OPERATION DAMOCLES

Battlecruiser Alamo: Book 20

Richard Tongue

Battlecruiser Alamo #20: Operation Damocles

Copyright © 2016 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved

First Kindle Edition: July 2016

Cover By Keith Draws

With thanks to Ellen Clarke and Rene Douville

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

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He passed in the very battle-smoke

 Of the war that he had descried.

Three hundred mile of cannon spoke

 When the Master-Gunner died.

He passed to the very sound of the guns;

 But, before his eye grew dim,

He had seen the faces of the sons

 Whose sires had served with him,

He had touched their sword-hilts and greeted each

 With the old sure word of praise;

And there was virtue in touch and speech

 As it had been in old days.

So he dismissed them and took his rest,

 And the steadfast spirit went forth

Between the adoring East and West

 And the tireless guns of the North.

Clean, simple, valiant, well-beloved,

 Flawless in faith and fame,

Whom neither ease nor honours moved

 An hair's-breadth from his aim.

Never again the war-wise face,

 The weighed and urgent word

That pleaded in the market-place-

 Pleaded and was not heard!

Yet from his life a new life springs

 Through all the hosts to come,

And Glory is the least of things

 That follow this man home.

“Lord Roberts”, by Rudyard Kipling

Chapter 1

 Lieutenant Kristen Harper, commander of the Triplanetary Scoutship Daedalus, sat in her command chair, eyes locked on the viewscreen. The same dull, gray world that they had been orbiting for four days hung alone in the darkness, only a halo of distant stars for company. The dim brown dwarf that was the system's primary was behind them, a star that had, uncounted billions of years ago, failed to ignite, a mere flickering ember slowly fading to nothing.

 She flicked a switch on her console, bringing up a tactical view, and shook her head. There was probably more activity in this system than there had ever been in all of history. The fleet was only here because the small moon, currently hidden behind the planet, housed a small Consortium outpost, a man-tended installation used by the Neander raiders to resupply their ships. Now, a dozen ships swarmed around the world in loose clusters, Alamo at the heart of a formation of seven vessels, and two squadrons, of three and two, waiting at the two egress points on constant patrol, waiting for trouble.

 It was strange to watch the three different ship designs flying around each other, the Koltoc Monitors hovering in tight formation, locked in a defensive ring around Alamo, while the Consortium vessels, crewed to a man by wild Neander, moved in an endless dance, spiraling through the stars with endless grace. She knew which fleet she would rather serve with, given the choice.

 Throwing in a filter, she magnified the display to highlight the local area, the hendecaspace point she was charged to defend. Three ships, her Daedalus in the middle, and the two Consortium craft on either side, the Red Avenger and the Random Walk. If nothing else, they had good taste in names.

 To the rear of the bridge, the doors slid open to admit the lithe form of Sub-Lieutenant Katherine Scott, her second-in-command, who looked at the display with a sigh before settling down at the empty tactical station, bringing the console online with the flick of a switch.

 “Nothing from the flagship yet?” she asked, and Harper shook her head.

 “Afraid not. Last I heard, the Captain was in conference with Powell, Kilquan and Skeuros over our next move. They're still stuck on three systems, and nothing to choose between them.” Frowning, she added, “I know that Cantrell is still pushing for us to send out pickets instead.”

 Scott's eyes widened, and she said, “Nice and boring for two ships, far too interesting for the one that actually finds the enemy fleet. I presume we'd be one of the lucky ones?”

 “Us, Random Walk, Safe Margin.”

 “One from each fleet. I suppose that's nice and fair, but I still think it's a bad idea. Unless the assumption would be that whichever ship failed to return had found what we've been looking for.”

 “I don't think the Captain will do it,” Harper replied. “I know how Cantrell feels, though. Four weeks since we left Testament Station, and this is our third miss in a row. And all the time, the Xandari are gathering their forces and strengthening their fleet for an attack. If we've got any strategic advantage, it's ebbing by the day.”

 “Ma'am?” Arkhipov reported from the sensor station. “I'm getting some odd readings from the egress point. It might be nothing, just normal fluctuation, but it seems to be building.”

 “Battle stations,” Harper ordered, and the bridge crew jerked into life, combat systems coming on line, reports flooding in from stations all across the ship as Daedalus prepared for action. Ingram, at the communications station, rattled off a series of instructions to the other ships, then turned with a grimace to Harper.

 “I've got Major Melnos for you, Captain. I don't think he's happy.”

 “Put him on,” she replied, and the fierce face of Random Walk's commander flickered onto the screen.

 “If we went to battle stations every time we had a sensor flicker...”

 “Major, on the chance this is an enemy attack, I don't want to be sitting here defenseless, and neither do you. Worst case, we've just had a surprise battle stations drill, and I don't think that will do us any harm.”

 “What are you implying?” he asked.

 She quietly counted to ten in Russian, then replied, “That I want this squadron to be ready to face anything that might be coming into the system, whether it is friend or foe. If you want to take it up with the flagship, I suggest you contact them directly. Daedalus out.” 

 “No one would ever accuse you of being too diplomatic, Kris,” Scott said from her console. “Weapons systems on-line, and I've got a salvo in the tubes, ready to go.”

 “Readings, Spaceman?” Harper asked, turning back to the sensor technician.

 “Building slowly,” he replied.

 “Keep watching it. Ingram, alert Alamo, and request that they bring the fleet to standby alert.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” the technician replied.

 “Armstrong,” she said, moving over to the helm, “program an evasive pattern, and bring the engines to full power on my command. We might have to build up some speed in a hurry.” Reaching over to the console and stabbing a button, she continued, “Lombardo, you down there?”

 “I'm here,” he replied with a yawn. “I was having such a lovely dream, as well.”

 “Comes with the territory,” she said. “Don't worry, she'll still be there tonight.”

 “If I'd known how much sleep these damn pips would cost me, Captain, I'd have told you what to do with them!” After a second's pause, he added, “I know what's coming next, and I'm already setting up for 105% on the main reactor. Give me five minutes, and I might be able to do a little better than that.”

 “Thanks, Sub-Lieutenant. I'll try and give you a nice boring fight.”

 “Better still, don't give me a fight at all. Too much mess to clear up. Engineering out.”

 Harper shook her head, moved back to her chair, and called up the situation report. The other ships were finally getting to battle stations, and Daedalus was ready to go. She glanced back at the sensor station, Arkhipov intently looking at his readouts. All was quiet on the bridge, as though they might be able to hear something coming towards them.

 “Strong buildup!” Arkhipov yelled. “Multiple ships incoming, any time now!”

 “Armstrong, get us moving,” Harper said. “Ingram, I want all ships on evasive maneuvers. Then contact Alamo and...”

 “Here it comes!” Scott said, and a blinding blue flash appeared on the screen as a battered ship tumbled out into normal space. It looked Koltoc by design, one of their heavy freighters, lumbering slowly as her thrusters struggled to stabilize her. Huge rents tore down the hull, the marks of multiple missile impacts in the recent past.

 “We're getting a signal,” Ingram said.

 “Put it through, on the double!” she said, expecting an albino Koltoc to appear on the screen. Instead, a grim-faced man wearing an unfamiliar scarlet uniform appeared, a bandage wrapped around his head and his arm in a sling.

 “We've got three Xandari ships right behind us,” the man said. “I'm transmitting tactical data to you now. Estimate thirty seconds before we have company.”

 “Can you maneuver?” she asked.

 “Not quickly enough,” he replied. 

 Shaking her head, Scott said, “We can't get to that ship in time to protect it. I'd recommend that they abandon ship.”

 Armstrong looked back at her, and said, “Then they'll be even more vulnerable, ma'am. I don't think the Xandari would hesitate to shoot down an escape pod.”

 “Dimensional instability building,” Arkhipov said.

 Nodding, Harper said, “Let's give the Xandari something else to think about, then. Set us up for an attack run, Midshipman. Maximum acceleration. Ingram, see if you can convince the rest of the formation to join us.”

 Scott's eyes widened as she saw the tactical data stream in from the crippled freighter, and she warned, “Three ships, all of them larger than ours, Kris. We're outmatched.”

 “All the more reason to hit them before they can get themselves oriented. Commence attack run.”

 “Five seconds to emergence,” Ingram said.

 “Alamo is moving up with the rest of the formation,” Arkhipov said. “They'll be here in twelve minutes.” Glancing up at another panel, he said, “Dimensional instability at maximum.”

 Another three flashes briefly lit the sky, and a trio of sleek shapes slid into normal space, Xandari Heavy Scoutships. On Harper's panel, detailed statistics ran across the screen, almost too fast for her to read. Four missile tubes, and as agile as Daedalus, their only weakness being a lack of serious armor. These vessels were designed for hit and run, or for pursuit, not for taking on enemy capital ships. At least that meant the Xandari hadn't known what was waiting for them in this system.

 “Combat range in ten seconds,” Scott said, looking up at her panel. “Recommend we focus on the lead ship. We're more likely to have an impact that way.”

 “Agreed,” Harper said. “Armstrong, alter our course to draw them away from the freighter. We've got to give them some cover, and that's the only way we're going to be able to do it.”

 “Energy spike!” Arkhipov said. “We've got twelve missiles in the air, heading our way!”

 “They're early,” Scott said, frowning as she looked at the readouts. “Nothing I've ever seen before, but they seem on the large side.” Shaking her head, she continued, “The warheads look a bit smaller than normal, though. I think they're ours.”

 “More borrowed technology?” Harper asked.

 “Mark Sevens, I think, but they've done something to the after-section.”

 Turning from the engineering console, Ingram said, “Two-stage!”

 “A two-stage missile?” Scott replied, shaking her head. “No one's ever got that to work.” 

 “But it would give them greater range and acceleration, especially in the final stages of the attack.”

 Turning back to her console, Scott said, “Firing range in three. What do I do?”

 “Fire defensive,” Harper said, sliding out of her chair. “But leave yourself open to changing targets if we get a chance. At least they're shooting at us, not the freighter.”

 Daedalus rocked as her four missiles raced away, Scott tracking them towards their swiftly moving targets. On the screen, a tangle of trajectory tracks appeared, interlaced with each other, twelve against ten charging through space as though on some sort of crazy joust. Harper moved over to the vacant electronic warfare station, a smile on her face. This was where she really belonged, the theater of operations she knew best, and her hands moved among the familiar controls, loading up her hacking programs, all of them custom-designed over the last year.

 When they'd first retaken this ship, it was old and obsolete, but she'd had all the time she needed to improve these systems. Only a handful of the original components remained, here and down in the communications suite, and the software she'd installed to replace the original antiquated packages would have baffled the original creators. Now she was sitting at a state of the art console, with a few antique touches remaining to confuse her foe.

 While her systems began their first interface attempt, Harper looked around the bridge. Her bridge. Scott was guiding her missiles onto their targets, fine-tuning the guidance systems to place the warheads where they would do the most damage, and Armstrong was still working her random walk course, while swinging around back towards their objective. Arkhipov rode the sensors like the veteran he was, and Fitzroy sat at the engineering monitor station, waiting for something to happen. Hopefully, he'd have a nice, boring battle.

 A light flashed on, and she smiled. Her system had completed its handshake with the incoming missiles, and she could start burrowing through the firewall, switching to manual control as she began her battle with the distant defender. A month ago, she wouldn't have been able to do this, but the data they'd received from their new allies had given them enough knowledge to adapt their systems. It helped that the Xandari were a race of scavengers in any case, stealing their technology from every neighboring interstellar power and slamming it together into a melange of components and software.

 As she worked, she could see familiar fragments of design, a Triplanetary targeting program, seven generations out-of-date, but still tough enough to infiltrate that she postponed it for later. The Lunar Republic had donated the guidance control systems, a simple set-up that had been ruled out as obsolete five years ago, but she worked deeper, rummaging through the systems. Then, with a smile, she stopped, as she ran across the sensor analysis program, loaded with a full profile of its target. A United Nations design, and surprisingly modern. One more detail to remember later, when she was preparing her after-action report.

 For the present, she'd found what she was looking for. Simply knocking down the enemy missiles might not be enough, not with two more readied for launch. Throwing a control, she tied her ship's sensors into the electronic warfare station, bundling data into a package to replace the targeting data on the incoming missiles.

 An amber light flashed, and she frowned as she threw a series of switches, activating another series of countermeasure programs. Someone was trying to block her, and worse, to use the link she'd established to infiltrate Daedalus. Her firewall was strong enough to stop that from happening, but she could lead her opponent in, wasting his time in a futile bid to hack into her systems, while giving her all the chance she needed to break into the missiles.

 Perfection wasn't needed here. Her formation had ten missions to play with, against only twelve of the enemy, and was moving fast enough that the Xandari were only going to get a single shot. With satisfaction, she saw that the enemy vessels were moving away from the freighter, vastly reducing the chances that they would get a strike on the wounded craft.

 Her hands continued to fly across the panel as she continued to dig her way into the enemy formation. With a smile, she locked into the first of the missiles, and switching targeting data, and watched with satisfaction as its engine ceased, the warhead beginning to spin around as it homed towards a new target. It never had a chance to find it, the self-destruct system reacting first, a brief flash of fire as the missile detonated harmlessly in space.

 One more to go. Daedalus and her companions flashed past the Xandari ships, Armstrong already working in a quick turn, a long arc to swing them around for a potential second pass, fifteen or twenty minutes in the future. Still the missiles dove towards each other, the first wave beginning to detonate as they made contact. She was focusing her attention on the rear of the formation, a trio of enemy missiles traveling closely together, and finally found what she was looking for.

 The last missile paused, then started to fall away from the formation, two others joining it, engines crippled, on a course that would send them flying through space forever, no longer a threat. Sitting back in her chair, she turned to Scott with a smile on her face.

 “Have two of our missiles head towards the Xandari. Let's give them something to think about.”

 Scott smiled for a second, before a frown started to spread across her face as she replied, “We're getting a launch from the leading ship. Heading for the freighter.”

 “A missile?” Harper asked, turning to the sensor display.

 “Negative,” Arkhipov replied. “Shuttles, three of them now. I think they're going to board her.” He looked up at a panel, and shook his head, “Out of firing range. We can't get to them in time.”

 “Two hits!” Scott said, the smile returning. “Rear section of the leading scoutship. I think we've damaged his engines. He's falling back out of the formation.”

 “That should make it a little easier,” Harper said. “Now it's up to Alamo to finish the job.”

Chapter 2

 “Report,” Orlova said, tugging on her jacket as she stepped onto the bridge.

 At the central holotable, Senior Lieutenant Frank Nelyubov, her executive officer, watched the tactical display as the ships danced around, moving onto an intercept course. He looked up with a frown, then walked around the table towards her, a datapad in his hand.

 “Three Xandari Bravo-class Heavy Scouts,” he said. “Daedalus managed to knock some chunks out of one of them, damaged its engines, but all of them are still coming.” Looking back at the display, he continued, “They're on an intercept course, and gaining speed. My guess is that they're hoping to make it through a fast pass, then head out into the deep system before we can stop them.”

 Rubbing his hand on his forehead, he continued, “They've launched boarding shuttles towards the freighter they were chasing, but don't seem to be making any other offensive moves against it for the moment. Ensign Cooper and his platoon are boarding shuttles right now, and will be ready for launch in ninety seconds.”

 Moving past him, she walked towards the tactical station, and asked, “Cantrell, weapons status?”

 “We're at battle stations, ma'am, and cleared for action. I've got a salvo in the tubes, and our laser will be charged in thirty seconds.” Glancing across at a readout, she continued, “Firing range in six minutes.”

 The doors slid open, and Lieutenant Pavel Salazar walked onto the bridge, immediately looking at the tactical display with concern on his face. Orlova smiled, and gestured him over to the holotable.

 “Frank, I want you to liaise with the rest of the fleet. Have them form into two squadrons, Koltoc and Neander, and take one ship each. We'll go right down the middle. Make it clear that I expect none of these ships to make it through this pass. We can't afford to let one of them get away.”

 “Understood,” he replied, moving over to the communications station, sliding into a vacant seat next to Spaceman Weitzman. He turned as he slid on a headset, and added, “Harper and the others are heading our way as well, but they're not going to be able to do anything other than a coup de grace.”

 “Have them return to the hendecaspace point. I want them to provide support for that freighter, and watch for a second wave. If it's anything they can't handle, they're to run for it.” She paused, looked at the screen, then added, “Have Ensign Cooper launch when ready.”

 “Through the combat area?” he replied.

 “The only reason the Xandari can have boarded that freighter is because there's something on board they don't want us to have. There's no way they'll be able to get back to their own ships, so they're on a suicide mission.” Shaking her head, she added, “They'll blow it up rather than let it fall to us, and we've got to prevent that from happening.”

 “We're at maximum acceleration, Captain,” Maqua, the Neander midshipman at the helm, reported. “I've got an evasive course ready for when we get into attack range.”

 “Good, Midshipman,” she said, looking at the waiting Salazar. For a second, she contemplated ordering him to take the helm, but Maqua seemed to be doing a good job, and he needed to be tested in battle in any case. Better now when the odds were in their favor, and a replacement was on hand if needed. She looked up at the tactical display, the rest of the ships in the fleet moving into position, a wall of firepower heading towards the incoming enemy vessels.

 “Looks like the Koltoc are moving close to their freighter,” Salazar said, gesturing at the display. “I suppose it's reasonable enough, but it's going to leave that flank awfully exposed if they don't tighten up.”

 Nodding, she said, “Frank...”

 “I'm on it,” he said with an exasperated sigh. “Talk about herding cats...”

 With a nod, she said, “Take the second station, Pavel.”

 He raised an eyebrow, then moved into Nelyubov's vacated position at the holotable, leaning over the reports streaming in from across the ship. He glanced at the communications station for a second, long enough for Nelyubov to flash him a reassuring smile, then looked back at the display.

 “Closing fast, Captain,” he said. “We're getting reports from Daedalus of some sort of two-stage missile with extreme range. Recommend we get a screen launched ahead of time to counter it.”

 “We'll be facing twelve missiles,” Cantrell added. “We've got twenty-four to play with. They won't get through our first wave.”

 Shaking her head, Orlova replied, “It won't be as easy as that, Lieutenant.” Turning to Weitzman, she said, “No signal from the Xandari, I presume?”

 “No, ma'am,” he said, shaking his head.

 She turned back to the display, a frown on her face. The enemy they were facing had never shown any inclination to surrender, but now would have been a good time for them to start. Their current course was simple suicide. While the projection showed them reaching another hendecaspace point in the outer system in six days, they must know that they would never live to get there.

 “Enemy acceleration increasing, Captain,” Spinelli said from the sensor station. “If our information from the Koltoc is correct, they're running well over their usual maximum. I guess they're in a hurry to run the gauntlet.”

 “Firing range now four minutes, ten seconds,” Cantrell added. “We'll have enough time for two launches. Maybe we should have some of the ships hang back, just in case we need a second try.”

 Orlova shook her head, concentrating on the display. There was something she was missing, something they had all missed, but she couldn't put her finger on what it was. All three of the ships were converging on the fleet, their courses not quite parallel, but converging on a distant point, albeit well short of their presumed target.

 “Three minutes, thirty seconds,” Cantrell said. “They're accelerating again, ma'am. They must be pushing their engines to the absolute limit.”

 Looking up from his station, Salazar added, “Cooper's attack force is on the way. They should be on the deck in nine minutes.” He frowned, then continued, “That's strange. They haven't altered their approach. They've got plenty of time to move into attack position. We'd be able to defend them, but I'd have thought they would have at least tried for it.”

 Orlova looked at the display again, and her eyes widened as her fingers flew down to the controls, working a series of navigation projections. Cursing under her breath, she raced over to the helm, the startled Maqua looking up at her.

 “Full evasive course, Midshipman. Get us moving. Frank, order the squadron to scatter, and move to envelop the incoming ships.” Turning to Cantrell, she continued, “Fire when ready, Lieutenant, and I want those bastards reduced to their component particles.”

 Nelyubov frowned for a moment, then replied, “They're going to ram us. It's a suicide charge.”

 “Alamo's the most important strategic target in this system, and if they can take us out of the equation, this fleet will scatter to the four winds,” she said, fumbling for a control. “Quinn, I need all the speed you can give me.”

 “I'm already at maximum, Captain,” the engineer protested.

 “Find me some more. Anything you can give me.” Turning back to the viewscreen, she continued, “Those bastards are faster and more agile than we are.”

 “Engines to full power,” Maqua said, glancing back at Salazar for a second while laying in his course. She looked down as his hands danced over the controls, then patted the young midshipman on the shoulder before returning to the central holotable. A countdown clock appeared on the viewscreen, counting down the seconds before the ships entered weapons range, followed by a second one to display the projected time to impact. Just under three minutes before they could launch their missiles, four and a half before all three ships would collide into Alamo.

 If they were only facing a single kamikaze, this would be simple. Accelerate towards the approaching ship at full speed, and veer off at the last second. With three, they could hedge their bets, covering a variety of courses and orient to draw Alamo in. They had to gain time, enough to knock out their engines and their power plants, and deny them the ability to maneuver. Then they'd be able to finish them off at leisure.

 “Two minutes, thirty seconds,” Cantrell said.

 Salazar, his face pale, said, “Recommend all non-essential personnel stand by in the escape pods. They'll have a chance if they bail out with more than thirty seconds to go.”

 With a regretful nod, she replied, “Do it, Pavel.”

 He nodded, returning to his work, while Orlova looked around the bridge. Everyone else had a console to run, duties to fulfill, something to take their minds of the menace that was bearing down on them. For the next two minutes, all she could do was watch and wait. The three tracks slowly converged on Alamo, Maqua doing his best to delay the inevitable, the countdown clock jumping forward as he altered his course. Around them, Alamo's six escorts dived around, ready to unleash a rain of death on the approaching ships, all ready to fire their missiles at the same instant.

 “To hell with defensive fire,” Orlova said, looking at Cantrell. “We'll take a few hits if we need to. We've got to knock out their engines, or this whole game is over.”

 “Missiles are locked on,” she replied. “They'll be more interested in knocking down our missiles than attacking us, I think.”

 The seconds ticked past, and Orlova ran her eyes across the bridge, looking from station to station, more concerned about the people at the controls than the data shown on the displays. All were cool, calm, collected, veterans to a man. Even Maqua was no stranger to combat, though this was the first time he had faced it on the bridge.

 “Thirty seconds,” Cantrell finally said, in a monotone. “Standing by with first salvo. We'll get at least two up before impact, and might even manage a third.”

 “All ships in the fleet are ready for time-on-target firing,” Nelyubov added.

 “Laser first,” Orlova said. “We might be able to finish one of them quickly, at least.”

 “Ten seconds,” Cantrell said, holding her finger over the controls. “Midshipman, I want a line of sight on the engine section of the leading ship, in eight seconds, mark.”

 “Mark,” Maqua said, skilfully setting up the maneuver. Salazar looked at his protege with a confident smile on his face, then looked back to Orlova. She knew exactly how he felt; at times, she felt the same way about him. And Harper, Cooper, Bradley, and half a dozen others. Five years ago, she'd been the one sitting in that chair, up at the helm, and she idly wondered whether Captain Marshall had thought that of her, back at Ragnarok, or Jefferson.

 “Energy spike!” Spinelli said, and the board lit up with twelve missiles erupting from the Xandari ships. An instant later, Alamo fired its laser, pumping megawatts of energy into the leading ship, ripping a line down the side of the vessel. A fountain of air burst through a series of hull breaches, sending it rolling away, the engine stuttering and failing as the ship tumbled out of formation. Two of the Neander vessels dived down to finish it off, eight missiles leaping towards the helpless target.

 Alamo rocked back as its first missile spread launched, six new targets appearing on the screen. Over the next five seconds, the remaining ships in the formation added to the arsenal, trajectories carefully calculated to bear down upon the enemy vessels at the same time, pinning them into position. The enemy pilots ducked and dodged, trying to evade, but still dived towards Alamo, their engines running hot enough to burn out their power relays in minutes. If their plan worked, that wouldn't be a problem.

 “Missiles running true,” Cantrell said. “Laser recharging. We'll have another shot.”

 Orlova looked at the strategic view, trying to focus on the battle, shaking her head as the screen continued to flicker. The display was a tangle of missile trajectories and projected course changes, chaos and confusion ranging all around. Two by two, the lines vanished from the screen as the missiles crashed into each other, clouds of ever-expanding debris marked on the display, tangles of twisted metal to endlessly spiral into the void.

 “First impact in ten seconds,” Cantrell said, calmly. “Four from our salvo running, eleven in total.” Glancing across at her panel, she added, “Midshipman, I'll want a shot at the second ship's engines in twenty-one seconds, mark, but watch for changes.”

 “Setting up the course now,” Maqua replied, assured at the controls. The dancing had stopped now, replaced with a simple drive for more speed. Getting the ships back into formation after the battle was going to be a nightmare, but being around to deal with it would be blessed relief at this stage.

 “Impact!” Spinelli said, with a triumphant smile. “The rear ship's had it, ma'am! Three hits in its engine section, and it was already damaged!” Before he could report further, there was a brief flare on the viewscreen, and he added, “Enemy ship is destroyed, Captain. Looks like the last shot got it in the superstructure. No sign of escape pods.”

 “The second?” she asked.

 “Still accelerating,” the technician replied.

 “We missed,” Cantrell cursed. “Hits to their forward section, but its still coming. I think we've knocked out their missile tubes, but they aren't going to need them.” Turning to the helm, she said, “Get this right, Midshipman. Eight seconds, mark.”

 “Mark,” he repeated, eyes focused on the controls. Orlova waited, looking at the holoimage again, counting down the seconds in her head. Alamo swung around on its thrusters, aiming towards the enemy ship, and with a last twist, lined up to take the shot. At the precise second, they fired, a beam of powerful energy racing down the side of the Xandari vessel. The enemy ship's engines continued for a brief second, before jerking to a stop, the ship rolling forward, revealing an angry gash along the midsection, jets of atmosphere leaking into space.

 “We got him,” Cantrell said with a sigh of relief. “Not where we wanted, but we must have knocked out the power distribution network. I think he's disabled.” Another flare, and the final ship disappeared, replaced by a field of debris.

 “Self-destructed,” Nelyubov said, shaking his head. “Suicide tactics again.”

 “Secure from battle stations, maintain alert status,” Orlova ordered. “Take us to the freighter, Midshipman, best speed. Let's see if we can give Cooper some support.”

Chapter 3

 Ensign Gabriel Cooper, the commander of Alamo's Espatier platoon, looked down the shuttle's passenger cabin at the squad he was commanding. Somewhere behind him, two other ships were bringing in the rest of his troops, hastily assembled and bundled on board without even time to check their equipment. He glanced up at the status panel over the cockpit door, and quickly ran his eyes over the tactical display. At least there were no hostiles to worry about now, the last of the Xandari ships wiped off the map, but that just meant the fight ahead was going to be tougher.

 At the best of times the Xandari were an implacable, remorseless adversary, but with no possibility of retreat or escape, they'd fight to the death, taking as many of his people with them as they could. The whole ship, if they could manage it, and that had to be their ultimate objective. Nothing else made sense.

 He reached down to his respirator, running a final systems check before beginning his briefing. They were spared wearing the cumbersome spacesuits, but given the damage that ship had sustained, he didn't want to take any chances on a failing life support system. All along the cabin, Corporal Walpis was going from man to man, checking their kit, chiding them about one infraction or another, more to keep their minds from worrying about what was waiting for them over there than anything else.

 Glancing at his watch, he rose to his feet, the respirator bouncing on its straps. Before he could begin, an urgent beep came from his datapad, and he quickly snatched it out of his pocket, tapping the screen to open the latest file. Finally Colonel Kilquan had come through with the deck-plans of that ship he'd promised, less than three minutes before boarding. Conscious that all eyes were on him, he quickly scanned the document, then slid a control to send it across the platoon's tactical net.

 “Listen up,” he said. “We're boarding a friendly ship of unfamiliar design, and one that has sustained a hell of a lot of damage, even before this latest batch of bad guys show up. Don't touch anything that looks like it might be important. If in doubt, don't touch anything at all. We're expecting anywhere between fifteen and forty Xandari, numbers uncertain, and we all know how they operate in a fight. Don't give them a break.”

 “What about the friendlies, sir?” Donegan, the squad's medic, asked.

 “We're expecting both Koltoc and Human, Specialist, but aside from that, I don't know. If you see a Xandari, shoot to kill. If you see anyone else, hold your fire until you've determined hostile intent. We're supposed to be forming an alliance, and killing our new friends isn't going to help.”

 “Determined hostile intent?” the recently-promoted Lance-Corporal Rhodes asked. “So if I've been shot, I get to take the bastard with me?”

 “If you get shot,” Walpis said, flashing him a dirty look, “we'll take up a collection for the sniper.”

 “You'd miss me, Corp, and you know it.”

 “Ninety seconds, people,” Sub-Lieutenant Bradley, the shuttle's pilot, and not incidentally Cooper's wife, called over the ceiling intercom. “We've found three airlocks all in a row, and we're bringing you in together. I still can't get any signal from the freighter, so we're boarding blind.”

 “Great,” Private Saltzman said, shaking his head. “I love surprises.”

 “Good,” Cooper replied. “You can be in the lead with me. On your feet!”

 The squad rose as one, and Cooper walked down the middle of the shuttle to the airlock, a frowning Saltzman next to him, Rhodes and Burke following, while Walpis and Donegan took up the rear. He hefted his rifle in his hands, the usual low-velocity ship-safe weapon, powerful enough to rip through flesh but not through the outer hull. In his pocket was a plasma pistol, charged and ready, that could amply burn holes in anything, no matter how tough. Given that carrying it at all in an artificial environment was technically a violation of Field Regulations, albeit one always overlooked, he was the only member of the unit to officially have such a weapon. He made sure to ignore the bulges in the pockets of Burke, Walpis and Rhodes, knowing that they were experienced enough to only draw their illegal weapons if they truly needed them.

 “Thirty seconds,” Bradley said. “Hang on. This could get a little bumpy.”

 The shuttle rocked around as it made its final approach, and Cooper raised his rifle to cover the door, waiting for the green light to flash to indicate a successful docking. With a series of loud clangs, the two hatches locked, clamps slamming into position to tie the two ships together. At the tap of a control, the double airlocks opened, revealing a battered corridor beyond. The distinctive odor of a damaged air system drifted through, and Cooper slid his respirator into position before cautiously stepping forward, Saltzman by his side.

 Sounds of battle rang around the decks, the rattle of gunfire and the dull report of an explosion, traces of smoke trickling down the corridor towards them. Through the gloom, a pair of figures moved, and Cooper raised his gun as he moved forward into cover, grim determination on his face.

 Saltzman took the first shot, sending the second figure flailing back to the wall, a long, sharp blade falling away as the first figure turned in surprise, looked across at the approaching troopers and raised his hands in surrender. Cooper gestured for his squad to advance, a series of loud clangs to the side telling him that the rest of his platoon had arrived, and moved towards the steely-eyed figure.

 “Commander Ryan,” he said, “Copernicus Orbital Guard.”

 “Ensign Gabriel Cooper, Triplanetary Espatier Corps.” He looked around, and asked, “What's the situation?”

 “Most of the crew are up on the command deck, three levels up. We were trying to hold open a corridor to allow you to get through, but we're out of ammunition.” Turning to the Xandari, he added, “I think that bastard was hunting me.”

 “Probably,” Cooper replied. “And the ship?”

 “The limited control we had is gone, but they don't have control either. I took out the power junction.” Shaking his head, he added, “We don't even know what's going on outside.”

 Sergeant Hunt raced down the corridor, and said, “Second and Third Squad are boarding now, sir. Orders?”

 “Are you carrying any cargo?” Cooper asked, and Ryan shook his head.

 “Not to speak of. A few bits of machine parts, industrial components, nothing that can't be replaced.” He patted a pocket, and said, “I already dumped everything we need from the ship's database.”

 “How many Xandari?” Hunt asked.

 “Thirty-plus,” Ryan said, shaking his head. “They're moving through the decks, and it's only a matter of time before they reach the barricades.”

 Frowning, Cooper replied, “We can't save the ship, and by the sounds of it, we don't need to. Sergeant, I want you to take Second, Third and half of First Squad. Clear a route up to the command levels and see to the evacuation of the wounded. I'm going to see if I can create a distraction.” Turning to the rear, he yelled, “Rhodes, I want your fire team here on the double.”

 “This mission's getting better by the moment,” Saltzman said, shaking his head. “Request permission to accompany you, sir.”

 “Oddly, I had you in mind, Private.” Turning to Ryan, he asked, “How do I get to Engineering?”

 “That was the first thing they took. It's swarming with them.”

 “Good,” he replied. “Now how do I get there?”

 With a sigh, Ryan said, “I'll take you. These corridors can be a bit of a maze if you don't know where you are going. Can I borrow a weapon?”

 “Here,” Hunt said, passing him a sidearm. “Loaded and ready to go. Fires twelve, low-velocity, so aim for weak spots.” Fumbling his pocket, he fished out a pair of clips, and stuffed them in Ryan's pocket. “Watch yourself, sir.”

  “I'll take point,” Cooper ordered. “Rhodes, you're taking the rear. Move out!”

 Ryan guided them down a long corridor. A single Xandari heading towards them from the far end, quickly dismissed by a snap shot from Private Ghaison that sent him falling back against the wall, crimson blood trickling onto the floor. The group raced down the corridor, glancing left and right as they passed rooms, making as much noise as they could to attract attention. If the Xandari were attempting to capture the ship, they'd be more interested in an attack on a key area than on wiping out the crew. He hoped.

 “Down, sir!” Burke said, pushing him to the ground as a rattle of machine gun fire opened up ahead of them, bullets ringing into the walls all around, a hail of shrapnel raining to the floor. He rolled into what little cover he could find, and saw a blast door in between them and the Xandari. Drawing his plasma pistol, he ramped the power up to maximum, and pulled the trigger, sending a bolt of green flame racing down the corridor towards the enemy.

 He didn't need to hit them in order to kill them. The wave of heat that flooded through the air would have done that, but the plasma bolt went on to tear a hole on the hull, the whine of escaping air hurling their bodies into space. A loud scream echoed around the corridor as the blast door slammed shut, the automatic systems belatedly activating to isolate the decompressed part of the ship.

 “What was that?” Ryan asked, wide-eyed.

 “Something we don't usually use on boarding actions,” Cooper replied. “We're going to need another way down to Engineering.”

 “Wait a minute,” he said. “If you've got weapons like that, then there might be a chance of retaking the ship! We could punch a hole...”

 “The Xandari have plasma weapons as well,” Rhodes interrupted, “and you can be damn sure they'll have brought them along. If we start raining bolts around, they'll be nothing left of this ship to capture.”

 Shaking his head, Ryan gestured towards a hatch on the floor, and said, “Three levels down, but that's a very confined area. No room for maneuver.”

 “I'll take it,” Cooper said, pulling the hatch open and scrambling down into the inky blackness below. His feet found the rungs of the ladder as he took them two at a time, Ryan swinging out after him as they descended into the bowls of the ship. As the last man, Rhodes, followed, Cooper heard gunfire up above, the hatch clanging shut at the last minute. Their escape route had been cut off.

 With nowhere else to go, they resumed their descent, climbing down for what seemed like hours. The ship was new, the smell of fresh paint still in the air, the light fittings all functioning perfectly. None of the usual maintenance problems were apparent, even those that freighter crews usually ignored as unnecessary.

 As he dropped to the bottom of the shaft, Cooper's communicator chirped, and he pulled it out, searching for the frequency through a burst of static. Someone was trying to jam their signals, and he only heard the voice at the other end with difficulty.

 “Hunt here,” the communicator chirped, the roar of background noise overwhelming the tinny voice. “I've broken through to the command deck with Second Squad, but we're coming under heavy attack on all sides. Three wounded so far, all of them back on the shuttle. No dead, but we've had some damn narrow escapes.”

 “With a little luck we'll be drawing the fire away from you in a minute, Sergeant,” he replied. “Hang on.” Gesturing at the hatch, he asked Ryan, “This the way?”

 “Engineering's on the far side. This takes us right into the primary control room.”

 Reaching into his pocket for a smoke grenade, he cracked the hatch and tossed it through, a rattle of fire on the hatch alerting him to the presence of Xandari soldiers on the far side. He counted to four, then pulled out his plasma pistol, checking that it had regained its charge, and fired at the lowest possible setting.

 He could feel the heat pulse even through the closed hatch, and the screams of the dying at the far side told him he'd hit home, the gunfire ceasing. After waiting for a decompression warning that never came, he pushed open the door and looked into the room, now filled with wrecked, tangled machinery, most of it unidentifiable as anything other than worthless junk. Clambering into the room, he stepped over the charred remains of two Xandari and made for the door, sirens sounding all around him.

 Shaking his head, Ryan followed, making for the one monitoring panel still functioning, beside the hatch from which they had emerged. Rhodes and Ghaison raced for the door, taking up defensive positions on either side, careful to avoid touching the still molten metal. Shapes moved outside, and Rhodes took a shot on instinct, firing into the mess of approaching Xandari, before turning back to Cooper.

 “I think we've got them mad, boss.”

 “I get that impression as well,” he replied, kicking bits of broken machinery into position to form a barricade, “Covering fire, people. Let's pin them down.”

 Nodding, Rhodes tossed a smoke grenade through the door, following it up with a flash-bang for effect, the resulting flare sending the Xandari dropping to cover, fearful of a second plasma burst. Cooper moved over to Ryan as Burke finished work on the barricade, looking over his shoulder at the readings from the monitor display.

 “It's bad,” Ryan said. “Very bad. We're looking at a reactor meltdown in minutes.”

 Cooper flipped open his communicator and said, “Sergeant, get everyone out on the double. This ship will cease to exist any time now. Move it!”

 “Yes, sir,” Hunt replied. “I'll bring Second Squad and...”

 “You will not! Get the civilians out. We'll find our own way home.” He paused, then added, “That's an order, Sergeant.”

 “Yes, sir,” Hunt said. “Good luck, sir.”

 “Not a factor.” Sliding his communicator back into his pocket, Cooper turned to Ryan and asked, “No prospect of getting it under control?”

 “We've got ten minutes at most,” he replied. “Six is more likely. There's no equipment left to control it. Secondary control was destroyed in the first attack.”

 “Those bastards showed true foresight. How do we get out of here?”

 “Most of the escape pods were destroyed in the crash, but there are still a few left one level down.” He gestured at the corridor, and said, “We'll have to get through them to do it.”

 With a beaming smile, Cooper pulled out his plasma pistol, and replied, “Call up the schematics. I think we can make our own accessway.”

 The Xandari charged forward, doubtless knowing of the imminent fate, and eager to at the very least avenge their impending deaths. Whatever their objective had been, it had failed, and as bursts of flame ripped from the rifles of the troopers at the barricade, they dropped to the deck, bodies littering the floor. There was no strategy, no tactics, to this attack, only hatred.

 “Got it,” Ryan said, throwing a piece of metal onto the floor in the far side of the room. “That'll take us to the right corridor. Won't it be too hot to use, though?”

 “Not on full power,” Cooper replied, drawing his pistol and setting for maximum effect. “Everyone get down!”

 Moving to the far side of the room, he fired, a ripple of flame slamming into the floor, melting the hull metal, a burst of heat slamming into the wall for a split-second before fading away. A quarter of the floor was gone, debris dropping through the gap into the corridor below. The Xandari assault had ended for a brief second, but they quickly resumed their desperate charge.

 “Get going!” Cooper said, pushing Burke towards the hole. The trooper looked back for a moment, then jumped through the gap, careful to avoid hitting the sides, firing a pair of quick shots as he reached the floor. A scream followed, and Cooper peered into the darkness below before the trooper reappeared, gesturing for them to come down.

 “Ryan, you're next!”

 With a doubtful glance, the officer followed Burke, and Ghaison was hard on his heels. Only Rhodes and Cooper were left at the top, as the first of the Xandari jumped over the barricade, over the bodies of his comrades, met by a pair of well-aimed shots from the two veterans. As one, they jumped through the hole, Burke waiting for them on the next level as they rolled through the landing, sooty debris gathering on their uniforms.

 Ryan urged them forward, and with the Xandari hard on their heels, they sprinted down the corridor towards the waiting escape pods, bundling in without ceremony, diving through the hatches as gunfire sounded all around them. Cooper, last in, fired one last pulse from his plasma pistol blind before slamming the hatch shut, the mechanism automatically rolling them away from the ship, tossing them into the safety of deep space.

 Ryan knelt over the controls, bringing up a sensor display and nodding with satisfaction. Cooper peered past him, spotting a trio of shapes moving away from the freighter, on direct flight towards Alamo. At last Hunt had managed to get the civilians out in time.

 A blinding flare flooded through the viewport as the freighter exploded behind them, tumbling wreckage rolling through eternity, taking the Xandari with them. Ryan looked back, shaking his head.

 “Don't worry, Commander,” Rhodes said. “It's over.”

 “No,” he replied. “It's hardly begun.”

Chapter 4

 The cries of the wounded and the dying greeted Salazar as he stepped into Sickbay. Every bed held a patient, with others slumped on the floor around them. Duquesne and her medical staff moved from person to person, frantically trying to keep their charges alive. The three wounded Espatiers, casualties of the boarding action, were clustered together at the far end of the room, one of the field medics monitoring them, but most of the occupants were Koltoc. Kneeling down beside a freighter crewman was Ryan, muttering soft words to the wounded woman, trying to sooth her.

 Behind him, the door slid open, and a pair of white-uniformed Koltoc rushed through bearing medical kits, ignoring him as they rushed towards Duquesne before beginning their work. Colonel Kilquan was with them, a mask of disapproval on his face as he looked across the room.

 “Was any of this necessary, Lieutenant?” he asked.

 “I'd ask that question of the Xandari, sir,” he replied. “They didn't give us any choice.”

 “If your Ensign Cooper hadn't gone crazy with his plasma pistol, we might have salvaged the ship, and not forced badly wounded people onto cramped shuttles. Two people died during the transfer, Lieutenant, and I hold your crew responsible.”

 “I didn't see any forces from the Koltoc ship joining the boarding action,” Salazar replied. “and the Xandari were massacring everyone they found. Far more died at their hands.” With a sigh, he continued, “I'm sorry that you lost people, Colonel, but we're at war, and not one we started.”

 “True.” One of the Koltoc screamed, a medic instantly rushing to his side, and Kilquan shook his head as he moved into the room. “It's been a long time since my first aid training, but I might be able to help. Excuse me.”

 “By all means,” Salazar said, looking at the officer as he walked towards the worst of the patients. At least he wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty, and while he might be annoying, he at least appeared to have the best interests of his people in mind. Walking over to Ryan, he looked down at the Koltoc on the bed.

 “Looks like she's asleep,” he said.

