A Talent for War

VII.

THE HALL OF THE PEOPLE is the center of human government. The Council meets there; the executive offices are located, symbolically, on the lower levels; and the Court convenes in the West Wing. It dominates all surrounding structures, even the Silver Tower of the Confederacy at the opposite end of the White Pool.

Adjacent to the Court, and physically accessible only on foot, the Confederate Archive sprawls across almost a square kilometer of prime parkland. It is a Romanesque structure, guarded by the celebrated Sharpley bronze of Tarien Sim, the scroll of the Instrument (which, in fact, he never lived to see completed) in his extended hand.

The snow had vanished, the weather had turned unseasonably warm, and the assorted flags of the worlds snapped in the breeze, dominated by the green and white banner of Man. It was far too pleasant a day to spend within four walls, so I abandoned the headband and joined the considerable crowds that were taking advantage of the sunshine.

Tourists lined the walks, and clustered around the monuments.

One of the tour guides was holding forth on the Archive, which was the oldest government building in Andiquar, dating from the end of the Time of Troubles. It had been restored on several occasions, most recently four years before, during the summer of 1410. It was an antiquarian’s treasure trove: people were always finding valuable, long-lost documents in obscure places.

Inside, the main gallery was relatively empty. A small knot of school children and a teacher hovered round the marble and glass case which contains the Instrument of Confederation and a few related documents. A few others from the group stared up at the Declaration of Intent, the joint decision by Rimway and Earth to join the war against the Ashiyyur. I passed the uniformed Companion, stationed at the South Arch, and descended into the library.

Simulations of the major actions of the Resistance were available there. The Spinners. Vendicari. Black Adrian. Grand Salinas. The Slot. Rigel. Tippimaru. And finally Triflis, where, for the first time, the human race drew together.

After two centuries, they were still names to conjure by. The stuff of legend.

I checked out five: Eschaton, Sanusar, the Slot, Rigel, and the Spinners. The latter, of course, is the classic raid that some say turned the course of the war.

On the way home, drifting lazily over the capital, I wondered what it had been like to live in a world of organized mayhem. There was still tension, and occasional shooting, but it was remote, far-off: it was hard to imagine an existence incorporating active everyday institutionalized slaughter. And it struck me that the last conflict fought exclusively among humans had occurred at the height of the Resistance. While the series of critical battles were being fought in the Slot, Toxicon, whose powerful fleets Sim desperately needed and courted, had seized the opportunity to attack the Dellacondan ally, Muri. Later, Sim would call it the darkest hour of the war.

Today, for perhaps the first time in history, there is no man living who knows from personal experience what it is to make war on his brothers. And that happy fact is the real legacy of Tarien and Christopher Sim.

Though no one realized it at the time, the attack on Muri might have been the best thing that could have happened, because it so outraged public opinion on Toxicon that, within a year, that world’s autocratic government collapsed. The interventionists, heartily supported by a rare alliance between the general population and the military, seized power, broke off the assault against their embattled victims, and promptly announced an intention to support the Dellacondans. Tragically, Toxicon’s ringing declaration of war was followed within hours by news of Christopher Sim’s death off Rigel.

I went home to a leisurely dinner, and drank a little more wine than usual. Jacob was quiet. It had turned cold outside, and blustery. The wind shook the trees and the house.

I wandered from room to room, paging through Gabe’s books, old histories and archeology texts mostly, accounts of excavations on the twenty-five or thirty worlds whose settlements had occurred deep enough in the past to allow for the collapse and interment of cultures.

There were some biographies, a few manuals on planetary sciences, a scattering of mythological texts, and a few general reference books.

Gabe had never shown much interest in literature for its own sake. He’d read Homer before we went to Hissarlik, Kachimonda before Battle Key, and so on. Consequently, when I came across additional volumes of Walford Candles in a remote corner of the house, I pulled them down, and stacked them alongside the material I’d brought from the Archive, added the volume of Rumors of Earth that had been in Gabe’s bedroom, and retreated with everything to the upstairs study.

I didn’t know much then about Candles’s literary reputation. But I was learning quickly. He was preoccupied with fragility and transience: passions too easily dissipated; youth too easily lost in the trauma of war. The most fortunate, in his view, are those who die heroically for a principle. The rest of us are left to outlive our friends, to watch love cool, and to feel the lengthening winter in our vitals.

It made for a depressing evening, but the books were well thumbed. Eventually, I went back and reread the "Leisha."

