Книга: Forbidden Seas

Contents

   Chapter 1

   Chapter 2

   Chapter 3

   Chapter 4

   Chapter 5

   Chapter 6

   Chapter 7

   Chapter 8

   Chapter 9

   Chapter 10

   Chapter 11

   Chapter 12

   Chapter 13

   Chapter 14

   Chapter 15

   Chapter 16

   Chapter 17

   Chapter 18

   Chapter 19

   Chapter 20

   Chapter 21

   Chapter 22

   Chapter 23

   Chapter 24

   Chapter 25

FORBIDDEN SEAS

Battlecruiser Alamo: Book 18

Richard Tongue

Battlecruiser Alamo #18: Forbidden Seas

Copyright © 2016 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved

First Kindle Edition: April 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.

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

“I am tormented by an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts…”

Moby Dick, Herman Melville

Chapter 1

 Lieutenant-Captain Margaret Orlova stood at the heart of the command deck of the Battlecruiser Alamo, looking around at the flight crew as they prepared for the imminent emergence from hendecaspace. At the helm, Sub-Lieutenant Foster had an air of cool confidence as she worked her controls, making the last fine adjustments to their course. Senior Lieutenant Nelyubov, her Executive Officer, watched over her, more for something to do than any real need.

 “All systems show ready, ma'am,” Lieutenant Cantrell reported from Tactical. “Missiles in the tubes, all decks at standby alert.” Throwing a pair of switches, she said, “Emergency systems at full readiness, damage control teams deployed.”

 “Electronic warfare suite on-line,” Lieutenant Harper said with a sigh from her station. “Is any of this really necessary? Three systems in three weeks, and each one as deserted as the last. Nothing but dull red dwarves and barren balls of rock, with the occasional gas giant to break the monotony.” Turning to Orlova, she said, “There might be a reason no one's explored out this way, skipper.”

 “That's not true,” Senior Lieutenant Powell, Alamo's Science Officer, replied. “That last system had a fascinating superjovian. The chemical combinations in the atmosphere were unique. We're still analyzing the probe data.” Looking at Orlova, he added, “Simply on the grounds of basic science, Captain, this expedition has been more than worthwhile, so far.”

 “Come on, Professor,” Harper said. “This system doesn't even have a name. SGSS 21-131. What does that even mean?”

 “That it was the 131st star discovered by the Second Galactic Satellite Survey in 2021,” he replied. “January 19th, if I'm recalling the records correctly. One of the closest stars detected in that sweep.”

 Orlova smiled, enjoying the banter. There was something to what both of the officers were saying. At some point, though probably not for years, a scientific expedition would have been sent out here regardless, one which might have been satisfied by the systems they had found. Alamo was on a far more urgent expedition, a hunt for the not-men, the race that had pledged to wipe out all humanity. The homeworld of their enemy was somewhere out here, lost amid the stars, and with it the route they would use for their invasion, when it came. Unless Alamo could find a way to stop them.

 “Spaceman,” Nelyubov said, looking over to Spinelli at the sensor station. “Once you've completed the usual checks, our first priority is finding orbital ice deposits, ring systems, preferably, or small moons and asteroids otherwise. I want to get the refueling shuttle moving as soon as we've secured the area.” Turning to Orlova, he added, “I don't like sitting around with empty tanks.”

 “Agreed,” she said. “Go and get them moving down on the hangar deck. Have Shuttle One readied for launch, and get a geologic team on standby.” She smiled, and said, “Sub-Lieutenant Salazar can take it out. I think he'd like a chance to stretch his legs.”

 “One minute to normal space,” Foster said. “All systems still nominal, ma'am.”

 “Keep focused, people,” Orlova said. “This is still an uncharted system, and could easily have dangers we can't prepare for. Watch your stations, and keep focused on the task at hand. Spinelli, I want a full sensor sweep of the system within thirty seconds of emergence. Weitzman,” she said, turning to the communications station, “full listening watch for any electromagnetic activity. The whole sweep.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” the technicians replied, almost in unison. Powell manipulated his controls, bringing a projected image of the system into existence over the holotable, a single red dwarf surrounded by a host of planets, all of them a pale, featureless gray. In a few seconds, Alamo would start filling in the missing pieces of the map.

 Turning to the viewscreen, she said, “You have the call, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 “I have the call, ma'am,” Foster replied. “Thirty seconds to go.”

 No matter how many times she transited hendecaspace, Orlova couldn't shake the feeling of wrongness, something deep at the back of her mind screaming that they were somewhere they shouldn't be, in a dimension that could only be understood in mathematical terms, the province of a few cosmologists, many of them long-dead. As the countdown clock ticked down the final seconds, she longed for the stars, her eyes fixed on the viewscreen.

 “Emergence!” Foster said, and Alamo tumbled back into its home reality, the familiar constellations winking on, the sensor display struggling to update the vague predictions based on long-range observations to match the reality of the system all around her, Powell rubbing his hands together as he watched the data flooding in. His joy lasted for barely three seconds.

 “Threat warning!” Spinelli yelled. “Not-man battlecruiser on intercept course, weapons hot, firing range in one minute!”

 “Comm chatter off the charts, ma'am,” Weitzman added. “Multiple contacts, multiple vectors.”

 “Battle stations,” she said. “Foster, give me some speed,” she gestured at the icy world at the heart of the viewscreen. “Make for the planet.”

 “Getting lots of signals from there, Captain,” Spinelli warned.

 “I need something to give us some cover,” she said. “Execute course, Sub-Lieutenant, and initiate random walk in thirty seconds.”

 “Course computed, implementing,” the young officer replied, the words running into each other. “Maximum acceleration. Am I going for orbit?”

 “Flyby,” Orlova replied.

 “Closest approach in ten minutes, twelve seconds. Firing range in fifty-two seconds, combat window of ninety-one,” Spinelli read from his console.

 “Deploying heat reflectors,” Cantrell reported, and on the holo-display that dominated the rear of the bridge, Alamo's mile-wide wings swept out, gossamer thin to disperse the intense heat built up by her laser cannon. “Charging weapons now, missiles in the tubes, and I'm working on a firing solution.” Turning to her, she asked, “Rules of engagement?”

 “Blow then to bloody hell, Lieutenant. Fire at will, fire to kill.”

 “Aye, aye, ma'am,” she replied, a grin on her face as she turned back to her station. All around her, technicians frantically worked to get Alamo ready for the imminent battle, the veteran crew keeping the chatter to a bare minimum as they focused on their tasks. Orlova could do nothing but wait, each second a labored eternity.

 “Got a second ship in orbit now,” Spinelli said. “Far side of the planet. Not moving, and power is only at minimum levels.” His eyes widened, and he added, “My God, it's one of ours. Triplanetary Raider, Perseus-class. Can't make out which.”

 “Leave that till later, Spaceman.”

 “Enemy ship is changing trajectory, lengthening the firing window, ma'am,” he said. “We're going to be in the flame for just under two minutes now.”

 “More chance for us to smash chunks out of them, Spaceman,” Nelyubov said, looking down at his monitor. “All decks are cleared for action, ma'am.”

 “Good,” Orlova said, looking at the tactical viewer. The area was dominated by a titanic superjovian, dozens of times larger than Jupiter, a swirling mass of color surrounded by a hundred moons. That was why they used this egress point in the first place, a guarantee that they would find the ice deposits they needed to refuel. Evidently the not-men had followed the same principles.

 There were three Earth-sized moons in orbit, the largest the ice-laden world they were approaching. Data streamed down the side of the screen as Alamo's planetary sensors started to compile their report, unaware of the chaos taking place around them, and she caught Powell sneaking a quick glance at the readout.

 Right now, there were only two lines that mattered, the trajectory plots of Alamo and the enemy vessel, listed by the computer as Target One. Target Two was the Triplanetary vessel, drifting abandoned through space, a mystery for later, and as she watched, Target Three appeared on the planet below, a source of strong heat on the surface, some sort of settlement.

 “Ten seconds to firing range, ma'am,” Spinelli said.

 “Cantrell?” Orlova asked.

 “I'm ready here, Captain. Foster, I'm going to want a line-of-sight pass…”

 “In ten seconds, ma'am,” she replied. “Course already plotted.”

 Everyone was waiting with bated breath, unable to predict what would happen next. At the rear, the Flight Engineer, Petty Officer Erickson, waited, her hands poised over her controls to send damage control teams across the ship on demand. Hopefully she'd have a boring battle.

 Alamo was tumbling across space now, the starfield swinging around as Foster played her thrusters, sending them swooping onto unpredictable vectors. Against a missile, her actions would be worse than useless, but the only way to survive a laser pulse was to be somewhere else.

 “Energy spike!” Spinelli said.

 “Three seconds early,” Nelyubov replied.

 “Multiple in-bound contacts,” he said. “Five, no six missiles in-bound, matching the profile of our Mark V Missiles.” He frowned, then added, “Faster, though. More acceleration. Otherwise appear similar.”

 “Unable to hack them,” Harper said, replying to an unasked question as her fingers flew across her console. “They must have stolen the design but installed their own software. I'm working on it.”

 “Firing salvo in four seconds,” Cantrell said. Looking over at another display, she added, “First impact in thirty-one seconds.”

 “Use our missiles for point-defense,” Orlova ordered. “Offensive with the laser only for the moment.”

 Foster stabbed at the controls, swinging Alamo around like a bird-of-prey, soaring down towards its target, the laser cannon built to full charge. For less than a millisecond, she was directly facing the enemy, thousands of miles distant, but it was enough. Briefly, the two ships were connected by a ruby-red line of laser light, the blast of energy burning through the enemy hull, sending atmosphere venting into space, tossing it asunder as it savaged her armor. Alamo's radiators glowed white-hot for an instant, quickly dimming as the heat escaped into the cold vacuum of space.

 “Direct hit,” Cantrell reported, a scowl on her face. “Didn't get the weapons, though. I think I knocked out their hendecaspace drive. Our blast was further aft than I'd hoped.” Turning to Foster, she added, “A little further and we'd have missed, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 “They're on random walk too, ma'am.”

 “Missile salvo away, tracking onto intercept course,” Cantrell added, the ship shuddering for a moment, rocking back as the warheads raced onto trajectory. “Six for six, all running true. Recharging laser, second shot in fifty-one seconds.”

 Orlova watched the sensor display, the all-too-familiar tangle of interlocked missile trajectories leaping between the two ships as they flew towards each other, close enough that on the magnified image they would almost seem to collide, though she knew they would be hundreds of miles distant. Nothing at all, in celestial terms.

 “Energy spikes!” Spinelli said. “Two more missiles. Damn it, I think they're laser-missiles.”

 “Confirmed,” Cantrell said. “Bearing directly.”

 Nelyubov looked at Orlova, his eyes widening, his face grim. The first wave of warheads were conventional enough, and Alamo could survive an impact. The new missiles in the theater were megaton-yield bombs, slow and lumbering, but able to detonate at a distance and send a pulse of high-powered laser energy at their target. One shot, one hit, and Alamo would be nothing more than a sea of particles floating on the solar wind.

 “Redirect two missiles to intercept,” Orlova ordered. “And Foster, throw the ship all over the stars. If it looks like they're about to take a shot, make sure it doesn't happen. That's your top priority.”

 “Two of the first wave will hit,” Cantrell protested.

 “Better that than a laser blast,” Nelyubov replied, and she moved to obey the order, two of Alamo's missiles changing course, spiraling around to target the laser-missiles, moving onto a collision course. A second later, four points of light briefly flashed on the holodisplay as the first salvos smashed into each other, leaving only two missiles moving towards them, remorselessly tracking towards Alamo.

 “All hands,” Orlova said, stabbing a control, “brace for impact.”

 “Come on,” Cantrell said. “Reload, damn it, reload.” She worked her controls frantically, trying to get the next missile salvo into the tubes, hoping against hope that she could win the race, get something in the air to counter the attack. Foster's hands were a blur on the helm, ready for the last second spin that would make sure that she, not the enemy gunner, selected the point of impact.

 The deck rocked as the two missiles slammed home, Cantrell launching her salvo a second too late. Sirens sounded across the bridge as a sea of red light flashed onto the status holodisplay, Erickson issuing frantic orders to the technical crews as they moved to position, attempting to contain the damage.

 “Report,” Orlova ordered, moving over to the engineer.

 “Underside sensor controls damaged, long-range communication array damaged, and we've got a rupture in our auxiliary water tank.”

 “I'm getting some serious drift,” Foster reported. “Attempting to compensate.”

 “Elevator Control is out,” Erickson said, shaking her head. “Strange. That one went pretty much where they wanted, but there are no combat-critical systems in that area. I've got the damage control teams spread out well enough that we won't need them, not unless things get so bad that we'll have bigger problems to worry about.”

 Frowning, Orlova turned to Cantrell, and asked, “Second salvo?”

 “Running true.”

 “Detonation!” Spinelli interrupted. “The two laser-missiles just lit, ma'am! A second before impact with our warheads. Two clean misses.”

 “Evidently,” Powell replied, “Or we wouldn't be here to hear your report, Spaceman.”

 “Time to impact of our salvo is thirty seconds, ma'am,” Cantrell said. “Laser charge in twenty seconds.” Shaking her head, she said, “Closest approach in thirty-five.”

 “Course change,” Spinelli said. “Altering course to swing around after us, ma'am. Looks like their using the nearest moon for a gravity swing. I now show another firing window in ninety-two minutes.”

 Orlova turned to the holo-display, frowning as she saw the tangled course of Target One, now a figure-eight that wrapped around the icy moon and one of its satellites, gaining speed to track them. The enemy commander was planning for a future he had no guarantee of seeing, as it stood. From what she could tell, Alamo was getting the better of the battle.

 “Foster, see if you can track towards the front of the enemy this time,” Cantrell said.

 “Doing what I can with what I have, ma'am,” Foster replied, struggling with the helm. The damage to the ship might have been superficial so far, but any uncontrolled atmosphere leak was a nightmare for a helmsman, throwing unpredictable course changes at her. “Five seconds.”

 “And the second salvo hits five seconds later,” Nelyubov said.

 “Energy spike!” Spinelli said. “Enemy missile salvo away, ma'am! Heading right for our warheads.”

 “Attempt evasive action,” Orlova ordered. “Cantrell, how long before we get another salvo?”

 “Wait one, ma'am,” she replied, her eyes on the laser display as Alamo spun around towards its target once again, lurching into position as Foster carefully manipulated the guidance thrusters to do her bidding. Once more, the two ships were linked for the briefest of seconds, another angry gouge running down the enemy hull, sending a blast of air racing into space, throwing it off-course.

 “That one hurt,” Cantrell said. “I think we got their bridge, and their primary air reservoir. They'll have fun cleaning that up.” Glancing across at a status monitor, she said, “Next salvo in forty-one seconds.”

 Nodding, Orlova said, “As long as we beat them to the punch.”

 “Wait a minute,” Spinelli said. “Another energy spike, ma'am. Four more missiles launching, but from a different part of the ship. I think they're using their shuttle bays.” Shaking his head, he added, “They're a lot larger than normal, ma'am. Nothing we've seen before.”

 “Damn it!” Cantrell said. “Enemy missiles are changing course, moving away from ours!”

 “They'll take the hit,” Nelyubov said, stepping over to her console.

 “And smash us into the bargain, sir,” Cantrell replied. “Impact in thirty-two seconds, and I can't get our missiles up in time.” Shaking her head, she added, “Those larger missiles will be on us twenty-two seconds later. I might be able to shoot them down.”

 “Harper?” Orlova asked, quietly.

 “Nothing,” the hacker replied, red-faced with frustration. “I just can't hack into their damn systems. I don't even know where to start!”

 “Impact,” Spinelli said. “Six hits, all superstructure. Enemy ship has lost port maneuvering thrusters, primary life support, communications…,” he shook his head, and added, “They're a mess, Captain.”

 “Cold comfort,” Nelyubov said, watching the six not-men missiles dive towards them. Cantrell, Harper and Foster frantically worked to try and conjure up a miracle, find some way to stop them from impacting, but no matter how hard they worked, they couldn't force the combat fabricators to move any faster, or the laser to recharge more rapidly.

 “Captain to crew,” Orlova said, “Six missiles incoming. Stand-by for major impact damage, stand-by for systems failures. Secure all space-tight compartments.”

 “Five seconds, ma'am,” Spinelli said, watching the tracks as they curved in on his display, unconsciously gripping the armrest of his chair. “Three seconds. Still running true.”

 “Twelve seconds to third salvo,” Cantrell said, shaking her head. “There's nothing I can do.”

 An anguished whine swept the decks as the six missiles smashed into Alamo's hull, an angry groan as hull plates buckled and disrupted systems failed. The lights flickered for a brief minute, the power distribution nodes ruptured, and Cantrell started to curse at her screen, while Erickson frantically attempted to take stock of the damage. Orlova could feel the impact, the ship moving into an uncontrolled spin as Foster desperately attempted to stabilize her, using every trick she knew.

 “Report, Lieutenant,” Orlova said, grabbing onto the back of her chair.

 “Guidance system failure,” she said. “That last hit smashed the power distribution network all through the ship. I'm trying to bypass, but it's going to be at least ten minutes.” Shaking her head, she replied, “Whatever is in those missiles, we'll find out the hard way in about twenty seconds.”

 “They're decelerating!” Spinelli said. “I don't understand. Why not go for maximum impact?”

 “I do,” Nelyubov said, with a sigh. “They're not going to need their ship much longer. Not if they capture ours.” Turning to Weitzman, he added, “Signal to all decks. Prepare to repel boarders.”

Chapter 2

 Ensign Gabriel Cooper sprinted into position, First Squad hurrying behind him, rifles in hand, racing towards their assigned combat station. He glanced down at the datapad in his hand, the internal view of the ship shuddering as another blast slammed into the hull, far too close for comfort. The greatest frustration was not knowing what was going on, up on the bridge, and since the disruption of the power network, news had been far too scanty for his liking.

 At last, a series of tactical updates flashed onto his screen, and he instantly wished that it had stayed dark. Incoming boarding shuttles, heading to key locations across this ship, due to make contact in the next few seconds. His squad was only a couple of corners away from the first wave, just above Engineering, and Third Squad was perfectly placed to meet the team heading for Weapons Control, but one of his guesses had been in error. Second Squad was near the main reactor, when they needed to defend Life Support, just two decks above him.

 As he raced down the corridor, he tapped a control to alert Corporal Walpis, hoping that he could move his team into position in time, though without the elevators, it was a quarter-mile sprint down a very long corridor. Corporal Hunt jogged up beside him with enviable speed, as a loud crash echoed through the hull, the hissing of atmosphere leaking into space, followed by a smell he didn't recognize, a strong chemical brew that almost made him choke.

 “Boarders up ahead, gang,” he said, keeping up the pace. “Just around the corner. We can't afford to give them a chance to regroup, and we know they won't surrender. Send them to hell.” Doubling his speed to keep the lead as the rest of the squad struggled to keep pace, his rifle nestled in his arms, he turned around the corner and opened fire, a blind shot that cracked across the corridor, instantly drawing the attention of a dozen armored figures stumbling through a hole in the hull that hadn't been there a moment ago, climbing out of their boarding missile onto the deck.

 His second shot beat their first, an armor-piercing round that sliced into one of them, sending the lead not-man's body crashing to the deck with blood spilling out onto the carpet. Hunt managed to wing another one in the shoulder, then dived for cover, Cooper finding himself out in the open, shots ringing out all around him, angry dents forming in the hull. He ducked and rolled to the right, behind a crate of emergency components.

 “Price,” he ordered the nearest trooper, “Take Martinez and Nash, and work around the other way. Let's get them from both sides. We'll keep them pinned down, then you return the favor when we advance. Move.”

 The lance-corporal nodded, sprinting back down the corridor with the two named troopers behind him, taking a turning into a maintenance way running parallel with the main corridor. Alamo was a maze of corridors, shafts and passages, a tangled web connecting the decks and compartments within the hull, a significant advantage to anyone who was familiar with the lie of the land.

 Up ahead, the not-men were attempting to move forward, low-velocity bullets pinning them in place whenever they tried to advance, the armor-piercing rounds saved for a certain shot. Without them, their rifles would be useless against this enemy, but if they fired carelessly, the bullet could easily pierce the hull, or destroy some vital piece of equipment that would render the battle a Pyrrhic victory at best.

 Another not-man slumped to the deck, blood pouring from his neck, Private Rhodes yelling in a war whoop as he felled his target. Cooper glanced down at his watch, a frown on his face. In about twenty seconds, Price and the others should be emerging behind the enemy, ready to catch them by surprise. As Hunt took down another not-man careless enough to break cover, his body falling back into the boarding missile, he counted down the last few seconds, before waving his arm forward.

 “Let them have it!” he yelled, and seven rifles fired as one, light rounds crashing into the deck. A volley of shots responded, one of them close enough to Cooper that he could feel the rush of air, and three of the not-men fell forward, shot in the back by Price and the two sharpshooters, taking the odds back into their favor.

 “Come on!” Hunt cried, leaping out of cover, rifle in hand. The not-men were spinning around to deal with the new threat, unprepared for the veteran's advance, and Cooper sprinted after him, taking another of the enemies down with a well-aimed shot to the stomach, the not-man noisily dying on the deck.

 Almost before he realized it, the battle was over, Rhodes claiming his second kill of the battle, and the only surviving not-man turning his pistol on himself to avoid the disgrace of surrender. Cooper panted for breath, looking at the boarding missiles they had used, the sealant still wet around the hull-breach they had caused.

 “Damn dangerous,” he said. “They must have hit ten gravities on the flight over, and with nowhere to run after they reached the ship.” Looking down at the bodies, he added, “Tough sons of bitches.”

 “Ammunition check, people,” Hunt said, looking back at the squad as it walked forward. Yaskova was limping slightly, but there was no sign of injury, and he flashed her an inquiring stare.

 “Tripped on a cable, sir,” she replied, red-faced. “I'm fine.”

 Somewhere underneath him, a loud explosion echoed through the corridors, deafening sirens blaring. He glanced at Hunt, who shook his head, and pulled out his datapad, trying to bring up the tactical map. Reports were racing in from Corporal Stewart, who appeared to have had similar luck to Cooper's team, their battle coming to an end if the overhead footage was anything to go by. There hadn't been any reports from Corporal Walpis for more than a minute, and the life support telemetry was worryingly dark from Gainsford and Pavlov.

 “Life Support, people,” he said. “On the double!”

 As a damage control team swept into the area, their eyes widening at the devastation wrought by less than a minute of battle, he moved over to a maintenance hatch, slamming it free and climbing inside, sliding down the ladder as fast as he dared. There was no point calling for any more reinforcements. Corporal Stewart had enough to worry her at the moment, and as soon as she'd cleaned up the mess at Drive Control, she'd come to the same conclusions he had.

 He reached down for his communicator, pinning it next to his ear, a pulse of violent static ripping through his head as he tried to open a channel. Internal communications must have been damaged in that last salvo, and someone had set up a jamming field to knock out the backups. It didn't take much imagination to guess who.

 Above him, the rest of the squad descended, weapons at the ready. He dropped to the bottom of the shaft, quickly moving out of the way to avoid being trampled by Rhodes, sprinting along the passage as it twisted around the decks, jumping over a tangle of cable on the floor that one of those following managed to catch, a series of violent oaths echoing along the walls, a moment of mirth in a desperate situation.

 “Watch out there, Lopez,” Price said. “Make sure you defeat that dangerous relay.”

 “I'll...”

 “On the double, people!” Cooper yelled, ending the argument before it could begin. “One more shaft and we'll be dropping right into the middle of it.” Another flash popped up, his communicator informing them that Akjes' life-signs had just dropped to zero. “We know that Second Squad is being smashed, and we can expect to be going up against a prepared enemy that has established a defensive perimeter.”

 He turned a corner, swinging with his arm, and continued, “If they take Life Support, we lose. Unless you want to manage without oxygen for the next few days. We've got to win this one.”

 “Got Corporal Stewart, sir!” Hunt said, triumphantly. “Drive Control secure. She's on her way. Two minutes behind us.”

 “We could all be dead in two minutes,” Rhodes muttered, shaking his head.

 “You're too damn ugly to die, Private,” Cooper said, stopping at the hatch. He could hear the sounds of battle on the other side, the crack of bullets, a muffled blast as a smoke grenade exploded, a curl of gas forcing its way past the damaged seal. He forced himself to take two deep breaths, steadying himself, then raised his rifle and pulled open the door, rolling out onto the deck beyond.

 Ahead of him, the remnants of Second Squad were pulling back down the corridor, trying to find cover, as a swarm of not-men followed in their wake. Pausing for a split-second to take careful aim, Cooper leveled his rifle and fired at the nearest, taking him down with a single well-placed shot, giving the others the moment of hesitation they needed to find safety behind a half-closed bulkhead, a dead technician lying on the far side of it, wires dangling from an open inspection hatch.

 Hunt peered out of the hatch, almost getting a bullet in his head for the trouble, before running out to join Cooper and the others. Private Burke was panting for breath next to Private Akjes, the data transponder on his arm a shattered ruin. The Neander tapped it with his hand, a smile on his face.

 “Saved my life, sir.”

 “The others?”

 The Neander glanced at the corridor, shook his head, and said, “Lance-Corporal Pavlov bought it when the missile hit. We were in the wrong place, sir. It changed course just before impact, before we could do a thing.” Shaking his head, he added, “He didn't have a chance. Nor did Gainsford.” Staring down the corridor at the slowly advancing not-men, he continued, “The others are holed up in Life Support. Sent us down here to try an end run around them, but they'd advanced further than we thought.”

 “How many?” Hunt asked.

 “Twenty, twenty-five.”

 “Twice as many as we had, sir,” he said, turning to Cooper. Peering back at the hatch, Rhodes weighing whether to join them, he yelled, “Private, you and the other stay where you are until I say!”

 “With you, Corporal!” he said, ducking back out. Cooper looked around, shaking his head. While he had reinforcements ready to deploy, they wouldn't advance in this direction, and Stewart's Squad would be coming down the other way in a matter of minutes. They'd managed to limit their beachhead, but that wasn't going to be enough. Hunt shook his head, gesturing down the corridor.

 “We can deal with them another way, sir.”

 “If they take Life Support, we're dead, Corporal.”

 “The bridge can transfer control...”

 The ship shuddered again, another missile hitting amidships, and Cooper replied, “In case you're missing it, Corporal, we're losing this battle! The intraship network's shot to hell, and with the communications relay knocked out, I don't think they can alternate control. Not in time to do any good.” Turning to Akjes, he said, “Up for a little stroll, Private?”

 “Ready and eager, sir.”

 “That's the spirit. You and Burke follow me, one second behind, and give me covering fire. We're going to try and break their lines.” Turning to Hunt, he continued, “Grenades ahead when we go, and follow me thirty seconds later to fill in gaps. Pass the word to Stewart that she can begin her attack as soon as she arrives, and that we keep going until we reach Life Support, no matter what.” The lights flickered again, a low whine from the air recirculators as the system struggled to keep up with the smoke on the deck.

 “A few more hits like that…,” Burke said.

 “Not our problem, Private. I'll leave that to the brass on the bridge. Our job is to kill bad guys, and there's a plentiful supply right down that corridor.” He peered around at the not-men, a group of them tensed up, likely ready for an assault of their own. If they managed to break through the Espatiers, there would be nothing to stop them bringing in reinforcements and taking the ship. There could be more boarding missiles on their way, right now.

 Shaking his head to dismiss the thought, he glanced at Burke, hefted his rifle, and yelled, “Now!” He waited to the count of three as bullets cracked over his head, smiled, then jumped over the bulkhead from a standing start, sprinting down the corridor, firing wildly as a pair of smoke grenades billowed forth, one on each side. A not-man crashed to the deck in front of him, taken down by a well-aimed shot, and the two troopers raced up after him, moving on his flanks, picking their shots more carefully. Too carefully. Burke dropped down to the deck, screaming in pain from a bullet in his leg, Specialist Gidzenko ducking out of the shaft to retrieve him, disobeying orders to remain in position.

 For a second, Cooper thought the medic would get away with it, but the nearest not-man recovered from his disbelief quickly, and he dropped down to the floor, collapsing onto his patient, his body wracked with convulsions. Another bullet smashed into the bulkhead next to him, and he dropped down into cover, Akjes sliding in beside him, hiding behind a swinging maintenance hatch, surrounded for a second by the enemy.

 Corporal Hunt provided the distraction he needed to move again, charging forward, screaming an ancient battle cry as the rest of the squad followed him, shots ringing out, low-velocity rounds matched with deadlier ammunition, smashing into their lines. With a brief glance behind him, Cooper pushed himself to his feet, running on down the corridor, Akjes catching one of the not-men with a bullet to the neck an instant before he fired the shot that would have killed Cooper.

 “Nice work, Private,” he said.

 “Got to be careful, sir. It's dangerous around here!”

 Hunt moved forward, shaking his head, saying, “We're clear, sir, and Corporal Stewart is beginning her assault. Rhodes, take point.” Looking at Cooper, he added, “It is someone else's turn, sir.”

 His eyes wide, Rhodes edged forward, creeping along the side of the corridor, the rest of the squad following behind. Cooper snatched a glimpse down at his datapad, trying to get an updated tactical overview, but his screen was simply flashing 'loss of signal', over and over again. Sliding a new clip into his rifle, he followed Rhodes around a corner, and the world erupted in noise as a dozen shots blasted through the air around him, instinct sending him dropping to the ground, firing wildly into the battle.

 On the far side of the corridor, Stewart was leading an assault, hung up on a group of not-men hiding behind a quickly improvised wall of ration crates. A body lay in the space between them at the advancing squad, but he couldn't make out which side it was from. Another, similar fortification blocked them from Life Support, four more figures on this side, all of them laying down suppressing fire. He glanced down at Rhodes, who waved a bloody hand in front of him, shaking his head.

 “That's my favorite hand, sir. I was very attached to it.”

 “Relax, Private. They'll fix you right up. Go back to the bulkhead, and see if you can find someone to get it working.”

 “Yes, sir,” he said, scrambling towards the rear, Akjes moving up to take his place. The hatch to Life Support was resolutely closed, and Cooper pulled out his communicator, cursing when it failed to respond. He had to hope that Walpis would see sense and keep the door closed, rather than attempt to assist his comrades. It would take time for them to crack the sealed hatch open, and Cooper had no intention of giving them that time. He looked across the battleground, a hundred meter stretch of corridor festooned with bodies and debris, and managed to catch Stewart's eye, firing four shots in rapid succession.

 He counted down from four, praying that she had understood his meaning, then rolled out again, briefly drawing fire, pulling the attackers to expose themselves, before pushing back towards the bulkhead. Hunt and Yaskova took the shots that brought the attackers down, putting their bullets right through the crates and out the other side. A second later, Stewart began her assault, throwing a flare to attract their attention, before charging forward with a wild cry, her squad taking full advantage of the momentary confusion.

 Now, the hatch could open, and Walpis stepped out, a bandage wrapped around his arm, shaking his head as he looked at the mess outside. Cooper quickly counted bodies, almost all of them not-men, though a pair of technicians were lying next to two of his troopers on the floor, Pavlov and Gainsford. Sergeant Gurung was sprawled on the floor, his breathing unsteady, his kukri lodged in a nearby foeman, a shuttle pilot behind him, her dead eyes staring into nothing, her body still.

 “Damn,” he said, shaking his head. “Just...damn.” With a sigh, he looked around, and said, “Lance-Corporal Price, head up to the bridge and inform the Captain that we have secured the ship. Weapons check, everyone, then proceed by fire team to Reserve Position Beta.”

 “You think there might be a second wave, sir?” Akjes asked.

 “I damn well hope not, Private,” he replied. “I damn well hope not.”

Chapter 3

 Sub-Lieutenant Pavel Salazar ducked out of Shuttle One's cockpit as the alert sounded, chaos and confusion everywhere. Technicians sprinted to their combat stations, scrambling to respond to the alarm. Over at the monitoring stations, Sub-Lieutenant Bradley was gathering a group of technicians around her, and he scrambled over the deck towards them, listening to the anguished scream of the hull as a missile slammed in, the lights flickering for a second.

 “What the hell's going on?” he asked.

 “Alamo's under attack,” Bradley replied. “I can't raise the bridge, or anyone outside this deck. Internal communications must have been damaged.” Waving a thumb at the exit, she added, “Elevator system's out as well. I can't even send a runner.”

 “Can you get a status report?”

 “What do you think I'm doing, playing solitaire?” she snapped. Turning to a balding man standing next to her, she asked, “How are we doing, Kowalski?”

