head for the far-side.”

 “I can still change course,” Maqua said, “for another fifteen seconds.”

 “Captain, we're so damned close,” Scott said. “And we're moving fast enough that any ships on the other side won't get much of a chance to attack us. A firing window measured in seconds. One salvo at most.” Glancing at her readout, she added, “Ten seconds to missile launch.”

 “We're committed,” Orlova said. “Let's see what's waiting for us. I'm going to take the gamble that we can fight our way through it. Weitzman, inform all ships in the fleet to move to line astern formation. Alamo can take more hits than they can. Maqua, I want you to shave as much time as you can off the attack course.” Turning to Nelyubov, she added, “Once we've cleared the moon, I'll leave you the conn and head down to the bomber.”

 “For the record, I must formally protest your intention to fly that mission yourself, Captain.”

 “Everyone's taking excessive risks today, Lieutenant, and this time I have to lead from the front.” A light winked on, and Alamo rocked back as six missiles raced from her launch tubes, followed within seconds by launches from the other ships in the fleet, a cascade of death racing towards the pursuing cruisers. The Xandari ships responded, none of them attempting even the pretense of defensive fire, willing to sacrifice one of their own in a bid to damage the fleet.

 Neither Scott or her Koltoc and Neander counterparts were willing to go along with them on that. With practiced ease, she slid a dozen missiles across to cover the incoming salvo, lining up the trajectories for mutual annihilation. Orlova watched the screen with a satisfied smile, the plan working so far. Technically, destroying the enemy cruisers was a bonus, not a requirement. They'd be following Alamo anyway, and would stand an excellent chance of being caught in the debris field as they swung around the Xandari homeworld.

 Still, it would feel better not to have them on their backs, give them more options on their escape trajectory. Nelyubov leaned over the holodesk, adjusting the display to provide the closest possible view of the far-side as they approached, while a cascade of explosions rippled across Cruiser Alpha from the first series of hits, tearing the enemy ship into pieces, the superstructure twisted and ruined from the precision strike.

 “Two down, two to go,” Scott said, shaking her head. “Peace through superior firepower.”

 “Don't get cocky, Sub-Lieutenant,” Nelyubov replied. “Sensors coming on now, Captain.” He paused, then continued, “I don't get it. Just a couple of communications satellites.”

 “Spinelli?” Orlova asked.

 “Focusing tight-beam now, Captain, but as far as I can see, they're just sitting there.”

 “Wait one,” Weitzman replied. “I'm not getting any activity from them. And they're in the wrong position to be relay satellites.”

 Orlova looked up at the trajectory plot. They'd be passing a thousand miles clear of the nearest, more than enough distance to rule out a laser strike, even if the satellites were large enough to carry a cannon. She looked over the holoimage again, shaking her head. No missile tubes, and the satellite was hardly big enough to mount one anyway.

 “A bluff?” Scott suggested. “Second salvo in thirty seconds.”

 “Destroy the satellites,” Orlova ordered. “We can spare two missiles for that. Bring them down as soon as we get into range. I want clean shots, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 “Dead communications satellites?” Maqua asked.

 “Closest approach in one minute, five seconds,” Spinelli said. His eyes widened, and he added, “Change to target aspect, Captain! Enemy cruisers are altering course, abandoning pursuit!”

 “Evasive, Maqua!” Orlova said, sprinting to the helm. “Scott, full missile spread, right now!” Turning to Spinelli, she continued, “Full scan...”

 “Satellites are moving!” Spinelli interrupted. “Collision course, twenty-two seconds!”

 “I don't get it,” Scott said, running her hands over her controls. “They aren't large enough to do any serious damage, even at this comparative speed.”

 “Missiles, Sub-Lieutenant, how long?” Nelyubov barked.

 “Fifteen seconds, sir.”

 “And eighteen to contact,” he replied. “This one is going to be close.”

 “Captain, should I continue the fly-by?” Maqua asked.

 “Try and gain distance, Sub-Lieutenant,” Orlova replied, looking down at the helm controls. “Buy us as much speed as you can for the moment. We'll trim our course later.”

 “Ten seconds to launch,” Scott said. “I have a good firing solution. Due Diligence is moving to support us.” She glanced at her scanner, and added, “Satellite Beta is turning towards the escorts.”

 “Which one?”

 “Can't tell. Might in a second.”

 “Evasive, Captain?” Maqua asked.

 “Do it, Sub-Lieutenant,” she replied, and Alamo turned, swinging from side to side in a desperate bid to buy time, to throw off the approach. Orlova looked at the approaching satellite, warning alarms ringing in her head. This was still wrong, even if the satellite had a warhead lodged inside. It wasn't much larger than a missile. Couldn't carry a load large enough to do any major damage. The impact would hurt, but not much more than that.

 “Missile away!” Scott yelled, and the world trembled, a scream of twisted metal from the hull, Orlova thrown to her feet as the deck tipped beneath her, the starfield slewing around as Alamo tumbled out of control. The lights dimmed for a second, flickering back on, and the rear consoles winked out as Spinelli and Weitzman struggled to bring them back online.

 “What hit us?” Nelyubov asked, lurching towards the engineering station. Red lights flashed all across the port side of the ship, alerts of hull breaches and systems failures in dozens of areas. “Come on, Fitzroy!”

 “High-yield blast, close aboard,” he replied. “I'm reading independent impacts all over the ship, sir. Damage reports are still coming in, but we're on auxiliary power and internal communications are gone in several areas.”

 “A shaped shrapnel charge,” Orlova said, shaking her head. “High kiloton yield.”

 “That just about settles the ethics of our attack, doesn't it,” Nelyubov replied, almost falling over as he struggled back to the holotable. “They're working on the same damn type of weapon!”

 “And we ran right into the prototype. Helm, can you correct our course?”

 “Trying, Captain,” Maqua replied, stabbing at the controls. “I've lost eight thrusters, and we've got atmospheric leaks all over the place. She's tumbling, ma'am.”

 “Try and keep a straight heading!” she said. “Scott, get the rest of your missiles up, all four of them, right now. Set for automatic defensive pattern.” Alamo rocked again, the remains of their salvo racing into space. “Weitzman, try and contact the rest of the fleet, get a status report.”
 “My God,” Maqua said, glancing up at the screen, the ruins of one of their escorts drifting into view. “They never had a chance.”

 “I think it was Rogue Trader, Captain,” Spinelli said. “I've lost a lot of my sensor resolution. Total loss. Picking up debris all over the place, and the enemy cruisers are turning back onto their pursuit course, heading right for us.”

 Nodding, Nelyubov added, “They wanted to make sure they were well clear of the blast area. Didn't know how much damage those bombs would do. We might have got off lightly.” Looking at the status panel, he continued, “Casualty reports coming in from all over the ship, mostly in the outer areas.”

 Maqua shook his head, and said, “I'm bringing the ship back under control, but it's going to take time, Captain. We're still getting new hull breaches.”

 “Losing ground on the pursuit force,” Spinelli said. “Firing range in ten seconds.”

 “Weitzman?”

 “I can't contact any of our escorts,” the communications technician replied. “Fitz, I need more power! I've barely got enough to handle what intraship systems we have left.”

 “There's none to give you,” he replied. “Captain, I think I can manage one good burn with the main engines.” Looking up at the status panel, he continued, “Though under normal circumstances, we'd have to wait for a full inspection. There could be serious damage back there.”

 “Punch it, Maqua, any heading! Get us moving, now!”

 “Aye, ma'am,” he replied, throwing a dozen override switches at once. Orlova felt sick to her stomach as the ship lurched ahead, gradually stabilizing as the helmsman played his remaining thrusters.

 “Enemy missiles launched!” Spinelli said. “Eight against our four. Escorts are scattering, Captain. Out of formation.” Looking up, he continued, “I don't think any of them escaped some damage, ma'am.”

 “Spaceman,” Kilquan barked, “I need to contact my ships at once!”

 “I can't get through, Colonel! Long-range antenna must be damaged, and there's too much debris out there for the message laser.”

 “Captain,” Nelyubov said, “If we abort now, we won't be able to pick up our troops from the surface.” He glanced at the trajectory track, and added, “If they launched now, they might be able to catch us, but that window closes in a few minutes.”

 “Weitzman?” Orlova asked.

 “No hope, ma'am. I can't even get through to a ship a thousand miles away, still less through an atmosphere. I'll keep trying.”

 The strategic display flickered back into life, far changed from the optimistic view of a moment ago. Now she could see two debris fields, a second escort destroyed, and the remaining ships were struggling back into formation as Alamo danced into the darkness. Behind them, the cruisers loomed, their course turning away, heading around the moon on the path that she had hoped to walk.

 Twelve missiles remained in the sky, Alamo's final volley racing in a desperate bid to thwart the eight Xandari warheads. The advantage they had at the start of the battle had been reversed, and as the tracks danced past each other, a series of brief flashes left four missiles in the sky. All of them Xandari, and all of them on a direct course for Alamo.

 “Impact in thirty seconds, Captain,” Spinelli said. “They're going for our engines.”

 “Sensible,” Kilquan replied. “They'll be able to take us down at their leisure, and with our shuttles disabled, we won't even be able to evacuate any of the crew.”

 “We have lunar escape velocity,” Maqua said. “Currently on a course out of the local sub-system. I have regained attitude control.”

 “I don't know how much longer I can keep the power grid going,” Fitzroy said, his hands a blur on his console. “We're already getting brownouts in some of the lower decks. Captain, we've got to start conserving power.”

 “Scott, any chance of getting another salvo up?”

 With a sigh, she replied, “Damage to the combat fabricator, Captain. I have a thirty minute estimate on the repair time.”

 “And impact in?”

 “Twenty seconds.”

 “Course change!” Spinelli said. “Red Avenger, ma'am! Heading directly between us and the missiles.”

 All eyes turned to the sensor display as the Neander ship, already bearing the scars of battle, dived back, dragging itself into the path of the oncoming missiles. The Xandari gunner attempted to pull the warheads away, but the escort pilot was too quick, and the four impacts smashed into his ship, a series of quick explosions leaving a shattered hulk drifting through space, clouds of atmosphere spilling from ruined compartments.

 “They took the hit for us,” Scott said, dazed. “I don't believe it.” Looking up at her display, she added, “We're clear, Captain.”

 Nodding, Orlova replied, “Now we've just got to make sure their sacrifice wasn't for nothing.”

Chapter 10

 Cooper raced across the sand, the survivors of the assault ahead of him, sprinting to the shuttles that were waiting to take them back to the comparative safety of Alamo. The Xandari were holding back, still recovering from the attack, periodic bursts of plasma flame encouraging them to keep their distance from the retreating force.

 He looked around, trying to count heads. As far as he could tell, he'd lost almost a third of his people. Slightly better than they'd hoped, though there were wounded scattered throughout the force, soldiers trying to keep pace with hastily bandaged arms, others being carried by their comrades. Peering back through the gloom at the base, he saw columns of smoke racing to the sky, figures running around in a bid to save the vital structures from the flames that threatened to engulf them.

 Fumbling with his communicator, he frowned as static roared from the speaker, the Xandari jamming back in full effect. Harper was at the head of the column, and she turned to him, shaking her head. It wasn't just his equipment. Something was going badly wrong.

 At least the shuttles were waiting for them, just over the crest of the hill. Bradley waved as he raced towards them, gesturing left and right for squads to take up a defensive position, Hunt taking command of the rear guard. He glanced down at his watch, and smiled. They'd shaved a couple of minutes off their schedule. Any second now, they'd be heading away from this planet.

 “Gabe,” his wife yelled, running towards him. “We've got problems.”

 “What happened? Something wrong with the shuttles?”

 “Mission abort,” she replied. The surrounding troops looked around, eyes widening as the shock set in. “Something happened on the swing around. I saw some of it on the shuttle sensors. All I know is that Alamo came back smashed to pieces, three escorts gone, and running for the outer system. I couldn't get through on the communicators.”

 “Sir!” Hunt yelled. “They're coming. Strength three hundred plus, and they're taking their time about it. I think they're trying to trap us in a pincer.”

 “Textbook,” Cooper replied. “And they must know more about what's happening up there than we do, or they'd be rushing it. They know they've got all the time in the world to get the attack right.” Shaking his head, he added, “I thought this was going a little too well.”

 “Major,” Donegan said, blood streaming down the side of his face unheeded. “We've got to get some of the wounded to a medical facility right away, or they don't have a chance.”

 “Where?” Harper asked. “The only hospital on this planet is Xandari.”

 “Alamo,” Cooper said. “Are they still in range?”

 “You've got to be out of your mind,” Bradley replied. “There are two cruisers in orbit and a fighter squadron, and every second we wait, Alamo gets further away. Not to mention the missile screen. It'll be back to full function by now.” With a bitter frown, she continued, “We only had one chance at this, Gabe, and we've lost.”

 “We're not dead yet,” he replied, looking at the fighters. “Donegan, how many people do you have to get back to Alamo? Give me a number.”

 “Six, sir.”

 “One shuttle can take them.” Turning to Bradley, he continued, “The whole force might not get through, but a single shuttle might, especially if we set another one for remote function and use it as a decoy. That will still leave us with five shuttles to carry the rest of the attack force.”

 “Where are we going?” Harper asked.

 “You're going to ride with the wounded to Alamo,” Cooper replied. “No protest on this, Kris. You've done your job down here on the surface, and we'll need you to ride shotgun on the escape shuttle.”

 “That's fine,” Bradley said. “What about the rest of us?”

 “How are we for fuel?”

 “That's not a problem,” she replied. “We've got enough to get back to the ship, assuming there's a ship up there to go back to, and a comfortable reserve as well.”

 “How comfortable?” he asked.

 “Sir,” Hunt yelled, “We've got minutes before they hit us. We need to establish a defensive perimeter.” Turning back to the ridge line, he added, “They're setting up mortars.”

 “Gabe…,” Bradley said.

 “We've got to get out of here. If we can't get into orbit, we can at least go somewhere else on the planet. How far?”

 “Three, four hundred miles,” she replied, nodding. “It might work. But surely they'll have some airlift of their own down here, or...”

 “All we need to to is buy some time,” Cooper pressed. “Captain Orlova will think of something. We just have to give her the chance to pull off a miracle.” Looking around, he continued, “Get the wounded to Shuttle One! The rest of you, load up according to schedule. Sergeant Hunt, you're with me in the rear guard with Second Platoon. Move out!”

 “Come on,” Bradley said, racing to the shuttles. “Cut all normal checks, people. Clearance on request!” An explosion ripped into the ground, just over the ridge line, raining sand and stone down all around.

 Cooper raced to the ridge, rifle in hand, and dived down into cover as a bullet flew overhead. Behind him, his men streamed into the shuttles, hurling their equipment through the hatch as quickly as they could. To his right, Hunt flashed a smile as he fired a bolt from his plasma pistol, sweeping down the slope towards the advancing Xandari column.

 Another explosion roared behind them, far too close to the shuttles for comfort. The artillerymen below were beginning to get the range, and as soon as they did, all that would remain would be piles of useless scrap metal. Cooper peered down, trying to spot the mortar crews, but the enemy was advancing ahead of them, raining down a hail of bullets to keep them pinned down.

 “Suppressing fire!” he said. “Sergeant...”

 Shaking his head, Hunt waved his plasma pistol and replied, “That was my last shot.”

 “Anyone who has any plasma energy left, I want volley fire now!” Cooper yelled.

 A trio of plasma bolts smashed into the advancing column, sending new plumes of smoke into the air where one Xandari soldiers stood, but there was nothing to stop their advance now. With a low whine, a pair of mortar shells crashed into the ground behind him, shrapnel stabbing into his back. Cooper turned to the rear, the bulk of his forces now safe in the shuttles, the first of them preparing to launch.

 “That's all, folks!” he yelled, gesturing to the rear. “Time to go! Move it!”

 Pausing for a moment to allow the rest of the troops to get a head start, he felt a hand on his back, Hunt dragging him away. Bullets flew through the air all around them, two of his soldiers dropping to the ground with wounds in their backs, their comrades attempting to carry them to safety, another falling victim himself in the attempt.

 “Come on, Cooper!” Bradley yelled, standing in the hatch of the nearest shuttle, now pockmarked from impacts on its hull. “Move it, now!”

 A loud roar raged as the first shuttles launched, flame licking from their lateral thrusters as they kicked into an escape path, flying away from the enemy attack, green plasma bolts flying through the sky all around them. Cooper almost tripped over a dead man on the ground, Private McBride, a grin locked on his face for eternity.

 Hunt pulled at him again, pushing him through the hatch into the shuttle, then leaping through himself, slamming the airlock closed with the emergency release. The cabin echoed with the whine of engines roaring to full power, and he felt the ship take off, sliding from side to side to avoid the fire still leaping towards them from the surface.

 He lurched over to the nearest viewport, looking at the devastation below. Bodies were scattered all around, some of them still moving as the Xandari swept over the ridge line, firing futile volleys at the escaping shuttles in bitter revenge.

 “Cooper!” Bradley said, and he turned to the cockpit, glancing at the shattered troops in the cabin, their faces telling a woeful tale. All of them had expected to be on their way home by now. He glanced at his watch, and shook his head. Deployment of the K-Bomb had been scheduled thirty seconds ago.

 “Cooper, get up here!” Bradley yelled.

 “I'll see to the men, Major,” Hunt said, and Cooper turned to the cockpit with a nod, dropping into the copilot's couch. He looked across at his wife, blood streaming down her right leg, a hand clamped over the wound as she struggled with the controls.

 Shaking his head, Cooper reached for the medical kit, pulling out a bandage and ripping away the fabric to expose the wound. He glanced back to the cabin, but the only medic on board was leaning over another soldier, struggling to stabilize him.

 “I'll live, Gabe,” Bradley said. “Stimulant.”

 “In a minute.”

 The shuttle lurched to the side, and Bradley struggled to bring it back on course, the rest of the formation growing distant on the viewscreen, dots on the horizon. Cooper pulled the bandage into position, then fumbled in the medical kit for an anticoagulant, stabbing the hypodermic into what he hoped was an intact vein.

 “How did they get you?”

 “Standing in the hatch. Sniper. Does it matter?”

 “Guess not,” he replied. “Here, I think this should help.” He ripped off her sleeve, injecting the stimulant into her, and after a few seconds, her eyes seemed to clear, and she sat straighter in the couch, her grasp of the controls more certain.

 “Take the copilot's seat,” she said. “See if we've got any company.”

 Climbing into the couch, he looked down at the sensor display, and said, “Our people are about twenty miles ahead. Looks like they're heading for that mountain range to the north.”

 “Smart,” she replied. “Lots of places to hide up there, and some nice caves to conceal the shuttles. Now what about the rear?”

 “Nothing yet,” he said. “I didn't see any shuttles while we were attacking, but to be fair it wasn't exactly my top priority at the time.” Reaching for the communicator, he said, “Cooper to Alamo, come in. Cooper to Alamo, come in.”

 A roar of static burst from the speaker, and Bradley said, “You don't really expect an answer, do you? That's not much more powerful than the hand communicator.”

 “Just hoping, that's all,” he said, shaking his head. “Cooper to Alamo, come in, please.” He threw a switch on the scanner, widening the focus as much as possible. “They're definitely on an escape vector. Something must have gone seriously wrong up there.” He glanced at the viewscreen, then said, “I think Harper's making her run for orbit.”

 “She's taking a hell of a risk,” Bradley replied, her face growing pale as the pain took hold. Looking down at her leg, she said, “Cooper, take over.”

 “What?”

 “Take over,” she said. “That damn stimulant didn't work.” She slumped back in her couch, hands dropping away from the controls, and Cooper turned to her, shaking her, trying to keep her awake. He turned back to the cabin and saw the medic pulling a blanket over the soldier she'd been working on.

 “Get up here, Specialist! On the double!”

 The landscape filled the viewscreen as the shuttle started a slow descent to the surface, Cooper reaching for the controls, struggling to remember his limited exposure to flight training. There hadn't been any time to program a course, so the autopilot was no use. He glanced across at his wife, the medic working on her leg, then forced himself back to the cockpit controls.

 A few quick adjustments brought the nose back up, and he looked around for the other shuttles, barely within range. He had to get down close to them, if he couldn't follow them exactly. Beneath him, the terrain grew rough, the hitherto smooth surface replaced with jagged foothills, dominated by the mountains ahead.

 “Well, Specialist?” he asked, risking another look at his wife.

 “In shock,” she replied. “Don't worry, she'll be fine. Not a serious wound. I can handle the worst of it here.” Glancing at the viewscreen, she asked, “What's that?”

 Cooper peered down at the surface, spotting a cluster of shapes on the ground. The shuttle soared past them before he could get a good look, and when he turned to replay the sensor logs, taking a hand off the controls, the shuttle lurched again, tumbling to the side.

 “It'll have to wait,” he said, focusing on the readouts. He'd sat right-seat often enough to have at least a basic idea of what to do, but under normal circumstances, that would have consisted of calling Alamo for remote guidance. Flying in atmosphere was rare enough for a trained shuttle pilot. It felt as though the world was fighting him, gusts of wind tossing him first one way, then another, frustrating any attempt at keeping a straight course.

 “I need to take her back to the cabin,” the medic said.

 “Fine,” he replied. “Send someone up here to take her seat.”

 With a nod, the medic withdraw, and a few seconds later, Rhodes slid into the pilot's seat, quickly bringing his sensor display online. Cooper's eyes were still locked on the altimeter, trying to maintain altitude, reaching down to the throttle.

 “Burn it out, sir,” Rhodes said.

 “We're going to need the fuel to make orbit,” Cooper replied.

 “Don't take this the wrong way, Major, but I think the best you're going to manage is a crash landing anyway. I doubt we're going to be riding this chariot back to Alamo. We'll have enough seats, anyway.” He shook his head, and added, “Best guess gives us forty-one casualties. One of those mortar shells took out the remnants of Third Platoon, and the snipers were really getting to work near the end.” Squinting at his display, he continued, “Try five degrees starboard.”

 “Easier said than done,” Cooper said with a grunt, cautiously adjusting course. The computer was at least helping him maintain level flight, but not much more than that. The small dots of the rest of the formation were almost out of sight now. “Try the communicator again.”

 “Shuttle, ah, Three to any friendly station. Come in.” Shaking his head, the trooper replied, “Still as bad as ever. Might be easier later. Right now they've got us where they want us, I think.” Turning to Cooper, he continued, “Can't even get the rest of the formation.”

 The shuttle lurched again, sending them spilling down, and Cooper said, “Down to eight hundred feet, and there are peaks a lot bigger than that out there. I don't think I can keep her moving much longer.” Peering down at the ground, he said, “I don't like the look of the terrain, either.”

 “The formation's descending!” Rhodes replied, pointing at the screen. “Looks like they've found their safe haven.” He pulled out a datapad, sliding a cable into the main console. “Getting the location, sir. Just in case.”

 “How bad a landing do you think I'm going to manage, Corporal?”

 “Brick meets dirt, sir.”

 With a smile, Cooper engaged the landing thrusters, sending the shuttle careening forward, looping in the sky, sending his stomach lurching before he cut the main engine. The computer struggled to compensate, thrusters spilling fuel around, rocking back and forth as it slowly settled.

 “Five hundred feet,” Rhodes said. “I feel like Buzz Aldrin.” Throwing a switch, he continued, “Landing legs deployed and locked. I think.” He paused, and added, “And we're getting an amber warning from the forward thrusters. Looks like some damage from the attack.”

 “Compensating,” Cooper said, trying to adjust the descent, reducing the intensity of the thrust in a series of jerks, the ground getting closer and closer as they dropped into position, jagged rocks reaching down all around them. The shuttle drifted to the side, clouds of dust flying through the air, and he struggled with the controls, trying to keep the ship stable, dodging past a huge boulder to a flat space beyond.

 “Hundred feet. Easy, Major, easy.” The roar of the engines faded, and with a final, alarming jolt, the shuttle settled into position. “Engine off.”

 “Done,” Cooper said, taking a deep breath. “Well, we're here. Wherever the hell that is.”

 Frowning at the scanner, Rhodes replied, “About thirty miles short of where we wanted to be. I guess we're in for a walk.”

Chapter 11

 Harper's eyes were fixed on the sensor controls, watching as the enemy fighters swung in towards them, closing on the shuttle as it ascended into space. She reached across for the communications console, trying to open a channel with the retreating Alamo, trying and failing. The Xandari had blanketed the whole sub-system with static, overwhelming any attempt to push a signal through. She glanced across at the pilot, a Copernican named Ramirez, whose face was as a white as a sheet, shaking hands working the controls.

 “Hold it together,” she said. “And punch it. We've got to gain speed.”

 “We've got wounded back there,” he replied.

 “And being blown into a million pieces will set their recovery back. Run her as hot as you can. We've got bandits inbound.” Tapping a control, hoping against hope, she said, “Harper to Alamo Actual. Come in, please. Harper to Alamo Actual. Come in.”

 “It won't work,” Ramirez said.

 “Which is no reason not to try,” she replied. “Besides, we might get through.” Six fighters were closing on them, sliding into position. As far as she could tell from the sensor logs, these were from the same formation that had attempted an attack run on Alamo, distracted as the final instant by some precision flying from one of the fighter pilots. Somehow, she could guess who had been in that cockpit. That the records showed that ship being struck by debris was a detail she tried to force to the back of her mind.

 “Leaving atmosphere,” the pilot said. “Running for full acceleration, initiating override.”

 “I'm still reading an intercept in a hundred seconds,” Harper replied. “And we can't catch Alamo for two hundred and ten.” With a frown, she asked, “Can we dip back into the atmosphere, work our way around the moon with a skip?”

 “We'll barely have enough fuel to make it back to the ship, running the engines this hot. Can't you do something with the electronic warfare systems?” 

 “We're outgunned,” she replied. “They must have ten thousand hackers working. I've had to isolate the ship.” Reaching across for a control, she continued, “I might be able to flash a message laser. Keep us steady.”

 “Firing range in ninety seconds,” he said. “We need to be thinking about evasive action. Besides, is there anything Alamo can do to help us? If they drop back to pick us up, those fighters will just throw a full salvo at them. Twelve missiles against six, assuming she hasn't been damaged. No one will take that sort of a risk.” Shaking his head, he added, “I knew this was a bad idea.”

 “Then why the hell did you volunteer for it?”

 “I didn't!” he replied. “I just ran for the nearest damned shuttle. I thought Lieutenant Bradley was taking the wounded back to the ship.”

 “You really think she was going to leave her husband behind on the planet, two weeks before their mutual retirement?” Harper replied, shaking her head.

 “Seventy seconds to firing range,” Ramirez said, as though announcing his death sentence. “Twelve missiles, heading right for us.”

 “I doubt they'll use all of them,” she said. “Probably just three or four.”

 “One is too many.” Gesturing at the monitor, he continued, “More contacts, coming from the other direction. We're going to be caught on both sides.” Shaking his head, he added, “Maybe we should break for the surface. We wouldn't be able to get back up again, but...”

 A grin broke out on Harper's face, and she said, “They're ours! Two Koltoc fighters, bearing directly! The cavalry's on the way, Ramirez. Set your course to go right through them.” Tapping a control, Harper swung the comm laser, trying to lock onto one of the incoming craft, but the range was too extreme, the ships moving too rapidly.

 “Alamo in three minutes minus,” Ramirez said. “Those enemy fighters are getting awfully close, Lieutenant. Firing range in fifty seconds.”

 “Just keep us moving, Spaceman,” she said, still playing the comm laser around, trying to get a signal from one of the three ships. They were quickly gaining ground on Alamo, and the friendly fighters were now close enough to give her a realistic chance. Just as she managed to link up a signal, they broke away, moving into an evasive pattern, and she abandoned the attempt with a frown, moving back to the sensor display.

 “Preparing evasive course,” Ramirez said.

 “Don't,” she replied. “We need speed. Six missiles against whatever they throw at us is a pretty happy ending.” Looking over the sensor feed, she said, “Six against six, to be specific. Those bastards have already used half their ordnance.”

 “I just hope those pilots know what they're doing.”

 “They're probably your people, Spaceman.”

 Reaching down to the throttle, the pilot found a trace more acceleration in the shuttle's engines, his knuckles white as he gripped the controls, beads of sweat building up on his forehead.

 “First battle?” Harper asked.

 “Yeah,” he replied. “I'm not even really in the military. Drafted for the duration. They didn't tell me I'd end up dodging missiles.”

 “Goes with the territory. You never know, after a while you might start to enjoy it. I did.”

 Ramirez looked at her as though she had lost her mind, then turned back to his controls, nursing the power distribution network to gain all the boost he could, watching as the fighters drew closer. Harper threw a control to focus on the pursing force, waiting for them to release their deadly payload.

 “Change to target aspect,” she said. “Six missiles, bearing directly. Enemy fighters are breaking off, heading back to the moon.” Shaking her head, she continued, “I guess that's still friendly territory for them, damn it all.”

 “Impact in twenty-eight seconds,” Ramirez said. “Collision course.”

 “Activating physical countermeasures,” Harper replied, reaching across for the controls. She knew how remote the chances were of them being effective in this theater, but she'd ridden longer odds in the past. “Chaff and flares, ready to go. Decoy, ready to go.”