Rigel had only one association: Sim’s death. But what did the rest of it mean? The notes suggested that the poet had considered the work completed. And there was no evidence that the editors found anything baffling about it. Of course, one almost expects to be puzzled by great poetry, I suppose.

According to the introduction to Dark Stars, the first volume of the series, Walford Candles had been a professor of classical literature, had never married, and was not appreciated in his own time. A minor talent, his contemporaries had agreed.

To us, he is a different matter altogether.

The poignancy of the sacrifices required by the men and women who fought with Christopher Sim shines everywhere in his work. Most of the poems in Dark Stars, News from the Front, and On the Walls purport to have been written in the Inner Room on Khaja Luan, while he waited to hear the inevitable about old friends who had gone to help the Dellacondans. Candles himself claimed to have offered his services, and been refused. No usable skills. Instead of fighting, his part became merely

Candles watches from a dark-lit corner while young volunteers hold a farewell party. One raises an eye to the middle-aged poet, nods, and Candles inclines his head in silent salute.

On the night that they learned about Chippewa, a prosperous physician who had never before been seen at the Inner Room, enters, and buys drinks for all. His daughter, Candles learns, has been lost on a frigate.

In "Rumors of Earth," the title work from his fourth volume, he describes the effect of reports that the home world is about to intervene. Who, then, he asks, will dare stand aside?

But it does not happen, and despite Chippewa, despite a hundred small victories, the battered force is pushed relentlessly back, into the final, fatal trap at Rigel.

The poems are dated, and there is a gap beginning at about the time of Sim’s death, extending for almost a year, during which Candles appears to have written nothing. And then comes his terrible indictment of Earth, and Rimway, and the others, which had delayed so long:

"There is no Belmincour listed in the catalogs," said Jacob. "It is apparently a literary reference, which might mean enthusiastic war, or beautiful place of the heart. Difficult to be sure: human languages are not very precise."

I agreed.

"Several towns on various worlds," he continued, "and one city on Earth, share the name. But it is not likely the poet refers to any of these."

"Then what?"

"It has been a subject of dispute. Taken within its context, it appears to refer to a kind of Valhalla. Armand Halley, a prominent Candles scholar, argues that it is a classical reference to a better past, the world where Sim—in his words—would have preferred to live."

"Seems odd to use a place name, or a term, that no one understands."

"Poets do it all the time, Alex. It allows the reader’s imagination freer play."

"Sure," I grumbled. We were beginning to get some light in the east. And I was weary. But every time I closed my eyes, questions jabbed at me. Olander’s name rang a bell, but I couldn’t remember where (or if) I’d heard of him before.

And always, the supreme puzzle: what had Hugh Scott and the men of the Tenandrome seen?

I picked idly through the crystals I’d brought back from the Conciliar Library, selected one, and inserted it into Jacob’s reader.

"The Spinners, sir?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. "Scott was supposed to have gone to Hrinwhar. Let’s see what it looked like to Sim."

"It’s very late, Alex."

"I know. Please run the simulation."

"If you insist. To opt out, you need, of course, only remove the headband." I sat down in the overstuffed chair, took the control packet from the equipment drawer in the coffee table, and inserted the jack into Jacob. "The program has a monitor. Do you wish me to sit in?"

"I don’t think that’ll be necessary." I pulled the headband into place, and switched it on.

"Activating," said Jacob.

A feminine voice, whiskey-flavored, flat, asked my name.

"Alex," I said.

Alex, close your eyes. When you open them you will be on board the Pauline Stein. Do you wish a detailed review of the war to this point?

"No, thank you."

The Stein will be functioning as the command and control ship during this operation. Do you wish to participate in the ground raid, or do you prefer to ride with the command ship?

"The command ship," I answered.

Alex, you are now on the bridge of the Stein. This program is designed to allow you simply to observe while the battle, as it has been reconstructed from available evidence, plays itself out. Or, if you prefer, we offer other options. You may take command of one of the frigates, or even assume flag responsibility and direct overall strategy, thereby possibly changing history. Which do you prefer?

"I will watch."

An excellent choice, she said.

I was alone in a forward cockpit with several battle displays. Voices crackled out of hidden speakers. The bridge opened out below me, and I could see occasional movement. A white-bearded, heavy man occupied a central seat. His face was turned away, but I could see the gleam of gold on his uniform. His posture and tone radiated command. The air was filled with voices speaking in hushed, unemotional tones.