 “At last,” Ryan replied, rising to his feet. “She's nineteen years old, Lieutenant. Her first cruise as an apprentice, and your medical team only gives her a fifty-fifty chance of making it. It's all so damned pointless, isn't it.” He looked down at her, shaking his head, then across at the others in the room.

 Nodding, Salazar said, “You can't do any more good here, Commander.”

 “No,” he replied, “but that doesn't make me feel any better.” Turning to him, he continued, “I'd like to speak to your commanding officer, right away.”

 “We're still dealing with the aftermath of the battle,” he replied, “but I've been sent down to debrief you.” Holding out his hand, he added, “Lieutenant Pavel Salazar, Operations Officer.”

 “Commander Eric Ryan, Copernicus Colony Orbital Guard.” He took the preferred hand, gripping it weakly as he shook it. “Are you leaving this system soon?”

 “In a few hours.”

 “Good. Then at least I might be able to salvage something from this nightmare yet.”

 Moving to the door, Salazar said, “My office is one deck up from here. I think it best if we can talk privately, at least for the present.”

 Walking over to Duquesne, Ryan asked, “Can you let me know if Itzel's situation worsens?” 

 “Sure,” she said, “I've got nothing more important to do right now, Commander.”

 Fury raged in his face, and he said, “That woman is shortly to become my daughter-in-law, Doctor, and if she's going to meet her maker, I need to be holding her hand at the end.”

 Nodding, she replied with a sigh, “We'll do everything we can to stop that from happening, I assure you. And if she runs into trouble, I'll have you paged.” Stepping away from him, she said, “Now if you've quite finished, I've got lives to save.”

 Deflated, he said, “I'm sorry, Doctor, I know you're doing everything you can. You've already worked miracles keeping them alive so far.”

 “The job isn't done until the last of them walks out of here.” Gesturing at the door, she continued, “Why don't you help that process along?”

 Salazar led the way back into the corridor, through to a waiting elevator. As Ryan stepped in after him, he tapped the control for the next level, and looked across at the anxious officer. His battered uniform had been replaced with an insignia-less Triplanetary Fleet jumpsuit, but the marks of battle were still visible on him, a scar running across his forehead and burns on his hand.

 “This looks like quite a ship,” Ryan said.

 “One of the largest in the Fleet,” Salazar replied. “She's a Thermopylae-class Battlecruiser, designed for long-range operations. Right now we're operating about as far from home as we ever have, though.” He smiled, and said, “This ship has more combat stars than any other in the Triplanetary Fleet.”

 “I'm just glad you were here when we arrived.” Stepping out into the corridor as the doors opened, he continued, “We knew those bastards were after us, and I think all of us believed that we'd be dead as soon as we left hendecaspace.” Shaking his head, he said, “Five days, waiting for the executioner. Not something I ever want to repeat.”

 “This way,” Salazar said, opening the door to his cramped office. As usual, it was a mess, scattered reports everywhere, food containers stacked on the desk. He'd been spending so much time on Daedalus over the last couple of months that the work had built up, and both of the crewmen who were meant to help him had been assigned to more urgent duties.

 Wrinkling his nose, Ryan said, “Is it always this bad?”

 “I think you're at the nadir,” he replied. “We'll have a long, boring journey home to sort out the paperwork and clean up the mess.” Pushing some printouts from a chair, he gestured for the officer to sit down, and dropped into place beside his desk, sending a trio of datapad tumbling to the carpet. “Tell me, Commander. What's a military officer doing in command of a civilian freighter?” 

 “When we launched, I was just a passenger,” he replied. “Circumstances forced that situation to change.” Rubbing his forehead, he continued, “Maybe I should start at the beginning. I'm from Copernicus Colony, one jump from here. We were founded about a century ago, a ship that left Earth during the Third World War, from the European Federation.”

 Nodding, Salazar said, “We've found several colonies established at around that time. A couple of them are applying for membership in the Confederation.”

 “Where from?” he asked.

 “Two from the United States, one from the Australasian Republic,” Salazar replied. “One from the Central Asian Union, but that colony had failed. I'll see that you get all the information you want.” He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a datarod, added, “This has a full briefing, designed to bring you up to date with the state of the galaxy.”

 “Thanks,” Ryan replied, taking it and rolling it around in his hand. “I'll do my homework on the ride home.” Looking back up at Salazar, he continued, “Copernicus is Earth-like, amazingly so. We think it was terraformed, more than ten thousand years ago. There are ruins of some sort of lost civilization everywhere, on the ground and in space.” Shaking his head, “A miracle.”

 “We've found similar ruins elsewhere, as well, though we don't know much about that culture. Our archaeologists are going to want to spend some time with you, I suspect.”

 “Once all of this is over, we'd be glad to have them. We've learned a lot over the last few decades, since we've begun to establish ourselves.” With a proud smile, he said, “Our two thousand settlers are now a hundred thousand strong, and growing rapidly. Thirty years ago, we returned to space. Just an orbital hop to begin with, but we established a space platform the year before First Contact.” 

 “With the Koltoc?” Salazar asked.

 “Did they tell you about us?”

 “No, but I'd guess that your son wouldn't be getting married to an alien you encountered last week.”

 With a thin smile, Ryan replied, “I guess not. One of their scouts arrived in orbit twenty-two years ago. Apparently they'd picked up some of our early radio signals, and offered to add us into their trading network. Naturally, we jumped at the chance. They've been tough but fair, I'll give them that, and quite a few of them have settled on the Colony. There's a substantial enclave. And before you ask, my son isn't a pioneer; there have been several children born of mixed parents. We're perfectly compatible, genetically.”

 “Interesting information, and something they hadn't volunteered to us. In fact, I'm rather surprised that they didn't tell us about you when we first met them.”

 Shaking his head, Ryan answered, “Probably hoping to protect their trade routes. We agreed to a twenty-year monopoly, but that ran out a few months ago, and our government was holding off on signing up to another one. We've been working on faster-than-light travel for years, and our first experimental prototype was under construction.”

 “Were?”

 With a deep sigh, he replied, “Two months ago, a Xandari ship arrived in orbit. One of their warships. Their first act was to demand our unconditional surrender, and naturally, we refused. Our Orbital Guard went in, ten ships with fighter support, against theirs.” Closing his eyes, he continued, “It was a massacre, Lieutenant. Not one of those ships made it home. Hundreds of spacemen killed, and I had a front-row seat at Fleet Headquarters.”

 “I'm sorry,” Salazar said. “A technological edge?”

 “Their missiles are faster, their countermeasure systems more effective, their ships more maneuverable. We never had a chance. They managed to knock out our orbital defense network without suffering a single loss, and destroyed our space station.” Shaking his head, he continued, “My father spent his whole life working on that project, and died during the construction. It took then less than a minute to undo all of his labors.”

 “What happened next?”

 “Once they'd established space superiority, they demanded our surrender again. The terms were simple. Yield or die.” He smiled, and continued, “President Wulf didn't give in as easily as that. We're a spacefaring civilization with a developed industrial base, and the only way they were going to conquer us was to destroy everything they wanted to take. She's been stalling for time, trying to negotiate for better terms, hoping for a miracle.”

 Shaking his head, Salazar replied, “I'm impressed. I don't think many people would be willing to take that big a risk.”

 “Our ancestors rode through space on an untested ship, to a world that was barely a distant speck on a chart, not knowing from one day to the next whether they would be alive or dead, Lieutenant. I'd like to think that we still have some of the same spirit today. In any case, we knew the regular freighter was coming, and we managed to warn it clear before the Xandari could attack it.”

 “You broke through the blockade,” Salazar said. “A fast shuttle.”

 “My mission was to make contact with the Koltoc delegation on Testament Station, and request their assistance. I've been authorized to sign a fifty-year exclusive trading contract in exchange for military support.” Slumping in his chair, he continued, “It went wrong from the start. One of our last two squadrons gave their lives to get me past the guardships, and while I managed to link up with the ship, they were on our tail all the way to the hendecaspace point. Just as we made the jump, they hit us amidships. More than half the crew were killed in one shot, including the entire command staff.” With a sad sigh, he said, “Some of them were good friends of mine. All of them gave their lives to help my people.”

 “Your ship would never have made another jump. You'd have been stranded here, knowing that there were enemy ships right after you.” He frowned, then said, “How did they know where you were going?”

 “There are only two stars accessible from our system. Back into Xandari territory, though we didn't know that at the time, and this way, towards Testament Station.” Sitting up again, he said, “Our assessment is that they're planning to use our world as a staging area for attacks in this region. They've already begun construction on an extensive spaceport, and a second capital ship has moved in. The Koltoc fuel extraction facilities on our moon surrendered, and they're being massively expanded as well. Everything points towards the use of our system as a forward base.”

 Salazar nodded, and said, “Our mission, Commander, has been to locate that base. We're the vanguard of a larger fleet, waiting back within the Confederation borders, and we've been engaged in a reconnaissance in force. Currently, our objective is to find and destroy their staging area, to prevent the Xandari from launching an attack before we can bring our larger forces forward.”

 A smile spread across Ryan's face, and he replied, “Then you'll help us?”

 Raising a hand, Salazar said, “Technically, that's the Captain's decision, not mine, but I know her well enough to tell you that if she thinks we have a chance of success, we'll take it. And we won't charge a penny, or force you to sign any restrictive trade treaties.”

 Shaking his head, Ryan said, “It's like a dream come true, after a terrible, terrible nightmare.” He pulled out a Koltoc datapad, and said, “I've got full details of the tactical situation, everything we're going to need for the attack. There are two battlecruisers in orbit, but from what I've seen of the capabilities of this fleet, you shouldn't have any trouble stopping them.”

 “Let's just hope that doesn't amount to famous last words, but if the situation is as you say, then I agree. Certainly I will recommend to the Captain that we proceed in your support.”

 “Thank you, Lieutenant. This means a lot.”

 “We're having a command officers conference over on the asteroid in three hours. I think you'd better come along. I'm sure the fleet commanders will want to talk with you.” Frowning, he added, “Our command structure is not what perhaps it should be. It might not be easy to talk them into it.”

 “I'll be there,” he replied.

 Nodding, Salazar said, “I've had Chief Kowalski assign you guest quarters. You might want to freshen up for a bit before the meeting, get something to eat. One of the technicians outside will tell you where to go.”

 “Eat?” he asked. “I haven't had anything to eat in thirty-six hours. I will, Lieutenant, and thank you, once again.” Rising to his feet, he walked out of Salazar's office with a smile on his face. After the door had closed, Salazar tapped a control on his desk.

 “Salazar to Orlova. I think we've found what we've been looking for.”

Chapter 5

 Orlova was forced to admit that certain aspects of this mission were spoiling her, even if they were going to be hard to explain to the inevitable Senate sub-committee she'd be reporting to when Alamo returned home. Normally, fleet conference meetings would be held in special, customized briefing rooms, larger than any Alamo possessed, or in ornate colonial facilities. She'd pondered using one of the vacant cargo bays, before Colonel Skeuros had presented her with a suggestion that confirmed that the Neander had at least some of their priorities right.

 Apparently, all of their covert depots came with a bar installed. The Confederation had similar facilities scattered across their territory, and even, to an extent, beyond, but while some of them were far larger than this base, none of them were similarly equipped. She'd insisted, to the chagrin of some of the junior officers, that no alcoholic drinks were to be served, but as she walked into the room, the presence of a bartender, added a certain distinct flavor to the meeting.

 They'd kept the guest list small in the interests of security, though it seemed unlikely that anyone would be able to pass any covert information to the Xandari. Nevertheless, space had been a factor, and only the senior officers from the fleet were in attendance. The Coalition contingent were already present, Colonel Skeuros, accompanied by Major Melnos, laughing and joking in a language she couldn't understand.

 Salazar, acting as her aide followed her in, with Harper just in her wake, representing Daedalus. The hacker headed to the bar, with some quiet instructions from Salazar, and proceeded to order drinks as Orlova shook her head at the insanity of it all. At some point in the next few hours, she was going to have to record the details of this meeting in the official log, and at present she had no idea how she was even going to start.

 She took her seat, dropping down onto a stool, with Salazar and Harper on either side of her, the former putting a glass of some sort of orange concoction in front of her. An experimental sip was followed by a longer drink, and she tried to relax, putting her datapad on the table, careful to avoid the pools of water gathered in the bumps. All along the walls were depictions of battles, ships engaged in fighting over alien worlds, troops storming across desolate surfaces. Skeuros smiled as he noted her interest, and gestured at the furthest.

 “My grandfather fought in that one. The Revolt of the Fleet, when we left the Interstellar Coalition and broke away as free and independent agents.”

 “And began a reign of piracy that has never ended since,” Kilquan said, entering the bar, his second-in-command, Tlodoc, following. “Which of these depicts the looting of our ships, the murder of our crews?”

 “We did what we had to do,” Skeuros replied, taking a swig of his drink. “Just as you have done, establishing trade monopolies that shut us out of system after system. Your people are the ones that began this trade war.”

 “Gentlemen,” Orlova said, looking at the two of them, “We're here to fight the Xandari, remember. The rest of our differences pale into insignificance behind the threat they pose to all our people.”

 Nodding, Kilquan said, “Indeed. Let me render by appreciation for everything you have done for those of our people you rescued, by the way. Your medical facilities are far superior than anything we have on our starships, and I'm well aware that many Koltoc owe their lives to the skill of your surgical team.”

 “Our pleasure, Colonel,” she replied, and the Koltoc delegation took their seats. She couldn't quite realize when the two factions had adopted their military ranks, or even whether they had always been hidden in the background or introduced through some sort of unconscious mutual agreement. At least it made it easier to work out who was in command, though she felt strange giving fleet orders to officers that at least nominally outranked her.

 Commander Ryan walked in next, accompanied by Ensign Cooper and General Kelot, representing what had rapidly become known as the Free Peoples. While the refugees rescued by Alamo didn't have any ships, they had contributed an overlarge company of ground troops, scattered across the ships in the fleet. Cooper and his men had been working overtime to train them to some semblance of professionalism, preparing them for battle as best they could.

 “I think that's everyone,” Orlova said, rising to her feet. She turned to the bartender, and said, “If you could close the doors, please?”

 “Yes, ma'am,” the Neander said, moving over to the doors and locking them shut, before settling down with a recorder to prepare the official minutes of the meeting.

 “I think we can begin,” Orlova continued, looking around the room. “All of you have read the transcript of Commander Ryan's report, as well as Lieutenant Salazar's recommendations. I will make it clear here and now that I endorse and support those conclusions, and that it is my intention to proceed to the support of Copernicus Colony.” Ryan flashed her a grateful smile, but the Koltoc delegation seemed less satisfied.

 “Captain, if I may,” Kilquan said. “I would like to discuss this decision in detail. My people are willing to act in the defense of this planet, but as I understand it, you're talking about taking us up against a substantial fleet force, larger than anything we have faced before.” Turning to Kelot, he continued, “When we rescued your ship, General, the force was considerable smaller, and not backed by any orbital defenses.”

 “I agree,” Orlova said. “Moving to attack that fleet in open battle would be a dangerous risk, one that I am not willing to take at this time with the forces at our disposal.”

 “Then I cannot see...”

 “Which is why that is not our battle plan.” Turning to Harper, she continued, “Daedalus, accompanied by two other craft, will leave one hour after the conclusion of this meeting, three hours before the remainder of the fleet. Their objective is to draw away at least one, possibly both of the battlecruisers the Xandari have stationed at Copernicus, and bring them into a position where our fleet can destroy them in detail.” 

 “We have forces capable of dealing with the orbital defenses,” Ryan added. “Our aerospace fighters are ideally suited for the job. Those satellites are designed to face outwards, not in. They'll struggle against forces underneath them, hugging the upper atmosphere.” Shaking his head, he continued, “The battlecruisers would tear them to pieces, though. We've got to make sure they have been cleared first, before we can risk any attack.”

 Looking at Skeuros, Kilquan added, “I must insist that my ships are used, in conjunction, I grant, with Daedalus, to launch this assault. Copernicus Colony is one of our trading partners, and has many of our citizens resident.”

 “Was one of your trading partners,” Skeuros said with a booming laugh. “That new contract been signed yet, Ryan? We might make you a better offer. In fact, I can damn well guarantee it.”

 Turning to the Neander, the Koltoc said, “You'd have raided their outposts, not traded with them, and you still would. If you think we're going to let you use this war...”

 “Gentlemen!” Orlova said, hammering her glass on the table, fizzy orange liquid bubbling over the rim. “That's enough!” Taking a deep breath, she said, “One Koltoc ship, and one Consortium, and I'll let you each choose which one.”

 “I insist on a Koltoc commander,” Kilquan said.

 “None of my people would ever serve under one of yours,” Skeuros retorted. 

 Before the argument could develop further, Orlova said, “Senior Lieutenant Nelyubov will command the strike force. That's non-negotiable.”

 Kilquan looked at her, then at Skeuros, and nodded, replying, “He's a good choice. A good tactician. I'll accept him as commander.”

 Skeuros looked mutinous for a moment, then broke out into a grin, and said, “I never thought I'd say this, but I agree. Though we'll revert to our usual command structure as soon as we emerge.” He looked at Kilquan, and said, “And I insist that he flies his flag on Red Avenger.”

 “Colonel Kilquan?” Orlova asked, and the Koltoc nodded. “Very well, that at least is agreed.”

 “What is more important than the details of the battle plan is the aftermath.” Looking at Ryan, Kilquan continued, “Naturally, we will be more than willing to organize the defense of Copernicus Colony, as we have done in the past, but if we are to maintain a permanent military presence, I'm afraid there are certain expenses that will have to be met.”

 “Then it does come down to your trade monopoly,” Melnos said, shaking his head.

 Kilquan frowned, and replied, “Stationing a squadron of ships will cost us dearly, as will the maintenance of an orbital defense network. It's only reasonable that my people should be reimbursed.” He looked derisively at Skeuros, and added, “Unless you are willing to contribute, but ceasing your attacks upon our shipping.”

 “We are allies,” Skeuros said.

 “Today, yes, but I think we both know what tomorrow is likely to bring. I'm no fool, Colonel, and I venture I know exactly where we stand. Soon enough we'll be facing each other in battle once more, and on that day, I intend to win.”

 “The Triplanetary Confederation will take responsibility for the defense of Copernicus Colony, pending the decisions of the planetary government,” Orlova said, looking at the two of them. Before either could reply, she continued, “This will only be a temporary measure, if for no other reason than that we will have to return to bring the task force into the fight, though I suspect that my superiors will want to station our forward base at the planet.” With a smile, she said, “Maybe we can turn the Xandari's plan around.”

 “Then you wish to annex the planet,” Kilquan replied.

 “We're not in the business of creating interstellar empires, Colonel. If you want to come to terms with the President of Copernicus, that's entirely your affair. Even if such terms preclude the presence of Triplanetary ships. We would consider that an internal matter.” Glaring at the Koltoc, she continued, “Let's get one thing clear. We're at war, against an implacable foe. We cannot afford division or argument, or we will lose, and then you can try and make some sort of a deal with them. Somehow I suspect that you will struggle to come to acceptable terms.”

 Looking around, Kelot added, “Some of my people may wish to settle on Copernicus. We've got nowhere to go, and living on a world where the air is breathable, where we can be free of oppression, would be a great opportunity.” Turning to Ryan, he added, “We'd pay our way. Technicians, engineers, spacemen, all trained in both Coalition and Xandari technology.” 

 “All of this is a matter for another time,” Orlova said. “Once we have defeated the force orbiting the planet, we will move into a defensive posture, and fortify the planet against a potential second attack. Once that has been completed, Alamo will return to the Confederation and bring our task force into the battle.”

 “How many reinforcements are you expecting?” Ryan asked.

 “Four battlecruisers, two assault carriers, half a dozen scoutships, and support vessels for the entire fleet. At least two companies of Espatiers, maybe three.”

 Kilquan shook his head in disbelief. Everyone in the room knew that such a force would change the strategic picture of the region, and that once deployed, the Confederation would be there to stay, one way or another. The Koltoc looked at each other, and Kilquan adopted a smile as he rose to his feet.

 “Captain, we're all out for the same goal, and I can see great opportunities in the arrival of your people into our space. We're traders first, not soldiers, though we'll take up the sword when we must. I hope we can maintain good relations now and henceforth.” Looking around the room, he said, “Our forces will fully commit to this fight.”

 “You know how we stand,” Skeuros said, shaking his head. “All of this talk gets us nowhere. Now is the time for action. Past time.” Taking a deep swig of his drink, droplets running onto the table, he added, “We're in for the fight, and whatever spoils we can raid from the Xandari ships. Good technology, you know.” Turning to Ryan, he added, “We'll want to talk to your government, of course, but that comes later.”

 “Much later,” Kilquan said. “Much, much later.”

 “Then we have an agreement,” Orlova said, turning to Ryan, “Commander, I formally pledge the forces of the Triplanetary Confederation to come to the aid of your world.”

 “We'll never forget this,” he said, looking around. “All of you are heroes, and our people will live free because of the sacrifices you make.”

 “I suggest we all get to our ships,” Orlova said. “We've got a lot of work to do, and no time to do it. The first group leaves in sixty minutes, the rest of us in three hours.”

 Rising to her feet, Harper said, “I'd better get going. See you all in a while.”

 “Good hunting, Lieutenant,” Skeuros said. “Leave some of the bastards for us.”

 “Don't worry, I will,” she said, making for the door, Salazar right behind her. As the meeting gradually broke up, Orlova gestured for Cooper to remain, reaching in her pocket for a box. The puzzled officer moved to sit next to her, his uniform sleeve catching some of the fizzy mess on the table. He shook his arm, shaking his head.

 “Hope that stuff comes out,” he said.

 “You'll be wanting a new uniform anyway,” she replied. “I know you've been working overtime on the new recruits, and don't think I haven't noticed.”

 “Someone has to do it,” he said. “They're good, aggressive, but I'm still worried. The individual troopers are fine, but they're weak in the command structure, and will be until they've had a few battles. If we can keep them in garrison roles, I'll be happier.” Pulling out a datapad, he continued, “I'd like to talk about setting up a force on the planet. Once we defeat the Xandari fleet, they'll send troops down to the surface to start insurgent warfare. That's what I do in their place, anyway. We need to...”

 “Later, Gabe,” she said. “We'll talk about that on the ship, get your platoon commander in on it as well.”

 “Fine,” he replied, before catching himself. “What did you say?”

 She pushed the box across the table, and said, “Open it.”

 He reached for the box, flipped it open, and looked inside, his eyes widening as he saw the rank insignia inside. The silver bar of a Lieutenant in the Triplanetary Espatier Corps. He looked up at Orlova, disbelief on his face, and shook his head.

 “I'm not ready, ma'am. I haven't even been to OCS.”

 “You've got to be ready, Lieutenant. You have a company to command, not a platoon.” Raising a hand, she continued, “Technically, I know that's a Lieutenant-Major's job, but I think moving up one rank is enough for today, don't you?”

 “But...”

 “You have time in rank, an exemplary service record, and are set to get an honors degree in Military Science after we get back.”

 “I don't know that yet, ma'am.”

 “Your teachers seemed convinced of it. The only way you're going to be going to Officer Candidate School is if they want you to run the place. You've got the experience and the training for this job, and I have faith in you to carry it out.”

 He looked down at the insignia again, and said, “I never even thought I'd be an officer, Captain. Still less that I'd ever be promoted.” Taking a deep breath, he said, “I won't let you down, ma'am. I recommend Sergeant Gurung as my successor, at least for the present.”

 “I'll be naming him Acting Ensign when we get back to Alamo.” Gesturing at the door, she replied, “Go tell your wife. She'll be getting one of those when we get home, so don't get too used to outranking her.”

 Nodding, he said, “Thank you, Captain.” He rose to his feet, saluted, and walked out of the room, a grin on his face. She watched him leave, then took another swig of her drink, gagging at the cloying sweetness, then looked around the room. Hopefully the next time they had a meeting in this bar, they'd be celebrating the end of a successful campaign, and she could have a real drink. Maybe they could even add another picture to the display. Maybe.

Chapter 6

 There was only one other person sitting in the observation lounge when Salazar walked in, Ryan sitting alone in the corner, looking out at the simulated starfield. Alamo was in hendecaspace, would be there for the next three days, so the computer was playing recordings of some of their past voyages. Today it had selected Ragnarok, brilliant and white, slowly drifting across from the left. Ryan was studying it intently, examining every detail, before turning with a start as he realized he was no longer alone.

 “Sorry,” he said, turning to Salazar. 

 “Don't worry about it. This place does that to you.” Sitting down next to him, he continued, “Beautiful, isn't it. The first habitable planet to join the Confederation, a couple of years ago.”

 “That's habitable?”

 “Just about. It's in the middle of a long ice age, but we're working on changing that. There are ample stocks of fossil fuels, so they're burning them to create a controlled greenhouse effect. In a couple of centuries, the white will change to green.”

 Shaking his head, Ryan replied, “Hard to believe someone would be doing that deliberately. Our histories still talk about what happened to Earth before we left, the ecocaust and the nuclear war.” He paused, then asked, “Have you been there?”

 “Only for a short layover. A few hours. It's turning into something of a vacation spot, though, and the population's growing fast. It might rarely rise above zero down there, but you can breathe the air, drink the water, and that's quite an attraction.” He smiled, and added, “Odd to think that we're crippling our homeworlds by pushing out into space.”

 “What do you mean?”

 “Ragnarok's joined the Confederation, and Jefferson's talking about it hard enough that I reckon they will one day. Thule's habitable, just about, and there are others as well. Why would you want to live in an artificial environment when you don't have to? Once we really start opening up emigration, they'll flood to the new worlds. I'm afraid Mars, Callisto and Titan will be backwaters in a couple of generations.”

 “We'd welcome your people,” Ryan said. “Our world is slightly smaller than Earth, but more land cover. We've got room for tens of millions, easily. Starting with only two thousand settlers has been tough.”

 “Inbreeding?”

 “Let's just say that we're getting very good at genetics. It's not a serious problem yet, but it's something we're going to have to face in a couple of generations. That's the reason we were pushing for faster-than-light technology. We hoped to return to Earth, find out what had happened back there. Though I know most of our people had assumed that they'd collapsed to savagery, we might have been able to salvage something.”

 “The Koltoc never offered you passage?”

 Shaking his head, he replied, “How could they? Earth is ten, twelve jumps from Copernicus using your hendecaspace drive, and the technology we used on the first colony ship was dangerous enough that No one sane would ever risk it, unless you had no choice.”

 The gray-haired figure of Senior Lieutenant Powell, Alamo's Science Officer, stepped into the room behind them, and said, “I'd like to know more about that drive. We've obtained some partial records, but nothing complete. Naturally, any alternate technology for breaking the light barrier could be very useful. The hendecaspace drive has some rather serious limitations.”

 “Maximum range of a little under eight light-years a jump, it eats a hell of a lot of power, it's easy to spot someone arriving in-system,” Salazar added, working through the litany. “And dimensional instability means that you've got to wait for days before you can make another one. It took us months to get out here.”

 “Looked at one way,” Ryan replied, “It took my ancestors five weeks. That was subjective time, of course. Objectively, it took nine years.” Shaking his head, he continued, “That first generation produced some excellent horror fiction after that ride. Though none of them would ever go into details on what happened out there.” Looking at Powell, he added, “Once we've knocked out the enemy fleet, I'll introduce you to our science team.”

 “My people will be very anxious to meet them,” he replied, sitting on the other side of Ryan. “We're getting quite good at investigating new habitable planets these days, but it's hard to take people who've only experienced large-scale ecology in simulations and books and set them loose on one for real. There have been some rather strange papers in the journals lately.” He smiled, then continued, “Most of those are less than three years old, which throws up problems of its own.”

 “Not my field, I'm afraid,” Ryan said. “I'm just a pilot. The Koltoc might not have given us the hendecaspace drive, but they helped us with a lot of other technologies. Enough that we've visited most of the planets in our system. We were about to start asteroid extraction programs.” With a sigh, he continued, “I spent five years on that survey. Three long missions, and an awful lot of planning meetings.” 

 “You'll get use out of it yet,” Salazar replied. “This war isn't going to last forever, and once we win you're going to be in a perfect position. You might be a long way from the Confederacy, but we'll be setting up a permanent presence at Testament Station, and that's only two jumps away. Copernicus could be the hub of all our efforts in this region, and an interstellar power in its own right.”

 Frowning, Powell asked, “How far had you got with the hendecaspace drive?”

 “Experimental prototypes. Our first starship is under construction.” Shaking his head again, he added, “I was pitching for the commander's spot. They were down to three candidates on the shortlist, and I was the only one who'd ever left the system.” Turning to Powell, he said, “The Koltoc offered some of our scientists a tour of local systems about fifteen years ago, and I was assigned as their military aide. One of the most amazing years of my life.”

 “Have you solved the Shawyer Threshold problem?” Powell asked. “The greatest stress is always at the point of transition. Once you've beaten that, navigation is your only real issue.”

 “A test probe completed a transit last year, but we couldn't bring it back. Or even work out where it was going.” He smiled, and added, “It's probably still heading towards the edge of the universe as we speak.”

 Nodding, Powell said, “Commander, I'd wager you'll be taking a Copernican starship on an exploratory flight within the decade. Probably well within. You don't need any more fundamental breakthroughs. Just some hard work, and we might be able to help you with some of the details.” He smiled, and added, “Given that you're almost there in any case. I think I'd better start preparing some notes for your research team.”

 “I'd check that with the Captain, first, Professor,” Salazar warned. “Not that I'm opposed, but technically you are talking about handing over sensitive material to a foreign government.”

 “Professor?” Ryan asked.

 “Oh, my military rank is primarily honorary. To give me a position in the command structure.”

 “Come on,” Salazar replied. “I've seen your service record. Four combat stars in the war, and you were second-in-command of the old...”

 “I was an Astrogator,” Powell interrupted, “and that really was a long time ago. Until this expedition, I'd been a civilian for more than a decade.” Turning back to Ryan, he continued, “I was Professor of Astrophysics at Syrtis Tech. Though I taught a lot of the philosophy courses as well.”

 “Seems like an odd combination,” Ryan said.

 “You'd be surprised how much the two disciplines have in common.” Gesturing at the starfield, he said, “We've visited more than a hundred stars, thousands of planets and moons, and we have equipment that can show us the very edge of reality itself. Even now, we're barely snatching glimpses of the true nature of the universe, and every new discovery only shows us how much we have yet to learn. It's an exciting time to be a scientist. Or a philosopher, for that matter. The boundary between cosmology, philosophy and theology is just a line, Commander, and a damned thin one at that.”

 Silence followed, finally broken by Salazar who asked, “What's Copernicus like?”

 “We're still such a young world,” Ryan said. “Just over a hundred thousand people, most of them in one big city. We made the decision to concentrate in a single area.” His eyes grew warm as he continued, “By the mouth of a river, by the Azure Sea. The beaches are clean, and you only have to walk for a couple of miles to reach a forest, even now. We kept our technology, started with a fusion plant and grew from there. We were so determined not to make the same mistakes. To build a paradise, a haven for mankind.”

 “Most of the colonies had the same idea,” Powell said. “From what we've heard, many of them were failures. Ragnarok was just hanging on before we arrived, and it could have gone either way. Jefferson was regressing, sliding back to pre-industrialization, and Thule was on the verge of extinction.” He frowned, and continued, “The world's finished. Dying, and the people with it. In a couple of generations, they'll all have to move.”

 “We'd welcome them,” Ryan said. “In a sense, they're our people.”

 “Sagdeev was dead when Alamo found it, the survivors evacuated to Jefferson. Then, of course, there was the Cabal.” Shaking his head, Salazar added, “A group of colonists who lucked out and found some alien technology they could use, and carved out a slave empire. We've come damn close to war with them more than once, and sooner or later it'll turn hot.”

 “Another reason to deal with the Xandari now,” Powell said. “We'd lose a war on two fronts.” Frowning, he continued, “I'd be lying if I said that the galaxy was peaceful. For every friend, we've found an enemy, but at least we're moving out again. After the Interplanetary War, it was a decade before we resumed deep space exploration. The United Nations are still reluctant, still licking their wounds from the defeat.”

 “I was reading about the War last night,” Ryan replied. “You fought that with the tactics used by the Neander, as I understand. Hit-and-run raids to cripple industry, rather than full fleet actions.”

 “Not quite true,” Salazar said, “though we had a tendency to lose major battles. The war was a stalemate, if I'm honest. Earth's economy was badly damaged, enough that their leaders sued for peace. They could have conquered us, but it would have cost far more than the plutocrats were willing to pay.”

 “It was a dirty war, that one,” Powell said. “I spent a couple of years on this ship, back when we were hitting convoys. Damn little honor in attacking civilian ships.” Shaking his head, he said, “And a decade of war had other effects. We came so close to falling off the edge, to turning into something that would have made fighting the war pointless. Three attempts at military coups, more subtle infiltration that damn near worked. When a whole generation is sucked up by a war, everyone becomes a casualty, one way or another. You can't escape it. Only survive it.”

 “Copernicus is on the front line,” Ryan said, shaking his head. “We always thought we were blessed, but I guess we were in the wrong place at the wrong time. A key strategic asset.” With a sigh, he said, “Can we beat them?”

 “This battle?” Salazar replied. “Certainly. We've faced worse odds. The war, well, that's another question entirely. All I know is that we've got no choice. The Xandari have made it quite clear that anyone not of their race will be enslaved or exterminated.”

 “Their core philosophy is far simpler than anything we have,” Powell added. “The strong live, and the weak die. That doesn't leave much room for negotiation. We've got to beat them, and sufficiently decisively to make sure they can't threaten the galaxy again. Perhaps if we show them that we are the stronger, they'll yield.”

 “That's a little optimistic, Professor,” Salazar replied.

 His face dropping into a sad frown, he answered, “The alternative, Pavel, is far worse. So terrible that simply contemplating it is one of the greatest sins imaginable. I only pray that we find a way to live with them, somehow.”

 “We've got to win the war, first,” Ryan said.

 “Don't worry,” Salazar said, clapping him on the shoulder. “The cavalry's coming. Just three days, and we'll be down in that city of yours having the party of our lives.”

 “I hope so,” he replied. “I truly hope so.”

Chapter 7

 “The ship is cleared for action,” Scott said, turning from her station. Harper nodded, her eyes locked on the viewscreen, scanning the projected tactical display generated from Ryan's report. Much of it was guesswork, presumptions of Xandari behavior based on their prior encounters, and she had little confidence that theory would match reality. They'd displayed far too much tactical acuity for that, had confounded Alamo and her crew at every turn.

 Tapping a control, she brought up their planned attack path. Despite all of the flourishes she'd added it, it was really very simple. Race towards the planet at full speed, shooting at any targets of opportunity and trying not to be attacked in turn, before heading back to the other hendecaspace point, leading the enemy a merry enough dance that they'd be drawing them in towards Alamo and the fleet when it arrived.

 While they were running the gauntlet, their sensors would be soaking in all the data they could gather, preparing a briefing to ensure that Captain Orlova was far better informed when she entered the system in a couple of hours. Turning to the rear, she saw Arkhipov hunched over his controls, setting up sensor runs based on the information they had. At least they knew where the space stations were, the key orbital satellite constellations.

 It had been two weeks since Ryan had left Copernicus, long enough that anything might have happened in the interim. The government might have been forced to surrender, left with no option but to yield to Xandari control, and a full defensive network could be in position. Alamo and her forces could never drive an entrenched force from a planet, and the only option left would be a desperate flight to safety. One which would leave Daedalus and the rest of the squadron in a perfect position for the Xandari to wipe them out.

 Over the viewscreen, a countdown clock started to tick down, beginning at three minutes and rapidly trickling away the seconds. Soon they'd be back in normal space, instantly in the thick of the action. Five days had seemed scant time to prepare for such an attack, but time had run out. She reached down to her console and flicked a switch.

 “Captain to crew,” she said, still hardly believing that she was in command. “All hands, attention. We'll be jumping to Copernicus in a matter of minutes, and while the details of the tactical situation are unclear, we do know that the enemy will be present in strength. Our job is to hold them long enough for the fleet to arrive and finish them off.” She paused, took a deep breath, and said, “If all goes well, we'll be heading home in a couple of weeks. Let's make this one count. Captain out.”

 “Not bad,” Scott said, shaking her head. “Short, at least.”

 “Long rants aren't my style,” she replied. “Midshipman, you have the call.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” Armstrong replied. “I have the call. Emergence in one hundred and forty seconds.”

 “Commence maximum acceleration as soon as we've entered the system, along the plotted course. We've got to be well clear of the egress point before the rest of the squadron arrives.” Turning back to Scott, she added, “Consider yourself authorized to fire at will. If anything's waiting for us, take it down.”

 “Missiles in the tubes, ready for launch on demand.”

 Nodding, Harper sat back in her chair, watching as the remaining seconds ticked away. Normally she felt a sense of exultation at entering a new system, exploring new worlds, but this time she felt nothing but impending doom. There was grave danger waiting for them, and Daedalus was awfully small to be the vanguard of the fleet.

 She looked around the bridge, at the ship status monitor. When the starship had been launched, the Interplanetary War was only the dream of a few starry-eyed idealists, the distant stars unimaginably distant. Now, decades later, the men who had designed her were long retired, or dead. She'd watched recordings of her launch, crowds cheering at the orbital station, speeches by forgotten political figures talking of the grand adventure to come.

 Now they were living it. In thirty seconds, they'd be entering unknown territory once again, knowing only that an enemy fleet was waiting for them, on sentry, ready to destroy them. She glanced down at the hastily-drafted mission plan, running through the time-line again. Daedalus first, followed by the Red Avenger and the Safe Margin at ten-second intervals. It might be worse for the others, lacking even the element of surprise as a distraction from attack.

 “Five seconds,” Armstrong said, hands poised over her controls. “All systems go.”

 “Hang on, everyone,” Harper muttered, and with a blinding flash, the stars reappeared, Daedalus emerging from hendecaspace. A green and blue jewel hung in the middle of the viewscreen, and a smile began to creep across her face. Ryan hadn't been exaggerating, not for a second. Copernicus truly was a beautiful planet.

 “Data coming through now,” Arkhipov said. “I'm picking up sentinel satellites at both local emergence points, and two battlecruisers in synchronous orbit over Kepler City on the surface. We're reading an orbital defense network consisting of five satellites, uncompleted, and a large space station in low orbit.” He frowned, then added, “No smaller craft in local space, no sign of shuttles.”

 “Have the battlecruisers reacted to our arrival?” she asked.

 “No, ma'am,” he replied, “They're just sitting there.” 

 “Come into my parlor,” Scott said.

 “Signal from the surface, ma'am!” Ingram said, as the main engines roared into life, sending the scoutship careening towards the planet. “President Wulf wishes to speak to our commanding officer.”

 “Put her on,” she replied. Nelyubov wouldn't be arriving for fifteen seconds, and each one might be important. The image of the system flickered off, replaced by a tall, aristocratic gray-haired woman wearing a formal suit, a blue and white flag draped behind her. Somehow, Harper felt as if her eyes were judging her, and that she had been found wanting. She glanced down at her uniform jumpsuit, wishing for the first time that she was wearing her dress uniform.”

 “This is President Wulf, of Copernicus Colony. To whom am I speaking?”

 “Lieutenant Kristen Harper, commander of the Triplanetary Starship Daedalus. I warn you now, ma'am, that I can provide no strategic or tactical data over this channel.” She glanced across at the communications station, and continued, “I must assume that this communication is being monitored.”

 “I concur,” she replied. “We will transmit our tactical data to you immediately, and I will for the present content myself by wishing you and your crew the best of luck. I have brought our armed forces to their maximum alert, and if there is any way we can assist you, contact me at once. Bonne chance.”

 “Thank you, Madam President,” Harper replied. “Daedalus out.” Turning to Scott, she asked, “What are we getting?”

 “Nothing immediately useful,” Scott said, scanning over the data. “Give me a couple of hours and I might be able to work something out, but we'll be in combat range in ten minutes.”

 “Safe Margin has emerged, Captain,” Arkhipov reported. “Getting a fuller picture of the system now. There's an installation on the next planet in towards the local sun, definitely Xandari in origin. Also reading substantial facilities on the moon.” Turning to her, he said, “They've brought their orbital defenses online.”

 “Still nothing from the battlecruisers?” Harper asked.

 Shaking her head, Scott said, “We're no real threat to them, and they know it. My guess is that they're assuming we're playing a bluff, and reacting accordingly.” Looking up at a panel, she continued, “This isn't working.”

 “Red Avenger is late,” Arkhipov added. “Ten seconds and counting. We're already pulling ahead of the formation.”

 A grim smile on her face, Harper said, “Ingram, contact the Xandari. I know they don't usually respond to our messages, but make sure they can hear me.”

 Nodding, the communications technician replied, “You're on, ma'am.”

 Sitting tall in her chair, Harper said, “This is Commodore Kristen Harper, commanding the Triplanetary Destroyer Daedalus. I call upon you to surrender, or I will be forced to destroy your craft.” With a smile, she added, “Naturally, I don't expect you to reply, but the rules of war force me to give you this one warning. I would strongly urge you to take advantage of it. Daedalus out.”

 “Commodore Harper?” Scott asked, raising an eyebrow. “They'll have everything they need to know about our ship in their database already. This isn't going to work.”

 “It doesn't have to,” she replied, stepping up to the viewscreen. “Ingram, contact Safe Margin, and tell them that we're moving to an alternate target, and that they are to follow our lead.” Frowning, she continued, “We can't wait for Red Avenger. She's forty seconds late and counting.”

 “Where are we going?”

 “Armstrong, I want a course for the processing plant on the moon. Set up for an attack run, as low as you dare. Arkhipov, start looking for defenses. They might have a missile emplacement.”

 “Signal from Safe Margin,” Ingram reported.

 “Put him on.”

 The face of a fuming Koltoc appeared on the screen, saying, “That facility is our property!”

 “Right now, it's in the hands of the Xandari, and I don't think they're going to give it up without a fight. If we manage nothing else today, we've got to restrict their efforts to strengthen this system. That means robbing them of their fuel supply.”

 “When I speak to Senior Lieutenant Nelyubov...”

 “Do what you wish, Captain, but I warn you now that if you choose not to follow my lead, you'll be pressing your attack by yourselves. Daedalus out.”

 “Red Avenger now one minute late,” Scott said, shaking her head. “I'm reconfiguring our missiles for surface bombardment, but I don't think they're going to be very effective. We don't have the ordnance for the job.”

 “Just make a mess, Kat. That's all we need.” Looking at the image of the battlecruisers again, she added, “Come on, you bastards. This base holds your life's blood. You aren't going to let it fall without a fight, are you?”

 As if in answer to her protest, updated course plots began to seep onto the screen, the two battlecruisers firing their engines to place themselves on an intercept course with Daedalus, just short of the moon. One swung back to attack Safe Margin, while the other remained focused on them. Rubbing her hands together, she sat back in her chair, a smile on her face.