 “Release them, then!”

 “Not yet, Spaceman. Not until they get close. Besides, our fighters are coming.”

 It was a race, the Triplanetary fighter escort against the laws of physics, their engines working over their design limits to get them into the battle as rapidly as they could. Abruptly, six more tracks appeared on the screen, friendly missiles in the air, and the two fighters turned back for the battlecruiser, killing their speed as rapidly as they had accrued it.

 “Mutual destruction in eight seconds,” Harper said.

 “Right around impact time,” Ramirez replied.

 “Five seconds,” she said. “Any last words?”

 “None worth recording.”

 There was nothing they could do except wait as the seconds, and the miles, trickled away, twelve missiles converging on the same point of space, one that also happened to contain the shuttle, speeding to its hoped-for destiny. When the end came, it was almost anti-climatic, the warheads smashing into each other, the tracks vanishing from the sensor display, replaced with a rapidly converging cloud of debris.

 Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Ramirez said, “That was far too close!” Shaking his head, he asked, “Is it always like this?”

 “Quiet day at the office, Spaceman,” she replied. “Rear screens are clear, and there's nothing at the planet that can catch us now. Not to jinx this daring escape, but I think we've made it.” Turning back to the rear cabin, she asked, “Garland, what's the score back there?”

 “One down, five still breathing,” the paramedic replied. “Carstairs couldn't take the acceleration, I'm afraid. We're going to need to get the rest into surgery right away, Lieutenant. Have you got any contact with Alamo?”

 “Nothing,” she replied, “and we probably won't until we dock. Hopefully they'll guess what we're doing. Just try and keep them with us for a few more minutes. That should be enough.”

 “I hope so,” Garland replied, turning back to his work.

 Alamo had never looked better as the shuttle approached, but only as they drew close could Harper see the beating that the ship had taken in the battle, could understand why there had been no choice other than to abort the mission, even when they had been heartrendingly close to launching the bomber. The whole side of the battlecruiser was burned and pitted, exposed compartments in a dozen places, atmosphere still leaking out with periodic puffs.

 She looked across at the escorts, the three surviving ships, two Koltoc and one Neander, nursing in tight formation. All of them seemed in similar condition to Alamo, as far as she could imagine from being ready for battle. They might be approaching temporary safety, but there didn't seem to be any way they were going to get out of the system in one piece. Not with Xandari forces scattered at every hendecaspace point.

 Finally, the shuttle drifted into position, settling into the docking cradle and rising up to the hangar deck. Here too were the scars of battle, technicians racing to service damaged fighters, a line of wounded crewmen being triaged by harried medics. As soon as the hatch settled into position underneath them, the passenger airlock opened.

 “We need medical help over here, on the double!” Garland yelled, and gurneys raced from the elevator, Doctor Duquesne running by their side, her uniform stained with blood from one of her patients, a dead look in her eyes.

 Shaking her head, Harper turned to Ramirez and said, “You'd better handle post-flight, and find someone to give the shuttle the once-over. From the looks of it, it's the only one we've got.” Looking at his ashen face, she continued, “Then try and get some sleep. You've earned it.”

 “Sleep?”

 “Take a pill, Spaceman. You might be the only shuttle pilot on board. We're going to need you soon enough. I'd suggesting going to sickbay, but it looks like they've got a lot of business.” Sliding out of the hatch, she dropped down to the deck, walking over to Chief Kowalski, standing in front of the status board.

 “How bad, Chief?”

 “Bad,” he replied. “Damned bad. They caught us cold, Lieutenant.” Shaking his head, he said, “Now we've got to try and put all the pieces back together again.” Gesturing at the elevator, he continued, “Pavel's in sickbay, last I heard.”

 She didn't pause to reply, racing for the elevator and slamming the control, the doors sliding shut. Pulling out her datapad, she forwarded the few notes she'd made from the battle to the Captain's queue, then reached for her communicator before shaking her head. What could she report? That the assault force had been smashed, had completed its mission at a terrible cost but was now stranded in an empty desert in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by Xandari who would soon finish the job?

 The door opened, and she stepped out into the corridor, almost tripping over a wounded man lying on the floor, the first of a long row of casualties being treated by the overworked medical team. She saw Salazar inside, his bandaged arm in a sling, standing over a man lying on a diagnostic table. One glance confirmed what she already knew. The man in the bed was dying.

 She walked over to it, standing by Salazar's side, and looked down at Spaceman Bartlett, his face covered in burns, barely recognizable, but still forcing a smile. Salazar's face was empty, cold, his eyes seeming to stare into infinity as his friend took his last breath.

 “See them for me, Pavel,” Bartlett gasped. “Tell them I love them.”

 “I will, Ben,” he replied, taking the man's hand. “I swear.”

 Bartlett's eyes drifted shut, and his face turned to the side, the monitors emitting the dull tone that indicated that all life-signs had ended. One of the medics moved to the side, reaching for the body, but Salazar shook his head.

 “Can't he rest for one damned minute,” he barked.

 “We need the bed, sir.”

 Closing his eyes, Salazar nodded, and said, “I'm sorry, Specialist. Please excuse me.”

 “Pavel…,” Harper said, and Salazar looked up, disbelief in his eyes.

 “Where the hell did you come from?”

 “And there I thought you'd be pleased to see me.”

 Holding her shoulder with his good hand, he replied, “That was you in the shuttle, then?”

 “Gabe sent me up with the worst of the casualties from the surface. We haven't had any contact with Alamo since the jamming field. What happened to you?”

 “Shrapnel,” he replied, turning back to his friend as the orderlies carefully removed him from the bed, placing him with the other bodies in the corner. “Nothing. I'm still about as fit for duty as anyone else is around here.” A tear formed in his eye, and he continued, “I lost half the squadron, Kris, and damned lucky not to lose all of them.”

 The door opened, and Orlova stepped into the room, walking to Harper, and said, “Welcome home, Lieutenant. I'll need a full report on conditions on the surface. We've...”

 “I'll tell you what conditions on the surface are like, Captain,” Salazar said, stepping forward. “Desperate, bordering on hopeless, with double-digit casualties and growing worse every time. Just like things are up here.”

 “Pavel…,” she began.

 “And all of it was for nothing! Half my people are killed, ten more up here, God only knows how many on the surface, and the ship ripped to pieces in an ambush. The whole thing was a set-up, and we just walked right into it! We were so damned arrogant, Captain, thinking that we could win this war by ourselves.” Gesturing around the medical bay, he said, “Here's your victory, Captain. Ben Bartlett is never going to see his daughter. She's going to grow up without a father, and it's because of your damn arrogance. They're paying the price, Captain. We all are.”

 All eyes were on Salazar as he shook his head, and continued, “How much blood do you want on your hands, Captain? I hope to hell it was worth it.” Without waiting to be dismissed, he walked out of the room, leaving Orlova standing in stunned silence behind.

 Harper looked after him, then said, “Captain...Maggie...he's not himself. They must have drugged him, and he's been wounded. Don't blame him.”

 “I don't,” she said, quietly. “He's right.” She sighed, then walked over to the far side of the room, looking at the casualties. Glancing back at her for a second, Harper raced out into the corridor, trying to catch up with Salazar.

 “Pavel?” she yelled. “Wait, Pavel.”

 Salazar paused, looked back, and said, “I won't apologize. She can court-martial me if she wants. Hell, I deserve it. I'm as guilty as she is. I should have placed my protest on record with Quinn and Powell. Maybe that would have stopped all of this insanity.” Bitter tears ran down his cheeks, and said, “We were so close, Kris. So close to going home in triumph. How many on the surface?” She looked at him, eyes wide, and he repeated, “How many?” 

 “Thirty-two, we estimate. Probably more.”

 He slumped to the floor, sliding down the wall, and looked down at his feet, saying, “Thirty-two. We've been in this system for less than an hour, and we've lost a third of our people, almost half of our ships. The whole thing was a trap, right from the start. They knew we were coming.” Looking up at her, he continued, “The best part? The weapons they used were a derivation of the K-Bomb. Oh, an inferior variant, they aren't there yet, but they've got them.”

 Harper's mouth widened, and she replied, “Then that just makes this more important.”

 “Does it?” he said. “Kris, we're beaten. There's no way out of this system, and we're on a course taking us exactly nowhere. There's a reason they aren't bothering to pursue us. They don't have to. Either they're going to let us wander through space forever, or they'll smash us to pieces when we decide to go down in a blaze of glory.”

 Harper looked at him in disgust, then slapped him across the face, leaving him rubbing his reddened cheek.

 “What the hell?”

 “All this time I've known you, Pavel, and I never knew you were a coward. Fine, the situation is desperate. Fine, we probably shouldn't have fallen into this trap in the first place. But sitting weeping on the deck isn't going to save anything. You think you've had a bad day? I got to watch people being burned alive in front of me. You haven't seen anything. So get up off your butt and start thinking of a way out of this nightmare. Or a lot more people are going to lose their loved ones, you and me included. You hear me?” 

 Forcing a smile, he replied, “I didn't know you'd been taking lessons in bedside manner from the good doctor.”

 “I just say it as I see it, Pavel. Now, shall we get to work?” 

Chapter 12

 Cooper looked around at the horizon through his binoculars, killing a couple of minutes while his group prepared to move out. The landscape was the same, whichever way he looked. Bleak brown desert punctuated by black rocks, the only variation the mountains rising to the north, their ultimate destination. The heat burned down on him, and he rubbed the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

 None of them were properly equipped for desert travel. The plan had been for a short firefight and withdrawal, nothing more. They'd been ready to face defeat, but the thought that they would be stranded on the surface for any length of time had simply not occurred to them. Not that there would have been much they could have done about it, anyway. The Triplanetary Espatier Corps had trained to fight in space, not on the surface of a planet, and while they had been making up for that in recent years, their equipment still had a long way to go, most of it based on decades-old designs from long-forgotten wars deep in Earth's history.

 “I think I've got the route pinpointed now, Major,” Rhodes said, walking towards him, datapad in hand. “Twenty-nine miles over rough terrain.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “It'll be dark in about four hours, sir. From what I know of desert travel, we'd be better off waiting until nightfall. Prepare a defensive perimeter, just in case any friends show up.”

 “No,” Cooper replied. “We'll move out as soon as we're ready. I don't want to be out of contact with the rest of the attack force for any longer than necessary.” Turning to the trooper, a smile on his face, he added, “Don't you want to have a nice walk in the sunshine?”

 “I can live without it, sir,” he said, with a frown. “I was thinking of the wounded. Giving them a little more time to recover might not be a bad idea. And there's no sign of pursuit so far.”

 “We're less than a hundred miles from the enemy base, Corporal. Not far enough for my liking, and we've only got three plasma weapons between us. I'm sure they've got some sort of transport capability. All we've done is buy a little time. We've got to use it well.”

 The medic, Specialist Hughes, walked out of the shuttle, rubbing her hands by her side, and said, “We're about ready to go, sir. I've got both our casualties on stretchers, and I've packed all the medical equipment we can carry.” She frowned, then added, “If you could give me a couple more hours, I might...”

 Shaking his head, Cooper replied, “We move out in two minutes. Rhodes, you, Hunt and I will be the escort. The rest are stretcher bearers. Don't push the pace too hard, but we've got to move as fast as we can.” Glancing at his watch, he said, “We should be able to cover the distance in six hours over this sort of terrain.”

 “I could push ahead,” Rhodes suggested. “Try and make contact with the rest of the strike force. I know I could make the distance in four hours, sir. Maybe three, if I push it.”

 “Ever walked across a desert, Corporal?” Hunt said, climbing out of the shuttle.

 “No, sir, I haven't.”

 “Neither have I, but I've gone over the survival manuals often enough to know what we're capable of. Stick with the group.” Turning to Cooper, he continued, “All canteens are full, sir, and I've set charges around the shuttle to detonate if anyone comes near it. Or after six hours, whichever comes first. No chance of anyone getting more use out of it.” Shaking his head, he added, “Shame to waste such a good landing.”

 Hughes stepped back into the shuttle, and a moment later emerged with one of the technicians behind her, the two carrying a stretcher with Bradley lying upon it, a faint rumbling noise coming from her mouth. Cooper shook his head with a smile, then turned to the desert, following the path selected by Rhodes. To say the least, it didn't look particularly appealing. An endless, empty wasteland.

 “Let's move out, people. Rhodes, you take point. Hunt, stick with me. If anyone sees anything, call out at once. Don't worry about false alarms. Let me decide what's important. If we do come under attack, get the wounded into cover first.” Gesturing at the rocks, he added, “Plenty of that around, at least.”

 He waited a few seconds, letting Rhodes lead the way, then started on the path away from the shuttle, glancing back to make sure the stretcher bearers were keeping up, careful to set a pace they could follow. Hunt walked by his side, rifle slung over his shoulder, and took a deep swig from his canteen before replacing it at his belt.

 “Might want to save some of that for later,” Cooper said.

 “Better to drink it when you want it,” Hunt replied. “Damn, it's hot. Think they'll ever get around to giving us some decent hot-weather gear?”

 “Probably some day,” Cooper replied. “Maybe when you get home.”

 “Hey, wait a minute, Major,” Hunt said. “You make it sound like you aren't.”

 “I'm not,” he replied, shaking his head. “But not in the way you mean. I'm retiring.”

 “You're kidding.”

 “No, honest truth.” Taking a deep breath, he continued, “I've had it, Sergeant. I've seen one battle too many, and my tour of duty is done. Hence the surprise promotion. A little leaving present from Captain Orlova to bump my pension up a little.” Glancing back at Bradley, he continued, “We're staying on Copernicus when we get back, after the mission.”

 “I can't believe it,” Hunt replied. “I'd have thought you'd have died in uniform.”

 “That's almost come true once too often. It's time for us to settle down, think about starting a family while we're both young enough to enjoy it. Besides, I got used to breathing real air, and I won't get to do that if we go back to Mars.”

 “What are you going to do?”

 “Colonel Kilquan's selling us a war-surplus heavy shuttle. There are going to be a lot of salvage operations over the next few years at Copernicus, and we shouldn't have any trouble getting a few government contracts to support them. By then the Confederation will be moving in, big trade contracts, and we ought to be able to get in on the ground floor. Give it a few years, we'll be running a decent-sized shipping operation.”

 “I might want to come after you for a job when I've finished my twenty years,” Hunt said. “So, this is the last fling.”

 “We both wanted to go out big, and I can't think of a bigger mission to end my career with. Besides, once this is done, the war will be over. It's this or a training command, and the odds of the two of us getting split up are a little too big for our liking. This way, we get to take control of our own lives again, and I can't wait.”

 “Gagh,” Hunt said. “Shore duty, after all of this. I ought to be looking forward to it, but I'll probably end up with a group of rookies to pamper for a year.” With a shrug, he added, “Hopefully I'll be able to talk someone into letting me ship out again.”

 “You've only got five years left, Sergeant,” Cooper replied. “They might give you a short-service commission, especially if you go into training. You know they're going to be hungry for people.” Gesturing at Rhodes, he added, “That's his idea, anyway.”

 “Rhodes? An officer?”

 “He's applying for OCS when we get back. I wrote the letter of recommendation for him last week, and Pavel countersigned it.” With a smile, Cooper said, “I know, I know, but he's come a long way over the last few months, and this might be just what he needs.”

 Shaking his head, Hunt replied, “I'm just struggling to get to grips with the idea that I might have to salute that renegade some day. Maybe I should try for that short-service commission after all, even if it means sitting behind a desk somewhere.” He reached for his canteen again, and said, “What do we do next, when we get to the shuttles?”

 “Defensive perimeter and wait for orders. Or for as long as our supplies hold out. This doesn't look like the sort of place where we can live off the land. Otherwise, I'm afraid we're going to be entering the realm of the glorious last stand. I don't think the Xandari are going to allow us to sit by for long in our mountain paradise. If they need to, they can ship in a couple of thousand troops from their homeworld to wipe them out.”

 “It'll be a battle they don't forget in a hurry.”

 “You can count on that,” he replied.

 Pulling out his datapad, Cooper looked at the last of the sensor logs, and said, “I really thought we had this fight won. We certainly paid a big enough price for it.”

 “We still might, sir.”

 “With Alamo retreating into the outer system, half the escorts smashed?” Shaking his head, he added, “Right now I'll settle for finding a way back to Copernicus. Maybe we can hijack a transport. We've got plenty of targets to choose from.” A smile curled across his face, and he added, “Of course, we'd have to get past nine squadrons of fighters and half a dozen capital ships first.”

 “That's the officer I know,” Hunt said. “Never one to let minor problems slow you down.”

 Up ahead, Rhodes raised his hand, and the column immediately halted, Cooper running forward to catch up to the scout, keeping low to avoid detection. The stretcher bearers moved their charges into cover, then followed themselves, rifles in hand, while Hunt checked the rear.

 “What is it, Corporal?” Cooper asked.

 “Two o' clock, sir,” Rhodes replied. “Dust cloud.”

 Cooper pulled out his binoculars and scanned the horizon, cursing under his breath as he saw the cause of the disturbance. A pair of vehicles heading in their direction, fast, high-wheeled buggies, with what could only be plasma cannons mounted on the rear. He quickly looked around, trying to pick a path through the rocks. They wouldn't be able to get close, but with weapons like that at their disposal, they wouldn't have to. Even a near miss would wipe them all out with ease.

 “Orders, sir?”

 Turning to Hunt, Cooper said, “Sergeant, keep everyone low, and be ready to give me covering fire if I need it. I'm going hunting.”

 “Not alone, sir,” Rhodes said, pulling out his plasma pistol.

 “Always good to have company. I'll take the right, you take the left. Keep low and move quickly. If you get a decent firing position, feel free to make use of it. Move out.”

 With a curt nod, the trooper started to pick his way around the rocks, Cooper moving in the opposite direction. He could hear the rumble of the engine in the distance now, steadily growing, the buggies moving towards them with a precision that told of advanced knowledge. He glanced up in the sky, and cursed. They must have had the whole group under orbital observation since the beginning. He'd assumed that, but had hoped they wouldn't have had the ability to make use of it so soon.

 Carefully dodging around a boulder, he slammed the charge switch on his plasma pistol home. No point using stealth, not if they already knew he was here. They had to stop those buggies, no matter what it took. If they got past his column, they'd be attacking the shuttles in moments, and without them, they were stranded on the surface, their last hope of escape lost.

 He peered over a jagged rock, trying to guess the range. Certainly their vehicle-mounted cannons would have greater capability than his pistol, but they looked old, archaic, bulky. The batteries far larger than anything a Triplanetary vehicle would carry. Old, obsolete equipment, perhaps, left here on this moon rather than waste the space-lift to move them.

 Taking a last look back at the wounded, checking for himself that their cover was as good as it could be, he moved on, selecting a careful path across the terrain. About the only advantage he had was that he could stay out of line of sight, though with a cannon that large, even the biggest boulder wouldn't do anything to protect him.

 Glancing to the left, he looked for Rhodes, unable to pick the trooper out amid the terrain. The thought belatedly occurred to him that the Xandari might be using their stealth suits to infiltrate them, but he shook his head. They hadn't had time to reach him on foot, and they'd have seen any other vehicles heading their way.

 Finally, he found what he was looking for, a pair of tall rocks leaning on each other, a narrow slit that was perfect as a firing position. He settled down into the dirt, leveling his pistol, taking careful aim at the leading buggy, waiting for them to get close enough to take his shot. Sweat poured down the back of his neck, the baking sun burning down on him, and he longed to reach for a drink from his canteen as the Xandari buggy slowed, easing its way over the broken surface.

 Any second now, they'd be launching their attack. He had to get in first, to try and disrupt their offensive, or they wouldn't have a chance. With a gentle squeeze, he pulled the trigger, sending a ball of green flame racing across the landscape towards its target. A second one came from the left, the two men firing at almost the same instant, catching the leading buggy in a crossfire.

 The explosion roared across the battlefield, thick smoke rising from the wreckage of the vehicle, the second buggy grinding to a halt as the Xandari warriors moved to take cover from the prey they had been hunting. Suddenly the battle had been turned around. Cooper looked at the power readings on his pistol, shaking his head. Four shots left, even at the lowest possible setting. And no way to recharge them until he reached another shuttle.

 To his right, a boulder erupted, a second shot from Rhodes depriving two of the Xandari of their cover, the hot shrapnel depriving one of them of his life. Cooper turned towards the other, but shook his head. Taking down one wasn't enough. He'd counted nine shapes emerging from the buggy, and the plasma pistols were an overkill they couldn't afford.

 Sliding his pistol back into its holster, switching off the charge with the touch of a button, he took his rifle in his hands and started to edge forward, moving around the safety of his cover to get closer to the enemy, trying to draw them out. A bullet scraped off a rock to his right, and he turned to see a shape ducking behind a rock, taking a snap shot that missed his target by inches.

 Crouching behind a gully, he picked his way through the landscape, periodically ducking to avoid blasts of gunfire over his head, the Xandari attempting to keep them pinned down. Doubtless they were hoping for the imminent arrival of reinforcements, but he was determined to finish them off first, finally catching three of them moving between firing positions.

 It took five shots to bring them down, their bodies twitching in the dirt. He heard another shot to his left, followed by a desperate scream, Rhodes picking off another of their adversaries. Glancing around, he risked moving forward, still keeping low, rifle sweaty in his hands. Then the world erupted around him, a blast of heat from a plasma ball erupting by his side, instinct sending him diving into cover.

 The dust sent him into a paroxysm of choking, the side of his face raw from the heat, but he managed to spot another of the Xandari ahead, moving forward in the mistaken belief that he had killed his target. A bullet to the forehead proved that he hadn't, and now Cooper knew that their opponents were on the run, that he could take advantage of their weakness.

 He knew where they were going. The buggy. Either to pull back and bring forward reinforcements, or to detonate the power packs, wiping everyone out in a glorious last stand. Cooper had no intention of giving them the opportunity, and fired a long burst of semi-automatic fire to clear his advance, running in a long curve towards the vehicle, drawing the Xandari from their hiding place.

 As he'd hoped, Rhodes took full advantage of the opportunity he provided, a series of careful shots bringing down the last of their enemies. Looking around, Cooper rose to his feet, shaking his head, wary of another ambush. Rhodes walked towards him, rifle back over his shoulder, a smile on his face.

 “Looks like we've got a ride, sir,” he said, gesturing at the buggy. Cooper walked over to it, nodding. The controls were alien, but seemed straightforward enough, and somehow the vehicle had come through the firefight without sustaining any damage.

 “Sergeant!” Cooper yelled, waving a hand. “Get over here on the double, and bring the wounded. There are probably more Xandari on the way, and it would be nice to get back to the others before dark.” Turning to Rhodes, he said, “See if you can figure out the plasma cannon, but for God's sake don't push any buttons you aren't sure of while we're on the move.”

 “Artillery, sir?” he asked.

 “Something like that,” he replied, settling into the driving seat. He placed his hands on the steering wheel, looking around at the controls, and smiled. This was the first lucky break they'd had since they'd arrived in this cursed system. And one that just might save all of their lives, if they could ride it.

 “Come on!” Cooper called. “Let's get this wagon rolling.”

Chapter 13

 Orlova stared through the observation port, watching as the desert moon passed in front of the Xandari homeworld, lost in her thoughts. Everything had fallen apart so quickly, all the hopes and dreams coming to an end. When she'd met Salazar in sickbay, she'd still been operating on the adrenaline of battle, all of that shattered in an instant by his angry words.

 And somehow, she couldn't disagree with anything that he had said. They'd gone into this thinking that they could win the war, that Alamo and her crew could beat the odds once more, save countless worlds with one glorious moment, and when the time came, they had failed.

 She had failed.

 Cooper had done his part, down on the surface, and if the reports from Harper were correct, he'd done it at a terrible price, losing dozens of soldiers in the desperate assault on the enemy base. And yet, they'd established the jamming field, given the strike team the chance to press their attack home. Salazar and his squadron, likewise, had done everything they had set out to do, and more besides. The gap in the enemy missile network was still there, but there was nothing they could do to exploit that weakness.

 She should have been faster, should have seen the danger they were in. Over and over again, she ran the lunar flyby through in her mind, knowing that there were a hundred things she could have done. And yet, how could she have known? A pair of abandoned communications satellites, abandoned in place just as dozens, hundreds of similar satellites had been back home, dormant for some unknown future use. The Xandari had certainly found a good use for them. 

 Just on Alamo, fifteen dead. More on the surface, and still more on the escorts. Damage reports continued to stream in as the ship limped out into the deep system, still on a course taking them nowhere, on an endless voyage through eternity. There was no safe harbor, not in this system, and they'd known that going in. Almost every world had its own garrison, and it would take more than five days for them to reach any hendecaspace point other than the one they had used to get here, one now guarded by a squadron of capital ships.

 Running would be pointless. There was little work Quinn and his team could do on the outer hull while they were accelerating, and if they stopped, they would be vulnerable to attack. If they ran for one of the other egress points, the cruiser squadron could simply jump ahead of them, be waiting for them on arrival. However she ran it, they were trapped.

 Ultimately, it would come down to choosing a time and place for her fleet to die, one last, glorious battle to do as much damage as possible. There was a chance that one of the escorts might get away, should the rest of the fleet sacrifice their lives to give them the opportunity, but even then, escape would be temporary at best. The Xandari would follow, knowing exactly where they were going, the only route back to the Confederation. One small ship would be no match for the forces arrayed against them.

 Salazar was right. They'd ridden their luck as far as it could possibly go already, and they'd run out just at the worst moment. She'd bet the whole war on one mission, and as far as she could see, she'd lost. Now there was nothing standing in the way of the Xandari, nothing to prevent them putting their fleet back together again and resuming their advance, all the way to Copernicus, to Testament Station, and beyond.

 Commodore Marshall's task force would be engaging the enemy soon enough, but at a time and place of the Xandari's choosing, with sufficient strength that he wouldn't have a chance. Alamo had infiltrated its way into the Xandari Empire through a combination of luck and judgment, but she knew that the enemy wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

 The enemy homeworld drifted back into view, and she looked over the planet, a mix of greens and blue, a world not unlike Copernicus, or Old Earth for that matter, before the Third World War. A prize worth fighting for, worth defending. It seemed so beautiful, a gleaming jewel that hung in the sky. And yet, it was home to the greatest enemy the Confederation had ever faced.

 She heard the door open behind her, and Nelyubov walked into the room, moving to stand by her side, sharing the view in silence as though attempting to read her thoughts before speaking. She kept her eyes locked on the planet, slowly receding as Alamo continued its escape into oblivion.

 “Latest damage reports,” he finally said. “Not great news, but Jack's brought the main power grid back online. With the caveat that it's liable to go again if we sustain any more serious damage. We're running on emergency relays right now. Internal communications is back, and we've got laser contact with the rest of the fleet.”

 “Their status?” she asked.

 “About the same as ours. Red Avenger came off lightest, but only just. We've got shuttles going over now to transfer wounded.” Shaking his head, he said, “They're barely got more than first aid capability over there. Doctor Duquesne and her people are setting up a third triage facility in Storage Five. No more dead, and she doesn't expect to lose anyone else from the crew.”

 “Any word from the surface?”

 “Weitzman's been trying to contact them, but we can't break through the jamming. With the rear sensor pickups out, we can't even get any good images of the surface, though at this range, that would be touch-and-go in any case.” Shaking his head, he said, “I don't really have any good news for you, Maggie, but I'm pretty sure you know that already.”

 “I figured as much.”

 “As for Lieutenant Salazar, I...”

 “No action will be taken.”

 “He committed insubordination in front of the crew, Maggie. You can't let that slide.”

 “The man was injured in action, after saving this ship, pumped full of painkillers and stimulants and watched a good friend die in front of him. I'm not going to hold him responsible for his words. Especially not when I agree with them.”

 Shaking his head, Nelyubov replied, “He was wrong.”

 “Was he? Maybe we were too damned arrogant. We'd started to underestimate our enemy, we thought we'd always find a way to win. Well, that hasn't worked out this time, has it.” Shaking her head, she added, “The one damned piece of equipment that wasn't shot the hell was the K-Bomb, but that's probably going to rust away in the hangar deck.”

 “We've got time,” Nelyubov said. “And more than enough fuel to do a full turn, go back to the planet and have another try. This battle isn't over yet, and you know it.”

 “And if we do that,” she said, “we both know what happens next. That cruiser squadron forms up, possibly with a couple of fighter squadrons, and meets us halfway. If we somehow manage to fight our way through, then we've still got all of the orbital defenses waiting for us at the far end. Not that we're going to get through. Sixteen missiles against twenty-four was fine, Frank, but we're down to sixteen against twelve, and those cruisers will have the perfect opportunity to meet us on their terms.”

 Before Nelyubov could reply, she continued, “And say we try for somewhere else. The same thing happens, right there. No matter which exit point we try. Face it, Frank, we've lost this one. About the only choice we have left is to decide where we're going to die.” With a sigh, she replied, “We will head back to the Xandari homeworld. Maybe, if we get close enough, we could still deliver the bomb, but I don't for a moment think they'll let us take that chance.”