I sat on a swivel chair within a plastic bubble. A dark, amorphous landscape moved beneath us, around us, gloomily illuminated by spasms of electricity. There was no sky, no stars, no steady light. It was a fearful place, and I was glad for the solid reassurance of the ship’s interior, the voices, the consoles, the chairpads. We are in the upper atmosphere of the super gas giant Masipol, said the Monitor. Sixth planet of Windyne. The mission target is Masipol’s eleventh moon, Hrinwhar, which orbits at a range of almost three-quarters of a million kilometers. Although the Ashiyyur do not anticipate an attack, there are major naval units in the area.

Occasionally, through what I presumed were breaks in heavy clouds, I glimpsed silver and green bands of light, a broad luminous arc that seemed to be traveling with us. Then it was gone, and in the brief glow of its passing, a universal gloom closed in.

The planetary rings, explained the Monitor. We’re climbing into orbit. They should be completely visible shortly.

Yes: moments later, shadows leaped from the surreal cloudscape. Wedges of soft radiance, and a dozen glittering belts of ice-hard light emerged.

It might have been the rainbow bridge of northern European folklore, risen from the mist, joining the horizons, overwhelming the starfields. Scarlet, yellow, and green planks were supported by a wide violet buttress. Blue and silver ribbons heightened the illusion of solidity by twisting round each other.

A few stars were scattered to the extreme north and south. And two shrunken suns were barely discernible in the glare. Coreopholi and Windyne, said the Monitor. They are known jointly as the Spinners, because both have an extremely high rotation rate. We are on the edge of the Arm, by the way, looking away from the Galaxy. This is the point of Sim’s deepest penetration into Ashiyyurean space.

Christopher Sim’s force consists of six frigates. And he has a problem: his ships have emerged from hyper within the past eight hours, and the Armstrong units are depleted. Little is known of the Dellacondan propulsion systems, but at best they will require the better part of a day before they can be used again. And he does not have time to wait.

An order of battle scrolled across my central display: the aliens have one heavy cruiser, two, and possibly three, light cruisers, seven destroyers, and thirteen to sixteen frigates. In addition there are several fleet escort vessels. The heavy cruiser itself is known to be in one of the orbiting docks, from which it can do no damage.

I knew we’d won at the Spinners, and I knew it had been against heavy odds. But that had been electronic knowledge: now I sat and watched an analysis of enemy firepower that should have utterly discouraged the Dellacondans.

"What’s it about? What was Sim trying to accomplish?"

This system attracted his interest for a variety of reasons. It houses a major enemy base, which serves as a center for logistical coordination, communications, intelligence gathering, and long range strategic planning. This facility is believed to be ill-prepared to withstand an attack, both because of its distance from the fighting, and because of Ashiyyurean psychology. At this point the war is still young, and the enemy has not yet grown accustomed to human methods. Warfare among the aliens has traditionally been carried out on a formal, ritualistic basis. Opposing forces are expected to announce their intentions well in advance, draw up on opposite sides of the battle zone, exchange salutes, and, at an agreed-upon moment, commence hostilities. Sim, of course, fights in the classical human mode. Which is to say that he cannot be trusted. He ambushes lone warships, strikes supply points, attacks without warning, and, perhaps most outrageous of all, refuses to commit himself to formal battle. In the eyes of the Ashiyyur, he is unethical.

It’s always the side with the firepower that expects everybody to line up.

The base is constructed in the center of a crater, and is difficult to detect visually. It is actually an underground city of substantial size. Population at this time is believed to be on the order of eight thousand.

Sim anticipates that a successful raid here will have highly desirable long range consequences: he expects to gain access to detailed information on enemy warships, tactical capabilities, strategic plans. Furthermore, he hopes to disrupt enemy logistics, possibly compromise communications and cryptosystems, and maybe even carry off a few high-ranking prisoners. But his primary goal is to shatter the myth of Ashiyyurean invulnerability, and thereby encourage some of the worlds who have hung back to join the cause.

Outside, against the peaceful incandescence of the rings, Sim’s gray wolves swam into view. They were long and tapered and lovely. (What had Leisha Tanner said of them? When she measured her own reaction to these instruments of war, she despaired that any of us would survive.) Clusters of beam and particle weapons projected from a dozen stations. Emblazoned on the prow of each ship was the black harridan, pinions spread in flight, eyes narrowed, claws thrust forward.