 “Looks pretty bad, ma'am,” the grizzled Chief replied. “Damage in five areas, and we've been boarded, down on the engineering levels.” Stabbing a finger at the screen, he said, “Best I can tell, our troopers have reacted, but I can't get anything more recent than thirty seconds ago.”

 “A lifetime in a battle,” Salazar said, as Bradley turned pale. “Don't worry, Barbara, Gabe will be fine. This isn't his first boarding action.”

 “I know,” she replied. “Can you raise the bridge?”

 “Someone's set up a jammer,” Kowalski said, holding a communicator between two fingers as though it had been dipped in something disgusting. “We might as well be sending smoke signals, and if the damage gets much worse, that's what we'll be doing anyway.”

 “Hooke,” Salazar said, turning to a thin-faced man skulking at the rear, “can you hack into our external sensors, try and find out what's going on? It would be nice to know whether or not we're winning.” Tapping Kowalski on the shoulder, he continued, “Chief, go over to Shuttle One and finish pre-flight. I was almost done.”

 “Pre-flight?” Bradley asked, as another explosion rocked the ship.

 Shaking his head, the pilot replied, “If things get much worse, we're going to need it.”

 “They're worse,” Hooke said, his face pale, holding up a datapad. “I'm picking up a swarm of missiles heading this way, just launched. Impact in fifty-two seconds, and they're heading right for us.” Shaking his head, he continued, “The bridge isn't doing anything about it. We aren't even reacting!”

 Nodding, Bradley said, “The power system. Even with the new overrides, it's going to take three minutes to bring everything back on-line again. Which means that we can't maneuver, and we can't launch our missiles to knock theirs down.”

 Glancing at the shuttle, Salazar replied, “The missiles are self-contained. Can we launch them from here?”

 Bradley shrugged, and said, “Probably. What's the point? Without primary sensor guidance, they'll just go drifting aimlessly through space. They certainly won't be able to intercept an incoming missile swarm.”

 “Get them launched,” he replied. “I've got a plan. Hooke, you're with me.”

 “Why?” the hacker asked.

 “Because, Spaceman, I need someone to crack into our missiles so that we can guide them to their target. We're going to steer them in ourselves.”

 “That's crazy!” he protested. “We can't launch a shuttle in that mess out there!”

 “Forty-eight seconds,” Bradley said.

 “We're dead either way, Hooke, so why not die a hero?” Salazar sprinted to the shuttle, Hooke pausing for a second before following him.

 “I don't want to die at all,” he plaintively replied.

 “Relax, Spaceman,” Kowalski said, clapping the hacker on the back as Hooke slid into the co-pilot's seat. “No point being all tensed up when the missiles smash into you. Good luck.” Just as the hatch closed, the wise Supply Chief ducked back out onto the deck, barking orders to the launch crews outside.

 The hatch slammed shut, and Salazar engaged the emergency override on the elevator airlock, sending the shuttle crashing down to the lower hatch with a rattle, then opening to the lower hatch before the air had all been evacuated, a control sequence that washed his screen with protesting red text, before the blast tossed the shuttle clear of the hull, sending it lazily spinning away.

 “Snatch those damn missiles, Hooke,” he said, engaging the engine to take them on a course towards the approaching missiles. The hacker, his face pale, nodded as he started to rattle instructions into the electronic warfare suit, entering the control systems through the backdoor and bringing them under manual control. The shuttle engine roared to full power, throwing them onto a trajectory that all the systems suggested would lead to their certain death in a matter of seconds. Salazar thought differently, but a glance at his co-pilot's face indicated that his view was far from unanimous.

 He switched the view on the main screen from the familiar, comfortable starfield to a sensor display, showing the rapidly receding Alamo behind him, the enemy battlecruiser ahead, coming up on closest approach, and the twelve missiles, six from each side, diving towards each other. Hooke's eyes were focused on his controls, and Salazar glanced across to see the beads of sweat building up on his forehead as the hacker frantically worked to save both the ship and himself.

 A frown crept onto Salazar's face as he saw the approaching missile salvo change course, moving across to the right, the enemy gunner wise to his plan. He threw the shuttle into a sideways drift, slamming down the port thrusters to send him diving towards them, trying to keep the missiles launched from Alamo in their control radius. Despite all of his efforts, two of them drifted free, ranging away and out of the battle, and he uttered silent curses under his breath as the seconds counted down.

 “What are we going to do now?” Hooke asked, glancing up from his work for the first time.

 “Send our remaining missiles forward. I've got a plan.”

 Snapping a control, Hooke ramped the missile engines to maximum acceleration, sending them racing ahead of the shuttle, slamming into their enemy counterparts ahead. The sensor screen cleared, only three more tracks for him to worry about. His shuttle, and two enemy missiles ahead. He glanced back at Alamo, shaking his head, the once-pristine hull burned and blackened, bursts of gas flying out in all directions, a trail of ice particles from the rear section as the lumbering beast struggled to maneuver.

 Up ahead, the enemy ship seemed in little better condition, listing to the right as her thrusters fired in series, the helmsman struggling to bring her under control. Those two missiles could make the difference, and Alamo wasn't going to be in a position to do anything about it.

 “Can you do anything, Hooke?” he asked.

 “No,” he replied, bluntly.

 “Then start slamming out the physical countermeasures, and hang on.”

 Shaking his head, the hacker turned to the side, tapping a sequence of controls, launching drones and chaff to the side, attempting to confuse the incoming missiles, now only seconds away from their target. Salazar pivoted the shuttle around, ranging in as close as he could, within a matter of meters of the enemy warheads, and the sensor display was a fog of ghost images, confused reflections and twisted patterns. He was gambling that the missiles were on autonomous control now, and his bet paid off as their engines ceased for a moment, before turning around, shedding their velocity as they homed in on their newest target. The shuttle.

 “Great, sir,” Hooke said. “Just great. Where do I get off?”

 “And miss all the fun?,” Salazar replied, slowing the shuttle, hitting the forward thrusters to give the missiles ample opportunity to range towards him, making sure that they didn't reacquire Alamo. He glanced to the side, taking a deep breath, the enemy battlecruiser looming ahead, and then brought the engines back up to full power, collision alarms ringing through the cabin. The missiles had executed a perfect curve, squandering their fuel to change their trajectory, close enough that they would be smashing into him in a matter of seconds.

 “Whatever that plan of yours is, sir, could you hurry up with it?”

 “Patience, Hooke, patience.”

 Carefully, with well-placed thruster pulses, he guided the shuttle around, ranging in towards the target, the enemy battlecruiser. The screen lit up again as six more missiles raced from her launch tubes, heading right for him, and a smile crossed his face. Another attack wave that wouldn't be targeted on Alamo, and with any luck, by the time they'd prepared to fire again, Alamo would be in a condition to do something about it.

 More alarms sounded, warning once again of a collision with the enemy battlecruiser, the shuttle spinning on its axis as it dived towards the larger vessel. The force of acceleration pressed him back into his couch as the missiles closed from the rear. The velocity differential was large enough now that he flew through the cloud of approaching warheads, their computers having no time to change course, sending them flying out of the battlespace. Launching them had been an act of desperation, but so was this maneuver.

 Hooke's eyes were locked on the sensor readout as the distance ticked down, the enemy pilot doing everything he could with a crippled ship to change course, to get out of the way of the madman bearing down upon him, as Salazar rested his hand on the lateral thrusters, ramping the power to maximum as he prepared to unleash them at the critical second, the missiles scheduled to slam into him just as he crashed into the battlecruiser.

 The enemy commander knew. He must have done, but there was nothing he could do to stop him, and at the final second, Salazar slammed on the thruster, sending the shuttle flying over the battlecruiser close enough that he could count the rivets in the hull, the two missiles catching the aft section of the ship, sending a cloud of debris flying into space, twisted metal alloys powered by jets of air as breaches sliced through the hull.

 A loud crash sent the two of them lurching forward, Hooke's forehead smacking into his console, knocking the hacker cold, a trickle of blood running from his broken nose. Salazar quickly called up a status report as the blast wave caught them, the debris pitting the hull, alerts warning of outer hull breaches in a couple of dozen places, the main engine dying as the power links shattered, most of the computers rebooting as they struggled to cope with the power drain.

 The shuttle pivoted forward, rocking clear, and Salazar shook his head. Somehow, he hadn't expected to survive that maneuver, and a cursory glance at his control panel suggested that he was not finished yet. The communications system was smashed, well beyond hope of repair, and as the viewscreen flickered back on, he saw the icy ball of the planet filling the display, more alarms warning him that he'd managed to drop below orbital velocity during that last, desperate dive, a spiraling course that would only have one, cataclysmic end, unless he could do something to stop him.

 He heard a low groan from Hooke, and reached down for the medical kit under his couch, pulling out a sedative and quickly injecting it into his side, sending the hacker slumping back. With a quick tug, he tightened the restraints, locking him into position, and made sure all was secure before turning back to the helm. The main engine was out, but he still had the maneuvering thrusters, a separate system that had somehow made it through the blast wave undamaged, and at least some of his sensor suite. Enough for him to tell that the planet ahead had an atmosphere thick enough to give him a chance of managing re-entry, slowing himself down to a survivable landing.

 The structural diagnostics were confused, figures running back and forth, and there was no time to get a full readout of the density of the atmosphere ahead, the computer struggling to program a safe descent path as he dragged the shuttle onto the right trajectory. The sensor lit up with an image highlighting something called 'Target Three', a heat and electromagnetic source from the surface, and while it almost certainly meant falling into enemy hands, he slewed his course around to place him as close to the base as possible. The odds were that he was going to urgently need help as soon as he landed.

 He looked back at the spacesuits, hanging on the wall, then across at Hooke, shaking his head. There was no way he could manage to get the unconscious hacker into a suit, and if he placed him in a rescue ball, the concussion of the impact would kill him anyway. If his co-pilot couldn't wear a suit, then he certainly wasn't going to wear one, either. That just meant that he needed to bring the shuttle down to a safe landing, nothing more. An extra force urging him to do the best job he could.

 One final, futile attempt with the communications system failed, and as Alamo receded below the horizon, he thought he saw a laser pulse connecting the two ships, sending a smile back across his face. No matter what happened next, at least he had the satisfaction of knowing that his ship was back in the fight, and that he had given them a chance of survival, even victory.

 A red light winked on, the shuttle slamming into the upper limits of the atmosphere, and an altimeter sprang into life in the middle of his heads-up display, his hands playing the thrusters to fine-tune their descent path. He looked back at his status panel again, shaking his head. The heat shield had been damaged, no doubt about that, but it had been designed by conservative engineers who had built in plenty of redundancy. In a moment, he'd find out whether they had built in enough.

 The tips of the shuttle's wings began to glow red with a burning heat that swept across the underside of the hull in a matter of seconds. He flicked a switch to silence the warning alarms, and for the first time since takeoff, silence reigned throughout the cabin, broken only by a low rumbling noise that caused a brief second of panic before he realized that Hooke was snoring. At least someone was having a relaxing time.

 As the shuttle fell through the atmosphere, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, he struggled with the thrusters, trying to guide the craft through the narrow corridor of survival that would bring him down in one piece. A loud crack came from the underside, a portion of damaged heat shield flying free, and the ship lurched out of control, almost spilling away before he wrestled it back onto the proper flight path.

 The flames were beginning to clear, and he got his first good look at the surface of the world beneath, a mixture of white, gleaming ice and black mountains rising over the terrain, an intricate series of shattered cracks gouged into the landscape, the pristine ice sheet shattered by some long-ago catastrophe. Shadows from clouds ranged over the landscape, and the viewscreen briefly darkened as he flew through one, shaking his head. Anyone on the surface was getting an amazing show.

 His target was just ahead, a few hundred miles away, and although he was slowing fast, he thought he had enough speed and height to get him to his destination, though a controlled landing would be another story. The main engine resolutely refused to fire, and one by one, the systems started to wink out as he spent the remnants of his stored power on the landing.

 Up ahead, the shuttle dived towards a jagged mountain range, a thousand daggers thrust up from the ground to rip at his ship, and he used one final starboard pulse from his thrusters to send him through a narrow pass, an avalanche of snow and rocks raining down underneath him. Now he could see his target, a complex of domed buildings nestled around a huge landing pad, shuttles scattered around it at random, a dozen different designs of all shapes and sizes, some of them large enough to rival the smaller starships. On the perimeter, tiny black figures ran around, and a small explosion raced to the sky, close to the shuttles sending a column of smoke rising into the air.

 The last of his power was gone, and he was reliant on his battered wings to catch the air as he attempted to glide in, rejecting the hard spaceport ahead of him as too risky. What he needed was a soft landing, and he looked around until he spotted a long reach of snow, curving around the base of a hill, a few miles outside town. He glanced back at his readouts, and nodded. If he was going to come down anywhere, this was the spot.

 His speed and altitude decreasing far too rapidly, he swung around to try and catch warm currents of air from the base beneath, waste heat coming to his salvation as it buoyed him for the landing, lining up for the approach. Underneath, he could see vehicles racing out, heading towards his probable landing point, help of at least some kind on the way.

 The ground rushed up towards him, far too quickly for his liking, the surface a blur of white and gray as he fired a single pulse from the lateral thrusters, kicking the shuttle up just high enough to carry him to the snow bank, before the shuttle finally made contact with the ground, skipping up into the air once more before skidding around, melting a trail in the snow from the still red-hot heat shield, steam rising into the sky all around as he mercifully brought it to rest, his hands shaking as he threw switches to complete an abbreviated post-flight. He sat back on his couch, marveling that the hull had held through the descent and the landing, then unbuckled his restraints, making his way to the armory in the rear compartment. If he had visitors coming, he'd need to give them an appropriate welcome.

Chapter 4

 “Primary systems coming back on-line,” Erickson said, breathing a sigh of relief as the telltales on her panel winked from red to amber, the damage control teams responding one after another as they frantically worked to repair the power linkages. “Defense systems and helm control should be back.”

 “Confirmed,” Foster said, nodding in satisfaction. “Returning to random walk.”

 “Laser charge cycle resumed,” Cantrell added. “Foster, in about ten seconds I'm going to have power for a shot.”

 “I'll see what I can do, ma'am.”

 “The shuttle, Spinelli?” Orlova asked.

 Shaking his head, the sensor technician replied, “I lost it just as it was going around the curve of the planet, ma'am, but it was on an uncontrolled re-entry path, and had sustained a lot of damage.”

 “I'm not getting her beacon, ma'am,” Weitzman added.

 Turning wordlessly to the holotable, Orlova looked at the strategic overview. Salazar had done wonders in drawing the enemy fire for the crucial minutes they had needed to restore Alamo's systems. Now they were well past closest approach, the two ships moving away before a later rendezvous, the enemy vessel gathering speed to delay the second battle, fighting to buy time.

 “Foster, change course. Slow the ship. I want a longer firing window.”

 Snapping her head back for a second, the anxiety showing in her eyes, she replied, “Aye, ma'am.”

 “Is that wise?” Nelyubov whispered. “There'll be another time.”

 “Line her up, Foster!” Cantrell yelled, and Alamo swung around, the thrusters responding to her gentle touch, the ship running on a smooth arc that lined her up with the enemy battlecruiser, a brief pulse of energy slamming through space, cutting a long swathe of black death across the not-man hull. Nodding with satisfaction, Cantrell said, “Missiles ready to launch.”

 “Right now, we're winning,” Orlova said. “We're going to press that advantage now and finish them off. If we let them go, they'll have a chance to repair the damage, and with the facilities they have here, they'll be back to fighting condition before we are.” Turning to Cantrell, she ordered, “Fire.”

 Six more missiles sped from Alamo's launch bays, running back towards the enemy vessel, parallel trajectories to cause maximum damage on impact. As she watched, four more trajectory tracks flashed into view, a limited retaliatory strike that demonstrated the carnage she had already wrought on the enemy. At a nod to Cantrell, four of Alamo's salvo turned, ranging towards the incoming attack wave, canceling them out to the advantage of the Triplanetary ship.

 “We'll get one more good shot with the laser, ma'am, and one more salvo,” Cantrell said.

 “Make them count, Lieutenant. I want that damn bastard out of my sky.”

 Nelyubov looked down at his panel, his face stoic as he flashed through the casualty and damage reports as they streamed in. One glance told Orlova that the news was grave. She looked back at the holodisplay, the damage to Alamo's hull clearly visible, air leaks from a hundred hull breaches, fires raging across the lower habitation levels, storage modules exposed to space, sensor relays damaged beyond repair. Despite all of that, the ship was still flying, and fighting.

 “Final salvo away,” Cantrell said, as the previous wave of missiles made contact with their enemy counterparts, two of them remaining to crash into the side of the not-man vessel, a chunk of the hull armor smashed to pieces, exposing a hive of compartments underneath. The image briefly magnified, and she could see bodies drifting out into space, crewmen who would have been killed before they knew what had happened.

 “Weitzman, any signal from the enemy craft?”

 “Not a thing, ma'am, not to us. Some signals down to the surface.”

 “Offer them a chance to surrender.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” the technician replied, beginning his hopeless errand. Foster swung the ship around with the laser, one more pulse that slammed into the rear section, destroying the primary engines and sending the ship spiraling out of control, the few remaining thrusters firing sporadically, brief pulses having no visible effect.

 She could only imagine what the conditions were like over there, whole decks exposed to vacuum, the crew dying by the dozen from lack of air, radiation, shrapnel blasts, or a hundred other ways. If that had been a Triplanetary ship, escape pods would have long since been spilling out all around, desperate men seeking sanctuary, but the not-men never surrendered. The philosophy they lived by would not permit it, and they would rather die than show their weakness. Arrogance that was going to kill them, within a few seconds.

 “No response, ma'am,” Weitzman said, with a sigh. “I know they can hear me. They're still transmitting.”

 “Final salvo impact in thirty seconds, ma'am,” Cantrell said. “No response, so far.”

 “Put it up on the viewscreen, Lieutenant,” she said, “Maximum magnification.”

 Stepping forward to stand behind the helm, she watched the enemy ship tumbling, still proud even in its death throes, making one final attempt to steer to safety, to find refuge behind the nearest moon, her pilot frantically correcting her course. Given time, he might even have succeeded, and the ship could have fought again, but Orlova wasn't going to allow them the chance. Too many people had died already, on both sides.

 Six flashes swept across the hull, and the damage to the superstructure was too great to surpass as the ship cracked in half, the two pieces tumbling into each other with an explosion that briefly flashed in the darkness, leaving a million pieces of jagged metal drifting through space. Somehow, she couldn't bring herself to celebrate, even given the circumstances. The death of any ship was a sad thing, even if belonged to the enemy.

 Turning back to Nelyubov, she asked, “What's the butcher's bill, Frank?”

 Taking a deep breath, he replied, “Ten dead, including Salazar and Hooke on Shuttle One.” He shook his head, and continued, “Most of them were in the Battle of Life Support, I'm afraid. Seventeen wounded, though Doctor Duquesne is about as hopeful as she ever is.” Looking up at the monitor, the tattered remains of the enemy vessel still shining on the screen, he added, “Could have been much, much worse, Captain.”

 “Damage report, Erickson?”

 “I'm not sure where to start, ma'am,” she replied, not looking away from her monitors. “We're in no immediate danger, though Senior Lieutenant Quinn requests that we not accelerate at any greater than one-tenth gravity until he's had a chance to inspect the superstructure. Hendecaspace drive is functional, and we've got the power network stabilized again, though only at two-thirds normal capability. I'll have a more complete list for you in a few minutes, Captain, though it could be hours for us to check everything.”

 “Thanks,” she replied. “Foster, take us into stationary orbit over Target Three on the surface of the planet ahead.”

 “Moon,” Powell noted.

 “It's big enough for a planet, Professor. Bigger than Mars. And I don't think we're going to mix it up with the gas giant, are we?”

 “No, ma'am,” he replied. “I've got crews working on the sensors, but I can give you my report on the system now, if you want it.”

 “You carried on gathering data, right through the battle?” Nelyubov asked.

 With a shrug, he replied, “I assumed you'd want it right away after we won.”

 “I wish I'd been so certain of our victory,” Orlova replied, as Foster started to work her controls, Alamo slowly easing into the selected orbit, drifting away from her original course. She moved over to stand next to Powell, looking down at his readings.

 “I'm picking up monitoring satellites at all hendecaspace points in this system, linked to Target Three down on the surface, but there was no change in transmission frequency after an initial spike on our arrival. My guess is that we're looking at an unmanned surveillance network.”

 “Seems logical,” Nelyubov said.

 “And extremely extensive,” Powell replied. “We're looking at a hundred and four satellites, Captain, all very carefully positioned. The maintenance requirements alone would be extraordinary.” He tapped a control, and portions of half a dozen other bodies in the system flashed green. “Point-heat sources on the surface in these locations, but no sign of transmission. Probably supply depots or secondary installations, but none of them is close enough that any ship based there could present any threat. I can't spot anything larger than a small shuttle stationed at any of them.”

 “Not worth worrying about, then,” Orlova said.

 “As for Target Three, that's something very interesting.” He tapped a control, and an orbital shot of the base appeared, fifteen domes connected by tunnels, surrounding a huge landing pad, littered with shuttlecraft. “My team projects a population in the thousands, Captain. A significant installation, and at a guess, the reason for the settlement of this system.” Turning to her, he continued, “I think we've found what we were looking for. The outermost limits of not-man space.”

 “Why build a base down there, though? There are better sources of fuel in orbit.”

 “I have no idea,” Powell replied. “Give me time, ma'am, and I'll work it out.”

 “Ma'am,” Spinelli said. “I've been looking at Target Two, and I've got an identification for you. Definitely one of our ships, the MSS Daedalus. Lost in 2148, right at the start of the Interplanetary War.” Glancing across at a readout, he said, “Listed as missing in space with all hands, after being dispatched on a reconnaissance flight to the Omicron Eridani region.”

 “She was a long way off course,” Orlova said, shaking her head. Looking around the room, she continued, “Your performance in the battle today was exemplary, and I mean to recommend commendations for all of you. Department heads to make any other recommendations they feel appropriate.” With a sigh, she continued, “Frank, you have the bridge. I'm going down to Sickbay, and then to Engineering.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” he replied, and she started to move to the elevator.

 “Wait a moment, ma'am,” Weitzman said, frowning as he adjusted his controls. “I'm picking up something.” He nodded, then continued, “It's a distress signal, ma'am. One of ours.”

 “Salazar?” she replied.

 “No, ma'am. It's old, very old. Martian Space Service in origin, dating back to the 2140s.” Turning to her, he said, “I have a weak visual transmission coming from Target Three.”

 “It's a trick,” Nelyubov said.

 “Put it on, Spaceman,” Orlova said, turning back to the viewscreen. Through a haze of static, she could make out the figure of a Neander standing in a small room, wearing plain brown fatigues, a rifle in his hand and a bloody bandage wrapped around his head. There was an incessant roar in the background that she thought was interference for a moment, before she realized it was the sound of a battle taking place, somewhere off camera. The man looked off-screen for a second, before turning back to the pickup.

 “If you are a Martian vessel, or another ship associated with the Triplanetary Confederation, I urgently request your assistance. My people have been enslaved by the Xandari, and are currently in the process of overthrowing them.” A wry smile crossed his face, and he added, “Any help you could give would be greatly appreciated. Shovels and picks against guns is proving somewhat imbalanced.”

 “This is the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo, Lieutenant-Captain Margaret Orlova in command,” she replied. “Who am I speaking to?”

 “Lostok, Guild Leader of the Interstellar Collective. At least, I was, before I was captured. Captain, our need is grave. Are you in a position to assist us?”

 “Understand my position, Lostok. I need proof that this isn't some sort of a trap.”

 Nodding, the Neander replied, “I'll switch to the external pickup.” Tapping a control, Orlova saw scenes of battle raging outside, a pack of Neander charging a group of not-men, being wiped out by plasma fire before they could even get close, before an explosion enveloped the screen, the image briefly switching to static before returning to Lostok.

 Looking across at Orlova, Powell said, “It's the right time of day, from what we can tell, and the weather conditions seem to match the images we took during our first pass.”

 “We're telling the truth, Captain. Can you help us?”

 Glancing at a frowning Nelyubov, Orlova replied, “Help is on the way, Lostok. We'll have our people on the ground in fifteen minutes. Try and clear a landing zone for them, and keep someone on this frequency to talk them in.”

 With a beaming smile, Lostok replied, “My thanks, Captain. I'll be waiting for your people on the ground. Cyndar out.”

 “Captain,” Nelyubov said, “You should know that three of the dead were Espatiers. Five of the wounded. They just fought a major battle...”

 “I know,” she said, tapping a control. “Cooper, do you read me?”

 After a few seconds, he replied, “I'm here, ma'am. We're cleaning up some of the mess in Life Support right now. I want to get a team to look at the boarding missiles when they get a chance. We might be able to use the technology ourselves.”

 “Never mind about that now, Ensign. What is your current combat readiness?”

 Cooper paused for a second before responding, “I have twenty effective, counting myself, ma'am. Do we have prisoners from the enemy ship?”

 “I'm afraid not, Ensign.” She looked at Nelyubov again, then continued, “I don't like to ask you to do this, Gabe, but we've just learned of a full-scale slave revolt taking place on the surface, and they've asked for our immediate assistance. From what we can see, a single intervention at this moment could make the difference between victory or defeat.”

 “We're on our way to the Hangar Deck right now, ma'am,” Cooper replied. “Have Shuttles Two and Three cleared for immediate launch. Rules of engagement?”

 “Try and keep the collateral damage to a minimum, but do everything you have to do to secure the colony. If everything goes bad, evacuate as many people as you can. Alamo will be in stationary orbit in,” she paused, looking at Foster, who held up ten fingers in response, “ten minutes, so we'll give you full tactical support.”

 “We're on the way, ma'am. Cooper out.”

 “Can I see you for a moment, Captain?” Nelyubov said, as she disconnected the channel.

 “Of course. Powell, you have the bridge. Continue to co-ordinate damage and casualty reports.” She stepped into her office, Nelyubov just behind her, a frown staining his face. He waited before the door closed behind him, then sighed.

 “I think this might be a mistake, Captain.”

 “What choice do we have, Frank?”

 “Let them fight it out on the surface for themselves. Without support, the not-men haven't got much chance in the long-term, anyway. We're in no shape to continue offensive operations, and it isn't fair to ask Cooper and his men to go back into action again so soon.” Raising a hand, he continued, “I know, I know, fair has nothing to do with it, but I'm talking about combat effectiveness. And Cooper's opinion doesn't count for a damn thing in this. He'd volunteer to go in even if he knew he was walking into a meat grinder, and so would everyone under his command.”

 “But you don't think I have the right to ask it of him?” she replied. “You might be right, Frank, but down there on the surface are representatives of a star-faring civilization that we have never encountered before, one that is obviously engaged in conflict with the, what did he call them, Xantar?”

 “Xandari.”

 “Nice to have a name for them at last, anyway. Frank, we only get one chance at a first impression. If we can make it clear that they can expect us to ride to their rescue if asked, support them in battle, help to liberate them from their oppressors, then it'll only make things easier in the future.”

 “And the risk?”

 “I'm aware of the risk,” she said. “And I know full-well what sort of hell I'm sending Cooper and his platoon into, but I can't sit back up here in orbit while people are fighting for their lives against an enemy we helped to unleash, in a revolt that we helped inspire. You don't think it's a coincidence that they decided that today was the day they should free themselves, do you? We wiped out the guard ship, and gave them the opportunity they need.” Shaking her head, she said, “This might not be the safe thing to do, Frank, but it is the right thing to do, and you and I both know it.”

 Nodding, he replied, “Very well. In that case, I'm going down to the surface. I can fly Shuttle Two.”

 “Frank...”

 “A senior officer needs to be down there to help coordinate our attack, and I'm the best-qualified for the job.” With a smile, he added, “If we're going to do this damn stupid thing, Maggie, at least let us do it right. And besides, we both know that you were thinking about going down there yourself.”

 “There's more truth than I'd like to admit in that.” Nodding, she continued, “Fine, on your way, Frank. Report in as soon as you get down to the surface, and try to set up some sort of tactical network. We'll get every sensor focused on the battle site and give you as much intelligence as we can. And if you can rustle up any surplus weaponry, take it with you. We'll worry about the rules on technology transfer after we win the battle.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” he said, making for the door.

 “Good luck, Frank. Be careful.”

 “Always,” he replied, as the door closed behind him. She stared at it for a long moment, longing with all her heart to go with him, to be at the center of the action herself. A year ago, she'd have been the one making the same demands to her predecessor as Captain. Now, the rank tied her to her ship. With a sigh, she sat down at her desk, and started skimming through the casualty reports, praying that the fighting on the surface wouldn't add to the list.

Chapter 5

 Salazar looked over Hooke one final time, making sure that he was comfortable, and that his only injury was his broken nose. He smiled, shaking his head, as the hacker gave off a loud snore, once again. All the crash had done was make his name more appropriate, though Doctor Duquesne would likely deal with that when she fixed him up.

 Pistol in hand, he made his way to the rear entrance, peering through the window at the approaching vehicle. The outside pickups had been badly damaged in the crash, and he could only see blurred shapes moving through the snow towards him. He couldn't assume they were hostile, though, and took cover behind the nearest couch, raising his gun to cover the entrance.

 After a second, the door jerked open, sending a torrent of snow rushing into the cabin, a cold wind sweeping around, chilling him to the bone. A short, gray-haired man, lean and hard, stepped inside, leading a group of Neander, all of them armed with improvised weapons.

 “Identify yourselves,” Salazar said.

 “Alexander Perry,” the man said. “And these are Molpa and Kelot. Are you from Alamo?”

 Nodding, he replied, “You've made contact with the ship?”

 “After a fashion.” Gesturing at the armory, he said, “We're both fighting the Xandari. Your ship has marines heading down right now, but they're not going to get anywhere if we can't clear the field. I thought you might be able to help.”

 “Prove it,” Salazar replied.

 “Your commanding officer is Lieutenant-Captain Margaret Orlova, you just smashed one of the Empire's biggest warships in orbit, and you came from Mars.” He paused, then said, “Come on, at least give me your name.”

 “Sub-Lieutenant Pavel Salazar.” He rose to his feet, still keeping the pistol leveled, and added, “Security Officer, Battlecruiser Alamo.”

 “Technical Sergeant Alexander Perry, formerly missileman's mate of the Daedalus. We can handle the proper introductions later, but we've got bigger problems right now.” The rattle of gunfire echoed from outside, and he added, “If you'd rather, there's a Xandari hunting troupe coming here right now, and you can try and make a better deal with them.” Slapping his club, he said, “If I must, I'll take them down with this thing. Better dead than to be a slave again.”

 Nodding, Salazar replied, “Take them, Sergeant. Four pistols, armor-piercing and light ammunition. You want the blue clips, not the red.” Patting his pistol he replied, “I'll keep the plasma pistol myself. It'd take you too long to learn how to use it.”

 Perry's eyes widened, and he asked, “You can make plasma weapons that small now? Astounding.”

 “Alex,” Molpa said. “They are coming.”

 “Then let's move,” Perry said, running to the back of the shuttle and pulling out a pistol, sliding the clip into position with practiced ease, dispelling Salazar's final doubts. The design of the emergency pistol hadn't changed in half a century, and he'd obviously used one before. He tossed the others to the Neander, then led the way through the hatch, Salazar following with one last glance at Hooke. As he left, he entered a four-digit code to seal the door, giving his wounded comrade at least a measure of security, before following the old veteran on his charge.

 It was freezing outside, and he shivered in his uniform. Kelot tossed a thick jacket to him, and he quickly slid it on, tugging the fastenings into position as he moved across the terrain, following Perry to a dark, rocky outcrop. A loud roaring echoed to his left, and he saw a wheeled buggy bouncing over the landscape towards him, half a dozen not-men inside.

 “They're the Xandari?” he asked. “We call them the not-men.”

 “Not a bad name for them, at that,” Perry replied. “Young man,” he paused, smiled, then said, “Sir, you're on Cyndar, one of the outlying planets in the Xandorian Empire, ruled by our friends out there.” Pointing at the plasma pistol, he added, “If that thing can do what I think it can, you might want to get it powered up.”

 Nodding, Salazar clipped the pistol to the power pack, fumbling in the cold, and watched the charging sequence begin as the weapon primed itself, lights running up the side. Noting his discomfort, Molpa passed him a pair of gloves, and he gratefully slid them on.

 “Forget that you softskins don't have anything keeping you warm,” Molpa said, with a smile. “Are you really here to help us?”