 “If they want to dance, let's play along. More speed, Midshipman.”

 “Ma'am, Safe Margin is veering off, heading for the shadow of the second moon.”

 “Fine by me,” Harper replied. “That should confuse them nicely.”

 “Dimensional instability, close abaft!” Arkhipov said. “It's the Red Avenger!”

 “A hundred seconds late, but I'll live with it,” Harper replied.

 “Signal coming through,” Ingram said.

 Nelyubov's face appeared on the main screen, and he said, “Just out of interest, what happened to the battle plan?”

 “It got overtaken by events, sir,” she replied. “We're trying to draw them in towards the moon. It's not perfect, but it's better than leaving them behind the defense net.” Looking at the sensor display, at the tracks of the Xandari battlecruisers, she added, “And it looks like...”

 “You've made a hole large enough for us to sneak in and knock out one of those satellites,” he said. “Good work, Lieutenant, though try and warn me first next time. Red Avenger out.”

 “He didn't say why he was late,” Armstrong said, shaking her head. “If they've got some sort of malfunction, we need to know about it.”

 Shaking her head, Harper replied, “He did it on purpose, to throw off the Xandari. No need for us to know ahead of time, for fear it would have influenced our strategy. Sneaky.” Turning to Scott, she asked, “How are those modifications coming?”

 “Just about ready, but I don't think we're going to get a good shot at a firing pass. They'll be on us twenty seconds before launch.”

 Her smile growing, Harper asked, “How extensive were those changes?”

 “Just guidance system updates. Nothing much. Why?”

 “Any reason you can't send them running back towards the battlecruiser?”

 Scott returned Harper's smile, and replied, “No good reason that I can think of, skipper. I'll get working on it right away.”

 Harper nodded, then turned back to the sensor display, watching as the five trajectory tracks danced across the system. They still had one battlecruiser diving towards them, grimly attempting to stop them attacking their fuel dump. One glance at the trajectory plot confirmed that the enemy ship wouldn't make it in time, and the thought of the enemy commander cursing that he didn't attack the scoutships at once brought a brief smile to her face.

 The second had a less decisive commander. Initially, she headed towards the Safe Margin, but was now firing its engines at full power to bring itself back towards the planet, trying for an intercept with Red Avenger. Though it might just manage to reach it first, the course it would be on took them safely away from the planet, scattering the Xandari forces far and wide.

 Tapping a series of controls, she smiled. The two commanders were hedging their bets in the event of the imminent arrival of a larger force, but Alamo and the rest of the fleet wouldn't be in the system for two hours. By then, they'd be a couple of hundred thousand miles apart, and would find it impossible to provide mutual support.

 Though as she watched, she realized they might do a little better than that, after all. Her eyes widened as she saw the Xandari pursuer set up for his attack run, slowing to the point that he'd be a little below escape velocity of the moon. Naturally, in a few seconds he could ramp up the acceleration again, blast away to safety, but if something was to happen to his engines, that option would disappear from the table.

 “Contact Safe Margin,” she said. “If they break right now, they'll be in position for a sucker punch on our stalker. They'll have to move, though.”

 “On it,” Ingram replied, and after a few seconds, the Koltoc craft turned around in silent agreement, moving into a long, slow curve that would give them a critical window of opportunity. Scott worked furiously at her controls, frantically working to set up for their attack run, now less than a minute away.

 Switching back to the forward view for a second, Harper saw the icy moon loom ahead in the darkness, a few pin-pricks of light scattered around, monitoring satellites to watch their run. All of them were listed as Copernican in origin, the relic of their scientific program, and none of them had been important enough for anyone to bother with.

 Frantically, she jumped from her chair and raced over to the electronic warfare station, bringing the console on-line in a hurry as she began to dig into the software on the old satellites. As she'd expected, there was almost no security other than the obvious, no serious attempt to stop anyone infiltrating their network. Better still, most of them had some fuel remaining on board, and the enemy battlecruiser would be passing within a thousand kilometers of the nearest one. 

 “Hold your course, Midshipman,” she ordered. “If they fire any missiles, we'll try to outrun them. Scott, feel free to switch from offensive to defensive at your discretion, but keep a close watch. All of this is going to be over in a matter of seconds.” 

 Scott nodded, keeping her focus on her panel, and Harper settled back to watch the show. All the decisions were made, all the tactics decided. The Xandari battlecruiser closed on them, gathering speed, but it was clear that Daedalus would easily be able to outrun them once they were clear of their fake bombing run. They seemed to be ignoring the Safe Margin as it closed on their rear, evidently discounting it as a serious threat.

 The ships entered combat range, No one making a move, until Scott tapped a control to release their first salvo on a course taking them down towards the refining plant. The Xandari immediately launched a counter-strike, their missiles moving to intercept theirs, not giving a thought to the fleeing Daedalus. At the touch of a button, the Triplanetary warheads changed course, recklessly spending their fuel as they spiraled towards the battlecruiser, the defensive missiles struggling to keep up.

 Ten seconds later, Safe Margin fired, three more missiles entering the fray, and the Xandari could only respond with two. The tactical display was a jumble of trajectories, and Harper squinted to make sense of them, before shaking her head and returning to her station. In a few seconds, her contribution would be making its presence felt.

 The old satellite had served its people in peace, and now it would serve them in war, decades-silent attitude jets firing to hurl it onto an interception course with the battlecruiser, with no defensive missiles left to repel it. The enemy commander realized the trap, fired his ship's engines, but he was a second too late, and the lone sentinel slammed into the rear of the battlecruiser, crashing into the primary engines.

 The ship toppled, out of control, and Harper rose from her chair, stepping forward towards the screen, a triumphant smile on her face. A wave of explosions rippled across the display, six missiles striking their counterparts, but the Safe Margin still had one contribution to make to the melee, its last missile catching the ship in the side, right into the main oxygen reservoir. As the lumbering beast tumbled, shuttles spilled from her launch bays, evacuating the crew to the base below, and all around, the bridge rumbled with the sound of applause.

 With a flash, the sensor display updated, showing the battlecruiser's final descent towards the surface of the bleak, icy wasteland below. In less than five minutes, it would meet its end, and there was no longer anything the Xandari could do to stop it. At one stroke, the enemy presence in this system had been halved.

 “Send to Safe Margin,” she said, “Damn good shot.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” Ingram replied, shaking his head. “Signal from Nelyubov.”

 “Put him on,” she said, a beaming smile on her face.

 “Come on, Lieutenant,” Nelyubov said, sharing her joy. “You're going to make the rest of us look bad.”

 “They're too damn overconfident, sir. Gets them every time.” She looked up at the display, and asked, “Orders?” 

 “Take high guard, and set to rendezvous with us once we've completed our pass. Looks like the last ship's going to give us a wide berth. We'll set up to help with the main event.” Turning off the screen for a moment, he shook his head, and added, “Damn good work. Damn good.”

 Moving back to her command chair, Harper ordered, “You heard what he said. Let's get out of here. Might as well save something for our friends.”

Chapter 8

 Orlova looked at Salazar across the holodisplay, waiting for Alamo to return to normal space. If all had gone as planned, Daedalus and her companions would have caused chaos throughout the system over the last two hours. Two of the longest hours of her life, as she longed to be with her people, knowing they were fighting for their lives. At the rear of the bridge, Ryan watched, knowing a torture similar to hers, with the difference that he had no power to change the situation. He was dependent on people he'd only just met, the fate of his home now out of his hands.

 “All decks are cleared for action,” Salazar said, looking up from his panel. He'd slid into Nelyubov's position with surprising ease, the cool confidence of a veteran officer belying his young age. It was a struggle to remember that he had only left the Academy a little over twelve months ago, that his promotion was only weeks old. It had been a hard year, and his eyes looked far older than his years.

 “Laser charged,” Cantrell added. “Missiles ready for launch, and search and rescue shuttles are in the elevator airlocks and ready.” She glanced across at Salazar, as though evaluating him, and continued, “Lieutenant Cooper and First Platoon are in the hangar bay, on two-minute standby.”

 “Very good,” Orlova said, looking around her bridge. No words were needed. They'd heard them all a thousand times before. The countdown clock ticked away its final seconds, and with a bright blue flash, Alamo returned to normal space. Copernicus hung in front of them, a jewel in the darkness. Immediately, the ship started to receive tactical feeds, and Salazar hastily began to run through the last two hours of the battle at an accelerated pace, struggling to catch up.

 Orlova focused on the current situation. Daedalus and the other two ships had swung into formation, out at the far hendecaspace point, likely in an attempt to decoy the enemy forces away. A lone Xandari battlecruiser, the only enemy vessel in the system, ranged towards them, and by the looks of the Allied ships, this wasn't its first pass. The Koltoc vessel looked as if it was only just being held together, and the others were sliding in front of it, trying to protect it from the attack to come.

 “My God!” Salazar yelled. “Daedalus and Safe Margin took out a battlecruiser!”

 Turning to him, Orlova replied, “Are you sure?”

 “Here,” he said, replaying the sensor feed. It should have been impossible, but it had happened, and she watched Daedalus draw the enemy craft in, setting it up for a sucker punch from the Koltoc.

 “We might as well have stayed at home,” Orlova said. “Midshipman, set a course for the far hendecaspace point, maximum speed.” Turning to Powell, now serving as fleet liaison at the communications station, she added, “Contact all ships, and have them follow in squadron formation. If we've got the opportunity for overkill, we might as well use it.”

 “Course computed, Captain,” the Neander replied. “Initiating engine start-up.”

 “Signal from Senior Lieutenant Nelyubov, ma'am,” Weitzman said.

 “Put him through,” she replied, and as the face of her deputy appeared on the screen, she said, “Do you still need us, Frank?”

 “Oh, we need you,” he said, frowning. “I'm not sure how Safe Margin is still flying, and I've taken a few hits on Red Avenger as well.” Looking off-screen, he added, “Major Ingros needs medical attention as soon as possible. I've had to take command.”

 “We're on the way,” Orlova said. “Intercept in ten minutes, five seconds. Can you hold them off long enough?”

 “We'll do our best,” he said, “I'll try and draw them in towards you. Incidentally, give Harper a medal when you get a chance. That ambush was all hers.”

 “Will do,” she replied with a smile. “Don't talk to any strange Xandari. Alamo out.”

 “Fleet is moving with us now,” Powell said, looking across from his station. “We're in an arrowhead formation.”

 His brow furrowed, Salazar said, “I don't like this course, ma'am. We're running too close to the planet.”

 “We're not within range of the defense network, are we?”

 “No, but I'd still rather take a wider berth.” 

 Shaking his head, Powell replied, “That would add three minutes to our travel time, Lieutenant. I'm not sure the advance guard have that long.”

 “Keep an eye on it, Pavel,” Orlova said. “Who's nearest?”

 “Random Walk, Captain.”

 She nodded, then turned back to the display, watching the trajectory tracks snap into position as the ships moved onto their courses. The enemy vessel wasn't reacting, continuing with its bid for vengeance, and Orlova shook her head. Salazar was right. This was too obvious, and the Xandari had never shown any instinct for taking the easy route before. They were up to something, she was certain of that. Her hands danced across the controls, and she focused one of Alamo's sensor banks on the nearest defense satellite, gritting her teeth as she looked over the specifications.

 More borrowed technology, from the United Nations again. One of the latest designs of missile satellites, designed to launch eight-strong salvos, with limited combat fabricators to maintain their arsenals. As she watched, the drone began to dance, moving from side to side to some hidden rhythm, beginning evasive maneuvers. All modern capital ships had long-range laser cannons, and that meant that knocking down objects in fixed orbits was nothing more than target practice. This was going to be a lot tougher.

 Still, Alamo and the rest of the fleet was well out of combat range, and one of the satellites had been crippled by Red Avenger on its initial pass, taking advantage of a target of opportunity. There didn't seem to be any way for the Xandari forces to launch a strike, which only made her more suspicious.

 “Spinelli,” she said. “Let's take a closer look at that space station they're building.”

 Nodding, the technician replied, “Looks like a normal construction and maintenance yard, almost finished as far as I can tell. I'm not getting any anomalous levels of activity, and no sign of any small craft in the air.” He frowned, shook his head, and added, “Fighter bays, Captain. Well hidden, but they're there.”

 “They're going to launch a strike,” Ryan said, speaking for the first time. “A one-way hop, to knock us off balance and support their battlecruiser.”

 “Agreed,” Salazar added. 

 “Let's preempt that,” Orlova replied. “Assuming they do, Cantrell, can you work out an estimated firing range?”

 Cantrell looked at her, eyes wide, then turned to her console to begin the calculations. She was asking a lot, and she knew it. With no clear idea what type of fighters or missiles the Xandari would be using, any such estimate would be vague at best, but after a few seconds, a red sphere appeared on the sensor display, winking twice.

 “We'll be in the zone in thirty seconds, ma'am, and in firing range for seventy. The Koltoc are likely to get the worst of it, though. They'll have almost a hundred seconds under fire.”

 “Should we change course?” Salazar asked.

 “No,” she replied, shaking her head. “I want them to think they've fooled us, at least for the next minute or so. Cantrell, the instant we enter firing range, I want a missile launch.” Turning to Powell, she added, “Let's get the Koltoc in on this game as well. That should be fifteen missiles for those fighters to play with.”

 “Recommend we instruct the Koltoc squadron to change course to handle the attack,” Salazar said. “If they know what's about to hit them, they'll have a better chance to deal with them, and it'll keep them off our flank.” Gesturing at the map, he continued, “If I was commanding that squadron, I'd draw our missiles into firing range of the defense network, then swing around to come after us. They'd be hitting our rear just about when we engaged the battlecruiser.”

 She nodded, and said, “Make it happen.”

 “Aye,” he replied, stepping over to Powell. She watched the display, waiting for the moment of launch. Twelve tracks appeared on the display, launching from the station, thrown clear by magnetic catapult to give them a starting boost, but before they could move more than a few miles, Alamo and the fleet responded with a missile spread, a wave of death slashing out in their direction. Instantly, the fighters began to scatter, attempting to evade, and one flight drew down towards the planet, following Salazar's strategy as though they had overheard it.

 “Colonel Kilquan is turning to engage,” Powell said, “and wishes us good luck.”

 “Five minutes to the battlecruiser,” Cantrell said. “Our missiles are running true.”

 Nodding, Orlova watched the show, the fighters launching a wave of defensive missiles, fighting for their lives as the Koltoc squadron released a second salvo. Two of their warheads found their targets, the fighters flaring for an instant as they died, their missiles going wild, but half a dozen managed to find safety underneath the orbital defense network, a swarm of tracks appearing on the screen as interceptors moved into position.

 One of the Koltoc vessels dived after them, the commander demonstrating an uncharacteristic wild streak as he launched a third wave of missiles. Spinelli looked up, his face white, then turned to the communications station.

 “Otto, warn that crazy bastard off! He'll be in attack range of Satellites Two and Three in seconds!”

 Without waiting for confirmation, Weitzman flicked switches to pass the message across, but it was too late. The Koltoc commander must have realized his mistake, making a pro-grade turn to try and gain speed, but he drifted too close to the enemy forces, twelve missiles locking onto his tail. Escape pods spilled in all directions as the warheads slammed home, less than thirty seconds later, an expanding ball of debris threatening to overwhelm the fleeing survivors.

 “Damn,” Orlova said, shaking her head. “Pavel, see if our search and rescue teams can assist.”

 “Not without running the gauntlet themselves,” he reported. “The Xandari seem to be leaving them alone for the moment, but that would probably change if we expressed any interest in them.” He turned to his board, and said, “Looks like Colonel Kilquan agrees. He's pressing the attack.”

 “Five fighters destroyed,” Spinelli reported. “Two more have multiple missiles on their tail, and the rest are down below the satellite network.”

 “We can't get them,” Cantrell added, “but they can't get us.”

 “Not yet,” Salazar said, “but they're going to be able to hide down there indefinitely. They're in a stable orbit, nice and low.” Frowning, he added, “The surface squadron wouldn't have a chance.”

 “Suggestions?”

 From the electronic warfare station, Spaceman Hooke sighed, and said, “Yes.”

 “Excuse me?”

 “Yes, I can hack into those satellites and turn them around, but I'm going to have to be a lot closer. Someone's bound to be defending their systems, and I can't cope with a substantial time lag.”

 “A shuttle,” Salazar said. “I could bring one in through the gap. It'd need some pretty fancy flying, but I think I could get close enough.” Looking at the sensor display, he added, “Now would be the best time, while they're distracted.”

 “On your way,” Orlova said, tapping a control. “Chief Washington and Sub-Lieutenant Foster, report to the bridge on the double.” Salazar stepped into the elevator, followed by a reluctant Hooke.

 “Four minutes to contact,” Cantrell said. “They're turning on the advance squadron now, Captain. They'll be in firing range before we can do anything to stop them.” Frowning, she added, “Red Avenger is falling behind now, covering for Safe Margin.”

 “Midshipman, we need more speed,” Orlova said.

 “I'm giving you everything we've got, Captain.” Shaking his head, he said, “I'm running the engines hot as it is. We can't push them any more than we're doing, not without risking an overload.”

 “Do everything you can,” Orlova ordered, stepping over to the tactical display. This was the worst part of battle, the waiting. Whether it was for hours, minutes or seconds, the helpless feeling tore into her, the knowledge that people she was responsible for were about to risk their lives on her orders.

 “Safe Margin has launched two shuttles,” Spinelli reported. “Heading for Daedalus. The ship's drifting free. I'd say they've abandoned her.” He paused, then added, “Someone's still handling attitude control, probably remotely.”

 “Good,” Orlova said, nodding. “That ought to give us the edge we need.”

 “I'm not sure the Koltoc will see it that way,” Powell replied. “So far, all the losses have been theirs.”

 “They can send me the bill later. How long, Lieutenant?”

 “Two minutes to contact,” she replied. “Enemy battlecruiser is trying for Daedalus, but the Venture is getting in the way. They must be intending to use it as a shield.”

 “Koltoc shuttles docking now, Captain,” Spinelli added. “Energy spike!” he added. “Multiple missile launches from the battlecruiser. Conventional single-shot, closing on Daedalus, running true!”

 Orlova watched as the squadron of small ships raced away, trying to outpace the missiles, leaving their one, wounded companion behind to complete a final service to its comrades, drifting into the path of two of the approaching warheads, taking the hits for them. Four new tracks raced from Daedalus, her last missiles according to the telemetry, moving to intercept the enemy targets.

 The elevator door slid open, Foster and Washington stepping out, the latter immediately making for the electronic warfare station, leaving the young officer looking around the bridge. She stepped up to the holodesk, and tentatively took the vacant place, scanning the systems monitors.

 “Enemy battlecruiser is on the move,” Spinelli reported. “Changing course, heading for the deep system.” Shaking his head, he added, “We can catch them if we move quickly, Captain.”

 “Firing range in one minute,” Cantrell said, as the missile tracks disappeared from the screen in a frantic series of collisions. “We'll have at least two shots. Request permission to fire a defensive salvo?”

 Nodding, Orlova said, “Do it. Then fire at will.” Turning to Powell, she added, “Instruct all ships to launch their missiles as soon as they are in range.”

 Alamo dived towards its fleeting target, the Neander vessels on her flanks slowly moving ahead, their greater acceleration now unleashed to the full as they sought vengeance for the death of their comrades. Behind them, at the planet, the Koltoc ships were still dueling with the fighters, none daring to get within firing range of the satellites.

 “Ten seconds,” Cantrell said, and Alamo rocked as the first salvo launched, racing ahead of the Neander. They didn't have the range to hit the enemy ship, but when it fired its missiles, they'd be in a perfect position to intercept. A heartbeat later, six new targets appeared on the screen, all of them bearing down upon Alamo.

 “Midshipman, line me up a shot,” Cantrell said. “Specific location unimportant. We just need to make a mess.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” he replied. “Coming around.”

 As the rest of the squadron unleashed their missiles, Alamo fired its laser cannon at the enemy, a neat black line running down the side of their hull, gas escaping, tossing them around. The Xandari quickly re-oriented its missiles to defensive fire, trying to gain speed to escape, but her fate was inevitable, and all present knew it. As she watched, ripples of explosions raced across her hull, exposing the compartments within. A single missile struggled to clear the ship, immediately destroyed by a Neander missile before it could get away.

 Finally, the enemy vessel could fight no more, and with one last blinding burst, she exploded, a halo of jagged shrapnel where once she was. All eyes were on the viewscreen as they saw the ship meet its end, and Orlova shook her head.

 “Now we've got to finish the clean-up,” she said. “Take us back...”

 “Signal from the station, Captain!” Spinelli said.

 “Are they surrendering?”

 “No, ma'am. Some of the workers have broken free, and the Xandari are massacring the rest.”

 “We've got to help them,” Ryan said, stepping forward. “There are a couple of hundred of my people over there, forced labor in the construction process!”

 “Have Lieutenant Cooper proceed to their support with everyone he's got,” Orlova ordered.

 “Captain,” Cantrell replied, “those shuttles would be sitting ducks for the fighters, to say nothing of the satellite network.”

 “I'm aware of that,” she said. “We can't just sit here and watch while they kill the Copernican prisoners. Let's just hope that Pavel can knock them out first.” Shaking her head, she stepped over to the helm, and added, “Bring us about, Midshipman. Get us back to the planet, maximum acceleration.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” Maqua replied, and she watched as the stars shifted on the screen, Alamo turning back towards its original target. The elevator slid open, Ryan racing from the bridge. She couldn't blame him. Under the same circumstances, she'd have done exactly the same.

 Seconds later, the shuttles launched, four of them, all overloaded with troops. In five minutes, they'd be in the firing line. Now the waiting would begin again.

Chapter 9

 Salazar gently guided the shuttle towards the planet, frowning as he labored to set up their flight towards the satellite network. Beside him, Hooke grumbled at his position, rattling controls to bring his electronic warfare suite online. After Harper, he was the best hacker on the ship, and he knew it. That his skills tended to perpetually bring him into dangerous situations was not lost on him, but early efforts to maintain a comfortable anonymity had failed long ago.

 “Course complete,” Salazar said. “How are you doing, Hooke?”

 “I'm still working on my last words,” he replied. “I think I'd better keep them nice and short under the circumstances. No point boring everyone to death at my funeral.”

 “Cheer up,” Salazar said, forcing a smile. “If we screw this up, odds are there won't be enough of us left to bury.” Gesturing at the navigation computer, he added, “We're going to have to dip below escape velocity to make the pass.” The engines rumbled, the ship tumbling to the left to avoid a debris field, and the pilot poked at his controls again, adjusting his course. “Crowded out here.”

 With a sigh, Hooke said, “If you're really interested, my primary communications link is on-line, and I've loaded my intrusion software into the computer.” He looked around the shuttle, and said, “Let's just hope my enhancements work.”

 “Enhancements?”

 He frowned, shook his head, and said, “Why do you think I arranged for us to have this shuttle? I've been tinkering with her for the last month or so, boosting the transmission capacity and the processing power.”

 “You arranged it? It was just...”

 For the first time, he saw Hooke smile, as the hacker replied, “Come on, Lieutenant, I'm good enough at my job to make sure there are no such things as coincidences. I don't think there's a sysop in the fleet that doesn't, shall we say, enhance his shipboard experience somewhat.” Raising his hand, he replied, “You can talk. I saw how you got those new quarters, not to mention the office. Nice work, by the way. I didn't know you'd had any special training.”

 “I haven't,” the baffled Salazar replied. “The scheduling systems just assigned them to me.”

 Shaking his head, Hooke said, “Huh. So you thought that you were the only officer of your rank to have an office of his own, as well as the best quarters on the officers' level? Lieutenant, you can come clean with me. Why do you think I have my own room? I need my privacy. It's all justified, of course. Security.” The smile grew, and he said, “Security can excuse just about anything.”

 “Trust me, Spaceman, I haven't, and when I get back, I'm…” he paused, and continued, “Harper?”

 “Probably. She likes you, if you hadn't noticed.” The hacker frowned and added, “Maybe you really haven't. Interesting. In any case, you don't need to worry. We hackers tend to keep ourselves honest, at least after a fashion. I might arrange to get a slightly nicer room, but I wouldn't interfere with anything essential to ship operations.”

 “And when I was Security Officer, how did I miss this?”

 “Well, Quinn was running things at the time, and besides,” he paused, frowned, then continued, “you aren't a hacker. I guess you took the basic electronic warfare training at the Academy, but we're a bit beyond that level. Hard to supervise someone when you don't understand what they're doing. Harper's the only boss I've had who really knew what I was up to.” He nodded, and said, “I actually picked up a few tricks from her. Giving her a ship was a smart move.”

 Salazar glanced at his controls, and checked the course heading. Three minutes to the action. The Koltoc ships were cruising in his wake, ready to provide support, and he could pick up a squadron of Copernican fighters launching from the surface, moving into position for their attack. Everyone was depending on his flying, and Hooke's skills.

 “You really are a little clan of your own, aren't you,” Salazar said, settling back at his station.

 “Of course,” he replied, turning to his controls, tapping a series of buttons to bring new programs to the fore. “There are three of us who could quite easily take over the ship, if we wanted to. No matter how many firewalls or defensive programs you could install to stop us. Harper, me, and Washington.” He paused, then added, “Maybe the Captain, as well. She was pretty good, but she's not had the practice. A waste, really.” 

 Shaking his head, Salazar replied, “Two minutes, now, Hooke. Better get ready.”

 “I'm always ready, Lieutenant. It's safer that way.” He turned, and said, “You think you can get us through the gap?”

 “Don't worry, Spaceman, I've got a nice smooth trajectory right through the middle.” He frowned, adjusting his sensors, and continued, “Just make sure they can't lob anything at us, and we'll be back on Alamo before you can say milk-run.”

 “Oddly, that isn't working,” he replied, tapping a control. “Here we go. I should be able to start logging on now.” Turning for a second, he continued, “Whatever you do, don't distract me. Unless we're about to die. Be nice to have a little warning.”

 Salazar looked up at his sensors again, and cursed under his breath. The satellites were even better than he had thought. Either that, or the Xandari had managed to make some modifications to the basic design. The two defense platforms on either side were changing their orbits, moving to fill in the gaps in the system created by Red Avenger's pass. They'd had the luxury of a high-speed flyby, only a few seconds in the window, but they were looking at three or four minutes of bombardment. Not that they'd need anything like that much. One good hit would finish them, and on their present course, they couldn't even bail out. They'd re-enter the atmosphere in minutes, just a shooting star in the night sky.

 He looked at the planet, shaking his head. They were diving towards a huge, blue sea, green and brown islands pin-pointed all over it in vast archipelagos. Some day, he'd like to go down there, sail on that sea for himself. Maybe when all of this was over.

 Finally, the sensor computer produced an updated course plot, and he burst into life, entering course changes by the second, altering their course to bring them around the perimeter of the satellites. It wasn't merely the gap to contend with now, but the debris fields from the battle that had taken place bare minutes ago. All of them had been fighting in the same orbital plane, and he periodically made adjustments to dodge large enough chunks of metal to cause real damage to the shuttle.

 Then, making matters worse, the fighters lit up, moving to an attack trajectory. Even if they made it through the satellites, they'd be caught as soon as they passed through the other side. It might only be revenge, but they'd still be dead, just the same. He turned to Hooke, then shook his head. The hacker was engrossed in his work, digging into the modified network, and didn't need any distractions. This was his problem, and he was going to solve it, one way or another.

 With a smile, he reached across for the throttle, pushing the engines up to maximum acceleration, enough to press him back into his couch and earn him an angry stare from Hooke, who turned back to his work with a grimace. Below, the Copernican fighters were coming up, rising to meet the Xandari fighters, but with the gravity gauge against them, it was going to be tough.

 “I'm in!” Hooke said. “Broken into Satellite Three. Let's see what I can do with it.”

 An alarm went off, and Salazar replied, “Make it fast. Satellite Two just fired three missiles at us.” He reached underneath the panel and turned a key that only an experienced pilot would know existed, a control that wasn't in any of the manuals for a very good reason. It deactivated the safety systems, allowing him to force all possible acceleration from the shuttle, regardless of the well-being of the occupants. He could just manage ten Earth gravities and remain conscious, an aftermath of a life raised in a low-gravity environment. Anything stronger would knock him cold, and going above twenty would result in a long spell in sickbay. Above twenty-five, and he'd have a longer stay in a coffin.

 He glanced across at Hooke, still frantically working, attempting to urge a launch from his satellite, targeted at the other missiles. Above them, one of the Koltoc ships launched a wave of its own warheads, swooping down towards the temporarily vulnerable satellite, but they couldn't get there in time to make any difference.

 Ramping up the acceleration as high as he dared, sufficient that his vision started to gray around the edges, warning lights blaring across the cabin with a sea of red lights dancing on his console, he tried to outpace the missiles, buying the struggling Hooke time to work his console. The hacker threw him a quick, painful glance, then slammed a control, sending two more missiles into the sky, locked onto the shuttle's own guidance system.

 Though a standard transfer shuttle had no capability to launch missiles, past experience had amply demonstrated that the ability to control them was a useful feature, and Salazar struggled to the side panel, stabbing buttons to manipulate the guidance system, to direct them towards his selected targets.

 More warning lights sounded as the missiles approached, the acceleration rendering him barely able to breathe. He glanced across at the indicator, reading fourteen gravities. More than he'd ever remained conscious through before, forty times the usual weight he was used to back on Mars, but he only had to stand it for a few more minutes.

 Automatically, the physical countermeasures engaged, tossing flares and chaff away from the side of the shuttle, a primitive attempt to block the incoming sensors of the approaching missiles, frustrate them for the critical second required for a good pilot to find a miracle. He looked up at the sensor screen, transfixed, as he saw the three missiles converging on the shuttle, bare seconds left until impact. Their two counterparts chased towards them as fast as their engines could burn, but something inside him said that it wasn't going to be enough, that their life was measured only in seconds.

 He turned to Hooke, but at the final second, their missiles put on an extra burst of speed, smashing into the rear of the approaching warheads and catching all three of them in the explosion, rendering the sensor scope blissfully clear. Easing down the acceleration, he turned to Hooke, shaking his head.

 “You could have warned me, damn it,” he said.

 A smirk on his face, Hooke replied, “I thought about it, but you looked like you were enjoying yourself. Besides, you had the engine running so hot I could barely breathe.” Turning to the side panel, he said, “Looks like the Koltoc have blasted through our window.”

 Satellite Three had detonated in their rear, leaving a gap large enough that the Xandari fighters were vulnerable to attack from above. Their commander had realized it, and the formation moved into a new trajectory, ignoring them and focusing their attention on Cooper's attack wave, closing in on the station right above them.

 “We've got to stop them,” Salazar said, running up the thrust again. 

 “We don't have any weapons,” Hooke replied, grimacing as the acceleration built, “and I can't hack into another satellite in time.” Glancing at the sensor display, he continued, “What are you going to do?”

 “Play chicken,” Salazar replied, locking onto the lead fighter. He built up his acceleration again, soaring past escape velocity and freeing himself from the tyranny of the planetary gravity well, but that didn't matter to him right now. Navigation was reduced to one objective, ramming into the lead fighter.

 “Lieutenant, we'll be killed!”

 “He'll break,” Salazar said, with a confidence he didn't feel. “Trust me.”

 “Trusting you is what got me into this mess!” Shaking his head, he moved back to his controls, and said, “Maybe I can do something from here. Hang on.”

 “I can't, Hooke! Thirty seconds to impact, and if we miss, they'll be raining death on Cooper's Company in the next minute.” Glancing at the display again, he flicked a switch, and said, “Lieutenant Salazar to Copernicus Fighter Squadron. Come in, please!”

 “Lieutenant Deveraux here,” a whimsical voice replied. “We're closing on your position, missiles ready to fire. Be with you in forty seconds.”

 “We'll be dead by then,” Hooke said, frantically working his console. “I think I can hack into their communications system.” Shaking his head, he added, “It won't do any good. We haven't cracked their code, and I don't even speak their bloody language.”

 “Turn the gain up as high as you can,” Salazar said, fine-tuning their course, “and run the volume up all the way. Let's make their eardrums bleed.”

 Hooke looked at him, smiled, and issued the necessary commands, drowning their headsets with noise. Filters would normally shut it down almost instantly, but he played with the gain, pulsing it fast enough to trick the computers, but slowly enough that it made no difference to those forced to listen. One of the fighters drifted off course, the pilot in the middle of some maneuver when he lost all concentration. Salazar's fighter roared into view, before finally veering off at the last second, diving down towards the planet as the squadron leader randomly dodged.

 “Blocked,” Hooke said, pushing a button, “but it doesn't matter now. Here come the Copernicans!”
 A quintet of sleek, winged shapes cruised towards them, firing ten missiles from under-slung hard-points, racing towards the Xandari fighters, who could only muster six missiles to counter them. Even if they could survive the attack, they were unarmed, out of the battle, and their leader turned them back to the station, trying for a ramming attack on the shuttles.

 It was a tactic born of desperation, and the carefully placed shots of the Copernican squadron rendered it impossible, missiles slamming home in a series of fiery explosions, ripping them apart. Salazar looked down at his course plot, a satisfied smile on his face. They didn't have enough fuel to get back to Alamo, but they were on a trajectory to take them well clear of the combat area, out to the safety of the outer system.

 “Thanks for the assist, Lieutenant,” Deveraux said. “Nice flying.”

 “Nice shooting,” Salazar replied. “Can you manage the rest of the defense network?”

 “It's got more holes than my old socks,” the pilot said with a laugh. “Consider them gone. Assuming the Koltoc don't finish the job for us first. I'll stand you a drink at the bar when you make it down to the surface. Deveraux out.”

 “What now?” Hooke asked.

 Glancing at his sensor display, Salazar answered, “Well, there's nothing we can do until someone picks us up, and I suspect that's going to be a little while. How good are you at chess?”

 “I beat the computer every time.”

 “I bet you do,” he said, shaking his head. “Call up a board. Let's see if you can beat a human.”

Chapter 10

 Cooper shook his head in disbelief as he looked at the sensor display, glancing across at his wife, similarly in awe of the occasion. Ten trajectory tracks curved towards the station, launched from five ships, all fully loaded with assault troops. He glanced across at his insignia, and shook his head. All of these lives were his responsibility. The platoon he had commanded for two years, that he had trained, was under the command of someone else for this mission, and Acting Ensign Gurung had made it perfectly clear that he expected the company commander to hold back from the action, to direct from the rear. Not that he had any intention of so doing.

 Ryan stepped forward from the cabin, and asked, “How long until docking?”

 “Four minutes,” Bradley replied. “Your fighters have knocked out the enemy satellite network, so we've got a clean run, all the way to the station. There doesn't seem to be anything in the way of defensive armament, so I think we're clear until we dock.”

 “And after that?” he asked.

 “That's his problem,” she answered, gesturing at Cooper.

 “Take a look at this, Commander,” Cooper said, pointing at the viewscreen. “Take a good, long look. Ten shuttles, a hundred and twenty troops from the Confederation, the Consortium, the Free Peoples, the Koltoc. Three different races working together to free your people. The largest assault since the Interplanetary War.” Shaking his head, he continued, “I never thought I'd ever see anything like this, and I certainly never thought that I'd command it.”

 “Signal from the station,” Bradley said, looking up from her panel. “They've given us an airlock that should provide a safe landing. Some insurgent forces have taken control of the lower deck.” Turning to Ryan, she added, “A Captain Kalb is in charge over there, from the Colonial Militia. Sound familiar.”

 A smile broke out on Ryan's face, and he said, “Anton Kalb. He'd hoped to infiltrate the station in one of the work gangs, went on board a month before I left and disappeared. I guess he's chosen his moment to attack.”

 “You'll be shaking hands in a couple of minutes,” she replied. “You'd better go back and see to your command squad, Lieutenant.”

 Cooper made a face at her, then stepped back into the cabin. He'd unashamedly stolen First Squad to act as his escort, Major Segna added to liaise with the Free Peoples forces that made up the bulk of his company. Corporal Walpis was preparing them for battle, checking over their equipment and their weapons, Lance-Corporal Rhodes standing by the hatch, keeping an eye on the Neander.

 “Docking in two minutes,” he said, as Ryan stepped in behind him. “This is the big one, people. The largest combined operation you're ever likely to take part in. As soon as we hit the deck, we're going to start carving out a beach-head, and...”

 “Sir,” Walpis said, “Ensign Gurung suggested we should set up a command center and a communications network.”

 “Indeed,” Cooper replied. “We've got at least three hundred people to save, Corporal, and we haven't got any time to waste. The massacre as already begun, though I rather hope we can provide a distraction...”

 “Just like on the freighter,” Saltzman said, shaking his head.

 Glaring at the grumbling trooper, Cooper continued, “There isn't enough shuttle capacity to get everyone off, and we can bet that the Xandari won't have provided escape pods for their slave laborers. We can't afford to lose this station, people. Right now all the squad and platoon leaders are giving you the same warning I am. Take this station intact.” He smiled, turned to Ryan, and added, “After all, the Xandari went to a lot of trouble to build the damn place. Someone might as well get some use out of it.”

 “And for God's sake,” Walpis added, “watch your aim. We don't want any friendly fire today. If you see a Xandari, shoot to kill. Anyone else, don't fire unless fired upon.”

 “Thirty seconds,” Bradley said.

 “Major,” Cooper said, “shall we?”

 “Certainly,” the gruff Neander replied with a smile, hefting a heavy rifle in his hands as he stepped to the hatch. This shuttle was to be the first to dock, despite the protestations of the platoon leaders, and Cooper braced himself at the hatch. If this was a trap, they'd have bare seconds to warn the rest of the company to escape, and they'd spend their lives to give their comrades a chance to live. Everyone in the shuttle knew that, and all of them had volunteered regardless. He'd have had a harder time preventing them from coming.

 With a loud clang, the shuttle docked, the air pressure equalizing as the double hatches opened. Cooper raised his rifle, cautiously, then stepped forward. On the far side, a tall man with a thin mustache and neatly-cropped hair, wearing a battered jumpsuit, stepped forward, saluting as he approached.

 “Captain Kalb, at your service, sir. I presume you must be Lieutenant Cooper.”

 Cooper returned the salute, and replied, “I brought some friends to the party. I hope you don't mind.”

 “I think we can accommodate them,” he said, as Ryan stepped through. The rebel leader jumped at Ryan, embracing him in a bear hug, and said, “You old bastard. We all thought you'd had it.”
 “I could say the same about you,” Ryan replied with a smile.

 “What's the situation?” Cooper asked.

 “We're going to have company in a few minutes. I managed to get access to the surveillance system, so we've got a pretty good view of what's happening all across the station. As soon as they saw you coming, they sent their forces up. There's only a skeleton force left guarding the prisoners.” Shaking his head, he said, “We pulled out as many as we can, but we've got a lot of wounded down there.”

 “Our medical teams are standing by,” Cooper said. Ensign Gurung jogged down the corridor towards him, snapping a salute as he approached. Looking past him, he saw streams of men rushing out from the airlocks, the shuttles hastily disgorging their loads onto the station.

 “Rhodes,” Cooper said, “See that any wounded up here already are placed on shuttles for transfer back to Alamo. Walpis, I want you to take point in the assault. Don't let them make the attack they want, hit them before they can organize.”

 “Yes, sir,” Gurung said. Kalb gave him some quick directions, and then the fearsome Espatier charged down a corridor, men rushing after him with weapons at the ready. Cooper longed to be with them, but he had other matters to deal with.

 “Where's the command center?” he asked.

 “One level up,” Kalb replied. “It's the only room in this area we don't hold. The duty crew closed the blast doors before we could grab it.”

 “That's ours,” Cooper said. “Major, gather together the remainder of the troops and send them after First Platoon, under the senior platoon leader. You'll take command of the assault. Spread out over a wider area, keep them guessing. We've got the numbers, we might as well use them to the full.” 

 “Yes, sir,” Segna replied.

 “And keep your damn head down, Major. We don't want any ricochets off that hard skull of yours today.” Clapping his friend on the shoulder, he turned to Kalb, and asked, “What forces do you have?”

 “Five militiamen, and about forty with improvised weapons.” With a shrug, he added, “This would have been a pretty short rebellion if you hadn't arrived, Lieutenant.”

 Nodding, Cooper said, “Put your second-in-command in one of the casualty shuttles, and have him report back to Alamo to act as liaison. The rest can spread out to guard the shuttles and help get wounded back. You've won your part of the fight. Now it's our turn.” As Kalb yelled brief orders to a cluster of men at the far side of the corridor, Cooper turned to Walpis.

 “We're going to take the command center. Ghaison, Medodkis, I want you to bring our spacesuits with you.”

 “We're not going to need them for the attack, sir.”

 “Not yet we're not,” Cooper replied. “Bring them along.”

 “We're all set,” Kalb reported. “Ready to go.” One of his troopers moved into the shuttle, the first of the wounded already on board, and he added, “Need a guide?”

 “I thought you'd never ask. Lead the way, Captain.”

 Kalb turned down a side corridor, running towards a ceiling hatch at the far end. Cooper struggled to keep pace with the militiaman, the rest of his troops straggled behind him. At the end of the line, Ghaison and Medodkis struggled with their loads, complaining with their eyes as they dragged the heavy equipment behind them. Ryan raced after them, helping with their burden, his own suit draped over his shoulder.

 “What's a Lieutenant doing commanding a Major, anyway?” Kalb asked.

 “Fun games with the rank structure, Captain. I'll be happy to show you an org chart once all of this is over.”

 Gesturing at the ceiling, Kalb said, “That takes us right in front of the door. They don't have anyone guarding it, but with the blast doors closed, they don't need to.”

 “Don't worry. I've got a plan.” Turning to his troops, Cooper saw an airlock on the far wall, no shuttle attached to it, and said, “Leave the suits here for the moment. Rhodes, you're rear guard. Let's go.”

 They climbed the ladder in four quick steps, the recalcitrant hatch pushing open at the second try. Kalb was the first to the upper level, dropping to the ground to guard against feared enemy fire, and Cooper followed, jogging to the door. As he'd hoped, it was a familiar design, Triplanetary in origin, stolen like the bulk of the Xandari technology. Pulling out his communicator, he searched up and down the frequencies. 

 “Cooper to Harper. Do you read me?”

 “Loud and clear, Gabe. What's up?”

 “I've got a door that needs opening. Triplanetary locking mechanism. Can do?”

 “Not a problem. Just put in a datalink, and I'll do the rest.”

 He reached into a pocket and pulled out a connecting cable, plugging his communicator into the door mechanism. The display started to go crazy, wildly flashing numbers and symbols, and he gestured for the squad to get into position on either side of the door, pulling out a flash-bang and placing his finger on the trigger.

 “Ready in five seconds,” Harper said. “Now!”