 “Who says we have to go back right away?” Nelyubov replied. “We can hang out here for weeks, get the ship back to full strength, then return for a counter-attack. Meanwhile we can use the escorts for hit and run raids. I've identified a few transports on in-system runs we'd have a good chance of bringing down, all of them only lightly defended.”

 “And one of them is almost certainly a Q-Ship, ready to catch us by surprise, because every damned thing in this system is a trap, Frank. They might not have known we were coming, but they were prepared to face off an attack. Meanwhile, we've still got fifty or sixty people down on the planet's surface, and your plan writes them all off without a chance. Without support from the escorts, they can't get off that rock, and they've only got enough supplies for a couple of days. Assuming the Xandari don't just wipe them out sooner.”

 She turned to the front of the observation room, looking out at the starfield ahead, the long double tail of a comet stabbing through the sky before her. It was one of the most beautiful sights in space, but she paid it no mind as she continued to churn through the dire prospects they were facing.

 “Maggie,” Nelyubov said, “the tactical situation hasn't really changed. We've opened up the gap in the missile defenses. All we have to do is get the bomber into a position to make its run, and we can still win the war.” Shaking his head, he added, “Going in, we knew that this could be a one-way trip. That we had to drop that bomb or lose it all.”

 “Except now, instead of launching a surprise attack, we're going to be running into prepared defenses, a massed formation of enemy ships that won't be decoyed by fears of another fleet. One that knows that they've only got to take down Alamo to win the war.”

 “Fine, then we've got to decoy them away, somehow,” he said. “If we can break up the defenses, then we could still press that attack home. And as soon as that bomb detonates, the war ends, whether we survive or not. The Xandari won't recover for centuries.”

 Orlova looked at the comet again, a smile creeping on her face. She pulled out her datapad, running a series of numbers on it, then turned to Nelyubov, placing her hands on his shoulders, a triumphant grin washing away the misery on her face.

 “That's it! You're a damned tactical genius, Frank!” She ran for the elevator, and he hurried to catch up, only just getting in before the doors slid shut behind him.

 “Where are we going?”

 “Astrogation,” she replied.

 “A lot of our sensors aren't functioning, remember,” Nelyubov said. “I don't think we'll get a better picture of the local area than we will on the bridge. Maybe...”

 “I don't need detailed scans, Frank, I just need to make a course projection.” She turned to him, and said, “If it looked as though we were making for the inner planet, following our original contingency plan, what would the enemy do?”

 “As soon as they were sure, they'd send the cruisers into position to block us, have them make an in-system jump to our presumed destination.” He paused, then added, “On our current course, we'd be committed to that trajectory, Maggie. We wouldn't be able to turn back to the enemy homeworld, and you know there's no way they're simply going to let us leave the system. I suppose we could do a fast flyby once we got there, turn right around, but that's chancy as hell.”

 “They'd have to make that move now,” Orlova said. “They couldn't wait for long. We'd be there in five and a half days, and they'd want to be able to catch us at a distance.”

 “Probably not,” Nelyubov agreed. “If I was commanding their defenses, I'd wait an hour, say, then commit to the ambush. After all, it would be days before we could alter our course anyway. As I said, once we do this, we're locked in on that heading.” Shaking his head, he added, “The power grid is in a bad enough condition now. I don't think Jack will like maintaining full acceleration for long. And I don't see how we can shave any time.”

 “We don't have to.”

 As if he hadn't heard her, Nelyubov continued, “I suppose there's a chance one of the escorts might, though even then, the enemy will probably just smash them to pieces in the next system. Unless we do enough damage to the cruisers to stop them jumping, but we can't count on that.” He paused, then said, “What do you mean, we don't have to?”

 “If my guess is right, we can decoy those cruisers away and still have a fighting chance of knocking out the enemy defenses, put that bomb exactly where we wanted it, and with a hell of a lot more velocity than we were expecting. We'd also be able to rescue our people from the surface, but that's going to take a pretty wild shuttle ride.”

 “I don't get it,” he asked, as the door opened. As they walked out, they almost walked into Salazar and Harper, heading in the other direction. When the pilot saw Orlova, his face blushed, and he looked down at the deck.

 “Captain, I'd like to apologize...”

 “Forget it, Pavel, we've got more important things to do.”

 Nodding, he said, “I've had an idea, Captain. I looked at the path ahead, and there's a large comet almost...” 

 A smile beamed on her face as she replied, “You read my mind. Have you computed the course yet?”

 “I was just going to do that now.”

 Frowning, Nelyubov said, “I know that I'm just a simple old Executive Officer, but could someone tell me just what the two of you have in mind?”

 As the quartet walked into the astrogation room, Orlova and Salazar racing for the terminal, Harper said, “We need to decoy the cruisers away, lure them somewhere else in the system, if we're going to have any chance of pulling off a second attack on the homeworld, right?”

 “Sure.”

 “And the best way to do that will be to convince them that we're going somewhere else, trying to flee the system. The enemy command will have no choice but to send the cruisers to stop us. If we're really lucky, they might load up a couple of fighter squadrons as well.”

 “Right now, we aren't having that sort of luck, but I follow. To a point. Except that with the speed we've got, we can't turn around, not that quickly. It would take hours to kill our velocity, and it's getting harder with every second we continue to accelerate.”

 “Not if we can manage a hard turn.”

 “How the hell do we do that?”

 “It'll work!” Salazar yelled.

 “I'll be damned,” Orlova added, clapping him on the shoulder. “That's one hell of a tight window, though.”

 “The ship can do it. Maqua can handle a maneuver like that with his eyes closed.” 

 “If you don't mind…,” Nelyubov said.

 “The comet,” Orlova replied. “It's pretty close to our flight path to the nearest planet, close enough that we can alter course to intercept until the last moment. The comet's head is huge, maybe fifty miles wide, and there are a couple of smaller rocks we can use as well. We're going to do a close-approach gravity swing.”

 “And an aerobrake, as well,” Salazar added. “The comet must be pretty new. She's outgassing like mad. It won't be anything like the effect we'd get from an actual atmosphere, but it's still going to help. All we have to do is get our timing right, and we'll swing right around, thrown back towards the planet. With a little work, we can trim our course to exactly what we need.”

 “About fifteen degrees out,” Harper said. “No problem. And we'll have a little under two hours to make final course corrections.” Nelyubov shook his head, and the hacker continued, “What's wrong?”

 “That rock isn't that big. What sort of approach distance are we talking about?”

 Salazar looked back at the readings, and said, “Forty-nine meters.”

 “Forty-nine meters!” he yelled. “Not miles, but meters? That's insane!”

 “There isn't that much mass. If we're going to pull this off, we're going to have to really get close, and the outgassing is only really dense under the mile. We've got the fine control to do it, sir.”

 “And if we're out by less than the width of the ship, we go crashing into the comet at forty thousand miles an hour. Not to mention that all three of the escorts have to pull off the same course change.”

 “It isn't quite so bad for the Koltoc ships,” Orlova said. “If they're swinging for the moon to pick up our assault force, they only need to get to sixty-two. The angle's a little more favorable.”

 “No capital ship has ever done a maneuver like this,” Nelyubov said. “Never mind regulations, I'm not sure that the ship could take the sheer stress of this at the best of times, and we are far from the best of times.”

 “She's pulled off harder stunts,” Harper said. “You weren't here when we were at Jefferson. This isn't that different from the maneuver we had to pull off them. And we won't miss. I guarantee it. We can set up the course well in advance, and take our time to get the angle just right.”

 “Maqua can do this,” Salazar replied, nodding. “And Alamo can make the turn.” With a shrug, he added, “What's the alternative, anyway? Head off into the deep system and wait to die? This might be a risk, but right now it looks to me that we're weighing a risk against a certainty. At least this way we have a chance of pulling a victory out of this.”

 Nelyubov looked at Orlova, and said, “If I could think of any other option...”

 “Now would be a good time, if you can,” she replied. “Otherwise, we're going to go ahead with the plan. Pavel, get up to the bridge and make the turn. Frank, I want all the sensors we've got focused on that comet. We need every scrap of information we can get. If we're going to do this crazy thing, at least let's do it right.”

Chapter 14

 The buggy bounced over the rugged terrain, Cooper struggling with the unfamiliar controls. He glanced up at the sky, spotting the drones circling overhead, knowing that they were relaying every move they made to the enemy, and knowing that there was nothing they could do about it. Even if they shot them out of the air, they'd only be wasting precious ammunition. More drones would appear moments later, and the orbital satellite network was doubtless tracking them anyway.

 Safety lay in speed, and he gunned the engine as fast as he dared, the engine rumbling as he dodged around a boulder, following the trail of a gully to reduce the line of sight as much as possible. Behind him, Rhodes was still frowning at the controls of the plasma cannon, holding up his datapad in an attempt to translate the limited text. Thus far, he'd been able to rotate and raise it without much trouble, but the firing system's complexities had escaped him.

 “Think they're after us, sir?” Hunt asked.

 “Damn sure of it, Sergeant,” Cooper replied. “On foot, and in the air. They won't want to risk an aerial assault without some ground support, but that just means they'll end up walking the last few miles. We don't have the manpower to guard a large perimeter. I just hope they've picked a decent spot for our last stand.”

 “General Kelot knows his stuff, sir. I'm sure he'll have found somewhere defensible.”

 “Assuming he's still alive. Those mortar shells were dropping all over the place before we got away. I'm surprised all of the shuttles made it up.” His communicator crackled, and he reached into his pocket, passing it to Hunt. “Give it a try, Sergeant. You never know.”

 “I have a feeling I probably do,” he replied. “Hunt to any friendly station, any friendly station, come in, please.” He paused for the roar of static, and said, “I think there's something there, a voice. Too faint to hear, though. We're getting close enough that they might be able to override the jamming.” Shaking his head, he added, “Not that it's going to matter much anyway. In about ten minutes, you'll be able to talk to them, face-to-face.”

 “How are the wounded doing?” Cooper asked.

 The medic looked up from her charges, and replied, “Stable for the moment. Your wife should be fine, but she's not going to be doing much walking for a while. Doherty's a little worse, though. I'd be happier if we were on our way to a real medical facility.”

 “Let's hope we get the chance at some point in the near future,” Cooper replied.

 “Hunt to any station, any station, come in,” the veteran repeated. “Nothing, sir. That first contact might have been a fluke.” He looked up, and said, “Those drones are moving around a bit, aren't they? You think they might try and use those to launch an attack?”

 “Too high up for that,” Cooper replied. “What's the hurry, anyway? They don't need to take us on until they're ready for it. With Alamo heading in the wrong direction, we're not going to get off this rock, and they know it. I wouldn't be surprised if they waited for hours to get everything right.”

 “Maybe we could move again,” Hunt suggested. “Load up the shuttles and go further, find somewhere else. Leave them behind.”

 Shaking his head, Rhodes said, “We barely had enough fuel for the first jump, Sergeant. If we tried that, we might not have a chance of getting into orbit when the ship comes back.”

 “I admire your confidence, Corporal,” Hunt replied.

 “Come on, Sergeant, do you actually think they'll leave us behind? They might be heading away now, but they'll be back soon enough, and we need to be ready to support them when they do.” Grimacing, he said, “Damn machine can't translate half the words. I'm going to have to do a little bit of trial-and-error, sir.”

 “Not while we're sitting on board. It can wait until we reach the camp.” The sun hung red on the horizon, wispy clouds high in the air. “How long till dark, Sergeant?”

 Glancing at his watch, Hunt said, “About an hour, sir. You think they might attack then?”

 “Textbook says dusk and dawn are the best times. Either they've got their own versions, or they've read ours.” Shaking his head, he replied, “My guess is that they'll use the night as cover to set up their attack, time it for dawn. Nine hours, right? That gives them enough time to get this right. We can still do them a lot of damage.”

 “That's never stopped them before,” one of the technicians said.

 “They aren't berserkers, Spaceman,” Cooper replied. “They'll do anything it takes to win a battle, make any necessary sacrifices, but they don't throw lives away for nothing. Not when they're strategic or tactical advantage to gain. We can trust them that far, at least.”

 He turned to avoid another cluster of rocks, and guided the buggy out of the gully and back onto the open terrain, bouncing on the ground as he pushed the engine as hard as he dared. Hunt looked at him, and shook his head with a smile.

 “Don't take this the wrong way, Major, but your driving is terrible.”

 “If you want to try it, Sergeant, you're more than welcome.”

 “Oh, I'm sure mine would be a hell of a lot worse, sir, but I'm glad you aren't planning to set yourself up as a chauffeur when you get back to Copernicus.” He turned, pointed to the horizon, and said, “Up there, sir. I see metal.”

 “We're less than a mile away, Major,” Rhodes added.

 Nodding, Cooper slowed the buggy to a juddering halt, and jumped out of the vehicle to the desert below. He pulled out his plasma pistol, placing it on the driver's seat, then unslung his rifle, passing it to Rhodes.

 “Wait for a signal, Sergeant, or for someone to come and get you. If we just drive up in this thing, they'll probably assume we're launching an attack. There's a good chance that we're under observation already.” Turning to what he hoped was the camp, he added, “At least, I damn well hope so, or the good General isn't doing his job. They've had more than enough time to get themselves nicely settled.”

 “Good thought, sir,” Rhodes said. “Want me to come with you?”

 “Let's keep this nice and easy,” he replied.

 “And if that's not our settlement, but a group of Xandari?” the medic asked.

 “Then you run like hell and try to find the rest of our people, or at the very least get back to the shuttle and disarm it. Though if things go that badly, I'm afraid you're definitely into blaze of glory territory. In which case, do as much damage as you can before they bring you down.”

 “Definitely thinking about another line of work,” Hunt said, shaking his head.

 Raising his hands, Cooper turned to the trail, walking slowly and cautiously towards the camp, careful not to make any sudden movements, doing everything possible to make his peaceful intentions clear. He glanced back at the buggy, watched Rhodes leaning on the cannon controls, then continued up the trail.

 He glanced up at the orbiting drones and smiled. If some Xandari operator was watching him right now, he must be confused as hell about what he was doing. Still, the last thing he needed was to fall victim to friendly fire from his own troops.

 If this was their position, they'd picked a good one. A long canyon, carved into a sheer slope, with only a single way in from the ground. Plenty of defensive cover, lots of broken terrain on the approach that would slow any assault. For a second, he thought he saw someone ducking behind a rock, and he nodded in approval. Scouts scattered to protect the approach, just as he would have done.

 As he grew closer, he could make out shapes in the dying light, figures moving down towards him, obviously carrying weapons, but he couldn't quite work out who they were in the gathering gloom. He calmly walked forward, keeping his hands raised in the air, allowing his theoretical captors to take their time to work out whether he was a threat.

 “Major?” a familiar voice said. “Is that you?”

 “Sergeant Wolmar?” he replied.

 “Good God, it is you!” the Neander replied, breaking ranks and racing forward. “We thought you'd been forced down, captured, and our high sentry saw a firefight out in the desert, close to the shuttle.” Shaking his head as he approached, he added, “We saw that buggy coming ten minutes ago. You mean we've wasted all this time setting up an ambush for nothing?”

 “I'm afraid so. Send someone down to get the buggy, will you? And a medic. We've got wounded on board.”

 “Diego!” Walpis yelled. “Go and bring them in.” Turning to Cooper as they walked up the slope, he asked, “How the hell did you get a buggy?”

 “The Xandari were kind enough to give me the keys. I promised to fill up the gas tank before I took it home, though. That, and recharge the plasma cannon.”

 “Plasma cannon?” the Neander asked, shaking his head. “We're going to have some fun with that when they get here.” Gesturing up at the sky, he said, “They've been watching us for a couple of hours now, close in. We took out the first few, but they've obviously got them to spare. Hell, they could ship a couple of thousand from the homeworld in an hour if they wanted.”

 “And that applies to troops, as well,” Cooper replied. “No sign of any other activity?”

 “Not yet, but I have a feeling they're building for something.”

 General Kelot walked towards them, snapping a salute, and said, “Thank God. Someone who can take over this madhouse. I was beginning to think you'd decided not to offer us the pleasure of your company for dinner tonight.”

 Cooper's stomach rumbled, and he replied, “I hadn't even thought about that, actually. What's the situation here? Numbers?”

 “I've got forty-one effectives and another twelve wounded, as well as six shuttles. I'm afraid one of them crashed on impact. Damaged during the launch. It as a miracle it made it here at all.”

 “The others?”

 “I've got the pilots working on them now, but they're confident they can reach orbit and beyond without difficulty. Assuming, of course, that we've got somewhere to land. We've been tracking Alamo with our sensors as best we can, and it looks to me as though they're trying for the exit point at the inner planet. The emergency option.”

 Cooper frowned, and replied, “That doesn't sound like Maggie Orlova to me.”

 “Nor I, but I can't think of another explanation. We've got enough supplies to last us for two days, three if we push it, and water for a couple of weeks. Power isn't a problem, but we've been unable to make contact with anyone. That jamming field is just too strong.” He frowned, then added, “Does that buggy of yours have a communicator?”

 “Probably, but I haven't got the first idea how it works. We haven't even got the plasma cannon operating yet, though I think Rhodes has some ideas he wants to try out.”

 “Plasma cannon?” Kelot asked. “That sounds promising.”

 “If we can get it to work, we might be able to link it up to one of the shuttles and get some serious firepower going. Any of the engineers make it through?”

 “All but one. I'll get them to work right away.” In the distance, an engine roared, and the buggy began to climb up the hill. “I've got snipers in the rocks as far forward as I dare, and another one halfway up the mountain in a position to see all the way to the enemy base, or at least to the ridge line. And to answer your next question, they're coming in force, but slowly. At least fifty vehicles, maybe a thousand-plus troops.”

 “How long?”

 “Four, five hours. Think they'll chance a night attack?”

 “Not if they have a choice,” he replied. “They'll wait for dawn if they can. Set it up properly. Likely with some aerial support. Which is where that plasma cannon is going to come in useful. Anything else?”

 “I'm throwing trenches out all around, and everyone has a foxhole except your party. All of the wounded are in the shuttles, and I've designated Two and Five as medical transports, concentrated all of the equipment there.”

 Nodding, Cooper said, “Looks like you don't need me here at all, General.”

 “Don't get that impression, Major. There are probably a thousand details I've missed.” Shaking his head, he asked, “What's the plan, sir? Last stand?”

 “Everyone seems in love with the idea of dying gloriously,” Cooper replied. “I'm not. As far as I'm concerned, our primary objective remains working out a way of getting back to Alamo.”

 “Sir,” someone said, calling from the nearest shuttle. “Major?”

 “What is it, soldier?”

 “You need to see this, sir, right away.”

 Glancing at Kelot, Cooper ran into the shuttle, one wall covered by a projection of local space gleaned from the ship's sensors. He looked at the tangle of trajectory tracks, dozens of ships traveling through the sub-system, and rapidly saw something strange by the far hendecaspace point.

 “Are those what I think they are, Private?”

 The soldier, in civilian life a shuttle mechanic, replied, “Yes, sir. About three minutes ago, all of the cruisers adopted a battle formation and made for the hendecaspace point. They should be jumping out of the system in the next sixty seconds.”

 “They aren't leaving the system,” Kelot said, shaking his head. “If Alamo is trying for one of the other egress points, they're just making sure they get there first. We were expecting this. Damn it, for a moment I thought we had something. Though we'd never get through the missiles without support, to say nothing of the fighters.”

 “Wait a minute,” Cooper said. “All the cruisers, Private?”

 “And at least one squadron of fighters,” the technician replied. “They've been docking for the last twenty minutes. I thought they were refueling, or loading more ordnance. All of them were from the squadron that took part in the orbital battle.”

 “Can you see Alamo and the fleet?” Cooper asked.

 “In just a moment, sir. They're below the horizon right now.”

 Hunt walked into the cabin, frowning over the display, and said, “Something interesting?”

 “Maybe,” Cooper replied. “Just maybe. If we catch a lucky break.”

 With a brief flash, the cruisers vanished, heading for their unknown destination. Even with a capital ship's sensors, trying to determine where a ship entering hendecaspace was heading was next to impossible, and for the more limited detectors fitted on the shuttle, they never had a chance. Not that Cooper needed the sensors to tell him where the cruiser squadron would be emerging in the next five days.”

 Tapping a control, the sensor operator said, “Here are the projected trajectory plots of Alamo and the fleet. They changed course about an hour ago, heading towards the innermost planet on a best-time course. I can plot a path for us to catch them if you want, sir, but I don't think we've got the fuel to pull it off, not at that range. They're moving...”

 “When was this last updated?” Cooper interrupted.

 “About thirty minutes ago. We should be getting a new reading any second now.” As the technician spoke, the image on the screen abruptly jumped, the four markers indicating the only friendly ships in the system moving position, tens of thousands of miles away from where they were meant to be.

 “I don't understand, sir,” the technician protested. “My plot can't have been that far out.”

 “Unless they've changed course again,” Cooper said, turning to Hunt. “You can go ahead and tell Rhodes he was right, Sergeant. The Captain's come up with something, though I wouldn't pretend to know what.”

 Nodding, Kelot replied, “She's managed to draw the cruisers away. That makes getting back here a more even proposition, but I still don't see what good it does. Look at how fast they're going. It would take a couple of days to return, and they'll have rebuilt the missile network in that time. And you know they'll have every fighter they've got guarding the egress points.”

 “All true,” Cooper said. “Nevertheless, there are a lot of people up on that ship who know a hell of a lot more about space warfare than anyone down here, and this looks to me as though one of them has come up with a plan. We don't need to know what it is, only that they're on their way back to us, and we're going to need to be ready for whatever they plan.”

 “Orders, sir?” Hunt asked.

 “All wounded to the shuttles, no matter what, and pull in all of the deep scouts. If we're going to be leaving in a hurry, I don't want to be in the position of having to leave someone behind. Until further notice, no one is to get further than two minutes from a shuttle.”

 Shaking his head, Kelot replied, “But they can't get back that quickly, Major. No way. I'm not an expert, but the laws of physics...”

 “Margaret Orlova has always been able to find a loophole to dance through in the past, General, and I'm confident she's managed to locate one again. They'll be coming. Trust me.” Before he could continue, a loud rumble echoed from outside, and Cooper stepped out of the shuttle to see a thick column of black smoke rising from the plain, less than thirty miles away.

 “Our shuttle,” Hunt said, shaking his head. “I hope you're right about the Captain, Major. Because the Xandari are definitely on their way.”

Chapter 15

 Salazar stood by the helm, his arm still aching, the painkillers starting to wear off. Doctor Duquesne had attempted to order him to his cabin, an order he had simply opted to ignore, a decision he was beginning to regret. There would be time enough to rest later, assuming they lived through the next couple of hours.

 The viewscreen displayed the comet, a fiery sword in the heavens, and Alamo's trajectory plot had it heading right for it. Back at the Xandari homeworld, a hundred sensor operators must be watching them, wondering what they were trying. All he could do was hope that the plan was crazy enough that they would never dream they'd attempt it. One look at the hull stress monitors told him that there was considerable truth in that.

 At the rear of the bridge, the door slid open, Quinn walking into the room and over to the Captain, silenced by a look. The engineer had been vehement in his opposition to the plan, warning that the already ruptured hull could easily buckle if they attempted this maneuver. Under normal circumstances, Salazar would have been the first to agree with him. Given the alternative, though, there seemed little choice but to give this plan a try.

 Maqua looked up from the helm, stoically attempting to conceal his nerves. Salazar gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then glanced at the readouts to double-check the course, feeling a faint burst of envy that he wasn't flying the ship through this turn himself. Even though he'd come up with the plan, he still felt a tinge of fear in his stomach when he looked at the projected closest approach. Considerably less than the width of the ship.

 One rocky projection, one error with the thrusters, and they would never know what happened. The ship would crash into the comet, and the explosion would briefly illuminate the heavens. Behind them, the escorts would certainly be caught in the debris field, and any hope of surviving to leave the system, still less winning the war, would be dashed.

 “Two minutes, Captain,” Maqua said. “Course computed and ready.”

 “Not too late to veer off, ma'am,” Quinn said, standing at the engineering console.

 “We're going to give this a try, Jack,” Orlova replied. “I've made my decision, and it stands.”

 Salazar glanced at the engineer, who shook his head sadly before returning to his console. The bridge was crowded, anyone with a possible excuse finding a reason to be here for the turn. This was history, but it would all be over in a second. Maqua still had his hands on the controls, ready for last-second adjustments, but there would be no manual control for the flyby. In the wink of an eye, the comet would be behind them, and if they got this right, the Xandari homeworld would be at the heart of the viewscreen, the enemy scrambling to counter their renewed offensive.

 “Still no signals from the surface, Captain,” Weitzman said. “I'll keep trying.”

 “No change to defensive formation at the planet,” Spinelli added. “They're just watching and waiting, ma'am. And holding their patrol pattern.” He frowned, then said, “All sensors are now focused on the comet. Everything looks good.”

 “Let's hope it stays that way,” Nelyubov said, glancing at the monitors.

 The usual low-level chatter was silent now, all eyes on the comet as it grew larger on the screen, the countdown clock above it clicking through the seconds to closest approach. At the holodesk, the trajectory plot flickered into life, a projected post-encounter course appearing on the display. Theory and guesswork, the best that Powell and his team could provide, but as long as they were at least close to the desired course, they'd have time to trim back to the designated path.

 “One minute,” Maqua added. “Executing fractional course change based on updated mass estimates. Hundredth-second burst on Thruster Nine.”

 An adjustment almost too small to register, but one that potentially could alter their approach by hundreds of meters. If they were too distant, they wouldn't get the swing they needed, could end up almost anywhere in the system, drifting helplessly forever. Too close, and they'd be dead in an instant, and all their dreams with them.

 “Thirty seconds,” Maqua said.

 “Damage control teams have been deployed,” Quinn added. “All outer areas evacuated.”

 “Signal from the rest of the fleet,” Weitzman said. “Ready to follow us in.”

 Alamo soared into the outer corona of the comet, warning lights flashing as microscopic fragments of rock rained on the hull, dancing through the damaged sections. As they grew closer to the core, the effect worsened, the intensity growing stronger by the second. Maqua held to the controls, waiting for a crisis, knowing that as the time trickled away, their options faded to one.

 For an instant, they could see the rock, looming on the screen, close enough to touch, before Alamo swept past, spun around by the close flyby, Maqua working his controls to maximize the effect of the gravity swing, looking only at his readouts and trajectory tracks. Behind them, at ten second intervals, the escorts completed their own dance with the comet, following in the trail they had blazed.

 Sirens droned on the bridge as red lights swept the status board, already damaged hull sections giving way under the strain of the maneuver, atmosphere leaks hurling the ship from side to side as Maqua labored to bring her back under control, his hands dancing across the console, playing the thrusters to keep the ship stable as the trajectory plot swept across the sky.

 Quinn leaned over the engineering console, shaking his head as the damage reports flooded in, glancing back at Orlova with a combination of despair and disgust. As the ship settled onto the desired flight path, Maqua lifted his trembling hands from the helm and looked up at Salazar.

 “Maneuver complete, sir.”

 Clapping him on the back, Salazar said, “Straight and steady, Sub-Lieutenant, all the way back to the Xandari homeworld.”

 “All escorts are still with us,” Spinelli reported, looking up at his monitor. “We're going to be at least half an hour getting back into formation, but we've got plenty of time to get it right. Time to target is one hour, fifteen minutes, mark.”

 “Right on the line,” Salazar said, a smile on his face. “Damn it all, we pulled it off.”

 “Barely,” Quinn replied, as the lights flickered. “That was the main power network going offline again. We only had it held together with spit and tape before.” Shaking his head, he said, “I'd better get down to distribution and see what sort of a miracle I can come up with this time.”

 “Hull damage?”

 “Ruptures in thirty-nine areas, and there might be some damage to the superstructure, but it doesn't really matter. I haven't got time to check it out if there is. We're just going to have to dive into battle and hope we don't get any serious hits.” Looking back up at the board, he added, “We're as weak as a kitten, Captain, and I think we've got about that much combat potential.”

 “I've seen some pretty vicious cats in my time, Lieutenant,” Nelyubov replied.

 “I hope so,” Quinn said, making for the door. “I'll try and get you a better report in ten minutes, Captain. Don't get your hopes up, though.”

 As the door closed behind him, Orlova said, “Now that we've pulled it off, we need to start thinking about what happens next in a little more detail. Sub-Lieutenant, throw our flight path onto the screen, please.” The trajectory plot snapped into position on the viewscreen, rushing to the planet at the end of the line. “We're a little off. I want us right down their throats. Straight into the gap we carved in the missile satellites.”

 “Won't that make our intentions obvious?” Nelyubov asked.

 Shaking his head, Salazar replied, “Where else would we be going, sir? The Koltoc are already heading for the moon to pick up the assault team. That leaves three fighters and the bomber.” Frowning, he added, “We'll be moving fast enough that the defense network won't get many shots at us, but I still don't like the odds.”

 “Once the bomb goes off, those odds get a lot better, Lieutenant,” Orlova said. She stepped forward to the screen, and said, “We'll launch the bomber as soon as we pass the moon. About four minutes before contact with the enemy. It will proceed at half-acceleration...”