 “That's the idea,” Salazar said, reasoning that it was a logical enough interpretation of their mission, especially with Captain Orlova sending the Espatiers down from Alamo. He anxiously waited for the pistol to climb to full charge, lining up his shot, as a rattle of machine-gun fire echoed around the outcrop, a sound that both chilled and cheered him. Whilst it was never much fun to be shot at, he'd expected to face far tougher opposition.

 At last, the power level built up to the minimum, and taking a deep breath, steadying his aim, he pulled the trigger, sending a ball of green flame racing across the landscape, smashing into the vehicle and tearing it and its occupants apart, one of the Xandari falling into the snow, covered in flame. A plume of black smoke smashed into the sky, and the Neander looked at him with awe, and at his weapon.

 “A man-portable plasma weapon,” Kelot said. “I wouldn't have believed it possible.”

 “They were cannons, in my day,” Perry said. “We had one on Daedalus, but I don't think we ever used it. Tripod-mounted.” Shaking his head, he added, “I see things have improved a little over the years.”

 “Just about,” Salazar said. “You know what's happening, gentlemen, so if you care to tell me where we're needed, we can get moving.”

 A bright explosion lit the sky, one of the domes erupting in smoke and flame, and Kelot cheered, clapping Molpa on the back, the two of them hugging each other as Perry looked on with a benign smile.

 “That was the Security Dome,” Perry explained. “Vengeance has been served for a lot of friends today.” Pointing towards the smoke, he said, “We've got to take at least one of the landing pads if your troopers are going to make it down. There's no working anti-aircraft, other than a few shoulder-mounted missiles, but the main problem are the bunkers on either side. If we can take out one of them, it should clear enough ground for your shuttles.” He smiled, adding, “With that plasma pistol of yours, I'd expect it should be simple enough. I was rather hoping that you'd have something that could help.

 “They aren't using plasma weapons here?” Salazar asked. “The last time I fought the not-men, sorry, Xandari on the ground...”

 “This isn't a front-line installation,” Perry said.

 “Though their weapons are lethal enough,” Molpa added, “as a lot of friends of mine can testify.” Looking over the outcrop, he said, “We've got them on the run, if we can just take the advantage, we'll be free of those bastards in an hour.”

 “What are we waiting for, then?” Salazar asked, moving around the outcrop. “I think I'm going to need a ride back to Alamo anyway!”

 The group sprinted across the snow, racing past the ruins of the Xandari vehicle, the smoking remains stinking the air, towards the forest of domes on the horizon. They passed another group of Neander on some other mission, half a hundred of them chasing off towards the cliffs, waving and cheering as they went. Whatever else, it looked as though Alamo had chosen the winning side.

 Quickly, the ground grew firmer, and Salazar realized that they were running across ice-covered plasticrete, his boots rattling on the surface. The others carried on sprinting, edging ahead of him, and Salazar looked down at his watch, trying to work out how long they had. If Alamo was on its original course, curving towards the planet, they had ten minutes before the shuttles would have to make a landing. In this dense atmosphere, they couldn't loiter for long, not if they wanted to return on the same tank of fuel. Even then, it was going to be chancy.

 A burst of machine gun fire sent them tumbling to the ground, Kelot firing a couple of shots with his pistol towards a Xandari soldier running towards them. Perry, as calm as though he was on a firing range, leveled his pistol at the approaching figure, placing a bullet squarely between his eyes, then looking across at Salazar with a hunter's grin.

 “Just like riding a bicycle,” he said. “You never forget. That felt damn good.”

 Something about the old man's expression terrified him to the core, but he pushed his feelings down and replied, “Which way?”

 His response punctuated by another explosion, Kelot replied, “Over to the right. We've drifted out towards the outer pads. Most of the fighting is concentrated in the domes at the moment, in the agricultural modules.” As an ear-shattering scream filled the air, he continued, “Lostok's idea. He wanted to draw the Xantari away from the landing fields, give your people a chance to form up before taking heavy fire. How many are you sending?”

 “One platoon, I guess,” Salazar said.

 “What?” the Neander said, grabbing him by the shoulder. “You contact your commanding officer and tell her to send everything she's got! We haven't got any time for caution.”

 “That is everything we've got,” Salazar replied, pushing his hand clear. “Fifteen minutes ago we were in the middle of a major battle. It's a damn miracle that we're able to respond at all.”

 “Leave it, Kelot,” Molpa said. “If you'd been told a cycle ago that anyone would come to our aid, you would have laughed it off as the ravings of a lunatic.”

 “How come you all speak English?” Salazar asked, panting for breath, desperate for a moment's rest and silently pledging to double his time on Alamo's treadmill in future.

 “It's a long story,” Perry said. “But I wasn't the one who taught them.” He smiled, and said, “Though I might have corrected a few of the more amusing malaprops.” Glancing over to the right, the rattle of machine gun fire filling the air once again, he said, “Come on, Sub-Lieutenant. Let's go and find the war.”

 Curving to the right, they resumed their dash towards the landing pads, running past a stacked pile of crates, rising a hundred meters above the surface, heading for the waiting shuttles. A group of Neander were waving an improvised flag over the body of a dead Xandari, chanting in an unfamiliar language, and Perry shook his head as they dashed past, Molpa urging them to abandon their celebrations and join them in the attack.

 “Too soon,” he muttered. “We haven't won yet.” Pointing at a blocky structure to the north, he said, “That's what we've got to knock out. There are maybe twenty, thirty of those bastards in there, and if we can silence them, you'll be able to get the marines into position.”

 Nodding, Salazar said, “Any inspired plans you want to tell me about?”

 “Blow a hole in the wall and charge inside?”

 “Great,” the pilot replied, shaking his head. “Just great.” He looked up at the sky, and saw a trail of fire ahead, then another one erupting in its wake. Alamo's shuttles, in the early stages of re-entry, minutes before he'd expected them. With a deep sigh, he raced towards the bunker, weaving from side to side as Cooper had taught him, gunfire sweeping around in wide arcs on either side of him. His goal was a low pipe, running along the ground, heading towards the nearest landing pad, connected to a strange, cylindrical shuttlecraft.

 Behind him, Perry yelled something, charging after him, leading a dozen Neander, bullets flying wide all around them. Some of their new allies fell to the ground as the defenders of the bunker found their targets, but Salazar was able to slide into safety, crashing into the pipe. He pulled out his plasma pistol, reflecting that this was a target he couldn't fail to hit, and squeezed the trigger, a bolt of flame smashing into the armored wall, gouging out a hole almost big enough to walk through, sending purple and green smoke rising, joining the thick clouds gathering overhead from a thousand pocket fires. Another explosion roared to his side, and he turned to see one of the larger shuttles blow up, scattering debris all around, the screams of those who were too close filling the air.

 “You've got to be out of your mind!” Perry yelled, diving in beside him, dodging a stream of bullets that caught one of the Neander, blasting him to pieces. “Haven't you ever been on a battlefield before?”

 Shaking his head, he replied, “Too many times to count, Sergeant.” He glanced down at his plasma pistol, waiting for the charge cycle to complete once again, and turned to the others, saying, “Everyone ready to charge. I think my next shot will bring down the wall.”

 He heard a muttering behind him, presumably his orders being translated, and lined up for a second shot. No one seemed to move in the bunker, just the occasional rattle of fire to convince him that it was still occupied, still dangerous. There was an easy way to deal with that.

 Squeezing the trigger, the world erupted in smoke and flame as the side of the bunker collapsed, exposing a chamber within, a secondary explosion as some munitions blew up. A pair of dazed Xandari stumbled free, easy prey for Perry's dead-eye aim, and Salazar charged forward, screaming a war cry as he raced towards the bunker, waving his now-spent pistol around dangerously, hoping that intimidation and bluff would carry the day.

 Jumping over the first pile of rubble, he saw a wounded figure on the floor, a Neander, who looked up, eyes pleading for mercy, only to receive a bullet in the head from Kelot, who spat at his corpse.

 “Stinking trustee,” he replied. “Damn dirty traitor.”

 “No more,” Salazar said, grabbing the Neander's wrist. “Do that again and we'll leave you all to rot down here.”

 “You haven't suffered down here, softskin. We've labored, bled, and died for years. Don't you dare tell me what I can and can't do.”

 “He's right,” Perry said. “I've been here longer than you, old friend.”

 “I'm not surprised you side with him,” Kelot said. “Though I'd hoped better of you.”

 “Come on,” Salazar said, running towards the second door. He could hear noises behind him, weapons being prepared for battle. “We don't have time for this. Alamo's forces will be down in two minutes.” Reluctant to give any opportunity for more argument, he kicked at the door, the damage it had already suffered dropping it from its mount, and jumped to the right a second before the bullets cracked through the air where he had been.

 Perry yelled, “Charge!” and sprinted forward, Molpa and Kelot behind him, Salazar a second later. A dozen Xandari were in various stages of readiness, guns aimed to fire, but the fury of the Neander was too great, and the death screams of the defenders of the bunker filled the air as they completed their lethal task, mowing them down where they stood.

 “Communicator,” Molpa said, moving over to an undamaged piece of equipment, kicking a corpse out of the way. He started to adjust the dials and switches, then pulled out a headset, passing it to Salazar. “I think we can contact your people.”

 “We're secure,” Perry said, nodding. “Search for weapons, Kelot, and more ammunition. We're running low.” He waved his pistol around, and said, “This thing is about as useless as I remember, I'm afraid. Couldn't they come up with something that has real kick to it?”

 “You seemed to make good use of it,” Salazar replied, sliding on the headset.

 “Don't think I'm not grateful,” the old man said, shaking his head. “Without that gun of yours, we'd still be sitting out in the snow.”

 “Sad to hear you only love me for my sidearm, Sergeant,” Salazar replied, fiddling with the dials, Molpa making careful adjustments, trying to find the right frequency. “Come in, Shuttle Two. Salazar to Shuttle Two. Come in, please.”

 “Oh, you wielded it well, sir. No question about that.”

 “Thanks,” he said with a smile. “Come in, Shuttle Two. You up there, Bradley?”

 “Pavel?” Nelyubov's voice replied. “We thought you were dead! That your shuttle had burned up on re-entry!”

 “I've come rather too close for comfort in the last few minutes, sir, but I'm alive and well. So is Hooke, other than a broken nose.” He looked out the smoke-laden field, and said, “Lock onto my signal. You can land right opposite this bunker. It's in friendly hands.”

 “That was you?” he replied. “Good work, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 “I had a lot of help,” Salazar said, looking around at the cheering Neander.

 “We'll be down in a minute. Entering final approach. Shuttle out.”

 Passing the headset back to Molpa, he peered out of the window, looking at the beautiful sight of two Triplanetary shuttles descending to the field, thrusters carefully firing to allow a simultaneous landing. To his left, he heard a sob, and saw eyes streaming down Perry's face, the old man trying and failing to wipe them away with his sleeve.

 “All these years,” he said. “To see a Martian shuttle again. I never dreamed I'd see the day. I never dreamed.” Shaking his head, he added, “It's over. All of this is over.”

 Clapping him on the shoulder, Salazar replied, “Welcome home, Sergeant.”

Chapter 6

 As the shuttle dropped to the ground, Cooper was already standing at the hatch, plasma rifle in his arms. He glanced back at the squad behind him, the remnants of Second Squad mashed together with some of First, Walpis standing at the front, followed by Akjes and Anghwis. A green light flashed on as the engines died, and the door slid open to send a blast of cold air into the cabin, revealing an icy battlefield, smoke and flame everywhere, the cries of the dying singing on the wind.

 His boots crunched on the ground as he raced towards the bunker, Salazar stepping out of it, followed by a gray-haired old man and a group of Neander. Clasping his friend's hand with a smile, he turned to see the rest of the platoon marching out of the shuttles.

 “Lance-Sergeant Hunt,” he said, turning to the veteran he'd promoted on the flight down, “Get the men into a defensive perimeter, and get over here with Corporals Walpis and Stewart.”

 “Yes, sir,” Hunt replied, pointing over to the right. “Vehicle coming, sir.”

 “That's Lostok,” the old man said. “I'm Technical Sergeant Alexander Perry.” Gesturing to his left, he said, “Kelot and Molpa, Section Leaders.”

 “Ensign Gabriel Cooper, commander of Alamo's Espatier Force.”

 “Espatiers?” Perry asked. “I thought you were Marines?”

 “We are. Long story.”

 “It's a pleasure to meet you, Ensign,” Molpa said, reaching to shake his head as a ball of flame raced up to the sky behind him, another bunker destroyed. As the vehicle skidded onto the launch pad, Nelyubov climbed out of the lead shuttle, tugging his cold-weather jacket around him, shaking his head.

 “What's the situation?” he asked, jogging over to the cluster of officers, Walpis behind him. The sight of a Neander wearing Triplanetary uniform caused a babble of conversation to erupt from the erstwhile slaves, and Kelot stepped towards him, saying something in a language Cooper had never heard before. From the expression on his face, neither had Walpis.

 “I'm sorry, I don't understand,” Walpis replied. “Do you speak English?”

 Shaking his head, Kelot said, “You don't speak Interlang?”

 “Never heard of it.”

 Turning to Cooper, he said, “Then there are still Neander on Earth? Perry never said...”

 “No,” Cooper replied. “Corporal Walpis was born on a world named Thule, and joined the Triplanetary Fleet when the world became a Protectorate a few months ago, after a long career in the local military.”

 “Protectorate?” Kelot's face darkened. “You conquered one of our worlds?” He turned to the approaching Lostok, but before he could say anything, Walpis grabbed him by the shoulder, shaking his head.

 “The Battlecruiser Alamo liberated my people, Kelot. We had been conquered, and were in danger of being annexed by the not-men, before they arrived.”

 Nelyubov nodded, and added, “We are not an empire, but a collection of free planets that have chosen to work together for our mutual survival. As you might have noticed, it's a hostile universe out there.”

 “I'm proud to wear this uniform,” Walpis added, “and I suggest you refrain from disparaging it in future.”

 “Indeed,” Lostok replied, looking around, “That much is obvious. Kelot, these people are here to help us, and have gone to some considerable risk to do so. I think the least we can provide is a measure of courtesy, if nothing else.”

 “We're here to fight a battle,” Cooper said, bluntly. “Where do you need us?”

 Nodding, the Neander leader replied, “The enemy forces have pulled back from their inner defensive perimeter, and we managed to liberate most of the habitation domes in a surprise assault, as well as destroying their security headquarters.” Looking around, he said, “I think we're going to be able to secure the landing pads, but their command center is another story.”

 With a smile, Cooper said, “Just point us in the right direction.”

 Shaking his head, Lostok replied, “It's underground, with a well-fortified entrance over by Agridome One. The guards haven't moved an inch since the battle started, protecting their commanders. Based on our knowledge of their tactical doctrine, they're equipped for a long siege, with the plan to co ordinate local resistance and wait for the counterattack.” Nodding, he said, “We can't allow it to remain intact. There are tunnels and passages leading from that hell-hole to half the domes on the base, and we've only got a very partial map.”

 “Internal layout?” Nelyubov asked.

 “No one who has ever gone in has come out to tell us,” Kelot replied. “Among other things, it holds their interrogation chambers.”

 Nodding, Cooper said, “Hunt, you take First Squad, at least, what there is of it, and support surface operations. Place yourself with Lostok. Walpis, we're going into that bunker with Second and Third.”

 “Yes, sir,” Walpis replied with a smile.

 “I'm coming as well,” Kelot said, “As well as a troop of my men. You're going to need the reinforcements, and besides, we have a personal stake in the destruction of that compound. Too much of our blood has been spilled there in the past.”

 “That isn't necessary, Section Leader,” Lostok said.

 “I think it is,” the Neander replied.

 “If you've got a spare rifle,” Salazar said, “I'll come along as well.”

 Perry nodded, but Lostok shook his head before the old man could volunteer, saying, “No, old friend. You've done more than enough this day, and you'll be needed to work with your friends from the Confederation. Having lived for thirty years in this nightmare, I will not see you die on the day of your liberation, not when you have done so much to bring it about.”

 “But...”

 Placing his arm around his shoulder, Nelyubov said, “Sergeant, I need to debrief you anyway. Ensign Cooper knows his job.”

 “It'll be fine, Sergeant,” Salazar added. “Come on, Gabe.”

 “Move out, Second Squad!” Cooper said. “Pavel, you stick with Corporal Stewart and Third. Take a different route, just in case.”

 “On the way,” Salazar replied, catching a plasma rifle from the air, tossed to him from the shuttle, and clipping it to his power pack. The troopers raced across the landing strip, Kelot shouting the occasional order to guide them to their destination, as they picked their way around the smoking remains of wrecked shuttles, and the bodies scattered across the field, Xandari and Neander both, debris of the still-raging battle.

 A light patter began to drop on Cooper's shoulders, and he realized it was snowing, a sensation so unfamiliar that he almost stopped in surprise. Every world was a new wonder, even if this one was tinged with horror. He felt something grasping at his feet, and looked down at a dying Neander, his hands reaching up to him as the last breath shuddered from his body.

 “He's dead, Ensign,” Kelot said. “We'll worry about him later!” He pointed towards a low structure in the distance, sitting beside a green dome, a portal that seemed to rise out of the ground. A dozen soldiers surrounded it, emplacements positioned to resist an assault, and though he couldn't see any plasma weapons in evidence, there was enough lethal hardware to give him plenty of pause.

 Glancing around, he raced to the left, heading for a row of crates that would provide some sort of cover, Walpis and the rest of the Espatiers following him while Kelot and his men continued to charge right for the bunker, as though determined to die in this field. Cooper cursed, knowing that they would be in the middle of the killing ground in a matter of seconds, and redoubled his pace as the machine guns began their deadly clatter, the rattle of bullets racing across the field to lance into the flesh of their enemies.

 Flakes of ice and plasticrete flew up from the ground around him as he skidded into cover, slamming into the crates with his shoulder, sending the top one toppling, cracking on the concrete, the contents spilling out all around, filling the air with the smell of fish.

 Lining up his plasma rifle, he checked the charge cycle, making a few tweaks as he sited his shot, trying not to think about the Neander who would be dead in seconds if he missed. Calmly, he squeezed the trigger, sending a ball of green flame dancing across the field, smashing into the front of the fortifications, the screams of the not-men filling the air in the final seconds of their life. Shaking his head, he rose to his feet, waving for his men to come on, as a second bolt flew by his side, crashing into the ground, unnecessary duplication of death.

 For the first time, Kelot and his men paused, looking across at Cooper as though they were struggling to believe the power of the weapons he was using. Their hesitation only lasted for a few seconds, and they continued their fearless advance, the Espatiers struggling to keep pace with the desperate men ahead.

 Jumping over the shattered ruins of the fortifications, trying to ignore the smell of burning flesh all around, Cooper moved over to the armored door, that Kelot and his people had already attempted to break down. He took a look at the control panel and shook his head. Even if he'd been able to hack the enemy systems, the heat had wrecked the device, sealing them in, potentially permanently.

 “Damn it,” he said. “That's what they wanted us to do.”

 “You should have been more careful with that death ray,” one of Kelot's men said.

 Shaking his head, Walpis replied, “If you hadn't decided to launch a suicide charge, we could have taken our time about it.”

 “We'll have to do this the hard way,” Cooper said. “Everyone stand back, well clear. When this goes up, it's going to be big.” Turning to the Neander, he added, “I mean it, Kelot. Pull back beyond the perimeter and keep your damned heads down. You'll know when the time comes to move, but on no account will you or any of your men so much as twitch until I give the command.”

 “Or what?” Kelot asked, a sneer on his face.

 “Or you and all of your men will be killed by the shock wave when we blow this door. Ever seen ten plasma balls hitting in unison?”

 McBride whistled, replying, “Sir, that's….”

 “I know, Private.” He glanced around, spotting Salazar and Third Squad piecing they way through the flames. Lance-Corporal Tokarova had acquired a wounded arm at some point, and Specialist Reeves was trying to urge her to stop so that he could examine her.

 “Sorry about the delay,” Stewart said. “We got held up.”

 Shaking his head, Kelot said, “While you were wasting time...”

 “There are thirty Xandari reinforcements who aren't going to be bothering us now, Kelot,” Salazar said. “Which we took out at the price of one walking wounded.” He looked around at the devastation surrounding the bunker, and said, “Looks like you've been busy, Gabe.”

 “Pull back, and set your rifles for maximum charge,” Cooper said, pulling a marker out of a pocket and slamming it onto the still-warm doors. “Use computer aim, and network your firing computers. I want this entirely on automatic.” The troopers rushed to obey his order as he looked at the marker again, making sure he had positioned it correctly, before running back to join his men, lying down on the snow, quickly digging in to provide him with some protection. As the others did likewise, he lined up his rifle, switching it over to the combined network, and after a quick check to make sure that his troopers were in cover, and that Kelot and his men were obeying his instructions, he started the countdown.

 As the last second ticked away, he closed his eyes, hearing the roar of eleven plasma rifles firing as one, feeling the intense wave of heat fly across the ice, steam rising in huge columns into the sky that for a heartbeat obscured the explosion, a rumbling roar that echoed through the air, sending fragments of concrete and metal raining down around them, cries of pain from some of the Neander who had failed to take sufficient cover.

 Rising to his feet, he looked at the still rising column of smoke and steam, the crater where the bunker had once been, scattered debris and red-hot metal. For a few seconds, silence reigned across the battlefield, every combatant pausing to behold the destruction, before returning to their deadly game.

 “Anyone hurt?” he asked, and with a chorus of negative replies, cautiously stepped forward, weaving a path around the shattered remnants, Walpis and Salazar following. Kelot belatedly rose to his feet, stepping unheedingly towards the ruin.

 “My apologies, Ensign,” the Neander said. “I thought you were being overcautious.”

 “I'd always wondered what would happen if we tried that,” he said. A smoke-laden shaft spiraled down into the gloom, a spider's web of molten metal underneath that he kicked free with his boot, a scream from underground as the red-hot embers dropped on some unfortunate not-man. Kelot peered down, then over to Cooper.

 “What now, Ensign?” he asked.

 “Sir,” Akjes said, “I'm getting power build-up, right underneath us. Growing rapidly.”

 Looking sharply at Salazar, Cooper yelled, “Run! Now!” and started to sprint for the horizon, his men instantly reacting to follow him, Kelot pausing for a critical second before obeying the order. He slipped and scrambled on the freezing surface as he struggled to gain ground, instinctively knowing what the not-men would do. Surrender was anathema to them, but with their surface defenses destroyed, there was no way they could win this battle. It might be expensive, but they'd take over the control center in a matter of moments.

 “Still building!” Akjes said, holding his datapad in his hand, almost stumbling over a fuel pipe.

 “Keep running!” Cooper said, panting for breath, some of the slower members of the platoon falling behind. There was no cover he could trust, no way of knowing how wide an area was about to be affected. Safety lay in speed. Risking a quick glance behind him, he saw the Neander starting to catch up, their tardiness countered by their greater familiarity with the terrain, the gravity. Kelot was in the lead, flashing him a confused stare.

 “What's happening?” he asked, but before Cooper could reply, a roar bellowed from underground, a second, titanic explosion tearing through the plasticrete surface of the landing pad, ripping through the material, scattering chunks of debris and shuttles around as though they were toys. Attempting to keep his feet was hopeless, and he tumbled to the ground, rolling on his back to see the column of smoke and flame leaping into the air as the very earth began to subside, forming a huge crater, dozens of meters across.

 He panted for breath as the noise began to subside, glancing around to try and take stock of his men. If he'd reacted a second slower, if he'd failed to move in time, they'd have died with the not-men.

 “Akjes,” he yelled.

 “Here, sir,” the Neander said through gasps of breath, slightly ahead of him.

 “Consider that promotion to Lance-Corporal confirmed. I'll do the paperwork when we get back.”

 “Thanks, sir,” he replied, shaking his head. “Never a dull moment!”

 “Pavel, you alive?”

 “No,” Salazar said, struggling to sit up, shaking the dust from his uniform, an angry cut across his forehead trickling blood. “You throw a hell of a party, Kelot.”

 The Neander rose to his feet, his eyes wide as he beheld the scene unfolding before him. All around, the noise of battle was ebbing, as though the destruction of the command center had resulted in a mutual agreement that the fight was ended. Cooper could make out figures racing across the snow, off in the distance, too far away to work out which side they were on.

 His communicator beeped, and he raised it to his ear, saying, “Cooper here.”

 “Nelyubov here, Ensign. You might be interested to know that they picked up that explosion on Alamo. What the hell happened?”

 “The not-men decided to destroy the command center rather than let it fall into our hands. I guess there must have been something down there they didn't want us to know.”

 “Damn,” Nelyubov said. “Well, the intelligence boys will be disappointed, but at least it looks like everything is coming to an end now. The surviving not-men,” he paused, then said, “Xandari, apparently, are heading for the hills, and I don't think there's much we can do to stop them for the moment. Your men?”

 He looked around, watching his platoon slowly rising to their feet, most of them festooned with scratches and bruises from the battle, Tokarova's arm hanging lifelessly by her side.

 “One wounded, sir, but everyone else seems fine.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “I'm not sure about Kelot's troop, though.”

 “Well, once you get yourselves together, make your way back to the shuttle. Looks like we won this one, Cooper. Good work.”

 “Thank you, sir.” Shaking his head, he said, “Tactical deployment, people, and keep your weapons hot. Everyone else might be willing to declare victory, but there are still not-men wandering around out here.”

 As his platoon slowly assembled, Cooper turned back to the crater, the crackling of a hundred fires still filling the air with smoke. Kelot was still watching it, holding his rifle, as though expecting the ghosts of the not-men to launch an attack.

 “You coming?” he asked, tapping the Neander on the shoulder.

 “What?”

 “They want us back at the shuttle.”

 Nodding, he said, “In a minute. Five years I've looked at that bunker and longed for this moment. I think I've earned the right to savor it.”

 “Kelot, it's over. Bar the shouting, anyway.”

 “You're wrong, Ensign. It's never over. Not while one of those bastards breathes.”

Chapter 7

 Orlova looked around the hangar bay, her assembled officers lined up beside her, wearing hastily-donned dress uniforms for the occasion. Fortunately, this section of the ship hadn't been damaged in the attack, but the chaos and confusion on the deck almost made it appear as though it had, technicians and engineers milling around, Chief Kowalski yelling orders at the deck gang, trying to spur them to greater speed.

 She looked down the ranks of her officers, frowning at the gaps. Quinn had begged off, citing a repair schedule that would have made the shipyards at Mariner Station despair, and Kibaki was attempting to restore some sort of order to the sections that had been damaged in the attack. Duquesne was still working on the wounded, and had yet to provide any report more coherent than a string of obscenities, but it appeared that she was going to pull off her usual miracle. All seventeen of the wounded were expected to survive, though at least a couple of them would almost certainly face medical discharges when Alamo got home.

 Shaking her head, she glanced up at the situation monitor, showing the trajectory track of the shuttle returning from the surface. Salazar would be moving as rapidly as he could, but she still resented the wasted seconds, time she desperately need to get her ship back into fighting trim for the next battle. There was a time and place for diplomacy, and this certainly wasn't it.

 “Shuttle Two, approaching elevator airlock, arriving in one minute.”

 Powell shook his head, and said, “Not every day we make first contact with a new interstellar power, Captain. This could be the answer to all of our prayers.”

 “I hope so, Professor,” she replied. “I damn well hope so.”

 Sirens sounded as the elevator airlock engaged, catching the shuttle as it slid underneath Alamo, dragging it up to the deck. At a signal from Kowalski, the work paused for a moment, all hands standing to attention as the Triplanetary anthem blared over the speakers, the only touch of pomp and circumstance that Alamo was currently able to provide.

 The hatch slid open, and Lostok walked out, striding forward with the air of one used to the feel of a deck, Nelyubov at his side. Behind him, tentatively emerging from the shuttle, she saw Perry, looking around with amazement on his face, wearing the Martian Defense Force uniform she'd had prepared for him. Two more Neander, more cautious than the others, followed, the procession coming to a halt opposite Orlova.

 “My thanks, Captain,” Lostok said. “It's a great honor, and a pleasure, to be among those who liberated us from our oppressors.” He held out a hand, and Orlova shook it as the final notes of the anthem played.

 “Welcome to the Battlecruiser Alamo, sir.” Gesturing at her officers, she said, “Senior Lieutenant Powell, my Science Officer, Lieutenants Harper and Cantrell, Intelligence and Tactical, and Sub-Lieutenant Bradley, my Flight Officer.”

 “Kelot, Combat Section Leader, and Molpa, Technical Section Leader,” he replied, indicating the two Neander. Glancing around, the Neander quietly said, “You can let these people get on with their work now, Captain. I'm certain that they have better things to do than pay homage to an old man. I hope you didn't suffer too much damage in the battle.”

 “We've had worse, sir,” she replied.

 “Amazing,” Perry said, shaking his head. “I saw this ship being built, out at Callisto, before I headed out on my last mission. To finally be walking on board, back on a Triplanetary ship, is wonderful.” Looking at Orlova, he added, “I'm sorry, ma'am. Technical Sergeant Alexander Perry, reporting for duty.”

 “Welcome back to the Fleet, Sergeant. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

 “Thirty-two years,” he said. “Thirty-two years since I set foot on the deck of a Triplanetary vessel.” His eyes wandering around the deck, he said, “Captain, there wasn't time for a long debate on the surface, with all the fighting, but...” He took a deep breath, and said, “And I hadn't dared to ask. The War?”

 With a smile, Orlova said, “The Interplanetary War ended when the United Nations recognized the independence of the Triplanetary Confederation at the Treaty of Ceres, sixteen years ago.”

 Perry collapsed to the deck, holding his head in his hands, the tears flowing freely as he said, “It's over. It's all over.”

 Lostok rested a hand on Perry's shoulder, and said, “You should be proud of this man, Captain. He never lost his spirit, never lost his fight, and spent his entire time on Cyndar plotting and preparing for the day when we would overthrow the Xandari. Which, at last, we have accomplished.” Looking down at the old man, he said, “If it would be appropriate, I would like to recommend him personally for the highest decoration.”

 “You don't need to,” she replied. “I've already seen to it. As well as something else.” Kneeling down to look at Perry, he said, “You had a wife, and a son, when you left. I took the liberty of going through the personnel files, and was planning to prepare you a precis of your family's history while you were away, but it turned out to be unnecessary.” Turning to the rear, she yelled, “Spaceman Perry, front and center!”

 A young woman, wearing a maintenance jumpsuit, stepped forward out of the crowd, walking towards Perry. She looked down at him, confusion on her face, and Orlova helped him to rise from the deck, until they were standing, facing each other.

 “Grandfather?” she asked, shaking her head. “Is it really you?”

 His eyes widened, and he replied, “You're Joe's daughter? He had a daughter?” Throwing his arms around her, the two hugged, and Orlova caught a patch of moisture at her own eye. Over in the far corner, Kowalski had managed to find some excuse to duck behind a maintenance station, and Nelyubov was shaking his head in disbelief.

 “I knew we had a Spaceman Perry on board,” he said, stepping towards Orlova, “but I didn't think it could be possible that they were related.”

 “The database threw it right up,” she replied. “Sergeant, Spaceman, I think you can both be excused for a little while. I know that you'll have a lot to talk about.” Glancing at Nelyubov, she added, “We'll be sending a party over to Daedalus in a couple of hours...”

 “I'd like to go along, Captain,” Perry said, looking over his granddaughter's shoulder.

 “Of course.” Gesturing towards the elevator, she continued, “Lostok, if you and the rest of your party will come with me to the briefing room, we can work out what to do next.”

 Shaking his head, Kelot replied, “I would have thought that was quite obvious. We hunt down the remainder of the Xandari and wipe them out. They need to pay for what they have done.”

 Turning to his subordinate, Lostok said, “We both know that it isn't as simple as that. There are five thousand people down there...”

 “And this morning, there were seven thousand,” Kelot pressed.

 “Later!” Lostok snapped. “Captain, please lead the way.”

 Gesturing for Nelyubov, Powell and Salazar to accompany her, Orlova stepped into the elevator, the Neander following. Kelot's face was still a mask of fury, but the others displayed a combination of joy and wonder. Lostok smiled, shaking his head.

 “I have to confess I felt like Sergeant Perry,” he said, as the doors closed. “Somehow I never thought I would walk the decks of a starship again. It's a good feeling to feel metal underfoot.”

 “You served on a starship?” Powell asked.

 “Why?” Kelot said. “Do you think we are nothing but primitive savages? We have starships of our own, a grand fleet of warships that will purge the Xandari from the heavens one day.”

 “I'm sure nothing was meant by the Lieutenant's statement,” Lostok said. “I was the commander of the Ascendant, five years ago. We were ambushed by a Xandari cruiser, taken prisoner, and transferred to this colony.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Everyone down there can tell a similar story.”