 The door slid open, and Cooper lopped his grenade inside, shielding his eyes from the blast. The occupants were caught by complete surprise, and a dozen well-aimed shots rained onto the Xandari within, a single terrified human cowering in a corner, wide-eyed as his rescuers burst into the room. A tinkling of broken glass came from one of the consoles, McBride cursing as his shot went wide, the man it was meant for already dying on the floor.  

 Cooper stepped over the bodies, moving to the prisoner, vicious wounds on his face and arms, bruises all across his body. Donegan moved forward with his medical kit while Cooper stepped over to the security systems, the panels flashing scenes of battles taking place all across the station. Corporal Tokarova leading his men into a column of Xandari scouts, Ensign Gurung dragging a prisoner out of a room, one of the Neander paramedics getting to work while the advance continued. Everywhere, his men were fighting and dying, and he was not among them.

 Turning to Kalb, he asked, “Do you have people to crew these consoles?” 

 “Down by the shuttles,” he replied.

 “Get them up here, on the double.” Racing back to the door, he snatched his communicator, and said, “Kris, you still there?”

 “I'm here.”

 Moving to the communications panel, he threw a switch, and said, “This won't be much of a test of your skills, but I've opened up the firewalls. I want you to knock out all of the systems access in Xandari-controlled areas. Everywhere except this command center and the landing docks.”

 “Give me two minutes.”

 “Disable all external sensor feeds, and I mean all.”

 “Wait a minute,” Ryan said, “We'll need them to set up any sort of traffic control. There are a lot of shuttles going back and forth.”

 “Do it, Kris.” Turning to the Copernican, he added, “I think you've guessed what the next step is.”

 “I haven't,” Kalb replied.

 Shaking his head, Ryan said, “Once the Xandari realize they can't hold this station, they'll try and destroy it, or at the very least, kill all the prisoners. We can stop the first by shutting down all of their systems access. Even if they start blowing things up, they don't control anything sensitive now.” Looking at Cooper, he added, “They could still complete their massacre, though, unless we can do something to stop them.”

 “You're going outside,” Kalb said, nodding. “Down the hull, and in through one of the emergency airlocks.”

 “It should catch them completely by surprise, especially with our forces pushing so strongly on all fronts.” He looked at the monitors again, watching his troopers at work, his face falling as he saw a burst of rifle fire bring down an advancing column of Neander. “Their command-and-control will be back there, and we have a chance of taking that out as well. We can end this pretty damn quickly if we move right now.”

 “I'm coming with you,” Ryan said. Turning to Kalb, he added, “Ant, you'll have to stay here. You're no good in a suit, and you know it.”

 “So did the Xandari after my first time on the hull,” the soldier replied. “I'll ride shotgun from our end, and arrange for a couple of shuttles to be on standby outside with medical teams. The people you rescue are going to need immediate assistance.”

 With one last glance at the monitors, Cooper said, “Let's move.”

 The squad purposefully walked down the corridor, dropping through the hatch to their waiting spacesuits, passing a paramedic heading up to the control center, leading a line of technicians. Cooper picked up his suit, carefully pulling it on, running through the usual test cycles. A mission update flickered across his heads-up display as he locked his helmet into position, alerting him that First Platoon had taken the habitation levels. If he was judging it correctly, that meant that more than half the station was now under allied control.

 He was the first to the airlock, followed by Ryan, and worked the familiar controls with a smile. Effectively, the Xandari had built the Copernicans a large Triplanetary fleet base, here in orbit, a perfect staging area for Commodore Marshall's fleet when it arrived. Behind him, the troopers moved into pairs, ready to step out onto the hull.

 The outer hatch opened and he kicked outside, playing his thrusters to keep him close to the station. With the external sensors disabled, the only way they could be detected was if someone looked out of a viewport. That didn't stop the feeling of unease he felt as he glided smoothly down the hull, careful to keep clear of airlocks, following the glistening line of solar panels that ran along the perimeter of the station.

 His squad followed in a long, trailing line, all the way back to the airlock, silently sliding towards their target. All of this looked familiar, and if they hadn't made any major changes, there ought to be a maintenance airlock a couple of hundred meters away, underneath the rotating hull, opening right into the supply levels.

 A flash of new data burst onto his display, more tactical updates from his command. The battle had degenerated quickly into a series of firefights running across a dozen decks, fire teams and squads facing their opponents, trading shot for shot as they pushed their way through the lines. The Xandari had nowhere to go, and only stubbornness was keeping them in the fight this long. Any normal commander would have surrendered long since, perhaps attempted to use his prisoners as hostages for safe conduct out of their territory, but the Xandari didn't think that way. That was their greatest weakness, and one he hoped to exploit to the full.

 The airlock was there, just as he hoped, and he swung in towards it, tapping the release control. It failed to open, and he fumbled into a pouch for a datarod, sliding it into position to engage a series of intrusion programs, opening the hatch by brute force. It would almost certainly alert the Xandari to their presence, but hopefully without giving them any time to prepare a defense.

 Finally, the hatch slid open and he scrambled inside, followed by Ryan, working the emergency cycle as the airlock pressurized, the hiss of air audible inside his helmet. The Copernican moved to take his helmet off, but Cooper shook his head, stepping through the inner hatch, still wearing his cumbersome spacesuit.

 That act saved his life, as a trio of bullets ripped through the air, slamming into him and sending him falling to the floor. Ryan fired a snap shot that brought down one of the waiting Xandari, and Cooper recovered quickly enough to deal with the other two, a pair of loud reports heralding their death. He struggled out of his suit as the next pair of troopers, Rhodes and Saltzman, stepped inside, then ran to the large double doors at the far side of the room, pushing boxes and crates aside in his haste, tossing the pieces of his ruined suit away as he advanced.

 The cries of the wounded greeted him as he stepped out into the corridor, a pile of dead bodies, mostly Koltoc, dumped by the wall, the remaining crewmen struggling to help them. Cooper looked out at them, took a deep breath, then turned back to the corridor, rifle in hand and vengeance in his heart. Donegan shook his head and pulled out his communicator, ordering the medical shuttles to dock, while the rest of the squad followed Cooper.

 Gunshots rang out ahead of them, but he had no intention of seeking the safety of cover. Men were dying, all around him, and he was going to stop them, no matter what it took. A lone Xandari, heading heedlessly out into the corridor, died as half a dozen bullets tore into him at once, most of the squad reacting quickly to the presence of their hated enemy.

 “This way,” Walpis said, pointing at a sign. “Auxiliary control. I'd bet they were using it to run the battle.”

 Without a word, Cooper took the suggested corridor, Rhodes moving over to his side, shooting worried glances at his commander. Walpis jogged up, attempting to take the lead, but Cooper redoubled his pace, keeping point. A trio of surprised Xandari were in the middle of setting up a defensive position, tugging crates into a crude barricade, and Cooper leveled his rifle at the first of them, executing a shot that wouldn't have disgraced a firing range, the enemy trooper sprawling over the box he had been carrying, crimson blood trickling down its sides.

 Another shot came from inside, and Cooper opened the door with the tap of a control to see a young Koltoc dropping to the floor, clutching at his chest, looking at him with terrified eyes. His executioner loomed over him, ready to fire at his next victim, but Cooper charged forward, sending him sprawling to the ground, his gun forgotten as the red mist descended. He ripped at the Xandari's throat, smashing blows to the stunned man's head, beating him again and again before hands dragged him away, Rhodes pulling him from the Xandari.

 “Let me go,” he said. “That's an order, damn it.”

 “He's dead, sir,” the trooper replied, holding him fast. “They're all dead.”

 “This one's alive,” Ryan said, kneeling beside the young man on the floor. “We need a medical team, on the double.”

 Cooper looked at Rhodes, who released him after a second's glance, careful to stand near him. From what seemed like a million miles away, he heard a chirp, an incoming transmission from his communicator, and he reached down to retrieve it, opening the channel.

 “Gurung here, sir! We've linked up with the medical team in the cargo decks. Looks like they've had it, sir. The last of them are making a stand in the enlisted quarters, but we're taking them from three sides. Major Segna reports that we should have the station secured in a matter of minutes.”

 “Yeah,” Cooper said, his eyes locked on the bloodbath.

 “Sir, didn't you hear me? We won!”

 “Sure,” he said, staring at the bodies by the wall, the innocent prisoners who had died before they could reach them. “We won.”

Chapter 11

 Daedalus lazily cruised towards the moon, a pair of Neander raiders following, curving in a long arc towards their destination. On the bridge, the mood was jubilant, Scott reading out a litany of reports from the surface, the station and the fleet, all of them celebrating their tremendous victory. Armstrong turned from the helm, a happy smile on her face.

 “Do you think we'll get back to orbit in time for the party, ma'am?”

 “One half-hour pass, and we're heading home,” Harper replied. “We've got to spill some of this velocity anyway. Don't worry, you'll get down in time for the celebrations.” Leaning back on her chair, she added, “I'll keep the shipboard watch.”

 “You don't have to,” Scott said. “I don't mind staying up here. This is your victory as much as it's anyone's. Taking out the battlecruiser...”

 “We had a job to do, and we did it. Damned well, if I say so myself, but that's what we did. I've earned an evening off.” She smiled, and added, “Think of it this way. Captain Orlova is going to be spending the night listening to a succession of planetary leaders trying to win the Galactic Verbosity Award, while the rest of the senior staff will have their ears blasted out by the military band.” Frowning, she added, “Are we still on course to pick up Pavel after we've finished this run?”

 “In about twenty minutes,” Armstrong replied. “I still don't understand why he insisted he could wait for us. One of the search and rescue shuttles could have picked the two of them up an hour ago.”

 “I don't think he's in any real hurry,” Harper replied. “You're training to be an officer, Midshipman. You work it out.”

 She paused, then said, “He's skipping the party as well?”

 “I understand the two of us have invitations to something that should be a lot more fun tomorrow night. There's a bottle of vodka sitting in my cabin with a pair of glasses.” Shaking her head, she said, “We're getting the better end of this deal, so the two of you can have all the fun you want on the surface.”

 “You don't really believe that, do you?” Armstrong asked.

 “She does,” Scott said, shaking her head. “I'm half-tempted to join you, but someone's got to fly the flag for the ship, I guess. I'll just have to collect the accolades in your place.” Tapping a control, she pulled up a wall of text, and she said, “I've even prepared a speech.”

 “You're kidding,” Harper replied.

 “Well, I had the computer find me something appropriate, then changed the names to fit.” She peered at the accompanying text, and said, “This is from the victory celebrations after the UN Fleet took out the Red Hand Gang, apparently. Whoever the hell they were. Back at the turn of the century.”

 “A criminal syndicate that took over half a dozen asteroids,” Armstrong volunteered. “They converted several deep prospectors to carry modified missiles, and stood off the fleet for almost a year before…” She paused, looked around, and said, “Sorry, I've been working on my dissertation. Early Space Warfare.”

 “No objection to my junior officers getting on with their homework,” Harper replied. “With a little luck, you'll have plenty of time to get it finished while we're waiting to head home.” She frowned, then added, “I don't have to grade it, do I?”

 “God, you're in trouble, Jen,” Scott said, shaking her head. “It'll be Senior Lieutenant Nelyubov, Kris. He's in charge of the training program.”

 “Hell, I'd have given you top marks. Send me a copy anyway. Perhaps I can help.” At Scott's puzzled expression, she added, “The Harpers, as my dear father continually notes, have been in the service of one space-side military or another for as long as anyone's had one. United States Space Force, then the United Nations Space Fleet, then the Martian Space Service, now the Triplanetary Fleet.” Shaking her head, she added, “I never thought I'd be following the tradition.”

 “I'm glad you did,” Scott said. “Having a conventional commanding officer would be boring as hell after serving under you for a couple of months.”

 “I think that's a complement,” she replied. “How are we doing, Midshipman?”

 Turning back to her station, Armstrong said, “We'll be in close scanning range in three minutes, closest approach in five. That'll be at twenty-one miles. The rest of the formation is moving lower, to get better resolution.” She tapped a control to make a course correction, then added, “What do you think the garrison will do?”

 “I think they'll probably blow the place to bits,” Harper replied. “My guess is that they're setting up the charges right now, and there isn't a damn thing we can do about it. At least there aren't any Copernicans down there.” Shaking her head, she added, “Kat, you'd better work out an attack plan, just in case they don't do the decent thing.”

 “There's no way we could capture it?” Armstrong asked.

 “Not with ten times the men we've got,” Harper replied. “They've got three hundred Xandari down there, and they could blow the place into orbit whenever they wanted. I'd love to take it intact, but I don't think we're going to get that option.” With a sigh, she added, “If they don't blow it up, we're going to have to do it for them.”

 “Two minutes,” Armstrong said.

 Nodding, Harper said, “Fine, let's do this properly. Standby alert, all decks.” Scott moved to respond, the rest of the bridge crew sluggish in their responses. “Come on,” she chided. “Time enough to celebrate when you've got a glass of something in your hand. We've got work to do before we rest.”

 “Loading missiles,” Scott said, glancing at Harper. “Glad we re-armed. What about the rest of the formation?”

 “Ingram, contact the Red Avenger and the Random Walk, and suggest that they take themselves to alert status.” At Scott's look, she added, “I'm not in command of the formation, remember. I can suggest, but not order.”

 “Major Melnos suggests that you're over-reacting,” Ingram said, shaking his head. 

 With a shrug, she said, “His funeral, if all of this goes wrong. Let's just make sure that we're as ready as we can be, shall we?” The bridge crew redoubled their efforts, and the winking monitor lights flashed green as the ship prepared itself for battle.

 “Cleared for action,” Scott said. “All decks on standby alert.”

 “Evasive maneuvers ready,” Armstrong added. “It's a bit tight down there, though. Could be a little tricky if we're at the low point of the maneuver.” Glancing at a readout, she added, “One minute to sensor range.”

 “You ready, Spaceman?” Harper asked, turning to Arkhipov.

 “All systems go, skipper,” he replied, poised over his controls. “I don't want to have to do this twice. Precision scanners are ready, and I've set up a datalink to Alamo, just in case.”

 “Good,” she said, turning back to the viewscreen. Copernicus' moon looked no more appealing close up than it had from a distance, a barren ball of ice, jagged mountains rising to sky from asteroid impacts, deep cracks running across massive plains. And below there, a Koltoc installation, stolen by the Xandari.

 She glanced at her datapad, and scowled. Colonel Kilquan had already sent a request that a mission plan to recapture the installation be outlined. Shaking her head, she started to work on a reply that boiled down to a suggestion that he try it himself. Pausing, she thought of the look on Cooper's face when he'd filed his after-action report. Taking the station had been bad enough, without the hell the troopers would face if they attempted an attack on the surface. Best, and safest, to blow it up from a distance.

 “Thirty seconds,” Armstrong said, and Harper looked up from her work. A single light appeared on the surface, the base navigation beacon, the only landmark in a desolate frozen sea. She frowned, an idea coming into her head. If the Koltoc would turn over some information on their security systems, it might be possible to hack into the base computers, cause some mayhem that way. And provide information she could file away for potential future use, should the Koltoc ever become a problem.

 “Threat warning!” Arkhipov yelled. “We've got missile launches from the surface, six of them, two for each ship.”

 “Get us out of here, Midshipman,” Harper said, rising from her chair. “Scott, get a salvo in the air now, targeted for defensive fire. Go to battle stations.”

 Daedalus rocked as Scott rushed to obey her order, four missiles, the last four in their arsenal, racing away from them, diving towards the planet to meet the enemy warheads heading in their direction. She looked at the missile tracks, the trajectories stabilizing on the screen. Two missiles to each ship, six in total, with only four available to block them. Scott had opted to protect Daedalus, offering one to safeguard each of the other ships in the formation.

 Harper turned to Ingram, but shook her head and returned her focus to the screen. Neither of the commanders would need orders to save their ships, as long as they'd left themselves some means of doing so. Red Avenger had reacted first, albeit slower than Daedalus, and was beginning to pull away from the moon. The Neander ship launched a missile to add to the defensive formation, skimming down towards the incoming salvo.

 Random Walk was faring less well. They'd been on the lowest trajectory, and had been the slowest to respond, their commander's unwillingness to press his crew soon to pay a dear price. Harper glanced at Scott, who shook her head. There was nothing else they could do to help them, and Red Avenger was pulling out of range.

 With a quick series of flashes, the tactical view simplified, five of the Xandari missiles disappearing, destroyed by their rapid counter-strike. All three ships were now too high to be targeted by a ground-based launcher, but that still left a single missile diving towards the Random Walk, the Neander vessel struggling to gain speed, to evade its pursuer, a race that it was doomed to lose. Up to the last second, Harper willed them to launch a missile, to think of some trick, to simply out-last the Xandari warhead, but it wasn't to be. 

 The missile crashed into the rear of Random Walk, sending the ship tumbling, end-over-end, atmosphere leaks quickly throwing the ship into a long, low spiral, dancing through the night. Harper looked at the course trajectory, shaking her head. They were on a safe course, well away from the surface, but that was little comfort for the crewmen who had just died.

 “Contact Alamo,” she said, quietly. “Have a medical and rescue team dispatched immediately. And get someone to pick up Salazar, we're going to be too busy.” Turning to Armstrong, she said, “Match our course and speed, Midshipman. Let's go and pick up the pieces.”

 Nodding, she replied, “Aye, ma'am,” before somberly turning to her controls.

 “Well,” Harper said, moving over to Scott, “What the hell happened?”

 “I've been going over our long-range scans from our first arrival in the system, and there's something new.” Pulling up a display, she pointed at a fuzzy mark with her finger, and continued, “Mining shafts, carved into the ice. I think they've turned them into silos, launch platforms. A sucker punch in case someone decided to take a close look.” Frowning, she added, “There's no chance that they could reach orbit.”

 “They don't have to,” Harper said, shaking her head. “If anyone tries to bomb them from orbit, they can destroy the incoming missiles in plenty of time. If a ship goes close, then it will be subject to bombardment in its own right.” Looking at the image of the base again, she said, “They couldn't have improvised missiles that quickly.”

 “Maybe they were building them down there,” Armstrong suggested. “Away from the penal labor, to reduce the risk of sabotage.” She looked up at her screen, then added, “Course change ready, Captain.”

 “Get us there,” Harper said, still looking at the tactical display. “So despite everything, the Xandari have managed to retain a foothold in this system.” Turning back to the communications station, she said, “Ingram, get me Captain Orlova, full scrambler.”

 “I guess they're going to have to cancel the party,” Armstrong said.

 “Just postpone it,” Harper said. “We'll beat the bastards. Too many people have already died for us to give up now.” Taking a deep breath, she slid on a headset, and said, “Captain, this is Lieutenant Harper. We've got a problem.”

Chapter 12

 Orlova stepped onto the flight deck, a hive of activity as medical teams boarded a transfer shuttle, bound for Random Walk. Most of them were Neander, borrowed from the other ships in the fleet, Alamo's medical staff either over on the station or handling critical emergencies. She looked down at the datapad in her hand, scanning the report, and sighed. The casualties had been horrifying, and the death toll continued to rise as Duquesne and her team struggled against impossible odds.

 And now the news from Random Walk, Major Melnos killed as his ship was crippled, Quinn taking an engineering team in an attempt to nurse it back to the shipyard. An hour ago, she'd been celebrating along with all the rest, but now the war had returned with a vengeance. She looked at the waiting landing shuttle, ready to take her down to the surface, and shook her head. Now she had to tell the Copernicans that their enemy still had a base in their territory, a fortress that was going to be next-to-impossible to break. Already there were signs that they were preparing to launch an orbital defense network, and if they succeeded, it would only make a difficult situation impossible. Whatever they were going to do, it had to be soon. 

 A young woman, a Koltoc, stepped nervously out of an elevator, walking over to her. She vaguely recognized her as one of the crew rescued from the freighter, and turned to meet her.

 “Captain?” she asked.

 “Yes?” 

 She paused for a second, then said, “My name is Itzel. Your medical teams saved my life, and I wanted to thank you.” Turning to the door, she added, “I stopped off at sickbay, but they're all so busy down there. I hoped that you might pass on my good wishes for me, when things settle down.”

 “Of course,” Orlova replied with a smile. She frowned, then replied, “Aren't you Commander Ryan's daughter-in-law?”

 She blushed, and said, “I hope to be. He's always been opposed, but...” She looked up at her, hope in her eyes, and added, “That's why I took the freighter job. Maybe things will be different now.”

 Nodding, Orlova said, “I think he took a ride down to the surface from the station.” Gesturing at the shuttle, she said, “I'm heading down now, and I'm sure we can make room for an extra passenger. I'm not sure when the next transfer shuttle will be leaving.”

 She smiled, replying, “Thank you, Captain. I don't have anything other than what I'm wearing. All my possessions were lost on the transport.” Shaking her head, she added, “It was all supposed to be such a great adventure. Now I can't wait to get home.”

 “Come with me, then,” she said, stepping onto the shuttle, the young technician diffidently following her. Orlova took her usual seat, next to Nelyubov, and Itzel slid into the single empty chair at the rear, looking out of the window. As the shuttle hatch closed, the vehicle beginning its descent through the elevator airlock, Nelyubov glanced at their new arrival.

 “I couldn't just leave her here,” Orlova said. “We've got space, and she needs to get home.”

 “No, that's not it,” he replied. “I thought all of the Koltoc crewmen were picked up this morning. Colonel Kilquan spread them throughout his squadron.” Shaking his head as he settled into his couch, he added, “Seems strange that they'd leave her behind. Or that Ryan wouldn't arrange transport.”

 “It was her first flight, and she does live down there. And the Commander's got a lot of problems at the moment. I'm sure he'll be glad to see her when she makes it down.” With a sigh, she held up the datapad, and said, “You read Harper's after-action report?”

 “Pretty grim reading,” he replied. “About all I can think of is a stand-off orbital bombardment. Put the whole fleet into a low synchronous orbit, some of them concentrating on defensive fire while the rest try and bomb them.” Frowning, he continued, “It'll need us at our best, and the co-operation of the whole fleet.”

 “Let me guess. Kilquan.”

 “It is a Koltoc installation, and he's claiming that we should make some attempt to capture it. Harper's got some idea about hacking into their network, but that's going to require a much closer pass. Far too close.”

 “Get Cooper onto it,” she said. “Maybe there's something we can do with a small assault team, set up a relay down on the surface.” Rubbing her forehead, she added, “We're asking far too much of everyone, Frank. This was supposed to be one fight, and all over.”

 “We've got some smart people up here, Maggie. We'll work the problem, and we'll come up with something. And we should get the Orbital Guard onto it, as well. It is their system, maybe they'll think of something. Pavel's acting as liaison.” With a smile, he said, “More accurately, he just started to work on the problem as soon as he got the update, and I figured it was best just to let him run with it.”

 “Keep an eye on it, Frank. There's got to be some way we can handle it.”

 “To be fair, they can't do much harm,” he replied. “Colonel Skeuros has his squadron moving into high guard, out of range, and they should be able to knock down anything they put into the sky at will.”

 “Don't underestimate them,” she warned. “They've got something in mind, and I don't know what. There's some reason they're hanging onto that base. We're sure there are no prisoners down there?”

 “I've checked twice, and there are no reports of anyone being transferred from the station. They only obtained those by threatening a bombardment.” Shaking his head, he added, “Must have been a hell of a decision. Handing over a couple of hundred people. Even if it saved everyone else on the planet, they'd have known they were going to their deaths.”

 The shuttle's engines roared, kicking them down to the planet, and Orlova looked out of the window at the glorious world rolling beneath, a scattering of white clouds over blue ocean and green land. Of all the planets she'd visited in her years on Alamo, this was the loveliest, the most perfect.

 “I'd have volunteered,” she said. “So would you.”

 “True.” Looking down at his datapad, he added, “Apparently there's a procession tonight through Kepler City, and we're both supposed to be present as the militia demobilize.”

 “What?” she replied. “The war isn't over, Frank.”

 “I know,” he said, raising his hands. “As soon as we land, we're meeting with the President and her top advisers, and I already told her that was going to be at the top of the agenda.”

 Shaking her head, she said, “I suppose I can understand how they must feel, but this isn't the time for that decision. Not with the Xandari still waiting to strike.” The shuttle slid into the atmosphere, the wing tips turning red as the pilot guided them through re-entry. She looked back at Itzel, saw the exultation on her face, a warm glow as the shuttle dived into the welcoming atmosphere.

 “Landing in three minutes,” Bradley said, her voice echoing through the cabin.

 The fiery halo of re-entry was replaced by calm blue skies, and Orlova rose to her feet, tugging at her dress uniform as she struggled to pull it into place. Ensign Gurung gestured at his men, half a dozen Espatiers to provide an honor guard. She nodded at the new officer, then turned down to Nelyubov.

 “Where is Cooper?” she asked. “I'd have expected him for this job.”

 Looking out of the window, he replied, “Don't ask me that, Captain.”

 Shaking her head, she said, “Frank...”

 “He went down with the casualty shuttles, and I haven't heard from him since.” Looking up at her, he added, “I spoke to him right after the station was secured, and I know what happened over there hit him hard. I guess he's trying to make up for it by helping with the wounded.”

 She nodded, and said, “I suppose if anyone's earned a little latitude, he has. Have someone find him, though. Just to check up on him, at least for the moment.” She paused, then said, “Keep it unofficial.”

 “I was planning to,” he replied, rising to his feet. “How do I look?”

 “Like you're going to a costume party.”

 “Funny, I was about to say the same to you. Can't they make these damn things comfortable?”

 “Be happy you don't have to wear it all the time.”

 The two of them walked down the cabin to the hatch, Gurung ahead of them, taking a last look at his men. All of them were veterans of the assault on the station, and he'd made sure to include several Neander in the detachment. She nodded at Corporal Stewart as she took her position, getting a last glance out of the viewport. The shuttle was dropping towards a shining city, towers reaching to the sky, gleaming from the solar arrays on their roof. Over to the right, she saw a shape rising towards them, and turned towards the cockpit in momentary alarm.

 “It's fine, Captain,” Bradley said, a second later. “Local fighters. I guess they're sending up an escort to bring us down.”

 “They might have warned us,” she replied, turning back to the door.

 “Maybe it's just the usual protocol,” Nelyubov said, the roar of the landing thrusters almost drowning him out. They were landing on the edge of the city at a military airport, a row of fighters lined up on the far side of the runway, uniformed troops running back and forth to prepare for their arrival. Finally, the shuttle settled on the plasticrete, the hatch sliding open, and a gust of clean, sweet air swept into the cabin.

 Gurung hurried down the steps, followed by his unit, forming up into a parade on either side of the hatch. Glancing at Nelyubov, Orlova walked after them, slow and careful, a wave of cheers washing over her as she made her way to the ground. A tall, aristocratic woman was waiting for them, standing at the heart of a cluster of officers, beaming a smile towards her. The crowd grew silent for a moment, waiting for her to speak.

 “Captain Orlova?” she asked, stepping forward. “I'm President Wulf, and on behalf of the Council and the People, I formally welcome you to Copernicus Colony.”

 “Thank you, Madam President,” Orlova replied, holding out her hand. “I'm very pleased to be here.”

 As the President took her hand, shaking it with a firm grip, the cheers began again, drowning out any attempt at conversation. Looking around, Orlova saw Commander Ryan, now in his own uniform, standing in the crowd of officers, next to a younger version of himself. Nelyubov walked out of the shuttle, followed by Itzel, and Ryan's son ignored protocol to run towards her, holding her in an embrace as the gathered soldiers cheered on. She looked at his father, and caught a moment of disapproval on her face, a brief instant of disgust that quickly vanished.

 “Captain,” Wulf said, fighting to be heard, “I know we've got a lot to talk about. The base commander has donated his office, if you want a brief talk. We've got a full schedule planned for the next few hours, but none of that starts for a few minutes.”

 “Thank you, Madam President,” she replied.

 “Shall we?” Wulf extended her arm, and Orlova followed, Nelyubov on her tail, stepping through the celebrating crowd. Overhead, a trio of fighters roared, one of them making a barrel roll before pulling up, making their way belatedly to orbit. The assembled mass slowly began to disperse, returning to their jobs, as the trio walked towards the control tower, a huge sensor dish casting shadows onto the runway as it slowly revolved.

 Ryan raced to catch up with them, making it to the door just as Wulf opened it, ushering them into a small, featureless office, a half-dozen plastic chairs scattered around, a blank monitor panel on the wall. Wulf sat by the window, looking out at the crowd, while the others took their seats.

 “You've made their day, Captain,” she said. “Hell, you've made their year.”

 Glancing at Nelyubov, Orlova replied, “I understand that you're disbanding the militia.”

 “They've been mobilized for three months. It's time for them to go back to their families.”

 “The war isn't over yet, ma'am, and those forces might be needed.”

 “Commander Ryan has briefed me about the base on the moon,” she said, gesturing at the officer, “and informs me that while it is a strategic threat, it cannot launch an attack on us.”

 “That's true,” Nelyubov added, “but it still represents a long-term hazard to the security of the system, and one that must be dealt with before you can return to a peacetime footing.”

 “And you are?” Wulf asked.

 “Senior Lieutenant Frank Nelyubov, Alamo's Executive Officer.”

 “Well, Lieutenant, there is no intention of going to a peacetime footing. The Orbital Guard will remain on alert until the base has been neutralized, though I very much hope that action will take place against them soon.” She paused, then added, “Naturally, we will provide any assistance that you wish, and I am happy to allow your forces the tactical lead on this.” Ryan moved to speak, but she added, “They've got the ships to handle it, Eric. We don't. At least, not yet.”

 Nodding, Orlova said, “We're preparing for the installation of an orbital defense network. Six of our Cybele-class Missile Satellites. That will provide you with thirty-six missile tubes, all of them equipped with combat fabricators for near-instant reloading.”

 Wulf looked at Ryan, and said, “How effective are these satellites?” 

 Nelyubov pulled out a datapad, and said, “In terms of raw firepower, extremely effective, though their ability to defend themselves against a laser attack is limited. Supplemented with fighter protection, though, I believe you'll be able to face off against an enemy as large as the Xandari fleet we just defeated without outside help.”

 Sitting back with a smile, the President replied, “And how much will this installation cost us?”

 Orlova smiled, and replied, “The Triplanetary Confederation is at war with the Xandari Empire. We're the vanguard of a much larger force, one strong enough to defeat them and bring the conflict to an end. However, we're operating at the extreme end of our logistic capabilities.”

 “You want the spaceport,” Ryan said, nodding.

 “We want to use it,” Orlova said. “We'd like permission to base our task force here. The station is of a Triplanetary design anyway, stolen by the Xandari, so it's compatible with our ships. This world is a strategic strong point, and from it we can make sure that they never launch an attack on this planet again.”

 “Don't assume that you are safe,” Nelyubov added. “They won't give up this world without a fight. They'll be back, and in force.”

 Nodding, Wulf said, “Naturally, I'll have to take this to the Council. I don't have the authority to make decisions such as this. Who will control the orbital network?”

 “We'll install it, and train your military in their operation and maintenance,” Orlova said. “Consider it a gift from the Confederation, a demonstration of our goodwill.”

 “And it will be run from this base,” Ryan said.

 “That isn't a problem,” Nelyubov added.

 Rising to her feet, Wulf replied, “I'll be recommending that we accept your offer, but it will probably be a few days before everything is approved.” She sighed, and said, “With something this important, everyone will want to have their say. How long before the network is operational?”

 “Forty-eight hours,” Orlova answered.

 “Perhaps some sort of demonstration can be organized. I'll let you know the details.” Moving to the door, she added. “Until then, I suggest we all put on a happy face for the festivities. Lots of speeches, I'm afraid.” Shaking her head, she added, “Come on. Your adoring public awaits.”

 “Yes, ma'am,” Orlova said, stepping out to be greeted by another jubilant crowd. It was going to be a long, long day.

Chapter 13

 “Pavel,” Harper said, looking over Salazar's shoulder. “You've been at this for ten hours. It's time to take a break.”

 Shaking his head, he replied, “Not until I've thought of a way to take out that damn base. There's something we're missing, and I've got to find it.”

 “You've been over everything a dozen times,” she said, sitting down next to him. “We both know that the only option is massive force, an overwhelming attack.”

 “One that, according to my best estimates, will knock out two of our ships. We've already lost enough people. I've got to do better than that.”

 Shaking her head, she said, “This isn't your responsibility.”

 “Captain Orlova ordered me to work out a mission plan, and so far I haven't got anywhere!” He tossed his datapad to the far side of his cramped desk, and said, “Maybe someone more experienced should have taken the job. Someone who knows what they are doing.” Closing his eyes, he added, “I've been over everything I can think of. A ground assault just won't work, not without losing a hundred people. We can't even wait them out. They've got everything they need down there for a long stay.”

 “Then submit your report, and let the Captain and the rest of the senior staff make the decision. That's not your job, Pavel, unless you got a promotion when I wasn't looking.”

 Glancing down at his insignia, he replied, “It doesn't work that way. I can't just stand there up on the bridge, watching people die because I couldn't do my job properly. There's got to be an answer, somewhere, and I'm going to work it out if it takes all night.”

 Rising to her feet, she said, “No, you don't. You need to think about something else for a while.”

 “I tell you...”

 “And you're on my ship, which means I'm in charge.” Sweeping the remaining datapads away, she added, “Simply brooding up here in your cabin won't do anyone any good. We'll have another try at the problem tomorrow.”

 “We?”

 She smiled, and replied, “Scott can handle the satellite deployment every bit as well as I can, probably better. Everything's set up.” Shaking her head, she added, “It's a mess out there. Lombardo just got back from Random Walk, trying to put the pieces back together again. He's convinced that she can be ready to leave the system in five days, along with the rest of us, but it's going to be touch and go.”

 “Five days?” Salazar asked. “We're leaving so soon?” 

 “I think everyone wants to get home, and the sooner we bring up the task force, the better. There's no sense waiting any longer than we have to.” She paused, then added, “Assuming that we can reduce that base, of course, but we can worry about that tomorrow. Right now we both need a rest, and I've arranged something to help.” Walking over to the door, she pulled out a holdall and tossed it over to him. He reached inside, pulling out a set of clothes, the garish strips and patterns that had been the latest fashion when they left.

 “Put them on, Pavel. That's an order. Then swing by my cabin. I'll see you in five minutes.”

 He shook his head, looked down at the datapads again, and carefully stacked them into a pile for later. The clothes were a good, comfortable fit, the soft fabric feeling strange against his skin. He tried to remember the last time he'd worn a non-regulation outfit, and he couldn't. He didn't even have any back on Alamo.

 Leaving his uniform neatly folded on his borrowed bed, he tugged on the shirt, fumbling with the unfamiliar fastenings, and looked around the room. At some point, he'd started spending so much time on Daedalus that he'd ended up with his own cabin, a pile of his possessions dumped unceremoniously in the corner. Oddly, it felt more like home than Alamo.

 Walking out into the corridor, he saw Bartlett, strapped to the ceiling, working on an overhead relay. His friend waved at him as he walked along the corridor. The ship hadn't sustained any damage in the fight, but they were still months behind the maintenance schedule, and falling further away every day. When they got back, this ship was destined for the mothball fleet, abandoned aside from the occasional visit by an engineering team to handle the essential work. Until, some day, probably soon, it was listed as surplus to requirements and sold for scrap. It didn't seem fair.

 He stopped at Harper's quarters, then tapped for entry. The door opened, and she stepped out wearing a long, shimmering dress, a similar pattern to his shirt. He gazed at her for a moment, unable to speak.

 “Something wrong?” she asked.

 Eyes wide, he replied, “I just never...I mean, I've never seen you wearing anything like this before.”

 “Even I can scrub up occasionally, Pavel.” She smiled, and added, “Though I must admit it's odd seeing you wearing real clothes.”

 “You look great,” he replied, his cheeks reddening. “I mean...”

 “Come on,” she said, taking his arm. “We'd better get to the party before you lose the power of speech altogether.”

 He glanced across at her, a smile creeping on his face as they walked back down the corridor, underneath a grinning Bartlett. The technician flashed a thumbs'-up at him as they passed him by, and he shook his head in reply.

 “What's the occasion?” he asked.

 “Actually, it wasn't my idea. You had an appointment on the surface, if you remember.”

 He frowned, then replied, “The Copernican fighter squadron.”

 “They wanted to thank you in person.” She smiled, then added, “I don't think they wanted to be stuck with the speeches on the surface either. Though if you're interested, I think the planetary broadcaster is sending full coverage up to us.”

 “Some other time,” he replied. “I do want to get down there, though. Take a walk down that beach at dusk, say. Quietly, when there's No one else around.” 

 “No one else?” she chided.

 “I didn't mean you,” he said, blushing again. She stopped in the corridor, turned to him and shook her head.

 “Pavel, I've seen you face down enemy battleships, squadrons of fighters, legions of enemy androids wanting to tear you apart, and I swear you've never been this nervous. What happened to that implacable warrior I saw on the bridge?” She smiled again, and said, “We'll try and sneak down tomorrow. One of the few joys of command is that I can give myself an evening off.”

 As they resumed walking down the corridor, he replied, “I'd like that.” Looking around the corridor, he said, “I'd like to get some real air for a change. It's strange. I've spent my whole life living in artificial environments, but now that I've walked on a world in the open, without a suit, it somehow seems wrong.”

 “Rain,” she said. “Wind. Snow. Insects. Dirt.” With a smile, she added, “Artificial environments have their advantages, remember. Still, I think I know what you mean.” They walked past a viewport, Copernicus slowly revolving beneath them as they held orbit, preparing for the satellite deployments.

 They stepped into Daedalus' cramped observation room, a half dozen pilots wearing Copernican uniforms waiting, a cluster of bottles clamped to the table. One of them stepped forward with a pair of mugs, thrusting them into their hands, retrieving his drink and raising it into the air.

 “To the hottest fliers of the Triplanetary Fleet,” he said. “Cheers.”

 Shaking his head, Salazar replied, “And the finest pilots of the Orbital Guard.”

 The pilot grinned, took a sip, and said, “We have met, though only at a range of a couple of hundred miles. Lieutenant Jules Deveraux, commander of the Ninth Interceptor Squadron, the most disreputable gang of rogues you'd ever want to meet.”

 “My pleasure, Lieutenant,” Salazar said. “That was some damn good flying, by the way.”

 “Likewise,” a new voice said, another pilot stepping into the room, his arm wrapped around a young Koltoc woman. Both of them seemed familiar, and at Salazar's expression, he added, “Lieutenant Michael Ryan. I think you know my father.” Turning to the left, he said, “And my fiance, Itzel.”

 “I'll be damned,” Deveraux said. “Your old man finally agreed?

 “I haven't told him,” Ryan replied, his face darkening, “and I don't care what he thinks, not any more. It's my life, not his. We're both old enough to get married, and we're damn well going to do it, and you're damn well going to be my best man!”

 Raising his hands, Deveraux replied, “Fine, fine, I surrender! Of course I'll do it.”

 “Both of you must come to the wedding as well,” Itzel said, turning to Salazar and Harper. “My father's booked St. Joseph's, four days from now. The priest's an old family friend.”

 “We'll be there,” Harper replied, glancing at Salazar.

 “I'll even rummage out my dress uniform for the occasion,” Salazar added. “And congratulations to you both.” He stepped over to them, and said, “I'm surprised, though. Your father didn't seem to have a problem with the idea when I talked to him. He was certainly concerned enough about you, Itzel, when you were wounded.”

 “He's always been opposed to it,” Ryan said. “Ever since we first started seeing each other.” He looked at his fiance, and said, “I'd thought we'd win him around, even if it took years, but ever since the attack, all of that just seems unimportant. We know we want to be together, and he's going to have to live with it. If he can't come to terms with us, that's his problem, not ours.”

 “It might not be so easy as that,” Deveraux warned. “Remember, he's our operational commander. He could make your life damned difficult if he wanted to. Postings to out-of-the-way installations, keeping you apart.”

 “If he does, I'll leave the service.” Looking back at Harper, he said, “Maybe I'll ask you for a job. That Neander, Lance-Corporal Akjes, he was telling me that he'd signed on at Thule, that he hadn't been a citizen until he'd joined the fleet.”

 “That's true,” Salazar said, “though there were special circumstances involved at the time. If you're serious, you should have a word with Captain Orlova at some point.”

 “There's no need to be hasty,” Deveraux added.

 “True,” Harper said. “It'd be a big step.” Turning to Itzel, she asked, “Is that why you signed onto the freighter?”

 “It was meant to be for six months,” she said. “I needed some space-side experience anyway, and I thought that if I gave Mike's father a bit of distance, he might get used to the idea that we were going to be together.” Shaking her head, she added, “I guess he'll never be convinced.”

 “We don't need to convince anyone,” he fiance replied. “Just each other, and I think we've done that.”

 Harper glanced at Salazar, and they moved away from the couple, stepping over to the viewport, a majestic starfield on display, draped across the screen. Deveraux, with a last glance behind, moved in beside them, frowning.

 “They never told me I'd have this sort of problem when I became a squadron leader.”

 “No one said that command was easy,” Harper replied.

 “I guess not.” Looking at the two of them, he asked, “So, how long have you two been an item?”

 Salazar paused, then glanced across at Harper, who replied, “I think I'm still getting him used to the idea.”

 “If I'm prying...”

 “No,” Salazar said, too quickly. “Not at all. I just...”

 “Say no more,” the pilot replied, a smile on his face. The cold, icy moon slid into view on the side of the viewport, and he added, “I guess that's still the main problem.” Shaking his head, he added, “We could deal with that base in a couple of passes, and wipe it off the map.”

 “What?” Salazar asked. Harper started giving him a warning glare, but he persisted. “How?”

 Gesturing at the moon, Deveraux said, “We used to do training flights up there, while they were building the original base. It was a good staging area, lots of rough terrain. Canyons, craters, that sort of thing.” He shook his head, and continued, “The idea, I think, was that we could defend it against attack, but we never had a chance when the Xandari approached.”

 “There's a way in? I couldn't see it from the orbital shots.”

 “You'd have to know what to look for, but certainly. There's a long canyon, high sides, running for about fifty miles to the west of the base. It opens up on the plain, less than a mile away from the target. Just enough time to launch some modified missiles.”

 “Could you tell me why the hell No one mentioned this to us?” Harper asked, fuming.

 “I really have no idea,” he replied. “I submitted the plan yesterday, but I guess the top brass is so stirred up by your visit that they've all forgotten that we're still at war.”

 “And you?” Salazar asked.

 “Lieutenant, I watched dozens of pilots, people I've trained with, had known for years, die at the hands of the Xandari.” Looking around the room, he said, “We all survived by chance, nothing more. A matter of statistics. The remnants of three squadrons slammed together. So yes, I remember that we're at war, and I know what that means. Say the word, and we'll fly the mission.”