 “Half?” Maqua asked.

 “Meaning that Alamo and the fighter escort will be pioneering the way for them. As it is, getting out of the blast radius in time won't be a certainty.” Looking around, she added, “And no, I don't see the bomber having any realistic chance of clearing the blast zone in time.”

 “Captain,” Salazar began, as the door slid open, Powell walking out, a grim look on his face.

 “Would it be possible to speak to you for a moment, Captain,” the scientist said.

 Glancing at Nelyubov, Orlova said, “My office, Lieutenant. Frank, go and check on the damage control teams on the outer hull. We've got to get the ship into the best condition possible for the attack.” Looking at Salazar, she added, “Pavel, you're with me. Sub-Lieutenant Scott, you have the conn. Call me if anything changes.”

 “Yes, ma'am,” Scott replied, still focused on her controls, as the trio walked into the office, Orlova taking her seat behind the desk, Powell and Salazar on the other side.

 “We don't have much time, so…,” Orlova began.

 “I'll get right to the point,” Powell said, pulling out a datapad. “I know we're committed to pulling our troops from the moon, but I'd like to propose an alternate mission profile. Instead of deploying the bomb, we could still do serious damage to the orbital infrastructure with a coordinated strike, the fighters, the escorts and Alamo. I think...”

 “I've made my decision,” Orlova said.

 Slamming his fist on the desk, Powell replied, “And I've got a little over an hour to change your mind. This is an atrocity, Captain, however you care to cloak it in strategic necessity. The Xandari have an advanced satellite network, communications and meteorological constellations, as well as zero-gravity manufacturing. We're picking up signs of asteroid mining. You know what that means. All the hopes were false. They are dependent on space-based resources. Deploying that bomb will be a death sentence for millions of innocent people.”

 “Professor,” Salazar said, “This isn't the sort of decision that is taken lightly. I had a look at alternate attack plans myself, a few hours ago, and they just don't provide us with the advantage we need if we're going to win the war.” Shaking his head, he continued, “I've made no secret that I find the deployment of this bomb personally abhorrent, but I suspect I would have felt the same way if I'd been at the controls of the Enola Gay. That does not mean that I deny the strategic necessity.”

 Pointing a finger at Orlova, Powell continued, “We can still do damage. Take out their shipyards, with kamikaze attacks if we must, and stand an excellent chance of rescuing our people from the surface. We don't have to do this, Captain! We don't! Right now, today, we can walk away and still achieve the bulk of our goals.”

 “That's fine, Professor, but who's going to tell them?”

 “Tell who?”

 “The people of Copernicus,” Orlova continued, “that we had a chance to protect their world, and we decided that our conscience was more important than their lives. Or the Free Peoples in their scattered outposts, Testament Station, Thule. Every world for light-years around.” Shaking her head, she said, “You might be willing to write them off, but I'm not.”

 “Besides,” Salazar said with a sigh, “we now have direct evidence that the Xandari are working on similar weapons systems. It was a prototype K-Bomb that hit us on the far-side of the moon. All the tactical data points to that.”

 “So we're back to the same dead argument again,” Powell replied, shaking his head. “The enemy are willing to debase themselves, so we must, as well.”

 “No, Professor,” Salazar replied. “We've got to weigh the lives of billions against millions.”

 “Ethics is not a numbers game.”

 “I swore an oath,” Orlova said, “to protect the people of the Triplanetary Confederation from all threats, internal and external. This is the greatest threat I have ever seen, the greatest threat we have ever encountered, and we have an opportunity to bring the fighting to an end, today. And we're damn well going to take it.”

 “You'll never sleep at night, ever again,” Powell said. “Oppenheimer used to claim that the ghosts of the dead of Hiroshima came back to visit him.”

 “Maybe, but that's part of the price I agreed to pay when I put on the uniform. Our people back home will get to sleep safely in their beds, because of what we do today, rather than be subjected to the brutal rule of a tyrant dictator in a couple of years. Was that all?”

 Shaking his head, Powell replied, “Captain, please, for the love of God...”

 “Dismissed, Lieutenant,” Orlova said, looking at him. Powell looked into her eyes for a long moment, then across at Salazar, silently urging the young officer to take his side, support his argument. Salazar couldn't meet his gaze, looking down at the floor.

 “I see,” Powell said, rising to his feet. Without another word, he turned to the door, walking back out onto the bridge. Salazar and Orlova sat in silence for a moment, alone in the office, Powell's words still hanging in the air between them.

 “I'd better go and brief the pilots,” Salazar said, breaking the mood. He looked across at Orlova, and added, “It'll work, Captain. We've taken back the initiative.”

 She nodded, then said, “About what you said earlier...”

 “I'll gladly accept any decision you take on that, Captain. My behavior was inappropriate, especially from a member of the command staff, and...”

 Raising a hand, she replied, “No censure, Pavel. Not after all this time. Under different circumstances, I might have acted the same way. You'd been through a lot out there.” Gesturing at the arm, she added, “You fit for duty?”

 “There isn't any space in sickbay.”

 Nodding, she replied, “I guess it resolves the question of who flies the bomber.”

 “Captain, I could still...”

 “With one arm and one eye?” she said, a smile crossing her face.

 “I guess not,” he said.

 “I'll be heading down to the simulators in a minute. Maybe I can come up with a way of shaving a few seconds, get ahead of the blast wave.” Rising to her feet, she saluted, and said, “In any case, Pavel, I just wanted to say that it has been an honor and a privilege to serve with you.”

 “The honor has been all mine, Captain,” he replied, returning the salute. “Goodbye, ma'am. And good hunting.”

 “And to you,” she said, as he walked out of the office. He paused at the door for a moment, then looked around the bridge, Scott staring at him. He made his way over to the holotable, looking at the tactical display, Alamo now curving down towards the planet. The Xandari were already moving to counter them, making their way into defensive positions.

 “They're setting up quite a reception committee for us,” Scott said, gesturing at the squadrons. “And for the escorts, as well, out at the moon. They've still got an hour to get ready.”
 “All true,” he replied.

 “You really think we can pull this off, sir?” Weitzman asked, turning from his station.

 “I think, Spaceman, that the Battlecruiser Alamo has never failed to complete a mission yet, and I'm certain that this isn't going to be the time that we let everyone down. There are a lot of people counting on us to make this work, and that's precisely what we're going to do. We've had a setback, but we've come back from worse.” Looking around the bridge, he said, “I don't want any more talk of failure or defeat, people. We're going to win this, and we're going to win big.”

 Stepping through the door, Nelyubov said, “Not a bad speech, Captain Salazar.”

 Flashing a smile, Salazar replied, “It's true, sir. Or at least, it will be, in a little over an hour from now.” Glancing at his watch, he said, “I'd better go and brief the fighter pilots. See if I can temper their enthusiasm a little.”

 “With particular reference to Sub-Lieutenant Murphy, I suspect,” Nelyubov replied. “Just make sure you're back up on the bridge in time for the battle. I'm going to need you up here when everything starts to go to hell.”

 “That was about three hours ago, wasn't it, sir?” Scott said.

 “Mind your station, Sub-Lieutenant,” he replied with mock severity. “And get yourself ready for the biggest battle you've ever fought. The party begins in sixty-two minutes, and we don't want to be late to the dance.”

Chapter 16

 “Just over an hour, Major,” the technician reported, leaning out of the shuttle. Cooper shook his head, looking out at the darkening plain, the sun dipping below the horizon. Points of light were drifting towards them, vehicles streaming from the Xandari base to their location. Standing next to him, Kelot frowned, peering into the gloom through binoculars.

 “They aren't going to wait, are they,” the Neander said. “Not if they know that we've got help on the way. As soon as they can get enough strength together, they'll attack.” Peering through his binoculars, he said, “Figure half an hour at the most, and that's being optimistic.”

 “We've still got the shuttles,” Hunt said. “Maybe we should think about moving out.”

 “No,” Bradley replied, leaning on a crutch. “Take my word for it, Sergeant. If you want us to be able to link up with the fleet when it swings past, we don't have fuel for any more hops. It's going to be tough as it is. Those ships are moving fast.” Shaking her head, she added, “I'd love to know who came up with the crazy idea of a cometary slingshot.”

 “I think I can guess,” Cooper said. “We've just got to find a way to buy the time we need.”

 “It'll take them five minutes at most to overrun our defenses,” Hunt said. “And all they need to do is set up some mortars again, and we'll never even get off the ground. Hell, those plasma cannons have a range of more than a mile. They'll be able to take down anything that launches, no problem.” Frowning, he added, “There's got to be something we can do to slow them up.”

 “There is,” Cooper replied, turning to the buggy. “Corporal, how are you doing with that beast of yours? Managed to figure out the controls yet?”

 “I think so, sir,” he said, leaning on the weapon. “Though I haven't done any live fire tests. We can't recharge it when it runs out of power. None of the connectors will work, and we haven't got the time to improvise anything.”

 “How many shots, then?”

 “My guess would be about a dozen, Major, but that's all it is.”

 “Wait a minute,” Bradley said, grabbing Cooper's arm. “You're going to attack them? With one buggy on half-charge, and no clear idea about whether it will work or not?”

 “That's the basic idea,” he replied. “Hunt, I'm going to need four volunteers...”

 “I'm in,” Rhodes said, interrupting him.

 “Somehow, I don't think we'll have trouble finding them,” Hunt replied. “What's the idea?”

 “Cause maximum hell at the bottom of the pass. If we can block that passage, we should be able to hold them up for a while, force them to work their way around and deny them their heavy artillery. That's worth sacrificing the plasma cannon for.”

 “Geologic warfare,” Kelot said, nodding. “I like it.”

 “I don't,” Bradley replied. “By now they're bound to have forward scouts moving into position. Probably with chameleon suits. We've still got no way to spot their infiltrators.”

 “All true, but we don't have much of a choice.” He pulled out his plasma pistol, and said, “Sergeant, I presume you still remember your demolitions training?”

 “Like it was yesterday, sir.”

 “Then you'll be responsible for setting the charges, while the rest of us provide you with cover. Go get what you need, and remember that there is no such thing as overkill. I don't care if you rip the mountain in two, as long as you buy us some time.”

 “Some of those buggies are getting pretty close, sir,” Rhodes said. “I'd say the first group will reach the base of the pass in less than ten minutes.” Swinging the cannon around, he continued, “Recommend we go in all guns blazing, sir.”

 “That's essentially what I had in mind, Corporal,” Cooper replied, moving to the driver's seat, settling his hands on the steering wheel.

 “You sure you don't want me to drive?” Kelot asked, dropping into the rear, pistol in hand.

 “Don't worry, General, I'm pretty sure I know what I'm doing.”

 “You're filling me with confidence, Gabe.”

 “Volunteers, sir,” Hunt said, climbing onto the back of the buggy with a holdall in hand, followed by Martinez and Faulkner, both of them with rifles in hand and plasma pistols at their belt. Rhodes strapped himself to the plasma cannon, clutching onto the firing handles, and Cooper gunned the engine, smiling at the thundering roar.

 “Wolmar,” he said, looking around. “You're in charge while we're gone. Rustle up a squad and have them ready, in case we need reinforcements. And keep trying to contact Alamo. I think I can guess what they've got in mind, but it would be nice to know for certain.”

 “Aye, sir,” Wolmar replied. “Good luck, sir.”

 “Thanks, Sergeant,” Cooper said, throwing the buggy into gear and sending it careening down the hill, juddering over the bumps and dips in the narrow path. The engine rumbled in protest as he slid from side to side, sending cascades of loose rocks falling ahead of them, Rhodes almost thrown from his feet, struggling to hold onto his weapon.

 “Start the charging sequence, Corporal,” Cooper ordered, knuckles white on the wheel. “If you get a good shot, don't wait for the order. Take it. That goes for everyone.”

 Kelot pulled out his pistol, and replied, “Not the best firing platform, Major!”

 The buggy swung around a corner, two of the wheels lifting from the ground, and Cooper wrestled with the controls in a desperate bid to keep the vehicle stable, smiling despite the severity of the situation they were in.

 “I've got to get one of these!” he yelled.

 “Just don't wreck this one,” Kelot replied. Up ahead, they could hear more engines, roaring towards them from the plain, searchlights from the approaching enemy forces swinging around, briefly blinding them as they flashed across their eyes. A low whine whistled through the air, and Cooper swung the buggy to the side, just in time to avoid the explosion of a mortar blast, almost in their path.

 “Damn, that was close!” Hunt said. “They must have someone providing forward observation, out in those rocks.”

 “Faulkner, Martinez, get out and go hunting. If they're able to call the fire down on us, it won't be long before those shells are raining down on the camp. Find the bastard and take him down.”

 “On it, sir!” Faulkner said, leaping from the side, followed by Martinez. The two of them moved in opposite directions, racing to cover the ground, the latter firing a cascade of bullets into the air to distract any observer watching their progress.

 “I've got this beast charged, sir!” Rhodes said. “Ready to fire when we get a target.”

 “We hope,” Kelot added. Without warning, he raised his rifle, firing a long burst to the side, a figure tumbling from the rocks, almost dropping into the path of the buggy. “Got one.”

 “They're probably scattered all through these hills,” Rhodes said. He squinted into the gloom, then said, “Down on the plain, sir! I see three buggies, heading our way.” Lining up the cannon, he continued, “Hold on! I'm not sure what will happen when I pull the trigger.”

 “I know what will happen if you don't, Corporal!” Cooper replied.

 A ripple of purple flame burst from the mouth of the cannon, flying over the heads of Cooper and Kelot, close enough that they felt the heat on the back of their necks, then slamming into the ground between the three enemy vehicles, still half a mile distant. Smoke and flame filled the air, obscuring the Xandari buggies for a few seconds, and when the smoke started to clear, only tangled wreckage and jagged metal remained.

 “Score one for the good guys!” Rhodes said. “Though that seems to have soaked up a lot of my power. I think I know where the fire selector is now, though.” Red-faced, he continued, “I thought that was the lowest setting, sir.”

 “Whatever you did,” Cooper said, rubbing the back of his neck, “Do the opposite next time. I don't know if I can take another burst that big.”

 “Up there,” Kelot said. “That outcropping. I don't think we're going to find a better place to hide.”

 “Sergeant?” Cooper asked, turning to the rear compartment. “You think you can work your magic here?”

 “Can do, sir,” Hunt replied, climbing over the side, tossing his bags roughly to the ground. “Just keep the bastards off me for a few minutes, and I'll have a rockslide the like of which you've never seen.”

 “I'll hold you to that, Sergeant,” Cooper said, jumping down to the dirt, pistol in hand, while Kelot clambered after him. He raced towards a nearby outcrop, diving down to the ground just as a bullet flew through the air, narrowly missing his head, and peered at the plain. Troops were streaming forward now, trucks already in position below, carefully positioned to avoid fire from the plasma cannon.

 Leaning to the right, Cooper risked a quick burst, answered with a fusillade of shots from the approaching Xandari. By his side, Kelot tugged a grenade out of his belt, pulling the pin and bowling it down the slope towards the enemy, the consequent explosion sending shards of rock flying in all directions, smoke filling the air.

 Looking back at Hunt, Cooper quickly watched as the veteran started to place his charges, sliding them into the cracks between the rocks, linking them up with cables to the detonator in his hand. With all the interference, they couldn't even trust the remote links. Today they were going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.

 High above them, he saw an explosion, a flash of green flame followed by a shattering roar. One of the troopers he'd left behind, dealing with the enemy forward observer. Fumbling for his binoculars, Cooper saw a row of mortars at the rear, behind the still-advancing troops, gun crews working to prepare them for action.

 “Rhodes!” he yelled. “Get that artillery.”

 “Yes, sir! Fire in the hole!”

 Another burst of energy surged through the air above them, passing over the enemy forces and slamming into the heart of the mortar formation, the cries of the dying echoing across the battlefield as molten slag replaced deadly weapon. Kelot fired another burst of rifle fire at the advancing troops, forcing them to take brief cover, before crashing to the ground with blood streaming from his arm.

 “Sniper,” he spat, gesturing with his head to the rocks on the left. “Get the bastard.”

 Cooper turned, plasma pistol in hand, trying to spot their hidden assailant, as a second shot cracked into the rock beside him, missing his shoulder by inches. At last he caught a trace of movement, pebbles falling from the rocks, and unleashed a green bolt of his own in the direction of the target, the explosion tearing into the ground.

 “You get him?” Kelot asked, tugging at the medical kit.

 “Not sure,” Cooper replied. “I guess we'll find out soon enough. Can you walk?”

 “Sure. Give me some covering fire.”

 Reaching up, Cooper fired a pair of quick bursts, pinning down the enemy long enough for Kelot to stumble back up the hill, moving into the safety of cover. Hunt was still busily working with his charges, placing them where they would do the most good, unleash the most misery.

 “Fire in the hole!” Rhodes said, tugging the trigger again, sending another bolt down the slope, into the heart of the advancing forces. Somehow, they must have realized the danger they were in, scurrying for cover an instant before impact, instinct saving a dozen lives. The smoldering crater blocked their advance for a brief moment, but soon they continued their steady approach, half of the enemy formation moving into cover to rain suppressing fire down upon them, supporting the advance of the rest.

 “Now they get smart,” Cooper said, shaking his head. “How long, Sergeant?”

 “Nearly there, sir,” Hunt replied. “Four more charges, and I should be able to bring down the whole slope.” He frowned, then added, “You realize this doesn't leave us with any means of escape, sir? We'd never get the wounded over the rocks.”

 “Little late to worry about that now,” Cooper said, shaking his head, firing another burst that triggered a thundering blast of automatic fire from the forces below.

 Two more blasts echoed from the plasma cannon, followed by an embarrassing clunk and a series of curses from Rhodes, the trooper stabbing at controls in a desperate bid to make the cannon respond to his commands.

 “We're out, sir!” he said, dropping down and running to crouch besides Cooper. “Nothing left in the tank. I think that first burst must have drained more of the charge than I thought.”

 “Never mind, Corporal,” Cooper said, looking at the devastation below. “I think we've done enough for the moment. Sergeant, now would be a good time!”

 “All set, Major!” Hunt replied. “Get out of here, and I'll set off the charges.”

 “Not on your life, Sergeant,” Cooper said, sprinting towards him. “You two get moving. I'll give you fifteen seconds before I hit the button. What time delay did you set?”

 “Twenty,” Hunt replied, tossing him the detonator. “Move quickly, sir.”

 He and Rhodes sprinted up the slope, gunfire slamming into the ground by their side as they weaved from left to right, while Cooper, his back to the buggy, counted down the seconds in his head, his finger over the control. Behind him, the enemy were cautiously advancing towards him, doubtless suspecting that they were walking into an ambush.

  Tapping the button, he tossed the detonator away, racing up the hill, his feet slipping on the uneven ground as he struggled to remain upright, knowing that any delay would cost him his life. On either side, bullets cracked past him, close enough for him to feel the rush of air past his ear, and a plasma ball slammed into the dirt to his left, the wall of heat almost sending him tumbling.

 “Fifteen, one thousand, fourteen, one thousand,” he muttered to himself, trying to keep track of the time as he ran for safety, the waving figures of the rest of the attack force waiting for him at the top. “Nine, one thousand, eight, one thousand.” On he raced, his boots digging into the dirt, no longer concerned about the gunfire from behind him, only the explosion he was attempting to outpace. Hunt had used almost every charge they had brought with them from Alamo. This was going to be big, of that he was certain.

 He still wasn't prepared for the thunderous explosion, the blast wave throwing him to the ground as dust soared into the air, thick, acrid smoke gushing from the cliffside that cascaded down the trail. Wiping the grit from his eyes, he turned to see a black cloud rising from the ruined slope, listening to the tumbling rockslide slamming into the advancing troops, rippling explosions where charge packs and grenades erupted.

 “Not bad, Sergeant,” Cooper said, struggling to clamber to his feet. “Not bad at all.”

 Rhodes shook his head, and added, “Remind me to sign up for advanced demolitions training when we get back. I'd like to play with those toys sometime.”

 Glancing at his watch, Cooper turned to the slope, and said, “Given that we seem to have lost our ride, we'd better start back for the camp. With a little luck, in less than an hour, we'll be on our way off this rock.” Another explosion roared, and he added, “I think we've given the Xandari something to think about.”

 “They'll still be coming, sir,” Hunt said. “This is only going to hold them up, and not for long.”

 “Fifty-eight minutes from now, they can have this place back with my blessing,” Cooper replied. “As long as they leave us alone until then. Come on, people. On the double.”

Chapter 17

 Salazar walked into the crew room and looked around at the three remaining pilots, the remnants of the squadron he had commanded when they'd originally arrived at the Xandari homeworld. It seemed as though an eternity had passed since then, and he found it hard to believe that it had been less than six hours. Certainly the look on the faces of Cartwright, Ryan and Murphy told that tale, defiance and terror displayed in equal measure.

 Moving to the podium, Salazar briefly looked at the hastily-prepared tactical display behind him, then flicked it off with the touch of a button, surprise registering on the faces of the pilots. He pushed the podium away, walked across the cold metal of the floor, and snatched one of the vacant chairs, before sitting down in front of them.

 “Forget the battle plan. We've thrown it together far too quickly for it to have any value at all. You've already flown this space, fought this enemy, and you know where you're going. At some point in the next thirty minutes, you'll be sitting in a cockpit, and taking your last look at the ship.” He nodded, and continued, “That's right. In all probability, you aren't coming back from this run.”

 Murphy shook her head, and said, “As a wise man once said, I don't do suicide missions.”

 “Then feel free to back out now.” Tapping the double stars over his wings, he said, “I'm a good pilot. A damned good pilot. And if I was going to be riding fire today, I'd make damned sure I'd updated my will before I left. You're going to be flying through dozens of firing tracks, in a space where your countermeasures won't be effective, and your first goal has to be getting that bomber to its target.”

 Taking a deep breath, he continued, “Which means that you can't think of yourselves. You can't afford to fly defensive, not this time. We're throwing the book out the window. If we had anything like the combat strength we should have, we might be able to play by the rules, but today, we can't. You're going to have to out-think them, and I can't tell you how to do that.”

 Turning to Murphy, he said, “You think you're a hot pilot, Sub-Lieutenant?”

 “Finest kind, sir.”

 “Now you get to prove just how good you are. When you go out there, you'll have to identify threats on the fly and neutralize them. Each of those fighters carries two missiles. We can't afford attritional warfare. They outnumber us. You'll have to work out where the problems might be and deal with them first, and you'll have to make each shot count, or this mission fails.” Looking at Cartwright, he continued, “Which means no screw-ups with the checklist, pilot.”

 “No, sir,” the nervous rookie replied. “I won't make that mistake again.”

 Nodding, Salazar said, “I know you've all had at least some combat experience now. You know the face of the enemy. Let me tell you that the firefight you'll be heading into is an order of magnitude worse than anything you have ever experienced. No matter how strong you think you are right now, you're going to be terrified when you're facing it. Being scared is human. Don't let it take over. Don't let it dominate your thinking. Remember your training, and remember the simulations, and while I can't promise that you'll come home, I can promise that your death will mean something.”

 Shaking his head, Cartwright said, “We never expected to face anything like this, sir.”

 Salazar replied, “How old are you, son?”

 “Twenty, sir.” He forced a smile, and said, “My twenty-first birthday is the day after tomorrow. I guess...”

 “Give up on it, kid,” Salazar said. “That goes for all of you. Consider that you're already dead. Then anything that happens today is a nice bonus, a surprise. You can't afford to let your emotions get in the way, not now. They're a luxury that none of us have time for.” Rising to his feet, he added, “I just wish I was riding out there with you, but I don't think I've chosen the safe option. Everything I've said applies just as much to Alamo as it does for you.” Looking at the three pilots, he continued, “Once you've fired your missiles, follow the escorts out of the battlespace. And if you happen to still be in one piece when that bomb goes off, use up all the fuel you've got to get away. Don't hesitate, and don't hold anything back. Someone will pick you up when the dust settles.”

 Moving to the door, he said, “If you want some advice, write a letter home. If there is any unfinished business you have back there, this might be your last chance to settle it. Good hunting. Dismissed.”

 The pilots rose, snapped to salute, and walked out of the room, still dazed. Ryan looked back at Salazar and threw him a curt nod before following the others into the corridor, walking past another figure on the way in. Salazar slumped down onto a chair, and sighed.

 “Credit for your thoughts?” Harper said, sitting next to him.

 “I'm sending them to their deaths, Kris. The best pilots in the Confederation wouldn't get through that firestorm.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Ryan's good, but not great. The same for Murphy. She's got talent, lots of talent, but needs training, experience, to bring it out. In two, three years, she might make it. As for Cartwright…”

 “I heard that last part. They volunteered, Pavel.”

 “I know,” he replied. “I know.” He looked down at his useless arm, and said, “I should be out there with them. That's the worst part. Not sitting on the bridge watching Frank Nelyubov command the ship. They don't need me up there, but that squadron needs me in command.”

 “Nobody is irreplaceable, and haven't you already done enough. More than enough. We wouldn't have made it through if you hadn't taken down that cruiser.” She looked at him, her face stern, and said, “I thought you gave everyone a lecture on defeatism on the bridge half an hour ago. Don't tell me you're falling victim to it yourself.”

 Shaking his head, he replied, “No, of course not. I'm just tired of all of this, that's all.” He looked at the empty chairs, and said, “At least this time we've got a fighting chance of completing the mission. As I said to the others, the rest is just a bonus.”

 “You were a little hard on them, weren't you?”

 “I've got to try and soak four years of training into one quick briefing. I didn't have time to be gentle, and I didn't have time to be nice. The only hope those poor bastards have of actually living through this is to focus on their training, their skills, and the mission. They can't afford to be afraid. If they freeze up, they're dead.” Turning to her, he asked, “How are you holding up?”

 “Too busy to think about anything right now. I just wanted to talk to you before the battle. Strange to think that it will all be over in half an hour, one way or another. The war will be over.” She smiled, and added, “And we'll have won. I've got faith in our people, and in your battle plan.”
 “Captain Orlova's battle plan,” he replied.

 “Which you came up with independently,” she said. “Adding a few nice touches as well.” She paused, then added, “You can't fly every mission, Pavel, and you can't always protect the people under your command. If you weren't wounded, you'd be out there yourself, and it's killing you that you can't take the risks for them.”

 “I'm a fighter pilot, Kris. It's what I trained for, what I'm good at.”

 “You're more than just a rocket jockey, and you know it.” Gesturing at the ceiling, she said, “You're not sitting on that bridge to make up the numbers. You're going to be a key part of the battle. Don't think you're on the sidelines, because you aren't. And those pilots have a lot better chance of surviving because of the training you've given them.”

 Shaking his head, he replied, “Let's hope so, anyway. Maybe I'm the one being arrogant, now. Thinking he's irreplaceable.”

 “At least now you won't be stopping the Captain getting into that bomber at the last minute.” He turned to her with a start, and she continued, “Because we both know you had something like that in mind.”

 “The thought occurred to me. Hell, she should be on the bridge, commanding the ship, not committing suicide to salve her conscience. There are a dozen other people just as qualified to fly that mission. I understand why she's doing it, but I can't agree.”

 “And yet you'd do the same thing in her place.”

 “Probably. Which makes me the galaxy's biggest hypocrite, but it doesn't make me wrong.”

 “Maybe not, but she's made his decision. Besides, I'm sure Frank will do a fine job on the bridge, especially with you up there as well.”

 “We're going to have to talk about your unrealistic expectations of my competence at some point in the future.” Glancing at the door, he said, “Where are you going to be for the battle?”

 “Distribution Control. Jack's running around putting out fires, and I only wish I was speaking metaphorically. He's right about one thing. This ship is being held together by prayer, and don't be surprised if the lights go out halfway through the battle. It's going to take months to get this ship back to fighting condition again. I see another refit in our future, once we get home.”

 “Someone else's problem,” he replied. “I suppose I should be on my way up to the bridge.”

 “Just don't do anything stupid, Pavel. You hear me?”

 He smiled, then said, “How long have you known me?”

 “That's what I was afraid of. Watch yourself up there.”

 “You too,” he said. The two rose for a brief hug, then walked out of the room, each taking opposite directions. Salazar paused, watched her step into the elevator, and shook his head. Something about this battle was worrying him, even more than usual, and it was something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

 He walked down the corridor, passing a swarm of Neander technicians on some urgent errand, survivors from the wrecked ship pressed into service to cover the dead and wounded from Alamo's complement. Bartlett's face flashed into his mind again, the look on his eyes as he took his last breath, and he sighed. He'd been planning on visiting him and his family when they got back to Mars. Now it looked as though he'd be making a trip to the funeral, instead.

 The elevator was waiting for him, and he stepped inside, pulling out his datapad and scanning the list of messages. He raised an eyebrow at the sheer volume that was flooding in, before realizing that most of them were listed as for the urgent attention of the Executive Officer. Captain Orlova had gone ahead, then, writing herself off as lost.