 The doors slid open, and they walked down the corridor to the briefing room, Orlova asking, “Then it was a slave settlement? That doesn't seem very practical.”

 “One weakness the Xandari have is that they are few, and we are many,” Lostok said. “Between us, we harnessed the resources of the planet under their direction for shipment back to Xandor. Crystals, primarily, for use in their laser weaponry, but also a selection of rare minerals and earths, and even exotic foodstuffs. While the native lifeform on this planet is not edible by humans, there is a certain extract that I understand has favor on their world as a flavoring, though I personally find it utterly repugnant.”

 “This way,” Orlova said, stepping through a door. “Are there other such worlds, then?”

 “Our colony was called Extraction Plant Three, for whatever that is worth,” Molpa volunteered. “Though all of the prisoners on the planet were taken from their ships, their outposts, directly to us. I suppose it could be a deception.”

 Taking her seat at the head of the table, Orlova and her officers arranged themselves to face the Neander, as a holoprojection of local space dropped down over the table, showing their path from Triplanetary space to their current location.

 “What exactly is your mission, Captain?” Lostok asked. “Did you have some knowledge of our location?”

 “I'm afraid not,” she replied. “About a year ago, one of our outer bases was attacked by the Xandari, and since then, we've suffered other attacks. So far, we've been able to beat them off, but our Combined Chiefs of Staff decided that the best defense was a good offense. There's a task force assembling right now at Thule, ready to launch a strike.”

 “What are they waiting for?” Kelot asked.

 “Intelligence,” Nelyubov replied. “We had a rough idea where they were coming from, but no firm knowledge. Our mission is a reconnaissance in force, to find the location of their homeworld, the extent of their territory, and work out what weak spots we might exploit.”

 “There we can help you, I think,” Lostok said, shaking his head. “We were essentially on the same mission, Captain, although you have had more luck than I did. We three were the senior officers of the Ascendant, a far-rover of the Interstellar Collective. For the last twenty years, we've been under attack by the Xandari, in a constant state of war. And, to be blunt, we're losing.”

 “Our leaders decided to hole up and hide from the galaxy,” Kelot said, scowling. “We built defense stations, sentry posts, guard fleets. Despite that, in the first fifteen years of the war, the systems under our control shrank from five to three.”

 “The harsh reality is that they have a technological edge. While we are more advanced in the bio-sciences, their ships are more maneuverable, with a greater radius of operations and superior armament. Six years ago, we managed to capture one of their ships intact, and realized that they were obtaining their technology from an outside source.”

 Nodding, Orlova said, “They've captured some of our vessels, our deep-range explorers.”

 “That convinced us that there might be another option. If they were not developing their technology themselves, we thought it conceivable that there might be a potential ally, out amid the stars. Ascendant's mission was to venture forth to uncharted space, beyond the combat area, and find them. That's why we learned English. We'd intercepted some radio signals from beyond, and had enough of the language to at least develop a basic understanding. Knowing alien languages was one of the prime requirements for expedition members.”

 “Unfortunately, we failed to break the blockade,” Molpa said. “We were captured just two jumps into our mission, and exiled to Cyndar. Since then, we know of three other vessels that have made the attempt, all of whom suffered similar fates. Have any of our people reached your space?”

 “Not to our knowledge,” Orlova replied. “Certainly none have ever reached the Confederation, though I can't necessarily say the same for the Republic or the United Nations, still less for the Cabal.”

 “Cabal?” Lostok asked. “Sergeant Perry had briefed us on the state of affairs at Sol when he left, but he never mentioned a fourth interstellar power.”

 “We only contacted them after he was lost,” Nelyubov replied. “I've arranged for a full briefing on the state of the galaxy as we know it, for you to examine at your leisure.”

 Looking around the room, Orlova said, “What happens next, gentlemen? How are you going to defend your new world?”

 “We aren't,” Lostok replied, coldly. “We have no defense systems, no fleet, and in a very short time a Xandari force will arrive. Whereupon they will almost certainly destroy the settlement from orbit, and send down hunter troupes to finish off any of us who are left.” Shaking his head, he said, “Within the next couple of weeks, Cyndar's population will only consist of the dead.”

 Powell, eyes wide, said, “At best, Alamo could only evacuate a hundred of your people. Perhaps thirty on Daedalus, assuming we can restore it to service.”

 “No need,” Lostok said, his eyes twinkling. “We've been planning this escape for years, Lieutenant, and I assure you we have a plan, though we had assumed it would be a Collective vessel helping us implement it.”

 “I assure you,” Orlova said, “that you will not find Alamo wanting.”

 “Good. In thirty-six hours, local time, a bulk transport will be arriving in orbit. Larger than anything in either of our respective fleets, three times as large as your battlecruiser and with plenty of room for everyone. My people will need to make some modifications, but they are not extensive. I believe that the vessel is used as a personnel transport on occasion.”

 “Wait a moment,” Nelyubov interrupted. “The Xandari have vessels in service that can transport five thousand troops at a time? We don't have anything capable of holding a tenth of that number.”

 Frowning, Powell replied, “I can't see any technical reasons why such a vessel would not work, though the power and structural requirements would be daunting. How large a crew does it hold?”

 “None,” Lostok said. “The vessel is completely unmanned.”

 “We're going to want to take a long look at that technology,” Orlova said. “Are you sure it will come in time?”

 “Certain, and it always comes in empty.” Frowning, he replied, “Though we expect that there will be a small escort. Nothing you can't handle, I hope.”

 Shaking his head, Nelyubov said, “If the damage reports I've been seeing are anything to go by, I think we'll struggle to get the ship to combat readiness in the time. What sort of vessel are we talking about.”

 “Just a small picket ship,” Kelot said. “I would have assumed that a warship as powerful as yours would have no problem facing such limited opposition.”

 “We'll do our part,” Orlova replied.

 “Once the ship is secured, we can make such modifications as are required to bring the ship under manual operation, and load sufficient supplies for the trip back to our space.” Lostok looked around, and said, “My people want to go home, Captain.”

 “How far?”

 “Five jumps from here.” Taking a deep breath, the Neander said, “And I must formally request an escort. We'd never make it back alone, though duty binds me to make the attempt. We'll have to break through enemy lines to return to our territory.”

 Tapping a control, Orlova said, “Engineering, please. Is Lieutenant Quinn there?”

 “I'm here, Captain,” Quinn replied, his voice tinny over the hastily repaired intercom. “What's the problem?”

 “I need a status report, Jack.”

 “How long have you got?”

 “Bottom line. Can you fix our girl.”

 There was a long pause, and the engineer said, “Not to full combat readiness, I can't. Not without a space-dock. Too much damage to the superstructure, too much equipment we can't repair. I can patch her up enough to get back to the Confederation, as long as we can avoid another battle. Fuel won't be a problem now. I've already got a tanker shuttle heading down to the surface.”

 “Thanks, Jack. Keep me posted.” She turned back to Lostok, and said, “I know it isn't what you want to hear, but I can offer you safe passage back to the Confederation. From there you can accompany the task force.”

 “That could take months, years, or never!” Kelot said, slamming his fist on the table. “Damn them, Lostok. We'll go without them, and fight our way through with what we have.”

 Shaking his head, Molpa said, “If that is your plan, then I think I will ask Captain Orlova if she needs another engineer. I have better things to do with my life than bring it to a pointless end.”

 “We cannot proceed without escort,” Lostok said. “There is another option, though it will lengthen our flight home. Our people encountered a free port, in neutral space, just before the onset of the war. Reports suggest that it remains in position, and it has facilities suitable for the repair of starships like yourselves.”

 “Despite the Xandari?” Powell asked.

 “They are permitted to use the facilities as well,” Molpa replied. “The station is truly neutral, and has defenses that would make capturing it an expensive proposition. Of course, our information is some years out of date.”

 Shaking her head, Orlova replied, “Then you are asking me to take a leap into the dark, to a system that might be under enemy control.”

 “I'm afraid that is exactly what I am asking, Captain.” Sitting forward, Lostok added, “I have something to offer in exchange, though.”

 “And that is?”

 “At the very least, mutual exchange of information. Everything my people have learned about the Xandari, including full maps of their territory, projected fleet strength, all the information you ventured into space to collect and more besides. At best, alliance with a friendly power. Between us, we can beat them. I'm convinced of it.” He paused, then said, “Don't think that I am using this information as a bargaining chip. If I had it here, I would give it to you, but it was stolen with my ship. Nevertheless, I am certain that my people back home will supply you with everything you need. Maybe even an escort back to your space.”

 Orlova looked at Nelyubov, then back to Lostok, saying, “I'll have to talk to my officers about this in some detail, and go over the proposed plan. For the present, we will prepare to take the freighter. No matter what happens, we must get your people safely away from this planet, and that's the first step. As for the rest, you will have my decision in two days.”

 “Indecision, Captain?” Kelot asked.

 “Caution,” she replied.

Chapter 8

 Harper looked across at Sergeant Perry, craning in his seat to get a good look at Daedalus as they closed on the old, abandoned ship, the shuttle slowly curving in towards it. She'd drawn the inspection mission simply by having nothing more critical to do. Every other officer was engaged in the repair work, and Orlova had decided that she could delay her next sleep period by a couple of hours. The rest of the team had been selected along similar lines, and she caught Spaceman Bartlett stifling a yawn, while Spaceman Ingram seemed on the verge of dropping off altogether.

 “Docking in one minute,” Armstrong, the shuttle pilot, said. “Automatic systems are still working over there, so that's a good sign. Externally she looks intact, just a little under-maintained.”

 “After we were captured, they brought us here on our own ship,” Perry said, still staring at the slowly tumbling vessel. “Then they looked all over her, examining every detail. All the officers were taken away, as well as the senior enlisted. After the interrogations, there were only seven of us left.”

 “The others?” Harper asked.

 “Died, one by one, waiting for a rescue that never came.” He patted a pocket, and said, “I've got their letters home, right here, and one day I'm going to hand-deliver them.” Turning to her, he said, “I've lived long enough to see this, and that's enough for me.”

 “Let's hope you live a little longer yet,” the hacker said, with a smile.

 He looked at her for a moment, then said, “Forgive me, but you look a little familiar. Are you related to Colonel Harper? Commander of the Agamemnon?”

 She smiled, and said, “He made General by the end of the war. He's a Senator now. And yes, I'm his daughter.”

 “Following in his footsteps,” he said, nodding. “My son joined the service, you know. Four years, at the end of the war, in logistics. And now my granddaughter, as well.” Shaking his head, he said, “I guess three generations makes it a tradition.”

 “It isn't uncommon,” Harper said. “The Captain's father served in the war, on Hercules.”

 He paused for a moment, then asked, “Do you think she'll bring Daedalus back into service? Get her back into the fight?”

 “If there's any chance at all in the time,” she replied. “We can't afford to spare a ship, especially not under these circumstances. There are older ships still in Triplanetary service, though I don't think there are any others of that class.”

 “And if we can't, she'll blow her up,” he said. “Deny her to the enemy.” He looked down at the deck, and said, “We should have done that the first time. Captain Chambers ordered the magazines detonated, but Lieutenant Fedor stopped him. Said that while there was life, there was hope. I've hated him ever since.” With a sigh that seemed to wrack his body, he continued, “Though I don't know whether he was right nor not.”

 “You're a free man, Sergeant,” she said. “Take hold of that.”

 “And then what?” he replied. “I doubt they'll let me stay in the Fleet. My wife is dead, my son has a family of his own. They don't need me hanging around, not after all this time, a ghost from the past returned to haunt them.” Shaking his head, he said, “Mars must have changed a lot in the last three decades.”

 Pressing her hand on his, she said, “You'll get to see it all, Sergeant. And with thirty years' back pay and retirement benefits, I doubt you'll need to worry about getting a job any time soon. I think we owe you that much. And you're our resident expert on the Collective, remember.”

 “Until they send a formal Ambassador, or you send sociological teams in.” He paused, looked around the shuttle, and said, “Don't take this the wrong way, but aren't you a little young for your rank?”

 “Twenty-three,” she replied, shaking her head. “And damn, that's beginning to catch up with me quickly. I was eighteen when I first reported on board Alamo.”

 “You graduated from the Academy at eighteen?”

 “Never went,” she replied, “and no, it doesn't have anything to do with my father. Not directly, anyway.” With a sigh, she said, “He thought a tour on a warship would do me some good, so he signed me up as a Spaceman Third.”

 “And you ended up as a Lieutenant?”

 “Let's just say I made some friends in low places, and leave it at that. There's a reason I'm Alamo's Intelligence Officer.”

 Shaking his head, he replied, “I never trusted the spooks during the War.”

 “Wise man. I don't, either.”

 “We're on final approach, Lieutenant,” Armstrong said. “Are we still clear to go in?”

 “Are we getting any telemetry yet?”

 “Just the bare minimums, but I guess that's something. Life support is coming on, and there's some power at least.” She paused, then said, “This airlock's been heavily used, Sergeant.”

 “I've no idea when,” he replied. “I haven't been up here in thirty years, not since the last tour.” Shaking his head, he said, “Good God, we told them some wild stories about the systems. Hopefully enough to confuse the hell out of them for years. And we did wipe all of our navigation programs, purged all the databases. They didn't get any software from us, that much I can personally vouch for.” Glancing at Harper, he continued, “I doubled as deputy Sysop. All we left were the basic vessel functions. Life support, power distribution. Nothing that could teach them anything.”

 “I got my start that way as well,” she replied, before turning back to the cockpit, “Take us in, Spaceman, but proceed with caution. Any sign of trouble, bail out, and don't handshake with the Daedalus systems until I've checked it over myself.” Rising from her seat, she said, “Want to give me a hand, Sergeant?”

 “I thought you'd never ask,” he replied, following her to the hatch. With a resounding thud, the two ships mated, and Harper tapped a sequence of commands into the airlock panel, isolating it from the rest of the ship before linking with the other network. “Interesting. Look at that.”

 Alien text streamed down the display, and Perry said, “Xandari. They must have tried to install some of their own systems.”

 “Can you read any of it?”

 “One word in ten, on a good day. They tried to discourage anyone learning their language, but I picked a few words, here and there.” He squinted at the writing, and said, “Something about training, I think. I see the word for simulator, another for testing.”

 “It looks safe enough,” Harper said, tapping for a sensor display. “She hasn't even twitched since we arrived, and no electromagnetic activity other than the telemetry feed and the usual internal systems chatter.” After one last check, she said, “Open her up, Jen. I think we're good to go.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” the pilot replied, cracking the lock. The hatch slid open, a brief whine as the pressure equalized, and Harper kicked inside, drifting into the corridor, Perry following after a second's hesitation. She looked back at him, a smile on his face.

 “Hello, old friend,” he said, patting the wall. “It's good to be back.”

 Before she could reply, her attention was caught by writing, stenciled onto the wall, unfamiliar letters. Beneath the airlock controls, she could see more text, smaller, more complicated, and arrows pointing at some of the buttons.

 “Xandorian?” she asked, and Perry nodded.

 “It's all over the place,” he said. “Interesting. Maybe left over from when they were doing the initial analysis.”

 Shaking her head, she replied, “If that's true, we can learn a lot from their paint technology. That's fresh, as though it was only applied a few months ago, not three decades.” Turning back to the shuttle, she said, “Bartlett, see if you can wake up Ingram and head down to the comm suite. We might need to do a data dump in a hurry. Arkhipov, you and Armstrong take engineering and see what the situation is down there. Specifically the hendecaspace drive. If we can't get that working, we might as well pack up and go home right now.” Glancing at Perry, she continued, “I'm heading for the bridge. Come on, Sergeant.”

 “Yes, ma'am,” he said, pushing after her as she drifted down the corridor. More writing was on the wall, some in large print, short phrases, others more complicated sentences. Belatedly, she pulled out her datapad and took high-resolution shots, recording all evidence of the Xandorian presence.

 “They don't seem to have changed anything,” she said, “and I don't see anything obviously missing.” Shaking her head, she continued, “And for a ship that's been drifting in free space for thirty years, it's well maintained.”

 Nodding, Perry said, “Strange. I think they've even made some repairs. The air system always had a strange tang to it, one we could never quite pin down, but I can't smell anything now.” He smiled, and said, “Whenever we got back from leave, it always seemed to stink. I remember, back on Sutter's World one time, old LeClerc and I...” He paused, sighed, and said, “He died eight years ago. Strange how the memory plays tricks.”

 “Familiar surroundings,” Harper said, swinging around a corridor, down towards the bridge. “Not surprising that it's bringing back old memories. If you'd rather go back to the shuttle...”

 “Not on your life,” he interrupted. “I've waited a long time for this.” Pointing at a pressure door at the end of the corridor, he continued, “There it is, just ahead. Stuffed in wherever the control sequences could be installed. They were in a hell of a hurry when they built these beauties. Five of them in twelve months.”

 “They did a hell of a job in the first few years of the war, while they were getting the battlecruisers ready. I remember some of the stories my father used to tell me about his missions on Agamemnon, raiding out Procyon, Sirius way. That ship's in the Fleet Museum. The only one to make it through the war.” She caught herself a second too late, and said, “Sorry.”

 “Don't be. You don't have to humor an old man, you know.”

 “You're what, fifty-five? That isn't old. Twenty years from mandatory retirement.”

 “I feel nearer eighty, and I've lived most of my life in heavy gravity. That ages you.” He sighed, and said, “Let's see if my old security code still works.” Reaching to a keypad, underneath more of the scrawled text, he entered a nine-digit sequence, and the door obediently slid open, revealing a cramped control room inside, two couches facing forward, one either side, and a command chair in the middle. Perry floated over to Weapons Control, running his hand over the console, a beaming smile on his face.

 “Damn it, I'm home,” he said. Frowning, he looked down at the panel, and said, “Lieutenant...”

 “For God's sake, call me Kris,” she said.

 “Kris, look at this. There's writing everywhere, the whole console is covered in it.”

 “The whole bridge is. Everything's labeled.” Nodding, she said, “I've got it. This ship wasn't abandoned. They used it as a training vessel.” Waving around, she continued, “They'd send trainees here to familiarize themselves with the layout of a Triplanetary ship, either to get an idea of what the internal layout looked like, or to operate the controls.” She moved to the helm, tapped a button, and the panel lit up, strange text appearing on the viewscreen as the familiar starfield appeared. “You said you deleted all the high-level programming.”

 “Yes. We only left the absolutely critical ship functions.”

 Pulling out her communicator, she said, “Harper to Arkhipov. What's your status?”

 “I'm at the drive room now, and everything appears to be intact. There's some strange sort of writing covering everything.”

 “Take lots of photographs, Spaceman, then have a look at the controls. I'm going to bet you find them essentially ready to go.” She tried another panel, with the same result, and said, “We're not going to have any trouble at all bringing this ship back into service. Those bastards have done all the hard work for us.”

 “What do you mean?”

 “Harper to Alamo,” she said. “Is the Captain there?”

 “I'm here, Kris,” Orlova said. “What's the problem.”

 “You want some good news for a change?”

 “Tell me more.”

 “I'll have Daedalus up and running in six hours. Twelve at the outside, and all I'm going to need is a damage control team and a bridge crew. The Xandari kept everything intact, everything functioning, and all I'll have to do is purge all of their programming from the system and return to factory defaults. We've got the whole suite on Alamo. Thirty minutes to transfer the files, five, six hours to install the programming, then a full systems check, and you've got yourself a second starship, Commodore.”

 “That's excellent, Kris. Fantastic news.”

 “Want the bonus prize?”

 “Sure.”

 “We'll have a full translation of their language as well. They labeled everything on this ship, and I mean everything. From the head to the holoviewer. I've got the team taking all the images they can, and once I've run them through the computer, it'll be like having a flying Rosetta Stone.” She paused, then added, “In fact, it gets better than that. They must have found a way to get their programming to work with our hardware, which means that given a bit of time, we can reverse-engineer the process.”

 “How long?”

 “If I had a quantum computer, a month. Using our on-board resources, more like a year, but the point is, boss, that we've got everything we need to give the bright boys back on Mars the tools to come up with some real countermeasure packages.” Shaking her head, she said, “Skipper, this alone is worth everything we've done up till now. It'll give our e-war teams something to do in a battle other than sit on their thumbs.”

 “Great work, Kris. You can start cataloging all the data when you get settled in.”

 “Huh? Oh, you want me to stay over here? Who are you sending to take command? Powell?”

 A chuckle crept through the static, and Orlova replied, “I'm not sending anyone over. It's a small ship, with a small crew, and I think Lieutenant Kristen Harper is more than capable of getting her back into commission. I'll get Petty Officer Lombardo with a damage control team over to you on the next shuttle to start with.”

 “Maggie, I'm not a command officer.” Turning to face the viewscreen, she said, “This is a really bad idea.”

 With a sigh, Orlova replied, “Lieutenant, I don't have the time or the energy to argue with you. Between the chaos over here and everything happening down on the surface, I don't have anyone to spare to send to Daedalus. You seem to have a handle on what needs to be done to get her fixed, and you've got the rank to do the job.” She paused, then added, “Besides, given all the headaches you've given your commanding officers in the past, I think it's about time that you got to see what it looks like from the other side. My orders stand. Alamo out.”

 “She's got to be out of her mind!” Harper raged, turning to Perry. “My rank's honorary, near as damn it! I only got it because I needed it for my security clearance, and she knows that.” Looking around the bridge, eyes darting back and forth, she continued, “I don't have the first idea where to begin.”

 “Well, you outlined a pretty reasonable plan to the Captain,” he said. “Given that you know what to do, it makes sense to let you get on with it.”

 “Don't you get it, Sergeant? There's an enemy warship coming into orbit tomorrow! What the hell am I supposed to do? I've never had any tactical training, just what I needed for my e-war console.”

 He shrugged, and said, “With a capital ship sitting less than two miles away, I don't think you need to do anything more complicated than keep your head down and run if anything comes too close.” Tapping the control panels, he said, “The arsenal's empty anyway. We fired all the missiles in that last battle, and we never had a chance to top up. They haven't put any of theirs on board.”

 “This ship doesn't even have a combat fabricator?”

 His eyes widened, and said, “You can fabricate missiles fast enough to reload in combat? That's amazing! I thought that project had been abandoned.”

 “We've had that technology for twenty years,” she said, shaking her head. “Are there any other surprises I don't know about?”

 “You mean other than the strange green monster that eats panicked commanding officers on their first day on the job?”

 “Don't call me that,” Harper replied, pointing her finger at him. “Maggie's decided to pull some sort of a joke. Powell or Kibaki will be over here on the next shuttle, someone who really knows what they're doing.”

 “I'm not so sure,” Perry replied. “She didn't sound much like she was joking to me.” Gesturing towards the command chair, he said, “Maybe you should try it for size.”

 Looking down at it as though it was covered in some sort of toxic liquid, Harper slid down into it, pulling the control panel over her lap, and said, “This might have some advantages. I won't have to argue with anyone for command access, and I'll be able to get on with everything without someone questioning my every move.”

 “See?”

 With a sigh, she said, “Well, then, Sergeant, if I'm in command, go down and see if you can speed up Bartlett a bit. The sooner we get that data transfer started the better. Then take charge of the crewmen and get started on the maintenance checks, engines and thrusters first. If we can't fire any missiles, at least I'd like to be able to get out of the way when the enemy starts shooting.”

 “Aye, Captain,” he said with a smile, earning himself a dirty look. As he left the bridge, she looked around, glancing at each console in turn, and shook her head. Her own command. Crazy.

Chapter 9

 Cooper trudged through the snow, struggling to reach the top of the pass, at the head of the reconstructed First Squad, Corporal Stewart taking up the rear. Up ahead, Kelot was making enviably good time, striding away from the rest of them, borrowed Triplanetary rifle in his hand. The biting cold cut at him, and he tugged his hood forward into position, grateful that Quinn had managed to find the time to produce some decent cold-weather gear.

 Raising his hand to call the column to a halt, he pulled out his datapad while struggling to catch his breath, and started to flick through the screens, calling up the latest orbital footage from Alamo. For once, they had all the support they were meant to have from their base ship, a full tactical overview of the planetary situation, but it didn't seem to help as much as he'd hoped. Somewhere up ahead was a group of Xandari, he knew that much, but he could only narrow it down to an area of half a mile. On a flat, even plain, that would be no problem, but there were a million places they could hide in this wilderness. For all he knew, they'd already walked past them without realizing it.

 “Having some trouble, Ensign?” Kelot asked, loping towards him.

 “Just taking another look at the orbital footage,” he replied.

 “And having a rest at the same time.” Shaking his head, he continued, “You softskins don't have any stamina. A group of my people would have reached the target an hour ago.”

 “Why didn't they, then?” Stewart asked. Cooper flashed her a warning glare, but Kelot just laughed.

 “Sending you up here wasn't my idea. Blame that commanding officer of yours. If you'd just issue us with plasma weapons, you could go back to that nice warm starship up there and have a rest.” Turning back towards the summit, he said, “Let's go.”

 Shaking his head, Cooper gestured for the squad to move forward. Stewart moved up beside him a scowl on her face, as they watched the Neander press ahead into the snow.

 “That man has a real attitude problem, sir.”

 “He's been through a lot, Corporal. Five years of captivity can do bad things to you.” Pointing at the rear, he said, “Have everyone be on the alert, and tell them to light their weapons.”

 “We'll show up like a flare on any infra-red sensors.”

 Nodding, he replied, “I know, that's what I'm counting on. We're never going to find them in all of this, so the only way we're going to get a battle today is if we draw them to us. Get moving.”

 “Yes, sir,” she said, moving back to the rear of the squad, issuing orders as she went. Cooper reached down to his power pack, throwing the charge lever to maximum, watching the indicator run up as the weapon surged to full capacity. Never mind being visible on a hand-held sensor, the amount of power they were using would be visible from Alamo.

 At least the gun was keeping his hands warm now, and he edged his way up the slope, following in the footsteps of the agile Kelot, pebbles sliding down behind him as he pushed through the wasteland. He looked around at the scenery, the stark and beautiful snow covering black rock, jagged outcroppings slashing up from the ground. And behind every one of them, his imagination conjured by a Xandari raiding party, waiting to strike.

 Finally, with a last effort, he reached the ridge, towering mountains on either side of him, and looked out over the vast plain beyond, a frozen sea that seemed to stretch endlessly to the horizon, a series of strange flags decorating the landscape, a brief flash of color in a monochromatic environment. Methodically, Kelot was pulling them out of the soil, tossing them to the ground.

 “They planted them here,” he said. “Some sort of sacred site for them.”

 “If we came here just for this…,”

 “No,” the Neander said, savagely shaking his head. “More than that. They are out here, Ensign, watching and waiting. More than a hundred unaccounted for back at the settlement.”

 “We didn't recover all of the bodies,” Stewart said. “Especially not from the command center. There wasn't anything left to find.”

 “Even so, we saw some heading up here, and your ship has picked them up with its sensors. They're out here, somewhere, watching and waiting, plotting their vengeance. Don't make any mistake about it. They are evil, and seek nothing other than our deaths. Yours as well as mine, now. You cannot afford to relax your vigilance for even a moment.”

 Shaking his head, Cooper said, “Price, Lopez, fan out and take a look, but stay in sight. If you see anything suspicious, report at once.”

 “Shoot first,” Kelot added. “They might not give you a second chance.”

 “Proceed with caution,” Cooper replied, turning to the Neander. “We don't need to start a fight we can't win. Move out.” As the two troopers heading in opposite directions, making their way along the ridge, he said, “I'd appreciate it if you refrained from giving orders to my men in future, Kelot.”

 “Someone needs to keep them alive out here.”

 Shaking his head, Cooper asked, “How many ground engagements have you fought? Just out of interest?”

 He looked out at the plain, and replied, “I've lived on this rock for years. I've fought the Xandari before. I know how they think.” He paused, then pointed at a small black dot on the plain. “What's that?”

 Pulling up his binoculars, the argument forgotten, Cooper looked out across the vast, endless expanse, tracking around until he found what the Neander had spotted. A small dome, with tiny figures around shoveling snow to bury it, digging out a series of trenches around. He could make out camouflage nets being deployed over buggies.

 “I make a hundred and ten people,” Stewart said, shaking her head. Dropping her binoculars, she added, “We'd never have seen it from orbit. They're doing too good a job at concealing it, and the snow will mask at least some of the heat.”

 “Ten vehicles, all armed.” Passing the binoculars to Kelot, he asked, “What do you think?”

 “I think we've found what we came for,” he replied. “They're setting up some sort of forward outpost, a base to launch their attack.” Turning to Cooper, he continued, “We're getting too close to night now to risk a strike today, but we can be ready to move at dawn tomorrow.”

 “What?”

 “We've got to launch an immediate attack, smash them before they can organize.”

 Shaking his head, Cooper said, “Far too risky.”

 Nodding, Stewart added, “They've got prepared fortifications and are well dug-in, and they've picked a spot that will give them plenty of time to get ready for an attack. There's a better way.

 Looking from one to the other, Kelot's face dropped to a sneer, before he nodded, smiling, and said, “An orbital strike. Of course, I should have thought of that. It isn't going to be easy, though. Not unless your technology is a lot better than ours.”

 “Alamo isn't set up for that sort of attack, and we don't have any aerospace fighters with us.”

 “Then you're just going to sit here and do nothing while they get ready to strike?” Stepping towards the ridge, pointing at the hidden base, he said, “Those bastards are just sitting out there, laughing at us. They'll have depots of equipment stashed all over this area, and if we allow them time to mobilize, then we're just throwing away the initiative. I can have a thousand men ready to move by dawn, and we can launch a strike to finish them off for good, especially with your people in support.”

 “Listen to me…,” Cooper began, but the sound of a plasma bolt sent him diving for cover, the squad throwing themselves behind any protection they could find. Martinez snapped off a shot, slamming into the mountain above, a cascade of rocks crashing down the slope towards them. Peering into the distance, he saw Lopez in cover, gesturing at the top of the mountain, as a burst of machine gun fire rattled around, spitting into the ground, keeping them pinned down.

 He turned to the rear, and Price was waving at him as well, gesturing at a pile of rocks, a pair of Xandari just visible behind them, the tops of their heads sticking out of cover. One quick burst of plasma fire made them pay for their carelessness, setting the mound tumbling in all directions, the ball of plasma fire setting the bodies on fire, smoke rising into the air.

 Cooper cursed, turning back to the original flank. There the Xandari were being far more cautious, and the only evidence of their presence was the rattle of suppressive fire pinning them in position. Ghaison and Rhodes tried a few speculative plasma bolts, but aside from some impressive rock slides, they didn't seem to have having any effect on their opponents.

 He pulled out his communicator, playing with the frequency in an attempt to get a channel, but wasn't surprised when the only response to his signals was static. They were on their own, at least for the moment. Sergeant Hunt would probably send a party to investigate if they failed to return, but that wouldn't be for hours. By then, with night falling, they'd freeze to death.

 “Right,” he said. “Stewart, in five seconds...”

 Before he could complete his order, Kelot rose to his feet, waving his hands in the air as he sprinted forward, three bursts of machine-gun fire spilling out around him. Leveling his rifle, Cooper tried a shot at the ridge-line, trying to follow the bullets back to their point of origin, and was rewarded with a stark, desperate scream as he took down one of the Xandari, Stewart taking another one with a well-aimed snap snot. The firing abruptly ceased, and Kelot walked over to him, a smile on his face.

 “You see,” he said. “Decisive action is the way to victory, Ensign.”

 “To hell with that!” he raged. “You damn near got yourself killed, and for nothing.” Glancing around, he looked at his squad as they cautiously emerged from cover. No sign of any casualties, one blessing of the brief engagement.

 “Four Xandari are dead,” the Neander replied. “That isn't nothing. Far from it. And when we attack that base tomorrow, you'll see that the same sort of decisive action will win us the day. My forces...”

 “Will go precisely nowhere, Kelot. Even if you can get permission to try such a fundamentally stupid stunt, my people will not support you. I won't throw the lives of my platoon away because you can't tolerate the Xandari breathing the same air as you.” Gesturing at the plain, he said, “You see a secret base making preparations to attack us. I see a strategic advantage. We know exactly where they are.”

 “They know that, sir,” Stewart noted.

 “True, but they've obviously invested a lot of time in that facility, and if I was their commander, I'd be loath to move it without a good reason. They know that Alamo doesn't have ground attack capability.” Glancing around the pass, he said, “This is an excellent bottleneck. Are there any other ways they can reach the settlement in a hurry?”

 “No,” he replied. “Not with the buggies, anyway. It'd take more than a day to work around the long way.”