 “Right,” Salazar replied, rubbing his hands together. “I'll have to get checked out on your fighter designs. We aren't carrying any at the moment, but I've trained for this sort of mission before.”

 “I'd be glad to have you,” Deveraux said. “At the moment, our fighters outnumber our pilots. I'll contact headquarters, and...”

 “Not yet, you won't,” Harper said, adopting a commanding tone. “All of us have been awake for at least twenty-four hours, and we're in no condition for anything, certainly not preparing detailed mission plans. We've got that base bottled up, and they can't move without us knowing about it.” Gesturing at the drinks table, she added, “I went to a lot of trouble to get hold of all that stuff, and we're going to enjoy it. Then back to work tomorrow with clear heads, and we'll do this properly. Understood?”

 “Yes, ma'am,” Salazar said, with a smile.

 “She must be hell to work for,” Deveraux replied, shaking his head.

 “I could tell you some stories,” Salazar said, earning himself a withering stare. “Though perhaps they can wait for later.”

 “Much later,” Harper said. “Much, much later.” She urged him back to the table, and he acquiesced, looking back at the moon as it slid past. She was right. For tonight, he needed to rest. The war could wait until tomorrow.

Chapter 14

 The cyclopean ruins stretched as far as Cooper could see, all the way to the horizon. Tall, mysterious towers of obsidian stone rose to the sky, twisted fragments of unknown alloys tangled around each other in a mysterious spiral, eldritch runes carved into the metal in some alien language, unknown and possibly unknowable, while well-worn paths twisted their way through the ancient city, serving as silent guide for Cooper's meandering walk.

 He looked up at the stars, uncountable thousands of them filling the sky, as though scattered by some ancient hand across the cosmos. One of them seemed to wink at him, and he knew that was Alamo, waiting in orbit for his return. After a while, he found himself at a carved bench, upon which someone had attempted to crudely imitate the symbols, the effect ruined by three generations of graffiti that he found oddly comforting, a touch of humanity in a truly alien environment.

 Staring up at the towering remnants of this lost culture, he found himself pondering who they might have been, what they had thought when this city fell, wrecked by some unknown catastrophe. For while humanity knew little about the builders of this place, they knew how it had met its end, tongues of violent flame lashing down upon it from afar, melting the metal and laying waste the scurrying multitudes who had once dwelt here.

 All that remained of their civilization, dead ten thousand years, were a few scattered ruins, here and at other sites on the planet, unintelligible writings that preserved the hidden wisdom of this race, hidden in plain sight, writing in a text that in all probability would never be read. It all seemed pointless, meaningless.

 He returned his gaze to the comforting stars, endless and eternal, their light already thousands, maybe millions of years old. Some of them he had visited in his travels through space, others, he knew, had eyes of their own staring back at him, pondering the mysteries of the infinite, attempting to bury themselves from the horrors of today in the lost oceans of time. The tide of history had washed over this place, once before, then receded into nothingness. Now they built up once again, the wave growing to the peak of its ferocity, battering all who attempted to stand in its way. A familiar figure walked over to him, then sat down on the bench beside him, looking up at the stars.

 “Strange, isn't it,” Powell said. “The first colonists began to excavate here, more than a century ago, and the work has continued season after season since then. And still they know nothing, not of any significance. Lots of theory, lots of speculation and guesswork, most of it more bad fiction than science, and no hard facts to work on.” He turned to Cooper, and said, “A team from Alamo is coming down in the morning to take a look. I doubt we'll be able to add anything, but they are all determined to try.”

 Cooper nodded, and Powell continued, “There's quite a party going on in the city. All the bars are open, crowds singing in the streets, someone speaking in every hall about the wonders that are to come.” Shaking his head, he said, “And yet the two of us are still sitting here, alone in eternity.” He paused, then added, “I went to the hospital. All they could tell me was that you'd headed in this direction. I guessed that this must be your destination. Somehow it seemed inevitable.”

 “I didn't set out to come here, Professor,” Cooper finally replied. “I just started walking, and it was easier to keep going than to stop.” He looked at the old man, and said, “Forty-nine dead. Forty-nine people killed because I was too slow.”

 Nodding, Powell said, “And how many people did you save?”

 “I should have been faster. Moved a shuttle down to the lower level right away, brought a medical team with me during the assault. I watched while one of the Xandari executed a Koltoc, no more than a boy. Planted a bullet in his chest.” He closed his eyes, and said, “I thought he was going to make it. We kept him going all the way to the deck, right to the hospital.” Shaking his head, he said, “He died on the operating table.”

 “And did he die with hope, or fear?”

 “What?” 

 “Did he die knowing he had no chance, that he was doomed, or did he fight to the end, along with all those who were with him? Did you give him the best chance you possibly could?” Placing a hand on Cooper's shoulder, he continued, “You're never going to save everyone, Gabe. You've been at this job long enough to know that, to know that there are times that people are going to die. The Xandari are to blame, not you, and from what I've been told, you avenged their deaths.”

 “Walpis talked, did he?”

 “Only to me. And only because I promised not to pass it on. You've got a very loyal group of troopers there, Gabe. I truly think they would go anywhere, do anything, if you ordered it. That speaks well of you as an officer.”

 Looking across at him, Cooper replied, “I have been at this job a long time. Four years, and in that time I've amassed more combat time than ten other officers of my rank. I've seen friends die, and even ordered them into missions that I knew would kill them. I killed them. No matter that someone else fired the bullet, I pushed them into its path.” With a deep, harrowing sigh, he continued, “And that was different. They'd volunteered, all of them, to a man, and they all knew the risks that they were running. They took them, even welcomed them, and they all died for something.”

 “And on the station?”

 “They were civilians, damn it, people who had been thrown to the wolves by the own government, sacrificing the few to save the many. That's cold comfort to their mothers, their wives, their husbands, their children. Our job was to look after them when No one else would, No one else could, and I just failed them as well.”

 “As I understand it, they volunteered in order to protect their fellow citizens. As hostages, while the President stalled for time, waiting for our arrival. They're heroes, Gabe, and they won't be forgotten.” 

 “Volunteered?” he replied, shaking his head. “Not the story I heard, time and again. Not from the widows and orphans.”

 “Have you told the Captain?” Powell asked.

 “What would be the point?” he said, with a sigh. “It won't change anything. We need that station, spinning around in orbit, so that this glorious war can go on.” He looked down at the ground, and said, “Good God, I don't know if I can take it any more. When I saw those bodies, up there on the station, tangled and twisted, I didn't feel anything but rage. I wanted to kill them, all of them, rip them to pieces, with my bare hands if necessary.”

 “That's perfectly natural. You'd be out of your mind not to be affected by what you saw.”

 “Professor, I'm responsible for the lives of more than a hundred men. I can't afford to let emotion cloud my judgment, not if it's going to get them killed. I've already written enough letters home. I don't ever want to have to write another, and certainly not because I made a mistake.” Looking up at the stars again, he said, “We got lucky this time. Only a few wounded, none killed. The next time we won't be.”

 Nodding, Powell said, “I've never been where you are, Gabe, so I don't know how much advice I can give you. Only that you're one of the best officers I've ever met. You care about your people, and while you might spend their lives, you always get the best possible price for them. I've read the reports about what you did during the Cabal cruise, going off into enemy territory to rescue your platoon, and you weren't even their commander at the time.”

 “They were my friends. What was I supposed to do?”

 “True, but how many others would have done what you did?” Shaking his head, he said, “You have to ask yourself this question. Are you still the best person to command the Espatier force? Can anyone else do as good a job as you? You're never going to be perfect, because none of us is, and you're never going to save everybody. Would anyone else have saved more people over there? From what I heard, you were the only reason that second force launched at all. No one else came up with the idea.”

 “One of my trademark crazy plans,” he said, cracking a smile. “Maybe you're right, Professor, at least for the moment.” He sat up taller, and said, “Who sent you?”

 “The Captain. Off the record, she's worried about you. Officially, you're having the night off, just like half a dozen other officers are at the moment.”

 “Barbara?”

 “Still ferrying people around, up in orbit. All the shuttle pilots are working double-time at the moment to get everything organized after the battle.” He smiled, and added, “You got lucky. I don't think she even knows you went walkabout.”

 “No, I guess not,” he said, shaking his head. He rose to his feet, and turned back to Kepler City, lasers shining in the sky, the noise of the crowds audible even at this distance. Powell stood up next to him, and gestured to the left.

 “I thought you might not want to go back through all of that, and I think that if anyone has earned an early night, you have. There's an Orbital Guard station a couple of miles away, just a landing pad with a small garrison. With a shuttle that's getting ready to take the two of us back to Alamo right now.”

 “Thanks,” Cooper said, heading in the indicated direction. “I don't think I could face a crowd right now. Maybe tomorrow, if I get some sleep.”

 “You'll find something in your cabin that will make certain of that,” he replied. “Doctor Duquesne gave me a few pills for you.”

 “I hope they work.”

 “They should. I understand they're the ones she takes herself. We all have our own nightmares to live with, though I admit that yours are nearer to the surface than most.” As they walked through the ruins, he added, “You've got a lot of leave stored up. Why don't you take some of it, here on the planet?”

 “Impossible. I might be needed...”

 “Ensign Gurung and General Kelot can handle all the routine work, and if anything urgent comes up, you can be back on the ship in twenty minutes. I think you need a little time to relax.”

 “The fleshpots of a colonial city don't appeal to me that much, Professor.”

 “Then you can help with the dig, right here, away from the city. You've explored alien ruins before, and if nothing else, we can always use a strong back.” Standing a little taller, he said, “I could make this an order, you know. And Captain Orlova wouldn't even think twice.”  

 “I don't know...”

 Pausing for a moment, he turned to face Cooper, and said, “I know that right now, you're tired, and your soul is hurting. Maybe you didn't come out here by accident, but because it is exactly where you needed to be. Somewhere you can find a little perspective, can get a longer view. Hell, I'll be running the dig, and as far as I'm concerned you can just lie on your back and look up at the sky all day. Whatever it takes to get you back on your feet.”

 Cooper frowned, nodded, and said, “Maybe for a few days, before we head out again.”

 Nodding, Powell said, “That's more like it. There's probably not much point going back up to the ship. We can stay at the ground station overnight, and I'll call up and make the arrangements.”

 “They're still out there, you know, Professor. Up there on the moon, and beyond.”

 “I know,” he said. “But for the moment, let that be someone else's problem. I'm sure they'll still be out there, waiting, and we've got to make sure that you're in the best possible shape to deal with them. We're going to need you at your best, whatever it takes.”

 “Yeah,” he replied, shaking his head. “Maybe you're right.”

 “Of course I am,” he said, “Prerogative of age, if not rank. Now come on. Your wife's waiting for you out there.”

 “I thought she was up in orbit?”

 “She was,” he said, looking at his watch, then glancing up at the sky. “For another ten minutes. If we hurry, we can be there when she lands. We don't want to keep her waiting, do we?”

Chapter 15

 Orlova stood by the window in her borrowed office, looking out across the rippling waves of the bay. She'd had so many meetings with government personnel that the Vice-President had finally found her a suite in Council House, complete with a beautiful view of the sea. Already an optimist had attached a plaque to the door, announcing that the 'Triplanetary Ambassador' was within. Sooner or later, that would be true, and she was contemplating leaving someone behind when they left to hold down the job until the Senate could appoint someone.

 She glanced at her watch, checking the time. An hour until her next meeting, a delegation of local business leaders seeking detailed information she didn't have and assurances she couldn't give. Inwardly, she cursed. She was meant to be preparing for the attack on the moon, and overseeing the installation of the orbital defense network, but instead every self-important blowhard on the planet had been invited to meet her.

 At least the view was worth looking at. A couple of dozen boats drifted lazily across the water, sails furled, the local fishing fleet heading out for the day. A part of her longed to be out there with them, to seek something simpler, easier, than the political mess she'd found herself in. No one wanted to hear that the Xandari were still out there, a general assumption that her fleet would somehow deal with the garrison on the moon in short order, that they couldn't reach down here to face them.

 There was a knock on the door, which immediately opened to admit Salazar, holding a datapad in his hand. Behind him was a Copernican pilot, both of them wearing uniforms that looked as though they had been slept in.

 “Come in,” she said. “Take a seat.”

 Salazar sat down, and passed her the datapad, saying, “We've got a way to take down the base without committing to a full fleet assault.”

 “Tell me more.”

 “It was my idea, Captain,” the Copernican said. “Oh, I'm Lieutenant Jules Deveraux, commander of Ninth Intercept.”

 “Jules did a lot of training flights up there on the moon,” Salazar added. “There's a canyon, dozens of miles long, that runs in a line almost pointing directly to the base. It blocks line-of-sight almost the whole way.”

 Nodding, Deveraux said, “You come out around two miles south of the refinery. Just enough time to set up for an attack, using modified missiles. We've got the fighters and the pilots to pull this off. All we need are a couple of ships in low orbit to make a fast pass, provide a distraction. They'll only be in range of the surface missiles for a couple of minutes. No long-term bombardment needed, no major risks to anyone except the fighters.”

 “And to the fighters.”

 “Every man in my squadron has volunteered.”

 “So have I,” Salazar said. “And Bradley, as well. We'll be needed to get the squadron up to size. Nine ships to make the assault, launching from Alamo at range. They'll spot us coming down, but there isn't much they'll be able to do about it, especially not with a salvo of missiles heading towards them from orbit.”

 “I can think of a dozen things they could do, Pavel,” Orlova replied. “Starting with setting demolition charges and anti-aircraft installations in that canyon, right down to last-minute interception when you emerge.”

 Nodding, he added, “We'd use Daedalus to make a fast, low pass ten minutes before the mission starts. They can do a last-minute reconnaissance and watch for any sign of trouble.” He paused, then added, “It'd be difficult to avoid tipping them off with the sort of scouting run we're talking about, but if we time it right, they won't have a chance to do anything other than get to alert stations.”

 “I presume Kris is in on this stunt,” Orlova said, shaking her head.

 “She helped us with the report,” Deveraux added.

 “Pavel, are you confident that the fighters can pull this off?”

 “I've just taken a practice flight to test it,” he said. “If we can do it down here in this soup of an atmosphere, we can certainly do it on an airless moon. The Copernican fighters are a lot more advanced than most of the equipment they've got.” Turning to Deveraux, he added, “No offense.”

 “None taken. We'll catch up before you know it.” Looking back at Orlova, he added, “My pilots spent months training in that area while the refinery was under construction. It won't be an easy attack, but I'm sure we can pull it off.”

 “And Kris signed off on the ability of Daedalus to complete the scouting run. We'd need two Neander raiders for the orbital bombardment, and Alamo in orbit to coordinate the whole thing.” With a smile, he added, “We can be launching this mission in eight hours, Captain. Hell, we could do it in two. Give the order, and we'll launch the strike.”

 Picking up the datapad, she smiled, and replied, “I'll have to take a look at this, but as far as I'm concerned, you can consider the mission approved.” 

 “Great,” Salazar said, clapping Deveraux on the shoulder. “We'll get the fighters up to Alamo right away. I'll need a shuttle for some maintenance checks for the final servicing, and...”

 Raising a hand, Orlova added, “Unfortunately, it isn't entirely up to me. Given that we're using local forces, I'll have to get confirmation.” She tapped a control on her desk, and said, “This is Captain Orlova. I need to speak to the President, right now.”

 After a second, a slightly distorted voice replied, “The President is indisposed at the moment, Captain. I can have her call you back in fifteen minutes, if that is acceptable.”

 “She's in the john,” Salazar said, a smile curling on his face.

 “That would be fine,” Orlova replied, throwing him a warning look. “I'm sending her a file to look at, and if she's able, I'd like her assessment.” She paused, then added, “And while you're at it, I won't be taking any more meetings today.”

 “You'll take this one,” a gruff voice said, a Koltoc bursting through the door. “I need to talk to you, Captain, right now.”

 Orlova shut off the communicator, and replied, “Who are you?”

 “I'm Ixtab, Trade Factor. I represent the Koltoc Commonwealth on this planet.” Turning to the others, he said, “I don't think we need an audience, do we?”

 “Pavel, would the two of you wait outside?”

 Nodding, Salazar said, “Of course, Captain.” Glaring at Ixtab, he added, “The two of us will be standing right outside the door if you need us.”

 “Don't worry, Lieutenant,” Ixtab said. “I only intend to assault your superior verbally, not physically.”

 Salazar looked at the Koltoc with a frown, then walked out of the room with Deveraux in two, the door closing behind him. Orlova moved to sit behind her desk, and gestured for Ixtab to take the other seat.

 “First of all,” he began, “I formally offer my thanks, and that of my government, for your actions to defend citizens of the Commonwealth from the Xandari. Colonel Kilquan's report was voluminous in its praise, and you should know that I have formally endorsed his actions regarding the alliance with your people.”

 “I wasn't aware that was an issue,” she replied.

 “The Colonel somewhat exceeded his authority. Our Trade Factor on Testament Station was removed some months ago, and he was only temporarily holding the role.” Ixtab grimaced, and said, “I don't think I need to go into our local political squabbles here, but suffice to say that it could be some time before a replacement is found.”

 “I'd have thought it urgent to fill such a critical posting.”

 “That's precisely the problem,” he said. “Far too many people, and factions, are pushing for the appointment. It isn't simply a matter of selecting the best man for the job, I'm afraid.” With a sigh, he added, “Now that I've got the pleasantries out of the way, I'm must get to the purpose of my visit.”

 “I'm afraid there is no alternative to the destruction of the refinery,” Orlova said. “I know that it is Koltoc property, but there's simply no way to capture it, not without far greater risk and loss of life than I would ever justify or endorse. In a few minutes I'll be talking to the President about a mission plan that I expect to launch within the day.”

 Shaking his head, he added, “That's not the issue. Oh, I'll formally put in a protest about the destruction of our property, but if our roles were reversed, I'd almost certainly make the same decision. I cannot officially endorse your action, but I won't stand in your way.” Sitting back in his chair, he continued, “My objection is to your actions with regard to this planet.”

 “We've barely taken any.”

 “Really?” he replied. “All discussions over the renewal of our trade treaty were canceled this morning by the orders of the President, and my sources in her office indicate that she expects to make an undertaking with the Confederation before you leave. Certainly you've been parading local dignitaries through this office with remarkable speed.”

 “All of those appointments were made for me by the President.”

 With a sigh, he said, “Do you truly expect me to believe that you are doing all of this with no expectation of gain for your people? An orbital defense network worth millions, simply given away out of the goodness of your hearts.”

 “In exchange for basing rights for our ships, in the fight against the Xandari.”

 “Do you truly think they would have turned you down? They need a fleet to defend them, and I admit you have capabilities we don't. Our fleet is primarily mercantile. We have very few purpose-built warships, and most of our fleet is currently here at this station.”

 Orlova's eyes widened, and she replied, “I thought...”

 “A deception that I feel has no real purpose. We can, if needed, construct warships with greater speed, or arm our merchant vessels, but we've never seen a requirement for a large space fleet. Our only menace for years has been the very Neander pirates that you are now working with.” He smiled, and added, “Kilquan's comments on that particular alliance were rather amusing. I, on the other hand, welcome them. It's possible we might be able to resolve our differences peacefully.”

Sitting back in his chair, he said, “Tell me the truth, Captain. You intend to annex this world for the Triplanetary Confederation, or tie it so tightly with entangling treaties that it will never emerge.”

 Shaking her head, she replied, “That's not our intention at all. Yes, I'm sure my government will seek to establish friendly relations, and I'm certain our trading companies will be extremely interested in operating out here, but that's just as true of the Koltoc Commonwealth as it is with Copernicus Colony.”

 “Then how do you explain the government's position?”

 “Perhaps they are no longer willing to tie their fate exclusively to you?” she snapped.

 With a dangerous smile, he replied, “Is that so, Captain? Do you know what we found when our first ship arrived in this system? Fifty thousand struggling colonists, fighting to survive, fighting a regressing technology level, a couple of tiny capsules daring into space. They might have made it by themselves, I'll grant, but we invested several fortunes in this world, building their industries, expanding their economy.” He stepped to the window, pointing at the hospital, and added, “A Koltoc company built that place, and we trained their chemists and biologists.” 

 “Does that grant you the right to exploit this planet forever?”

 “If we hadn't come, there would have been nothing here to exploit. I'm sorry, Captain, but I cannot sit back and watch while you undermine our position here, and I know that the position of my government will be to resist your attempt to take over our holdings. Thousands of my citizens have built lives of their own here, and to end our relationship would be nothing less than a disaster to them. Damn it, my own daughter is marrying one of the local residents in a couple of days.”

 “Lieutenant Ryan?” Orlova asked. “Then we'll both be going to the same party.”

 He paused, looked down at his desk, and said, “I know what you did for her, Captain. Don't think that I'm not personally grateful, and if it was purely a personal matter, I'd happily do anything you ask. As a man, I owe you, and I recognize that, but I am first and foremost a representative of my government.” Turning back to the window, he said, “Maybe I've been here too long. Fifteen years, next month. I love this city, this world, as much as anyone else who lives here, and I have no intention of giving it up without a fight.”

 Stepping over to him, she replied, in a softer tone, “No one would be asking you to leave. If we did establish a trade treaty, it certainly wouldn't be on an exclusive basis. Even if Copernicus joined the Triplanetary Confederation, you'd still be free to trade here.”

 Shaking his head, he said, “That's not what I've been hearing elsewhere, Captain. There are politicians calling for our property to be confiscated, for the Koltoc to be expelled. Nothing serious, as yet, but all it will take is some demagogue deciding to take the fast route to power, and the position of our people on this planet will be jeopardized.”

 Frowning, Orlova replied, “If that happened, I doubt we'd be trading with them either. To be blunt, I suspect my superiors would place a higher priority on a treaty with your government than with this one, if there was a choice. We need a military base here, certainly, but I'm not empowered to do anything other than gather data on any other subject.”

 “That at least is reassuring.” He shook his head, and said, “I was prepared for a rather long argument, I must confess.” 

 “We aim to please,” she replied. “I'm here to win a war, Ixtab. I don't have any ambitions other than that.”

 Looking down at the datapad, he added, “I might be able to help with the attack on the refinery. Naturally my government will not play any part in it, but I could give you our blueprints of the facility.” He smiled, and added, “The Xandari expanded it according to our long-term plans. I think you might find them surprisingly accurate. They're nothing but a race of technological leeches, with a philosophy that the most ruthless tyrant would find repugnant.”

 The desk communicator bleeped, and she said, “Orlova here. Go ahead.”

 “This is the President,” Wulf replied. “I have had a quick look at your plan, and spoken to Commander Ryan, and I must confess that I have some concerns, especially that our forces seem to be at the vanguard of the attack.”

 “One of your own officers suggested the mission outline,” she replied. “Alamo doesn't have the light attack craft to do the job.”

 With a disgusted frown, Ixtab said, “They're our fighters. We sold them to the Orbital Guard last year. Hell, the pilots were trained by an old friend of mine.”

 “Nevertheless,” the President stressed, “I think we need more discussion before I can approve the plan.”

 “Madam President, you offered to put me in command of the attack, and told me that I would have full access to the resources of your military,” Orlova responded.

 Wulf paused, then replied, “I see no immediate urgency, Captain. Once the orbital defense network has been completed, the planet will be secure and we can consider taking aggressive action. I will, of course, support any action that you launch with your own forces.”

 “They're giving you every support other than actual help,” Ixtab muttered.

 “I must strongly urge the need for immediate action, Madam President,” Orlova stressed. “We don't know what they are planning, but I cannot imagine it will be good. We've got to move as quickly as we can.”

 “A five-day delay doesn't hurt,” Ryan said, peering over the President's shoulder. “Let us do this our way, Captain. Once we've completed our own feasibility study, I'm sure we'll grant approval.”

 Orlova shut off the channel, shook her head, and said, “What the hell is their problem?”

 The door opened, and Salazar stepped in, saying, “They said no? Did I hear that right?”

 “You did,” she said, shaking her head.

 “We'll go anyway,” Deveraux said. “I can get our squadron up to your ship...”

 “And throw away your career,” Orlova replied.

 “I think I can guarantee to provide any of your pilots with gainful employment, Lieutenant,” Ixtab offered. “We trained you. We know your skills, and our fleet could make good use of them.”

 “There you go,” Deveraux said. “Captain, we all know what is at stake here, and do you think that a squadron that's already volunteered for an assignment like this would have any qualms about what it might do to their career? Besides, after the mission is over, do you think the President will disclaim our actions?” Shaking his head, he'll said, “We'll shame them into silence.”

 Frowning, Orlova said, “We'll have to do this carefully. Can you sneak the components we need up to Alamo?”

 “They can't, but I can,” Ixtab said. “That will cost you one credit.”

 “One credit?” she asked.

 “I've got to balance the books somehow. Don't worry, you can owe it to me.” He paused, then added, “As I said, Captain, I owe you.” Turning to Deveraux, he added, “Send me a list. I'll see that it's sent up to Alamo over the next forty-eight hours. We'll sneak it up a bit at a time on routine supply flights.”

 “I'll get it to you right away,” the pilot replied. “Pavel, we'd better get you and Barbara back into the simulators. We might as well make all the use we can of this time.” He smiled, then added, “Captain, there'll be a request for orbital training coming your way in a few hours.”

 “I think I can promise a favorable response.” She looked at her watch, and said, “How long will you need to get this all ready, without attracting too much attention from the authorities?” 

 “Seventy hours,” Deveraux said, glancing at a nodding Salazar. “Fighter launch in sixty, strike ten hours later.” He smiled, and added, “Right after the wedding, actually.”

 “Then the mission is approved, gentlemen, for seventy hours from now. Pass your reports to me through Harper, on Daedalus. I'll have to brief Colonel Skeuros privately.”

 “You realize, I presume, that the government of Copernicus will likely lodge a protest against this action,” Ixtab replied.

 “Let them. If they do, I'll make it public.”

 Shaking his head, Deveraux replied, “Do that, and I suspect the President would find herself impeached in a matter of hours. They'll keep it quiet. Trust me.” Shaking his head, he added, “The curse of it is, I suspect they're trying to protect us. We lost so many people in that first attack, the top brass have become gun-shy.”

 “And you?”

 Snapping to attention, he replied, “Ninth Intercept, reporting for duty, ma'am.”

Chapter 16

 Harper shook her head as she read the report from the surface, the outline of the planned covert assault. In disgust, she dropped the datapad to her lap, Scott looking across from her console in concern.

 “Something wrong, Kris?” she asked.

 “Those damn fools on the planet are trying to block the strike on the base.”

 “You're joking.”

 “Oh, they're more than happy to let us do the work for them, that isn't a problem, but when it comes to committing their own forces, it's an untested mission plan with a high risk factor.” Shaking her head, she added, “They're claiming that they can't spare a single fighter from planetary defense operations.”

 “I can't say I blame them,” Scott replied, glancing back at her console for a moment. Daedalus was in the middle of deploying the final satellite in the defensive network, ensuring that it was properly positioned and that the systems were fully operational. “They've been under siege for months, and it makes sense that they wouldn't want to risk further attack.”

 Gesturing at the viewscreen, Harper said, “They're still under siege, Kat. Until that Xandari garrison is wiped out, any safety they might be feeling is purely illusionary, and if I know that, their so-called experts must as well.” Shaking her head, she added, “Maybe we ought to just pull out, let them get on with it. We paid a high enough price to free this world already, and it's time they took their share of the bill.”

 “They're scared, Kris,” Scott said.

 “Who isn't? You can't let that influence your decision-making” With a sigh, she added, “I'll be glad to get out of here. This can become someone else's problem, and as far as I'm concerned, they're welcome to it.”

 Shaking her head, Scott replied, “Are we going back to the original plan? Mount an orbital bombardment?”

 “I haven't a clue. All I know is that I have a special meeting with the Captain some time tomorrow, over on the Red Avenger. Don't ask me why we're holding it on a Neander ship rather than on Alamo, but I know all of the squadron commanders will be there.”

 “Sounds like fun. What do you think we'll do?”

 “If I know Maggie Orlova, we won't be pulling out with that base intact, that much I do know.” Looking at the sensor display, she added, “How are you coming with our last bird?” 

 “Final start-up sequence now. I think we're about ready for a weapons test.” Looking across at the sensor display, she said, “Spaceman, find me something to shoot at.”

 “Already on it,” he replied. “How about a nice piece of debris, ma'am? Three meters wide, orbit a little higher than the network. I've got positive sensor track, and it's in range of Satellites Two, Three and Four for another two minutes.”

 “Sounds good to me,” Harper replied. “Ingram, notify Alamo and Surface Command that we're about to conduct a live-fire test, and that I recommend all orbital installations go to standby alert. Kat, do that here, as well. Just in case.” 

 “Aye, ma'am,” Scott replied, turning to a microphone. “All decks, proceed to standby alert for weapons systems test. Repeat, all decks to standby alert.”

 “Warming up engines,” Armstrong added from the helm. “Preparing evasive course.”

 “Signal from Alamo,” Ingram said. “We're clear to proceed at our discretion.”

 “We're ready here,” Scott said. “I'm bringing the network to combat mode.” She entered a sequence of commands into her console, data streaming down the display, and paused, before more violently continuing with the sequence. “Something's wrong.”

 Harper rose from her chair, walking over to her, and asked, “What?”

 “Combat mode is active, but the network isn't responding to my commands. It's stuck on autonomous mode, and I can't seem to disable it.”

 Sliding into the electronic warfare station, Harper looked up at her monitors and added, “There's a rogue signal. Damn it, I should have known they'd try something like this. It's got to be the Xandari.”

 “How the hell could they do that?” Scott asked. “It's a laser communications network. There's no way for anyone to hack into it.”

 “Someone's obviously found one,” Harper said, loading intrusion programs into her system. “Ingram, I'm going to need the highest-bandwidth laser you can give me, focused on Satellite Two. Then issue an emergency alert for all ships to get out of range as fast as they can.”

 “What about the station?” the communications technician asked.

 “Safest place in the system,” she replied. “They'll want to capture it intact. It's the fleet that's at risk. Move it!”

 Alarms sounded across the ship as Daedalus moved to battle stations, Armstrong gunning the engines to guide them to safety, while Harper frantically worked to infiltrate the now-hostile network. Everything Scott said was true. These satellites were meant to be invulnerable to attack, only accessible by ultra-tight-beam laser. You'd have to be in the right position at the right time to block the beam, and they would have picked up a launch from the refinery long before it had made it to orbit.

 All around, ships scrambled, lurching to high acceleration as they attempted to get out of firing range. Most of them were moving too slowly, crews not reacting to the alert as they should, and the satellites began to reorient themselves as they looked for a firing solution, preparing to unleash a wave of destruction that would leave them easy prey for a Xandari assault.

 “Nothing from the hendecaspace point,” Arkhipov said. “Or from the lunar refinery. They're just sitting there, ma'am.”

 Shaking her head as her fingers danced across her console, Harper cursed as the system blocked her access. She'd helped design the security systems for the control software, and knew where all the weak spots were, the little holes she'd left for herself to exploit should the need arise. As fast as she worked in, someone else overrode her, using sheer brute force to push her out of the systems. Whoever it was had ten times the bandwidth to work with that she did, must be close enough to be right on top of her.

 “No sign of activity on the satellites themselves?” Harper asked, but Arkhipov shook his head.

 “Not a thing, ma'am. Just a slow rotation for target acquisition.”

 “We'll be out of the fire in a hundred and sixty seconds,” Armstrong said.

 “I've got a salvo in the tubes now, set for defensive pattern,” Scott added.

 “Fire at will,” Harper said. She paused, looked across at Scott, then said, “And get me a firing solution on Satellite Two. I can't even access the auto-destruct, and we might have to bring them down.”

 “Seems like a hell of a waste,” Armstrong said, shaking her head. “That's exactly what the Xandari will be wanting us to do. Three days to get this network set up, and we already had the components prepared. It'd be a week to do it again, and no guarantee the same thing wouldn't happen next time.”

 Harper turned back to her station, her intrusion programs still struggling to make headway. None of this should be happening. Tapping a control, she brought up the laser communications grid, scanning for any additional sources, then pulsed a high-volume data spurt through the system. At once, she saw an anomaly, the link-up between Satellite Two and Satellite Three slightly reduced.

 Rising so fast she made her chair spin behind her, she raced for the sensor station, diving for the controls as she scanned the location of the data drain, throwing the filters to their maximum magnification as Arkhipov looked over her shoulder. There had to be something there, along the beam, and after a few seconds, she found it. A piece of debris, ten meters across, a quarter mile away from the path of the laser, trailing a thin cable behind it, drifting into the path of the beam. Tapping a control to feed the location to the helm, she turned with a triumphant smile on her face.

 “Get us to that location, helm,” she said. “Kat, I'm going to need a firing solution on that piece of debris, and I want it yesterday.”

 “Going to be tough,” Scott replied, turning to her station, struggling to focus her targeting computer. “That's a lot smaller than anything we usually hit.”

 “Missile launch!” Arkhipov yelled. “Satellite Three, two missiles, bearing directly!”

 “Hell,” Harper said, Daedalus rocking back as Scott responded in kind, trajectory tracks swinging towards each other on the sensor screen. That was only a small fraction of the capacity of the network, a warning shot across the bows. Sooner or later, the fleet would regain control of the satellites; the Xandari wanted them to be forced to destroy it first, leaving Copernicus open to an attack. Harper moved back to her chair as Daedalus' engine roared, throwing it onto the projected course.

 “Satellite Four!” Arkhipov yelled. “Three missiles, heading for the Long Shot.”

 “Signal from Major Tlodoc,” Ingram added. “He's setting up an attack run on Satellites Five and Six, and wants to coordinate with us.”

 “Tell him to hold off!” Harper said. “I don't care what you tell him or how you do it, Spaceman, but you've got to stop that attack from being pressed home!” The technician glanced back and forth, and she stepped over to him, snatched a headset, and said, “Major, this is Lieutenant Harper. Do not, repeat, do not launch an attack on the satellite network. We'll have it back under control in a minute, and the last thing we need are panicking fools throwing missiles around. Daedalus out.”

 Shaking her head, Scott said, “That's going to go down well, Kris.”

 “As long as it holds him,” she replied. “How are you doing?”

 “I think I've got a weapons lock. I'll have to use all four missiles to be certain of it, and that's going to leave us defenseless if they try a last-minute strike.”

 “We don't have a choice,” Harper said. “Commit.” She moved back to her command chair as the ship curved onto its course. Ahead of them, the missiles they had launched earlier met a fiery end as they smashed into the enemy warheads, clearing a safe path for them towards the invisible target. She leaned forward, looking at the sensor display, only the highest-magnification shot revealing their target.

 To the rear, another ship, one of the Koltoc, sped after them, supporting their attack run, but there was no way they could reach them in time to do any good. All across the network, sensors were tracking allied ships as they raced for the safety of high orbit, leaving the planet totally undefended. If a Xandari fleet arrived now, they'd have no chance of putting up a cohesive defense.

 “Thirty seconds to target,” Scott said, the bridge silent once more as the crew prepared to launch the attack, waiting for the best firing position. Ahead, Satellite Three beckoned, swinging around towards them, surely about to unleash a six-missile salvo that would wipe them out. As she expected, Arkhipov turned, a grim look on his face.

 “Energy spike, ma'am. Four missiles, bearing directly.”

 “Only four,” Armstrong said, “They're leaving us a choice, then.”

 “Golden rule, Midshipman,” Harper said. “Never do what the enemy wants you to do. Press the attack, Kat.”

 Seconds later, Daedalus rocked as her missiles raced forward, shooting towards the small fragment of debris that was their target, heedless of the approaching swarm of missiles. A series of explosions rippled across the screen, and Scott turned with a triumphant smile.

 “That did it! We've got full control of the network.”

 “Evasive, Armstrong!” Harper said, and the young officer dived at her controls, sending the ship racing away from the chasing missiles, trying to gain speed. “Scott, can the network do anything for us?”

 “Three's still reloading, and Two's too far away,” she said, shaking her head. “Impact in thirty-one seconds.” Looking across at the next console, she added, “They're on guidance from the refinery. We'd never hack into their systems in the time.”

 “Signal from Major Tlodoc,” Ingram said. “He warns us to watch out for flying missiles.”

 “That's not funny,” Scott said, bitterly.

 “No!” Arkhipov said. “Profitable Venture is launching a missile spread! Four in the air!”

 Harper sat forward, a smile spreading across her face as the two salvos approached each other, the nimble Koltoc warheads surging forward, easily passing Daedalus and standing between them and destruction. The end was inevitable, a ripple of destruction skimming through space, the sensor display clear once again.

 “Tell the good Major I owe him a drink,” she said, turning to Ingram. “Scott, take the satellite network off-line. We're going to have to go over the safeguards again.” Sighing, she added, “Arkhipov, contact Alamo, and see what we can do about clearing this orbit of debris. I'd bet that wasn't the only little surprise they left for us.”

 Copernicus' moon rose over the planet, a shimmering blue ball holding their deadliest foe. They'd been lucky to survive this attack. The next time might be a different story. She looked up at the countdown clock, fifty hours remaining before they could leave the system. It couldn't come soon enough for her.

Chapter 17

 Cooper rubbed the sweat from his forehead with his dirt-stained hand, looking down at the trench he was working on. In the background, he could hear Lydia Clark, Alamo's resident archaeologist, engaged in the latest round of a long argument with the local scientific team, laced with incomprehensible jargon. He'd been told to carefully dig in this area, just in front of one of the larger pillars, and that was good enough for him.

 He spotted something white in the dirt, and gently worked around it with a brush, belatedly remembering to snap a picture of the area with his datapad. As soon as it had become apparent that the space around Sol had been the home of long-dead alien races, a few years ago, he and all other Triplanetary Fleet personnel had been dragooned into a short course to teach him how to function on a dig site, but there had been so few trained experts that it had been just another one of a thousand lectures, this one by a Sergeant who had little more idea of the subject he was discussing than the class he had attempted to teach.

 A scream of cursed invective from the far side of the dig site set him looking up, as Clark raced over to Private Saltzman, also knee deep in the dirt, snatching away his trowel and berating him over some textbook error. He wasn't the only member of that boarding team who had decided to take a little time to recover. Almost half a dozen were down here somewhere, and another squad was on leave in the city.

 Not that they weren't ready for action. His communicator sat nestled in his pocket, ready for instant recall, and a shuttle was waiting at the local military base, just under a mile away. If the need arose, they'd be back on Alamo within ten minutes, and that was considerably less time than it would take any ship to reach orbit from the hendecaspace point.

 He looked down at the fragment he had found, carefully brushing it clean. At first he'd thought it was just another rock, but he'd seen enough bodies to know what bone looked like. Taking another series of shots with the datapad, he glimpsed to the side and saw another object, a piece of flint with a straight edge, carved to fit a human palm.

 “Hey, I've got something here,” he yelled, and Clark raced over, followed by Bradley and Powell. He gestured down at his find, and said, “A fragment of bone, and a tool he was using when he died.”

 “Stone tools in a city made of an alloy we can't duplicate?” Bradley said.

 “Yes, yes, this is possible,” Clark said. “Think about it. We know that the city was destroyed by some sort of cataclysm, most likely war, but even the most devastating bombardment would have left some survivors. Even if they weren't here, they'd have returned after a time, to salvage what they could from the wreck.”

 Nodding, one of the local archaeologists said, “We've found some skeletons to the south of here, buried in a mound. Not enough for us to reconstruct the bodies, though. Most of the pieces were gone. And this whole area was hit by a series of tidal waves, maybe a hundred years before we arrived. Washed the place clean, worse luck.” Peering over Cooper's shoulder, he said, “I've never seen anything like that, though.”

 “It means that not only were there survivors of the attack, but that they lived long enough to start to develop some sort of new culture, even if they reverted back to the Stone Age.” Powell frowned, and said, “That's a primitive tool, probably something I might come up with myself if there was no alternative, if I was stranded out here without any recourse to civilization, any fragments of our technology. I'd be interested in a dating on that bone.”

 “Coming right up,” Clark said, holding out a portable sensor with one hand, before playing with her datapad with the other. She frowned, tapping the controls more vigorously, her hand beginning to shake. She turned to the Copernican archaeologist, and asked, “All the remains you've found were alien?”

 “Every one.”

 “You're certain. No trace of anything else. Nothing that could have been misinterpreted?”

 “What have you found?” Powell asked.

 “This,” she said, “is human. Good old homo sapiens sapiens.”

 The Copernican replied, “Are you sure?”

 “And it dates back a little under ten thousand years. When back on Earth we were busy inventing agriculture, this person was working out how to cut an edge on a flint.” Shaking her head, Clark added, “How much excavation have you done in this city?”

 Shaking his head, the archaeologist said, “Less than we'd have liked. We've been working on a small scale since the first winter of our arrival, but it's only in the last decade or so that we've had the resources and personnel for a full-scale excavation. We only discovered the second site eight years ago, when we finally managed an orbital survey.”

 “Second site?” Bradley asked.

 “A couple of hundred miles south of here, in the middle of the Wide Wood. Most of it's buried, far more so than this area.” 

 “That would have been the tidal wave,” Powell replied. “What possessed you to set up a colony in such an exposed area in the first place?”

 “The soil was excellent, and the cause was nothing to do with this planet. A half-mile-wide asteroid smashed into the ocean, five hundred miles out to sea, and the resultant tsunami did the damage. One of our submarines found what was left of it, just before First Contact.”

 Looking up at the sky, Powell said, “Looks about noon. Probably time for us to break for lunch.” Turning to the archaeologist, he suggested, “Perhaps you should call in some of your colleagues and run some tests of your own.”

 “I will,” he said, still dazed by the discovery. Cooper lay down his tools, rubbed his hands down his trousers to remove the worst of the dirt, and rose to his feet as they started the lazy walk back to the base. Bradley jogged up beside him, at the head of the column, and shook her head.

 “Next time, Gabe, I pick where we go on holiday.”

 “Blame the Professor,” he replied, with a smile. “All of this was his idea. And it's a good one, actually. We might actually have found something important.”

 “And I'm certain all of the local scientists will be only too glad to hand over the credit to a foreign soldier. By the time we get back, the whole area will be cordoned off and we'll be back to where we started.”

 “Then we'll just start again from somewhere else, and see what we find there. Our scan picked up half a dozen possible sites.”

 “Half a dozen?” she asked. “That could take weeks!”

 “Maybe,” he replied. He paused, then said, “The Captain called me up this morning, just before breakfast.”

 “I thought it was odd that you weren't at the head of the chow line.”

 He made a face at her, and replied, “She's offered to post me here. When Alamo goes back, I'd stay behind, until the task force arrives.” Looking around at the ruins, he added, “She wants someone to look out for Triplanetary interests, and make sure everything's ready for the fleet when it comes. Apparently she thinks I'd be a good choice for the job.”

 She was silent for a moment, then said, “It'd be a good step up for you. You'd have a good chance of being picked as military attache to the embassy, and the Senate is certain to send an ambassador on the next ship.”