 Two years ago, he'd been standing in front of a court-martial board, expecting to be thrown out of the Fleet, believing that he deserved it for what he had done. The man he now was could forgive the boy he had been then, though he still hadn't broken himself out of the habit of taking responsibility for all the wrongs the universe could throw at him. As his lecture to the squadron had demonstrated. Harper had been right, as usual. He'd have given anything to be out there with them, not for personal glory, but because there were a thousand tricks he knew that might save their lives, save the mission. They were his responsibility, and he somehow felt that he was failing them by not being with them.

 Instead, he was skimming through oxygen reclamation reports, water purity checks, and complaints from some of the junior Petty Officers about misuse of replacement components, engineers neglecting to fill out forms in triplicate before conducting the vital repairs that might keep them in the fight. It all seemed so petty, so insignificant, and given that most of these messages were days old, he had a feeling that his new commanding officer felt the same way.

 And that was a strange thought, as well. He'd known two commanders, Marshall and Orlova, during his career. Now he'd be serving under a third, and his first battle as Captain of Alamo would be the biggest it had ever fought. Even if it would all be over in a few minutes, the ship either flashing through the gap in the defenses and out the other side again, or destroyed by a combination of enemy action or the destructive force of their own weapon.

 No matter what past experience Acting Captain Nelyubov could bring to the table, it was going to be a steep learning curve. He smiled, remembering his brief stint in command of Random Walk. His ship had been battered, under-armed, underpowered, undermanned, totally outmatched by her enemies, and yet there was something deep in his soul that yearned for her. At least she'd survived her last battle, the Copernican Government already planning to turn her into an orbital museum, testament to the Xandari War.

 Now they were going to find out the nature of the final exhibit, whether it would be a representation of their victory over their ruthless, remorseless enemy, or their defeat in the skies of the enemy homeworld. Doubtless someone would find a way to put a positive spin on the outcome, whatever it was. Assuming anyone ever learned Alamo's fate.

 The door opened, and he stepped out onto the bridge, Nelyubov gesturing him to his position at the holotable, in front of the tactical display. With a nod, he took his place, still sweeping down the reports streaming into his datapad, this time focusing on the status indicators.

 “How are we looking, Pavel?” Nelyubov asked.

 “All systems go, sir. We're at standby alert, and are clear to go to battle stations in twenty minutes.” Glancing at the board, he added, “Bomber is loaded, pre-flight checks completed. I'd say we're ready for action.”

 Nodding, he replied, “Now all we have to do is wait, and hope the Xandari haven't thrown any more obstacles in our way.” With a frown, he added, “Why don't you run a few more tactical simulations. See if you can come up with anything we've missed.”

 For a second, Salazar was about to protest, noting that such combat preparedness was the Captain's job, but he caught a look in Nelyubov's eye, and took the order for the gift that it was. Nothing would be happening for at least a quarter of an hour. At least this way, he'd have something to do.

 “Aye, sir. I'll get started. Scott, set up for a theoretical attack run. Let's assume that they're using their fighters in a toad-hole maneuver, to catch us as we swing past the moon. The atmosphere's dense enough.” As he started to dream up contingency plans, trying to distract himself, he caught a look at the countdown clock, and the spell was instantly broken.

 Nineteen minutes to battle stations.

Chapter 18

 Cooper watched the sensor display, the fleet drawing closer and closer to its destination, splitting into two separate formations for the approach. Alamo and Red Avenger, the sole surviving Neander escort, were diving right for the Xandari homeworld, heading towards the gap that Salazar's squadron had gouged in their defenses, while the two Koltoc vessels, Due Diligence and Profitable Venture, had curved off towards the moon, now bare minutes away from closest approach.

 “Lots of nasty stuff in orbit, sir,” the technician said. “Two fighter squadrons and the missile satellites. We're going to have a hard time fighting our way through that lot.”

 “If we end up doing much fighting, Spaceman, then we're as good as dead anyway.” Turning to the cockpit, his wife propped up in the pilot's couch, he asked, “Have you finished the course plot? How long before we have to take off?”

 “Three minutes, then one long burn, and it's all over.” She winced as she moved her leg, and continued, “I'm really looking forward to getting some decent painkillers. And no, I'm not getting out of this seat. I fly with my hands and my brain. Not my legs. Got that?”

 “Whatever you say,” he replied, stepping out of the shuttle. “Get to your ships, everyone! Time to go! On the double!” The forces on the perimeter broke as one surging for their assigned transports, abandoning the carefully hoarded equipment in place. The Xandari were welcome to anything they could salvage. It would be a very long time before any Triplanetary citizen set foot here again, if the bomb detonated as they hoped.

 Cooper looked at the display again, shaking his head. Somehow, Alamo was back on the original plan, but as she drew closer, he got a better look at the damage the ship had suffered during the first attack. He found it hard to believe that she was still flying, ruptures all down her hull. The Koltoc ships that were their destination seemed in little better condition.

 His train of thought was broken by a blast from outside, a cascade of dust flying into the air from a mortar strike. Not waiting for orders, Bradley activated the lateral thrusters, the engine roaring as it started to build power, the last troopers charging through the hatch, Cooper pushing them in with his hand to speed their way. Behind him, a pair of wounded men lay still, a medic watching over them, precious cargo to rush to safety.

 Crawling forward as the shuttle rose, he slid into the copilot's couch, bringing the now-familiar systems online, and looked out over their temporary haven, another explosion in front of them as the mortar bombardment began in earnest. The shelling was wildly inaccurate, the spotters wiped out by his force, a last-ditch attempt to prevent their departure.

 “I brought ninety-five men into this nightmare. I'm bringing back less than fifty.”

 “You did everything you could, Gabe,” Bradley said, carefully playing the thrusters to guide them to their approach path, staying low to avoid the plasma buggies that had surrendered their enclave. “That as many people survived as they did was a miracle. And we completed our mission.”

 “Cooper to Alamo,” he said, speaking into a microphone. “Shuttle Two to any friendly station. Shuttle Two to any friendly station. Come in, please.”

 “We might have more luck when we break out of the atmosphere,” Bradley said. “Far too much jamming at the moment. Get on the sensors and check the trajectory plot. Just in case the Xandari have any more surprises waiting for us out there.”

 Nodding, Cooper punched up the display, and said, “All clear at the moment as soon as we get to altitude.” Glancing across at Bradley, he added, “Until we get to three thousand feet, we're vulnerable.”

 As the last of the shuttles lifted from the surface, her thrusters conjuring clouds of dust that twisted around the landscape, she replied, “That's why we're going to do it all at once. I hope you didn't have too much to eat this morning.”

 Tugging his seat restraints into place, he said, “I'm not going to enjoy this, am I.”

 “I think you'd hate the alternative even more.” She threw a switch, and the shuttle soared into the sky, the others around it in tight formation, thrusters roaring far beyond their normal levels in a bid to hurl them clear of the anti-aircraft fire on the ground. Balls of green flame erupted into the air all around, the blasts rocking the shuttle from side to side as Bradley struggled to maintain control, fighting the thrusters to keep the craft stable.

 “And for my next trick,” she said, throwing the throttle to maximum, the main engine roaring as the shuttle soared towards the mountains, nose rising as she made for a narrow gap between two peaks, the clearance barely enough to allow the wings to safely pass through the middle. The other shuttles found their own paths, five shapes on the sensor screen, all of them racing for heaven.

 “Ten thousand feet and climbing,” Cooper said. “I'll try and get comm lasers on the rest of the formation as soon as we clear the atmosphere. Which should be somewhere in our immediate future.” Looking across at the sensor display, he continued, “We're still clear behind us, no sign of pursuit. I guess they're hoping to catch us when we reach orbit.”

 “Not a bad idea,” she replied, pulling back on the throttle. “Fuel status isn't promising. This is going to be a little tricky, especially if we have to do any fancy flying. Get on the physical countermeasures, and you might as well try and contact the fleet again.”

 “Cooper to any station, any station, come in.” A roar of static burst from the speaker, but he could just pick out a faint voice in the background, fighting to make itself heard. “Cooper to any station, any station, receiving you very faint. Boost signal strength if possible.” He played with the controls, trying to focus on the right frequency, struggling to clear the interference from the surface.

 “Alamo to Cooper,” Weitzman said. “Reading you faint. Report status. We see you rising for orbit. Do you read?”

 A triumphant smile on his face, Cooper replied, “Reading you faintly, repeat faintly. Forty-nine on five shuttles making for rendezvous with approaching Koltoc ships. Four-Nine on Five. Pass on my thanks for coming after us to Captain Orlova. Out.”

 Salazar's voice broke in, saying, “Try for Profitable Venture. They're set to receive you, but you'll have to burn as hot as you can to link up. We've only got one pass, then all hell breaks loose out here. Alamo will try and provide a salvo to support as we fly past the moon, but you're going to have to do the hard work. Do you read?”

 “Understand,” Cooper said. “Did the first shuttle get home?”

 “It did, and all but one of the wounded made it through.” Salazar paused, and said, “Keep listening out, and try and patch your sensor data through to Alamo if you can. Good luck. Out.”

 “Going for full burn,” Bradley said, shaking her head. “This is going to get wild.” Looking back at the cabin, she added, “Make sure the wounded are secured, and strap yourselves in.”

 Tugging at his restraints, Cooper looked back at the sensor panel, and said, “Damn. Threat warning. Four missiles rising from the surface, heading our way.” Tapping controls, he added, “Nothing I've ever seen before. I think they're air-breathers. Suborbital at best.”

 “We'll be leaving them in our wake in a minute.”

 Shaking his head, Cooper replied, “I don't think they're targeting us at the moment. They're trying to force us into orbit.” Gesturing at the screen, he added, “That looks a lot like they're moving into a patrol pattern. If we don't make it on this pass, we're not going to have anywhere to land.”

 “I'm not exactly unhappy at the idea of never going down to that hellhole again. Disabling safety override on the primary throttle. Here we go.”

 The engine whined and complained as the shuttle surged forward, fuel furiously burning away, the tips of the wings glowing a dull red from the fight for speed, the fight for orbit, Bradley trying to gain as much acceleration as she could whilst still staying in the safe shroud of atmosphere. Beneath them, the missiles easily raced to catch up, staying low in the denser regions.

 They were caught between Scylla and Charybdis. Up above, the missile satellites and the fighters squadrons. Below, the anti-aircraft ballistic batteries. Bradley was walking a fine line to stay out of range of both, but with the fuel reserve diminishing, she had to make her break for orbit, and soon. The rest of the formation was waiting, ready to follow her lead.

 “Twenty seconds, Gabe, and I'll go for broke. Hold on to something. This could get rough.”

 Bradley pointed the nose up, unleashing the full acceleration of the shuttle's engine as she broke through the final layers of the atmosphere, racing for orbit. The stars came into view as the pressure fell to nothing, the sensors picking up the waiting menace of the missile defense network ahead.

 “Fighters incoming,” Cooper said. “Intercept in seventy seconds.” Glancing across at the readouts, he continued, “We should be within the defensive radius of the escorts by then. And they've got enough velocity that the fighters should only get a single salvo.” A series of trajectory tracks flashed onto the display, and he added, “That's Alamo's missile contribution. Six warheads, running true.”

 “Take control of them, Gabe, and see if you can do something about those fighters. Alamo's going to have its hands full.” Gesturing at the screen, she added, “Five squadrons, heading to block them. I don't know what the Captain has in mind, but it's going to have to be pretty damned special if they're going to fight their way through a hundred-plus missiles.”

 Cooper pulled out a control panel, fighting through the interference to establish a laser lock on the friendly missiles, making careful adjustments until he was rewarded with the green light that established confirmed contact. He pulled the missiles down, dragging them closer to the shuttles, trying to make it seem as though he was going for a defensive move.

 At the last second, he swung them around, into the path of the approaching fighters, and the Xandari pilots immediately responded with a full salvo, eight missiles against six, overkill to ensure they'd have a chance to press the remainder of the attack. Cooper switched four of the warheads to automatic control, hoping that the guidance computers could at least provide a distraction, focusing on the remaining pair.

 He had an advantage over the enemy pilots. They had a thousand different tasks to worry about, but he could simply focus on one, guiding those missiles into position. Immediately he switched the focus of the attack to fighters that hadn't launched in the initial attack, at the rear of the formation, knowing that they would pack a stronger punch with their full missile salvos.

 Belatedly, two more missiles raced into the air from the approaching fighters, diving into position to try and block their attack. One of them was successful, an explosion flashing into space for a brief second, but he managed to gently guide the remainder into position, catching one of the enemy ships, leaving twisted debris in his wake.

 “Twelve missiles down,” he said, triumphantly.

 “With eight missiles from the escorts, that just means that one of the shuttles is guaranteed a free ride home, Gabe,” Bradley said, focusing on her work, grimacing as a fresh wave of pain raced from her leg. Sweat was building up on her forehead, and Cooper could see the effort the fight was taking out of her, knew that she was asking too much of herself.

 He looked back at the rest of the shuttle formation, chasing them away from the planet, and grimaced as a trio of missiles flashed away from the nearest defense satellite. Their timing had been good enough to grant them a good chance to break through to safety, but they were still a potential threat should they fail to make their connection with the approaching escorts. And at the speed they were traveling, they'd only have one chance to dock with the Koltoc ships, before their courses diverged once again. It that happened, the Xandari wouldn't need to do anything. The shuttles would simply drift through space, fuel exhausted, until their life support ran out sometime in the next week. Assuming they didn't decide to bring the nightmare to an end more quickly.

 “Thirty seconds to contact,” Bradley said. “See if you can get a link-up with Due Diligence, handshake with their docking systems. This is going to be tough enough as it is, without trying to handle this on manual control.”

 “Shuttle Three to Due Diligence,” Cooper said, switching frequencies. “Do you read me?”

 “Major Itzac to Major Cooper,” a soft-accented voice replied. “We read you loud and clear. Looks like the jamming is weakening at this range. Our figures have you docking in twenty-five seconds.”

 “Missile launch!” Bradley said. “Twelve missiles from the fighters, heading right for us.”

 “We're on it,” Itzac replied. “Switching over to docking control now.”

 The Koltoc ships launched a full salvo, eight missiles racing against twelve, moving far slower than their maximum speed as they slewed into the path of the incoming warheads, trying to block their attack. Due Diligence and Profitable Venture drifted into position, the shuttles closing on their targets, homing in on their one chance to escape the system.

 Cooper watched as the missiles dived towards each other, the tracks converging at a point just ahead of the shuttle formation, knowing that one mistake would likely mean their end. The seconds dragged as they moved to their target, until finally there was a blinding flash on the sensor display, the debris field briefly blocking the readouts.

 “Firing countermeasures,” he said, dumping chaff from the dispensers, hoping to add to the confusion. A single missile limped out of the fratricidal destruction, immediately caught in the artificial fog Cooper had created, leaving the shuttle unharmed.

 “Docking in ten seconds,” Bradley said, her hands poised over the thruster controls, making delicate adjustments as they approached the Koltoc ship. Cooper glanced at the scanner, watching as the other shuttles moved into position, waiting for their turn to reach safety. Up ahead, he could see the docking port, the clamps extended to give them the best chance for a safe lock.

 “Come on, old girl,” Bradley muttered. “You can do this. Nice and smooth.”

 The hull of the Koltoc escort loomed overhead, and with a final tap of the thruster, the shuttle slammed into position, docking clamps engaging, the airlocks instantly cycling. Cooper shook her head, watching as the rest of the pilots made their approach, two to each ship. His heart skipped a beat as they found their targets, all five of the shuttles secured to the escorts.

 “And that is how we do that,” Bradley said. “Let's hope the rest of this mission goes as well.”

Chapter 19

 Salazar looked up at the tactical display, watching as the enemy fighters moved into position ahead of the ship. All around the bridge, the crew were racing to complete the final preparations for battle, ready to sweep through the fire that was about to descend upon them. He turned to the sensor station, looked over the readouts, then looked back to Nelyubov, a smile on his face.

 “All shuttles have docked with the Koltoc escorts,” he reported. “The assault team is secure.”

 “Excellent, Lieutenant,” Nelyubov replied, glancing at the elevator. “Scramble fighters in thirty seconds. Pavel, I want you to control the squadron from here. Have them tie in with Red Avenger for the advance sweep. We've got to break though the fighter formation. Spinelli, how long to contact?”

 “Five minutes, sir. Thirty-two seconds in the firing window.”

 “We're scheduled to launch the bombing mission as soon as we're clear,” Salazar added. “Chief Kowalski reports that the bomber is ready for launch, and Captain Orlova is suiting up in the ready room right now.”

 “Very good,” Nelyubov said, standing a little straighter. “Lieutenant Salazar, you have the deck. I'm going below.”

 “What?” Salazar replied, Scott and Maqua turning to look at Nelyubov. “Sir, didn't you hear Spinelli's report? We're five minutes from battle.”

 “I'm aware of that, Lieutenant,” he replied, walking to the elevator. “Nevertheless, you have the deck. Unless you care to refuse to obey my order.” Pausing for a second, he continued, “You have the conn.”

 “Aye, sir,” Salazar replied, shaking his head in disbelief. “I have the conn.” Nelyubov stepped through the door, whisked away from the bridge. “I have the conn,” Salazar repeated, looking up at the tactical display, while silence reigned on the deck.

 “Orders, sir?” Scott asked.

 “Prepare for offensive formation, and deploy radiators as fast as you can. We're going to have to throw everything we've got at the enemy if we're going to have a chance of breaking through.” Tapping a control, he said, “Squadron to scramble in thirty seconds. Sub-Lieutenant Foster, report to the bridge on the double.”

 “I don't understand,” Maqua said, turning from his station.

 “It's a question of irresponsibility, Sub-Lieutenant,” Salazar replied, moving around to the command position at the holodesk, able to survey the entire bridge.

 “You mean responsibility, sir,” the helmsman said.

 “I mean what I said. I know where he's going.” Shaking his head, he turned to Weitzman, and continued, “Contact Red Avenger, and have them move into position behind the fighters when they emerge. Instruct Lieutenant Ryan to proceed to arrowhead formation, and that he'll be the vanguard of the fleet.”

 “Aye, sir,” Weitzman said, turning after a second's hesitation to his station.

  The elevator doors opened, Foster walking out and looking around the bridge, a frown spreading across her face as she saw Salazar alone at the command holodesk.

 “What's going on?” she asked.

 “Don't ask me,” Salazar replied. “I'm just the Acting Captain. Why the hell would I know?”

 “Acting...”
 “Take the second position at the holotable, and start monitoring the enemy squadrons. We're going to be getting into some serious action in a few minutes.”

 “Aye, sir,” she replied, the frown fixed on her face as she took her position. “All decks show cleared for action, Lieutenant, all bulkheads secure. Damage control teams are in position.” She paused, then added, “Senior Lieutenant Quinn suggests that we do everything possible to avoid damaging the power grid.”

 “Inform him I'll do my best.” He turned back to Weitzman, and asked, “Page Senior Lieutenant Powell. See if he can make it up here in time for the battle.”

 “He's not a line officer,” Foster protested.

 “Val, I'm a Lieutenant, and the last time I checked this ship was swarming with senior officers. Quite why they've all decided to go into hiding on the eve of the biggest battle this ship has ever fought is a mystery to me.” He sighed, and said, “No, that's not exactly true, but...”

 “I can't reach Senior Lieutenant Powell, sir,” Weitzman said, shaking his head. “Astrogation reports that he left a few minutes ago, and he isn't responding to ship-wide transmissions. Should I keep trying?”

 “No, let it go, Spaceman,” Salazar replied. “You've got more important things to do. But if he contacts the bridge, tell him his presence is urgently requested up here.” Looking at Foster, he added, “I know, I know, but I've got to go by the book on this one.”

 Shaking her head, Foster said, “I don't think anyone else is today, Pavel.”

 “Enemy fighters moving into spearhead formation,” Scott said. “Trying to maximize the firing time as much as possible. Clever. We'll be in firing range of the leading ships in three minutes, thirty seconds. For forty-one seconds now, so we might just manage a second salvo.”

 “Take targets of opportunity, Kat, and for the record, fire at will,” Salazar replied. “We've got to break up that formation somehow. They're too dispersed for the laser, at least...” He paused, and a smile rippled across his face as he raced down to Maqua, looking down at the helm. “We're going to need some more precision flying from you, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 “I'm still recovering from the last flyby, sir,” the Neander replied, flashing a beaming smile. “Give the order, skipper, and I'll make it happen.”

 “What did you call me?”

 “That's what you are, isn't it?”

 Turning to Scott, he said, “Kat, the laser. What happens if you lengthen the firing time.”
 “Inverse weakening of the strength of the beam,” she said. Her eyes widened, and she replied, “You weren't joking about the precision flying, were you.”

 Foster frowned, and said, “I don't see it. You might be able to sweep across more of them, but it wouldn't be much more than a bright light by the time you fanned it out that much.”

 “Will they know that?” he replied.

 A smile spread across her face, and she said, “No, sir, they won't.” Leaning down to her station, she added, “Maqua, I'll work out the arc, you start figuring the thruster strength. We're only going to get one shot at this, so we'd damned well better get it right.”

 “Signal from Red Avenger, sir,” Weitzman said. “Major Ingros is fascinated to know whether anyone over here actually has any sort of a plan. His words, not mine.”

 “Tell him to stay close to our front, and to prepare to take out any fighters within range. Fighters, not missiles. We're attacking, not defending. Make that perfectly clear to the entire fleet.” He looked up at the Koltoc ships, curving around the moon, and said, “Contact Colonel Kilquan, and ask if he thinks he can swing in for another pass. If he loops around the moon...”

 “Then he runs a real risk of getting into the blast radius, Pavel,” Scott warned.

 “Not with a high flyby, Kat, and realistically that's the best we're going to manage from this. I want the Xandari commander confused.”

 “It's working with me,” Foster said, a smile on her face. “Maqua, do you have the computations yet? They're a little rough, but it's about as good as I can make it in the time.”
 “I've got them,” he replied. “Maneuver execution in fifteen seconds, mark. As soon as we get within range.” Turning to Salazar, he asked, “What do we do if it doesn't work?”

 “Start working out how to talk our way past Saint Peter. Relax. It'll work.”

 Salazar turned back to the tactical display, watching the enemy forces spread out before him. The enemy commander had concentrated all his strength on stopping Alamo from reaching the planet, doubtless concluding that whatever plan they had in mind involved the immolation of the battlecruiser. Given the power of the bomb sitting in their hangar bay, that wasn't far from the truth.

 “Ryan to Alamo Actual,” the communicator barked.

 “Alamo Actual here,” Salazar replied. “Go ahead.”

 “Pavel?” Ryan asked. “Never mind. Enemy squadrons ahead. Request final instructions.”

 “Break and attack, Mike, and give the bastards hell. Try for the heart of the formation. We've got to disrupt their strike run or we don't have a chance. Good hunting.”

 “Understood, Actual. Fighter Leader out.”

 Shaking her head, Foster said, “They could be facing a hundred missiles in ten seconds, Pavel, and there won't be a damned thing we can do about it.”

 “I know,” he replied with a sigh. “Check with Kowalski. I want to know that the bomber will be ready to make its attack run as soon as we get into launch position.” Glancing across at the monitor, he added, “Which appears to me to be in exactly seven minutes, mark.”

 “Threat warning!” Spinelli said. “First missile launches from leading fighter elements. Ten in the air, and I think they're going for Red Avenger.”

 “Three seconds,” Maqua said, glancing at Scott as he waited to initiate the hastily prepared attack pattern. He depressed a button, and Alamo swung into position, the laser firing for longer than the usual fraction of a millisecond, enough that Salazar could just make it out on the screen as it raced towards the enemy fighters.

 He turned back to the tactical display and smiled, watching as the Xandari formation splintered, taking evasive action against an imagined threat. Fitzroy turned from the engineering station, a triumphant grin on his face, and waved a fist in the air.

 “I'd say we've hurt them, sir. Burned out sensors in the leading fighters at least, probably damage to their communications systems as well. We might not have destroyed them, but we've melted lots of nice critical equipment to slag.”

 Nodding, Weitzman added, “I think I can confirm the good news on the communications systems. Transmissions just fell through the floor. Lots of people trying to get through from the orbital and lunar facilities, but nobody's listening.”

 “Enemy missiles are still in the air,” Spinelli said.

 “Launch counter-strike,” Salazar ordered. “Don't commit, though. Keep our options open for the moment. I doubt the rear echelon of the fighter group was affected, and that could still leave a few dozen bad guys riding our backs.”

 “They're totally disrupted, Pavel,” Foster said, her fingers dancing across the holodesk controls, focusing on the fighter screen. “Running in all directions.”

 “Only the first wave,” he replied, shaking his head. “The second group aren't. Look.” He gestured at the trajectory tracks as they swung back in, diving towards Alamo. “They're coming hard. That's a smart commander, right there. A bluff.” Turning to Scott, he said, “Missile status?”

 “Second salvo in ten seconds. We've got enough in the air to knock out all the Xandari warheads and come through strong.” Glancing across at a display, she added, “Our fighters have launched six missiles, three in reserve, heading for the rear echelon.”

 Nodding, Salazar replied, “Ryan saw it before I did. Maybe we should switch seats. How about the laser?”

 “I'm rushing the charge cycle as much as I dare, but we're still looking at thirty seconds.”

 “The battle could be over in thirty seconds,” Foster said, shaking her head. “Our mutual missile salvos have reached each other. Mutual destruction. Not one got through.” Looking up at Salazar, she added, “Not good.”

 “Switch to full defensive fire,” Salazar ordered, turning to Scott. “We've got to get through this attack wave.” Looking at the trajectory plot, he added, “Never mind destroying them now. They'll never get a second pass anyway, not before the bomb detonates.”

 “Enemy fighter squadrons returning to attack formation,” Spinelli reported. “Fifteen seconds to optimum firing range, but they could launch at any time. Estimate seventy-five missiles heading for the fleet.”

 “Seventy-five,” Foster repeated, shaking her head. “We'd never survive a third of that.”

 “Alamo's a tough old girl,” Salazar said, with more confidence than he felt.

 “Evasive action, sir?” Maqua asked.

 “Not with that much death heading our way, Sub-Lieutenant. Straight and steady.” Tapping a control, he said, “Bridge to Engineering. I need all the acceleration you can give me.”

 “If we put more strain on the power grid, we might not be able to move at all!” Quinn protested. “I'm already giving you everything we've got.”

 “And if we don't get more, there might not be a ship left at the end of it. Bridge out.”

 Shaking her head, Foster said, “You realize that was a senior officer you were berating.”

 “As long as he does what I ask, he can charge me with insubordination tomorrow.”

 “Threat warning!” Spinelli said. “First wave of missiles on the way, twenty-four bearing directly. Leading fighters veering off.”

 “At least they aren't trying to ram us,” Salazar replied. “Launch retaliatory strike, Kat, and do what you can with the cannon. Liaise with the fighters and Red Avenger to mesh our salvo.”

 “Fratricide?”

 “It's all we've got.”

 Salazar turned back to the tactical display, watching as the battle continued to unfold around him. They'd already made it further than he had really expected, and a smile tugged at his face as he saw the Xandari fighters scattered all across local space, more than half of their attack runs ruined. The smile faded as he saw the wall of death sweeping across the battlespace towards them, twenty-four missiles flying in perfect formation, with only twelve arrayed against them. No matter what happened next, they were going to take damage.

 “Alamo Actual to Fighter Leader,” Salazar said. “You've done your job. Get the hell out of here. Make for trans-lunar space.”

 “Fighter Leader to Alamo Actual. Not a chance, Pavel. We're heading back to the barn, and...”

 “You'll never rearm in time, Mike. There's no point dragging you down with us. That's an order.”

 “Aye, sir,” he replied, ruefully. “Fighter Leader out.”

 Salazar ran his eyes over the display, watching as two of the fighters curved away, the third stepping up the thrust and diving deeper into the heart of the approaching missiles. His first instinct was that it was Murphy, trying some sort of stunt, but the identifier clearly indicated it as Cartwright's fighter.

 “Alamo Actual to Cartwright,” he began.

 “You said it yourself, sir,” the young pilot replied. “We're already dead. This way I get to die for something. Have a nice fight.”

 “He's closed the channel, Lieutenant,” Weitzman said, shaking his head.

 Nodding, Salazar replied, “It doesn't matter anyway, Spaceman. He's committed.”

 The bridge was silent as they watched the brave pilot race for the heart of the missile formation, taking point at the head of their own retaliatory strike, coordinating the attack with greater speed and precision than the enemy ever could. The end was inevitable, and swift, and a series of explosions left the tactical display clear, half a dozen of the enemy fighters caught in the blast radius and destroyed.

 “Godspeed, Cartwright,” Salazar muttered, shaking his head.

 “Second wave bearing directly,” Spinelli said. “Firing estimated in ten seconds.”

 “And how many in this wave, Spaceman?” Salazar asked.

 “Forty-eight, sir.”

 “I'll have a third wave up in time, Pavel, but Red Avenger won't. Forty-eight against six.”

 “I guess we're about to find out just how tough this ship really is,” Salazar said, settling back to watch the show.

Chapter 20

 Cooper walked up to the bridge, Hunt by his side, struggling with the variable acceleration. This was his first time on a Koltoc vessel, and everything about it seemed wrong, alien. The atmosphere was drier than the desert world he had just left behind, and the light pouring from the ceiling was almost blinding, all of the panels and readouts dazzling him with neon glare. A pair of technicians led them down the corridor, signs of battle all around, blackened patches slammed onto the hull, open servicing panels with engineers frantically rushing repairs.