 “Then if they do launch an attack, they'll have to come through here. We'll throw a series of fortifications and observation posts, right here, and keep a squad stationed at all times. Some of your people to reinforce, as well, and I'll even issue them with Triplanetary equipment.” Looking down at the plain, he said, “If they do decide to move out, we'll have all the advance warning we could possibly want. They might see us coming, but we'll see them.”

 “What happens then?” Kelot asked. “Run for home, and let them win?”

 “Why not?” Cooper asked. “Kelot, we're not out to conquer this planet. Lostok said himself that it couldn't be defended, and he was right. The best we can hope for is to get as many of your people as possible off this world, and back to the Collective. Why throw their lives away for a battle you can't win, and one that you don't need to fight.”

 “You don't understand,” he replied. “We've lived here, we've suffered here, and we've earned the right to see them pay for what they have done.”

 “That's fair enough,” Cooper said. “Corporal Hunt, give Kelot your plasma rifle.”

 “Sir? That's a violation...”

 “I gave you an order, Corporal.”

 Shaking her head, she unbuckled the harness, passing first the power pack and then the rifle itself to the Neander, who looked down at the pile of equipment in his hands, frowning.

 “What is this?”

 “I believe the enemy base is about three miles from here. With luck, you'll make it before dark. That plasma rifle has enough charge for thirty shots, assuming the Xandari give you the chance to take them.”

 “I don't understand.”

 Stepping close enough to Kelot to smell his breath, Cooper said, “If you want to go down there and get your vengeance, I'm not going to stop you. Hell, I'm giving you the tools to do a good job of it. Equipment I can replace, but I cannot replace the lives of my men, and I'm not going to allow you to throw them away.” Gesturing at the slope, he said, “Go. But go alone, and know that it will all be for nothing. No one will support you, and in all probability you'll be dead long before you reach the Xandari base.”

 “Ensign...”

 “I've been where you are. I've suffered, I've lost people I cared about, people I was responsible for, and I longed to get my revenge as well. Take it from me. All it does is poison you, ruin you, lead you and those with you to disaster. You can't take it personally. We don't have that luxury.” Looking back at the settlement, gleaming domes and shuttles resting on launch pads, he added, “Five thousand of your people are counting on you to lead them to safety. They don't care about their vengeance. They just want to go home. Are you really going to deny them that right?”

 Passing the rifle back to Stewart, he replied, “You can keep this. There will be a time, Ensign, in the near-future, when you will regret this decision.”

 “Maybe,” he said. “I'm willing to take that risk, against the certainty of the hundreds of casualties we'd sustain in a preemptive strike.” Shaking his head, he continued, “We'll get plenty of advance warning if they decide to try anything. And with any luck, any luck at all, we'll all be on our way home long before they get the chance.”

 “Even if they launched an attack, what could they do?” Price said. “We'd outnumber them, and they'd be striking at fixed defenses. There's no point giving them the tactical advantage.”

 A frown still etched on his face, Kelot said, “I hope you aren't making a serious mistake, Ensign. And I hope I'm not making a bigger one by listening to you.” Gesturing down the slope, he said, “Let's get back to the settlement before it gets dark. We can set up your tripwire in the morning.” Shaking his head, he continued, “There's no point remaining here any longer.”

 “Move them out, Corporal,” Cooper said, as Price and the others edged down the slope, leaving the smoldering battlefield behind. Stewart stayed for a moment, before taking her position as rear guard, leaving Cooper alone on the pass. He glanced down at his datapad, marking the spot of the base, sending the coordinates up to Alamo for permanent observation. Though he might not want to admit it, a part of him agreed with Kelot. It would be satisfying to storm that base, wipe out the last of the Xandari presence on this planet with a single blow, run up the Triplanetary flag.

 Satisfying but stupid. In six, seven days from now, they'd be leaving this planet, never to return, the dead as the only monuments to their folly. He'd already lost three men, three friends, in the fighting for this planet. Three too many. Taking a deep breath, with one last glance at the wide, gleaming plain, he turned around, following his squad down the slope. The wind was getting colder as the sun continued its descent towards the horizon, and they still had a long march back to the warmth of the habitation domes.

Chapter 10

 Shaking his head, Salazar stepped out of the improvised lecture theater, taking a deep swig of the fruit juice in his hand, wishing that it was something stronger. One of his students followed him, waving a datapad under his nose, and he turned to the young Neander in irritation.

 “You can't have finished the course projection yet.”

 “But I have, sir,” he replied. “Here. The smoothest path from surface to orbit, and the minimum window between launches. Faster than the model you showed us.” Salazar snatched the datapad, and nodded.

 “Very good.” The Neander beamed, and he added, “If you're happy to kill everyone on board.”

 “What? The acceleration is well within safe levels, isn't it, sir?”

 “Sure, each individual ride is fine, but you're assuming no time for maintenance checks.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Not only that, but you're giving the passengers zero seconds to get into the transport. It isn't just about the flight itself, kid, but what happens at either end. Have you run through a post-flight checklist yet?”

 Nodding, the Neander said, “Yes, sir, I have. I should have connected the two. I'm sorry.”

 “Let me see,” Salazar muttered, tapping a control, and frowning. “That's actually pretty good. You've missed the redundant thruster check and the landing gear inspection, but for a first try, that's reasonable.” He looked up, and said, “Next question. Why am I doing this?”

 “Sir?”

 “Why have I asked you to come up with your own post-flight checklists, rather than using the ones that the designers spent thousands of hours preparing?”

 The cadet paused, then replied, “Because we need to know for ourselves what is involved, and that we'll benefit if we have some idea why things work, not just how? That this isn't something that you can just do by rote?”

 “Who the hell are you, anyway?” Salazar said. “That was a better answer than I gave at indoctrination.”

 “Maqua, sir,” the Neander said, snapping to a passable imitation of attention. “Deckhand.”

 “Deckhand? Not shuttle pilot?”

 “I was taking some lessons when we were captured, sir. Just before we launched, I soloed.” Shaking his head, he replied, “I'd hoped to transfer to flight school full-time, but my application was rejected.”

 “In God's name, why?”

 Maqua looked startled, and said, “My parents are Undercaste, sir.” Shaking his head, he replied, “It wasn't really worth trying. They only take a handful of the lower castes, and only those with some connections.” Looking out at the field, he said, “I'm looking forward to taking a shuttle up, even if it is just for this mission.”

 “We're hitting the simulators in an hour,” Salazar replied. “You're up first. I expect you to set a good example for the others. Understood?”

 “Sir, most of them have thousands more hours logged than I...”

 “I gave you an order, Cadet. If you don't understand it...”

 “No, sir,” Maqua replied. “I'll do my best.”

 Clapping him on the shoulder, Salazar said, “That's all I ask.”

 Nodding, he said, “I'd better go back and see if anyone else needs a hand, and go over my notes again to amend for transit and maintenance.”

 “Do that.” As the Neander stepped back into the lecture room, Salazar looked after him, shaking his head. He heard footsteps coming down the corridor towards him, and turned to see Lostok, Molpa and another figure he didn't recognize heading his way. He shook his head for a moment, realizing that speaking and working with Neander was becoming a matter of routine. A race thought extinct, and he was teaching a class of them how to fly.

 “How are things going, Sub-Lieutenant?” Lostok asked.

 Turning to the door, he said, “Probably about as well as can be expected for a group of people who haven't seen the inside of a cockpit for years. I've had a look at a few of the craft, and almost all of them seem to be configured for your people.”

 Nodding, the stranger said, “Most of them were stolen from us in the first place, or were copies of our designs. There were a few we didn't recognize, but I gather those were of Triplanetary origin.”

 “Oh, I don't think you've met Ghewon,” Lostok said. “Section Leader of the Navigation Department, and responsible for ship functions. He'll be assuming command of the transport when it arrives in orbit.”

 “A pleasure,” Salazar said, extending his hand. “Always good to meet another ship driver.”

 “Ship driver?”

 “Slang for helmsman, sir.”

 “I thought you were a shuttle pilot?”

 Nodding, he replied, “I've flown most of the craft our Fleet has to offer at one time or another. Before I became Security Officer, I was one of Alamo's primary helmsman. These days, I spend most of my time on liaison work of one sort or another, and it's just more convenient for me to fly myself.” With a smile, he added, “Besides, I've yet to meet a pilot who won't take any excuse to sit in a cockpit.”

 With a smile, Ghewon said, “I think our peoples have more in common that I thought.”

 “Anyway, to answer your question, the shuttles at the end of the field are ours, including one that our Intelligence teams are going to be very interested in. The thirty-seater, specifically.”

 “Why?” Lostok asked.

 “We never built it. Not beyond a structural prototype, anyway. The model ended up at the Academy as a ground-test simulator, but they rejected the design.”

 “It is safe, isn't it?” Ghewon asked, a frown spreading across his face.

 “Oh, that wasn't the problem. Cost, as I recall. Turned out to be cheaper to build two smaller shuttles, and that gave more flexibility. I had to do some serious digging around in Alamo's database to find the technical specifications. Fortunately, our Systems Officer is a bit of a hoarder of information.”

 “I'm pleased to hear it,” Lostok replied. “Then you don't think there will be any problem?”

 Shaking his head, Salazar said, “I didn't say that, exactly. As far as I can work out, it's going to take three trips to get everyone up to the transport, even if we fill every shuttle to capacity. Two or three more flights to load the supplies they're going to need. Ordinarily, that wouldn't be a problem, but we're going to struggle with servicing and maintenance.” Rubbing his chin, the stubble just enough to be annoying, he added, “Add to which we're using pilots that haven't flown in years.”

 “If you don't think you can train them sufficiently...” Ghewon began.

 A smile on his face, Salazar said, “Feel free to take over, if you want. I've got less than ten hours left to train a hundred and seven pilots...”

 “A hundred and seven?” Lostok asked.

 “...and we've only got enough simulator capacity for each of them to take two test trips. They're going to be dependent on the automatic systems, and either myself or one of the other flight controllers talking them through any problems, and with dozens of ships in the air at once, I'm afraid there are grave risks of an accident. Ordinarily, I'd want to spend a couple of weeks making the transfer.” Turning to the lecture room, he said, “First one into the simulator. I'll be along in a minute. Start on Program Five.”

 “We don't have a choice,” Ghewon said. “We've got to move as quickly as they can, and be ready to move as soon as the transport has completed its jump preparations.”

 Holding up his hands, Salazar replied, “We'll find a way to make it work. I'm just warning you that this might not go smoothly, and that we need to try and keep the number of flights to the absolute minimum.”

 Nodding, Lostok turned to Molpa, and said, “Go back over the inventory list again, and try and reduce the requirements.”

 With a sigh, the engineer said, “I'll do my best, sir, but I've already trimmed it five times. I'm afraid there isn't that much left to cut. Nevertheless, I'll see what I can do.”

 “One more question, Sub-Lieutenant,” Lostok said. “You said one hundred and seven. We only have one hundred and six qualified personnel. I ran the checks myself.”

 Shrugging, Salazar said, “Everyone seems to know what they are doing, sir. Maybe there was an error in the listings.” With a smile, he added, “We're all rushing around so much, things are bound to slip through the cracks. Besides, we've already got more shuttles than pilots. I won't begrudge an extra one.”

 “True. May I watch the first simulator run? I'm interested in the progress of the class.”

 “Of course,” he replied, extending his arm. “Be my guest.”

 Lostok stepped in, looking at the monitor screen, an image of the shuttle rising from the surface on display. Salazar glanced across at the telemetry, nodding at the textbook takeoff, the thrusters kicking the vessel onto the calculated trajectory, rising through the clouds on a smooth curve through the atmosphere. All around, the other Neander were watching with a mixture of resentment and admiration as the skillful pilot soared into a perfect orbit, one of them moving over and talking to Lostok, whose face darkened.

 “End this. Now,” Lostok said.

 Glancing up at the monitor, Salazar said, “Forty seconds to docking.”

 “I said, end this.” Turning to Ghewon, he said, “If he won't do it...”

 “No one is doing it,” Salazar replied. “This is Triplanetary hardware, remember.” He gestured up at the transport, the shuttle approaching the huge hulk as the pilot spun on his thrusters, decelerating perfectly in time to lock onto the selected docking port, a series of green lights running down the screen. “Ladies and gentlemen, that is what you call a perfect flight. Next cadet stand by.”

 Maqua climbed out of the cockpit to a series of glares and walked over to Salazar, asking, “How was that?”

 “Textbook, kid. I'd fly with you any time.”

 “Then I must question your good sense,” Lostok said, looking at Maqua. “You are not qualified to fly a shuttle. Your place is in the maintenance section, and I suggest you head over to the loading docks to make yourself useful, rather than intruding in the roles of your betters.”

 “Wait a damn minute,” Salazar said, stepping between the two of them. “I don't know or care about your cultural idiosyncrasies, but that boy is the best shuttle pilot you've got down here. Not only is he a born flier, but he's been spending the time stuck down here studying.” Looking back at Maqua, he asked, “Right?”

 Nodding, the young pilot replied, “I had my flight textbook, and I read it every day.”

 “You should have turned that in,” Lostok said. “Besides, learning by rote...”

 “I agree,” Salazar said. “Application is what counts.”

 Frowning, Molpa said, “I must point out that we desperately need all of the shuttle pilots we can get if we are to get our people to safety in time.”

 “If we give up who we are...”

 His eyes widening, Salazar shouted, “Perhaps I haven't made myself perfectly clear, Lostok. I put that kid up first as an example to the others. If he had been born on a Triplanetary world, I'd be strongly urging him to consider applying to the Academy. Yes, he's that good, and the fact that he's pushed on despite all of this crap tells me something about him that I like. You requested an instructor from Alamo because none of your people have so much as seen the inside of a cockpit for years, and as far as I'm concerned, that means that I make the call on who flies and who doesn't.”

 “I don't think you understand who you are dealing with.”

 Snatching a datapad from a surprised student, Salazar dropped it to the floor, the screen smashing with a crash as it hit the plasticrete.

 “I know precisely what I'm dealing with. The immutable laws of the universe. Gravity doesn't care where you were born, and celestial mechanics works on anyone, no matter who their fathers were. Unless, of course, you know different.” His eyes boring into Lostok, he asked, “Do you?”

 “Rest assured that I will be speaking to your commanding officer about your conduct, Sub-Lieutenant. You can expect a severe reprimand.” Turning to Maqua, he added, “This is no precedent. The softskins might not care that you are Undercaste, but I do. Once we get back home, I will see that you never step onto a ship again. I hope all of this is worth it. Come, Molpa.”

 Lostok and Molpa walked out of the room, leaving Ghewon standing at the door, frowning as he looked at the assembled class, shock on their faces. Salazar turned to all of them, rage still on his face.

 “What the hell are you waiting for? We're on a tight schedule, people. Next one into the simulator, now!”

 One of the Neander moved into the cockpit, Maqua looking at the simulator readout as the pilot began his flight, far less smooth than the first time, stuttering on his thrusters as he clumsily made altitude.

 “Will you get in trouble?” he asked.

 “If I hadn't stood up for what I believed in, I'd have earned the reprimand,” Salazar replied. “Don't worry about me. I'm more concerned about you. Are you going to face any repercussions from this?”

 Nodding, he said, “Lostok will make good on his threat, and I'll probably find myself working in waste reclamation for the rest of the trip home.” With a deep sigh, he said, “Perhaps if I was to go after him, apologize...”

 “Don't,” Salazar said. “He's wrong.”

 “He's Highborn!”

 “I don't care if his mother was God-Empress of the Pink Panther People. Just because he's in a position of authority doesn't make him right. He's not a pilot, or a training officer. I'm both. You don't listen to him, you listen to me. Understand?”

 “Yes, sir,” he said.

 “I'll be watching you during your second simulator run, and I might throw in a few little surprises for you along the way. If you handle them as I expect you would, then I'll personally make sure that you're flying one of those shuttles. And if Lostok or anyone else gives you any trouble, refer them to me.”

 He paused, then said, “Did you mean what you said? About the Academy?”

 “Sure,” he replied. “If we were back on Mars, I'd be making you an appointment with the admissions office.” Gesturing at the crowd, he said, “You'd better go and see what the others are doing. Learn from their mistakes. I have a feeling I'm going to be hearing some harsh words from my commanding officer in a minute. But that's my problem, not yours. On your way.”

 As Maqua moved back to the crowd, the others parting as though they didn't want to stand near him, Ghewon walked over to Salazar, standing next to him, watching the pilot at work.

 “One of our older fliers,” he said. “Not so good.”

 “Bare minimum,” Salazar replied. “Tonight I'm going to go over all of these and give them some notes for improvement. There's enough time to run maybe another thirty of them through the simulators for a third try.”

 Nodding, Ghewon said, “Why did you stand up for Maqua like that? What is he to you?”

 “A pilot who deserves a chance to see how far he can fly. I can sympathize with that.”

 “Then in the Confederation, all appointments are meritocratic?”

 With a smile, Salazar said, “I wouldn't say we've got a perfect system, but you certainly won't get into the Academy without damn good test grades, no matter how important your father is. Not that there weren't a few military brats running around with chips on their shoulder...”

 “What?”

 Frowning, he said, “Arrogant because of their background. Still, you at least knew that they had some raw talent to back it up. That makes a difference.”

 “I suppose it would,” Ghewon said. “If it matters, I agree with you on Maqua's skills. I wish that the others in this room had gone to such lengths to hone their abilities, though I fear that he will never get a chance to exploit them to the full.” With a sigh, Ghewon added, “We are no saints, Sub-Lieutenant. Please do not judge us too harshly.”

 “It isn't my place to judge you at all.”

 “Then why did you intervene?” he replied with a smile, as the simulator pilot narrowly averted a disaster on docking. “I think that one has earned himself an additional flight, Highborn or no. Before we were captured, she was Lostok's personal pilot?”

 “I'm guessing he didn't do much traveling.” Raising his voice, he said, “Aussketi, that was ludicrous. We're hoping to use these shuttles more than once, and ideally without scaring the passengers to death. Go over Maqua's flight and compare the two. I expect your performance to be a lot better the next time around.”

 Bursting out of the cockpit, she said, “I will not be judged by the standards of the Undercaste. Not unless I was engaged in a competition to shovel fecal material.” A babble of laughter rippled across the crowd.

 “Well, from where I'm standing, that's probably something you're more suited to,” Salazar said, Aussketi's face a mask of horror amid gasps from the other students. “You might have been the hottest thing in space five years ago, but today you're downright dangerous. Two choices, rookie. Either do as I order, or get out of here. Maybe if you whine to someone loud enough they'll override me.”

 She looked at him, fuming, then snatched up a datapad, skimming over the data. Peering at the display, Salazar could see the records of Maqua's flight brought up, and he smiled.

 “Third pilot, you're up. Let's see if you can do better than that. Here's a hint. The goal of the exercise is to dock into a ship, not crash into it.” Behind him, Ghewon chuckled as he left the room, the door closing behind him.

 “Hurry up, pilot!” Salazar shouted. “I don't have all day, even if you do. Move!”

Chapter 11

 The airlock door slid open, and Harper watched anxiously as Sub-Lieutenant Scott, nominally the Captain's assistant, drifted onto Daedalus, clutching a pair of holdalls and a datapad, a beaming smile on her face. She tossed one of the holdalls to the hacker, who quickly recognized it as a hastily assembled collection of her more accessible belongings, then passed the datapad over to her.

 “You've come to take command, then,” Harper said, with a sigh of relief. “The next time I see the Captain...”

 “Nope,” she said. “I'm your guidance systems officer, and second-in-command. Captain Orlova was extremely clear on the subject.” Indicating the datapad, she continued, “Those are your orders. Everything's nice and official. I think she's actually enjoying this.”

 “She might be, but I'm not,” Harper said. “What the hell does she think she's doing?”

 “I don't know, but that's way above my pay grade.” With a shrug that sent her bobbing up and down, she added, “Why worry? This way you'll get a command citation on your next combat star. Not that many of those around.”

 “Combat?”

 “You'd better read your orders,” she replied. “Her assessment of the tactical situation, and...”

 “Alert, alert,” the loudspeaker sounded, a nervous Spaceman Arkhipov at the other end. “Battle stations. Battle stations. This is no drill. Captain to the bridge.”

 “Already?” Scott said. “We weren't expecting them...”

 “Tell them that!” Harper said. “Scott, I don't care what your orders were..”

 As sirens began to drone, Scott pushed the hacker down the corridor towards the bridge, saying, “Read the datapad. It's all on there. If everything goes well, we won't have to do a thing. And if everything doesn't go well, it isn't going to matter where you were when the missile hit.”

 “Great. Just great.”

 Drifting through the doors, Harper swung into the command chair as Scott took the helm. Arkhipov turned with a relieved smile on his face as she entered the bridge. Perry drifted in after her, his granddaughter hovering at the entrance, looking inside, while the old veteran ran his hands across the tactical controls.

 “Not much I can do here,” he said, “but I wouldn't feel right to miss a battle.”

 “What's going on?” Harper asked, turning to Arkhipov. “Tactical view.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” he replied, tapping a control to bring up an image of the battlespace. Alamo was moving at high speed, taking position behind the planet, while a pair of objects marked 'unidentified' closed on Cyndar, heading for a low orbit. One of them was the largest starship Harper had ever seen, five, six times larger than Alamo, far bigger even than the titanic battleships the Fleet had recently brought into service.

 “Where are they going?” Harper asked. “Shouldn't they be closing for battle?”

 With a sigh, Scott replied, “The Captain wanted to draw them in as close as she could, lure them into orbit to reduce the odds of them getting away. Our orders are to remain on station, and look as if nothing has happened. They're expecting to see this ship in orbit, after all. Once the enemy vessel gets close, Alamo can swing around and get them.”

 Nodding, Harper replied, “Seems reasonable. Maintain position, then, but don't bother using thrusters. Set up evasive action, just in case we need it.”

 “Aye, ma'am.”

 Taking a deep breath, Harper glanced at the datapad, running down the details of the plan. So far, everything seemed to be going as advertised, but she'd been in enough fights to know that they never went according to the manual. Glancing around, she looked at the technicians working their controls, wondering what she was supposed to do, what Orlova or Marshall did while they commanded during a battle. She could operate the electronic warfare suite, but there wasn't even any point to that, not against this enemy.

 Nelyubov had forced her to take a couple of training simulations, weeks ago, while they were working their way out here, but that had felt more like a game, a distraction than anything else, and she struggled to remember what she had done. Most of it seemed to involve waiting for something to happen.

 Tapping a control, she called up a localized tactical view, taking a look at the current situation. Alamo was nicely out of view, undetectable by the enemy spacecraft, but they were going to work out that something had gone wrong quickly, either because the Xandari battlecruiser wasn't where it was supposed to be, or because they couldn't raise the planet. Unless the enemy base had outlined the situation too them first, but there was nothing they could do about that.

 “Enemy vessel will be in firing range in four minutes,” Arkhipov reported, his face pale.

 “No ordinance at all?” she asked Perry.

 “Not a thing, ma'am,” he replied. “I can come up with some creative insults if you want.”

 “Work on that,” she replied, sitting back in her couch. If all she had to do was sit here and wait for Alamo to dive to the rescue, she could manage that much. Everything seemed to be running itself well enough. Even the work on the ship was going reasonably well, and she called up a quick status report, running her eye over the systems. Everything was running as it should, but they were still way behind some of the corrective maintenance. Nothing that couldn't wait, nothing they would need to day. If they were desperate, they even had a full fuel tank, though unlike Alamo, they only had a two-system range. Far enough to run from the immediate situation, but not enough to get them even close to home. Just a long wait in a dead system, hoping that the Confederation found them first.

 Something was wrong. The ships were moving out of the predicted path, heading for the smaller satellite instead of the planet. She looked at the readouts, and shook her head. For a second, she turned to report her discovery to Orlova, before belatedly realizing that she was the one in the chair.

 “Kat, are you seeing what I'm seeing?”

 “They're moving away. The planning meeting thought they might. Cautious commander.”

 “He's taking the ships to another hendecaspace point. There must be a hundred in this crazy system. Can we plot which one?”

 “Don't worry,” Scott said. “Alamo can outpace that transport without any trouble.”

 “And if they blow it up?”

 “What?”

 “It's unmanned, remember. If I was commanding that smaller ship, I'd be more worried about saving myself and reporting a slave insurrection to my superiors than nursemaiding that hulk.”

 “Damn it. Energy spike, ma'am!” Arkhipov said. Perry moved over to the console, and said, “Four missiles, bearing at the transport. I guess you were right.” Glancing at another panel, he added, “Alamo's on the move, but we'll have a hell of a repair job by the time she gets there.”

 Nodding, Harper said, “Light the engines on this thing, Scott. Let's see what it can do.”

 “Our orders...”

 “Sergeant, I hope you were serious about those insults, because I want you to start transmitting them to the enemy ship. Be sure to sound as much like a Neander as possible, and make as many threats as you can. Scott, take us to the nearest hendecaspace point.”

 “I hope you know what you're doing,” she replied. “Full thrust, now. Hang on.”

 The old ship's engines roared for the first time in a generation, a surge of acceleration pushing Harper back in her pouch as Daedalus' trajectory started to change, curving towards the enemy craft, and out to the hendecaspace point beyond. Perry began to speak gibberish into the communications console, and the response was almost immediate, the enemy vessel altering course to put itself on an intercept trajectory. As the first salvo slammed in the side of the transport, Harper winced as the damage projections started to flash onto her monitor, but within a few seconds, the enemy ship was out of firing range, and homing in on the Daedalus instead.

 “That worked,” Perry replied. “I've learned a few new words as well. I don't think he likes the idea of escaped slaves running home to report what they've seen.”

 “I just bet he doesn't,” Harper said. “Kat, keep us on this heading for a bit, then twist us round so we're drawing them in towards Alamo.”

 “A bit?” Scott asked.

 “You're the expert.” Turning back towards the weapons console, she asked, “Is there anything we can throw at them? If they think we're putting up a fight, then they might be even more eager.”

 “Trust me, Captain, I don't think they can get any more eager than they are.” He frowned, then stepped over to the sensor station, adding, “We've got ten Class Nine penetrometers. They look a little like missiles, I suppose, but they won't do any real damage if they hit.” A smile on his face, he continued, “Not that there is much danger of that. No guidance systems to speak of. We stole them from a UN survey ship as decoys.”

 “Launch a salvo, then,” Harper said, “and for God's sake, stop calling me Captain.”

 “Away,” Perry said, and three points of light moved away from Daedalus, heading ineffectively towards the enemy vessel. Oddly, the incompetence of their on-board systems would likely be a benefit, making it appear as though inexperienced crewmen were operating them. Not that there wasn't an element of truth to that in any case.

 “Intercept in two minutes, ten seconds,” Arkhipov said. “And Captain Orlova would like to speak with you as a matter of some urgency.”

 “Tell her I'll call her back when I can, and that she needs to get here as quickly as possible. Kat, we need more speed. Take off the safeties. They're heading right for us now, so we don't need to worry about the transport any more. Worry about us instead.”

 “Disabling safeties,” she said, throwing a series of switches that sent red flights flashing from her panel, warning text in three different languages flashing on the screen. “I think the computer's upset.”

 “It doesn't get a vote.”

 The engines roared, rising to a high-pitched vibration that ran straight through Harper's head, the increased force of the acceleration pinning her to the couch, as fast as a shuttlecraft. She looked at the trajectory plot, watching the range open up, nodding in satisfaction.

 “Wow,” Scott said. “This ship might be old, but she can really move.”

 “This girl always was fast,” Perry replied with the smile of a proud father. “We had her up to five gravities once, out at Proxima Centauri. Showed that task force a clean pair of heels.”

 “Let's hope we can show them again,” Harper said. “Keep it up, Scott.”

 “Alamo!” Arkhipov said. “Coming around the horizon on a direct intercept course. The enemy ship will see her in thirty seconds.”

 “If we can do anything to help Alamo intercept, make it happen.”

 “Altering course,” Scott reported, her hands a blur across the helm controls. “I think we can open up her firing window a little. Assuming that the enemy commander doesn't just run for cover when he sees us.”

 “As long as he leaves the transport behind, he can go where the hell he wants.” She frowned for a moment, then said, “Though I suppose it doesn't do any harm to make that less likely. Sergeant, tell the worthless vermin to surrender, and use those words.”

 “Worthless vermin?” he said, shaking his head. “As far as psychological warfare goes, that's pretty damn clumsy.”

 Nodding, Harper replied, “We're playing a role here. The more desperate they think we are, the easier it's going to go in a minute.”

 With a resigned shrug, Perry turned back to the communications station, and after a few seconds started shouting into the microphone, waving his hands in the air for unnecessary emphasis, drawing the eyes of everyone on the bridge as he concluded his triumphant rant.

 Shaking her head, Scott said, “This has to be the craziest battle I've ever fought in.”

 “That's what happens when you put someone like me in command,” Harper said.

 “I have Captain Orlova again,” Arkhipov said. “She seems quite insistent.”

 “Here to spoil our fun,” she said. “Time to intercept?”

 “It was five minutes,” Scott said, “but now that they've seen Alamo, I think it's on its way up to infinity. They're running, but Alamo's got a good head start thanks to us. I expect them to be reduced to their component atoms in a matter of moments.”

 “Well, that's always a promising end to a battle,” Harper said. “Put the Captain on.”

 Orlova's face flickered onto the viewscreen, and she said, “You were meant to stay on station.”

 “They started smashing holes in the transport when they realized something was wrong,” Harper replied. “I couldn't just sit here and watch them wreck the only way the Neander have off this planet. As it is they managed to get a salvo in.”

 After glancing at a console, Orlova replied, “So you decided to use yourself as a decoy and distract them for long enough for us to spring our trap.”

 “Something like that, but I think you'd put it in rather better language in the formal report.”

 “Remind me to have someone give you lessons.” She looked out of the pickup for a moment, then added, “Things are about to get a little busy here. Report to me on board once the battle is over.” A smile on her face, she continued, “And no, that doesn't mean you get out of that job for the moment. Showing competence like that is a good way to convince me to keep you there. Alamo out.”

 Shaking her head as the screen faded, she said, “Sergeant, can we blow up that damn transport ourselves?”

 “I'm afraid not, ma'am.”

 “Pity.”

 “Alamo's closing on the enemy vessel now, ma'am. Laser pulse firing,” Arkhipov reported. Now that Daedalus' role in the battle was over, she could sit back and enjoy the show, and watched as Alamo's laser ripped a savage chunk down its side, sending it spinning out of control, a combination of thruster failure and atmosphere leak confounding the enemy pilot.

 A salvo of missiles raced into space, homing on the enemy vessel, slamming into its side before it could recover, the hull now a mass of battered breaches, armor plates fractured and broken, the ship struggling like a wounded beast as Alamo closed for the kill. By now, Orlova would have called upon them to surrender, knowing that there was no chance they would accept.

 The third salvo killed them, the ship exploding as the reactor terminally failed, the tenth missile bringing them down. Harper shook her head as the image on the screen was replaced by a rapidly expanding mass of debris that slowly faded from view, the last remnants of the ship disappearing from the scanner.

 “What about the transport?” she asked.

 Perry looked at his console, and said, “I don't see any hull breaches. Some damage to the maneuvering thrusters and one of the shuttle bays, but I don't think there is anything they can't fix. It would have taken a hell of a lot of missiles to destroy it.”

 “Maybe they were aiming for a weak spot,” Harper mused. “No, they'd have hit it if they did. They had all the time they needed to set up their shot, or at least they thought they did.”

 “Signal from Alamo, ma'am,” Arkhipov said. “We're to proceed to the transport and run a full external scan. A team from the surface is already on its way up to begin a full inspection, and start work on the modifications for manual control. We'll be flying escort.”

 “Fine. Kat, make all that happen.”

 Shaking her head, she said, “Yes, ma'am. Initiating course change.”

 Looking back at the battle zone, she said, “You know, if we had a full arsenal, we'd have been able to deal with that ship ourselves. We were about equal in size, and we definitely had the edge on maneuverability.”

 “They've got much better armor, though,” Perry warned. “We'd be lucky to survive more than four or five hits. That's why we ended up surrendering in the first place, for all the good it did us.”

 “All that means is that we don't get hit. What's the status of our physical countermeasures?”

 “Fully loaded,” he replied, glancing at the status panel. “I guess they didn't think they were worth disposing of. Either that, or they were planning to use them for training. Maybe they were saving this ship for war games, or something?”

 “Maybe. Sergeant, can we arm ourselves?”

 Shaking his head, he replied, “I don't see how. We don't have a combat fabricator, remember, and Alamo doesn't have the capacity to build new missiles for us, not with all the damage control requirements. I already checked.” Looking ruefully at the panel, he said, “It seems strange to be without our teeth, I must admit.”

 “Perhaps we can find a way around that,” she said. “How many more penetrometers have you got?”