 Nodding, he replied, “My promotion has promoted me out of the firing line. I might end up as second-in-command of a company, but that still means sitting at home handling paperwork. More likely I'd end up commanding a training company.” 

 “Would that be so bad?”

 “Actually, no.” He glanced up at the sky, and said, “I've been at this a long time, Barbara. Maybe I've just watched one too many people die. There's probably a reason they like to rotate people out of the combat roles every year or so. I'm starting my fourth year in a couple of months.”

 “I think you should shake the Captain's hand off, and take the job,” she replied.

 He shook his head, and said, “I told her I was thinking about it. I'm to let her know before we leave. I gather if it isn't me, it'll be Sub-Lieutenant Scott instead.”

 “You'd be a better choice. Especially if some of the Free Peoples are staying. You've worked with all the top people, in all of the allied forces. Not to mention that a lot of the work will be training, and there isn't anyone better suited to getting this militia of theirs combat-ready.” Shaking her head, she continued, “If I'm frank, there isn't that much of a space force left to train. A couple of fighter squadrons and a half-modified civilian transport.”

 “There'd be a small detachment left with me,” he added. “A few Espatiers, maybe Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo.” He looked down, and said, “Except you'd be heading back on Alamo, and I'd be stuck here.”

 “Leave that to me,” she replied. “I've got to make a shuttle run tonight anyway. I'll have a word with Captain Orlova, and by the time I've finished I'll be the one staying behind with you. It makes sense anyway. I can give a better evaluation of what little spacefaring capacity they've got left than anyone else on the ship except Jack Quinn, and if something goes wrong with the defense network, well, I installed more than half of the damn thing.”

 “You'd do that?” he asked, a smile curling across his lips. “She as good as said you'd be getting a promotion when you got back.”

 “I'm not in this for the career prospects,” she replied, “and be honest, neither are you. Tell me the truth. Your tour of duty comes to an end in nine months. Are you thinking about leaving the fleet?” 

 He looked down at the ground, nodded, and said, “I've been trying to work out how to talk to you about it for weeks. Look, Barbara, I've come to about the end of my front-line career. Almost all Espatier actions are fought at squad or platoon level. We just fought the second company-scale assault since the war.” Shaking his head, he said, “I didn't join up to push paperwork.”

 “Neither did I,” she replied, taking his hand. “I signed up to fly shuttles. No one was more surprised than me when Captain Marshall gave me a commission.” Shaking her head, she added, “And these days I seem to spend more time sitting in my office than I do in the cockpit. This is a nice little holiday for me, as well.”

 “We don't have to make a decision right away,” he said. “And in a sense, it doesn't matter what we do. While we're in a state of war with the Xandari, even if we did resign our permanent commissions, we'd just switch to reserve ranks for the duration. We could still be fighting for years.”

 “Then if we do, our main objections are dealt with,” she replied. “One thing I do know is that you need some real time off. A job where you're working office hours, rather than dealing with one crisis or another every five minutes. Adrenaline can push you only so far, Gabe, and I think you're getting close to the limit. I know I am.” She looked around, and said, “We'd be here for four months. More than long enough to work out what we want to do next.”

 “That sounds like a plan. Do you think the Captain will agree?”

 “I think she'll go along with the idea. It's not that I'll be needed much on the flight back, anyway. It couldn't be simpler. Two jumps to Testament Station and four jumps back to Haven. Refuel there, and we're at Thule in a week. A long, dull voyage punctuated by complaints from our so-called allies.” She rubbed her forehead, and said, “I've got to work out new shipping schedules when I get back. Someone decided this morning that we needed to ship eight shuttle loads of Koltoc parts up to the ship within the next forty-eight hours, without affecting any of the other launches.” 

 “A working lunch, then.”

 Gesturing at the black-haired Clark, she said, “Why don't you flirt with Lydia while I'm yelling at my pilots? I'm sure you'd both enjoy it.” 

 The sound of an engine roared ahead, and they saw a pair of buggies bouncing towards them down the trail, one of them driven by the base commander, Sergeant Rojek. He slid to a halt and jumped out of the cab, holding a box over his head like a trophy. 

 “Anyone want a picnic?” he asked, and Cooper shook his head.

 “I think I could get to like it here,” he said, stepping forward. “You got any ham sandwiches in there?”

 “Probably,” Rojek replied. “I brought damn near everything in the canteen.”

 “I may settle here permanently,” Bradley said, reaching in for a foil-packed bagel. “You start. I'll see if I can get my shouting match over with quickly, and we can enjoy our lunch.”

 “Have fun,” Cooper said, earning himself a dirty look. As he took the first bite of his sandwich, so much better than anything he'd find up on the ship, he looked around at the enigmatic ruins. There was something strangely compelling about this place, a mystery he'd like to solve. Maybe he'd get the chance.

Chapter 18

 The Red Avenger was the strangest ship Orlova had ever visited. On the surface, everything was different, control designs using different ergonomic philosophies, holographic displays everywhere instead of the more reliable flat-screens, even the overhead lights were a dull orange rather than a bright white, simulating the glare of an alien sun. Neander technicians bent over their consoles, manipulating the displays with gestures of their hands rather than the touch of a button, communicating with their controls with sign language rather than simple, direct commands.

 And yet, for all the superficial differences, she was convinced that a Triplanetary crew could be trained to operate it. A spaceship was a spaceship, the same functions required for survival in space, and these were still humans, albeit a different branch of humanity. Aside from the light levels, she was comfortable, the air clean and fresh, the temperature a little colder than she was used to, but not unpleasant. The babble of conversation, even in a different language, was still the same chatter she'd find back on Alamo, an endless stream of systems updates and gossip. Much of which, judging from the looks she was getting, was about her. No different to when the Neander first visited Alamo.

 Colonel Skeuros ducked through a round hatch, dropping to the deck, and asked, “What do you think of my ship?”

 “It's certainly a lot different to anything I'm used to,” she said. “I like her, though.”

 He beamed, and said, “I've been with this girl for fifteen years, as second-in-command to my father, commander, and now fleet commander. Felt strange handing the day-to-day stuff over to Ingros, but the ship deserves someone who can give her all the attention she needs.” Tapping the hull gently, he added, “Never let anyone tell you that these ships aren't alive. They've got a soul, a character all of their own, and it only grows with age.”

 “You won't find an argument with me, Colonel. Are the others here?”

 “Waiting in the rec room. I just came to get you.”

 She nodded, allowing herself to be guided down a corridor. A group of Free Peoples troops raced past her, led by Major Segna, saluting as they went. They'd been dispersed throughout the Neander squadron, a handful of them remaining on Alamo. Before long, they'd lose their individual identity and become a part of whatever community they found. More than a few of them had expressed an interest in Copernicus, but President Wulf was refusing to give them the time of day. One other problem to worry about, but ultimately, Copernicus' loss would be the Confederation's gain.

 Skeuros led her into the rec room, a series of holotables scattered around a central drinks dispenser. Her meeting was only occupying a small corner of it, though the room looked as though it could comfortably hold the whole crew.

 Replying to the unasked question, Skeuros said, “We're on these ships for a long time, sometimes for months. Alamo is an assignment to, well, most of your people, but to ours this is home. I'm not the only one who's been here for decades. I don't think I could ever get used to living planetside again.”

 Kilquan turned from the table, frowned, and said, “Can we proceed, please? I still don't know what this is about.” He looked pointedly at Ixtab, and added, “Apparently you're going to be providing the briefing for all of us.”

 Orlova took her seat at the table, Salazar and Harper on either side, with Deveraux, Itzel, Kilquan and Skeuros also present. She'd kept the list short, vetoing any requests for aides or assistants. Only those who truly needed to know where here, and even then, she'd waited as long as she dared before bringing them into the loop.

 Looking around Skeuros said, “Lieutenant, don't take this personally, but you seem a little junior to be representing the Orbital Guard. I'd have expected Commander Ryan, or...” 

 “None of them know of this operation,” Orlova said, “and we're going to be keeping it that way, at least until this is over. Lieutenant Deveraux is here because his unit will be heavily involved in the action we are here to discuss.” She pulled out a datapad, placing it on the table in front of her, glancing down at her notes. “Put simply, we must reduce the Xandari base on the moon before we can leave this system.”

 Nodding, Skeuros said, “My people have been looking at the prospects of a direct assault, and it doesn't look promising. Not much doubt that we'd win, but we'd lose at least two ships doing it.” Shaking his head, he added, “Those bastards would happily sacrifice themselves to weaken us for the kill.”

 “Our forces are stretched right now,” Kilquan added. “If it wasn't for our agreement with the Consortium, I'd be forced to withdraw. I cannot countenance a plan that will involve placing my ships at unnecessary risk.” Looking at Deveraux with a sneer, he added, “The government of Copernicus has made their attitude towards the Koltoc quite clear over the last few days. It's their moon, their problem, and as far as I am concerned, they can deal with it themselves.”

 “Colonel,” Ixtab said, “It isn't as simple as that, and you know it. We still need Copernicus as a trading partner, and our government has made significant investments that must be defended.”

 “Don't take the actions of the government for the will of the people,” Deveraux added. “The President's trying to blame the Koltoc for everything from unemployment to the rain, and some of the hot-heads are beginning to listen. Most of the population doesn't agree.” He shook his head, and said, “Hell, if it wasn't for your technology I'd probably be sitting on a fishing boat right now. And I hate fish.”

 Tapping a control on her datapad, Orlova said, “The plan is actually quite simple. A squadron of Copernican fighters, augmented by personnel from Alamo, will mount a low-level assault on the refinery, using a series of gullies and canyons to cover their attack.”

 Nodding, Salazar added, “It'll require precision flying, but we've been in the simulators for the last twenty-four hours. We can pull this off, I'm sure of it.” Harper looked at him with a frown, but said nothing.

 Folding his hands together, Kilquan asked, “And what do you need our forces for?”

 Orlova replied, “The fighters can launch the assault, but we'll have to both cover the planet and provide a distraction. The Koltoc squadron will move into position to form a defense of Copernicus, in the event the Xandari have something else up their sleeve, and the Consortium forces will make one low-level pass at high speed, launching a series of specially modified missiles. Our expectation is that the Xandari will intercept them, and that should occupy their defensive forces for long enough to allow the squadron to press home its attack.”

 “And Alamo?”

 “Will be standing off in high orbit, acting as a base for the fighters and to provide emergency support where needed, for either the attack on the refinery or in the defense of Copernicus.”

 Nodding, Kilquan said, “I presume the local government has proven so supportive of this mission that they have delegated all responsibility to you.” With a thin smile, he added, “I further presume that you will have no objection to my contacting them to discuss certain strategic details.”

 Orlova looked at Ixtab for a second, before replying, “I have discussed this plan with the government, and they rejected it. Their concerns are for the safety of their fighters, I understand.”

 “Cowards,” Deveraux said, shaking his head. “We're willing to risk our necks. All they have to do is sit in their office and claim all the credit later. That's not so damned hard, is it?” Looking at Kilquan, he said, “We're going anyway. Regardless of what they said. Is that clear?”

 “Crystal clear, Lieutenant,” Kilquan said with a smile. “I take it this explains the shipment of Koltoc components to Alamo over the last few hours?”

 “It does,” Ixtab said. “I've authorized our involvement in this mission, Colonel, and will take all the responsibility for it.”

 “I don't care about the responsibility,” he replied, shaking his head. “Have you thought this through?” Gesturing at Orlova, he added, “They're not going to blame the Confederates for this, but us. President Wulf will use this to push her agenda.”

 “If she does,” Orlova replied, “I will make it clear that this mission was originated by my personnel, and that our people flew on the mission.” Looking at Salazar, she added, “That's the main reason I'm letting you go, Pavel.”

 Shaking his head, Kilquan said, “You amaze me, Captain. Most would attempt to use this situation for their own advantage, or simply walk away and allow another to solve this problem. I confess I would find the latter solution especially satisfactory in this case.”

 “Captain Orlova,” Ixtab said, “has suggested that a trade treaty between the Commonwealth and the Confederation is highly likely. That would open up many new possibilities, expand our trade routes as never before. I think that the Guilds would be more than happy to take a few risks with such a substantial reward on offer.”

 Nodding, Kilquan replied, “I agree.” He looked at Orlova, and said, “I must confess, against my better judgment I confess that I have found your strategic and tactical instincts good so far. My squadron will take its place in the battle plan.” Turning to Ixtab with a smile, he added, “And I will station a few engineers to assist you in the maintenance schedule on the fighters. It will be rather less likely for anyone on the ground to realize what we are planning that way.”

 “And what of the Neander, Colonel Skeuros,” Orlova asked.

 “You have to ask?” he said. “Captain, my people have been living on a knife-edge for decades. Sooner or later, someone will bring us down, whether it be the Xandari, the Koltoc, or the Coalition. Anything that can improve the odds of our survival is work taking a risk.” He looked at Kilquan, and said, “I can work with you, Colonel, at least this far. Though if the situation deteriorates, I will have to think of my people first.” 

 “I understand,” Orlova replied. “In your place, I'd feel the same way.”

 The Koltoc frowned for a second, then held out his hand. The Neander grasped it, and the two former enemies stared at each other, as though hunting for a trace of weakness, a sign of deception, before nodding and releasing their mutual grip.

 “Already you have done what I considered to be impossible,” Ixtab said. “After that, I think bringing down the Xandari base will be simple indeed.”

 “When do we launch the attack?” Kilquan asked.

 “In fifty-two hours,” Deveraux replied, shaking his head. “More wasted time. If those fools down there had approved the mission, we'd be sitting in our cockpits right now. Instead we've got to sneak around.”

 “That won't necessarily do any harm,” Skeuros replied. “If we can lull the Xandari into a false sense of security, so much the better. It'll buy us time to get the Random Walk ready for battle, as well.” He shook his head, and said, “You've got some good engineers, Captain, though I admit I've never seen a ship in such a tangled mess. I'll be glad to get her back to our shipyards.”

 “Once the base has been reduced,” Orlova added, “We'll leave a small garrison behind, and Alamo will head back to Confederation space...”

 “With representatives from both of our governments,” Ixtab interrupted.

 “Certainly, as well as those from Copernicus if they wish.” Shaking her head, Orlova added, “I understand they're still working on narrowing down the shortlist.”

 With a smile, Kilquan said, “An assignment that would make the appointee's career. I'm not surprised there's a lot of competition for the job.”

 “In any case, we'll head back to Yeager Station and bring up our attack fleet. We expect to return in four months, give or take.” Shaking her head, she added, “Naturally, we'll come as quickly as we can.”

 “And you are confident that your government will approve the mission?” Skeuros asked.

 “I know Commodore Marshall,” she replied. “He'll come. You can bet your life on it.”

 “We are. That's why I'm nervous. Nevertheless, I'll accept your word.” Looking at the Koltoc, he added, “I recommend one from each of our squadrons remain as garrison, to supplement the squadrons. And that we agree to return here in four months, to meet the Triplanetary Fleet, with all the strength we can muster.”

 “Agreed,” Kilquan said, shaking his head. “And I never thought I'd be making such an undertaking with a pirate.”

 Nodding, Orlova tapped on her datapad, and said, “Now that we have an agreement, we'd better get to the fine detail. Lieutenant, perhaps you would begin with your projected mission plan?” 

Chapter 19

 The bride looked both beautiful and nervous, walking towards her fiance at the altar, her father by her side. Salazar glanced down the row of seats, looking at the other pilots of Lieutenant Ryan's squadron, all wearing the blues of their dress uniforms. He stood out in the stark black Triplanetary dress, Harper sitting on his right. When he'd arrived at the church an hour ago, he'd been astounded to find that he'd been seated with the other pilots, well away from the Triplanetary contingent.

 While he waited for the priest to continue, he glanced around the room. Most of the right side of the church was filled with Koltoc, a scattering of uniforms amid the civilian suits. The marriage of the daughter of the leading representative of the Commonwealth on Copernicus was enough of an event to have brought them all out, even at such short notice. A pair of Neander sat at the back, Colonel Skeuros and General Kelot, invited largely as a diplomatic gesture.

 Triplanetary uniforms almost outnumbered Copernican on the other side of the room, Orlova, Cooper, Bradley and Duqusene all present with a gaggle of crewmen, including the entire medical staff. Salazar frowned, realizing that this was the first time he'd ever seen the doctor wearing her dress uniform. She caught his eye, flashing a scowl at him, but somehow he got the sense that she didn't really mean it.

 Commander Ryan, the groom's father, was nowhere in evidence. Nor were any other senior members of the local military, though the cluster of empty chairs at the rear, the aftermath of some hasty rearrangement of the guest list, testified to the ignored invitations. Not that this was affecting the groom's enjoyment of the event. He'd never seen anyone smile quite so widely before, and he glanced at Harper, shaking his head.

 He still wasn't sure quite how they'd drifted into a relationship. Certainly they'd grown close, and certainly he admired and respected her, knew that they made a good team. She glanced at him, and he smiled. It didn't matter how it happened. He was just glad that it had. Somehow it felt right. Reaching across, he took her hand, gave it a slight squeeze, and settled back into his chair.

 “And now,” the priest said, “we can proceed to the reading of the vows.”

 The door burst open behind them, and Commander Ryan stepped in, a panic-stricken aide by his side. Salazar glanced at Cooper, who gestured at a few of his troopers to stand ready. None of them would be armed, of course, not here, but Triplanetary unarmed combat training was the envy of local space.

 “Stop this at once,” Ryan demanded. “I haven't given any approval for this farce.”

 “You don't have to,” the priest said, stepping forward, fury on his face. “Michael is twenty-three, his bride nineteen, both of them over the age of majority. I have known both of these people since they were born, christened them both right here in this church, and in my judgment they are ready for matrimony.”

 In the distance, Salazar could hear rhythmic chanting, and turned in his seat to see a crowd gathering outside, placards and banners waving in the breeze. He glanced at Harper, and the two of them rose to their feet, along with all the other Triplanetary, Koltoc and Neander military in the room. A toothy grin appeared on Skeuros' face as he balled his hands into a fist, stepping from his seat towards them.

 “None of you have any rights here,” Ryan said, looking around the room. “This is my son, and he's making the greatest mistake of his life in marrying that...” he glared at Itzel, “thing.”

 Looking at her intended, Itzel stepped forward, and said, “You vicious, brutal, savage fool. Can't you understand that this is meant to be a joyous day, a celebration?” Looking at Michael, she continued, “I love your son, and he loves me. Both because of our similarities and our differences. If you think your mindless bigotry can keep us apart, you're mistaken.”

 Nodding, the groom said, “I didn't invite you, and this is why. Perhaps one day you'll be able to celebrate what we have here, but I don't care. I never want to see you again, and as far as I'm concerned, I have no father.”

 “Captain,” Ryan said, turning to Orlova, “in the name of my government...”

 “If your actions are in the name of your government, then the Triplanetary Confederation will have nothing to do with it. I wouldn't intervene if the President herself arrived.”

 “Please leave,” the priest said. “I expect to see you for confession soon, Eric, and if I were you, I would expect it to be a long session.” 

 Ryan looked around the room, guests closing in on him, before shaking his head and walking out of the door, muttering something under his breath. Outside, the crowd grew louder, and the priest quietly whispered something to the bride and groom before turning back to the assembled guests.

 “Hopefully there will be no further interruptions, and we can continue with the ceremony.” Turning to Michael, he said, “Michael and Itzel, have you come here freely and without reservation to give yourselves to each other in marriage? Will you love and honor each other as husband and wife for the rest of your lives?”

 “I will,” he said.

 “I will,” she added.

 “Michael, the next step is for you,” the smiling priest said.

 “I, Michael, take you, Itzel, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”

 Looking up at him, her eyes twinkling, Itzel replied, “I, Itzel, take you, Michael, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”

 Deveraux passed a small box to his friend, who opened it to reveal a pair of identical silver rings, writing in two languages inscribed upon them. The priest took the box, looked down, and passed them to the couple, who carefully placed them on each other's fingers. The growing chanting outside drowned out the words, but that didn't seem to spoil the moment, and as the couple kissed, he joined the surging applause, roaring away in a bid to defeat the hateful noise from outside. The two turned to the crowd, and the applause grew, louder and louder, until finally a gesture from Michael silenced them.

 “Normally I'd say this at the reception,” he began, “but I don't think we're going to be having one today. Thank you all for coming, and for being a part of this special day.” Turning to his wife, he continued, “The happiest day of my life.”

 “Our lives,” Itzel corrected.

 “It means a lot to me that you, friends old and new, were here, and I,” he paused, then said, “I mean we, thank you from the bottom of our hearts.”

 Salazar joined in the second wave of applause, then rose to his feet, making his way to the rear of the room, looking through the doors. Cooper joined him, the two of them sharing a look of concern before turning to the approaching Orlova.

 “I make fifty people,” Salazar said. “None of them armed, at least not obviously, but it's a messy situation, Captain. Has anyone called the police?”

 “As soon as that crowd started to gather,” Cooper replied. “The dispatcher suggested that there might be a delay in their arrival.” Shaking his head, he said, “Odds are he never even passed the message on. Someone got to him first. Ryan, probably.”

 The priest stepped forward, and said, “Is this a private conspiracy, or can anyone join in?”

 “I'm sorry, Father,” Salazar said. “We're trying to work out how we can get everyone out of here. I don't think the police are coming any time soon.”

 “Who needs them?” he replied. “Open the doors, lad. I'll talk to them myself.”

 Cooper looked at Salazar, and said, “Father, if they rush us, we can't guarantee your safety.”

 Turning to him with a smile, the priest said, “Son, I've got someone with a lot more firepower than you watching my back. Take my word for it, or His. Now please, open the doors.”

 Shaking his head, Cooper pushed the door open, and the father stepped forward, the crowd screaming their chants as he emerged, those at the front starting to surge towards them. Salazar took a cautious step towards the priest, ready to pull him back, no matter what he might say.

 “What do you think you are doing?” the priest shouted, his voice booming across the street. “This is a house of God, you miserable sinners, and it is he you are attacking today.” Looking at a woman near the front, waving a placard in the air calling for 'Koltocs Out', he said, “Magda, I christened your daughter in this church three months ago. What sort of an example are you setting for her?” Pointing at a shame-faced man, he said, “Raul, I was with your father when he died. Do you think he would be proud of you today?”

 From somewhere in the crowd, a voice replied, “We just fought off one bunch of invaders, and these vermin are worse than they are! They're stealing our world, corrupting our children, and they won't rest until they enslave us all!” The crowd cheered, a noise that chilled Salazar to the bone.

 Pointing inside, the priest said, “Do you think the young couple in there are enslaving you? A boy who serves in the Orbital Guard, fighting to defend you, and the young woman who helped to build the ships he flies? Are these your enemies?” Shaking his head, he said, “You're letting your fear override your own good sense, and you're better than that. All of you.”

 The crowd fidgeted, shuffling around, and Salazar stepped forward, saying, “The real enemy is still out there, up in orbit. The Xandari are your enemies, not the Koltoc. They've helped build your cities, given of themselves. Some of them live among you, have fought alongside you. Is this really the time to tear yourselves apart?”

 “What do you know, outworlder?” a voice asked from the rear.

 “I know what I've seen with my own eyes. People like Lieutenant Ryan putting themselves on the line to protect you from attack.” Shaking his head, he said, “If all you can do with the liberty the Guard gave you, paid for in blood, is spout hatred and fear, then they've given their lives in vain, and all of their sacrifice was for nothing.”

 “Go home,” the priest said, shaking his head. “Go, and sin no more.”

 Slowly, cautiously, the crowd dispersed, breaking and heading back down the streets, a low murmur of protest as they went. Those who had spoken loudest were the first to leave, agitators placed in the crowd, more than likely, hoping to create an incident. Michael stepped forward, shaking the hand of the priest, then turning to Salazar.

 “I owe you both,” he said, shaking his head. “We both do.”

 “Buy me a drink the next time we're in the bar,” Salazar said.

 “And that goes for me as well,” the priest replied, turning to him. “I don't think we've actually met, have we? Father Sean Flannery.”

 “Pavel Salazar. Lieutenant. And Gabriel Cooper,” he said, “and Kristen Harper. Also Lieutenant.”

 “A pleasure to meet such redoubtable warriors,” he replied. “Don't judge these people too harshly. They're being misled by a group of miserable demagogues who care more about winning an election than the chaos they're leaving in their wake.” With a sigh, he said, “I fear for the future, gentlemen, unless they can be brought to heel. At least the election will be over with soon, and perhaps this bunch of worthless fools will be cast down to where they belong.” He looked around, and smiled, “Out of office, of course. I wouldn't presume to judge any further.”

 “Mike, I'd like to suggest that you take your honeymoon up on Alamo,” Cooper suggested. “There's a shuttle at Outpost Three, and my wife's got to go up anyway to join the squadron. It might be safer than staying down here.” Looking at Itzel, he added, “Besides, we need every engineer we can get up there.” Salazar locked eyes with Michael, both of them knowing what that would mean. The strike would be launched in two hours, and if all went well, Alamo would be leaving the system a few hours after that. The pilot glanced at his wife, biting his lip, until the priest placed his hand on his shoulder.

 “It would be for the best, I think,” Flannery said, looking at the pilots. “I presume you'll be going into action soon, then.”

 “What makes you say that?” Harper asked, frowning.

 Shaking his head, he said, “Don't worry, I haven't been given any illicit word. Just that in my experience, unexpected weddings among military personnel in time of war usually mean that a battle of some sort is in prospect. Trade has been brisk the last few months, while we were under the guns of the Xandari.”

 The officers looked at each other, and he replied, “I know how to keep a secret, I assure you. No one will hear any word from me.” With a beaming smile on his face, he continued, “My God watch and protect you, in whatever it is you plan to do.” Turning back to the church, he said, “I must go and arrange for the others to get home. Just in case any of those government agitators are loitering in the alleys.”

 “What about you, Father?” Salazar asked.

 He shook his head, and said, “I'll be fine, son. Have faith.”

 Looking at his watch, Cooper said, “We'll have to push it to meet our schedule. I think this means an additional couple of shuttle trips.” Frowning, he said, “I'd better go and have a word with the Captain.” He turned, paused, and said, “Be careful up there, you two. Don't take any stupid risks. That's my job.” With a half-smile, he walked away, leaving Harper and Salazar alone on the steps of the church.

 “I guess we'd better get to the spaceport,” Salazar said. “We're sneaking the rest of the pilots up on this run. You'll have to be getting back to your ship, as well.”

 She nodded, looking out wistfully at the shimmering sea, and said, “We never did get that walk, did we. There just wasn't any time.” With a sigh, she added, “Come on. Duty calls.”

Chapter 20

 The buggy bounced over the track towards the outpost, and Cooper glanced behind at the newly married couple in the rear seats, both of them lost in each others eyes. He shook his head with a smile, then turned back to the road, Bradley taking them tight around a corner. Two other buggies were behind them, carrying the rest of the squadron, destined for Alamo and the launch of their strike on the lunar refinery.

 They sped through the alien city, eerie in the dying light of dusk, the moon hanging low on the horizon as a silent beacon of dread. In a little over an hour, the fighter squadron would be on its way, his wife among them. He glanced at her, inwardly frowning, trying to conceal his concern. She was a good pilot, one of the best he'd ever seen, but this strike would tax her skills, those of the whole squadron, to the limit.

 Glancing at his watch, he said, “We've got more than an hour. You don't have to ride it quite so hard.” A loud roar drew his attention, a pair of trails racing up into the sky from the main starport. Orlova and her party on their way up to orbit.

 “The sooner we get out of here, the better. I've already contacted the ship. Shuttle Two will be coming down in about half an hour to pick the rest of you up. I'll be happier if you're up there before we begin the attack.” Shaking her head, she said, “I have a feeling that we won't be staying behind after all.”

 After another bend in the road, the outpost came into view, a trio of soldiers opening the gate to let them in. The shuttle was waiting, hatch open and prepared for launch, with Spaceman Hooke loitering outside, chatting to one of the soldiers. As he saw the buggies, he sighed, stepping into the cockpit, finishing preparations for launch. 

 The commander of the guards was unfamiliar, Sergeant Rojek nowhere to be seen, but his replacement gave Cooper a snap salute as he stepped out of the buggy. The squadron tumbled out after them, calmly making their way into the shuttle, Michael and his wife hand in hand as they climbed on board.

 “Watch yourself,” Cooper said, as Bradley stepped into the cockpit. “I'll see you in an hour.”

 “You too,” she replied, looking around. “Better get well clear. I'm going to give her the gun in ninety seconds.”

 Nodding, Cooper stepped away, a cluster of his men with him, moving to the edge of the field. The Copernican troopers followed, watching as the shuttle slowly lifted from the ground, thrusters playing around as Bradley carefully gained altitude, pivoting back as she threw the engines to full, a cloud of smoke and flame roaring as it sped over the horizon, rising to orbit.

 Turning to the patrol commander, he said, “Where's Sergeant Rojek?” 

 “Back in town,” the man replied. “Some sort of emergency.”

 Cooper glanced at Walpis, and said, “There'll be another shuttle for the rest of us in half an hour or so. Can you arrange landing clearance?”

 “Don't worry, I'll take care of it.” Nodding at the canteen, he said, “There's a little bit of dinner left over if you want to get something to eat.”

 “Thanks,” Cooper replied, leading his men into the low, cramped building. He wasn't hungry, but he made his way over to the metal trays, scooping out some congealing potatoes and a ladle of lukewarm, fatty gravy, snatching a fork before sitting down at the nearest table, the rest of his unit gathered around him.

 He hated being idle at the best of times, and knowing that his wife would be going into battle without him was abhorrent. He glanced at his watch again, shaking his head. Less than two minutes had passed. She'd still be in the atmosphere, climbing up towards the ship, where the squadron of fighters had been quietly assembled over the last three days, one at a time, for supposed inspection by Triplanetary engineers. A part of him was surprised No one had noticed, but the planetary government didn't strike him as overly competent.

 “Sir,” Walpis said. “Word is you're staying behind, when Alamo leaves to get the task force.”

 “That's the plan,” he replied. “Military liaison. It's just until the fleet gets here.” He shook his head, adding, “I'm not sure it's going to happen now, though. Not after that business outside the church.”

 “It seemed such a nice place,” the Neander said. “Sir, you're going to need a staff.”

 “Probably. I think the Captain was talking about two or three, but I haven't really thought about it.”

 “I think four, sir. Specifically, me, McBride, Saltzman and Donegan.” He nodded at the next table, where the named troopers were wrestling with a trio of overcooked steaks.

 “I'm not sure a fire team is called for, Corporal.”

 With a smile, the Neander replied, “I saw that crowd too, sir. I'd feel a lot better knowing that you were being guarded by someone more qualified than a couple of admin techs.”

 “I'll put it to the Captain,” he said. “I won't deny that I don't think this will be the nice posting I'd expected. I don't think we're going to get much help from the local administration.”

 Before Walpis could reply, the door slammed shut, the window shutters following in hasty succession, and Cooper dropped his fork to the table, racing to push it open, Walpis only a step behind him. He pushed at the door, first with his hands and then his shoulder, but something had been firmly lodged against it on the other side, jamming it closed.

 “On three,” he said. “One, two, three.” He and Walpis hurled themselves at the door at the same instant, but it remained firmly closed. As he rubbed his shoulder, he looked around the room, Saltzman trying every shutter with the same result. Reaching for his communicator, he flipped it open to hear only static roaring from the speaker. He played with the settings, trying to adjust the signal, but someone was jamming him with surprising efficiency.

 Over in a corner, McBride and Donegan tried one of the shutters, opening the window and smashing against it with a chair, sending splinters flying through the air but having no other result. After breaking their third chair, they turned back to Cooper, angrily defeated.

 “We're sealed in, sir,” Saltzman said. “Damn it, if we had one pistol between us, we'd be out of here...”

 “See if you can improvise some weapons,” Cooper said. “Search the room. Anything you can find.” Tapping the communicator again, he said, “Cooper to Alamo. Emergency Recall. Cooper to Alamo. Do you read?”

 “Nothing?” Walpis asked.

 He cursed, and said, “That damned station in orbit. It's built to our design, right down to the communications relay. If someone's managed to suborn it, then they can block our signals all across the planet.” Raising his voice, he asked, “Anyone found anything?”

 “Wooden forks, metal spoons, a few bits and pieces,” Saltzman said in disgust. “They've picked the place clean, sir. About all we're going to have are some clubs.”

 “They've got guns,” Walpis said. “And a numerical advantage. I don't see this ending well.”

 Nodding, Cooper said, “Leave the furniture be, Private.” He paused, smiled, and asked, “What about the heating elements?”

 “I thought about that,” McBride said. “They've all been turned off. Someone's killed the power to the building.” Gesturing at the fading lights, he added, “They're probably on a different circuit, or a battery backup.”

 “Orders, sir?” Walpis asked.

 “Sit and wait,” he replied. “McBride, head over to the door, and be ready to ambush anyone who arrives. Strike first and ask questions later. The rest of us will get into whatever cover we can find.”

 “We can't just let them keep us prisoner, sir,” Donegan protested.

 “Unfortunately, we don't have a choice,” he replied. He toppled a table, leaning it on its side, and settled down behind it to wait. He glanced at his watch again, shaking his head. The shuttle would be arriving to pick them up in twenty minutes, and if they tried to block it, someone up on Alamo would start wondering what was wrong down here. The odds were that they'd capture it, but that in itself would lead to questions from Alamo's command staff.

 “Thoughts, sir?” Walpis asked. “What are we waiting for?”

 “The rest of the platoon,” he replied. “It's possible they might stall the Captain until after the battle, but she certainly isn't going to leave the system while we're missing, and she knows where we are. Two shuttles, two squads, five minutes, and all of this will be over.” Shaking his head, he said, “The damn fools won't even know what hit them.”

 “Why, though?”

 “Maybe someone decided having some hostages could be useful,” Donegan said.

 “For what?” Cooper asked. “There's something we're missing.” Glancing at his watch again, he shook his head, and added, “If we're going to have any chance, it'll be when the shuttle lands. Now keep quiet and listen. If anyone hears anything, let me know at once.”

 The next quarter-hour was one of the longest in his life. Every few seconds, he tried his communicator again, sliding in an earpiece to keep constant listening watch, but all he heard was the roar of artificially generated static. The time seemed to drag as the lights continued to dim, finally sending them into inky blackness, only a faint glare through one of the shutters giving any illumination at all.

 Finally, he heard a roar in the background, the shuttle coming down from Alamo. He looked at Walpis, who tensed himself to strike at whatever might come through the door. The shuttle's landing jets fired, and he could picture the shuttle settling on the plasticrete, poised for immediate takeoff. The hatch would open, the pilot tricked out with some excuse, then captured.

 A pair of gunshots fired, followed by a scream, and Cooper smiled. Those were Triplanetary rounds, and the pilot had evidently decided not to go down easily. Four more shots rang out, and after another cry of pain, all was silent. Seconds later, the door swung open, half a dozen soldiers waiting outside with combat rifles raised, led by Commander Ryan.

 McBride glanced at Cooper, both of them squinting from the bright light of day, but he shook his head. Taking out a single guard, snatching his weapon, might have been possible, but if one of those guards squeezed the trigger of his gun, they'd all be dead.

  “Very sensible,” Ryan said. “I'm sorry the shuttle pilot didn't have your intelligence.”

 Rising to his feet, Cooper replied, “You'd better kill us now, Commander, because that's the only hope you have of living through this.”

 “I'm not going to kill you, Lieutenant,” he replied, shaking his head. “There's no need for it. You and your men are far more valuable to us alive.” Turning to the guards, he said, “Take them. And Lieutenant, don't try anything. I've got another ten men outside, all of them instructed to shoot first and take prisoners later.”

 Raising his hands, Cooper led the way out of the canteen, wincing as he saw two bodies being dragged from the field, one of them a Copernican soldier, the other wearing a Triplanetary uniform. Spaceman Lane, one of the more recent additions to Alamo's roster. At least he'd gone down with a gun in his hand, taking one of his murderers with him.

 A large truck was waiting for them, and they were unceremoniously bundled inside, each of them quickly and roughly patted down for weapons. As the last of them climbed in, Ryan watched, flanked by two of his guards.

 “We saved your life, you bastard,” Cooper said. 

 Shaking his head, Ryan said, “I'm trying to save my world, Lieutenant, and if I have to sacrifice you, your men, and your ship to do it, I will. Don't think I'm getting any pleasure out of this. I have a job to do, just like you.”

 “Can't you hold the firing squad here?” McBride asked.

 “You are to be held in close confinement for the moment, until the crisis is over. After that, it'll be down to the Xandari, not I.” He turned away, adding, “And don't worry, I made sure that our signal to Alamo wished your wife all the best, from you. She'll not go into battle worrying.”

 Cooper's eyes widened as he jumped to his feet, racing for the door.“Traitor! You've sold us out, all of us!”

 Before the guards could react, Walpis pulled him back, saying, “Let it go, sir. There'll be another time.” Quietly, he added, “She's a good pilot, sir. She'll get through whatever they've thrown in her way.”

 Helplessly, Cooper slouched back to the ground as the truck jerked into life, sending them bouncing over the terrain. His thoughts were still up in orbit, where right now his wife would be preparing for the mission of her life. One that was doomed to fail, unless he could think of a way to save it.

Chapter 21

 Salazar walked out of the elevator onto the flight deck, helmet in hand, a smile on his face. Eight fighters lay before him, Koltoc technicians swarming around to prepare them for launch under the watchful supervision of Quinn. It was an amazing sight, especially for a fighter pilot. The sort of mission he'd dreamed about, back at the Academy.

 Three days in the simulators to get ready for the flight, until he knew every inch of the terrain they'd be flying over. The control surfaces were close enough that the engineers had been able to adapt Triplanetary controls, and the feel of the fighters had been remarkably similar to some of the older designs he'd flown in Flight School. Bradley burst out of the office, heading for him with a scowl on his face.

 “Still nothing from the surface,” she said. “Just that the shuttle has been held up with a maintenance glitch, and that the pilot is working on it but doesn't need any help.” Shaking her head, she said, “I don't like it.”

 “Have you told the Captain?” he asked.

 “I just did, and she's contacting the local officials now.” Looking out at the fighters, she continued, “He'd have sent a message personally, Pavel. He wouldn't have just passed something on through the pilot.”

 “Problems?” Deveraux asked, standing by his fighter. “We're three minutes to launch.”

 “Maybe we should postpone,” Bradley said. “If there's something wrong on the surface, some of our people at risk, the Xandari can wait.”

 “Too late,” Salazar replied. “Daedalus started her scouting pass five minutes ago, and the Neander will be making their attack run any time. If we miss this chance now, we won't get another one.”

 “Agreed,” Deveraux said. “All hands, to your ships!”

 Sirens sounded across the deck as the pilots made their way to their fighters, sliding into the cockpits on their bellies. They were far smaller than anything he was used to flying, barely room for the pilot to lie facing forward, his hands reaching up to the controls. It felt strange, but was surprisingly comfortable when he got used to it, and anything that reduced the mass of the ship was a bonus. These ships were a little antiquated, but were faster than any ship the Xandari could deploy.

 “Salazar to Orlova,” he said, sliding on his headset. “I'm all set, ready for launch on your signal. Have you heard anything else from the surface?” 

 “Nothing new,” Orlova replied, her voice tinged with concern. “Don't worry. We'll handle it. I'm getting First Platoon ready for action, just in case.” She paused, then said, “You focus on our mission, and on getting back in one piece. This ship wouldn't be the same without you.”

 “Roger that, Alamo. Save me a seat at the bar. Salazar out.” With a series of grinding clicks, the elevator airlock snapped into life, lowering his fighter through the decks before spitting him out into space. With the flick of a switch, the thrusters stabilized the ship, and the navigation computer flashed a melange of data across his display, a course plot heading for the moon. The Xandari would know they were coming, but the trajectory they'd chosen would leave them guessing about how, making them think they were moving to support the Neander attack, rather than launching a strike of their own.

 There were too many fighters to launch them together, and Salazar waited impatiently for the second batch to descend, wondering what was happening at Orbital Guard headquarters. By now, they'd be alerted that something was going on, that the attack on the moon was taking place regardless of their thoughts and wishes, and someone would be frantically reporting the launch of their fighter squadron to his superior.

 As the remaining fighters fell into position in the squadron, he half-expected something to flash across the screen, warning him that his controls had been taken over, that someone on the surface had found some means to stop them from launching, but nothing happened. He was clear for ignition, all the way to the target.

 “Deveraux to all fighters,” his communicator barked. “We're go for launch. Let's get this over with.” As one, the squadron's engines fired, hurling them towards their target, Salazar pressed back by the acceleration. With the flick of a switch, he called up the sensor display, watching as Daedalus swung down over the moon, drawing a pair of missiles from the refinery as it reached the low point of its scouting run.

 He cursed inwardly as Harper's ship raced away, enemy warheads racing after it, then sighed with relief as a quartet of missiles dropped back from Daedalus, curving toward their rivals. In a brief flash of destruction, they crashed into their targets, leaving the scoutship to safely reach high orbit, attack data beginning to run across his screens from the close-range sensor sweep.

 “Enjoy the show, Pavel?” Harper asked, breaking into his communicator. “I thought I'd give you a little scare.”

 “Mission accomplished,” he replied. “Anything I need to know?”

 “Everything seems quiet down there, but they've got twelve launch racks now. Odd that they're only using four, though. I think they might just be decoys.” She paused, then said, “I guess it doesn't matter. Your canyon seems clear, no sign of enemy activity at any point. You should have an easy run to the target.”

 “I hope so.”

 “Nine minutes to target,” Deveraux said. “Watch for enemy fire, and watch for surprises. Those Xandari are tricky bastards.”

 “He's right,” Harper replied. “This is risky, Pavel.”

 Glancing up at a display, he said, “We're on a private channel.”

 “For the moment. Don't worry, I've got my finger on the emergency override in case something happens. Not that anything will, not until the last minute.”

 “The curse of space warfare. Can you do me a favor?”

 “Sure.”

 “There's something odd going on down on the surface. No sign of Cooper's team, and his shuttle's apparently stuck with a non-specific maintenance issue. It's probably nothing, but I was wondering...”

 “If I'd hack into the shuttle's systems and see if there's anything we aren't being told? Not a problem, Pavel. Wait one.”

 “Roger,” he said, going over the revised attack data. A list of target projections appeared on the screen, generated by the tactical computers back on Alamo, the most efficient way to wipe out the enemy refinery. As far as he could tell, four missiles would do it, placed in the right locations, but they'd be throwing everything they had at the enemy. Complete overkill, but there was no sense taking unnecessary chances. Simply doing this once was stretching the odds more than he liked, and they'd never get another opportunity.