 “This way, Major,” the leading technician said, gesturing to a ladder. “The commander is expecting you.”

 Cooper glanced at Hunt, then climbed up to the cramped bridge, the light if anything worse in the command center. Major Itzac sat at what could only be a tactical station, a trio of crewmen at the front of the bridge manning one long console, a sensor projection displayed above it. At least that was easily recognizable, and he saw Alamo diving towards the planet, Red Avenger sliding into position behind it, with dozens of missiles heading her way.

 “What's the situation?” he asked.

 Turning to him, Itzac replied, “Alamo has about a minute and a half to live, Major. I'm afraid the mission is over. We're going to try for one of the distant hendecaspace points once we retrieve the surviving fighters.” Shaking his head, he continued, “It was a good try, but it just wasn't to be.”

 “Wait a minute,” Hunt said. “You're giving up?”

 “There's nothing left to save,” Itzac said, shaking his head. “Alamo could never survive that amount of firepower.”

 Frowning at the display, Cooper said, “We could head in, try to help them. You're on a distant vector at the moment, but you could be right into the heart of the battle in less than a minute.”

 One of the technicians turned to him, wide-eyed, and said, “And take dozens of missile impacts, Major. That course would take us into the heart of the missile defenses. We wouldn't have a chance.”

 “But Alamo would,” Cooper pressed, “and the whole purpose of the mission is to get the ship into position to take the shot that will end the war. Besides, we might do a little better than you think. The velocity we'll have by the time we pass through the missiles will give us a chance to get past them. It might take some fancy flying, but we can do it. As long as we act now.”

 “No,” Itzac replied. “I'm sorry, Major, and I know you must be desperate to help your people, but I have to think about salvaging what is left of the situation, and that must include my ship and my crew. Helm, initiate course change.”

 “Damn it, we can still win this!” Cooper yelled.

 “Not in my judgment, Major, and on my deck, it is my judgment that prevails.”

 Pulling out his pistol, Cooper said, “Then I relieve you.”

 Raising an eyebrow, Itzac replied, “Dead is dead, Major.”

 “But this way we'll still have a chance to cheat the reaper.” Hunt drew his pistol, turning to the corridor, and reached for his communicator. “Sergeant, have our team take control of critical departments. Helm, proceed on the course I recommended. Take us into a support position to back-up Alamo. Tactical, I want a full salvo programmed for defensive fire, to launch as soon as we're within range.”

 “You realize that this is mutiny, of course,” Itzac said, his voice still implacable. “That you are effectively declaring war on your own allies.”

 “If you aren't willing to stand with us when the situation is at its most desperate, then you aren't allies I want on my side. Helm, follow my order as instructed.”

 The technician looked at his commander, who replied with a reluctant nod, then turned back to his console, tapping an incomprehensible sequence of commands. The tone of the ship's engine changed, rising as the vessel altered course, swinging back down towards the planet. The crewmen at the controls looked at each other, fear in their eyes, as Cooper kept the pistol leveled at the commander, matching his stare.

 “All key sections secure, sir,” Hunt said, still watching the door.

 “That was quick,” Itzel replied.

 “Not a big ship, and quite a few of the Neander troopers seem to know this class of vessel pretty well,” the veteran said, flashing a smile.

 “We saved your lives, Major,” Itzel said, shaking his head. “And risked our own to do it.” 

 “You have my eternal gratitude,” Cooper replied, “but if we don't complete this mission, more than half my strike force died for nothing.” Turning to the sensor display, he said, “Hold your course, Spaceman. We're going to complete this parabola or die in the attempt.”

 The helmsman looked back at him, and said, “Is that absolutely necessary?”

 “Let's hope not,” Cooper replied. “Can you patch me through to Alamo? They probably should know that the cavalry is on the way?” While one of the technicians handed him a headset, he studied the unfamiliar sensor display, trying to make sense of the readings. The missiles seemed to be moving into position awfully slowly, Alamo racing through the defensive screen, accelerating far above her usual safe norms.

 “Cooper to Alamo Actual. Come in, please.”

 “Salazar here. Go ahead.”

 Panic swept Cooper's face, and he replied, “I didn't know you'd suffered damage. What's the situation over there?”

 “No damage, Gabe, not yet, though I wouldn't assume that happy state of affairs will last.”

 “Then don't take this the wrong way, but what the hell…”

 “It's a long story and we don't have the time.” Salazar paused for a second, and said, “I'm not going to ask why you are speaking for a Koltoc ship that's on a suicide course, but I'll take all the help I can get. As far as I can see you'll have a window to throw everything you've got at the missile swarm. Tie in your warheads to our tactical net, and we should be able to do the rest.”

 “Will do, Pavel. Good luck.”

 “On that heading, you're going to need it more than I will. Alamo out.”

 “You heard the man,” Cooper said, turning to Itzac. “Given that we're committed to this course anyway...”

 Shaking his head again, Itzac replied, “And perhaps you are planning to shoot me if I decide to reject your kind offer?”

 With a sigh, Cooper said, “Let's not find out, shall we?”

 Itzac glanced down to his station, his slender fingers sliding across the touchscreen, working the controls faster than he could follow. Cooper's knowledge of the Koltoc language was limited to the handful of profanities he'd picked up in past battles, and was certainly insufficient to the task of determining whether the commander was obeying his orders.

 The ship curved onto its trajectory, seconds away from battle, and he heard some shouting at the far end of the corridor, Itzel stiffening in his seat as the noise drew closer. Hunt looked at Cooper, keeping his pistol pointed at the door, then pulled out his communicator.

 “Hunt to Rhodes. Report.”

 “Little trouble down in engineering, sir, but the deck gang decided to choose the right side in the end. Didn't have to persuade them, either. Took down the bastard themselves.”

 The helmsman glanced at the sensor operator, and said, “I think I can trim a few seconds from our course if we drag in a little closer. It'll give us a clear second shot at the missile swarm.”

 “Then by all means,” Cooper said, a smile curling across his face. “Nice try, commander.”

 “I still think you're killing us all, Major, but I'm forced to accept a risk against a certainty. Be aware that there will be words afterward.”

 “Really?” Hunt said. “If we're dead, nobody will ever know, and if we live, we're all heroes, and the history books will omit any mention of the incident. Unless you want to be remembered as the man who almost snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.”

 With a scowl, Itzel replied, “Missile salvo ready to fire. Helm, as soon as we launch, I want a full burn to get us clear of the planet. Try and get underneath the defense satellites if you can. It might confuse their targeting computers, if only for a few seconds.” Looking at Cooper, he continued, “You can put that stupid pistol away. We're committed to the maneuver now, and your Sergeant has a point. The next time someone turns up in a shuttle, they can find another ride.”

 “Fair enough,” Cooper said, holstering his gun.

 The ship dived past Alamo, rocking back as the first wave of missiles launched, new tracks flashing onto the screen as the salvo raced into the battle, sliding into position beside those already in the air. Cooper watched, rapt with attention, as Itzel's hands danced across the controls, loading and arming the third salvo that was essential to their plan's success.

 Up ahead, the Xandari missiles were dividing into three streams, five for each of the escorts with the balance for the capital ships. Red Avenger was accelerating again, moving into a new trajectory, bereft of ammunition and attempting instead to act as a decoy, drawing some of the fire onto itself. A brave act of a brave commander, and it rapidly proved to be his last, the ship dying in a flash of light as the enemy warheads slammed into place. 

 There were no escape pods. Even if the Neander had managed to reach them in time, launching them would be pointless if the attack plan worked. Minutes from now, orbital space would be inhabitable, instant death for anyone venturing through it, and the survival craft would simply have added to the destruction.

 “Second salvo,” Itzel said. “Helm, get us moving. Full burn, now!”

 The force of acceleration caught Cooper by surprise, sending him slamming into the wall, momentarily losing his breath as Itzel glanced at him with a smirk, shaking his head.

 “Some hijacker,” the Koltoc said. “One little burst of acceleration and you fall over.”

 “Gaining speed, sir,” the helmsman reported, looking up at his readouts. “We're making ground ahead of the missiles. They must have already used a lot of their fuel before settling onto trajectory.”

 Due Diligence continued its dive, sweeping dangerously close to the defense perimeter, with the anticipated result as new trajectory plots appeared on the screen, a dozen missiles on their tail, the escort blazing a trail of fire through the sky in her desperate bid to escape. All was silent on the bridge, the brief mutiny forgotten as the crew worked to save their lives.

 “Impact in thirty seconds, aft section,” the helmsman reported. “Two of them, sir. The rest are falling behind.”

 “What about Alamo?” Cooper asked.

 “Five seconds later,” the sensor technician said. A series of explosions raced across the display as the missile salvos met each other, bright enough to dazzle Cooper for a second, his eyes blinking in a bid to clear the afterimage of the blast.

 “Report,” Itzel said.

 “Nine enemy missiles running true,” the technician began. “Correction, seven. The laser cannon took down two of them. Nice shooting.”

 “Can they get another salvo up in time?” Itzel asked.

 “Not a chance, sir. They're going to have to take the hits.” 

 “And us?” Hunt asked.

 “Ten seconds, sir.”

 Cooper looked around, eventually sitting on the floor for want of anywhere else, and braced himself against the wall to take the impact, watching as the trajectory tracks settled to their final destination. The ship lurched forward as the missiles slammed home, an angry growl ripping through the hull as the twin explosions cascaded through the decks, perfectly timed to cause maximum damage.

 Through it all, the helmsman struggled at his post, the white lights changing to red as emergency systems switched on, airtight hatches slamming into place to seal the hull breaches. Itzel leaned forward, still showing only the barest concern, and scanned the trajectory plot, eventually nodding in satisfaction.

 “We're clear, Major. Somehow.” Shaking his head, he said, “Given that you are primarily responsible for causing this mess, I'd appreciate it if you and your men report to damage control stations.”

 “Alamo?” Cooper asked.

 “It's out of our hands now, Major. Everything is down to them.”

Chapter 21

 Orlova pulled on her spacesuit, reaching for her helmet, and sighed as the lights flickered again, damage from the latest series of impacts wreaking havoc on her ship. The damage control report snapped into view as the monitor in the crew room rebooted, showing red lights in a dozen sections, the laser cannon destroyed, most of the outer areas open to space, missile tubes shattered.

 At least the hangar was still operational. Everything now depended on her, the bombing run that she was scheduled to begin in five minutes. She looked at the door, shaking her head. Now that the moment was upon her, doubt weighed her down once again. Not the fear of death, strangely enough. Somehow that didn't quite seem real, not yet, and wouldn't until she had her hand on the firing controls. The words of Salazar, of Powell, of Quinn raced through her mind once again, as though attempting to urge her to reconsider at the last minute.

 She looked over the flight plan, going over the battle once last time, glancing up as a rumble echoed from below, another missile finding its target. That was the seventh in this salvo, and the lights flickered once again as the power distribution network struggled to bypass the damaged sections. There was only so much damage Alamo could take, and in her current condition, one more impact might finish her.

 That meant that her mission was even more important. Her ship would never survive another firing pass, and the enemy fighters could easily swing around and take her as she passed on the far side of the enemy homeworld. Unless she could prevent that from happening, save her ship at the final moment. One last service she could provide her crew.

 “Damage control teams to aft engineering section,” Quinn said. “Damage control teams to elevator control. Distribution network, report status.”

 “Emergency override initiated,” Harper replied. “Attempting bypass of secondary systems.”

 “Hull breaches in sections five through nine,” a distorted voice added. “Evacuating astrogation and auxiliary control.”

 The door slid open, and Powell stepped inside, a datapad in his hand and a dour look on his face. He walked over to the locker and picked up her gloves, passing them across to her without a word, moving to block the exit.

 “Thanks, Professor. Any last minute changes to the flight plan I need to know about?”

 “Just one,” he replied, pulling out his pistol. “You aren't going. I cannot permit it.”

 Looking up at him, she sighed, and said, “I didn't truly think that you would go this far.” 

 “I thought the same as you. For a while I thought this was just a bluff, that you were hoping to trick the Xandari into a surrender, but you are actually planning to do this, aren't you? To wipe out a civilization, perhaps an entire race.” He paused, then continued, “You realize, I hope, that the usual response of the Xandari to defeat is self-immolation? That there is a very real chance that they might commit suicide as a race to avoid what they would perceive as the shame of defeat?”

 “Their choice, Professor, not mine. We're just doing what we have to do to save the most lives. If their single-minded philosophy allows them no other alternative, then perhaps this was always inevitable.” Rising to her feet, the gun still leveled on her chest, she continued, “They'll be defeated, sooner or later, and if racial suicide is the outcome, perhaps better it happens before they enslave or exterminate humanity.”

 “You don't truly believe that you have a justification for genocide, do you?”

 “I believe that we have to consider the lesser of two evils.” Shaking her head, she continued, “I'll be dead in a few moments, Professor, so there will be no one to press charges against you if you simply leave the room now. I'll understand under the circumstances if you are reluctant to wish me luck.” Stepping forward, she continued, “Are you actually intending to shoot me, Professor?”

 “Better one than millions, Captain. Or two, given that I will certainly die for my crime.”

 “The whole ship, more than likely,” Orlova replied. “Our escape plan is desperate enough, even without the detonation of the bomb to provide us with cover. You're betraying your own shipmates, your comrades, to the Xandari.”

 “Or serving a greater good,” he replied. “I cannot simply sit back and watch while you commit mass murder. The only way that evil triumphs...”

 “Is for someone to stop good winning the war.” With a sigh, she continued, “I do not have time for this. None of us do. So you might as well get this over with and shoot me. But make sure that your aim is true, Professor, because if you miss, I'll still fly the mission. And if I die, someone will take my place. That bomber will launch in four minutes, no matter what, even if Salazar has to do it one-handed!”

 “He's too busy leading us to oblivion himself,” Powell replied. “I had hoped that he would do better once he assumed command, but evidently the power has gone to his head, or he has been corrupted by your warped ideals.”

 “Pavel's in command?” Orlova asked.

 “Didn't you know?” Powell replied. “It hardly matters, anyway. I don't think you are in as much of a hurry to die as you think. Somewhere deep in the back of your mind, you're hanging onto this as a last chance to save your own life. Not to mention do the right thing, the moral thing.”

 Glancing up at the countdown clock, Orlova said, “I'm walking through that door, and there is nothing you can do to stop me aside from killing me. And somehow, Professor, I don't think that you will. I don't think you can pull that trigger. Go ahead and prove me wrong.”

 Behind him, the door opened, Nelyubov walking in. Orlova took advantage of the brief distraction, racing forward and felling Powell with a blow to the chin, sending the old man tumbling to the floor, his head slamming into a locker. She looked up at her friend, shaking her head.

 “That was good timing, Frank. How did you know he was coming after me?”

 “I didn't,” he replied, reaching into a pocket.

 “Then...”

 Before she could say another word, he pulled out a tranquilizer gun and fired into her chest, the drugs instantly taking effect. He caught her, gently lying her on the floor, then walked over to a locker and started to pull out a spacesuit of his own, sliding it into position a piece at a time.

 “I can't let you do this either, Maggie.”

 “No,” she replied, forcing the words. “Don't...”

 “You don't need to worry about the ship. I left Pavel in command, and he'll do a fine job. Young, but one hell of an officer, and he's had more time as a commander than I have. The ship will be fine, and if anyone can save it, he will.”

 She shook her head, struggling to fight the drugs that were raging through her system, the tranquilizer making her want to do nothing more than sleep.

 Looking down at her, he continued, “It isn't just a question of your life, Maggie. We're both serving officers, and we've both faced death before, but there's more to this than simple physical death. You said it yourself. Whoever is at those controls will be remembered for decades as the man responsible for the death of a civilization. History might not be particularly kind.”

 “My duty,” she murmured. “My right.”

 “You deserve a lot better than to be remembered that way. I can't let your name, your reputation by destroyed. I don't matter, Maggie. Just another old officer. Competent, perhaps, but I don't have the shining future of an Orlova, or a Salazar, or a Harper. I've been more than content with my lot, but now that we're almost at the end, I find that I cannot permit this. So I'll fly the bomber myself, and die at the controls in your place.”

 “Why?”

 He reached for his helmet, and smiled, saying, “Perhaps because you've been a lot more to me than my commanding officer. Perhaps because everything I said is true, and that your name deserves more than this bombing run would give it, and I'm going to make sure that I am the one the moralists and historians curse, not you.” He paused at the door, and said, “And perhaps because I've been in love with you for a long time, and I'm following the advice of the man up on the bridge, someone who just might be wiser than both of us. He'll make a fine second-in-command for the ride home, Maggie. Do one thing for me. Have a good life.”

 She struggled, tried to get up, but he placed the helmet on his head, stepping silently out onto the waiting hangar deck, the technicians swarming around him as he climbed into the bomber, taking the mission that should have been hers, the sacrifice that was hers to make, not his. With all her strength, she could barely move a muscle, only inch her way to the door, hoping to get close enough that she might reach for the communicator, call for help.

 It would do no good. The bomber slid down into the elevator airlock, Nelyubov at the controls, no one questioning the identity of the pilot. As soon as he spoke to the bridge, the deception would be clear enough, but by that point it would be too late. He'd be on his way, and she was lying there, struggling to regain consciousness.

 Nelyubov loved her? Enough to give his life, his reputation, everything for her? And somehow, Salazar had known about it, all the time. She ran her mind back over the years she had known him, battle after battle, crisis after crisis where he had always been there for her, more loyal than anyone else, and suddenly it all made sense. With a loud jolt, the hatch slammed shut, Nelyubov leaving the ship for the last time. And she would never have a chance to talk to him.

 Taking a deep breath, she felt the paralytic effects begin to ebb, shaking her arms as the feeling returned to her tired limbs, and struggled to the medical locker on the wall, tugging it open and sending its contents spilling across the deck. She fumbled for a stimulant, her stupefied mind selecting one at random and injecting herself, barely comprehending the risk she was taking, but the rush of adrenaline she felt more than made up for it.

 She pushed herself to her feet, almost tumbling again as her vision blurred, her eyes struggling to focus, but she pushed off from the wall, managing to stand upright with a great effort, her head pounding from the effects of the clashing drugs. She was going to regret the injection later, assuming she survived long enough, but for the present, the only thing she could think of was getting to the bridge, saving her ship.

 Lurching out of the crew room, still half in her spacesuit, all eyes turned to her in astonishment as the woman they believed was on her way to her death walked uncertainly across the hangar bay, tossing off her gloves and throwing them to the floor. She reached the elevator, tapping the control, but one of the technicians walked over to her, shaking his head.

 “Knocked out by the last salvo, Captain,” he said. “Didn't you…”

 “No, Spaceman, I didn't. What about internal communications?”

 “Dead, ma'am. Those last hits ripped into our aft section.”

 Nodding, she said, “Carry on,” and walked over to the maintenance hatch, dragging it open with an effort. She looked at the ladder, a quarter-mile up to the bridge in variable acceleration, and stepped onto it, shaking her head. She had to reach the command deck, and nothing was going to stop her.

Chapter 22

 “Bomber away, sir,” Scott said, looking up from her readouts. “One minute, twenty-five seconds to the missile screen.” Shaking her head, she continued, “I've only got four missile tubes on-line, Pavel, and I can only reload two of them. The laser cannon is so much scrap metal, and most of our communications antenna are history.” The lights flickered again, Spinelli cursing as his console rebooted.

 “Fitzroy, damage report?” Salazar asked, lurching over to the engineering station, Alamo hurled to the right from another hull breach as he walked across the bridge. “Have you managed to get through to engineering yet?”

 “No, sir. I can't get Distribution Control either.” Flicking a control, he added, “What hull sensors I have report eighty-nine breaches all over the ship, and I think you can probably double that number. We've got fires in two sections, crews working on exposing them to space, and the secondary oxygen reservoir has been holed.” Shaking his head, he added, “Hendecaspace drive is out, and we've got cascade failure in the power distribution nodes. I think. Without getting a telemetry link, sir, I'm guessing here.”

 “Keep trying,” Salazar said, patting the engineer on the shoulder. “Weitzman, internal communications? What's the story?”

 “Depressing as hell, sir,” the technician replied. “I've got the speakers working, but someone's cannibalizing the internal fiber-optics as power conduits. It'll be a short life and a merry one for the relay systems, but they should keep things moving for a few minutes at least.” Pausing, he added, “I've had contact with sickbay, sir, and Technical Officer Garland reports casualties backed up into the corridors, all triage facilities overloaded.”

 The ship rocked forward again, Maqua struggling with the thrusters, trying to keep the ship stable. Salazar turned to the holodesk to see Foster watching the bomber proceed on its trajectory track, her eyes locked onto the small dot that represented their only real hope of survival. Only four other friendly ships were in the system now, a pitiful remnant of the fleet that had arrived only hours ago. Ryan and Murphy had burned their fuel to place themselves on a safe trajectory, one of the ironies of the battle that those who had taken the greatest risk would likely be the last to die.

 As for the two surviving escorts, Due Diligence was following the fighters out of the sub-system, the few sensor readings indicating that they were fighting serious battle damage of their own after their high-speed pass, and Profitable Venture was looping around the moon for a second time, building up furious velocity of its own.

 “Bomber is ninety seconds from target, sir,” Foster said. “Now sixty seconds from the missile screen.” Punching commands into the desk, she added, “As far as I can determine, we'll be exposed to danger for thirty-nine seconds. We might actually live through this yet.”

 “I'm having trouble keeping a straight heading,” Maqua reported, his hands gripping the helm controls, knowing that a microsecond's hesitation could send them spiraling through the stars to their death. “Most of my thrusters are gone. I'm trying to use the cargo airlocks to compensate with released expulsions of atmosphere, but the transfer network is in pieces.” Shaking his head, he said, “Wild ride, sir, and it isn't getting any better.”

 “Maintain maximum acceleration,” Salazar ordered. “Fitzroy, whatever power you have, send it to the engines. We've got to complete this burn or we don't have a chance. Cut everything else, right down to life support. We can live in the air with what we've got for a couple of hours if we have to.” The lights dimmed again, one of the panels blowing out from the repeated stress, sending a shower of sparks cascading to the floor.

 “Fighters responding!” Foster said, pointing at the display. “They're moving into an attack pattern, intercept in two hundred seconds, estimate forty-four missiles in the formation.”

 “Doesn't make any difference, not now,” Salazar replied, moving back to the holotable and grabbing it with both hands, struggling to remain on his feet. “We're dead anyway if the bomb fails. If it works, the blast wave should get them. I hope.”

 “Sixty seconds to detonation,” Scott said. “Bomber still on track, all systems appear nominal as far as I can tell, but I can't pick up any telemetry.” Turning back to Salazar, she added, “There's nothing we can do to help them.”

 “Change to target aspect!” Spinelli said. “Profitable Venture is heading for the planet, moving back for a second pass over the defense network.” Shaking his head, he added, “They must be on automatic. They're accelerating well over their usual maximums.”

 “Weitzman, any chance of contact them?”

 “Not a hope, sir. All external communications pickups are destroyed or damaged. Unless they get within range of one of the hand units, we don't have a chance. Even then, the jamming field is back with a vengeance. They're throwing everything they've got at the bomber.”

 “Can they know?” Foster asked, looking up at Salazar with a frown. “Could they have guessed what we're planning?”

 “It doesn't matter if they have,” Salazar replied. “There's not much they can do about it now. As long as the bomber hits its mark, and the bomb works as advertised, everything will be fine. If not, then we'd better break out our harps.” Glancing at the helm, he said, “How's she running now, Sub-Lieutenant?”

 “A little better, sir. I think all the hull breaches we're going to get have happened already. I hope.” The ship rocked to the side, and he grimaced, adding, “Though I'm still getting a few surprises. Fitzroy, can you get me more power? I'm losing charge on Engine Three.”

 “There's no more to give you, Sub-Lieutenant,” the frustrated engineer replied. “We're running on backup systems and overrides right now. If anything else breaks, we're dead.”

 “Fifteen seconds to defense perimeter,” Scott said. “Missile salvo ready for launch. Strongly recommend defensive fire.”

 “No argument here, Kat,” Salazar said, his eyes now locked with the bomber, watching as it soared through space to its target. Everything for the last eighteen months had been leading to this moment, though they hadn't been aware of it at the time. The outcome of the war, and the fate of billions of lives rested on one experimental piece of technology working as it should, and the skill of the pilot at the controls. He looked around the bridge, a faint smile on his face. He knew it wasn't Captain Orlova flying that ship. As soon as Frank Nelyubov had gone below, he knew exactly what was happening. And that the man had given up any chance of getting back to Alamo again.

 As the lights flickered, the viewscreen blanked out for an instant, the camera pickup shifting to a different view, Spinelli stabbing a finger at the controls in an attempt to restore the image. Just one more malfunction to deal with, the aftermath of the missile barrage that had almost smashed the ship in two. He looked across at the status board, the holographic image of Alamo that was bathed in red and black, systems damaged or failing to report. Repairing the ship to a sufficient state to get home would be a monumental project in itself.

 “Threat warning!” Spinelli said with a sigh. “Eighteen missiles from the defensive perimeter, bearing directly. Estimate sixty seconds to impact at current rate.”

 Alamo rocked back, from the launch of missiles this time, and Scott reported, “Retaliatory strike is in the air, sir, and homing on target. I set the launch sequence to fratricide.” With a sigh, she added, “We're in the hands of the automated guidance systems, sir. I haven't got any ability to control them from here.”

 “I'm still losing thrust on Engine Three, Fitzroy!” Maqua yelled, struggling with the remaining thrusters. “Can you at least re-balance the power feed?”

 “Primary linkages in the rear section are destroyed, Sub-Lieutenant,” the engineer replied. “I'm trying to bypass, but it's a real mess back there, sir. And I still can't raise anyone at Distribution Control.”

 Worry nagged at Salazar, aware that Harper was down there, trying to keep the recalcitrant power network worrying. There had been no reports of damage in that area, other than the same blast wave that had rippled through the ship, but with internal communications out, anything might have happened. There might simply be no one down there to reply.

 “Ten seconds to bomb detonation,” Scott said. “Still running true.”

 Nothing else mattered now. As the countdown clock on the viewscreen ran down, Spinelli struggling to provide an image of the bomber, all eyes drifted to the tactical display at the heart of the room, the single trajectory track displaying the progress of the vehicle bearing their salvation. The lights flickered again, Alamo's engines still roaring as the ship raced away from the planet, already trying for the safe haven of cislunar space, away from the devastation that was about to begin.

 It seemed like a moment for great words, for grand gestured, but Salazar simply couldn't think of any. When Nelyubov tapped the control, the universe would change forever, one horror replaced with an existential threat. A world isolated from the galaxy for decades to come, a mighty civilization brought to its knees.

 Scott briefly glanced at her console, then turned to the viewscreen. Only one reading was of interest, the bomber finishing its trajectory. Impotent Xandari fighters desperately attempted to stop it, not even knowing what it was planning but assuming it meant them ill, a halo of missiles swinging into position to destroy it, guaranteeing that there could be no escape.

 And perhaps that was the price that must be paid for this atrocity. The price of admiralty, paid in blood. Without realizing it, Salazar was holding his breath, the last second seeming endless, stretching to eternity, as Nelyubov carefully guided the bomber to firing position.

 A tiny flash of light appeared on the screen, then a larger one, and a larger, the cascade effect kicking in as the trigger detonation erupted, the planned debris field forming, swirling around exactly as calculated, billions of pieces of shrapnel racing through orbital space, sufficient to cause the tactical display to stutter and fail, the effort of calculating the courses required too much for the computer in its damaged state.

 The missile swarm was the first casualty, torn apart by debris traveling at tens of thousands of miles an hour, a million kinetic warheads for each one. Everything destroyed by the growing swarm simply added to the devastation, other clouds of molten slag moving into higher and lower orbits, just as the designers had planned, decades ago for a long-ended war.

 Alamo raced onward, the tactical display winking on, the swarm now shown as an abstract menace, the trajectory plots giving up the unequal struggle to calculate them all. Still, all eyes were locked on the viewscreen, watching the ribbon of destruction sweep around the world, destroying everything in its path. With belated concern for their survival, the Xandari pilots that had been harrying the fleet raced to escape the destruction, futilely throwing their ships into wild tangents in a bid to get away, to clear the debris field.

 Only a few of them realized that the only true safety was down, into the atmosphere of their homeworld, voluntarily joining their people in their exile from the galaxy, a quarantine that would keep known space safe for a century, ending their menace forever. That few of them were willing to take it was testament to a deep urge within, a desperate hope that their flight through the stars was not yet ended.

 A second flash of light appeared on the screen as Alamo pulled away, the spaceport that had housed a dozen enemy battlecruisers under construction, the battle fleet they had feared would unleash horror on their homeworlds detonating under the force of repeated debris strikes, adding still more weight to the carnage. There might have been a brief second when the destruction could have been stopped, but now the fate of the Xandari homeworld was inevitable, and the fate of their empire with it.