On the inmost vessel, the device stood within a silver crescent: and I could not resist a surge of pride. It was the Corsarius, Sim’s own ship, whose likeness hangs now in Marcross’s brilliant oil in the Hall of the People. (The same print, by the way, that dominated one of Hugh Scott’s walls.) The artist hadn’t done her justice, and I don’t suppose any representation could. She was magnificent: a blue and silver bullet, her sleek hull bristling with weapons clusters and communications pods. A sunburst expanded across her parabolic prow. And she looked capable of damned near anything.

You can see two other frigates, said the Monitor. They are the Straczynski and the Rappaport. Straczynski has already earned a host of commendations, but she will be destroyed, with all her crew, four days from now during the defense of Randin’hal. Rappaport mil be the only known Dellacondan vessel to survive the war. She is currently maintained as the centerpiece of the Hrinwhar Naval Museum on Dellaconda.

I sat, fascinated by the power and grace of the ships. They were silver and deadly in the cold illumination cast by the two suns. The bridge of the Corsarius spilled yellow light into the void: I could make out figures moving about inside. And the voices on the com-mlinks changed subtly, grew charged with tension.

I watched Straczynski lift gradually out of formation. She hovered a few moments, apparently falling behind; and then her engines flared, and she dropped away.

She is going to take out a communications relay station, said the Monitor. Rappaport will follow directly.

"Monitor," I said, "We seem to have only four ships. Where are the other two? And where are the enemy defenses?"

Two frigates have re-entered linear space in a manner that allows them to approach from a different direction. One of the two, the Korbal, has been altered to put out the electronic "fingerprint" of the Corsarius. Hrinwhar’s defenders have scrambled to attack the intruders.

"All of them?"

A few units remain. But the light cruisers are gone!

I tried to recall the details of the raid on Hrinwhar, and was dismayed at how little I knew, other than that it had marked the first time the Confederates had seized the initiative.

Korbal and its companion vessel have already taken out a picket, and engaged in a brief exchange of fire with another frigate. This has given the enemy’s intelligence analysts time to draw false conclusions about the identity of their attacker, whom they now believe to be Sim. In addition, Ashiyyurean ships tracking the diversionary force have noted an anomaly in the thrust pattern of the vessel they think to be the Corsarius. They believe that Sim has engine trouble. Their great enemy seems to be helpless.

In the fragmented chatter of the ship’s intercom, I was able to pick up a running description of the action: "They are still pursuing Korbal toward Windyne. Korbal will stay in the sun to prevent visual inspection."

"Straczynski reports Alpha destroyed."

Alpha’s a communications relay station, designated on your display, said the Monitor. Sim hopes to cut off all communications between the base and its defenders.

"They’re not very bright," I said. "The Ashiyyur."

They’re not accustomed to this sort of warfare. It is one of the reasons they hold us in contempt. They don’t expect an opponent to be dishonest. In their view, Sim should come forward, without stealth, without deceit, and fight like a man.

"They don’t understand war," I grumbled.

A new voice, obviously accustomed to command: "Go to attack mode. Prepare to execute Windsong."

They would reply that the brutality of armed combat demands a sense of ethics. A person who cheats in matters of life and death is perceived as a barbarian.

"This is Corsarius: preliminary scan shows a cruiser in the area. It is escorted by two—no, make that three—frigates. Cruiser is Y-class, and is in geosynchronous orbit over base. Two of the frigates appear to be responding to Straczynski"

"Rappaport approaching Beta."

"Execute Windsong."

Acceleration pressed me gently back into my seat. The cloudscape fell swiftly away. Corsarius rose and arced toward the rings, and rapidly dwindled to a triangle of lights moving against the sky.

"This is Rappaport. Beta is dead. Communications should be out."

"We are now over the curve of the horizon, within view of enemy scans. Assume that Corsarius and Stein have been sighted."

"One frigate on intercept vector. No reaction yet from the cruiser."

Targeting information flowed across the screens: schematics of the incoming frigate appeared, rotated. I could hear hatches closing throughout the ship. Below me, all activity seemed to have ceased. I reached up and increased the flow of cool air into the cockpit.

"Cruiser getting underway."

"Corsarius will handle. Stein take the frigate."

The lights of Sim’s ship blinked out. We kept on: the enemy vessel appeared on the short range scopes, a black sphere gliding toward us between the stars.

White light flared on its surface.

At the same instant, we turned a hard bone-crunching left.

I’d belted myself down. But I got thrown around pretty well anyway, and I managed to crack myself in the jaw. There was a brief spurt of nausea, and I would have touched the headband for reassurance except that I didn’t dare let go of the webbing until we straightened out.