 “Seven,” he said. “I know what you're thinking, and I can't simply bolt on a guidance control system. They're simple little gadgets, with hardware to match. It's hard enough getting them to fly in a straight line.”

 “Any reason they can't be controlled from here. Or, say, from a shuttlecraft? Pavel was telling me that they've got quite a few spare ones on the surface. If we could borrow one of the smaller ones and install the package...”

 “We'd still have to work out the control relays. I'm not even sure they're up to that.” He paused, then said, “Though that would be a lot easier than trying some sort of autonomous package. They'd be the devil to control, though.”

 “Just as well we've got a veteran missileman to handle that, then,” she said, rising with an effort from her couch. “Scott, I guess the ships is yours until I get back. I'd better go and find out what the Captain is planning next.”

 “Aye, aye, skipper,” Scott said with a smile.

Chapter 12

 “Well, that almost went badly wrong,” Nelyubov said, shaking his head. “Were you serious abut leaving her in command of Daedalus?”

 With a sigh, Orlova replied, “I don't think we have much choice. Look, I wouldn't have placed her in a combat situation out of choice, but as the lead on an engineering project, it makes sense. I really can't spare anyone else, anyway. The whole crew's working round-the-clock to put the pieces back together right here, those who aren't helping evacuate the entire population of a planet to a starship we captured this morning.”

 A thin smile on his face as they walked into the briefing room, he replied, “I know things aren't exactly normal at the moment, but I'm still struggling with the idea of Captain Kristen Harper, if I'm honest.”

 “The idea doesn't exactly fill me with unalloyed pleasure, Frank, but who the hell else do I send? I need to keep you here to coordinate the shuttle launches, Powell's running the astrographic team while we integrate the new gravimetric data, and if I sent Quinn over there I think the ship would quite literally fall apart.”

 “Joe Kibaki.”

 “Who can't be spared from his duties on the bridge, especially as things stand. I've got to keep a permanent watch on duty who has some idea what they are doing. Want to run through the list? Cantrell has to stay on board in case strange alien beasts leap out of the hendecaspace points, something which, I note, has already happened to us once. Besides, look at their time of service. Crazy as it sounds, Harper has seniority. Who would you give it to?”

 “I take your point,” he replied. “I'd be tempted to give it to Scott or Salazar...”

 “If Pavel wasn't trying to break all records on the shuttle training schedule, I probably would. As for Scott, she's an unknown quantity at the moment. After what she went through, I can't take the risk.” Shaking her head, she said, “Strange as it seems, Harper's the only option at the moment. Though I do intend to send Joe Kibaki over there before we leave the system. Everything should settle down a little by then. I hope.”

 “Some hope,” Nelyubov said, taking his seat next to her at the table, looking around the empty room. “On the subject of Salazar...”

 “I read the same report, and I placed it exactly where it belongs. I'm not going to censure an officer for doing something I would probably have done myself, albeit perhaps less forcefully, and I'll be damned if I penalize an officer for rejecting mindless bigotry.”

 With a thin smile, he replied, “Just checking, Maggie. Do you want me to phrase a polite but meaningless reply?”

 “Let him stew until I go down for the final meeting.”

 “About that, by the way...”

 “I'm going,” she said. “For a start, I want to see the situation down there for myself, and what happened to Pavel only reinforces that. And besides, if I refused to set foot on the surface, that would be an insult, and I don't want to give Lostok the satisfaction. I'll take the guided tour, and if he decides to push the issue, well, I might expand his English vocabulary a little. It isn't as though he has any choice but to accept our help.”

 “And if we need to build a relationship with these people against the Xandari?”

 The door opened, and the senior staff walked into the room before Orlova could reply. Quinn, Powell, Cantrell, Harper and Kibaki, one after another, after she'd made it quite clear that attendance at this meeting was not optional. Even Cooper would be joining in, albeit by remote from the outpost he'd established at Battle Pass, ample precautions taken to ensure that none of the Neander could overhear. As the last of the officers took their seats, his face flickered onto the far wall.

 Taking a deep breath, Orlova said, “The purpose of this meeting is quite simple. The local leadership have requested that we provide them with an escort back to their own space, in exchange for which they are willing to give us all the information that we came out here to get. Not only does this allow us to accomplish our mission expeditiously, but it would give us a chance to establish a friendly relationship with a government who has every reason to support us in our war against the Xandorian Empire.”

 “Assuming we want one,” Harper said. “After what Pavel told me, I don't know of these are the sort of allies we need.”

 “The enemy of my enemy,” Cantrell began.

 “Is, more often than not, also ours,” Powell noted. “I think we need to tread extremely carefully, Captain, though I would welcome the chance to obtain any information we can get.” Tapping a control, he brought a star-map into existence over the table, showing a six-jump route through uncharted space, one of the stars not even possessing a reference number. “I have confirmed the planned course to their homeworld, six jumps, assuming we proceed via Testament Station.”

 “An installation whose existence is only a matter of conjecture,” Quinn said.

 “Perhaps, but if I was placing a free port in this part of the galaxy, that's the location I would select,” Powell replied. “There are ten stars within range. That's extremely unusual.” With a smile, he said, “If there isn't a station there now, I'd like to suggest we have one constructed.”

 “In terms of the actual flight path, then,” Orlova said, “You believe that this mission is feasible.”

 “I do.” Looking around the room, he added, “And, with due caution, I would recommend that we provide them with the help they are seeking. The opportunities for exploration and study are excellent, far greater than if we proceed on our intended route.”

 “That isn't really an option, Professor,” Quinn said, shaking his head. “We suffered serious damage in that battle, Captain. Enough that I would strongly recommend that we return home, to a safe port.” Holding up a datapad for emphasis, he continued, “The hits to the superstructure have compromised our armor, and our power distribution nodes were badly damaged as well. Not to mention all the other problems. Part of it is a question of time, and engineer-hours. More of it is that I need to get down into the guts of the ship. I can't do that on the run.”

 Shaking her head, Cantrell said, “They only scored ten hits on us. I can't believe that they were so severe.”

 “In the right place, one hit can destroy a ship, Lieutenant,” the engineer replied. “In this case, they knew exactly where to hit us, and exactly what they were doing. I'm afraid we're going to have to assume that we've had a serious intelligence leak.” Glaring at Cantrell, he replied, “Our Counter-Intelligence people have obviously not been doing their job.”

 “Are you implying something by that?”

 “That's enough,” Orlova said, in a quiet voice that somehow managed to dominate the room. “We haven't got the time for an argument, and I don't have the patience to sit here and listen to it. You're supposed to be senior department heads. Act like it.” Looking at Quinn, she continued, “To summarize, you think we should head home.”

 He paused, then nodded, replying, “If we were sure that this Testament Station had everything we needed, and that it was a secure facility we could depend upon, I might change my mind about that, but the safe option is to return to Yeager Station. Hell, we could take the freighter with us.”

 “I already suggested that to Lostok,” Orlova said, “and he indicated that he planned to proceed to their homeworld regardless. I suppose I can understand that position.”

 Frowning, Nelyubov replied, “When I was down on the surface, I did hear from several people who had other ideas. Molpa, for example, their senior engineer. If we go home, we might well end up taking quite a few people with us.”

 Nodding, Quinn said, “I can make some alterations to the storage bays, as long as you don't mind me jettisoning some material. If we're careful, I think Alamo could take an extra hundred and fifty people home, though we'll be stacking them in the corridors to do it. Maybe an additional twenty-five on Daedalus.” Looking around the room, he added, “It's just a drop in the ocean, but it's something.”

 Cantrell glared at the engineer, then turned back to Orlova and said, “Why are we even having this discussion? The Neander are willing to give us everything we need, and more besides. Even if we can't negotiate an alliance, at the very least we'll get the information we've got to have to fight the Xandari.”

 “We have information right now,” Quinn said, “which will be destroyed along with us if we don't make it home.”

 Speaking from the surface, Cooper said, “The evacuation is going to be several types of hell, Captain. I've spoken to Pavel, and I know it's worrying him. They need Alamo to pull it off.” He paused, then added, “There are five thousand people down here wanting our help. I don't think we can do anything other than give it to them.”

 “We can't let emotion get in the way,” Quinn said.

 “Jack, some of them are kids,” he replied. “You want to tell them that Alamo is running off and leaving them to die? Because that's what's going to happen if we don't escort them home.”

 Nodding, Harper said, “It's the right thing to do.”

 “That can't be the basis of a decision,” Nelyubov said. “I understand what you're both saying, but we simply can't risk the long-term future of our people based on our emotions. If it was a simple as that, I'd be standing on the table, shouting for us to charge to battle, but damn it all to hell, we've got to look at the bigger picture.”

 “What about a compromise?” Kibaki suggested. “Escort them as far as Testament Station, get our repairs, then head home from there.”

 “Worst of both worlds, Lieutenant,” Cantrell replied. “They'd still have to break through the enemy lines, and that's going to be the hardest part.” Shaking her head, she said, “What about Daedalus?”

 With a faint smile, Orlova replied, “Oddly enough, I thought about that, but she's only got a two-jump range, and I'm not willing to let our refueling shuttle go. We're going to need it.”

 “There's no way of modifying her to take extra fuel?” Kibaki replied. “I checked the specifications, and the Agamemnon...”

 “Spent four months having improved tanks installed at Mariner Station,” Quinn said. “We don't have the facilities, and we certainly don't have the time.” Glancing at Harper, he added, “I've looked over the work Harper's team has done, and I think she's fit for space, but she isn't going to solve our immediate problem.”

 Shaking her head, Cantrell said, “What information do we actually have at the moment that's so damn valuable, anyway? The location of one, count it, one abandoned settlement on the frontiers of Xandari territory, and a lexicon of their language. Some computer code that might give us an edge with electronic warfare, given months of work with a quantum computer.”

 “It will,” Harper pressed. “Trust me on this.”

 “That's all the more reason to get home, then,” Kibaki said. “I'm forced to agree with Jack.”

 “No,” she replied. “We might get more information, speed up the process. I can make a start, right here on Alamo, even with the resources we have.”

 “Testament Station intrigues me,” Powell said. “A melting-pot of cultures that might give us a lead for further explorations. I've checked the records, and there is no notification of it, though it might explain a few anomalies in traffic reports to some of the more distant UN outposts.”

 Raising a hand, Orlova said, “To sum up, then, the choice is simple. Either we go back now with the information we have, taking anyone who wants to come with us home, or we head further out and take a chance on surviving the trip.”

 “And if we go home, we do it with thousands of lives on our conscience,” Cooper said. “Let's be absolutely clear about that. People will die.”

 Nodding, Orlova said, “Jack, from an engineering standpoint, can we complete the three-jump journey to Testament Station?”

 “If everything goes according to plan, then I believe we can, ma'am. I suppose it isn't any different in that respect than the trip back to Thule, and Yeager Station, but I don't like the idea of making such a leap into the dark with a damaged vessel.”

 Orlova said, “Then I will, once again, recommend to Lostok that he should accompany us back to Yeager Station, where his people can either accept refugee status in the Triplanetary Confederation or await the dispatch of a full-scale task force to their homeworld.” Quinn nodded, a smile creeping across his face, which was dashed by her next words. “If he refuses, then I will inform him that Alamo will accompany him home, on the understanding that such an alliance will be rewarded by the provision of the critical intelligence data we came out here to get.”

 “That's a hell of a risk, Captain,” Kibaki said.

 “One that we all knew we were taking when we set off on this journey in the first place,” she replied. “We were making a leap into the unknown anyway, Jack. The only difference is that we now have some local guides to show us the way. The Confederation needs the information that the Neander can provide us, and if we can get them to fight on our side, we can end this war far more expeditiously.”

 Nodding, Nelyubov said, “I agree. I think it is a risk, a considerable one, but that the payoff is sufficient to justify it.”

 Looking around the room, she said, “If anyone wishes to oppose this decision, then I will note their objections in the log.” When no one replied, she continued, “In that case, then I think we've all got a lot of work to do, and no time in which to do it. We'll leave the system as soon as we can, and make passage to Testament Station.” With a smile at Quinn, she added, “Where, I very much hope, we'll have a chance to put the pieces back together again.”

 “I hope so,” he said. “I really hope so. You're taking a big gamble, ma'am.”

 “I want full status reports from every department within the hour,” she ordered, attempting to ignore his glare. “Dismissed.”

 The officers rose to their feet, filing out of the room, Nelyubov remaining lounged in his chair next to her, looking at the slowly rotating starfield, the twisting line of their projected course racing from star to star.”

 “Go on, Frank,” she said, as the last one passed through the door. “If I'm making a bad call, I need to know about it. That's your job, remember. To keep me on the straight and narrow.”

 Shaking his head, he replied, “I don't envy you the decision, Maggie. As far as I can see, you're damned whichever way you decide to jump. Go back now, and we don't have all the information we came out here to get. No one will blame you, not given the damage we've sustained, but Commodore Marshall won't have anywhere to go other than, well, here. And with a ship full of refugees abandoned to their fate, the odds of making a treaty with the Collective collapse.”

 Rising to his feet, he paced to the end of the room, adding, “On the other hand, none of that information is worth a damn thing if the ship is destroyed, and we're talking about a three-month journey through enemy territory. I just wish we had more up-to-date information on Testament Station. I'll take a look at the traffic logs Powell talked about if I can find a few minutes, but I've got to assume that Intelligence would have spotted anything conclusive if there was anything out there to find. Any trace of it could only be in hindsight.”

 “I know what you mean,” she said. “I'm going to try to convince Lostok to take the safe option. Damn it all, though, I can't just sit back and watch while thousands of people die.”

 “I suppose there is another option,” Nelyubov said, turning to her. “Take control of the transport ourselves, and force the issue. Hack into the navigation computer and send it back to the Confederation regardless of what Lostok and his Merry Men want to do.”

 “And if that goes wrong, we end up at war with two interstellar nations, rather than one.”

 With a smile, he said, “I know, I know, but I can dream, anyway. There is another point, as well, that occurs to me. The Xandari will be expecting us to head for the nearer safe port, for our own territory. If they do send a task force to find us, it wouldn't hurt to have them heading in the wrong direction.” He paused, then added, “In fact, it might not be a bad idea to leave a few clues pointing that way lying around for them to find.”

 “Get Powell on it,” she replied. “Have him leave some astrographic projections lying around on the surface, and get his people chattering about it to their counterparts on the surface. I'd bet that little base of theirs is monitoring everything we do.”

 Nodding, Nelyubov said, “If it helps, I think you're doing the right thing.”

 “Thanks, Frank,” she replied. “Come on. Let's get to work.”

Chapter 13

 The shuttle soared above the planet, giving the three people in the cockpit a spectacular view of the surface below, the gleaming ice reflecting the sunlight. Maqua, stared down at it, shaking his head in disbelief, while Aussketi, in the flight engineer's seat, ruefully stared forward, occasionally glancing across at her controls. Salazar glanced back at her, then looked across at the his co-pilot.

 “Enjoying the show?” he asked.

 “It's amazing,” the young Neander said. “We didn't get to see it when we were brought here. It might have been hell to live there, but its beautiful from orbit.”

 “I don't mind if I never see it again,” Aussketi replied. “Besides, don't we have a job to do? We haven't got the time to waste on sightseeing.”

 “On the contrary,” Salazar said. “For the next ten minutes, there isn't anything else we can do. The computer is locked onto the transport, and can handle the turnover by itself. I won't be needed again until the time comes for docking.”

 Looking at Maqua, she said, “I still think we should change seats.”

 “You're lucky I brought you at all,” Salazar said. “Maqua got top marks in the simulators, and you managed to narrowest scrape over the line I've ever seen.”

 “I've spent more time in shuttle cockpits...”

 “And evidently, weren't paying much attention. Go back and take a look at the engine manifolds, if you want something to do, and check on our passengers. I want to make sure they're getting all of the data they need.”

 Rising from her chair, she looked at Salazar, and said, “My ancestors were sailing the stars while his were rooting for grubs. I was born to this. He was born to serve. I suggest you remember that.”

 Shaking his head as she left, Salazar turned to Maqua and said, “I still don't understand any of this nonsense.”

 With a sigh, the young pilot said, “As I understand it, your people invented faster-than-light travel only a century after you first ventured out into space. You'd barely begun to colonize the other planets in your system by the time you had learned how to reach others.”

 “It took a little longer than that, but I take it you had a harder road.”

 “We were fortunate, after a fashion. Three worlds with life were within a few light-years of each other, and each of us knew of the other's existence shortly after we discovered radio. We could provide technological assistance, exchange messages and signals, even share cultural developments. When we had learned enough, we sent ships to cross the void between our worlds. Trips that took decades, even with the fastest vessels our science could create.” Gesturing at the transport on the screen, he said, “That was one of ours, a small sample of a slower-than-light starship.”

 Nodding, Salazar replied, “No wonder you're so sure you can modify it.”

 “The Highborn became wealthy, the heirs to vast fortunes gained from the trading runs between the worlds. Naturally, no one had dreamed that faster-than-light travel would be possible.”

 With a smile, he replied, “I see what happened. There was no impetus to work on such projects, research discouraged if it meant disrupting long-established monopolies. I suppose eventually, someone figured out the hendecaspace drive.”

 “Less than two generations ago. Our worlds have been nominally united for centuries, but it is only in the last forty years that it meant more than mere words and the occasional exchange of ambassadors, families who passed their charge from father to son. Still, it was the Highborn who had the money, and they who built the ships.”

 Sighing, Salazar said, “And felt they had a right to crew them, and for preferential treatment. Economic success translating into a caste system, over the generations. It's bound to be disrupted, sooner or later, though. I'd have expected that a twenty-year war would have made quite a difference.”

 “Only in that we must accept that they cannot shoulder the entire defense burden alone, and that we must recruit from the other communities to man the space fleets. We retain the command role, and the ownership.”

 “Your military uses privately owned starships?” he asked, shaking his head.

 “Converted from civilian to military use, a rent paid to their owner, as well as assurances that they select the senior staff. Oh, there were protests and complaints, and every year they select a few outsiders for admission to their ranks, though always those with wealth, power and influence of their own. Maybe it will change, some day.”

 The shuttle spun around, slowing itself down as it headed for its rendezvous with the transport, now just about visible on the screen ahead, a huge brown fist hanging in orbit over the dull gray moon. Salazar could make out the missile impacts through the viewer, shaking his head at the gashes in the hull.

 “Mars is nothing like that, though Earth is heading in that direction. That's one of the reasons we rebelled, threw off our colonial oppressors and established ourselves as a free alliance. In the Confederation, everyone gets a vote, and everyone gets a fair chance to fulfill their potential.”

 “It sounds wonderful,” he replied, wistfully. “A paradise. I'd love to see it some day.”

 Throwing a series of switches, Salazar said, “Don't be too sure. None of our founder members were inhabitable worlds, and it's only in the last couple of years that we've had access to real air and water. I grew up in a series of domes and space stations.” Shaking his head, he added, “It still seems strange stepping out into the open without a suit.”

 The transport grew larger and larger in the screen, and Aussketi stepped forward from the rear section, stopping in her track and gazing at it with reverent awe, her eyes soaking in every detail of its lines from stem to stern. After a moment, she shook herself out of the reverie.

 “Lostok wants us to go for Docking Bay Forty-One. It's larger than we need, but we're going to want it for the heavy equipment shuttles that are next on the roster.”

 “Number Forty-One it is,” he replied, tapping a control to engage the approach. Then he raised his hands from the panel, flexing them back and forth and looking at Maqua with a smile. “Ouch. You'd better take it.”

 “What's wrong?” Aussketi asked with a panicked stare.

 “My fingers are cramping. Take her in, co-pilot. Nominal approach. Everything's set.”

 With a nervous glance, Maqua replied, “Aye, sir. Reverse thrusters slowing, activating docking computer.”

 Leaning forward, Aussketi whispered, “What the hell do you think you are doing?”

 “Giving him a chance to show what he can do. Besides, I think he's earned this.”

 She slumped back in her seat, shaking her head, while the novice pilot cautiously peered at the instruments, making tiny adjustments to guide the shuttle in, monitoring the controls to make sure that the computer was doing everything right. Salazar thought back to his first solo, the constant urge to take control for himself, certain that he knew better than the expert systems. The temptation was all but impossible to resist, and an instant failure if a pilot indulged it without excellent reason.

 As he flicked from one display to the next, running through the pre-docking checklists, Salazar nodded with satisfaction as his pupil brought them closer and closer to the monolithic vessel alongside, bringing up the approach view on the main screen, frowning as it seemed to drift too far to the right before the computer began a series of cautious corrections to steer them in.

 Finally, at the last second, he rested his hands on the controls, and Salazar smiled as he saw where he had positioned himself. Not for a manual docking, but for an abort. Textbook procedure, precisely by the book, though he could see Aussketi looking at him with disdain. With a series of loud clangs, the shuttle docked to the side of the transport, the seals locking into place.

 “Excellent,” he said, clapping the Neander on the shoulder. “I couldn't have handled that any better myself.”

 “Wait a minute,” Aussketi said, looking at her board. “I'm picking up an imperfect seal on the airlock. We're losing atmosphere.” She paused, then added, “And an energy buildup on the far side. Power levels rising rapidly.”

 Reaching across, Salazar worked the controls to disengage the shuttle, to send it drifting back out into free space, but the mechanism refused to operate, the two ships still locked together. The override had no different effect, and he shook his head with a curse.

 “What did I do?” Maqua asked, his eyes darting back and forth.

 “Nothing,” Salazar replied. “This was my fault, not yours. The hatch has been booby trapped, safeguarded against unauthorized intrusion. I should have gone out and inspected it before we approached.”

 “Were you ordered to do that?” Aussketi asked.

 “No, but that's no excuse.”

 Shaking her head, she said, “I didn't think of it either. We've got to detach the shuttle manually. We can work the release from outside the ship.”

 Nodding, he said, “I'll get suited up right now. You two monitor me from here.”

 “It's a two-person job,” she pressed, “and in this case, I'm the second person. Maqua can keep an eye on the controls and guide it to a safe distance as soon as we free the lock.”

 “I don't have time to argue with you,” Salazar said, tugging his spacesuit from the locker, before turning to his co-pilot. “Brief the passengers, but don't let them interrupt us with any helpful suggestions. We know what we need to do out there, and we'll be a lot faster if we're allowed to get on with it without interruption.” He paused, then added, “And call Captain Orlova, and let them know what's going on. Tell Alamo to get Shuttle Three ready for launch in case a daring rescue is needed.”

 “Yes, sir,” Maqua said, turning to his station. Salazar glanced at Aussketi, shocked as he saw that she had almost finished donning her suit, the final few connections snapping into place before him despite his head start. He hurriedly completed the checklist, then stepped into the familiar pilot's airlock, working the mechanism to pass him through the inner and outer doors, grabbing a toolkit from the rack before pushing out into space.

 Turning on this thrusters, he eased his way forward, along the shuttle, towards the docking hatch, and pulled off the inspection cover. Aussketi was behind him, swinging from one handhold to another without her suit jets, a beaming smile on her face.

 “The problem must be on the other side,” she replied. “And I know this equipment a lot better than you. I've been working EVA maintenance since I was old enough to hold a servospanner. You check your shuttle, and I'll handle the transport.”

 “You've used this equipment before?”

 A smile spreading across her face, she replied, “My family helped build this ship, Sub-Lieutenant, though I was born long after it was launched. I know it as well as you know the cockpit of that shuttle. Probably better.” Pulling a multi-tool from her belt, she pushed towards the side of the transport, working a panel free with one hand while holding onto the nearest handhold with another. “Surprised?”

 “I guess I didn't think you were the sort of person to get your hands dirty.”

 “Because I was the Guild Master's personal pilot?” she said, sliding the panel to the side, clamping it to the hull with a magnet. “That was just a sideline, a bit of prestige for a few years before I commanded a ship of my own.” With a sigh, she paused for a second, and said, “I might have it by now, if we hadn't been captured.”

 With a grunt, Salazar threw back a series of switches, reaching inside and cutting a wire, saying, “That's it at my end. We're loose.”

 “Two more locks here. We built these ships with a lot of redundancy, I'm afraid.” She cursed as a small metal part drifted away, Salazar reaching up to snatch it as it sailed past him. He passed it back to her with a smile.

 “Thanks,” she said.

 “No problem. Right now, I'm working for you.”

 “Now you're getting the idea. One lock to go.”

 Salazar looked back and watched her work, her fingers digging into the guts of the unfamiliar machinery, moving parts and adjusting components, cutting cables and wires with the adaptive tool, working with a confidence that could only have been born of long practice. He glanced down at his wrist readout, and frowned.

 “That power buildup is growing, and fast. I'd say we're looking at some sort of controlled detonation at any time.”

 “How big?” she asked.

 “Big enough that we'll have to think of another way of getting your people out of this system.”

 Nodding, she replied, “We're free. Maqua, fire forward thrusters, one long pulse, and get the shuttle well away from the side of the ship.” Glancing up at him, she replied, “I'd like to see if we can disarm it. No one else could be here in time.” Pausing for a second, she said, “Of course, you're free to go back to the shuttle if you want.”

 “I came here to do a job, and I'm going to do it,” he said. “Maqua, do what she said. Hopefully we'll be along in a few minutes.”

 “Let me come out,” he replied.

 “Someone has to fly the shuttle,” Salazar said, “and that's you. Do as I say.”

 With a sigh, the young pilot replied, “Aye, sir. Firing forward thruster.” A second later, the shuttle started to drift away, reversing from the trap in which it had unwittingly been caught, quickly moving to what Salazar hoped was a safe distance before Maqua fired a reverse pulse, hanging the shuttle motionless with respect to the transport, just within reach of a long jump in their suits.

 “Insubordinate,” Aussketi said.

 “Brave,” Salazar countered.

 “Both,” she replied. “Let's go in.”

 The two of them stepped into the docking lock, Salazar marveling at the intricate mechanism, components obviously designed to last for centuries, not years. This ship would still be flying when Alamo had long since been consigned to the scrapyard. Noticing his admiring gaze, Aussketi flashed a smile at him.

 “We built these to withstand centuries of flight,” she replied, as the lock all too slowly cycled. “You aren't seeing them at their best. These were some of the smaller ships in our fleet.”

 “Small?”

 “They were built for exploration, not trade, with huge fusion motors to propel them through the stars, laser sails for the initial boost. We were planning to expand beyond our three systems, to see what else we might find. Other lost colonies, alien races, new worlds to settle.” Shaking her head, she said, “And now the dream of a world becomes our only hope of salvation.”

 The inner door swung open, and Salazar pushed inside, his eyes wide as they drifted into a huge chamber, at least half a mile across, large enough that there were small clouds forming at its heart. Beams of light shone down to illuminate the visiting spacemen, tiny dots in a huge, empty space.

 “This is astounding,” he said, looking around. “Larger than any space station in the Confederation, and capable of interstellar travel.”

 “As I said, you aren't seeing her at her best. All of this was power and drive units, forty years ago, before we carved it out to serve as a hendecaspace transport. Now she can barely move at a crawl, and only for short hops.” She looked around, and said, “I think we've found what we've come for. Over on the right.”

 Salazar pushed over to the device, and frowned, recognizing it in a second as a Triplanetary field charge, a large one. He reached down to the control panel and started to enter command codes, nodding as the safeguards began to spring into life, one after another, the mechanism powering down.

 “I thought it looked like your technology.”

 “This isn't meant for military purposes,” he said. “It's for asteroid mining, mostly. Three of the largest make of charges slammed together.” Shaking his head, he replied, “Crude, but it would have done the job if it had been allowed to go off. There would have been a hull breach that would have been damn near impossible to fix.” Entering the final code combination, he said, “There. That's it. Rendered safe.” He ducked down to the floor, working at the restraint bolts with his servospanner. “Give me a hand.”

 “What are you doing?”

 “I don't like having big bombs on a civilian ship. Once it's outside we can examine it at our leisure.”

 Nodding, she knelt down, detaching the bolts at twice the speed of the clumsy Salazar, carefully pocketing the components as she removed them. After a moment's work, the bomb was free, and they maneuvered it carefully into the airlock, working the mechanism again to cycle the locks. He looked down at the bomb as the atmosphere drained from the room, shaking his head. If he'd made a mistake, and it exploded now, they'd both be dead before they knew anything about it.

 Finally, the doors slid open, and the two of them unceremoniously pushed it clear, making sure to place it on a trajectory well clear of the shuttle. The two of them looked at each other, and he gestured back at the docking system.

 “Can you put it back together again?”

 “Of course,” she replied.

 “You'd better get started, then. We're on a tight schedule.” Tapping a control, he said, “Salazar to Maqua. Come in.”

 “I'm here, sir. The power levels have dropped away, and I have a firm course plot on that thing you just threw out. Was that the bomb?”

 “It was indeed. Call Alamo and have them send a security team over to take a look at it before it drifts too far. I'm coming over to fix our docking gear. We'll be docking in a few minutes.” Looking back at the transport, he shook his head again. The ship was three miles across. What other nasty surprises were waiting for them inside?

Chapter 14

 A loud roar echoed around the field as a trio of shuttles rose on their thrusters, roaring up into the heavens as one while Cooper watched, a crowd of Neander gathering in front of the Admin Dome. He glanced at Walpis, shaking his head. It was taking too long. Three days since the transport had been captured, and they were yet to lift a single civilian into orbit. Simply disarming the remainder of the traps had taken more than a day, which worried him even more. It had been far too easy, and they'd been far too obvious.

  He turned back to the crowd, shaking his head. He was only down here at all because the Captain was finally paying her long-awaited visit to the surface, doubtless in the middle of an argument with Lostok over their departure plans. Pulling out his datapad, he scrolled through the timetable again, as Salazar walked over towards him, helmet in hand, one of the Neander in his wake.

 “Pavel, what's the story with the transport? You're the only one of our people spending any time up there.”

 “Almost ready,” he replied. “That's going to be the home of a lot of people for weeks, maybe months,” he said. “We can't rush it. Though it's taking a lot longer than I'd like, I admit.” He looked out at the crowd, packs of Neander gathered with their possessions by the landing bays, as though expecting to be lifted into space at any moment. “They're not going up today, I know that.”

 “Can we do it in time?”

 With a sigh, Salazar replied, “Maybe. With all the shuttles stuffed to capacity, we can manage a little under eighteen hundred at once. Three trips.”

 “Don't forget unloading time, sir,” the Neander said.

 A smile creeping onto his face, Salazar added, “Meaning, I think, something like twelve hours. Though I'd rather take thirty-six if we can. Some of those ships down there haven't been used in years. I'm not sanguine about how they'll take the loads.”

 “So the situation isn't hopeless, then.”

 “We're certainly heading that way,” he replied, “but I don't think we're quite there yet. Though if Molpa and his team don't speed up a little, we're going to be in real trouble. Is the Captain out yet? I need to speak to her about something.”

 “She's still in her meeting with Lostok,” he replied.

 “After five hours? What the hell is he ranting on about?”

 Shaking his head, Cooper said, “You two really don't get on, do you.”

 “Let's just say that we have totally incompatible world-views, and leave it at that.”

 “He's Highborn, sir,” the Neander said.

 “I don't care,” Salazar replied. “Oh, this is Maqua, my perpetual co-pilot and the hottest rocket jockey on this field.” Gesturing across, he continued, “Ensign Gabriel Cooper, commander of our Espatier force.”

 Nodding, Maqua said, “Is it true that you have Neander serving under you?”

 “They're all up at Battle Pass at the moment, but yes.” Frowning, he glanced towards the mountains, and added, “I should be up there myself, keeping an eye on things. I'm not sure I trust Kelot not to try something stupid.”

 “Corporal Walpis can keep him on the straight and narrow, can't he?”

 “I hope so.”

 “Corporal?” Maqua asked, in awe. “A commander?”

 “Squad leader. And yes, there are people from both races under his command. He's a ten-year veteran, late of the United States Army on Thule. Joined our Fleet a few months ago.”

 “See,” Salazar said. “I told you.”

 Another loud roar announced the departure of four more heavy shuttles, bearing a load of equipment destined for the starship. Far across the field, a fifth, far smaller one, launched, taking a different trajectory, skimming low over the mountains.

 “Where's he going?” Cooper asked.

 “Daedalus, and I haven't the faintest idea. Sergeant Perry asked for it, something about spare parts. We aren't using it in the evacuation, anyway. It's only a two-seater.” Glancing around, he said, “Don't make a big deal of it, though. I never got around to asking anyone.”

 The volume of the crowd abruptly rose as the entrance to the Admin Dome slid open, Orlova and Lostok walking out side-by-side, though neither seemed to be looking at the other. Orlova's face was red, and Cooper could detect the rage in her eyes as he walked over to her.