 “My God,” Spinelli said, his face pale, as he turned away from his station. “What have we done, sir? What have we done?”

 Salazar had no words to reply, watching as tens of thousands died without hope of salvation, many of them not even knowing what was happening. Some of those on the far side of the planet might escape, could potentially find a sanctuary in the cold depths of space, but with the communications network wiped away, they were blind to the death that sought them, hunting them with ruthless, cold efficiency, unhindered by sentiment or emotion.

 “Pulling away, sir,” Maqua said. “Smooth and steady.”

 “Keep her moving, Sub-Lieutenant,” Salazar replied in a monotone, his attention still fixed on the nightmare that boiled below. “We've got to complete this course. The rest of the fleet?”

 “Clear, sir,” Spinelli said, shaking his head. “Both heading into trans-lunar space.” Looking up at Salazar, he said, “Everything in orbit will be destroyed in four minutes, sir. A little faster than calculated.” With a gulp, he continued, “Nothing left. Nothing at all.”

 “Hold it together, Spaceman,” Salazar said. “Scott...”

 Before he could finish, the lights went out, and this time, stayed dead, replaced a second later with the dull red glow of the emergency lighting. The bridge consoles rebooted, the viewscreen dark, tactical display flickering out. Worst of all, the roar of the engines faded, and Salazar felt himself floating free of the death as the acceleration died.

 “Fitzroy?” he asked.

 “Power failure. All decks. Systems overload.” Flicking switches, he continued, “There's nothing I can do from here, sir. There might be a chance at Distribution Control.”

 “I'm going down there,” Salazar said, kicking to the elevator. “Foster, you...”

 “It's no good, sir,” Fitzroy replied, catching him before he could slam into the doors. “The whole system's failed. They aren't working, anywhere. And it's at the far end of the ship. You'd never make it in time.”

 “Three minutes, ten seconds to debris impact,” Spinelli said, struggling to bring his systems back online. “Unless we resume acceleration first.”

 “Maqua?” Salazar asked.

 “Nothing, sir. No power at all. We're drifting.”

 “Thrusters, then. Aft burn, give it everything you've got.”

 “We won't even make a hundredth-g, Pavel,” the Neander protested.

 “Anything is better than nothing,” Salazar replied, slamming a control, praying that the broadcast circuits were intact. “Jack, we need main power back in two minutes or we've had it. If anyone is near Distribution Control, we've got to get the main engines online, now!”

 “Thrusters at full, sir,” Maqua said. “We're moving.”

 “That might buy us a few more seconds, sir,” Scott said, shaking her head. “Nothing more.”

 “Maybe this is what was meant to be,” Spinelli said, still watching the horror that was reaching out towards them. “The price we had to pay.”

 “We're not dead yet, Spaceman.”

 “No, sir, but I think the mourners are gathering.”

Chapter 23

 The dull drone of the siren reverberated through the compartment as Harper dragged herself to her feet, struggling with the tangle of cables and circuits that had fallen on her when the final panel blew, taking out the last distribution node. Deep red lights filled the room, casting strange shadows all around, and she reached for a flashlight, fumbling across the ground.

 “Ingram,” she yelled, before spotting the prone figure deeper in the wreckage. She reached over, looking for a pulse, shaking her head as she failed to find one. Too late to help him, but the ship was in dire danger. Alamo's mighty engine spluttered to a stop, and though she couldn't see a trajectory plot, she knew that they were still moving too slowly to escape the wave of debris rushing their way.

 She dived for the corridor, floating through the doors, brushing cables away with her hands, and was met by a pair of groaning figures on the far side, drifting helplessly in the air, savage burns on their faces. One of them looked at her, tears in his eyes, but she had to push past him, on down the corridor to Engineering. They'd all be dead in moments if she couldn't find a way to get the main engines back on-line, soon.

 “Jack, we need main power back in two minutes or we've had it. If anyone is near Distribution Control, we've got to get the main engines online, now!” Salazar's voice echoed through the corridors, but he wasn't telling Harper anything she didn't already know. Pulling at a maintenance shaft, she cursed as the automated systems failed to engage, pulling the manual release to open it in a series of jerks.

 Ducking inside, she pulled herself up the three decks to her destination, the air horribly cold, her breath condensing. A hull breach, and close, enough that the endless chill of space was seeping into the ship. She looked down a side passage, the emergency blast doors sealed, isolating two whole decks. With, if she remembered correctly, a dozen people inside.

 She couldn't think about that right now. Had only to focus on the task at hand. Tugging herself through the mercifully open hatch, she swam into chaos, Quinn at the master control board, struggling with a series of switches and panels, technicians working all around him in a desperate hope to bring the master systems back on-line.

 “Harper,” he said, turning as she approached. “You only just got out in time. The hull breach worsened. I've had to isolate Distribution Control.” Looking around, he added, “Ingram?”

 “He didn't make it,” she replied. “Did you hear Pavel?”

 “I did, but there's not much I can do about it from here.” Grabbing a toolkit, he said, “End of the corridor, we've got a breach, and there's a relay junction on the far side that we've got to secure. Right out on the hull. Means a spacewalk, and I need someone to override the relay controls to allow me to get through the blast doors. That means you.”

 He dived past her, rushing down the corridor, and she turned to ask, “Where's your spacesuit?”

 “I don't have time to get one,” he replied. “It's a twenty-second job if I get it right. I can live in vacuum for long enough to make the adjustments. But if we waste any more time talking about it, the whole situation is going to be moot. Hurry!”

 She dived after him, fumbling in her pockets for her hacking kit, a slender datarod containing the distilled work of the best intrusion specialists in the Confederation, herself included. As they raced towards the blast door, pushing from the walls to speed their way, she heard a rattling from the hull. The outermost reaches of the debris field were heading towards them, too small to do any damage for the moment, but the pieces were only going to get larger, and with Alamo in its current condition, one more hit in the wrong place could cost them the ship.

 A technician was fumbling at one of the escape pods, panic on his face, and Harper yelled, “Forget it, Spaceman! You'll never get clear of the field in that. Come and give us a hand.”
 “We're all going to die!” he replied.

 “Not if I have anything to do about it,” she replied.

 “Engineering!” Salazar yelled. “I need main engine restart in ninety seconds or we'll never get clear! What the hell is happening down there?”

 They reached the bulkhead, Quinn crashing into it, unable to stop in time. He recoiled from the space-cold hatch, then turned to Harper, gesturing for her to operate the override. Tugging the panel free, she slid her datarod into position and started frantically typing instructions, attempting to convince the computer to expose an entire accessway to space.

 “Spaceman,” she said, gesturing at the panicking technician. “Seal the next hatch down, and make sure you're on the other side of it. That's an order.”

 “But...”

 “We'll decompress three decks if we don't, damn it! Move it, on the double!”

 Without waiting to learn whether or not he had followed her orders, she continued to work, Quinn impatiently hanging at the door, toolkit in hand. She had a vague idea of the procedure he was planning to attempt, but she wouldn't have wanted to attempt it in a spacesuit, not in the time. Working in vacuum, air escaping all around him, would be a nightmare.

 “Crack the hatch one centimeter to vent the atmosphere,” he replied. “Then open it all the way, and hang onto the controls. Close it when I tell you.” With a thin smile, he added, “You'll know when the time comes.”

 “Almost got it,” she replied, tapping the last sequence of controls to operate the manual override. Red and amber lights flashed across the panel, a final warning from the safety systems that she was doing something that would almost certainly result in her death, but she progressed through the final stages of the checklist, taking deep breaths to force air into her system.

 “Seventy seconds!” Salazar said. “Come on, Jack, I need main engine start now or we're dead! What's the delay?”

 “Now!” she yelled, tapping a control. The hatch cracked open, forming a path for the air to seep out into the ruined corridor beyond, and with a loud report, the next hatch slammed shut, sealing them off from the rest of the ship. Alarms sounded as the air spilled away, and she forced herself to breathe out, releasing the air in her lungs to avoid damage. Her skin tingled as the pressure fell away, her eardrums popping from the rapid atmospheric shift.

 Red lights flashed on, and she pulled the lever to open the hatch all the way, Quinn diving out and towards the damaged transfer relay. Her vision blurred, and she watched him work, a simple task that was enormously more complicated by the conditions. Through the twisted gap in the hull she could see the stars, far more of them than usual, and she only slowly realized that she was seeing the debris field, Alamo caught in the outer layers, getting deeper and deeper as the seconds rolled by.

 Quinn wasn't even attempting to hold onto his tools, tossing them away as he finished with each one, hunched over the shattered relay as he fought to bring it back online, a last-ditch attempt to save the ship. Green lights flickered one by one, the main lights coming back on, dispelling the crimson gloom through which they were working. Sparks shot across the damaged relays, but they could live with the power drain.

 For a second, Quinn staggered at his work, and Harper pushed forward, thinking to help him, only to find herself caught in the tangle of cables she had exposed to open the door. Quinn looked back at her, helpless, trapped eyes, then shook his head, turning to his work, completing the repairs he was giving his life to make. Under shirtsleeve conditions, it would have taken a couple of seconds, but with his strength being seeped with every movement, he struggled to make progress.

 She had no way of knowing how long she had been exposed to space. It could have been hours from the feel on the skin, and she felt sharp spasms of pain running through her system as the vacuum took its toll. It would be worse for Quinn, directly exposed, and as the local star shone through the gap, bathing him in its light, she saw him recoil, knowing the effect it was having on him.

 One red light remained, unwilling to switch back on, and Quinn labored on, his movements growing sluggish as he spent the last of his energy, reaching for a hypo-spanner to make a minute adjustment. Finally, the light turned green, and the power flow resumed. The ship was coming back to life again, one system at a time, and this time the ceiling lights came back strong, the displays along the walls bursting into life, flashing system updates as the primary network restarted.

 Harper gestured for him to return, but he shook his head, gesturing at the override controls. She waved at him, urging him back, but he shook his head again, waving his wrist. She looked up at the display on the wall, the clock flickering into life, realizing that there were scant seconds left before Alamo had to make its burn. If she didn't close the hatch now, she'd die with Quinn. There was no way to save him, and the engineer had to have known that when he made the attempt.

 Closing the hatch was far easier than opening it had been, simply ripping out the datarod enough to send the blast door slamming shut. Even that was an effort almost too great for her, but finally she tugged it free, the faint hiss of atmosphere seeping back into the corridor within a second, slowly building up once again. Her skin stung, her eyes watering, ears popping again as the pressure came back. Waiting a few seconds, the longest of her life, she took an experimental breath, then a deeper one, oxygen flooding her lungs, instantly reviving her, bringing her back to life.

 She looked at the door, through the transparent panel, Quinn still floating in space, his head dipping forward, the last trace of life draining away. There still might be a chance if she could find a spacesuit, but as the loud rumbling of the engines resumed, she knew that all hope had gone as his body drifted through the gap, out into space, destined to join the gathering debris field that threatened to encompass the ship.

 A pair of hands reached out to her as she fell to the floor, and she looked up to see the face of Captain Orlova looking down at her, bloodshot eyes locking with hers. Shaking her head, Harper tried to rise.

 “You're dead,” she said. “The bomb detonated three minutes ago.”

 “Frank took my place,” she replied. “His idea, not mine. He took the hit for me.” Looking at the hatch, she asked, “Quinn?”

 “There wasn't a hope of saving him,” she replied. “The power network failed. This was the only way to save the ship.” Grimacing in pain, she continued, “Damn it, Captain, you look like hell.”

 “You should see yourself in a mirror,” Orlova said, reaching an arm around the hacker, helping her to her feet. “Come on. We've got to get up to the bridge as fast as we can. This isn't over yet, not until the ship is clear of the debris, and I might need your help. Can you walk?”

 With a thin smile, Harper replied, “I'll manage. I suspect sickbay is overloaded, anyway.”

 Taking another deep breath, she replied, “Probably.”

 “I'm with you, Captain. Let's go.” Arm in arm, the two old friends lurched back towards the maintenance shaft, ready to attempt the long climb to the bridge.

Chapter 24

 “Spinelli, report,” Salazar said, turning back to the sensor display.

 “Impact in one minute, ten seconds, sir,” the technician replied, shaking his head.

 “Wait one,” Fitzroy said, a trickle of green running across his status panel. “The power grid! We're back online, sir! Main engines coming back!”

 On cue, the lights flicked back on, white replacing red, and Salazar said, “Maqua, punch it! We've still got a chance. Best speed, any heading, now!”

 “Full power, sir,” the helmsman replied, his console finally responding to his commands. “Maximum acceleration, initiating override.”

 “Be careful, Sub-Lieutenant,” Fitzroy said, working his controls. “I've no idea why the damn system came back on, and if we push it too hard we might lose it again.” Glancing across at his panel, he added, “I have sensors again, and internal communications are coming back.”

 The viewscreen snapped into life, back to the camera feed it was displaying before the power failure, an image of the world they were racing to escape, a halo of debris surrounding it, periodic bursts of white and gold as another installation, another ship died, adding to the destruction behind them. A thunderous roar reverberated from the battered hull as Alamo soared free of the debris field, engines burning at full power once more, picking up the speed that would carry it to safety.

 “Come on,” Salazar said. “Come on. Fly, you old beast, fly.”

 “All enemy fighters destroyed,” Scott reported, shaking her head. “All missiles clear, and I don't think there is a single satellite left in orbital space.” Looking back at Salazar, she continued, “We've really clobbered them, Pavel. They'll never recover from this.”

 The ship shook from an impact, a siren sounding for a second before Fitzroy cut it off, saying, “Aft section. Nothing serious. For once.”  Looking up at his monitors, he added, “We're starting to get damage reports from all over the ship.” He paused, then said, “Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo reports that he is prioritizing Elevator Control, and that he expects full access to all decks will be available in a few minutes.”

 “Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo? Is Jack out of contact?” Salazar asked.

 Looking down at the deck, the engineer replied, “Senior Lieutenant Quinn is listed as missing, presumed dead, sir.”

 “Casualty reports coming in, Pavel,” Foster said, shaking her head. “It's bad. Estimate twenty dead, twice as many injured. Doctor Duquesne is in surgery now, and all the triage facilities are overloaded.” She paused, and added, “Storage Nine was exposed to space during the last wave of attacks. Eight dead just from that section, including Doctor Zargham and the secondary medical team. She's on her own down there.”

 “Enemy activity, sir!” Spinelli said. “Fighter squadron coming around from behind the moon, estimate fifteen bandits, thirty missiles total. Looks like they managed to get a few clear after the encounter with Due Diligence.” Turning to a panel, he said, “I haven't got good resolution, Lieutenant. Only about a fifth of my pickups are operational, but they're on an intercept course. Estimate five minutes to contact.”

 “Scott?” Salazar asked.

 “Not a hope, sir,” she replied. “I'm down to two working tubes now, and we lost the combat fabricator during the power drain. That area of the ship is still on emergency power.” With a sigh, she said, “We're helpless. There's nothing we can do. Right now a couple of Xandari could bring us down with a well-placed kick.”

 The elevator door opened, and Orlova stepped through, Harper beside her, both of them struggling to stand. Salazar rushed over to support them, guiding them into chairs with the help of Foster. All eyes on the bridge were on Orlova, seemingly back from the dead, and Salazar looked down at her.

 “Nelyubov?” he asked.

 “Knocked me out with a tranq gun, and took out the bomber himself. Report?”

 “See for yourself, Captain,” he replied, gesturing at the screen. “Total saturation. The entire orbital infrastructure is gone, as well as the bulk of the enemy fleet.” Gesturing at the sensor display, he added, “We've got bandits incoming, I'm afraid. We might not live long enough to enjoy our victory.”

 “There it goes,” Maqua said, the engine dying again. “Total power drain, sir, but not as catastrophic as last time.” Tapping the controls, he added, “Main circuit overload.”

 “Confirmed,” Fitzroy said. “The patch must have failed.” 

 “Did it do its job, Spinelli?” Salazar asked.

 “We're clear, sir,” the technician replied. “Only just, but we've passed escape velocity. It's going to be a while before we can link up with the rest of the fleet, though.” Frowning, he added, “Enemy fighters now four minutes from combat range.”

 “I have the conn,” Orlova said, struggling to her feet. “Fitzroy, tell Lombardo that we've got to get the combat systems online as quickly as possible. They've got to be the top priority.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” Fitzroy replied.

 “You know about Jack Quinn?” Salazar asked.

 “I was there,” Harper said, her face pale, cracks of burst blood vessels on her cheeks. “He gave his life to save the ship. Went out into vacuum without a suit to patch the power network, and didn't have time to get back before the engines came back on.” Looking up at Salazar, she continued, “It wasn't your fault, Pavel. There was no time, nothing we could do.”

 “Nelyubov and Quinn,” Salazar replied, shaking his head. “And far too many more.”

 “Signal from Profitable Venture, ma'am,” Weitzman said. “Colonel Kilquan on the line.”

 “Can you put him up on the big screen?” Orlova asked.

 “I think so, Captain,” he replied. A second later, the image of the Koltoc commander appeared, his bridge a ruin behind him, technicians frantically scurrying in the background.

 “Shouldn't you be dead?” he asked.

 “A last-minute change of plans, Colonel,” Orlova replied. “What's your status?”

 “We're just hanging on, Captain. There's nothing we can do to help you. Even if we were at full strength, we can't make the course change in time.” Shaking his head, he replied, “Allow me at least to be the first to congratulate you on a successful mission. If nothing else, the war is over.”

 “Three minutes to contact, Captain,” Spinelli said. “Enemy fighters moving into arrowhead formation, setting up for an attack run.” Shaking his head, he added, “Doesn't seem fair. Not after everything we've gone through.”

 “Thank you, Colonel,” Orlova said. “We'll contact you later, if we can. Alamo out.” She looked around the room, and continued, “By our actions, we have saved the lives of billions of people, and ensured the safety of our homeworlds for generations to come. Even if we die here, today, at least we can go to the next life knowing that we've done everything we set out to do.”

 Salazar moved over to Harper, sitting next to her, abandoning his console, and said, “Are you sure you shouldn't be in sickbay? Don't take this the wrong way, but you look like death.”

 “Exposure to vacuum will do that to you,” she replied, placing her arm over his shoulder with an effort. “I'll go down when all this is over. Right now they've got people in greater need than I.” Looking up at the sensor display, she added, “That's it. The last major strike force of the Xandari Empire. Fifteen fighters and a few short-range cruisers.”

 “Lots of communications traffic, Captain,” Weitzman said. “I think the outer system is starting to see the battle. By now they must know that all hope is lost.” He turned, and added, “Major Cooper sends his complements from Due Diligence, ma'am. I'm getting casualty reports from the assault team.”

 “How bad?”

 “He came back with forty-nine survivors, ma'am.”

 Shaking her head, she replied, “I thought we'd had it bad. Half of his people wiped out.”

 “It was worth it,” Salazar said. “All of it. The Xandari will never be a threat again.”

 “One minute to contact,” Scott said. “I've got two missiles ready to fire, Captain, and that just about sums up our combat potential. I can't even direct them from here. Not enough bandwidth to run the remote control systems.”

 “Save them,” Orlova said. “Just in case, try for defensive fire, but wait for them to open up.” She looked over the ship status screen, and added, “She's really in a mess, isn't she.”

 “I tried to keep her in the best condition I could, Captain,” Salazar said. “I promise I'll go out and touch up the paintwork before I hand back the keys.”

 “Relax, Pavel,” she replied. “No point dying all tensed up.”

 “Thirty seconds, Captain,” Spinelli said. “Still on trajectory, no change.”

 All eyes were on the trajectory track, only Fitzroy still working his panel, trying to coax something out of the ship, a last measure of defiance against the enemy that was about to destroy them. Orlova looked up at the holotable as the tactical view snapped back into life once again, showing the swirling clouds of debris that shrouded the Xandari homeworld.

 “We've left one hell of a legacy,” she said, turning back to Salazar. “You did good, Pavel. As good as anyone could have hoped.” 

 “Firing range,” Spinelli said. He paused, then added, “No change to target aspect, Captain.”

 “Maybe they're waiting to get in close,” Maqua replied.

 “Why?” Scott asked. “They must know our condition, know that we don't have a chance of defeating their attack. We're wide open.” Looking across at her console, she said, “They'll be out of range in less than ten seconds. And on their current course, into the debris field in forty.”

 “Can they get out of that trajectory?” Salazar asked.

 “I don't see how, not unless our estimates of their fuel load are way out.” Shaking her head, she added, “They're out of firing range. I don't believe it.”

 Weitzman turned from his station, his eyes widening, and said, “Signal from the lunar surface, ma'am. The Procurator of the Outer System would like to speak to you. By name.”

 Turning to the viewscreen, she said, “Put him on.”

 The image of a battle-scarred Xandari appeared, standing at attention, a pair of flags flying behind him. As they watched, he pulled his pistol out of his belt, held it for a second, then tossed it to the floor, placing his hands by his side.

 “You are Lieutenant-Captain Margaret Orlova, of the Battlecruiser Alamo?” he asked. “And I see Lieutenant Pavel Salazar and Lieutenant Kristen Harper behind you, bearing the scars of battle. Is my information correct?”

 “It is,” Orlova said. “I am the commander of all Triplanetary forces in this system.”

 Nodding, the Xandari said, “On behalf of my government, and on behalf of all of our people throughout space, every outpost, settlement and colony, every military installation, I am empowered to offer our unconditional surrender to the Triplanetary Confederation, effective upon transmission to our installations. We will accept whatever terms and conditions you see fit to impose, and throw ourselves unreservedly upon your mercy.”

 Silence reigned across the bridge once again, and Orlova struggled to hold her composure, replying, “On behalf of the Triplanetary Confederation and our allies, I accept your terms of surrender, and call for an immediate ceasefire pending the signature of a formal peace settlement between our respective governments.” 

 “It will be enacted immediately, ma'am.” Nodding his head, he continued, “The strong shall rule, and the weak shall either perish or serve. So was it mandated by our ancestors, and so shall we obey. It was our hubris to believe we were the strong. Your actions against our homeworld have proven our inferiority for all to see, and we shall respect the wisdom of our ancestors and the might of your weapons. We serve, Captain.” He dropped to his knee, looked up, a tear in his eye, and say, “Your will shall be obeyed throughout our Empire.”

 “Very well,” Orlova said, struggling to remain calm. “I shall transmit further instructions forthwith. For the present, all military equipment is to be destroyed, and all forces will follow the ceasefire or accept the consequences. I expect to meet with your representatives within the hour to commence negotiations. Alamo out.”

 “Wait a minute,” Scott said, shaking her head. “Did we just win? The whole damned war?”

 “I think we did,” Harper said, shaking her head.

 “Their philosophy,” Salazar added, looking up. “We should have realized, Captain. Once we demonstrated our power, showed that we were willing and able to fight on their terms, they have no choice but to surrender.”

 “You think they'll follow the terms?” Maqua asked.

 Nodding, Salazar replied, “I'd stake my life on it. In their socio-cultural context, they don't have a choice, not and hold true to who they are.”

 “Socio-cultural context?” Orlova asked, shaking her head. “You've been hanging around with the science team again, haven't you.” Turning to Weitzman, she said, “Spaceman, please connect me to the entire ship, as well as the Koltoc forces in system.”

 “Aye, Captain,” he said, a triumphant grin on his face. “You're on, ma'am.”

 “This is Captain Orlova,” she said, speaking into her microphone. “A moment ago, the surviving leader of the Xandari Empire formally offered unconditional surrender of all enemy forces. I have accepted on behalf of our alliance. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my unreserved pleasure to announce to you all that the Xandari War is over.”

Epilogue

 There was a knock on the door, and Orlova looked up from her desk, pushing the datapad away, grateful for the interruption. The legal texts of the draft peace treaty were headache-inducing reading, taxing her knowledge to the limit. Everything they agreed would be subject to ratification by the President and the Senate, but their approval might not make it out this far for a year. Before they left, something had to be in place, even if it was only provisional.

 Salazar walked in, taking a seat opposite her, datapad in hand. Already he had adopted the traditional harried expression of the Executive Officer, deep bags under his eyes testament to the same lack of sleep as the rest of the ship's complement. At least soon they'd be back in the safety of hendecaspace, beginning their long journey home to the Confederation.

 “They're almost ready down there, Captain. The last of the delegates will be boarding in a couple of minutes.” He scrolled through the file on his datapad, and added, “Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo reports that the ship will be clear for hendecaspace in an hour, but we're going to be making running repairs all the way home.” Looking around the office, he added, “I foresee a long, long refit for this old girl when we get back to Mars.”

 Nodding, she replied, “At least the trip home should be nice and quiet. What about the Professor? Any change?”

 “Doctor Duquesne asked me to tell you that she isn't a psychiatrist, and that we don't have any experts on board remotely qualified to judge, but that in her opinion he's had a complete nervous breakdown. I've confined him to quarters and assigned a guard, but he seems quiet enough now. It's as though he's blanked out his whole memory of the operation.” He paused, then asked, “Are you pressing formal charges?”

 “Not as long as he agrees to retire quietly. We don't know what he went through in that prison camp, Pavel, and he's an old man who has earned a long rest. Mind, I can say that about all of us. A nice, long leave sounds like a good idea right now.” She looked up at him, and said, “Settling into your new duties yet?”

 “Something else to get used to, but so far all I've noticed is that that paperwork has quintupled. Frank was weeks behind, and I'm not sure I'm going to catch up before we get back.” He paused, then said, “How are you holding up, Captain? If you don't mind my asking.”

 “Not at all,” she replied. “It's strange, Pavel. I had no idea how he felt about me, but in retrospect it seems so damned obvious.” Shaking her head, she added, “He claimed he was following your advice. You knew?”

 “I guessed, back at Yeager Station, and he didn't deny it when I asked.”

 “Eighteen months ago?” she replied. “You've known for that long?”

 “It wasn't my place to interfere. I simply told him that he should make sure you knew before it was too late. In my judgment, he didn't take my advice.” With a frown, he added, “I must admit, I wasn't expecting any of this when we jumped into the system. In all honestly, I thought we'd die here. I figured we had a good chance of completing the mission, but not living through it.”

 “You think you're surprised?” she replied. “I was three minutes away from a suicide mission when Frank pulled that tranq gun on me.” Looking down at the datapad on her desk, she continued, “I take it we've got the final casualty list now. I haven't seen any updates for a while.”

 “I believe so,” he said. “Everyone in sickbay now is stable, though we might have to leave some behind on Copernicus for long-term hospitalization on our way back. In total, we lost forty-one members of the assault team, four of the squadron, and thirty-one Alamo crewmen. Including Frank and Jack.” With a sigh, he said, “I'm going to miss them both. If you want someone to countersign the recommendations for the Star Cross, I'd be honored.”

 “I could give a dozen of them out without thinking twice,” she said. “But that's one piece of paperwork I don't mind signing.” Tapping the desk, she added, “I'll be starting work on the letters home tomorrow. Something I'm not looking forward to. So many dead, after coming so far.”

 “You were right, Captain,” Salazar said. “I admit I had doubts, but you were right. We completed the mission, ended the war.” Cracking a thin smile, he added, “Though Commodore Marshall might be a little frustrated that you've only left some mopping-up operations for his task force.” Glancing down at his datapad, he added, “Oh, we've got final confirmation of the surrender order from the cruiser squadron, as well. I think seeing what had happened to the homeworld silenced the last of the critics.”

 Turning to the viewport, the planet visible in the heart of the screen with its shroud of debris, Orlova said, “It seems almost inconceivable that we could have such an effect. Scott and Spinelli have gone over the long-term projections again. This time we got a figure of a hundred and twenty years before anyone can pass through, in either direction, though I suspect that won't stop some making the attempt.”

 “Going back down might be possible, if you moved fast enough, had tough ablative armor, but I wouldn't want to risk it,” Salazar replied. “And what happens when the shroud clears, do you think? Is this a permanent peace, or are we simply postponing the crisis for a few generations?” 

 “I'd like to think that we'll find a way to live with the Xandari long before then. Tell me, would you have thought even six months ago that we'd have a delegation of their leading citizens boarding the ship to sign a surrender agreement in our lifetimes?” Glancing at her watch, she added, “They're scheduled to dock in four minutes.”

 “Probably not, ma'am,” he replied, tugging at his jacket. “Tell me one thing, though. If they are the ones who are surrendering, why are we the ones struggling into our dress uniforms for the day?”

 “Come on, Pavel, we want to look our best. They'll be playing the videos of this ceremony for years. We need to put on a good show for the cameras. Incidentally, we'd better get going.” She stood, taking the lead as they walked from the office, out onto the bridge, a dozen technicians frantically working to prepare the ship for departure under the supervision of Foster, leaning over the helm with an exasperated look in her eye.

 “Troubles, Sub-Lieutenant?” Orlova asked.

 “Nothing we can't fix, ma'am. Spaceman Buckley assures me that this console will be working properly in twenty minutes.” Glaring down at the hapless crewman, she continued, “Isn't that right, Spaceman?”

 “Yes, ma'am,” he nervously replied.

 “I hope so,” Orlova said, stepping into the elevator. Here again the scars of battle lay, the carpet ripped and torn, smoke marks on the walls from the fire that had swept through Elevator Control at the height of the fighting. Salazar sighed, pulled out his datapad, and added yet another item to the maintenance checklist.