"Firing NDL," said the intercom. A shudder ran through the bulkheads, and lightning squirted toward the oncoming sphere.

"On track."

"Another incoming." We swung violently in the opposite direction, and dived. I left my stomach behind, and started thinking about terminating. Hrinwhar’s lunar surface rolled suddenly across my field of vision, rose to a vertical, and dropped away.

"We’ve got the cruiser cold!"

Those voices are from Corsarius, said the Monitor.

"Full spread!"

It sounded encouraging, but we got hit ourselves about then, and the Stein shook until I wondered how in hell it held together. On the bridge, the captain spoke almost casually to his officers as though nothing out of the way was happening.

A nuclear fireball, silent, blossoming, swept by us. Then: "We got the bastards. They’re tumbling."

"Damage Control: report."

A cheer down on the deck. "Mutes have lost propulsion."

"Forward shield collapsed, Captain. We’re working on it. Have it back in a few minutes."

"Straczynski has engaged the other two frigates."

"Rappaport, proceed to Straczynski assistance."

"Scopes all clear."

"Landing party stand by."

"Rappaport underway. ETA Straczynski’s position approximately eleven minutes."

"The cruiser has broken apart." Another cheer.

"Captain, they’ve got nothing left to cover the heavy."

Through the plexiglass there was only black sky and pockmarked rock. On my screens, though, I could see it, an enormous illuminated barbell, its lights blinking out in a pathetic effort to avoid detection. It floated on tethers, within the spidery bays of its orbiting dock.

"Concur, Captain. No sign of tactical support."

"Acknowledged. Stein to Command. We have a heavy cruiser here. Permission to attack."

"Negative. Do not engage. Prepare to launch the assault teams."

Men and equipment were moving through the ship. Sim will lead the ground force personally, the Monitor said.

I listened to more exchanges, and then the landers were away. Now the two frigates, acting in concert, descended to attack. From my own visit, I recognized the cluster of domes set on the bleak moonscape.

A beam of pale light cut through the black sky. It appeared to be originating from a point north of the base. "Laser," said the intercom.

My displays locked on the source: a pair of dish antennas. We lobbed a plasma weapon of some sort in their general direction. The area erupted in a brilliant slow-motion conflagration, and the lights vanished.

After the ground assault had got well under way, we climbed back into orbit, where we were joined by Rappaport and Straczynski. It was a nervous time: we were now exceedingly vulnerable, and even I, who knew how it would all come out, waited anxiously, watching for the appearance of the enemy fleet on the scopes, listening to the reports coming back up from the landing force.

Resistance on the ground gave way quickly. Within ten minutes, Sim’s raiders had broken through the outer defenses, and entered the base proper.

"Monitor," I said, "how much of an advantage do the Ashiyyur have in close combat?"

You mean because of their telepathic capability?

"Yes."

Probably none. Experts don’t think they can sort things out quickly enough to be of any real value in a combat situation. It may be fortunate that their capabilities are only passive in nature. If they could transmit, project thoughts or emotions into the minds of their enemies, things might have been very different.

The fighting turned quickly into a rout. Sim and his force moved almost at will through the enemy complex, collecting communication and tactical data, and destroying everything else: spare parts, supplies, weapons, intelligence systems, and command and control equipment.

"Corsarius to landing party: we urge you to finish up and prepare to return."

"Why?" It was the authoritative voice I’d heard earlier. I had no doubt who its owner was. "Is there a problem?"

"We’re going to have company. We have line of sight readings on the mutes. They’re coming fast."

"How long?"

"They’ll be within maximum firing range in about thirty-seven minutes."

Pause. Then the voice from the ground again: "I thought we’d have more time, Andre. Okay: we’ll be starting the Stein team up immediately. The rest of us will follow in about ten minutes."

"That’s cutting it close."

"Best I can do. Release Straczynski and Rappaport. Tell them to withdraw. We’re getting everything, Andre. Cross index on the entire fleet, breakout on cryptosystems, you name it."

"Won’t do us any good if we don’t get out."

I asked Monitor how long it would take for the Corsarius lander to rendezvous with its ship. The precise answer depended on a couple of variables, but it came down to approximately twenty-three minutes. That meant that we could get underway before the Ashiyyur began shooting, but we would be accelerating from orbital velocity. They’d overhaul us pretty quickly. Long before we could make the jump into hyper. Unless I was missing something, we were going to get blown up.