 “Signal from the surface,” Orlova said, “Your attack has been officially, but quietly, condemned by the government, and all fleet personnel are ordered to return to base. Oddly enough, no official record of this transmission has been logged at our end, but I thought I'd better warn you all. It's not too late to pull out.”

 “Yes it is,” Deveraux replied. “We've got to finish this. Thanks for the warning, Captain.”

 Salazar smiled, glancing across at the squadron leader's fighter, at the vanguard of the formation. He'd settled into the second spot, Bradley just behind him, a jagged arrowhead reaching through space towards the target. Two new trajectory tracks flashed into view on his sensor screen, the Neander raiders beginning their attack, precisely on time. To the Xandari, this would look like a carefully coordinated strike. With the emphasis, he hoped, on the wrong element of the mission.

 Reaching for his targeting computer, he started to program his missile launch sequence. He'd be fourth over the target, and would have only a handful of seconds before racing back out into space. Nowhere near enough time for him to have any manual input on the proceedings. The display pulsed as his three missiles registered the new information, each working out its best path to the target based on the flight plan.

 The moon loomed ever larger in his screen, now only a handful of minutes away. Already the targeting computers were swinging them around towards the canyon, and he could make out the Neander ships as they swept in for their attack, launching a half-dozen missiles at the enemy. Up ahead, Alamo closed in, ready to provide support and defensive fire as the raiders pulled back to orbit.

 “Pavel, something's wrong,” Harper said. “Captain, I'm bringing you in on this as well.”

 “This isn't,” Orlova began, but Harper cut her off.

 “Cooper's been captured. Spaceman Lane's dead, the shuttle taken by government officials. There's a jamming field over the whole area, projected from the station.”

 “How...”

 “I hacked into the shuttle's telemetry. Lane must have been wearing his flight suit when he died. All life readings ended about forty minutes ago, just after landing. Captain, this has got to be some sort of trap, and the Copernicans are in on it.”

 Salazar looked at the rest of the squadron, and said, “Everything seems clear out here for the moment.” He paused, then flipped a switch, saying, “Bradley, stand by to abort attack run on my signal, and consider this a direct order. Explanations later.”

 “Two minutes to target,” Deveraux said, unable to hear the conversation taking place between the Triplanetary officers.

 Tapping in an escape sequence, Salazar switched channels, and said, “Jules, this is Pavel. We've just found out that government forces have captured Cooper and the rest of our people on the surface, and killed the shuttle pilot who went down to get them.”

 “Mon dieu,” he gasped. “Those bastards.”

 “You didn't know?”

 “I can't imagine why they would do something like that. Pavel, you've got to believe me, I had no idea this was happening.” In the background, he heard a ripping sound, and Deveraux added, “I just resigned. If that helps.”

 “Salazar to Orlova...”

 “I heard that.” She paused, and said, “You have permission to abort, Pavel. Recommend you return to base.”

 Deveraux replied, “We're only going to get one chance at this, Captain. I'd like to make the attempt.” 

 “Agreed,” Salazar said.

 “Pavel, it's a trap,” Harper warned. “They wouldn't have moved on the surface if something wasn't about to happen. Those bastards have joined forces with the Xandari, and they're holding our people captive. That has to be our first priority.”

 “Pavel,” Orlova said. “Are you sure about this?”

 “We're ninety seconds to our attack run,” he replied. “If all goes according to be plan, we'll be landing on Alamo in ten minutes. They've launched a spread to counter the Neander missiles, so we've got our window. Everything out here is going to plan.”

 “Then good luck, Lieutenant,” Orlova said. “Alamo out.”

 “Watch your back, Pavel,” Harper added. “I'm bringing Daedalus around for another pass. Maybe we can draw some heat away from you.”

 “Thanks, Kris. I'll see you in a few minutes. Salazar out.”

 The squadron swooped down over the horizon, moving into their final attack formation. On the surface, everything seemed the same, but Salazar couldn't quite stop himself from looking at the other pilots, wondering if any of them were in on the plan. He trusted Deveraux and Ryan, despite the latter's father, but the rest were less-known quantities.

 On the display, the countdown clock started, and the fighters settled down towards the canyon, a gaping crack in the moon, running for fifty miles, almost the whole way to their target. The Xandari would have realized what they were planning, and they were about to find out whether they'd found some way to counter it.

 “Energy spikes ahead!” Ryan yelled. “I'm getting some major heat signatures from the refinery! Must be some sort of missile launch.”

 “Confirmed,” Orlova added. “Now spotting forty-nine, correction, sixty-one heat signatures. The whole damn plain is melting.” She paused, then said, “I'm going to have to pull Alamo back to orbit. We're going to need the defense network to deal with them.”

 “Understood,” Salazar replied. As the fighter ducked into the canyon, he added, “Here we go. Hold on, everyone.”

 His fighter danced from side to side, swerving to avoid obstacles he could barely perceive, never mind react to. Never was he more of a passenger than at this moment, reliant on the charts that had been programmed into the navigation computer and the reaction time of the autopilot. All around, the walls were melting, the heat from the engines burning away layers of million-year old ice, sending chucks tumbling from the sides of the canyon, more problems for them to deal with.

 As they took the single hard turn, changing their trajectory to keep a close center-line down the middle of the canyon, his panel lit up with contacts again. Fifty-plus tracks, all heading for orbit. The truth of the ambush was finally apparent as the trajectories stabilized. These weren't missiles, but fighters. Dozens of them, a dagger aimed at the fleet.

 “Alamo, this is Salazar...”

 “We see it!” Orlova said. “Get out of there!”

 “We're not done yet,” he replied, locking his guidance computer onto the target. There was no safety in flight in any case, the enemy fighters ready to shoot him down at a second's notice. All he could do was press the attack, and the rest of the squadron seemed to have made the same decision.

 Instantly, targets flashed onto the screen, heading in their direction, half a dozen of the Xandari fighters chasing along the canyon towards them. They'd never be able to build up sufficient speed, but they didn't have to, launching a wave of missiles ahead of them before pulling out. Overriding the computer, Salazar slammed on his landing jets, rising above the incoming warheads, but not all of the squadron responded as rapidly, and as the missiles crashed into the sides of the ravine, bringing a tumbling mass of water and ice rushing down, three of the pilots were still there, buried by the landslide.

 There was no time for regret, no time for sympathy. The base was just ahead, a second wave of fighters beginning their ascent, and Salazar could at least take revenge for what they had done. Precisely to the second, his missiles raced for their targets, those of the rest of the squadron following, fifteen tracks rushing at dispersed objectives.

 The fighters began their race for the heavens, engines firing at bone-crushing acceleration. Beneath them, the Xandari attempted to react, missiles flying in all directions in a bid to protect the base and destroy those who had dared to attack it, but it would be impossible for anyone to react in time. Twelve of the missiles found their targets, and the refinery erupted in a sea of flame, the heat melting the plain around them, pin-point explosions as domes and fighters died, those still attempting to gain altitude engulfed in the fire. One of the Copernican fighters had also been caught in that hell, the body count continuing to grow.

 “Salazar to Alamo,” he said. “What do you think of the fireworks?”

 “Hell of a display, Pavel,” Orlova replied. “If you push it, you should be able to get home before those fighters reach us. We'll see you in six minutes. Alamo out.”

 “You heard the Captain,” Deveraux added. “Form on me. Let's go.” As one, the four fighters burned for Alamo, using the last of their fuel to place them on trajectory. If the course computations were correct, they'd soar past the Xandari fighters, emerging on Alamo's flight deck with less than a minute to go. Just in time for the battle.

Chapter 22

 “Lieutenant,” Orlova said, turning to the tactical station. “I want the satellite defense network shut down immediately. Purge all the software. Let's render it useless.”

 “Captain?” Cantrell asked, aghast. “We've got forty-one fighters in-bound, and we're going to need support from the orbital grid if we're going to have a chance of beating them.”

 Nelyubov shook his head, and replied, “No. If the Copernicans, or at least their government, are in league with the Xandari, then that's a pretty good guess at their ace in the hole.” Turning to Orlova, he added, “I presume that's why you left it intact.” 

 Nodding, she said, “If we'd knocked out the network earlier, then they'd have only thought of something else. Though I admit I'd only expected to be fighting the Xandari today. Do as I ordered, Lieutenant.” 

 “Aye, sir,” Cantrell replied, shaking her head. “System purge underway.” With a sigh, she added, “Four days work down the drain.”

 Turning to the tactical holoview, Orlova scanned local space, looking at the disposition of her ships. Alamo was moving slowly towards the planet, pulling towards what the local government would likely assume was a trap, the Koltoc ships following in a defensive formation. That gave them twelve missiles against forty-one fighters, odds that didn't seem appealing. Harper was bringing Daedalus around the moon, three Neander raiders in tow, in a bid to catch them from the rear, but that was only another ten missiles, and two of the Neander ships were damaged enough to render their use in battle problematic at best.

 Glancing at the trajectory tracks, she looked at the approaching fighters, Salazar and the others just ahead of the enemy ships, and began to calculate a course change. She glanced at Nelyubov, knowing he was sharing the same thought, then turned to the helm.

 “Midshipman, set a course for the hendecaspace point, and pass it to all ships in the fleet.” Turning to the communications station, she added, “Weitzman, warn our incoming fighter support to change course accordingly. They should still be able to link up with us.” 

 “Captain,” Cantrell said, “what about Cooper?”

 “Do you think he'd want us to risk the whole fleet and everyone on board for him? He'd be the first one urging us to leave,” Nelyubov said. “You should know that better than anyone, Lieutenant.”

 “Four minutes to the first wave,” Spinelli said.

 “Main engines to full power, Captain,” Maqua said, a resigned frown on his face. “Course computed for the hendecaspace point.”

 “This system is still of vital strategic importance,” Cantrell pressed. “We can't just give it up without a fight.”

 “And if we stay, Lieutenant, we lose. Time to cut and run.”

 Spinelli turned in his chair, and said, “One of the fighters has changed course, heading for the planet. I think it's on a straight run for Kepler City.”

 “Bradley,” Nelyubov said, shaking his head. “I suppose that was a foregone conclusion.”

 “Weitzman...” Orlova began.

 “It's no good, Captain,” the communications technician replied. “She's shut down all telemetry. We can't talk to her or influence her course.” Shaking his head, he added, “I'm sorry, ma'am.”

 “The rest of the fighters will be on board in a hundred and ten seconds,” Spinelli added. “On this course, the Xandari force will only have the opportunity to launch nineteen missiles in a seven-second firing window.”

 “Only,” Nelyubov said, shaking his head. He smiled, then said, “Acting Ensign Gurung requests permission to launch a full Espatier strike in support of Sub-Lieutenant Bradley, Captain. He's standing by in the hangar deck now.” 

 “Request denied,” she said. “Have all ships in the fleet prepare missiles for full defensive fire. Lieutenant, you may fire at will, but defensively only. Let's exercise the better part of valor.”

 “Captain,” Spinelli reported. “I'm getting something coming up from the surface.” He turned with a triumphant grin on his face, and said, “It's the shuttle, ma'am! On direct approach vector, docking in ten minutes.”

 Orlova shook her head, and said, “That's ten minutes too long. Can it catch us before we leave the system?”

 “Not a chance,” Spinelli said. “Not unless we slow down.”

 Shaking her head, she replied, “If we did that, we'd give those fighters an easy shot at us. Nineteen missiles are going to be tough enough to push back. If the whole formation fires we could lose the ship.”

 “There must be another way,” Cantrell protested.

 With a deep sigh, Orlova said, “Not this time, Lieutenant.”

 “But...”

 “If it was just my neck on the line I'd be turning this ship right now, damn it,” she snapped. “The fate of the Triplanetary Confederation, the Koltoc Commonwealth and the Free Peoples are resting on what we do, and I cannot jeopardize that just for a few men.”

 “Captain…,” Cantrell began.

 “You're relieved,” Orlova said. “Frank, take Tactical.”

 Cantrell looked at her, nodded, and walked over to the elevator, Nelyubov sliding into her position without a pause. As the insubordinate officer left the bridge, Orlova turned back to the communications station, stepping over to the panel.

 “Weitzman, contact the shuttle.”

 “I'm trying, ma'am, but I'm not getting any response. Telemetry shows that she's sustained some damage, though. That might be the problem.”

 “More likely it's a trick,” Nelyubov said. “Cooper's no fool. He wouldn't expect us to wait for him, and by now he'll have a good sensor image of everything taking place up here.” Shaking his head, he added, “If he is on that shuttle, he's got a gun to his head.”

 “Besides,” Maqua added, “we know that the pilot is dead, and I don't think anyone down on the surface has flight training.”

 Nodding, Orlova said, “Well reasoned, Midshipman, though I think Cooper could probably get the ship off the ground if he had to. Weitzman, anything?”

 “No contact, Captain.”

 “Proceed on course, then,” Orlova said, remorse filling her heart. She didn't believe that Cooper, or any of the other lost members of her crew, were on that shuttle, but she was still leaving them behind as the prisoners of a traitor government on a hostile world.

 “Salazar, Deveraux and Ryan are on board,” Nelyubov reported. “I've ordered Chief Kowalski to see if we can re-service the fighters for a second sortie. Ten minutes, if all hands work on it.” He turned to Orlova, and said, “We could go for a long pass, loop around and return. Without the refinery...”

 “They've still got the station, Frank, and there's damn all we can do about that. We're not going to hold this planet.” Forcing a smile, she added, “Though we did knock out two enemy battlecruisers and a key strategic asset. This mission hasn't been a failure.”

 “Ninety seconds to fighter intercept,” Spinelli said. “This is interesting, ma'am. I'm reading two different types of fighter, moving into separate formations. I don't think the second wave is armed. I'm not picking up any missiles, anyway.”

 Frowning, Nelyubov called up a view of the second wave, and said, “Enlarged life-system. My guess is we've found a new brand of boarding shuttles. They look a little like the ones they threw at us before.” Shaking his head, he said, “Spaceman, can they catch up with any ships in the fleet?”

 “I don't think so, sir,” he replied. “If all of them carry four Xandari, we're looking at ninety-two enemy soldiers.”

 “Bound for the base,” Maqua guessed. “To take back control from the Copernican forces. Why would they turn on us like that?”

 “I don't think they were ever on our side, Midshipman,” Orlova replied. “Not the government, at any rate. Maybe the people.” Shaking her head, she added, “This won't be the only time we come out this way. Perhaps we'll find the answer, someday.” 

 “The shuttle's still rising,” Spinelli said, shaking his head. “Now leaving atmosphere, and still on a direct course for Alamo. They're falling behind by the minute, Captain. I don't understand it.” Looking up at another monitor, he added, “All fleet ships are entering formation, and we're firm on course for the hendecaspace point. Enemy fighters will be in combat range in fifty seconds.”

 “Stand by, Frank,” Orlova said, still looking at the shuttle. Whoever was on board must know that their plan had failed, that they had no intention of being fooled by the ruse. As the seconds counted down, she waited for it to return to the planet, or turn for the station, until a sudden realization hit her.

 “Midshipman, swing around for a shot at the shuttle. Frank, when you...”

 “Power buildup!” Spinelli yelled, too late. All of it was too late.

 A wild, angry yowl echoed around the ship, sirens blaring as damage report telltales flashed into terrible life. She looked at the holoimage of Alamo, bathed in red, as the ship lurched from side to side, hull breaches spilling precious atmosphere out into space, casualty reports streaming in.

 “What happened?” Maqua asked.

 “They hid a laser-missile's warhead on the shuttle,” Orlova said. “They'd assume that we'd ignore it, that we wouldn't turn around to retrieve our crew, but also that we wouldn't shoot it down.” Shaking her head, she said, “They found their ace in the hole.”

 “Laser off-line, and the combat fabricators,” Nelyubov said. “What I have in the launch tubes is all we've got.” The lights flickered, then returned, and he added, “Looks like the power distribution network.”

 “Main engines are out,” Maqua said.

 “Gone,” Erickson said, dazed. “That laser pulse caught our side, and took out most of the engine complex. We're drifting, Captain.” Looking up at her board, the engineer added, “We're not going to have power for much longer. Both the primary and auxiliary reactors are out, and we're on battery back-up only. At full combat mode...”

 “Signal from Colonel Skeuros,” Weitzman said. “Requests...”

 “Tell the fleet to get out of here as fast as they can,” Orlova ordered. “There's no sense them dying with us.” Shaking her head, she said, “We're going to see if we can buy some time for the rest of our comrades to get away.”

 “The first wave of fighters are turning to make attack runs on the rest of the fleet,” Spinelli said. “Looks like the second wave is bearing right down on us.”

 “What did you say?” Nelyubov asked. “Ninety-two Xandari soldiers?”

 “Something like that, sir,” the sensor technician replied with a wry smile.

 “I have some attitude control, Captain,” Maqua said. “I'm pulsing the thrusters. At least we can make it difficult for them to dock.”

 “Launching missiles,” Nelyubov added. “We can knock out six of them, at any rate.”

 Nodding, Orlova looked around the bridge, and said, “It's time for you to go. There's not much more you can do here. I'm going to fight the ship for as long as I possibly can, but I'm not going to drag you all down with me. Frank, pass the word for all hands to abandon ship. I doubt they can reach the fleet, but they'll be safer on the planet than they are here.”

 “Our missiles are running true,” Spinelli said. “Boarding shuttles will be on us in six minutes.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” he said, leaning over his panel.

 “That goes for you, as well,” Orlova said.

 “Not for me, Captain,” Maqua said.

 Shaking her head, she added, “Get down to the hangar deck, Midshipman. They're going to need every pilot they've got.”

 “Captain...”

 “That's an order, Midshipman,” she said, kindly. “Spinelli, Weitzman, Hooke, Erickson, get going.”

 Hooke rose from his station, heading to the elevator, pausing only to glance at Orlova for a second before leaving the bridge. Weitzman and Spinelli, aghast, followed him reluctantly, but Erickson remained at her post, issuing a stream of orders into her station.

 “I can't go, Captain, I'm too busy. Don't hold the others up for me.”

 Nodding, Orlova turned to the bridge crew. “Good luck, gentlemen. Safe voyage.”

 “And to you, Captain,” Maqua said, as the doors slid shut.

 Orlova moved to the vacated helm, sliding into position, quickly trying to work out what systems still worked. She looked up at the sensor display, the six missiles curving onto their intercept courses, ready to play hell with the invaders before they could reach Alamo. As she watched, three of the fighters from the first wave turned, unleashing a new salvo of fury towards the crippled vessel.

 “They'll try to shoot our birds down, Frank,” she said.

 “Don't worry,” he replied. “I won't let them.”

Chapter 23

 “Missile launch!” Scott reported, a cry of desperation in her voice. “Twenty-nine missiles heading for the fleet. Twelve to each Koltoc monitor, the balance for Alamo.”

 Shaking her head, Harper looked at the tactical display, trying to absorb what had happened. In the last minute, she'd seen Alamo hit by a laser blast powerful enough that its engine complex no longer existed, tattered debris scattered in a lazy trail behind her. The Neander ships had turned and run for the hendecaspace point, all except the crippled Random Walk, still loyally sticking with them, a skeleton Triplanetary crew running the ship with the help of some of the Free Peoples. An orderly retreat had collapsed into chaos, and indecision held a vice-like grip upon her soul.

 “Orders, Captain?” Armstrong asked, looking at her with terrified eyes.

 Taking a deep breath, she said, “Take us back into the fire, Midshipman. I want a direct course for Alamo. We might still be able to recover this if we can wipe out those assault missiles. They've only got one shot left, and powerful as it is, we can survive it.”

 “Now reading a second missile launch,” Arkhipov reported from the sensor station. “That's fifteen for each of the Koltoc ships. They don't stand a chance.”

 “Long Shot is abandoning ship, Captain,” Ingram said. “Profitable Venture is trying for the hendecaspace point.”

 “Damn it, this battle isn't over!” Harper said. “Scott, I want a full-spread missile launch, targeted at those Xandari bastards, right now! Ignore the fighters, they're useless once they've taken their shots. We've got to stop those assault craft.”

 “We'll be in range in three minutes,” Scott said, shaking her head. “They've still got forty-one missiles left by my count. More than enough to wipe us out.”

 “I might be able to do something about that,” Harper said, moving to the electronic warfare console. While Scott looked at her skeptically, she fired up her intrusion software, slamming probes into the approaching missiles, trying to work her way into their firewall. She cursed, realizing they'd been programmed to work independently, not as one distributed collective of artificial intelligences. It meant that they'd be a lot less efficient when pressing their attack, but reduced her chances of bringing down the entire missile wave enormously.

 “Try and get Colonel Skeuros,” she said, hands furiously typing commands into her console. “Tell him to swing around and prepare for another pass, this time on the station.”

 “I can't raise anyone,” Ingram said, his voice on the brink of hysteria. “No one's answering.”

 “Hold on, Spaceman,” Scott said. “Keep it together.”

 “Closing on Alamo,” Armstrong said. “Good God, she's maneuvering. Thrusters in the forward complexes are firing.”

 Harper grimly smiled, and said, “Don't write the old girl off yet, Midshipman. She's tough.”

 Turning to her, Fitzroy replied, “I'm getting patchy telemetry from her now. All primary systems have failed, life support is on emergency power, all reactors out, all engines out, all combat fabricators out, hull breaches in nineteen compartments.” He shook his head, and said, “Casualty estimates well into double figures.”

 “She's a wreck, Kris,” Scott urged.

 “Got one!” the hacker replied, sending one of the Xandari missiles crashing into one of its fellows, the resultant explosion wiping them both from the display. She glanced at the tactical display, watching as the Long Shot fell back, a suicide crew remaining to give its comrades on Profitable Venture a chance to get away, however remote.

 Dozens of new trajectory tracks formed as escape pods appeared on the display, raining down towards the planet. With cold calculation, the Xandari fighters launched a third wave of missiles, targeting the Koltoc survivors. Those escaping Alamo they left alone, for the present.

 “I think I can knock out some of that third wave,” Scott said.

 “No,” Harper replied. “Concentrate on Alamo. There's a spaceport in this system, and if we can capture it, we might...”

 “We can't, Kris,” Scott said. “Even if we were still operating as a unified formation, it would be next to impossible, but with the situation as it is, we don't have a chance.” Turning to her console, she said, “Both of those Koltoc ships are dead in two minutes.”

 Harper turned back to her console, looking at the sensor tracks, the Koltoc vessels skimming around Copernicus in a vague hope to distract their opponents. Most of the fighters were now heading after them, the Neander too distant to attack. Only Daedalus and Random Walk were actually heading back into the battle.

 “Save the pods,” she said. “I've got an idea.”

 “Salvo one away,” Scott replied, and the first wave of missiles rushed from Daedalus' launch tubes, racing to their carefully selected targets in the Xandari swarm. Harper looked up at the satellite tracks and nodded, swinging her comm laser to the nearest missile platform. As soon as she started her hack, she could see signs that someone had been attempting to suborn it, an attempt that failed as soon as Alamo shut down the systems, but while all of the programming had been removed, the platform itself was functional. And had six missiles ready for launch.

 Loading and testing the software was a long and complicated process at the best of times, and missile guidance systems were notoriously intricate, understandably loaded with safeguards and counter-measures to protect from enemy intrusion. It wouldn't be possible to make the missiles functional, not in the seconds she had, but theoretically, she didn't have to.

 Bringing the basic power relays online was no problem, and the intricate laser web formed, linking all six of the satellites together. She could safely ignore almost all of the systems, focusing only on one specific area. The launch sequence.

 “What the hell?” Arkhipov reported. “We've got thirty-six missiles in the air! All satellites just fired.” Shaking his head, he added, “No sign of guidance. They're just heading out into deep space at maximum acceleration.”

 Scott turned to her, as the first wave of missiles from Daedalus ran into their counterparts from the Xandari fighters, slamming together in mutual annihilation that saved the lives of more than a dozen Koltoc crew.

 “A distraction? A decoy?”

 “It only has to work for a few minutes,” Harper said with a smile, as she turned back to her sensor display. As she'd hoped, the Xandari had panicked at the unexpected launch of the missiles, assuming that Alamo had been saving one last shot. That the missiles were heading for nowhere in particular would not be apparent for a few, crucial seconds, not until they could establish a course track, and if the missiles were being directed at the fighters, they had to use those seconds to react.

 Two dozen Xandari missiles changed course, swinging away from Profitable Venture in order to counter the threat of the Triplanetary barrage. The Xandari had to protect their fighters, their only remaining force in the system, and couldn't place them at risk to attack a craft that was fleeing the system in any case.

 With a satisfied gaze, she watched as the force bearing down on the escape pods and rescue shuttles veered off, thirty missiles now wasted on a worthless errand, thrown away to defeat an enemy that didn't exist. Harper returned to her command chair, sitting down at the heart of the bridge, while Scott looked at her in baffled admiration.

 “Signal from Colonel Kilquan,” Ingram said.

 The image of the Koltoc flashed onto the screen, and he asked, “Have you brought the satellite network back under control?”

 “I'm afraid not,” Harper replied. “That was a one-off.”

 Nodding, Kilquan said, “I was afraid of that. We're going to struggle to get back to join you, Lieutenant, and right now I'm loaded with additional crew.”

 “Captain,” Arkhipov reported, “Long Shot has been destroyed. Four missiles amidships.”

 With sad eyes, Kilquan said, “Five crewmen died to save sixty. They'll not be forgotten. Lieutenant, what are your intentions?”

 “I'll tell you when I know myself,” she replied. “Proceed to,” she turned to an astrographic display, and said, “Proceed to Trappist Nine. You'll find it in our databanks. We'll try and rendezvous with you there.”

 “Understood,” he replied. “Good luck.”

 “Alamo's taken down four of the assault shuttles,” Scott reported, turning back from her station. “That just leaves twenty running. The fighters are curving around, heading to swarm it. They mean to capture her.” Cursing, she said, “Skeuros and his merry men have jumped out of the system.”

 “How long before the Xandari reach Alamo?”

 “I'd say the first troops will be on board in less than two minutes. If they could only get a couple of salvos into the air, all of this could be over very quickly.” Looking at her panel, Scott added, “We're not going to be in range until they've docked. There's nothing we can do.”

 Reaching up for a headset, Harper said, “Daedalus to Alamo, any station, do you read me? Daedalus to Alamo, any station, do you read me?”

 Shaking his head, Ingram said, “I've been trying constantly, ma'am. They've sustained so much damage to their communications network that I don't think they could respond even if they heard us.”

 “Daedalus to Alamo,” Harper continued, ignoring him. “Come in, come in.” Turning to Ingram, she said, “Try the shuttles. They haven't launched any yet, and maybe we can give them somewhere to go.”

 “It won't work,” Scott replied. “The enemy fighters will be back in four, maybe five minutes, and they've still got dozens of missiles left to fire. And the station will be getting into the act soon, at a guess. They'd never make it through.”

 A smile spreading across her face, Harper said, “Armstrong, how good a pilot are you?”

 “The best, ma'am.”

 “Want to prove it?”

 “Give the word, Captain, and I'll make it happen.”

 “Fine. I want you to dock with Alamo. As close to the hangar deck as possible.”

 “What?” Scott asked. “That's crazy!”

 Shaking her head, Harper replied, “There are hundred of our people on that ship, and we owe them a chance to get out of there alive. We both know what the Xandari will do to anyone they capture. Midshipman, execute the maneuver as instructed.” Tapping a control, she said, “Now hear this, now hear this. All personnel, stand by for abrupt course change and potential collision. Prepare to repel boarders.”

 “That was going to be my next point,” Scott said, turning back to her station.

 “Signal Random Walk,” Harper ordered. “Can they jump?”

 “Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo believes they can, Captain, but requests permission...”

 “Tell him to proceed to Trappist Nine, and that if we don't make it through, that he should place himself under the command of Colonel Kilquan.”

 “Yes, ma'am,” Ingram said, and the crippled ship slowly turned, limping out of the combat zone. The Xandari fighters were ignoring it, focusing all of their attention on Alamo and Daedalus, the only combat-capable ships left in the system. The engines rumbled as Armstrong ran them to full power, bringing them towards their dangerous goal.

 “This is going to be a first, Kris,” Scott said, shaking her head. “I've never heard of someone trying a stunt like this in any circumstances, and especially not in battle.”

 “One for the history books,” Harper replied. “Are any of the boarding shuttles heading for us?”

 Glancing up at her display, Scott said, “Not at the moment. They're all heading for Alamo.” Shaking her head, she added, “They're pretty well-informed. I'm picking up trajectories making for engineering, life support, elevator control, the main and auxiliary bridge.” Looking up at Harper, she said, “They'll have the ship overrun in a matter of minutes. And if they don't, the fighters are waiting to blow her to pieces at will.”

 “Closing on target,” Armstrong said. “I'm heading for the hangar deck. I think I might be able to mate with one of the elevator airlocks, locked onto our cargo bay.”

 Tapping a control, Harper said, with as much placidity as she could muster, “Medical team to cargo bay airlock.” Glancing at Scott, she added, “I wish we had some Espatiers on board.”

 “At a guess,” her friend replied, “Your wish will be granted any moment now. We'll have to make this quick. Those fighters will be here in a hundred and thirty seconds, and we've still got to get clear of the combat area.”

 “We're on terminal approach,” Armstrong added, intent on her controls. “Final burn.”

 “Terminal,” Harper said, shaking her head. “Hell of a way to put it.” Rising from her chair, she said, “Scott, take the conn. I'm going down there myself.”

Chapter 24

 The hangar deck was more densely packed than Salazar had ever known it, crewmen rushing around in desperate flight, seeking the imagined safety of the shuttles. He struggled over to the deck officer's console, trying to get an external view, but the sensor resolution was too poor, the image too clouded with debris from a hundred impacts. On the far side of the room, the elevator opened, half of the bridge crew struggling out.

 “We're being boarded!” Spinelli yelled. “Eighty-plus Xandari will be here in minutes.”

 Without waiting for orders, the Espatiers turned from their shuttles, pushing their way through the crowd on their way to repel the attack, hefting their rifles as they left on their doomed mission. Salazar looked down at the ship status monitor, shaking his head. Alamo was dead in space, and what little idea he had of the situation outside the ship suggested that no help was coming any time soon.

 “Ensign,” he yelled, but Gurung had already left the deck, the troopers grimly following. “Rhodes!” Salazar called, “Stay here with your squad and guard the hangar deck. Alamo's lost anyway, but we've got to get the men out.”

 “No dice, sir,” a scowling Kowalski said. “Even with the shuttles, we'll never get more than thirty out, and I count sixty on this deck.” A series of loud reports echoed through the hull, silencing the crowd for a brief second, and Spinelli pushed through towards him, standing to at least a vague approximation of attention.

 “They had twenty-plus boarding shuttles, sir, heading to key areas of the ship. Captain Orlova ordered an evacuation...”

 “We never heard that message,” Kowalski protested.

 “Internal communications are scrambled,” Spinelli added. “I know some escape pods launched, though. We got that before the sensors finally gave out. The Captain stayed on the bridge with Nelyubov and Erickson to hold the enemy off as long as she could, to give the rest of the fleet a chance to get away.” Shaking his head, he said, “It didn't look promising when we lifted, sir.”

 “I've got to get up there,” Salazar said, Kowalski's vise-like grip holding him back.

 “She'd have called you if she wanted you, sir,” the veteran said. “You've got to get as many people as you can out of here. All three shuttles are ready for launch...”

 Shaking his head, Spinelli added, “There are at least a dozen fighters inbound, Chief. I don't think you'd get a hundred miles before being shot down.” Looking around, he asked, “What about the escape pods?”

 “Floating through space in an inflated bag?” Kowalski replied, pulling out a pistol. “No thanks. I'll take five of those bastards with me before they bring me down. The sixth bullet's reserved for something special.” 

 “Belay that crap, Chief,” Salazar said. “Rhodes, set up a defensive perimeter at the elevator, and break out the firearms.” Reaching for a microphone, he slammed the volume as high as he could, and said, “Listen up! We're not done yet! We might not have any way off this ship, but we can damn well make sure that the Xandari pay a price for it they won't forget in a hurry. Get barricades set up at all entrances, and get whatever weapons you can.”

 “We're with you,” Deveraux said.

 “Sorry to drag you into this, Jules,” Salazar replied.

 “It seems only fair. The treachery of my government is responsible for this madness. I just wish I could take them down with me.” He turned to the rear, where Ryan and Itzel were locked in an embrace, and said, “Maybe we could try a couple of shuttles, set one of them as a decoy, and get the other down to the surface.”

 Nodding, Salazar said, “Maqua, go to Shuttle One...”

 “No, sir,” the Neander replied. “I already had to abandon my post once today, and I'm not doing it again! My place is here, until the end.”

 “Bryce,” Salazar said, shaking his head, hunting for the pilot in the crowd. “Get to Shuttle One, Marty, and warm her up.”

 “On it, sir!” the relieved crewmen said, racing back from the temporary barricade to the waiting shuttle, already half-prepared for launch. Salazar looked around, facing the hardest decision of his life. All eyes were on the hatch, knowing that at most, it could get a dozen people to safety. Which left fifty to die here on the ship. He saw Duquesne in a corner, watching over a group of wounded crewmen, and waved at her to get them on board the shuttle. She frowned at him, then curtly nodded, starting them on their way to survival. The Xandari would kill the wounded if they caught them, either through a bullet in the brain or simple lack of interest in their treatment.

 Across the deck, crewmen labored to buy themselves a few additional minutes of freedom, alarms and sirens echoing from the walls, periodic status updates warning of the advance of the Xandari boarding parties. Gunshots ranged all around, and Salazar shared a nervous glance with Rhodes as he assembled the remnants of his squad for the battle.

 They didn't have a chance, and they both knew it. Oh, they could perhaps dream for a second about beating back the Xandari, rallying the crew and fighting them off, but Alamo was a crippled wreck, would take weeks to repair, and by now the invading forces would not only outgun, but outnumber those left behind. This battle was over, and they had lost.

 “Going to be one hell of a last stand,” Kowalski said, clapping him on the arm. He knew it too, the look of despair in the back of his eyes silent testament to that realization, but that didn't make a difference. Salazar pulled out his pistol, making his way to the furthest of the barricades, a group of shuttle technicians nestled behind it. He squinted out into the corridor, and could already make out silent shapes heading towards them. One of the crewmen took a wild shot, and Salazar shot him a disapproving frown.

 “Fire discipline, people!” he yelled. “We have little enough ammunition as it is, without wasting it on blind shots. When you see a Xandari, shoot to kill, but wait until you can be certain of the shot.”

 Bryce ducked his head out of the shuttle, and said, “Sir, there's something heading for us. I think it's going to dock.”

 “What?”

 “It's Daedalus!” Kowalski yelled, his voice somehow surpassing the frantic babel of conversation on the deck. “Harper's come to get us!”

 “That's crazy,” Salazar said, a smile creeping across his face. It might be insane, but for Harper, it was completely in character. His moment of inattention almost cost him dearly, the crack of a Xandari round slamming past his head, crashing into the deck behind him. One of the technicians, the man who had fired blind earlier, crumpled back as another bullet caught him in the neck, sending a splatter of blood flying through the air. Maqua looked down at him, shaking his head, then turned back to the enemy, taking a careful shot at the nearest Xandari.

 “Let them have it!” Salazar yelled. “Hold them as long as you can!”

 Leveling his pistol, he fired into the gloom, a shape that dodged just as he pulled the trigger, his first shot wasted. All along the firing line, crewmen launched their attack, some moving across from uncontested fronts to reinforce him. Ducking out of cover was death, as two of the technicians found to their cost, their bodies strewn on the ground.

 Kowalski, hunched behind the master control board, called, “Docking in thirty seconds, sir, but if I'm reading this right, we've got a lot of fighters inbound. We're going to have to make this quick!”

 “Hold position until ordered,” Salazar said, spotting a wavering crewman in his peripheral vision. “I want suppressing fire on those bastards. We've got to keep them pinned down. Rhodes, grenades?”

 In response, a small cylinder flew through the air, black, viscous smoke billowing from both ends, the fog shrouding the corridor, providing a barrier against line of sight. To the rear, he heard an increasingly loud grinding noise coming from the deck, Daedalus struggling to hook up to one of the elevator airlocks. Finally, with a loud series of clunks, the docking latches engaged, and the double doors beneath opened together for the first time, a tunnel that led to the safety of a friendly, unoccupied ship.

 The Xandari redoubled their efforts, waves of bullets rippling through the air over the hatch, a barrier that killed the first man to raise his head. They knew that if they held back the fleeing crewmen for long enough, either Daedalus would be forced to leave without them, or face destruction at the hands of the Xandari fighters when they attempted to flee. He glanced at his watch, shook his head, and looked around the hangar deck. A couple of bold technicians tumbled into the safety of the hatch, fire raining down beside them, two others dead on the deck, an arm limply dropped into the airlock.

 “On my mark,” he yelled, “Volley fire!”

 Rising from cover, praying that the men would follow his lead, he fired four quick rounds into the smoke-filled hall, hearing a gratifying scream from up ahead. Twenty other crewmen rose with him, bursts of fire racing towards their target, buying them the time they needed.

 “Those nearest, run for it!” Salazar called, a cluster of lucky crewmen hurling themselves to safety while he continued his rain of fire. This couldn't last forever, not even for long, their ammunition supplies already nearly exhausted, but every survivor was a little victory, one to cherish in this desperate moment.

 “Keep firing,” Rhodes said, moving forward to set up a killing zone.

 Kowalski dropped in beside him, almost knocking him flat, Deveraux on the far side. He took a series of careful shots down the corridor, then looked up, a loud whine drawing their attention. Salazar shook his head, cursing under his breath.

 “That didn't take them long. The overhead maintenance hatch. They'll be on us in minutes.”

 “Doesn't matter anyway, sir,” Kowalski replied. “We don't have them to spend. I reckon we've got twenty-one away.” 

 The hail of bullets was never ending, another crewman collapsing as a wild ricochet caught him in the side. Garland surged out of the hatch, rushing towards the wounded man, dragging the nearest to the airlock. Maqua was next to him, lying on the deck with blood spilling from a wound on his side, and the paramedic pulled the Neander after him, sliding down the hatch to safety.

 With a loud cry, a pair of troopers raced out from one of the untouched corridors, firing bursts of automatic fire that served to attract the attention of the Xandari. Half a dozen men manning the leftward barricade were saved by their sacrifice, though the two twitching corpses likely never knew that they had been successful.

 “I don't think much of our career prospects if we stay here, sir,” Kowalski said, looking back at the hatch.

 “Hold fire! Every other man, move on my signal,” Salazar said, counting to three in his head. “Fire! And move!”

 Another wave of technicians dived for safety, Daedalus crewmen emerging to drag them in. Salazar's pistol clicked, out of ammunition without any reloads, and he threw the useless weapon away, waving his arms in the desperate hope that a Xandari would shoot at him, instead of one of the recruiting crewmen. After that surge, he could see only a dozen men manning the barricades, the enemy pressing down all around them.

 “I thought I ordered every other man to run,” Salazar said, looking at Kowalski and Deveraux flanking him.

 “To hell with that,” Kowalski said. “We've still got ammunition.”

 “Come on, Pavel!” Harper yelled, her voice cutting through the noise of battle. “We've got to go, now!”

 The Xandari were closing on them from all sides now, the safety of the barricades deteriorating by the second. A shower of sparks dropped from the ceiling as a stray bullet cut a junction cable, the overhead lights beginning to flicker. If anyone moved, they'd be dead in a second. He looked around, grim faces from the remaining defenders, and nodded. Four of them might get back. And the price would be the lives of those who stayed.

 “Jules,” he said, turning to his friend, “Tell Harper...”

 “Tell her yourself!” he replied. “Get out of here.”

 “We don't have time to argue,” Kowalski said.

 “No,” Salazar replied, hurling himself over the remnants of the barricade, screaming a battle-cry as he charged towards the enemy. His first step was his last, a bullet crashing into his shoulder, sending him spinning to the ground. The world began to blur all around him, and he felt hands picking him up, roughly carrying, the sound of gunshots all around.

 An agony of pain burst through his eye, burning shrapnel crashing into him from an explosion to his side. Before he fell unconscious, the last thing he saw was Deveraux, leading three men towards the Xandari, cut down by a burst of automatic fire. He felt another sharp pain down his side, then another in his leg, and gasped for one final breath as the merciful darkness finally overwhelmed him.

Chapter 25

 Salazar collapsed in Harper's arms as the hatch closed over him, sending the two of them dropping to the floor. Duquesne knelt down beside them, pulling out her medical kit, muttering under her breath as she fought to save his life. Kowalski looked at the two officers on the floor, then raced to a wall communicator, slamming his fist on the control.

 “Scott, get us moving,” he barked. “We've got everyone we're going to get.”

 “Beginning launch sequence,” Scott replied. “Send the Captain up here. We've got problems.”

 Nodding, Kowalski shook Harper on the shoulder, and said, “Ma'am?” She ignored him, looking down at Salazar as he struggled for breath, blood trickling from his wounds onto the floor. “Ma'am, you're needed on the bridge.”

 “Go away,” she said.

 Duquesne looked up at Kowalski, and the burly chief grabbed her by the shoulders, dragging her away from Salazar, pulling her away. She struggled to free herself, kicking out at his legs.

 “Let me go, damn it! That's an order!”

 “If you're the Captain, I take orders from you. If you're Salazar's girlfriend, I don't. Which is it?” Looking up at her with a tenderness she'd never seen, Duquesne said, “I will do everything it is within my power to do to save his life, Kris, but none of that will matter if you don't save the rest of us. Get up on the bridge, where you belong, and fight your battle.” Kneeling back over Salazar, she added, “Leave me to mine.”

 “I'll see to the rest of the Alamo survivors,” Kowalski said, rubbing his shin where she'd kicked him. “Any who are fit for duty, I'll get assigned to combat stations.”

 “Right,” Harper said, taking a deep breath. “Right.”

 With an effort the likes of which she had never known before, she turned away from the group, jogging along the decks towards the bridge. Everywhere crewmen wearing the shoulder flash of Alamo looked at her, words of thanks and praise washing over her. Wounded men, both Triplanetary and Koltoc, lined the corridors, their few paramedics moving from patient to patient, treating them if they could, making them comfortable if they couldn't. The sight was almost more than she could bear, and it was a blessed relief when she reached the bridge, the door slamming shut behind her, shutting out the chorus of misery.

 “We're clear of the ship,” Armstrong said. “On course for the hendecaspace point at maximum acceleration. And a little bit more.”

 Turning from her station, Scott added, “Ten Xandari fighters are closing on us. They'll be in firing range in three hundred and ten seconds. Four minutes short of the egress point.” Shaking her head, she said, “We were just a little too slow.”

 “Preliminary count coming in,” Ingram said. “Looks like we rescued forty-nine from Alamo, more than half of them wounded. Triage facilities being set up, well, everywhere.”

 “That's going to play merry hell with the life support systems,” Fitzroy said, shaking his head.