 “I gather it didn't go well, ma'am,” he asked, as Lostok walked over to talk to one of his aides.

 “That's the understatement of the century, Ensign.” Shaking her head, she said, “If it was just him and his insufferable command team, I'd leave them here to rot.” Turning to Salazar, she said, “Give me some good news, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 “I'd hate to be court-martialed for lying to my commanding officer, ma'am.”

 With a deep sigh, she said, “Tell me the worst.”

 “We're at least a day behind where we should be on the loading schedule. I think we can make the time up, but it's going to mean essentially forgetting about most of the safety regulations, and the top pilots are going to be smashing records on flight time duration. We're going to need a few waivers.”

 “And the risk?”

 Looking around at the field, Salazar said, “I honestly don't know how to calculate it. There are some excellent pilots around here, but far more of them are the learn-by-rote variety, and they're well out of practice.” Shaking his head, he added, “I'll be surprised if we get away without having someone killed. Naturally, ma'am, we will do everything we can to reduce the risk given the operational parameters.”

 “I still want to be ready for departure on schedule, Sub-Lieutenant. That's about the only thing that Lostok and I actually agree on.” Glancing at the landing field, she said, “Where did all these people come from?”

 Glancing down at his datapad, Cooper replied, “As far as I can work out, they were scheduled to take the first rides up to the transport, well, an hour ago. Five hundred and nine in this group, including all of the children young enough to ride unaccompanied.”

 “Pavel?”

 “I can do it, ma'am, if you order, but it'll mean tearing the schedule to pieces. We've got another twelve logistics flights to do yet, and the command team keep adding new requirements to the list. That's how we've ended up in this mess in the first place.”

 Fire in her eyes, Orlova yelled, “Lostok!” but before she could say another word, there was a loud crack from the crowd, followed by a dozen more, and Cooper dragged her to the ground, Salazar drawing his pistol to cover her. Over to the left, he saw Lostok lying on the field, a woman lying on top of him with a gaping wound in her back. Screams and yells came from the crowd as it scattered in a thousand directions, all of them racing for cover.

 “Damn it!” Salazar yelled, when he saw what had happened. Heedless of his safety, he raced over to her, and said, “Maqua, I need a medical kit on the double. Move it!”

 Lostok looked up, and said, “What is happening?”

 “Someone's trying to kill you,” Cooper said, his eyes ranging around the field. The crowd had almost dispersed, and there was no sign of the would-be assassin. “Are you alright, Captain?”

 Panting for breath, she said, “Other than someone knocking the wind out of me, I'm fine.”

 With a nod, he rose to his feet, drawing his pistol, gesturing for McBride and Rhodes to move forward from the firing positions the two Espatiers had taken on instinct. He looked around the area, spotting a rifle on the ground, and snatching a glove from his pocket, moved down to pick it up.

 “Triplanetary Service Rifle,” he said. “Means nothing. We've handed out more than a hundred of these since we arrived, and the Xandari might have had them already. I'll try and match the service number, but I have a feeling that won't go anywhere.”

 Maqua raced past him, medical kit in hand, and Salazar snatched it from him as he knelt down by the wounded woman, trying to patch her up. Cooper cursed at the lack of a field medic, both of them waiting at Battle Pass for an attack he didn't think would come.

 “How is she?” Orlova asked, looking down as Salazar frantically worked, while Lostok stood with one of his aides, muttering low under his breath.

 “Bad. I want to get her to Alamo, right away.”

 “Do it,” she said.

 Glancing up at the other Neander, he said, “Maqua, go and warm up Thirty-Nine. Follow the steps just like I told you. I'll be along in a minute.”

 “Rhodes,” Cooper ordered, “Get a stretcher.”

 “Wait a minute,” Lostok said. “Maqua, return to Dome Three. I will be addressing the lower castes presently.”

 The Neander froze for a moment, before shaking his head and running across the field towards the shuttle, while Lostok shook his head.

 “I will have to see him punished for disobeying orders, I fear. Such defiance of his superiors cannot be tolerated. An example must be set.”

 Salazar, red with rage, looked up and him and said, “We're trying to save Aussketi's life, you heartless bastard. She took the bullet that was meant for you! Don't you care?”

 “Of course I do, but it is far more important that we secure our current location, and prevent atrocities such as this from happening again.” Turning to Orlova, he said, “I trust you are undamaged, Captain? I apologize profoundly for this, and vow that those responsible will be punished. I'll be happy to send you records of their execution. For the present, I will start implementing security measures. I will be sending whoever replaces your Sub-Lieutenant Salazar an updated boarding list.”

 Rhodes raced in with a stretcher, and Salazar gently placed Aussketi on it, the two of them carrying her over to the waiting shuttle. Cooper watched them go for a moment, silently willing Doctor Duquesne to do her usual magic, and walked over to join Orlova.

 “Sub-Lieutenant Salazar will not be replaced,” Orlova said.

 “I find him insolent.”

 Her eyes widening, she replied, “At this moment, Lostok, what you want is of spectacularly little importance to me. Pavel Salazar is the best-qualified person for this task, and you will deal with him in this matter.”

 “What do you mean, updated lists?” Cooper asked. “They're already been changed too often already.”

 “Perhaps you should confine yourself to the areas in which you are expert, Ensign, and consider the situation at Battle Pass. If the lowborn are working with the Xandari, this might be the first stage of an attack.”

 Frowning, Orlova said, “Answer his question.”

 With a sigh, Lostok said, “It is obvious that we will be unable to follow the planned schedule. The higher castes, those we trust, will have to have the greater priority now, rather than the children-first idea you suggested earlier. Until we can establish tight security on our ship, I cannot see that we can trust the lower castes on board.”

 Cooper looked at Orlova, who said, “I'm going to charitably assume that you are suffering from shock in the aftermath of the attack, Lostok.”

 “Just out of interest,” Cooper asked, “What happens if a Xandari task force arrives in the system before you have evacuated everyone?”

 “Then the few will have to be sacrificed to save the many.”

 “Including women and children, I presume,” he replied.

 Shaking his head, he said, “You don't understand us, Ensign. My people are used to this system. It is at the heart of our culture.”

 Far across the field, Shuttle Thirty-Nine launched, Salazar gunning the engines as hard as he dared, speeding up towards Alamo. Rhodes jogged back towards them, rifle in hand, his eyes darting around as though expecting a bullet from an invisible sniper at any moment.

 Cooper's datapad beeped, and he said, “Registered to Onerjo, three days ago.”

 Nodding, Lostok said, “A lowborn. Formerly in Sanitation. That's your man. I want him arrested at once.”

 Without a word, Cooper picked up his communicator, and said, “Corporal Walpis, come in please.”

 “Walpis here, sir. I was about to call you. Kelot's advance scout spotted some activity down on the base, vehicle movements. Not in our direction, but it's the first sign of life for two days.”

 “You see,” Lostok said. “I was right. This is the start of an uprising. Captain...”

 “How's Onerjo?”

 “Who?” Walpis said, then added, “Oh, I remember. He's about fifty feet in front of me, cleaning his rifle.”

 “Are you sure it's his?”

 There was a long pause before Walpis replied, “Apparently not, sir. I've just checked the serial number, and it's one that hasn't been issued yet. Is something wrong?”

 Ignoring the triumphant expression on Lostok's face, he said, “If I remember right, he was in the first party to the outpost, wasn't he? Has he left since?”

 “No, sir. What is this about?”

 “Nothing for the moment, Corporal. Keep an eye on him, but do nothing more. And tell Kelot I'll be up there in a couple of hours, and that he isn't to move until I get there. Just in case he was thinking of some unauthorized recon.” Shutting down his communicator, he said, “At a guess, he never actually had the weapon. We're giving them out thirty at a time, then running them through the range. All it would take was a moment's inattention, and things are so damn chaotic down here that it wouldn't be hard to arrange a swap.”

 “I want him arrested at once.”

 “Lostok,” Cooper said, while Orlova looked on, “he wasn't here. He hasn't been here for days. Instead he's been freezing up there in the cold with the bulk of my men, watching the Xandari to make sure they don't swarm over that pass and attack you. What have you been doing?”

 “I don't have to take this from you,” he said, turning to Orlova. “This officer...”

 “Insolent,” she said. “Got it. I agree with Ensign Cooper. There's no evidence other than the presence of the weapon that this man was involved, and ample evidence that he isn't. Security is your problem, and I suppose I can't stop you doing something stupid, but I will tell you this, and I want you to listen long and loud. No one is leaving this system until every one of your people has been evacuated from this planet. If I have to fire on the freighter myself to ram that point home, I will.”

 Shaking his head, Lostok replied, “If all of your people are like you, then I do not think we will get along.” He stalked away, his aides following, Cooper and Orlova watching as he walked into the Admin Dome, leaving the empty field behind him.

 “We can't let him screw up the schedules, ma'am,” Cooper said.

 “I don't see how we can stop him, Ensign. Unless you are proposing that I declare martial law.”

 “We couldn't enforce it. Even if Kelot decided to work with us, rather than Lostok.”

 “He's not Highborn, is he?”

 “I don't think so.”

 “Interesting.” Rubbing her forehead, she added, “Heaven save us from allies, Ensign. I'm going to see if I can get the shuttle launches going again. Everything seems to be quiet enough now, and if we wait for a full check of the launch bays, we'll be here for a week. At this point, we're just going to have to trust to luck.”

 Nodding, Cooper replied, “I need to get back to Battle Pass, ma'am.” Glancing at the dome, he added, “I'd like permission to take a scouting party down onto the far plain.”

 “Why?”

 “There's always the chance he might be right, ma'am. If they wanted to destabilize the Neander, this wouldn't be a bad way to do it. It doesn't have to be a traitor to be the start of something big. And in all honesty, it wouldn't surprise me if there was at least one quisling among this group. Someone who thinks they've got it better here than they would at home. From what I've heard of their government, and Lostok's attitude, it wouldn't surprise me.”

 “Maybe. Can't you do the recon from orbit, or a shuttle?”

 “Orbit won't give us the detail we need, and a shuttle flies too low. Perfect for target practice if they've got any substantial weaponry cached there. Sometimes it takes boots on the ground to complete the mission, I'm afraid.”

 “How many?”

 “Four.”

 “And you're leading it yourself.”

 “I'm the best qualified to do it.” He smiled, then added, “And if our roles were reversed, you'd be insisting on taking the team in yourself.”

 “Hell, I'm tempted to do it anyway. I've still got to find some way to deal with that moron. A night wandering around enemy territory might he relaxing in comparison.” With a faint smile, she asked, “Fancy being Captain?”

 “Not on your life, ma'am. I have enough problems as it is.”

 “Figures. Well, ground operations are your province, Ensign, so I'll sign off on it. I'd recommend not asking anyone back here for permission, though, in case there is some sort of an intelligence leak. Keep the planning tight.”

 “That's what I had in mind.”

 “And be careful.”

 “Not 'Good Hunting', ma'am?”

 “To hell with that. Come back alive, Ensign. Too many people have died here already.”

 Nodding, he replied, “Rest assured, ma'am, I shall do everything I possibly can to obey that particular order. I'm not in any rush to meet my maker.” He looked down at his watch, and said, “We'll leave tonight, and try and get back by dawn.”

 “Report what you find directly to me,” she said. “Good luck.”

 He snapped a salute, replied, “Thank you, ma'am. I think you might need some as well.”

 “You might be right about that,” she said, returning the salute, before walking over towards the Admin Dome, communicator in hand.

 Turning to Rhodes, Cooper said, “Private, how's the hand?”

 “Fine, sir,” he replied, without thinking. “Though I might relapse at any moment.”

 “You'd better take some painkillers with you, then, before we leave.”

 With a smile on his face, Cooper walked over to the nearest buggy, and after a moment, Rhodes followed him, shaking his head.

Chapter 15

 Daedalus' armory was a mass of floating spare parts, drifting free around the room, components obviously in some sort of order originally before blurring into each other as a sea of electronics, Sergeant Perry and his grand-daughter at the heart of it, leaning over one of the penetrometers, so engrossed in their work that they didn't notice when Harper pushed into the room. She watched them work for a moment, before quietly coughing to attract their attention.

 The Sergeant looked up, and said, “Sorry, ma'am. I guess...”

 “Don't worry about it. I was just coming to see how you were doing.”

 He slapped the rocket, making her wince, and replied, “Number Six is ready to go. We've just got to fit the new warhead.” Shaking his head, he said, “Not that they're going to do that much damage, I'm afraid. The best we can manage is a small shaped charge, and we'll be lucky to even penetrate the outer hull.”

 “You let me worry about that,” she said. “Even if we can only use them as decoys, it'll be worth the effort.” With a smile, she added, “Of course, I'm rather hoping that won't be necessary. I'll be satisfied if we can just fly out of this system unmolested.”

 “I'd better go and get the last one,” Perry's grand-daughter said. “Be back in a minute.”

 As she drifted out of the room, Harper said, “By the way, I'm sorry, but our mission profile means that it could be a long time before we get back to Mars. Maybe a year, at the outside.”

 “I serve at the pleasure of my superiors,” he said. “Honestly, this is already a dream come true for me. I'm back on my old ship, wearing a uniform again, even if it is the wrong one, and I'm going to get a chance to give a bit of payback to those bastards. I'm not exactly unhappy about it.” Looking through the open door, he added, “And my grand-daughter is here, anyway.” Shaking his head, he continued, “You know she used to build model rockets as well? Placed second in the Sub-Orbital Competition, back when she was in school.”

 “She's only been on board for a few months. I think she joined with the last batch of replacements at Yeager Station, just before we left.”

 His smile turned to a frown, and he replied, “I've missed her whole life. Eighteen years. More. Her father grew up without his old man around.” With a sigh, he said, “Two years in the War, and then stuck down on that freezing hell for three decades.”

 “That wasn't your fault.”

 He seemed to look past her as he continued, “When Mars rebelled after the Terraforming Crisis, after that first strike in orbit, I couldn't wait to sign up. I didn't have to, either. I was working as a shipyard technician, converting warships. My foreman tried to stop me, told me that I should stay with my family, that I was needed. I went behind his back, forced my way into the Fleet.”

 “You did what you thought was right.”

 “Or was I just hungry for glory, willing to pay any price, no matter how high.” Tugging out his datapad, he said, “My wife remarried, three years after I was declared dead. I'm glad of that, at least. Now they're both gone, eight years ago.” He stared into space, and said, “I hope she was happy. I hope they both were.”

 With a sigh, Harper replied, “Nothing you can do will change the past, Sergeant. You've still got fifty years left when we get home, plenty of time for you to start again. The Fleet protects its own. You'll be looked after.”

 “What fleet? The Martian Space Service is a reserve organization now.”

 “I'm sure Captain Orlova would be happy to arrange your transfer to the Triplanetary Fleet. It's come up a few times. We're always short of personnel.” She paused, then said, “Hell, if you're crazy enough to want to stay in, I'm sure they'll find you a job. Teaching, maybe, or at the shipyards at Mariner Station.”

 The planet was moving into view, and he looked down at it, a tear welling in his eye as he replied, “Do you want to know the worst thing of all? I actually miss that world down there, the cold beauty of the nights, the stars gleaming in the sky over the shimmering ice, the tall, dark mountains looming down, dark sentinels that watched over us. Even despite everything else, that was home. And I guess it always will be.”

 “You can't help that,” she replied. “Three decades, more than half of your life, you spend down there. Longer than you lived on Mars.” After a brief glance at the view-port, she added, “If you want to go down once more, I'm sure I can arrange for you to get a ride on one of the shuttles.”

 “No,” he said, resolutely. “That part of my life is done, and thank God for it. Besides, I've got work to do, right here. These missiles aren't going to put themselves back together, after all.” He frowned, then asked, “What about you? Where's your home? Back on Mars?”

 “I really don't know,” she replied. “Dad moved around so much when I was a kid that I never really thought of anywhere as home. A year on Mars, a year on Callisto, out at the Belt for a few months. Even eighteen horrible months on Triton.” Shaking her head, she said, “That was the bleakest place I've ever seen. No matter how high you turned up the heating, you were always cold. I'm not surprised it's never taken as a colony, not really. I couldn't imagine spending my life out there in the dark.” She paused, then replied, “I guess I don't have one. Except Alamo.”

 “Just Alamo, not the Fleet?”

 Shaking her head, she said, “I never really understood what my father was doing before I started to do it myself.” Hearing noises from the corridor, she added, “Your son served, your grand-daughter is serving. Whatever it was you felt back then, they've felt it too. The wanderlust is hard to beat. Trust me, I know.” She kicked off towards the corridor, and said, “I should leave the two of you to work. And talk.”

 Nodding, he replied, “Thanks, Captain.”

 “I told you not to call me that.”

 “Then I guess you'd better stop acting like one. You never know when you might get used to it.”

 Before she could reply, her communicator bleeped, and she fished it out of her pocket, replying, “Go ahead.”

 “Incoming priority shuttle,” Armstrong said, calling down from the bridge. “Priority treatment.”

 “Send them to Alamo,” she replied.

 “We're nearer, and they need to get the patient into a medical facility on the double. Doctor Duquesne's already on the way, and Garland's standing by at our sickbay.”

 “Damned if I know what you need me for, Spaceman,” she replied.

 She paused, then said, “I'm sorry, ma'am, if I've...”

 “Relax,” she replied. “I'm on my way to the docking port. Bring us to standby alert.”

 “Alert?”

 “If something's going on down on the planet, I have a horrible feeling we're going to get the repercussions up here as well. Get Scott up to the bridge to take charge.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” he replied. A second later, the technician's voice reverberated around the corridors, saying, “All hands to standby stations. I repeat, all hands to standby stations. Clear for action.”

 She swam down the corridor towards the docking bay, almost colliding with a clumsy Bartlett in the midst of rewiring a communications relay, and swung into position to see Arkhipov waiting with a stretcher, the medical attachment already booted and waiting.

 “Damn, Armstrong really is on the ball,” she said. “He bucking for a promotion?”

 “Haven't you heard?” the engineer replied. “That kid's spent the last three months studying for the Academy exams. Word is she's planning to apply when we get back.”

 “Crazy. Everyone around here is crazy.”

 The hatch slammed open, and Salazar pushed a female Neander out into the corridor, Rhodes by her side, gently easing her onto the medical stretcher before pushing her towards sickbay, the medicomp making alarming bleeping noises as it registered her falling life-signs. The group followed the stretcher down the corridor as the shuttle detached, dropping away to make room for Alamo's fast transfer shuttle. Harper glanced at her datapad and shook her head. The pilot was breaking all records to get there, doubtless at Duquesne's urgings.

 She hadn't even been in Daedalus' sickbay up until now. Garland was hastily bringing all of the equipment on-line, fumbling with some of the settings, and she shook her head at the antiquity of the systems he was using. It was as though they had floated into a museum, filled with outdated technology that had somehow been preserved.

 “Damn rubbish,” Garland muttered, clamping a respirator to the Neander's face. “Obsolete junk.”

 “Will it work, Spaceman?” Salazar asked, iron in his eyes.

 Nodding, he said, “I hope so, sir.”

 The rear door opened, and Duquesne stepped in, her eyes widening as she looked down at her patient, pushing through the crowd as she swung her medical kit into position, clamping it to the bed. She looked back at Salazar with a glare, then started to reach into her bag.

 “Clear the room,” she said. “I only need Garland and the patient. The rest of you are in my way and wasting my time. Move!”

  Reluctantly, Salazar pushed back out into the corridor, looking back into the room as the others emerged, the doors sliding shut behind him. Harper grabbed him by the shoulders, swinging him around to face her.

 “She doesn't need you for a moment, but I need to know what's going on.”

 “There was an assassination attempt on Captain Orlova and Lostok, and she decided to be a hero and take the bullet. I'll be damned if I let her die for it.”

 “They've got everything in hand, Pavel,”she said, holding him back from the sickbay doors. Shaking her head, she added, “Pavel, what the hell is happening down there?”

 He closed his eyes, and replied, “Everything's falling apart. One of the Neander wants to start a war to the death for the planet, and another has decided that he's going to introduce segregation of the lesser classes. Mindless fool. Meanwhile the general population is beginning to wonder whether they're going to get off this rock in time, and I'd be forced to agree with them.”

 “Great.”

 “It's taking too damn long, Kris,” he said. “All of it is taking too damn long. We're hanging on a knife-edge, and if an enemy task force jumped into the system right now, I don't know what the hell we could do to stop them. Have you looked at the repair reports from Alamo?”

 “Stop shouting, Pavel,” she replied. “It won't do any good.”

 “I know,” he said, softening his voice. “I know. Might make me feel a little better, though.”

 “The Captain will figure something out. She always has in the past.”

 Shaking his head, he said, “There are only two options I can think of, Kris. We stay, and fight to death in a battle we almost certainly can't win, or we run and leave five thousand civilians to their fate.” With a sigh, he added, “I'd love to find a third option, but for the life of me I can't think of one.” Looking at the doors, he said, “I wish I could see what they are doing in there.”

 “You know Duquesne,” Harper said. “If there is any chance of saving her life, she'll find a way to make it happen.”

 “He just stood there,” Salazar said. “That cold-hearted bastard just stood there while the woman who had risked her life to save his damn near died, and decided it was more important to start ranting about security to the Captain than to do anything about it. He never even bothered calling for his local medical team.” Shaking his head, he said, “I know there isn't anything we can do about it, but I'm beginning to feel sympathetic for the Xandari right now.”

 Perry drifted in silently behind them, and replied, “I can't ever feel that way, sir. I'm sorry.”

 Turning sharply, Salazar said, “How well did you know Lostok? Has he always been like this?”

 With a shrug, the old man replied, “Maybe those tendencies have always been buried somewhere. I've only known him as a fellow slave, not a superior, though he always did seem to enjoy it a little too much when others deferred to him. You have to understand that the Collective is an old culture, with a rich heritage and ancient traditions.” He paused, then said, “Odd, though. We always just assumed he was in charge. Even the Xandari treated him that way, passed our orders through him.” Shaking his head, he added, “Though he was always at the forefront of every escape attempt, and suffered with the others when they failed.”

 “I've heard about them from people who've suffered as a result, Sergeant, and I have to say that I was somewhat underwhelmed.”

 “Then what is your solution? To impose our own ideas of right and wrong, our own culture and ideals on them? To conquer them spiritually, if not physically? That makes us no better than the Xandari, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 “And the alternative is to sit back and allow injustice to take place, to allow someone to be subjugated because of who their distant ancestors were?” Shaking his head, he said, “I can't agree with you, Sergeant.”

 The door slid open, Garland stepping out, ripping off his gloves. He glanced at the three of them, and said, “I've got to go and get some more supplies from Alamo. We're going to be transferring her over in a few hours.”

 “Will she make it?” Salazar asked.

 “Doctor Duquesne doesn't like to leave her patients to the Reaper, sir. She'll be fine in a week or two.”

 “Then the supplies?”

 “She took one look at the sickbay and immediately ordered improvements.” With a sigh, he added, “I see long hours of work ahead. I'll need to borrow an engineering technician, ma'am.”

 “I'll help,” Perry said. “We're almost finished with the penetrometers anyway.”

 “Fine by me,” Harper replied.

 Salazar frowned for a second, then asked, “Armstrong's over here, isn't she?”

 “Up on the bridge.”

 “I've got to head right back down to the surface to get the shuttle crews moving, but there's something I need to ask her about first.” Turning to Perry, he said, “Good to see you again, Sergeant.”

 “Likewise, sir.”

 Harper's communicator chirped, and she raised it to her ear with a silent curse, saying, “Harper. Go ahead.”

 “Scott here, ma'am. I'm on the bridge. We've just received some new orders. Apparently someone on the surface wants us to make a low pass, inside the upper atmosphere. Technically it's withing safe limits...”

 “What the hell for?”

 “Reconnaissance, apparently. What do you want me to tell them.”

 “Stall them, Kat. I'll be up in a minute. And try and get someone senior from Alamo on the line as well. I'm not going to so much as twitch without authorization.” Turning to Perry, she said, “Does it ever end?”

 “Not from what I've seen, ma'am,” he said with a smile as she pushed off down the corridor, racing for the bridge. Her datapad chirped urgently, reports for her instant approval, and she pulled it out of her pocket and tossed it away, feeling a surge of brief satisfaction as it tumbled through the air, before sighing and kicking back to retrieve it.

 “Oxygen Replenishment Systems Report,” she read. “Sounds gripping.”

 “If I remember correctly,” Perry said, “the butler did it.” He smiled at the dirty look she shot him before kicking away down the corridor, leaving her silently fuming for a moment, staring at the datapad. Her communicator chirped again, a different channel this time, and she looked from one device to the other, shaking her head. How the hell did Orlova do this?

 “Harper here,” she finally said with a sigh. “What's up?”

Chapter 16

 “Well, that's it,” Nelyubov said, glancing up at the clock, then back across the holotable to Orlova. “As of now, both we and the transport are clear to leave the system.”

 Shaking her head, Orlova turned to Weitzman, and asked, “Contact the surface again, and ask them for an update on the third shuttle flight.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” he said, turning to his board with a sigh as he began to negotiate with the local leaders, attempting to find someone to give him a straight answer to the question. Shaking her head, Orlova moved over to the helm, standing next to Foster.

 “Have you got a course plotted to the hendecaspace point, Sub-Lieutenant?”

 “Ready to go, ma'am. We can be there in eight minutes.” Glancing at a control, she said, “Senior Lieutenant Powell has been updating the dimensional trajectory plot every half-hour. We can depart as soon as you give the word.”

 “Shuttles Two and Three are standing by,” Nelyubov said. “We can evacuate all of our personnel from the surface in one sweep.”

 “Are you suggesting that?” she asked.

 “I can't help think it might concentrate Lostok's mind a little.”

 Shaking her head, she replied, “All it would do is convince him to jump the gun and leave the system. There are still almost two thousand people down there. Weitzman, have you got anything?”

 “I'm trying to reach Section Leader Ghewon, ma'am. I understand he's in some sort of a meeting, and orders have been left that he should not be disturbed.” Shaking his head, he replied, “I've already suggested that he might want to amend those instructions.”

 “Shuttles launching, ma'am,” Spinelli said. “Sub-Lieutenant Bradley has them on positive guidance control, tracking them to the transport. Estimated time of arrival is thirty-one minutes.” Before she could ask, he added, “Manifest suggests fifty-nine people, as well as engineering stores.”

 “What sort of stores, Spaceman?” Nelyubov asked.

 “That's all the information there is, sir.” Looking back at the officer, he said, “That's been pretty standard over the last few flights. We're not getting much in the way of information.”

 “And you didn't flag it with anyone?”

 “Everything's been in such chaos down there, sir, I just assumed that they were skipping the paperwork.” He glanced around, then added, “I'm sorry, sir.”

 Shaking his head, he replied, “Go back through the records and see if you can work out how much material we're talking about. They should have finished loading their supplies yesterday.” Glancing at Orlova, he said, “They're dragging their feet. All of this is taking too damn long.”

 “Or they're making sure that their luxuries get priority over the people they're supposed to be helping. Lostok and his group don't seem to care about the lower orders very much.

 His voice low, he replied, “We've got a long journey with that man in command of the Neander contingent, and that prospect is becoming less and less appealing.” Shaking his head, he said, “We should be on our way right now, not loitering around here waiting for a task force to attack us.”

 “I agree, but we don't have a choice. I can't abandon them to their fate, and even if I wanted to assume direct command of that ship, we don't have the people to do it. We're struggling to cover Daedalus.” Shaking her head, she said, “Nevertheless, we're going to start moving things along, one way or another.” Moving to Cantrell, she said, “Lieutenant, I want all decks to proceed to standby alert, and pass the word to Daedalus that they should do likewise. Landing shuttles to prepare for immediate launch on one minute's notice.” Quickly scanning the launch itinerary, she said, “Salazar ought to be landing in three minutes. As soon as he does, Weitzman, I want to speak to him.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” he said, before grimacing. “Damn…” He looked up, sighed, and said, “I'm sorry, ma'am, but I can't seem to get them to understand that the situation is urgent. I was just told that Ghewon will contact us after lunch.”

 “You're doing the best you can, Spaceman,” she said. “Just keep trying, and set up that call for me.”

 “Aye,” he said.

 Powell walked onto the bridge, his face glum, a datapad in his hand. He passed it over to Orlova, who quickly flashed down the readouts, frequency reports and sensor logs for the last three days, a jump of unintelligible data.

 “Got the short version, Professor?”

 “Lostok was right. There are traitors down on the surface. That's the records of our Alpha-Nine probe, out beyond the ring system. Someone is sending brief, coded messages to a station on the planet within a quarter-mile of the Admin Dome.”

 “How the hell did we miss that?” Nelyubov exploded.

 “The transmission was buried very carefully in the background noise, made to resemble the local readings from the gas giant. Until we had a baseline of readings, we never had a chance to pick it up. I've sent the information down to Intelligence, but they don't seem to have any idea where to start. The code is unlike anything we've encountered before.”

 “That does it,” Orlova said. “I'm going down there.”

 “You can't,” Nelyubov said, shaking his head. “Not given the situation as it stands. If there are traitors down there, you'd be making it clear that we know about them, as well as giving them a target, or worse, a hostage. Pavel can handle it.”

 Nodding, she said, “You're right, damn it all.” Tapping a control, she said, “Lieutenant Kibaki, report to hangar deck on the double. You'll have orders waiting for you when you get there.”  She paused, then added, “Swing by your cabin and grab a few things. You'll be on Daedalus for a while.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” he said, reluctance in his voice. “Is there...”

 “On the double, Lieutenant!”

 “On my way, ma'am.”

 Nelyubov nodded, and said, “You're relieving Harper?”

 “If we're going into combat, I've got to. According to the latest status reports, Daedalus is ready for a fight. They've even managed to improvise some sort of armament.”

 “I hate to admit it,” he replied, “but she's done a good job over there. I was going to suggest having a word with Jack Quinn about some sort of more permanent arrangement, maybe have her formally working with the Systems gang.”

 “It would be nice to get something out of this,” she said.

 Cantrell turned, and replied, “Transfer One is ready for launch, ma'am. Just waiting on the arrival of Lieutenant Kibaki.”

 “Weitzman, any luck with Salazar yet?” she asked.

 “Delayed landing, ma'am,” the technician replied. “Another wave is getting ready to take off. Two hundred people, I checked. He won't be on the deck for another five minutes. I can contact him anyway if you...”

 “No,” she interrupted. “It's never a good idea to interrupt a pilot on final approach, and while this is pretty damn urgent, it isn't an emergency. Get me Daedalus.”

 “Transfer One is on the way,” Cantrell said, watching it depart on her monitor. “They'll be there in five minutes.”

 “Excellent,” she replied.

 “I have Lieutenant Harper,” Weitzman said, relief on his face. “It's nice to finally find someone wanting to talk to me.”

 “Don't take it personally, Spaceman,” Orlova said, sliding on a headset. “Kris, I've got good news for you.”

 “Someone's coming to take over?” she replied, her voice oddly flat. “Joe Kibaki?”

 “Transfer One will be with you in five minutes. I want you back on board as soon as you can. Things look like they're beginning to heat up.”

 After a second, she said, “We've got it on our screens now. As soon as he arrives, I'll do a quick handover and be back on board on fifteen minutes.” Summoning some of her usual charm, she added, “Miss me?”

 “Do you really want an answer to that question, Kris?” Orlova said with a smile. “Report to me on the bridge when you get here. And good work, by the way. You've worked miracles over there.”

 “Thanks. Daedalus out.”

 Shaking his head, Nelyubov said, “She's disappointed. I thought she'd be raring to get back here.”

 “Sometimes you get comfortable in the big chair,” Orlova replied. “It can be hard to give up, no matter how long you resisted it.” Looking at him, she said, “That's a Senior Lieutenant command, formally, Frank. If you want...”

 “You have to be joking,” he replied. “When I get my first command, I'd like it to be on a ship younger than I am. Let Joe have it. We've got to do something to give his career a boost, no matter how hard he resists it.”

 “Emergency!” Spinelli said. “Collision warning. Transfer One, change course at once! Take immediate evasive action! Cyndar Twenty-Three, alter your trajectory!” Flicking a switch as Orlova raced over to his console, he yelled, “Damn it, you fools, you're ten seconds from impact!”

 Shaking his head, Nelyubov said, “It's too late.”

 Orlova watched as the two traces on the scope dived towards each other, Transfer One making an attempt to swing away at the last second, the helmsman leaving the corrective maneuver too late. She closed her eyes as the two images faded from the screen, replaced with a small mark indicating a navigation hazard, a cluster of rapidly dispersing debris.