Blips appeared on my long range scan. Destroyers and frigates. We weren’t tracking the big stuff" yet, which meant they were probably having a hard time getting turned around and pointed in our direction. That would help.

Corsarius did not pass that extra bit of information along to the force on the ground.

The Stein lander reported that it was away. Moments later, we began to accelerate toward rendezvous.

The enormous bulk of Masipol hung in the western sky, an eerily lit purple blotch, an ill omen. I strained to see the lander, watched the giant planet, and kept an eye on the blips, which grew in size, and gradually defined themselves into forms I could read: a flotilla of destroyers here, a squadron of frigates there.

Again the voice from Corsarius: "Chris."

"We’re moving as fast as we can."

"You’re out of time."

"Acknowledged."

I could hear people breathing on the intercom. Someone was making course adjustments. Then a new voice: "Prepare the Phantom. Mask all systems."

"Enemy vessels will be within strike range in fourteen minutes. They have begun to decelerate."

"Fire the Phantom."

The ship trembled, and something dark leaped forward and disappeared immediately.

It’s a decoy, said the Monitor. We’re running silent now, absorbing scans. The Phantom will simulate Stein’s radiation patterns. The idea is to mislead the approaching force.

"Will it work?"

For a few minutes. Incidentally, Corsarius has also fired one."

I sat there sweating. How in hell could they possibly hope to outrun the Ashiyyur? Even with the fancy devices. I wasn’t sure about these antiques, but a modern vessel, beginning from a standing start, would be overhauled within an hour.

"Chris?"

"We’re leaving now. The mutes were trying to jury-rig a particle beam, and we had to take it out. Get moving. We’ll rendezvous on the run."

He didn’t sound as if he felt trapped. But the scanners were crowded with blips. They were going to be all over us.

"Stein lander alongside."

"Frigates leading the pack. They’ll be the first ones here. Maximum firing range eleven minutes."

"Let’s hope they chase the Phantoms instead of us. Rate of deceleration?"

"Slowing. It’s back up to three percent."

"Operations reports the big ships are just now rising out of the flux. They haven’t been able to reverse course yet, and will not participate in this action."

That meant they were still going the wrong way. I couldn’t see how it would matter, though. The cloud of blips across my scopes was very close.

"Frigates are tracking the Phantoms."

It is difficult, Alex, for enemy sensors to pick up vessels as small as these, especially against a lunar background.

"Ground force aboard."

"Casualties?"

"Three. Plus Koley. Didn’t make it back, sir."

"Get them to sick bay. Status on Corsarius?"

"Three minutes to rendezvous with her lander."

"Set course and speed to run parallel with Corsarius after pickup. Prepare for departure."

The oncoming fleet was settling behind the horizon now. I assumed Sim was planning to put the bulk of Hrinwhar between us and our pursuers, though that seemed to me to offer no hope.

"Destroyers are still locked on the Phantoms."

"Dumb bastards."

We’d shut down all nonessential systems and reduced power in others to cut radiation leakage. We were behind the moon now, invisible, secure. Temporarily. Still, it was a good feeling.

"Corsarius team on board."

"Very good. Lock in exit course. Wait for execute."

We waited. My God, we waited. But there was no hint of panic in the voices on the intercom, or among the bridge crew. We continued in our orbit: I watched the horizon ahead, waiting for the lights of the Ashiyyur. When we emerged from our hiding place, we would be within easy range of their weapons.

"What the hell are we doing?" I asked no one in particular.

"They’re turning away from the Phantoms. They’ve figured it out."

"Scanners are locked on. They’ve found us."

"Doesn’t matter now," came Sim’s voice over the intercom. "Let’s clear out. Execute exit maneuver. Execute."

The webbed seat swung to face the direction of acceleration, and a moment later I was slammed flat. The moon was gone, the giant planet rolled across the top of the sky. I was damned if I could figure out what was going on. Lifting out of orbit now meant that we’d be heading in the direction of the two suns. Toward the oncoming force.

And then I pictured the scene in the Ashiyyurean ships: the poor sons of bitches frantically applying their brakes, while we roared directly at them. Their few hurried shots went hopelessly wide, and then we were among them where the risk was too high to fire. We nailed a destroyer on the way out.

Down below, on the bridge, and on the intercom, there was a collective sigh.

It was followed by Sim’s voice: "Well done, friends," he said. "I think we’ve given them something to think about today."