 “We can worry about that after we've left the system,” Harper said. “What about trying for the other hendecaspace point, changing course?”

 “I thought about that,” Scott said. “We'd gain two minutes, but they'd have an extra four in weapons range. I don't think it's worth it.” Tapping a control, she added, “I've got a full salvo ready for launch, and one more on standby, but that's it once they're gone.”

 “Alamo is turning,” Arkhipov reported. “Listing to port on her thrusters. Another half dozen escape pods are heading down to the planet.” He smiled, and added, “I'd say we've bought them some time, anyway. All the fire's heading in our direction now.”

 Nodding, Harper turned to the viewscreen, scanning the sensor display for any shred of inspiration she could gather. The laws of celestial mechanics were at play now, and their judgment was always final. In less than five minutes, ten Xandari fighters would be in a perfect position to launch their attack, and there was nothing they could do to stop them.

 She looked around the bridge, all eyes upon her, waiting for her to conjure a miracle that would save their lives. Turning to the electronic warfare station, she shook her head, knowing that she'd never be able to knock down twenty missiles at once. Or twelve, counting the defensive fire that Daedalus could launch. They'd only get one salvo, but that would be all they'd need.

 “I've gained a little extra boost,” Armstrong said. “We'll be at the hendecaspace point ten seconds early.”

 Harper's eyes widened, and she looked at the sensor display again, a smile spreading across her face. She adjusted the display, focusing in on the slowly receding planet, a halo of Xandari fighters beginning to surround it.

 “Alter course,” she said, mustering as much confidence as she could. “Set up an attack run on the station.”

 Armstrong turned, disbelief on her face, and said, “You can't be serious. That'll take us right into the path of the fighters! Combat range in one minute, and they'll have all the time they need...”

 “The Xandari are running out of missiles, Midshipman, and it doesn't matter right now whether we stay in range for a week! They won't be able to reload until they get a new production queue set up on the station. Twenty shots is all they have. Set course for the station, best speed, and prepare for attack.”

 Frowning, Scott said, “If you're thinking about taking out their base, then...”

 “No, I'm not,” she replied, as Armstrong initiated the course change, swinging them around, back towards the planet. “Think about it, though. If you were a Xandari, what would you do?”

 “Go down fighting, doing maximum damage to the enemy,” she said, nodding. “Which in this case would mean a suicide run at the station, firing all of my missiles at the last second.” With a growing smile, she continued, “I see what you're thinking. Risky, though.”

 “Do we have a choice?”

 “Not that I can think of.”

 “Course change complete,” Armstrong said, shaking her head. Behind her, the door opened, Hooke walking onto the bridge, nodding at Harper before taking the vacant electronic warfare station, as though that had always been the plan. “We'll be in position to attack the station in a hundred seconds.”

 “They'll launch long before then,” Arkhipov said, shaking his head. “In fifty-nine seconds, to be precise.” 

 “Just because they can do something doesn't mean they will,” Harper said, sitting back in her chair. She tried not to think about what was going on in the corridors behind the bridge, crewmen fighting for their lives. Duquesne had been right, curse her. All the medical care in the universe would be useless if she didn't find a way to escape this system.

 Almost as though she had ordered it, the enemy fighters moved into a pursuit course, diving in a wide arc, wasting the speed they had painstakingly gathered as they prepared for one final strike. One way or another, the battle in orbit would be over in a matter of minutes, nothing left for either side to fight with. 

 The station came into view on the main screen, Armstrong throwing in a filter to bring it into stark relief. Already some of the Xandari fighters were heading for it, likely hungry for fuel. She shook her head, and sighed. All the blood that they had spilled for that station, all the lives that had been lost, and they were forced to simply hand it back to the enemy.

 “We're in firing range,” Scott said. “I've got my missiles ready to go.” Turning to Hunter with a grin, she said, “I'll save them until the last second. No point giving them any ideas that we might not be planning to blow the place to bits.”

 “We aren't?” Fitzroy asked.

 “Never do what the enemy thinks you're going to do, Spaceman,” Harper said, “and if he wants you to do something, do the opposite.”

 “Closing on firing range with the station,” Scott said.

 “Fire at will,” Harper replied.

 “I don't get it,” Fitzroy said, shaking his head.

 Turning to the engineer, Harper said, “Watch and see.”

 As Daedalus fired its penultimate salvo, four fast targets appearing on the sensor display, racing for the station, the fighters fired as one, ten missile ranging towards them, eight of them targeting the Triplanetary missiles, only two of them saved for Daedalus.

 “Take us nice and close, Midshipmen. Let's scare the hell out of them. Minimum approach, fifty meters.”

 “Regulations...”

 “If it makes you feel any better, you can quote them at the Xandari on our way home.”

 Alarms sounded as the missiles drew close, but Harper saw with satisfaction that the missiles wouldn't catch them before they passed the station. For eternal seconds, the image on the screen grew larger, until it flew by in a flash, the empty stars all that remained on the display.

 “They destructed their missiles,” Scott said.

 Nodding, Harper said, “They didn't want to risk destroying their own station. Set up for another pass, Midshipmen. Let's play their game for a moment longer.”

 The enemy fighters weren't going to give them the chance, and with their engines at maximum, they unleashed a second series of missiles, all that remained, forming a single wave of destruction surging towards them. Scott launched her last remaining warheads, the tracks curving back to meet the approaching targets, but only four against ten wouldn't be enough. If one missile hit in the wrong place, Daedalus would share Alamo's fate.

 “Down into the atmosphere,” Hunter said. “As low as you dare, Midshipman. We can handle it a lot better than those missiles can.”

 “Not well, though,” Scott said, shaking her head. She tapped a control, and said, “All hands prepare for pressure leaks.”

 “I'm sending damage control teams to the outer hull,” Fitzroy added.

 Harper looked at Armstrong, the young officer's hands shaking as she programmed the course, taking Daedalus into the alien environment of Copernicus' stratosphere. Alamo had tried this maneuver a few times in the past, but that was a tough, purpose-built warship. Daedalus had none of that robustness in the design, and if this maneuver was off by a fraction of a degree, they wouldn't even have time to get to the escape pods before they burned up in the atmosphere.

 The planet filled the screen as they began their approach, the enemy fighters turning away, reluctant to follow them to what must have appeared their doom. Warning alarms rang throughout the bridge, the computer attempting to persuade them not to undertake such a suicidal course of action, with six missiles still on their tale, no alternatives were open to them.

 Beneath them, the land and ocean flashed by, alerts flashing down the sides of the viewscreen as the outer hull temperature soared beyond safe levels, stress sending a series of alarming creaks through the ship. A series of red lights flashed on Fitzroy's engineering monitor, areas where the pressure had been too much. All of this damage was repairable, once they had pulled out of the dive.

 The effect on the missiles was worse, far worse. The Xandari had given the warheads little autonomy, only a mindless drive to seek and destroy the enemy, and that determination drove them to destruction, their fuel running out as the missile engines burned hotter than ever they should, forced to herculean labors in a failed attempt to pull out of the gravity well. One by one, the last enemy missiles that could threaten them died, pulled down to burn up in the depths of the atmosphere below.

 Slowly, painfully, Daedalus rose from the sky, back into the cold of space, and Fitzroy began to work his panel, managing the damage control teams, throwing a quick, curt nod at Harper. They'd made it through. Somehow, against all the odds, they'd made it through. Armstrong looked up at the viewscreen in disbelief, the stars shining once more, beckoning them to safety.

 Tapping a control, Harper brought the sensor display back up, and at last it was clear. The Xandari had been left reeling by their unexpected maneuver, and none of their fighters were in any position to mount an intercept, even if they'd had the weapons to do it. Ahead lay the far hendecaspace point, less than ten minutes distant, and nothing that could stop them finding their safe route out of the system.

 Alone lay Alamo, stranded in orbit, surrounded by enemy craft. By now, the Xandari would be swarming all across her decks, seizing control of the ship and capturing or killing her crew. She'd saved forty-nine, and had left behind almost a hundred. Some of them had reached escape pods, but would be descending into captivity, ready to be snatched upon landing by the traitors in the Copernican government.

 “Egress in nine minutes,” Scott said, looking at Harper. “This feels wrong.”

 “We're coming back,” Harper said. “Don't ask me how, but we're coming back. Count on it.”

Chapter 26

 The truck bounced over the rough road, seemingly catching every pothole. Only occasional glances of moonlight through the crack in the door gave the prisoners a hint of the outside world. Though almost everything had been taken from them in the last shakedown, Cooper had been allowed to keep his watch, and he glanced at the readout as his mind flew up into orbit. The battle on the moon would be over by now, and he had no idea whether his wife was alive or dead.

 He looked around the truck, his squad ready to make a break for it at the first chance. They'd never have a better opportunity than they did right now, while they were in transit. Once in a secured facility, escape would be a hundred times harder, even if they had more time to plan it. He caught a glimpse of a building through the cracks, and the truck slowed down, breaks squealing in protest.

 “I think this might be it,” he whispered. “We go, we run, and we don't look back. Don't stop for anyone, and just head to whatever cover you can find. We can worry about linking up later. Much later. Are you ready?” A chorus of nods replied, and he rose to his feet, the truck slowing to a halt. He peered through the crack, shadows and shapes dancing across the road, the incongruous sound of children playing in the distance, unaware of the fight being waged for their freedom right above them.

 Walpis moved to the far side of the door, and the two of them braced themselves to charge it down. The truck was old, the lock weak, and an experimental push had revealed that it would likely respond to such vigorous encouragement. He raised three fingers as a signal, lowering them one at a time, but before they could break the door, a pair of gunshots echoed outside, followed by a long, low yell and a scream.

 “Now,” Cooper said, and the two of them threw themselves at the door, sending it crashing to the dirt outside, taking them with it as they stumbled to the ground. Staggering to his feet, he started to run, disobeying his own order to glance back, a man with a shotgun waving at him. A figure he recognized.

 “Where are you going, my son?” Father Flannery asked. “After the good Sergeant and I went to so much trouble to procure this truck.”

 Cooper paused, a smile on his face, and turned back to the truck to see Rojek dragging an unconscious guard into the street, laying him carefully on the sidewalk and checking his pulse.

 “He's fine, Father,” Rojek said, “Though I hope he has some downright vicious nightmares.”

 “I'm sure our sleeping friend has called for assistance,” Flannery said, “so I think the best course is for us to make a speedy exit from the scene.”

 Nodding, Cooper gestured for his men to return to the truck, Flannery following them into the rear while Rojek, still in uniform, took the driver's seat, jerking the vehicle into life with a series of alarming groans from the engine. As Walpis took position by the broken door, watching the dark road behind them, the truck skidded back the way it had come, heading out of the city.

 “You're fortunate indeed the Sergeant Rojek is a devout man, Lieutenant,” Flannery said. “He refused to have any part in your capture, and came to me for assistance.”

 “Do you know what's happening?” he asked.

 Shaking his head, he replied, “Unsurprisingly, the church isn't equipped with access to the orbital satellite network, nor does it have a link to the defense communications grid. However, my little telescope spotted some rather alarming flashes in orbit, and there are a lot of ships moving around up there. I'm certain I saw a ship at the hendecaspace point, but whether it was coming or going I couldn't say.”

 “Where are we going?” Walpis asked.

 “An abandoned landing pad a half-dozen miles away,” Flannery said. “There's no garrison other than a very bored janitor, who happens to be an old friend of mine, but there is a communications set-up in mothballs. I was rather hoping that you might be able to bring it back to life and request assistance from your friends in orbit.” His face darkened, and he added, “I'll be honest and admit that I do not believe all is well up there. The news is reporting that your people have been defeated, that some sort of conspiracy to conquer the planet has been thwarted.”

 “People believe that crap?” Saltzman asked.

 With a shrug, Flannery replied, “What choice do they have? I know a state of emergency has been declared, and they're planning to recall the militia again. I think it might be a long time before we see another election.”

 They'd left the city now, were curling around the roads beyond the suburbs, out in open country. A gleaming river ran along the side of the road, white foam skidding over rocks, and the moon still hanging in the sky, casting a bale light over the landscape. Up ahead, he could see the shape of a building, a figure pushing open a gate as the truck bounced through, jerking to a stop.

 “Walpis,” Cooper said, jumping out of the truck. “You and Saltzman take look-out. Let me know if anything's coming.”

 Nodding, the Neander raced to the side of the gate, rushing past an old, stooped man in an ill-fitting uniform, who snapped a salute as Cooper approached.

 “Private Lombard reporting, sir.”

 “At ease, Private,” Cooper said. “And thank you.”

 “A pleasure to be of service, sir.” The compound held four buildings, all long and low to form a perimeter, with a plasticrete landing pad in the middle, holding an ungainly helicopter, a bulbous cabin resting on spindly legs with long, sagging rotors above. Lombard escorted them to the nearest building, fumbling in his pocket for the key.

 “There aren't any weapons here, I'm afraid. All of them were taken away last week. That's when I realized something was going on.” Cooper glanced at McBride, and shook his head. This was no response to a changing situation, but part of a long-established plan. The door rattled open, and he stepped inside, cobwebs catching in his hair.

 Opposite the door was a dust-ridden console, an old communications terminal, and he sat down at the controls, throwing switches almost at random, lights flashing on as power was restored to the panel.

 “You realize they'll know you're transmitting in seconds, sir,” McBride said.

 “I know,” he replied. “We've got to know what's happening, Private, and I don't expect we'll be here for long enough to matter. Either we'll be able to contact Alamo and arrange a pickup, or...” He trailed off, looking at the trooper, who nodded in response. If Alamo had been destroyed, then none of this was going to make any difference in any case, and the odds of them evading capture were remote.

 As the panel warmed up, Cooper strapped the bulky headphones into position, clamped uncomfortably over his ears, and started to play around for the military frequencies. Bursts of faux-patriotic music briefly flared into life, followed by chatter in a code he didn't understand, and a garbled transmission too distorted to read. Finally, he found what he thought was the Triplanetary communications band, and flicked the switch from receive to transmit.

 “This is Cooper calling any station, any station, do you read me? This is Cooper calling any station, any station, do you read me? Over.”

 A roar of static hissed through the headphones, a voice struggling to fight back. In frustration, he threw more switches on the panel, trying to focus on the transmission, then picked up the microphone again.

 “I read you distorted. Repeat transmission.”

 “I said,” Bradley replied, sending a smile to his face for the first time that day, “I'm on a landing vector and will be with you in a couple of minutes. Everything's gone to hell up here, Gabe. Details to follow. Keep this channel open, and I'll home in on it.”

 Looking around, he held his hand over a control, and said, “Switching to homing beacon. See you in a second. Out.” Rising to his feet, he clapped McBride on the shoulders, and said, “Help's on the way.”

 “We're going to need it,” Walpis said, bursting into the room. “Vehicles heading our way. We're going to have company in six minutes minus.”

 Nodding, Cooper left the console, walking back out onto the field. He looked up, scanning the horizon, and saw a ball of flame high up in the sky, curving in their direction. Someone in final re-entry, preparing for landing. His smile became a frown as other flaming balls became visible, and he glanced at Walpis. The two of them had seen this once before, in an equally desperate time, back on Thule. Escape pods raining down through the atmosphere, refugees from doomed spaceships.

 “This looks bad, sir,” Walpis said. “Maybe we should bug out.”

 Shaking his head, Cooper replied, “We'd never outrun them in the truck, and we sure as hell aren't going to do it on foot. We'll just have to hope for a quick pick-up, Corporal.”

 “Here, sir,” Lombard said, passing him a pair of old binoculars. Cooper raised them to his eyes, scanning the sky until he found the largest re-entry track. It looked small for a shuttle, more like a fighter, and his spirits began to sink. He'd seen those Copernican fighters, and even if Bradley had enough fuel to take off again, which seemed unlikely, there wouldn't be room for any passengers.

 “Father,” Cooper said, “I think you need to become our prisoner. Lombard and Rojek as well. There's no sense you going down with the rest of us. I'll tell the soldiers...”

 “I have no intention of going down at all, Lieutenant,” he interrupted. “Have faith, my son.”

 The fighter's engines roared as it soared overhead, coming down just in front of the stockade. Cooper could hear shouting now, calls from the approaching column, and shook his head. This was likely to be a short-lived reunion, but he intended to make the most of it, and he raced through the gates towards his wife, wrapping her in a hug as she dropped out of the cockpit.

 “It's bad, Gabe,” she said, looking up at him. “Alamo's been crippled, half the fleet wiped out. Daedalus is on its way out of the system, but they aren't in a position to help us.” Shaking her head, she said, “We're on our own, and I don't see any way out of this one.”

 “Four trucks, sir,” Walpis said. “Say sixteen people.”

 “Tactical deployment,” Cooper replied. “Get into cover. Maybe we can hold them off for a few minutes.” Gesturing into the compound, he added, “What about the helicopter?”

 Walking over to it, Bradley looked with disdain at the antiquated machine, and replied, “Maybe. I've flown something like this in the simulators, but it'll take time to get ready.” Looking back at the approaching column, she added, “And besides, one bullet in the wrong place and it's just a pile of scrap metal.”

 “Try,” Cooper said, moving back to the column. One of the escape pods was coming down, only a quarter-mile away, parachute ripping open to slow its final descent. He shook his head, knowing that the occupant had escaped one trap only to step into another, and stepped up to the ramp to watch the Copernican troops driving towards him.

 This wasn't much of an installation to defend anyway, even if they were armed. Too close to the city, the terrain too open. Buildings made of wood, an invitation to flamethrowers or napalm. Not that it mattered. With Alamo captured, the battle was over, and unless his wife could get the helicopter going, they didn't stand a chance in any case. For a second, he contemplated surrender, but looked around at his troops and shook his head. None of them would want to give up, and deep in his heart, nor did he. Even knowing they didn't stand a chance, he'd rather go down fighting.

 “I can do this!” Bradley said. “Give me ten minutes, and I'll have us all out of here!” 

 Somehow, he had to find a way to give her that time. As the vehicles came to a stop, he saw the escape pod crash to the ground, one of the trucks disgorging its passengers to investigate, their search brought to an abrupt halt by a bolt of green flame, their final breaths twisted into screams. As he watched, two more bolts raced through the air, slamming into the trucks, wiping the column from existence with only a column of smoke to herald their erstwhile presence. Carefully, a figure stepped forward, tossing a plasma rifle to the ground.

 “I thought you might need some help,” Cantrell said.

 “Good timing,” Cooper replied. “Come on. Let's get the hell out of here.”

Chapter 27

 Orlova watched the sensor display, now merely a flat-screen projection with the failure of the holotable, looking at the scattered aftermath of the battle. Alamo was surrounded by enemy ships, dozens of fighters in firing position, ready to destroy them at a second's notice, and only a single friendly ship remained, and that heading for the hendecaspace point, fleeing the system before the Xandari could reach them. She longed to send them a message, to wish them luck, but there was no way to punch a message through to her. 

 “Daedalus has jumped, Maggie,” Nelyubov said. “That's the last ship.”

 “I hope they make it,” she replied, turning to the internal sensors monitor. Compartment by compartment, she'd watched her people putting up a losing fight, struggling to hold back the Xandari for as long as they could, knowing that the effort would ultimately be futile. Casualty reports had streamed in, ceasing only when the communications network failed, rendering them silent, powerless observers. From what she could see, the battle had essentially ended, her crew captured or killed.

 She flashed through the images from the monitor cameras, the aftermath of one battle or another, bodies of her own crew and the Xandari borders scattered around, a leavening of Copernican troops, late entrants to the fight who had immediately been pushed to the front of the action. One after another, more scenes of devastation and destruction, all of them seeming unreal.

 “Looks like all the escape pods have launched,” Erickson said. “Most of them only half full, but that's still a good forty, fifty people on their way to safety. More to Daedalus.” She looked at Orlova, and said, “I guess that about wraps it up, doesn't it. Everyone who is going to get off the ship has left.” Looking at her board, she added, “There's nothing more we can do here, Captain.”

 “Agreed,” she replied. “Purge all databases. We might as well make it tough for the bastards to use her.”

 Nodding, Erickson tapped a control, and the lights flickered and died, the computer systems that managed the power network ceasing to function, all activity on the ship ending at once. As a last at, the doors slid open, a safety feature that rendered them defenseless, but it no longer mattered. An emptiness tore at Orlova as she rose to her feet, making for the door. Her ship had been stolen.

 She looked around the bridge, from station to station, shaking her head. A few moments ago, this had been the nerve center of one of the most powerful warships in the Triplanetary Fleet. Now it was a silent monument to defeat, the last resting place of their hopes and dreams.

 “If it helps, Captain,” Nelyubov said, “We did everything we set out to do. Two enemy battlecruisers destroyed, dozens of fighters wiped out, their refinery gone. I'd say we've set their plans back by months. Maybe permanently. The Consortium and the Commonwealth are working together….”

 “The mission was only complete when we returned to Yeager Station. With the best will in the world, Commodore Marshall cannot come forward until we give him the information he's waiting for.” Shaking her head, she said, “All of this was for nothing without that, Frank, and we both know it.”

 “Captain, there was no way you could have known that the Copernicans would turn traitor,” Erickson said. “They asked for help, and you gave it. Anyone else would have made the same decision, especially based on the strategic gains at stake. And it very nearly worked, despite everything.” Gesturing at the scattered clouds of debris filling orbital space, the last view from the sensors frozen on the screen, she added, “They aren't going to recover from this battle in a hurry.”

 Footsteps echoed down the corridor, boots tramping on the hard metal of the floor. The last of the defenses had fallen, and there was nothing to stop the enemy from reaching them here. Orlova glanced around one last time, then returned to her silent station at the heart of the bridge, while Nelyubov scrambled in a locker.

 “Here,” he said, tossing her a crewman's jumpsuit. “One for each of us. If they find out they've captured officers...”

 “That won't do any good, Lieutenant,” a harsh voice said, stepping into the room. “I'm afraid we have excellent records on all of you.” Holding a blinding flashlight in the air, he said, “You and your ship are now the property of the Xandari Empire.”

 “My people...”

 “My people,” the figure replied. “Not yours. But I will not allow them to be harmed. The knowledge they hold is far too valuable for that.” Looking around the dark, silent bridge, he added, “My complements, Captain. You put up an excellent fight, and were truly a worthy adversary.” Commander Ryan stepped up, looking down at the deck, and the Xandari added, “Far better than the craven Copernicans.”

 “I've seen to the disposition of the prisoners, my Lord,” Ryan said. “Shuttles are on their way up right now to transfer them to the surface. The internment camp is ready, and those we found on the surface are being taken there right now.” He smiled, and added, “We caught them all by surprise. They didn't put up much of a fight.”

 “Traitor,” Nelyubov said, shaking his head. “How much are they paying you, Commander? How much for the future of your people? I hope your soul cost them dear.”

 Stepping forward, Ryan blurted out, “You don't understand, do you? A hundred thousand people down there, women and children, are dependent on us, and I can't throw their lives away for some crazy lost cause. The Xandari offer us security and protection, and the Koltoc had us under their thumb anyway! All we've done is trade one master for another, and this one will at least leave us alone.”

 “Don't be a fool,” Orlova replied. “They might ignore you for the moment, but if you think they'll just let you run around down there without intervention forever, you're sorely mistaken. They'll strip your freedom from you a piece at a time, until Copernicus is just one more slave world in the Xandari Empire, its people toiling for distant masters, grubbing in the dirt while their lords fly among the stars.”

 Balling his hands into fists, he said, “What was your alternative, then? You've lost, Captain, and you'd have taken all of us down with you! If you'd had your way, we'd have been defenseless against attack in any case, either easy prey for a Xandari war fleet or under the economic heel of the Koltoc.” Sneering, he said, “Or perhaps you had hoped to conquer us yourself, force us to join your empire.”  

 “You truly are a fool, aren't you,” Orlova replied. “You've sold your people into slavery, and I truly believe that you don't even realize that you've done it.”

 “I don't have to take this crap from you,” he said, bearing down towards her. “Not any more.”

 “Ryan,” the Xandari said, raising his gun at the traitor, “You talk too much. Either you can correct that for yourself or I will correct it for you. Let me remind you again that these are prisoners of the Xandari Empire, not your pathetic little collection of hovels on the planet, and that they will be treated well. I expect to gain much useful information from them, and cannot spare their lives. Yours, on the other hand, I do not need. Is that understood?”

 He turned, nodded, and replied, “Yes, my Lord.”

 Nodding, the Xandari replied, “Good. I expect them to be well treated, Commander, and if any of them suffer poor treatment, I will see that you and your men answer for it. I suggest you return to the shuttles and prepare for their disembarkation.” Shaking his head as Ryan left, he added, “That creature may wear a uniform, but he is not a warrior.”

 “For once we agree,” Orlova said.

 “I might use a traitor, but that doesn't mean I have to like him, or that I trust him. They surrendered to us three weeks before you arrived, Captain. Though again, I must complement you. There were moments when I believed that you would escape the trap we have set, and your efforts did cost us greatly.”

 Nelyubov laughed, and said, “By God, the nearest thing we've had to gratitude comes from the bastards we've defeated. This war isn't over yet, you know. When our task force arrives, it'll sweep you from the sky, and I only hope that I'm there to watch you burn.”

 “If that is our fate, so will it be,” the Xandari replied. “The universe cares only who is strongest, and makes no other judgment. Today, the Empire is the victor. Tomorrow, we might be defeated, and forced to bow our knee to another.” Shaking his head, he said, “But not today. We will meet again. I will be supervising your interrogations personally, and I'm looking forward to our conversations.”

 “And then a prison camp?” Erickson asked.

 “Perhaps,” he replied. “Or maybe I will leave you here. Our agreement with the Copernican government yields them their world, but I don't recall promising anything relating to the release of prisoners. If you co-operate, Captain, then I am able to reward you richly.” Shaking his head, he said, “Though I venture you are unlikely to accede to such an offer. From what I have observed, it does not appear to be in your nature. No more than I would surrender to you, if our roles were reversed.” Stepping back to the corridor, he said, “If you make for the hangar deck, you'll find shuttles waiting for you.”

 “Our wounded, our dead...” Nelyubov began.

 “Your dead will be returned to you tomorrow, and arrangements will be made for you to provide them with an honorable rest. As one warrior to another, it is the least I could do.”

 “And the wounded?”

 “Will live or die, as fate wills. They are already being transferred to the shuttles.” He paused, then added, “Fifty-five, if you are interested. I have a full record. There are twenty-six bodies, most of them from your assault force.” Shaking his head, he added, “They fought bravely. You should be proud.”

 “I am. Aren't you worried we might try something?” Orlova asked.

 “There are no other means of leaving this ship, and you have already done an excellent job of crippling her systems. It will take us weeks to restore her to functioning condition, perhaps months. The local engineers are lamentably unskilled at such work. What more can you do, Captain? Though if you wish to honorably end your existence now, I will happily provide you with the means to do so.”

 Stepping to her captor, she said, “I wouldn't give you the satisfaction. While there is a breath left in my body, I will resist you with every fiber of my being. If you gave me a weapon, then I would use it on you. You may have captured us, but you haven't defeated us. Not until the last one of us is dead.”

 “Perhaps we are more alike than you would care to admit.” He looked down at a datapad in his hands, glowing green, and said, “If you are holding out hope that some of your people on the surface will escape, I assure you that we have tracked all of your escape pods, and that I have already arranged for their capture. You'll all be one crew soon. As for Daedalus, one ship, alone, outmatched and outgunned cannot resist us for long.”

 “Underestimating them is a mistake,” Orlova replied. “One that might well cost you dearly.”

 “As your compassion cost you,” he said, shaking his head. “Enjoy your new home, Captain. I venture to suspect that you will be there for a very long time.”

 “I wouldn't bet on that,” she replied. “As you say, perhaps we shall see what fate wills, rather than prejudging the outcome. And once you get access to our historical files, I suggest you look at the fate of one  King Pyrrhus. I think you will find it most illuminating.” Without another word, she left the bridge, leading her companions into captivity.

Chapter 28

 “Come on, come on,” Cooper said, as Bradley continued to work the controls of the helicopter, foul smells and strange noises bursting from the engine. “Everyone for twenty miles will have seen those trucks blow up, and this time they won't just send a few people with guns to bring us down.”

 “This will take as long as it takes,” Bradley said, shaking her head. “Get everyone on board. We'll be taking off in two minutes.”

 Turning to the compound, Cooper said, “All aboard.”

 “Not I, Lieutenant,” Flannery replied. “I'm too old and tired to go wandering around the wilderness any more. I'll be far more use to you back here, where I can stir up a bit of trouble and keep an eye on what the bastards are up to. You're going to need a pair of eyes in the city. Besides, I can't abandon my parish, not when they need me the most. Lombard can keep me company.”

 “Aren't you afraid that they'll capture you?” Walpis asked. 

 Shaking his head, he said, “An old friend of mine runs a vineyard near here. She'll keep me safe for a few hours, and I can sneak back home by morning. Don't worry about me, Corporal. You're the ones taking all the risks today.” Looking around at the troopers, he smiled, and added, “May God himself go with you all, and keep you safe in all the dark places where you walk.”

 As he walked off, Cooper shook his head, settling down in the co-pilot's seat, in front of the unfamiliar controls, and said, “That man is braver than any of us. We're running away from the enemy. He's heading back to it.”

 “We're not running away, sir,” McBride said. “We're just changing the direction of our attack.”

 The engine fired, blades beginning to rotate, cutting through the air and slowly bringing them up from the ground. Cooper looked down at the compound, then out at the road beyond, a column of men already heading in their direction. Flannery and Lombard would be lucky to get away in time, but he was taking a very different route, winding further away from town. He might be fortunate, and certainly their escape was providing a good distraction for him.

 “Now that we're moving,” Bradley asked, “Where exactly am I going?”

 “Due west,” Rojek said. “Towards the Wide Wood. Dense forest, three or four hundred miles deep. There are a few logging settlements on the outer fringes, but that's all. It's the best place in range that I can think of to get lost in.”

 “Turning,” Bradley replied.

 “Out of interest, Sergeant,” Cooper asked, “Has your government got anything that could shoot us down?”

 Frowning, the Copernican replied, “No anti-aircraft emplacements, we never thought we'd need them. No combat aircraft at all, really. A few of our helicopters have ground attack capability, but we've never used them in anger.” He shook his head, and said, “This was a peaceful world, Lieutenant. Aside from a few training exercises, we've never fought a battle.”

 “We're good for about two hundred and fifty miles,” Bradley said. “I hope that's enough. And for the record, I don't expect to be able to take off again once we get down. The landing gear on this thing is useless. Even if we had a proper landing strip, it would be chancy.”

 Nodding, Rojak said, “This was just an old prototype. I don't think anyone's flown it in years.”

 “Now you tell me,” Bradley said, wrestling with the controls as the wind picked up. Cooper looked out across the horizon, the lights of the city receding in the distance behind them as they traveled into open country. First they flew over farmland, twinkling lights of village nestling together in the dark, then over wilder country, the thin veneer of civilization fading away as the city fell back over the horizon.

 Then, behind them, he saw a pair of dots rising from the ground, slowly moving towards them. On instinct, he looked down for the sensor display on the control panel, but there was nothing there even remotely like one, just a collection of buttons and switches, most of which seemed to serve no useful function. He shook his head, taking out his binoculars again, trying to get a look at the approaching craft through the grubby windows.

 “Not helicopters,” he said. “Smaller. And whatever they are, they're closing rapidly.”

 “Hang on,” Bradley said. “I'm going to see if I can get any more speed out of this thing.” Shaking her head, she brought the craft down, almost to the treetops, the terrain rushing past them faster than before as the engine grumbled in complaint, straining with the exertion the pilot was putting it through. 

 “Xandari,” Walpis said. “Drones, like on Thule, remember?”

 “Damn,” Cooper said, nodding in agreement. “They'll be on us in minutes. At best. Can we get down to the deck?”

 “The forest's just ahead,” his wife replied, gesturing at the landscape. “Once we're in there, they won't be able to see us.”

 “Make it fast,” he said. “They're closing awfully quickly.”

 “What do you think I'm doing?” she replied. With a loud bang, the engine failed, and she cursed as she worked the unfamiliar controls, trying to restart it. After a series of unconvincing clunks, it burst back into life again, but a series of red lights were now flashing on the panel, and Cooper didn't need a pilot's license to know that meant the flight was about to come to an abrupt end.

 “They're closing fast, sir,” Walpis said.

 “It doesn't matter,” Bradley replied. “I'm bringing us down.”

 The helicopter dropped out of the air as the engine died once again, the rotors disengaged to soften their landing, their stored energy setting them spinning. With a loud crash, the undercarriage smashed, and a smell of ozone started to erupt from the mechanism.

 “Run!” Cooper yelled, and the soldiers raced from the helicopter, running in all directions, trying to find cover. They'd emerged on the edge of the Wide Wood, and turned towards it, sprinting to gain distance from the expected explosion, as well as the Xandari drones homing in on their position.

 The explosion of the helicopter sent him tumbling to the ground, a pillar of flame and smoke reaching for the sky. A hand reached down to him, Cantrell pulling him forward, and they continued the race to safety, unable to worry about stealth for the present. They had to gain distance, as much as they could, before the enemy could reach them.

 Overhead, twin stars tracked their progress into the forest, stopping at its fringes, unable to reach underneath the canopy. Cooper pressed on, glancing at the rest of his people as he turned his head, scrambling over roots and branches, taking a narrow, trickling stream with a single leap that sent him splashing into a think layer of viscous mud. None of that mattered.

 Gradually, exhaustion forced him to a panting halt, and he leaned on a tall, wide tree. He sensed eyes looking at him, and looked up to see an owl staring down, before flying off into the distance. Turning to move on, he kicked something hard on the ground, and knelt down to look at it, the edge of a metal structure, the same tangled mess that he had seen in the alien city.

 Thousands of years ago, someone else had been here, some forgotten alien race that had come to this world, raised its cities, perhaps been responsible for terraforming it into a world suitable for humans, and then had died. Wiped out, leaving only a few scattered, decaying traces that they had ever existed at all. If something like this happened on Mars, or Ragnarok, and some far-future traveler visited those worlds, they'd find something like this, and wonder who the inhabitants were, just as he was doing now.

 The forest was quiet, the darkness all but total, only the occasional glimmer of moonlight forcing its way through the canopy. He glanced down at his watch, and shook his head. The display was smashed, useless, rammed into a rock during their abrupt escape from the helicopter. It was just possible that the Xandari would assume that they had died in the crash, but if he'd been leading the search party, he wouldn't have made that assumption.

 They could hide here, could live here. Be safe for the rest of their lives, breathing clean air, drinking fresh water, hunting for their food. Perhaps after a few years, emerging to rejoin civilization, albeit under the thumb of the Xandari. Certainly they were unlikely to be found, not while they remained in the safety of these trees. It would take an army to track them down, and even then, they'd have all the advantages.

 He followed the paths of the old ruins, winding around the long-forgotten roads, between the tall and proud trees. Likely he was the first person to come here in years, perhaps centuries, with no sign of previous wanderers through these woods. Pausing, he looked around, seeking some sign of the rest of his party. In all of their frantic flight, they'd lost track of each other, taking different directions into cover.

 If the Xandari couldn't track them down, he wasn't likely to have any better luck. Not without attracting enough attention that he'd bring other people to the party, enemy troops dropping out of the sky to take them back into captivity. A tap on the shoulder jolted him out of his reverie, and he turned to see Cantrell grinning, shaking her head as she looked at him, pistol in hand.

 “You're going to have to do better than that,” she replied. “I think someone's moving about over there.” She gestured at one of the trails, and said, “Relax. If we can't find each other, then No one else is going to track us down, are they?”

 “I guess not,” he replied, following her through the undergrowth. “What happened up there? They grabbed us as soon as the shuttle took off, and we haven't heard anything from the ship for an hour.”

 “An hour?” she asked. “Is that all it's been? It feels more like days.” Taking a deep breath, she continued, “Last I saw, Alamo was about to be captured. The Captain had ordered an evacuation, but I don't know how many others got out. I do know that they'll grab anyone else who hit the deck.” Shaking her head, she added, “Let's just hope they don't shoot them on sight.”

 “They won't,” Cooper replied. “Not if they have any hope of getting technical information out of them.”

 “Daedalus was heading out of the system,” Cantrell added. “Help could be on the way.”

 “Don't count on it,” Bradley replied, stepping out of the undergrowth. “Sorry to interrupt, but the two of you are making more noise than anything else in the forest.” Looking up, she added, “I'm pretty sure I saw a drone going overhead earlier, but we're just another group of dumb creatures walking through the woods. They'll have a hell of a time picking us up, especially if any of the locals are logging this area.”

 “Even if they see us,” Cooper said, looking at the dense cover, “there isn't that much they can do about it. It'd take an army to catch us, and we'd have all the advantages in pursuit. We can dig in, hide, and wait.”

 “If the plan is to hope that Commodore Marshall turns up to execute a deus ex machina, I'd think of something else,” Bradley said. “At best, he's six months away, and that's assuming that Daedalus finds a way to contact him. They don't have the range to get back to the Confederation, and Xandari ships will be hunting them down.” Shaking her head, she said, “I think we're stuck here.”

 “I guess we were supposed to be staying behind anyway,” Cooper said, shaking his head. “We've still got a mission to complete.”

 “A mission?” Bradley asked.

 “It's quite simple, really,” he replied with a smile. “We came here to free this world from the Xandari, and that's exactly what we're going to do.” 

 “The three of us? Eight, if we hook up with the others?” Cantrell asked. “That's a pretty small army, Gabe.”

 “I wouldn't want to be up against it,” he replied.

Epilogue

 A rhythmic beeping filled the room, the life-system monitors reporting the condition of the patient lying in the bed. His eyes twitched, his hands moved, and the tenor of the noise changed, growing more urgent, somehow louder. Steps raced into the room, and a woman burst in the room, racing to the monitors, disbelief on her face.

 “Strong bastard,” she muttered. “I didn't expect you to wake up for days.”

 He looked up at her, his vision swimming, and rasped, “Where?”

 “Sickbay,” she replied, shaking her head. “Don't move. I need to call the Captain.”

 “Orlova?”

 “Harper.”

 “My eye itches,” he said.

 “Which one?”

 “Right eye.”

 Nodding, Duquesne walked to a wall communicator, and tapped a control. He struggled to try and sit up, a tangle of cables holding him back, but with an effort he managed to turn to the viewport to his right. Everything looked strange, partly out of focus, but he could make out a pair of ships flying in formation, one Koltoc, one Neander, above a shrouded, orange world, swirling clouds all around.

 “Careful,” Duquesne said, turning back to him, checking over his cables. “I went to a lot of effort to put you back together, Lieutenant, and I will not have you undoing all my hard work.”

 “Sorry, Doc,” he rasped. “I can't see clearly.”

 “Here, have something to drink,” she replied, thrusting a straw into his mouth, squeezing the bottle to send a quick blast of water down his throat. He nodded, and she pulled back the drink, and said, “Thank you, by the way. For saving my life. It was a pleasure to return the favor.”

 “I must be delirious,” he said with a smile, his voice starting to come back.

 “Don't get used to it,” she snapped. She took a deep breath, then said, “Pavel, I'm good, but even I can't work miracles. There were so damn many patients, and we lost too many of them.” She paused, then said, “You were hit three times by the Xandari. They weren't the problem, pretty simple surgery.” Waving her arm around, she said, “All of this isn't going to be needed for much longer. You should be up and about in a couple of days.”

 “Thanks,” he said. “Your reputation...”

 “Your right eye is gone,” she said. “I'm sorry, there was nothing I could do. Too much damage, more than I could handle with the equipment we have here.” Shaking her head, she said, “If we'd been on Alamo, I might have been able to manage something, but...”

 With an effort, he grasped her elbow, and said, “Doctor, you saved my life. Without you, I'd be a corpse floating out in space right now. You did everything you could, and more than most could manage. Thank you.”

 She shook her head, and said, “Damn you, Pavel. You're supposed to be mad, screaming about your career, or something like that.” Shaking herself free, she continued, “I can't even give you a replacement. We don't have the right equipment on board for the implantation, and the fabricators aren't really up to the job of making a bionic eye anyway.”

 “I'll get one in the end,” he said. “Other than that, I'm fit for duty?”

 “Light duty in a couple of days,” she replied. “Full duty in a week or so, though obviously...”

 “You'll have to revoke my flight status,” he said, finishing her sentence. “I expected as much. Right now I'm just happy to be alive.” He took a deep breath, and said, “How many others made it?”

 “Thirty-seven,” Harper said, stepping in. “Twenty-nine Alamo crewmen, one Copernican, and seven Koltoc. The Copernican being an extremely apologetic Lieutenant Ryan. I'm getting tired of it, frankly.”

 “Yes, he can have visitors,” Duquesne said, shaking her head. “I'll give you two some privacy.”

 “Thanks, Doc,” Harper said, watching her leave the room. “Not much of that on here at the moment, but that's going to change soon.”

 “I saw the ships,” Salazar replied. “Random Walk and Profitable Venture?” 

 “Colonel Kilquan is staying with us,” she said. “I've no idea where the Neander went. Back to their usual hiding place, probably. A couple of Consortium crewmen were on Random Walk, and they're as mad about being abandoned as the rest of them.” She sat down next to him, and asked, “How do you feel?”

 “Hungry, thirsty, and pissed off,” he replied. “Aside from that, I'm fine.”

 “The eye...”

 “You can have someone fabricate an eye patch for me,” he replied. 

 She chuckled, and said, “I don't know if Triplanetary uniform has a standard-issue eye patch, but I'm sure I can think of something. Maybe I can get someone to paint the Jolly Roger on the hull while we're at it.”

 “Not a bad idea,” he replied. “Where are we?”

 “Trappist Nine.” At his blank expression, she continued, “Let's hope the Xandari are equally in the dark. There's been so sign of pursuit, but they didn't have any hendecaspace-capable craft back at Copernicus to chase us with.”

 Salazar yawned, settling back into his bed, and said, “Damn, I'm tired.” He looked up at her, and added, “We're going to fight them. We're going to beat them.”

 “Get some rest,” she said, patting him on the shoulder.  

 As Salazar drifted back into unconsciousness, the beeping of the monitor resuming once again, she looked out at the two ships, drifting alongside Daedalus through the cold eternities of space. Three tiny, friendless ships against an Empire.

 And yet, she knew, somewhere at the bottom of her heart, that Salazar was right.

 There were going to beat them.

 Somehow.

Thank you for reading 'Operation Damocles'. 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 story continues in Battlecruiser Alamo: Pyrrhic Victory, available in September 2016. If you can't wait, you can purchase the first book in the new 'Strike Commander' series, 'Starfighter' right now at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01HK7I0ZC. Turn the page for a sample chapter of this latest science-fiction adventure in the Battlecruiser Alamo universe...

Starfighter

 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.

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