 “At this stage it'll be faster just to list the fully-functioning systems,” he said with a sigh. “As soon as this is over, I've got a hot date with an inspection team. We're hoping to get Astrogation up and running again, if we can fix the last three hull breaches.”

 “Better not tell Harper. Don't want her getting jealous.”

 Shaking his head with a smile, Salazar turned back to his work, and for a second, Orlova could see the angry young midshipman who had first reported on board, all those months ago, still trying to find his place in the world, trying to overcome the demons of his past. He'd matured into a fine officer, and for the first time in a long time, actually seemed comfortable with himself.

 The door slid open, and the two of them stepped out onto the hangar deck, the remnants of the senior staff waiting for them. Cooper walked over to meet them, Bradley by his side, still limping from the battle damage. Salazar's sleeve was still bulky, the bandage underneath concealing the latest addition to his roster of scars. Looking around at the crew, there seemed to be no one not nursing a war wound of some sort.

 “Sorry I'm late,” Harper said, racing in through the side entrance, tie in hand. “Anyone know how to get this damned thing in place?”

 “Sure,” Salazar said, moving behind her. “Hold still for a moment.”

 General Kelot and Colonel Kilquan were standing behind the combined Neander-Koltoc honor guard, taking the left side of the airlock. Lance-Sergeant Hunt was combining the Triplanetary contingent facing them, all of them resplendent in their dress uniforms. The flags were back in position, high on the wall, and Orlova looked up at the black-and-green of the Confederation, shaking her head. Soon they'd be home.

 With a loud report, the elevator airlock engaged, and the stubby Xandari shuttle rose to the deck, the honor guard standing to attention, all of them ready in the event of some last-minute trick. Scott had scanned the vessel thoroughly before allowing it to dock, but still an element of doubt crept into her mind. As the guard moved through its drill, the shuttle settled into position, hatch opening to reveal a trio of Xandari, stepping out as protocol demanded, each with an ornate ceremonial pistol at their belt.

 The Procurator walked towards Orlova, pulled out his pistol, and tossed it to the deck, one of the Espatiers ducking to retrieve it, almost certainly destined to become a prized souvenir of the war. With a curt nod, he stepped over to the table placed in position at the heart of the room, as the assembled crews watched. Sitting on the table was a piece of paper, the printout of the provisional surrender document. Likely the politicians and bureaucrats would spend years agonizing over every comma, but for today, its signature would mark the effective end of hostilities.

 Picking up the pen, the Procurator said, “On behalf of the Xandari Empire, I sign this document, formally offering the unconditional surrender of my people.” With a flourish, his pen danced over the page, and Orlova stepped forward, her eyes locked on their erstwhile enemy, arrogant even in total defeat.

 Taking the pen, she scrawled her name, and said, “I sign this document on behalf of the Triplanetary Confederation, accepting the surrender of the Xandari Empire.”

 Next, General Kelot, adding his signature, saying, “I sign this document on behalf of the Free Peoples, accepting the surrender of the Xandari Empire.”

 Colonel Kilquan, a frown locked on his face, glared at the Procurator as he approached the table, then glanced at Orlova, as if still anticipating some manner of trick, even at the last, before finally taking the pen into his hand.

 “I sign this document on behalf of the Koltoc Commonwealth, accepting the surrender of the Xandari Empire.”

 One last figure stepped forward, Lieutenant Ryan, who picked up the pen with relish, and said, “I sign this document on behalf of the Republic of Copernicus, accepting the surrender of the Xandari Empire.”

 Salazar stepped forward, glanced down at the document, and added, “All warring powers now having made their signature upon this document, the peace treaty and ceasefire take effect as of this time, this date, with due allowance made for communication lag.” On instinct, he walked across to the Procurator and offered his hand, and after a quick glance, the Xandari leader took it, a handshake that was as much as anything else, marking the final end of the war.

 Without another word, the Procurator turned back to his shuttle, stepping aboard, this time with a detachment of Koltoc following, lead by Colonel Kilquan, the first contingent of observers and peacekeepers working to guarantee the ceasefire. The two Koltoc ships were remaining behind pending the arrival of reinforcements, a duty that Orlova did not envy.

 Turning to Salazar as the shuttle dropped back through the elevator airlock, Orlova said, “Lieutenant, instruct all hands to prepare for hendecaspace transit. Let's go home.”

End Note

 Well, that's that. After nine books and more than a year and a half, the Xandari War story line which began with 'Aces High' is finally over, and in all honesty, it's something of a relief to be able to sign off on this one. I hadn't intended this one to stretch so long when I began, vaguely having five or six books in mind, but it ended up running and running, new characters and story lines fighting to get out. And yes, this was the ending I had mind right from the start, though I must confess that Pavel Salazar became a far more prominent character than I had originally expected when I first started writing about him.

 I knew going in that not all of the major characters would come through, and this book certainly did end up thinning the ranks somehow. Nelyubov was always intended to end up making the heroic sacrifice to save Orlova, but I must be honest, Quinn was something of a surprise even to me, though I think I gave him a pretty good sendoff. As for Powell, well, again, he served a goal needed to this plot, though if I'm going to be honest, I never managed to bring that character out as I had intended when I introduced him.

 So, what happens next, then? Believe it or not, there was a time when I had intended to bring Alamo to an end with this book, as recently as six months ago. Certainly I knew that I was going to be making some significant changes to the series, though one of the primary catalysts for change ended up being the 'Strike Commander' series of books I've just concluded – because there were some characters I created that I really want to do more with. (Principally, for those who have read 'Aggressor', Clarke and Blake. I think I made it pretty clear at the end of that book that it was the intention, but I didn't expressly state it.)

 Which means that as soon as this arc ends, another one begins, and one that looks from here as though it is going to be every bit as epic as this arc has been. At least, I certainly hope so. What I hoped to portray with this story line was something that I think is all too often lost in storytelling of this type, that the consequences of actions can play out, and that sometimes, the good guys lose. The ending of 'Operation Damocles', with the Xandari taking Alamo and driving the crew into exile, was something I very much wanted to do, not least because it threw all the characters out of their home environment, and gave both Harper and Salazar a real chance for significant character growth.

 I'll get back to that double-act in a moment, because I want to write a few words about Cooper and Bradley. For the 'Cabal Run' story line, Cooper really held the same role that Salazar did in this story line, and as this arc continued, I was finding that the story roles the two characters were playing were clashing somewhat, and that it was getting harder and harder to give them both good roles in a story. I made the decision about four books ago that neither of them were going to be remaining on the ship after this arc.

 The 'heroic death scene' was tempting, I must admit, and I could easily have written this book with that in mind – early drafts of the Koltoc run on the missile grid had that as a possible outcome – but I decided close to the beginning of the creative phase that the two of them had more than earned a happy ending. I put Cooper through hell for years, and I think he and his wife deserve a chance to settle down. Though I naturally won't rule out bringing them back in the future, either into the main Alamo plot or in a potential spin-off series of their own. Certainly there are enough possible loose ends I could play with; I left a few in deliberately to give me options if I decided to take that path later on.

 Captain Orlova was an early decision; I'd decided to phase Daniel Marshall out relatively early on, partly because I thought he was getting difficult to bring into the story realistically, and bringing her on as his protege was a natural outcome of the early stories in the series. Having said all that, I am intending to bring back Commodore Marshall as a major character, starting in the next book, but I won't go into that here.

 If I was to pick my two favorite characters, though (always a very difficult decision), I must confess that both Salazar and Harper take that role, and it will I suspect come as no surprise that my intention is for them to play a prominent role in the next story arc. Putting them together romantically was actually something of a spur-of-the-moment decision, though I'd been dropping hints for a while that there was something going on. I'm honestly not sure where I'm taking this arc in future books, though I have a few ideas.

 Fundamentally, both characters are easy to bring to the heart of whatever action the plot demands. To be fair, they'd probably work just as well in an 'Intelligence Agent' series as partners investigating conspiracies threatening the Confederation, which is actually something I had given serious consideration to when I was thinking of bringing the Alamo series to an end. With the series continuing, though, they will be staying on the ship – though there is a fifteen-month gap between this story and the next that I might fill with other works at some point in the future.

 As for what happens next? Well, Alamo will be going off on some adventures in deep space again, as I really think that it represents her natural habitat. Aside from a lot of old friends returning to the series, all I will promise for the moment is that you will be surprised by what happens next. I know I was when I dreamed it up!

Thank you for reading 'Final Orbit'. For information on future releases, please join the Battlecruiser Alamo Mailing List at http://eepurl.com/A9MdX for updates. If you enjoyed this book, please review it on the site where you purchased it.

The writer's blog is available at http://tinyurl.com/pjl96dj

The saga returns in Battlecruiser Alamo: Into the Maelstrom, available in January 2017…

And now, a taste of Strike Commander: Starfighter, Available Now...

Starfighter Sample Chapter

 The clock ticked down the final hours to the end of the Interplanetary War. Lounging with an air of feigned nonchalance in the squadron ready room, the pilots of the 25th Squadron of the Martian Defense Force watched the screen, a dark-suited newscaster bringing them the latest news from the Armistice talks.

 Major Jack Conway, squadron commander and a six-year veteran, tried to ignore it, despite the rapt attention of his pilots. Out here at Proxima, there was a five-day time lag on communications. The peace treaty could have been signed by now, but until he had the word from the Combined Chiefs of Staff they were still at war. He glanced down at his datapad, flicking through the latest tactical reports. Everyone on both sides was watching and waiting, all across the system. Going through the motions.

 At the rear of the room, the door slid open, and his wife, Captain Kathryn Mallory, the squadron's Operations Officer, stepped in with a grim scowl on her face. The pilots looked at each other, knowing what was about to come, and dreading it. Who wanted to die on the last day of the war?

 “Well, Kat?” he asked, rising to his feet, taking a final swig of his coffee.

 She nodded, and said, “Orders from Brigadier Gordon.” Looking around the room, she added, “Squadron is to scramble in fifteen minutes. Strike op.”

 “Come on,” Captain Poole, one of his flight leaders, replied. “Not today. Not now.”

 “Orders are orders, Sarah,” Conway replied, turning to her. “Everyone get down to the launch bay and get yourselves kitted up. We've got a job to do.” Quick footsteps raced into the room, and his usual wingman, Lieutenant Dirk Xylander jogged in, his arm in a sling. “Don't get any ideas, pal. You aren't going.”

 Glancing down at his arm, he replied, “I can manage.”

 “Like hell you can,” Conway said. “The medicos say you rest that wing of yours for a few days, and that's what you're going to do. Not my fault you were so damn careless.”

 “Then take one of the two-seaters, and let me fly right-seat,” he said. “Damn it, Jack, I don't want to miss this.”

 “I do,” Ken Alvarez, the other flight leader, said.

 Clapping his hand on his shoulder, Conway said, “Dirk, you're not missing much. What's the mission, Kat?”

 Tapping a button on her datapad, she pulled up a holographic display of the local system, moons and planets flashing into the air, and said, “Tanker running out of Aldrin, on a resupply run to Charlie-Lima-Zulu. Unmanned, no escort expected, only light defenses.”

 “Then what's the damn point?” Poole asked.

 Turning to her, Conway said, “You know the drill. Just like the last half-dozen times we've done this. The brass back home want to make sure that the UN knows we're ready to continue the fight, and that we're not going to give anything away at the bargaining table.” He looked around the room, and said, “Twelve years, boys and girls. Twelve years we've been fighting those bastards, and we're almost at the end of the road. We're not going to stop now, not when we're so close.”

 “At least let the kids stay behind,” Poole said, gesturing to a pair of nervous pilots at the rear of the room. Third Lieutenants both, new to the squadron, both of them untested by combat. Conway nodded, stepping over to them, but they glanced at each other as he approached, shaking his head.

 “Sir, we'd like to go,” one of them said.

 “You don't have to do this.”

 “Operations orders require the whole squadron,” Mallory said.

 “To hell with that,” he replied, turning to her. “I could do this mission with half the squadron if I had to, and we're already a man down.”

 The older of the two, O'Brien, he vaguely recalled, said, “Sir, we don't want to be sitting back and watching while the squadron goes out to fight.” She looked up at him, a forced smile on her face, young enough that she should be worrying about college, not planning on flying out to war.

 “That, and you want to miss out on a little action before the end of the war,” Poole said, shaking her head in disgust. “You damn rooks are all the same.”

 “Weren't you, three years ago?” Conway asked, raising an eyebrow. “You feel the same way, Vasquez?”

 “Yes, sir,” he replied. “I do.”

 “Then who am I to stop you,” he said. “Report to the flight deck.” They smiled, and he added, “Don't get any crazy ideas out there, though. You stick to me like glue, keep your eyes open, and stay in reserve unless you have to fight. With a little luck, this will all be over in an hour and we can get back in time for lunch. I expect to see you both at the table. Understood?”

 “Yes, sir,” they replied in unison.

 “Good.” Turning around, he said, “Ken, get everyone loaded up. I'll be down in a minute.”

 “Aye, sir.”

 The squadron filed out of the room, leaving Conway alone with his wife. He walked over to the monitor, the man still droning about the progress of the peace talks, an endless stream of meaningless verbiage designed to distract the viewer from the absence of actual news.

 “Six weeks,” he said, shaking his head. “They've been working on the final agreement for six damn weeks. What's taking them so long?”

 “Peace takes time,” she replied, draping her hand on his shoulder. “Neither side wants to concede anything. Even if all the hard talking is over.”

 “What do I care about a few scattered rocks at Wolf 359, or some mining outpost on Mercury? I want this war done, Kat. I want to go home, and I want to see our daughter again.”

 “Don't you think I want that as well?”

 He looked at her, a smile on his face, and said, “I want that for both of us. God knows we've earned some leave time.”

 “I'm staying in the Fleet,” she replied, growing stern.

 “We both are,” he said. “That doesn't mean I don't want two or three months for us. Some time we can actually spend together as a family. After all of this, I think we deserve that much.” He shook his head, and added, “You watch those communicators like a hawk, Kat. If we get the news, I'll be back before you can say abort.”

 “Don't worry, I will.” She moved away, paused, and turned. “Be careful out there, Jack. I don't want to lose you, not now. Not when we're so close to the end.”

 “I'm coming back,” he replied. “Depend on that.” As he stepped to the door, he added, “Keep an eye on Dirk, will you? Find him something to do in Operations during the strike. I don't want him moping around the ready room by himself.”

 “I'm still picking up your strays, am I?” she said with a smile.

 “You knew what you were getting into when you married me,” he said, moving close. He held her in his arms for a long moment, gazing into her eyes, and added, “Don't worry. I'm coming back.”

 “I know. I'll try and have some good news waiting for you.”

 After a final kiss, the two of them parted, Conway jogging down the corridor towards the hangar deck, weaving through the crowds of technicians milling around the station. As he slid through the double doors, the squadron was lined up at the far end of the room, in front of a table with twelve glasses and a pitcher. At the head was a tall, balding dark-skinned man, beaming a smile at him, wearing a flight suit. His old flight instructor, Moses Sullivan, the holy terror of the Academy. And a very old friend.

 “Someone told me you needed an extra pilot.”

 “Mo, you made it at last!”

 He shrugged, and said, “Thought I'd get a little action before the end. I got out of that damn training job and pulled a few strings.”

 Looking around, Conway said, “You can take Dirk's place on my wing.”

 “Someone needs to keep you out of trouble,” a husky voice said. He turned to see the imposing figure of Ginger Cruz, deck chief, walking towards him, a bottle of vodka in hand. The smile on her face was disconcerting, but everyone was in the same mood today. Moving to the glasses, she poured a precise single measure in each of them. “All systems go, sir.”

 “Thanks, Chief,” he said.

 “Don't scratch…,” she began.

 “The paintwork,” the pilots replied, all but the rookies, in practiced chorus.

 Stepping over to the table, Conway took the first glass, swirled the liquid around, and waited for the others to collect theirs. He turned to face the fighters, and raised his drink in salute, praying that he would be making this toast for the last time.

 “Good hunting,” he said, turning back to the table and pouring his glass into the jug. One after another, the rest of the pilots did the same, until only Vasquez was left, frowning at his drink, a baffled expression on his face.

 “Pour it in, lad,” Sullivan said. “You'll have it when you get back.”

 Shaking his head, he did as directed, and Conway smiled. He'd felt the same puzzlement on his first flight, when his squadron leader had led the pilots in the toast. Twelve single shots poured into the jug, to be shared out equally on the return, among the survivors. Far too often, he'd ended up with a double at the end of the mission. One last gift of the dead to their comrades.

 “Saddle up,” he said, walking over to his fighter, the rest of the squadron fanning out to their respective craft. Dropping the lower hatch, he climbed inside, patting the outer hull for luck as always, and snuggled into his couch. Cruz had done her usual fine job with the pre-flight checks, every system ready for launch, the mission orders and navigational plots already loaded into the system.

 “Squadron Leader to Guidance,” he said, sliding on his headset. “Requesting launch clearance.”

 “Roger,” the calm voice of Lieutenant Meredith Dixon, the squadron's Mission Operations Officer, replied. “Clearance on request.”

 His wife's voice cut in, saying, “Good luck, 25th, and be careful. We'll have a party waiting for you when you get home.”

 “Save the first dance for me,” he replied. “Initiating launch sequence.”

 As one, the fighters dropped through the deck, the elevator airlocks opening up, sliding them out into the cold darkness of space beyond. He quickly flicked switches, working his controls, making sure all systems were ready for the battle, concentrating harder than normal on his checklist. Too many distractions today. He glanced across at the squadron status board, and frowned.

 “Come on, people, let's get moving. I know you've got other things on your mind, but blot them out. I don't need you distracted by a lot of politicians.”

 “Roger,” Poole said. “Keep it together, Red Flight.”

 Conway's fighter dropped free, floating in space outside the station while its brethren followed, thrusters pulsing to move them into the correct formation. As one, the engines roared, kicking them onto their interception trajectory, and after a quick glance to make sure the navigation systems were working properly, he settled back to look over the tactical display, planning the strike.

 The curse of all space warfare was that there was no such thing as stealth. Twelve fighters roaring towards their target was impossible to conceal, and the enemy would have an easy twenty minutes to prepare a defense. Misdirection had to replace stealth, a strategic sleight-of-hand that kept the enemy guessing about potential targets.

 In this case, the tanker was a good choice. Cruising in between stations, as far as it ever would be from the UN defense perimeter. Normally, there would be an escort, but the other two squadrons had been running decoy missions earlier, feinting attacks to draw the defending fighters away. They'd find out soon whether or not it had worked.

 As he watched, a cluster of dots appeared on the screen, ranging out of Aldrin Station on an intercept course. His fingers danced across the navigation controls as he plotted their course, working out their window of opportunity for a strike. Somewhere at the back of his mind, a voice was clamoring for him to take the chance to call an abort. No one would question it, not today. Not with the war as good as won.

 When the console finished its work, calculating that the fighters would be unable to intercept until the tanker had already been destroyed, his squadron on his way home, he felt a pang of disappointment. More than a hundred times before, he'd led his people out on missions like this one, and superficially, it was the same. At the back of his mind, he knew it was different. Everyone was thinking ahead to the future, to what they would do after the War. Most of them would be out of the Fleet in a matter of weeks, able to pick their lives back up where they had been forced to leave off.

 “Sullivan to Conway.”

 “Conway here,” he said. “What's up?”

 “Oh, I thought you'd want to talk for a moment. We're on laser-tightbeam, so no one else can hear us.” He paused, and added, “You need a distraction, Jack. I can always tell.”

 “Mind-reader,” he replied. “This is as simple a mission as I've ever seen. Run in, drop our birds, burn for home.” 

 “We all know...”

 “There's no such thing as a textbook mission,” Conway interrupted. “Which means we'll be careful, but there's no point dwelling on what might go wrong either. We'll handle it, or we'll run for home.”

 “I'm glad you remember some that crap I tried to teach you.”

 “Some of it had to stick.”

 Sullivan chuckled, then added, “I hate this part. Just coasting through space, letting the computers do their thing. Three minutes of terror and an hour of boredom.”

 “Old Major Marcel used to bring a book with him. Said it calmed him down.” He paused, then said, “I miss that old bastard.”

 “I know,” he replied. “We've lost too many friends along the way. Now come on, let's change the topic. How's that kid of yours?”

 “Fine. Still with Kat's folks, back at Syrtis. We're going to put in for shore-side postings for our next tour, have a chance to spend some time together for a few years.”

 “And after that?”

 “Mike Gordon thinks I should be able to get into a training command without any trouble. Not as exciting as this, but I can handle a bit of nice relaxing boredom. And I'll still get to fly fighters, as well as go home every night.” He smiled, then added, “Kat's the ambitious one, not me. She's got her eye on a ship command, maybe a battlecruiser. Give her a few years, she'll do it, as well.”

 “I'm still surprised you're both staying in the Fleet.”

 “Someone's got to watch the moat,” he replied. “I've been doing this too long, Mo. It's all I know. Kat feels the same way. What about you?”

 “I'm a twenty-year man, Jack, you know that. I reckon they'll have to drag my corpse out of the cockpit. Or out from behind the desk, if I get unlucky.”

 A chime sounded in Conway's cockpit, and he said, “Four minutes to contact. Better get the troops ready. And thanks, Mo. I needed that.”

 “My pleasure.”

 Switching channels, he said, “Leader to Squadron. Target in two hundred and thirty seconds. I want a salvo fire from all fighters, one missile each, at extreme range. Close in for a second shot if needed, but once that tanker goes up, don't wait for the word, just run for home. We've got enemy fighters incoming, so we can't wait around too long. Ken, you take point. Mo, you're in the rear.”

 “I get all the fun, boss,” Alvarez said.

 Glancing at his sensor display, Conway added, “O'Brien, stay behind me. You and Vasquez move into arrowhead formation. Keep a close watch for enemy fighters.”

 “Aye, sir,” she replied. “But we'll get plenty of warning...”

 “We hope,” he snapped. “You want to be an old pilot, not a bold pilot. Keep the risks to a minimum.”

 He watched as the squadron moved into the attack formation, a distorted wing sweeping through space, the two rookies sliding into his wake. Most of them had flown with him for months, years. They all knew what they were doing, their instincts sharpened by hundreds of flight hours. Most of them should have been relieved long ago, sent back home to recover, but they'd never had enough pilots to allow themselves that luxury. At least they'd be able to get some rest soon, once the politicians had finished their work.

 Thirty seconds to firing range, and he fired up his missile guidance system, locking on for an attack, targeting the tanker's engines. Even if it wasn't destroyed, sending it tumbling out of control would be as big a problem for the enemy.

 Then, with seconds to go, a dozen new lights appeared on the screen, a compartment underneath the tanker opening up and disgorging enemy fighters, a squadron to match his own.

 There was no time to run, no time to evade, no time for anything. No matter what they did, they'd be in the firing line for the next two hundred seconds, an eternity in fighter combat.

 “Leader to Squadron. Bandits dead ahead. Break and attack. Tally Ho!”

 Twelve missiles lanced forward as one, racing towards the approaching fighters, one brief advantage at their disposal. A quick glance at the sensor display confirmed what he had suspected. This had been a trap from the beginning, an ambush. Now they had to fight their way out of it. Two of the enemy fighters died in that first attack, a brief smile flashing across his face, but the board lit up with a host of new trajectory tracks as they launched their counter-strike, more leaping up from the fake tanker to join the fray.

 “Countermeasures!” Poole yelled. “Watch your countermeasures!”

 “Lambert, you've got three on you!” Alvarez said. “Take evasive action, now!”

 “Watch it, O'Brien, there's a pair on your tail!” Vasquez yelled, dancing with panic. “Drift across, I'll try and get them!”

 “Damn it, Scott, you've got one locked on!”

 The channels were full of chatter as the fight devolved into a series of brawls. Warning lights flashed on, missile tracks locking onto his tail, but he coolly ignored them as he fired his second warhead, catching a two-second lock on an enemy interceptor that passed in front of him. Kicking his engines to full, he dived for the tanker, smiling with satisfaction as he saw Poole, Sullivan and Vasquez try the same trick. He looked around for O'Brien, about to order her to follow, and cold realization hit him.

 One of his fighters had vanished from the sensor display. The record showed two missiles slamming into her midsection eight seconds ago, no chance to evade or dodge. Less than ten seconds, and he was already down one pilot. As he pressed his attack, swinging low towards the tanker, unleashing every countermeasures program he had at the pursuing missiles, he watched two more of his people die in front of him, Teddy Lee ramming into a warhead, and Poole losing the race for the tanker. For two years the three of them had flown together, and they died on the last day of the war.

 “Keep loose,” he said, ducking over the tanker as the two missiles on his tail slammed into it, unable to pull out in time. As bad as it was for his squadron, the enemy were faring worse, down to seven fighters. He saw Alvarez ahead of him, a missile on his tail, closing fast, and quickly locked on with his remaining warhead, sending it racing towards the deadly target.

 “Help's on the way, Ken,” he said. “Keep clear for ten seconds.”

 “Dive, Jack!” Sullivan yelled, and he turned to see a fighter swinging in behind him. He slammed on his thruster controls, slowing down just enough to spoil the targeting solution, a missile sliding ahead and harmlessly tumbling into space.

 “I can't get ahead!” Alvarez yelled. “Jack, I can't shake him!”

 “Three more seconds,” Conway said, but it was no good. His friend ran out of time, and died in a flash of flame. The screen was rapidly clearing, only eight fighters remaining on the board, four on each side. Along with debris that could only have come from escape pods, smashed into rubble. Deliberate kills, one final atrocity for the road. A dark knot of hate flowed inside, and he turned towards the crippled tanker, out-gassing from numerous hull breaches, locking on for a collision course.

 Behind him, Sullivan, somehow still alive, led Vasquez and Lambert in a final strike pass, their last missiles racing away. Conway caught them with his targeting system, guiding them in to their target with grim precision. The tanker finally cracked into fragments as the superstructure crumpled, and shrapnel rained down all around them.

 “Break for home,” he said. “We're on the outward curve. Move it.”

 They'd finished their pass, and finally were running back for home, leaving the few scattered enemy fighters in their wake. He let Vasquez and Lambert take the lead, shaking his head at the survival of the rookie when so many other experienced pilots had died. That kid had earned his drink, after all.

 “They're still coming!” Lambert yelled, as two of the enemy fighters turned, burning their engines at maximum. The warbook showed them as being out of missiles, unarmed, and it only took him a second to realize what they were doing. A pair of dots flashed onto the display as the enemy pilots ejected, turning their fighters into missiles in their own right.

 “Full thrust!” he yelled. “Maximum boost, now!”

 “I can't shake him!” Vasquez yelled. Conway fired his engines, surging forward, trying to get between the unmanned pilot and the survivors of his squadron, but there was nothing he could do. The two empty fighters found their targets, leaving only Sullivan and Conway, serenely drifting through space towards home.

 “To hell with this,” he said, rattling the controls on his navigation computer. The second squadron was closing rapidly, and he could still lock on for an intercept.

 “Jack,” Sullivan said. “Don't do it.”

 “Those bastards...”

 “The squadron's dead, and killing yourself won't bring them back,” his friend said. A blue light washed over his controls, his system taken over from outside. “I'm not letting you commit suicide when you have a baby waiting at home.”

 “Mo, I swear...”

 Sullivan cut the channel, and after a moment attempting to break the lock his friend had established on the controls, Conway slumped back in his couch, defeated. The faces of his friends flashed in front of his head, happy and cheerful the morning before, talking about what they would be doing after the war. All the plans were ended, all the hopes and dreams turned to dust.

 The computer brought the two of them back on board, while he sat at the controls, staring forward. Sliding up through the decks, he could see somber faces waiting for him, his wife standing next to Xylander, fresh tears on his face, stoic calm on hers. Mechanically, he opened the lower hatch, and dropped down to the deck, stepping forward.

 Waiting on the table was the jug of vodka, only two glasses left, Chief Cruz looking at them as though she might bring the rest of the pilots back to life through sheer force of will.

 “Jack, I'm so sorry,” Mallory said.

 “So am I,” he replied, trying to hold on.

 “We had the message we were waiting for,” Xylander said, darkly. “The war's over.”

 “Thank God for that,” Sullivan said, climbing down from his fighter. “Maybe now...”

 “There's more,” Conway said, looking at his wife. “Tell me.”

 She closed her eyes, looked down at the deck, and said, “There was a malfunction in the relay at the egress point. The Armistice took effect in this system two hours ago.”

 “Before we even launched,” Sullivan muttered.

 Holding his arm, she continued, “You couldn't have known, none of us could. There's no question of blame, just...”

 Shrugging her off, he walked over to the table, picked up the jug of vodka, and smashed it to the deck. He looked down at the shattered glass on the floor, then looked up at his wife.

 “Nothing. Ten of my friends died, and it was all for nothing.”

 “Jack...,” she began, but he walked out of the hangar deck, and didn't look back.

To continue this book, as well as seven other rip-roaring space adventures, pre-order the 'Rogue Stars' anthology today. Eight novels for 99 cents, the finest bargain the galaxy has ever seen…

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