 “I'm getting thirty-one hails,” Weitzman said, shaking his head. “The channels are swamped!”

 Stabbing a control, Orlova said, “This is Lieutenant-Captain Orlova. All ships continue to their destination. Switch your controls to emergency interrupt. If you deviate from your trajectory by so much as a mile, we will take over control and bring you down. Do not contact Alamo unless you are declaring an emergency. Alamo out.”

 “Whose fault was it,” Nelyubov asked with a sigh.

 “Twenty-Three,” Spinelli said, “but Transfer One could have done a lot more to get out of the way.” Bringing up a report, he read, “The pilot was on his tenth flight of the day. Well over recommended hours. Spaceman First Class Raphael Parker.”

 “Everyone is at the moment,” Nelyubov said.

 “At least it was only a supply shuttle,” Spinelli added. “Four dead. No chance of survivors.”

 Turning in his chair, Weitzman said, “I have Lostok, ma'am, as well as Lieutenant Harper.”

 “Go talk to Harper,” Orlova said, turning to Nelyubov.

 “What do you want me to say?” he asked.

 “That she's going to have to take Daedalus out of the system after all. I can't spare anyone else to take command, not now. Once you've done that, start an investigation. Try and find out what the hell happened.”

 “I think I know,” Powell said, looking down at his panel. “Our instruments recorded a spike in that strange signal, just before collision. Some sort of trigger, perhaps, activating dormant programming that overrode the pilot's controls. I find it hard to believe that someone would willingly commit suicide to destroy one of our shuttles.”

 “Weren't they checked?” Nelyubov asked.

 “Only by local personnel,” the scientist replied. “We haven't got the people to handle it ourselves, and they knew their systems better than we did, anyway. All it would take was a single traitor to make sure that the loopholes were missed.”

 “That's got pretty worrying connotations,” Cantrell said. “Any of those Neander shuttles could be a weapon. Ma'am, I recommend that we assume direct control of all vessels in flight.”

 “How?” Nelyubov asked. “Most of them don't have fully compatible datalinks. We could take over one or two, I think, but there are seventeen up in the sky right now.”

 “Watch them like a hawk, Spaceman,” Orlova said, turning to Spinelli. “Call your relief to the bridge to help out.”

 “I have Lostok, ma'am,” Weitzman said, wincing. “He seems rather keen on speaking to you urgently.”

 “I'll take it in my office,” she replied. She paused for a second, then added, “Brief Salazar, Frank, once you've spoken to Harper. Tell him everything, and tell him that I'll support any move he feels he has to make on the surface.”

 “That's a lot of authority for a Sub-Lieutenant,” Nelyubov said.

 “Whatever the situation demands,” she replied. “You have the bridge.”

 “If I can find the time,” he said, shaking his head. She stepped through the door into her office, her terminal urgently bleeping. Rubbing her forehead, she took a quick drink of water, then settled down behind her desk and tapped the control, revealing the snarling face of Lostok on the screen.

 “One of your pilots,” he began, but she broke him off.

 “You were right. There are saboteurs among your people. A few moments ago, just before the collision, one of our remote probes intercepted a signal that we believe triggered hidden programming on Cyndar Twenty-Three, causing it to crash into our Transfer One. Two of my crewmen were killed in the collision, Lostok.”

 He paused, nodded, and replied, “My condolences on your loss, Captain. I'm sorry to see my theory confirmed at such cost, but I cannot say that this news surprises me. I only wish it did. Rest assured that I will take all necessary steps to see that those responsible are brought to justice, and that they suffer the appropriate penalty.”

 Shaking her head, she said, “I'm not sure we have time for any of that. All three of our ships are clear to leave the system...”

 “Excellent news. My shuttle will be launching in half an hour.”

 “And we need to move with the evacuation. There are still sixteen hundred people on the surface.”

 “I assure you, Captain, that we will rescue them as long as the Xandari provide us with the opportunity. Once the last of our essential stores are transferred to the freighter, I will personally see that the Undercastes are taken to safety. However, I cannot agree that we can ignore such a major security leak.”

 Rubbing her head again, she replied, “I never suggested that it should be ignored.”

 “Forgive me, Captain. My understanding of your language is not perfect, despite the best efforts of Sergeant Perry. I will make sure that Sub-Lieutenant Salazar and Ensign Cooper are updated with our discoveries.” He smiled, and said, “I believe I already know where to look for our prime suspect.”

 “We're going to want to speak to him on Alamo,” Orlova said, fear rising at the back of her mind. “Our Technical Intelligence staff have a lot of questions to put to him.”

 “I'm afraid that will not be possible, Captain. This is an internal matter, and we will deal with it ourselves.” As the smile grew on his face, he added, “Our interrogators are experts. Have no fear, they will extract any information you require. You have my personal guarantee on that. Cyndar out.”

 The screen faded to black, and she looked at it for a moment, shaking her head. She reached for the control to call Ensign Cooper, ready to order him to move in and take over on the surface, and to hell with the consequences. Lostok wasn't planning on launching an investigation. He'd already decided who was responsible, regardless of whether or not he was actually guilty.

 And all she could do was watch, and wait. She'd told Frank that they didn't have the strength to take over, and she was right. She pulled back her hand, took a deep breath, and drained the rest of her glass, before rising to her feet and returning to the maelstrom of chaos on the bridge.

Chapter 17

 Half-walking, half-sliding, Cooper ambled down the slope towards the plain, the rest of his strike team following behind. Glancing left and right, he saw the decoy teams making their own trail, three on one side, five on the other, all with orders to proceed along carefully calculated tracks. Behind him, he heard swearing, and turned to see Rhodes sprawled in the ground, scrambling to pick himself up.

 “Come on, Private,” he said. “We've got to keep moving.”

 “Just a minute, sir,” Rhodes gasped. “Lost my breath.”

 “You softskins are all alike,” Kelot replied, reaching down and grabbing the trooper, hauling him to his feet. “No stamina.”

 Rhodes looked up at the fearsome Neander and turned pale, trudging down the slope, Cooper shaking his head with a smile as he resumed the lead, careful to avoid any hidden rocks that might cause him to suffer the same embarrassing fate at his subordinate. He glanced down at his datapad, watching the progress of the others, and nodded to himself as the team on the farthest left turned to the side, heading for one of the distant passes, making its way to the planned pickup point.

 In an open environment such as this, there was no such thing as stealth. The suit heaters would give them away in a second, and the cover down on the plain was next to non-existent. An advantage when they got close, as they'd be able to get a good look at everything that was going on, but for the present it made things complicated. The only plan he'd been able to conjure up in the time was to flood their detectors with false images, send decoy teams down to draw away their patrols and interceptors, or to make them think that a full-scale attack was in progress.

 Looking down at the pistol at his belt, he shook his head. Carrying plasma weaponry would have effectively shown a beacon into the night for anyone around to detect, and they were going to have enough problems getting across the plain as it was. More, he was rather hoping that the Xandari would conclude that it was only Neander, local forces, not his Espatier force. It had occurred to him that all of this might be some sort of deception to draw them away, but Corporal Stewart and Private McBride were sitting up at Battle Pass with fifteen carefully-positioned plasma rifles ready to fire at a moment's notice. If anything larger attacked, then the presence of the rest of the platoon wouldn't make any difference anyway.

 “I still say we should just attack,” Kelot grumbled, turning up to Walpis. “I'd have thought that you would be the first to agree with me.”

 “What the officer says goes, Kelot. He knows what he's doing.”

 “Our job is recon,” Cooper said, “with a side order of deterrence. As soon as your wise and noble leaders get themselves moving, we can leave this planet forever.” Shaking his head, he replied, “We ought to be done with it now, already be on our way.”

 “Assuming we're allowed to just leave like that,” Kelot replied. “I'm not so sure.” Hefting his rifle, he added, “And if we run into one of the Xandari, I'm going to make him pay for everything he's done over the last few years.”

 Two more of the teams turned back, and Cooper's force dropped down into a low shaft, a crack in the ice that provided the only vague cover in the area, though even that left a good thousand meters between the team and its target. He shook his head, spotting a winking light on the ground, and stepped over to it, hefting the small device attached to it in his hand.

 “Sensor drone,” Walpis said.

 Tossing it over the side of the crack, Cooper replied, “Well, they know we're here.”

 “You aren't planning on aborting the mission,” Kelot said.

 “No.” Pulling out his communicator, Cooper said, “Corporal Stewart, we've been detected. I'm switching our roles. You're Prime, we're First Reserve. We'll take the lead for a little while now, try and draw them away. Understood?”

 “Understood, sir. We seem to be having a clear run of it at the moment. I'll contact you if we spot the enemy. Stewart out.”

 Turning to Kelot, Cooper said, “Relax. We're still going to get close enough for you to have a good look at them.”

 “I hope so,” he said.

 The column filed along the crack, carefully pushing forward, Cooper periodically checking his datapad to watch the rest of the unit file off, all of them taking their routes back to Battle Pass. Anyone watching with a modicum of tactical intelligence would have realized what he was doing, but that didn't matter overmuch. What was more important was to put them into a defensive mode, to cause them to draw in. He didn't intend to get close enough to engage their defenses, but the fewer outer patrols he had to deal with, the better.

 It might have been noon, but if anything, it felt colder than ever, the chill of the wind sweeping through his heated jacket, finding its way in through any small gap. The temperature was lower than it had ever been since he'd arrived, and clouds were gathering overhead, a snowstorm pending in the immediate future. He shook his head, pausing for a moment to take a drink of juice before moving on. Glancing at his watch, he realized that by now, it was just his team and Stewart's on the plain. Everyone else was on their way to safety.

 He looked down at his datapad again, small flecks of snow beginning to tumble from the sky, drips of moisture on his screen as he looked at Stewart's trajectory track. She seemed to be making good progress, but was still behind his team. The base was just ahead, less than three miles away. An hour, even on this terrain, though he was growing less certain that the weather would give him the chance. Kelot looked back at him, and for the first time, he saw concern on the Neander's face.

 “We're heading for something nasty,” he said. “Could last an hour, could last a day. I've seen people freeze solid in conditions like that.”

 “How long?”

 “Soon,” Kelot replied, looking up at the clouds. “Hard to tell. Not my field. Though certainly within four or five hours, we could be in a white-out.”

 “We've got our night-vision,” Rhodes said, tapping his goggles. “How bad can it get?”

 “Bad enough that you can't even see your own hand in front of your face, Private,” Cooper said. “That every step takes you in the wrong direction, and that when your suit power runs out, you die of hypothermia within minutes. No chance of rescue under those conditions, either.”

 “Three more hours,” Kelot said. “Once we get back to Battle Pass, we'll be fine. I say we press on. I'm reasonably sure we can make it in time, and it's got to be worth the risk.”

 Frowning, Cooper replied, “You're the expert. If you say that we can make it, then I'll go along with you, but if it looks like the situation is worsening, I expect you to warn me instantly.”

 Nodding, the Neander said, “I've got a lot of Xandari left to kill, Ensign. I can't do that if I'm dead.”

 Taking one last swig of juice, Cooper turned back to the trail, trudging along the surface, trying not to think about the approaching storm ahead of him, and the fact that underneath him, less than a hundred meters away, was a sea that might as well be bottomless, reaching down tens of thousands of feet through an endless gloom. He looked down at his feet, wincing as he heard a loud snap, before pushing on.

 A patter drummed onto his head, the snow beginning to gather, cutting down their visibility. In a strange way, though, it was a blessing. The Xandari were unlikely to move under these conditions either, more inclined to the sensible approach of hiding in their shelter and waiting for the skies to clear. The closer they got, the better.

 For half an hour they continued onward as the snow slowly worsened, dropping out of the sky and gathering on the ice. Their boots cracked on the ground, digging in to keep them upright, night-vision goggles dropping into place to help them find their way. At any moment, Cooper still expected an attack, even now, or at least some sort of trap hidden in the ice. This was such an obvious avenue of approach, that he couldn't believe it wouldn't be guarded in some way. It was almost a relief when he turned a corner to see a Xandari buggy parked on the floor of the crack, it's cannon aimed right at them.

 “Hit the dirt!” he said, diving to the ground, rifle in hand, looking up at the menacing vehicle, waiting for the blast and the roar as it fired. After a second, when nothing happened, he peered up, inching around the corner, rifle in hand. He waved the barrel in the air, and after a second, his hand as well.

 “What the hell?” Rhodes asked.

 Climbing to his feet, Cooper walked towards the vehicle, spotting the hatch open at the rear. Inside, a pile of snow was building up, and the controls were all dark, several components torn out to render the vehicle useless. Kelot followed him, shaking his head.

 “Damaged?” Cooper asked. “Abandoned in place for repair later?”

 “I don't think so,” Kelot replied, poking at the control console. “I've seen enough of these to know what makes them tick. This buggy has been deliberately abandoned, sabotaged to stop anyone from using it.”

 “Can you make it work?”

 Frowning, the Neander said, “Maybe, if you give me half an hour, but we'll never get it up to Battle Pass.” He pointed at the wheels, and said, “You'd need far more traction to make that slope. This is designed only for light work.” The two of them looked at each other, and he added, “What the hell is it doing here anyway?”

 Ripping out his datapad, Cooper called up the last projections of the enemy base, zooming in as far as he could, fuming at the diminished detail. He thrust it at Kelot, who snatched it from him, peering at the parked vehicles and nodding.

 “All the same design. There were only a couple of rugged buggies, anyway, that we knew of. I'd assumed they had some more hidden somewhere, but now...”

 “Cooper to Stewart,” he said, digging out his communicator. “Come in, please.”

 “Stewart here, sir. We're about two miles from the base...”

 “Never mind that for the moment. Have you encountered any activity at all?”

 “No, sir, not a thing.”

 “Get ready. I'm going to launch a flare.”

 “What?” Walpis said, racing forward. “Sir, we'll be spotted in seconds.”

 “I don't think so,” Cooper replied, tossing the device up, the on-board rocket activating after a second to kick it up to a safe distance before it exploded, a light as strong as the sun briefly illuminating the plain. Cooper counted down the seconds, waiting for something to happen, then looked at Walpis.

 “Nothing.”

 “A trick,” Kelot said, thumping the side of the buggy. “We're been decoyed.”

 “There were people there,” Walpis said, shaking his head. “I saw them myself this morning. At least fifty people.”

 “They might have been there this morning, Corporal, but I doubt if they are there now.” Speaking into his communicator again, he said, “Stewart, what's the terrain like near you? Flat?”

 “Yes, sir.”

 “Then mark out a landing zone and hold your position. Call Battle Pass and tell them to prepare for extraction when I give the word.” Glancing at his watch, he said, “If everything goes as I'm expecting, we'll be on our way in half an hour.”

 “You don't want us to advance to the base, sir?”

 “Hold position, Corporal. That's an order.”

 “Yes, sir,” she replied.

 “Good. Cooper out.” Turning to Kelot, he gestured at the side of the crack, and the two of them started to climb up and back onto the surface of the plain, easing themselves up hand-over-hand, Rhodes and Walpis right behind them. Anyone at the base would spot them in a second as they walked inside, but by this point, he didn't expect anyone to be there at all.

 “The buggies could have been brought in by shuttle,” Walpis suggested. “There was so much chaos on the surface...”

 “No,” Cooper said, shaking his head. “I'd been assuming they could simply climb the pass. If they couldn't...”

 “Impossible,” Kelot interrupted.

 “Then there must be something else going on, and I want to find out what.”

 The four men trudged across the plain, the pair of black domes just ahead, surrounded by the buggies as silent sentinels, watching them approach. The barrels of their cannons slowly turned as they moved forward, causing Cooper to pause for a long moment, holding his breath as he anticipated his doom, but once more, nothing happened. Just automatic systems, registering a threat but with no one around to report it to.

 “This is crazy, sir,” Rhodes said, his eyes darting about. “Any moment now, they'll leap out and get us, I swear.” He shook his head, and added, “Let's go back, sir. Pull back to the new landing zone and get back to Alamo.”

 “No matter what happens, I don't think we're heading upstairs yet,” Cooper replied, moving forward. The gathering storm swirled around him, snow biting into his face, red patches on his cheeks were the skin was raw. He kept himself warm by inwardly composing the memo for the designers of their cold weather gear when they returned to the Confederation, trying to come up with a way of describing their current situation without using language that would get him court-martialed.

 He finally realized they were safe when he saw the outer hatch of the nearest dome, wide open to the elements, snow building up in the lee of the door. Jogging through the barrier of armored vehicles, pistol in hand, he raced for the shelter, Kelot right behind him, the others hanging back to cover the rear, looking around at the abandoned base.

 Cooper stepped inside, the blast of warm air instantly soothing him, looking around at the orderly space inside. The dome was partitioned in two, the whine of the heater filling the room, almost deafening, but other than that, everything was in its proper place, as though the occupants had merely stepped out of the room for a moment.

 “This was orderly,” he said. “Wherever they went, they had plenty of time.”

 “I don't understand,” Rhodes said, stepping in. “We saw their vehicles moving around earlier, and we've had the place under constant watch for days. No shuttles have been anywhere near here.” Shaking his head, he added, “There isn't even a landing pad. They'd melt the ice if they tried to touch down.”

 “That's true,” Kelot added. “The first prisoners had to be dropped by parachute with the supplies to build an airhead. I heard it took four attempts before they managed it.”

 “They could have operated the vehicles remotely,” Cooper replied, “using some sort of expert system, or a prearranged program. It wouldn't be hard to arrange. Besides, I think they were here this morning, just as we thought.”

 “Then where are they?” Rhodes asked.

 Stepping through the door into the other chamber, Cooper had his answer. Inside, dominating the room, was a tunnel heading down into the darkness, a constant drip running down as the ice around melted, footprints all around. He turned to a dazed Kelot, shaking his head.

 “You told me they had a tunnel network, a secret series of shafts connecting installations. I think we've just found the furthest extent.”

 Shaking his head, the Neander replied, “They didn't have a base here.”

 “I'm sure they didn't. All of the material was in the tunnel, waiting, and the buggies airlifted in, probably in concealed facilities all over this area. A last refuge in the event of a successful slave revolt, a place where they could rally for a counter-attack.” Shaking his head, he said, “And I bet they all came right from their Command Center. No wonder they blew it up so quickly. They were covering their escape.” He pulled out his communicator, and said, “Cooper to Alamo, urgent.”

 “Why now?” Kelot asked.

 “Because they're ready to launch the second part of their offensive. They want you and your people dead, Kelot. Wiped out, so they can bring in a new wave of settlers for this planet, but to send a message to their other slaves about the price of resistance.” He paused, then said, “Besides, if I was in command here, I'd treat the arrival of any substantial force moving in my direction as a tripwire to act.” Peering down into the tunnel, he said, “That's got to be a good ten miles. We might have a little time.”

 “Before what?”

 “Before they launch their attack, Kelot,” Cooper said. “Alamo, this is Cooper. I need both shuttles for immediate pickup, and I mean yesterday!”

Chapter 18

 Gently, Salazar played the thrusters of the shuttle around, bringing it down to its proper position on the landing pad, navigating through the falling snow. He glanced at his console, noting that there was an incoming transmission from Alamo, someone on hold, but before he could reply, he saw a crowd gathering outside the airlock, Neander bearing rifles, led by Lostok, two of them armed with shoulder-mounted missiles that were well-capable of penetrating the shuttle's flimsy hull.

 He glanced across at Maqua, his perpetual co-pilot, and said, “Finish post-flight, will you, and see what Alamo wants. I'd better go out and find out why we have our own personal lynch mob waiting outside.”

 “Yes, sir,” he said, concentrating on this panel, tapping controls and throwing switches as though he had been riding these shuttles for years, not a few days. He flashed him a quick smile, throwing off his restraints as he made his way to the airlock. Before he opened it, he pulled out his pistol, leveling it at the door, and tapped a series of controls to isolate the pilot's cabin from the rest of the ship.

 As the hatch slid open, the crowd surged forward, held back only by the urgings of Lostok. Ghewon was standing next to him, a stern expression on his face, darkening as he saw the sidearm nestled in Salazar's hand.

 “What's going on?” he asked.

 “We want Maqua,” Lostok said. “Turn him over to us, right now.”

 “What the hell for?”

 “He is responsible for sabotaging one of our ships, causing it to crash into one of your transfer shuttles.” He paused, then added, “I'm afraid Lieutenant Kibaki and Spaceman Parker are dead, as well as two of our people.” Gesturing into the shuttle, he said, “Maqua worked on the shuttle that was sabotaged.”

 The news that two of his friends had died stunned him for a second, but shaking off his sorrow, he said,“So did I. And Ghewon. And half a dozen other people.” Raising his pistol, he said, “I know exactly what this is about Lostok. He's the only suspect you have that isn't Highborn, and you're so locked in that tiny little mind of yours that you can't conceive that he might be just as determined to save his people as you. More, damn it. While you've been sitting in your office sending your luxuries up to the transport while your people wait around for the chance of survival, he's been flying, fourteen hours a day, trying to beat the deadline.” A few of the crowd looked around, but the two Highborn had them well-cowed.

 “Your Captain has granted me authority in this matter, Sub-Lieutenant. You might be willing to shout me down, but she has given you orders to follow my instructions. I have all the evidence I need for a conviction.” Stepping forward, he said, “Turn over Maqua to me, right now.”

 Salazar thought of the call from Alamo, the message he hadn't been able to read, and paused for a second, before replying, “No. I've been with him almost all the time, and if he had managed some sort of master plan, I'd know about it. Which shuttle was destroyed?”

 “Twenty-Three.”

 “Weren't you working on that, Ghewon?” he asked, taking a desperate shot in the dark.

 “As you say, so were many others,” the Neander replied, “but in this case, I bow to the judgment of the Guild Master. If he believes that Maqua is guilty, I'm forced to abide by his decision.”

 Shaking his head, Salazar replied, “I'm not giving him up, not to face trial in a drum-head court that has already decided his guilt! I don't care if you have a postcard from the President, I will not turn over this man.”

 “What is he to you, anyway?” Lostok said. “He's just Undercaste!”

 There were more murmurs from the crowd, and Salazar said, “He isn't 'just' anything. No one is 'just' anything. Maqua is a good pilot, potentially a great one, and I consider him a friend. I don't give a damn who his parents were, or where he was raised. I only know that I trust him, as I would anyone else I have served with. I've already lost two friends today, and I'm not going to lose a third because some prejudiced old fool decided that he was guilty!” Waving his pistol around, he said, “I've got six bullets in this gun, and there are a damn sight more of you here. If you charge me, you'll get me, and maybe kill my friend and I. But I won't die alone.” Gesturing at Lostok, he said, “You lead the charge, Lostok. You run into my gun, bringing these people with you. Maybe I'll miss.”

 “I don't have to,” he said, gesturing at one of the missile-armed Neander. “At one word from me, that shuttle is destroyed, and the two of you with it.”

 Nodding, Salazar said, “So that's thirty people who have to stay behind on the planet. Who here is going to volunteer themselves or their families for that?” Gesturing at Lostok, he said, “That man doesn't give a damn about any of you, and he's been dragging out this evacuation for his own benefit!”

 “Kill him,” Lostok said, and one of the Neander moved to fire, before Ghewon stopped him, a thin smile on his face as he pushed down the gunman's arm. The crowd was looking at each other, weapons dropping, and Lostok continued, “Perhaps you are the traitor! How do we know you are not in league with the Xandari, luring us into a trap? They've used your technology in the past, we know that. Perhaps you are giving it to them?”

 That fired the Neander up again, and they started to push towards him. He pointed his gun at the nearest, an old, gray-haired man with a limp, desperation in his eyes, who knew that Salazar had the power to take away his life, but would obey his leader anyway, to the death. With a sigh, the pilot tossed his gun to the side, the sidearm clattering on the deck of the shuttle.

 “I can't do it, Lostok,” he said. “I can't shoot innocent people. That would drop me to your level, and I don't think I'd like the company. The only way anyone dies here today is if you order it, so go right ahead.”

 The hatch behind him opened, and Maqua walked out, shaking his head, saying, “Thank you, sir, but I cannot ask you to die for me.” He looked at Lostok, and said, “I didn't do it. I didn't sabotage the ship, and I would never do anything that was not in the best interests of our people.”

 “You are not one of our people any more,” the Guild Master said with a sneer. “I have stripped you of your name, your title, your position, your very soul. You might breathe, but you live no more.”

 Shaking his head, Maqua said, “I feel sorry for you, Lostok.” Turning to Salazar, a tear in the corner of his eye, he said, “Thank you, sir. For everything you have done. I'm only sorry that you have been placed in jeopardy because of me.”

 “You don't need to do this,” Salazar replied, as the crowd slowly moved forward.

 With a deep sigh, Maqua said, “I have my duty, sir, and I will not place the survival of my people at risk by depriving them of a ship.”

 “That's your traitor,” Salazar said, looking at him. “Someone so willing to do you harm that he refuses to let a ship that he could wreck be destroyed, so that your families can seek safety up on the transport.” Shaking his head, he said, “As soon as Captain Orlova hears about this, Lostok, I promise you that the consequences of your actions will be serious.”

 “That could take some time, Sub-Lieutenant,” Lostok said. “Put them both under arrest, and take them to the secured holding area. We'll be sure to leave a shuttle for him, but by then we'll be in hendecaspace.”

 Looking at him, Ghewon said, “You can't leave them here to die.”

 “I'm not,” he said. “I'm leaving them to their friends, the Xandari. No doubt they'll treat them exactly as the deserve, as they would any other failure. Take them.”

 Two of the Neander stepped forward, but before they could move, one of the domes exploded on the perimeter, and they turned to see a column of Xandari troops marching into the compound, firing weapons almost at random, mowing down the crowds that were waiting to board the shuttles. Salazar stepped forward, rage in his eyes, and knocked Lostok to the ground with a single strike on the jaw as the screams of the dying echoed around the field.

 “They're dead because of you!” he yelled. “All of them are dead because of you!”

 Behind him, he heard the shuttle's engines roar, the ship riding up on its landing jets, roaring over the landscape towards the Xandari, narrowing missing the crowd on the ground. Lostok looked up at Salazar, triumph on his face, as for a second he doubted his friend, wondered if perhaps the Guild Master had been right. Then a smile slid across his face, as he realized what Maqua was doing, a rattle of gunfire rebounding across the hull.

 He'd gunned the shuttle up to five hundred feet, just high enough that when he jumped free, he'd have enough time for the parachute to open, before the ship he'd been flying began it's last, deadly curve, crashing into the head of the Xandari attack as they tried to scatter, the explosion sending a column of smoke racing into the air. Salazar raced toward towards the dropping canopy, the erstwhile lynch mob behind him, taking shots at any enemy troopers they could see. A second dome erupted in flame to his right, an attack on another front, and Ghewon took the rest of the crowd over to repel it, leaving the battered Lostok alone on the ground, looking around in panic.

 Maqua dropped to the ground, looking in fear at the approaching group before Salazar reached him, grabbing him by both shoulders and spinning him around, the others slapping him on the back and cheering his name.

 “That was crazy,”  Salazar said. “You've been hanging around with me too long.”

 “The shuttle might have been unarmed, but it could still do some damage,” he said, looking back at the carnage. “I thought I'd be able to get out in time.”

 “That was a hell of a risk.”

 “It seemed better than the alternative,” he replied, looking around at the people who had wanted to kill him scant seconds ago, now celebrating his survival.

 Looking around, Salazar said, “Go find the shuttle pilots, and let's try and get some order out of this chaos. We're not out to hold this piece of real estate, we're out to leave as fast as we can.” The sound of machine gun fire rattled around in the rear, and he added, “I want all shuttles on Launch Pads A and B loaded, right now. Never mind about departure orders and baggage, get everyone moving!”

 “Right,” one of the Neander said, gesturing at another, “You head over to Dome Three, I'll gather the stragglers on the runway.”

 “We need to set up a defensive perimeter,” Salazar said, as a pair of shuttles roared overhead, sending a moment of panic across his face before he recognized the familiar markings of Alamo on the side, the Triplanetary livery bringing a smile of relief as the shuttles lowered to the deck, hatches opening up almost before they had even reached the ground, Cooper and Kelot leading the way. Lostok looked up at them, shaking his head, and one of the Neander ran across to the old man, taking him to one of the waiting shuttles.

 “You really know how to throw a party, Pavel,” Cooper said, racing towards him. “Why didn't you answer any of our signals?”

 “I was too busy dealing with a lynch mob,” he replied, as a third dome exploded, one of the agricultural plants destroyed beyond repair. The Xandari weren't just attempting to wipe out the colonists, but the colony as well, as if the failure was too great a burden for them to bear. “Maqua here knocked out a good twenty of them, but...”

 “I got a good look as we came down.” Turning to Walpis, he said, “Set up a defensive perimeter around the landing pads. We've got to keep them safe as long as possible. Kelot, I know you'll want to get to your ships...”

 “My men stay while yours do, Ensign,” he replied, reaching forward to clasp his hand, a thin smile on his face. “Do you think we're going to let a bunch of softskins show us how to fight?”

 “Take Lance-Corporal Akjes with you,” Cooper ordered. “Liaison. And he's a damn good shot, as well. Pavel, you'd better head to a ship.”

 “I can't,” he replied. “I've still got a job to do down here. In a few moments, we're going to have ninety-plus shuttles launching at the same time, all heading on a similar trajectory. If we can't get some sort of flight control organized, we might as well shoot them ourselves. It'll be quicker.” Looking over the field, he saw one of the communication bunkers still intact, and said, “That should do.”

 “Sir,” Rhodes said, looking at the firefight. “Request permission to accompany the Sub-Lieutenant. It's looking dangerous around here.”

 “You realize we'll be the last ones off the surface, Private,” Salazar said.

 With a smile, the trooper said, “Wouldn't want to share a transport with a bunch of civilians, anyway, sir.”

 Shaking his head, Cooper said, “Go.”

 Clapping his friend on the shoulder, Salazar raced across the field, almost knocked from his feet by an explosion nearby, some sort of artillery attempting to find its mark. Rhodes was running after him, rifle in hand, and he belatedly saw a third figure following. Maqua.

 The group weaved across to the bunker, smoke filling the snow-laden air, a black soot drifting over everything, the roar of battle punctuated by bursts from shuttle engines as they warmed up, preparing for flight. He reached down for his pistol, then shook his head, realizing that it was now just a scrap of debris in a corpse-strewn crater, glancing back at the racing Neander who had succeeded in wreaking such havoc.

 Rhodes shot the Xandari guarding the entrance to the bunker with a crack shot to the side of the neck, sending blood spurting across the wall as his convulsing corpse noisily died. Salazar raced in, looking around at the equipment, throwing on a view of the landing field as he reached for the transmitter.

 “Thanks for the escort, Maqua, but you really need to get to a ship.”

 “No, sir,” he replied. “I'll do more good here. Two people guiding shuttles to orbit are better than one.” He looked across the instruments, and said, “I can talk them through the launch procedures, help troubleshoot problems, while you deal with guidance and tracking.”

 Another explosion shook the walls, near enough to send dust dropping from the ceiling, and Salazar replied, a smile on his face, “Misery loves company, Maqua. Take a seat. Private, make sure we don't get any uninvited guests. I'm really not in the mood for a party right now.”

 “This is a party, sir?” Rhodes replied. “Next time, I'll lose my invitation.”

Chapter 19

 Something died inside Harper as she watched Transfer One explode, killing the officer who had been sent to replace her, a man she had known and worked alongside for five years. Strangely, she almost felt worse about the pilot, a name on a monitor whose face she could barely recall. Her eyes were locked on the screen, watching the disaster unfold, the rest of the bridge crew looking around in confusion, unsure of what to do next.

 She looked at the sensor display, shuttles tumbling through space, recklessly burning their engines to get to safety as rapidly as they could, either back down on the surface or towards the transport, still hanging close to the hendecaspace point. Anyone attacking right now would find a host of easy targets, unable to defend themselves. Frowning, she reached down to her console, playing the last few seconds of Transfer One's existence, watching the Neander shuttle swing around to crash into him three times, finally shaking her head. This was no accident, and could only have one purpose. A distraction.

 “Action stations,” she ordered, turning to Perry at the weapons console. “Bring our new missions on-line and call up the e-war suite. Scott, I want a course to follow those shuttles to the transport, and I want it right now. Set for a loop around the moon to return us to the planet as fast as you can. We're going to have to escort them in.” Turning to the rear, she said, “Ingram, try and get Salazar and Cooper if you can. Warn them that I expect the arrival of an enemy fleet in-system momentarily. Then try and raise Alamo, though I have a feeling Maggie will have worked it out as well.”

 Nodding, Ingram said, “I just got word, ma'am. Alamo has gone to alert stations.”

 “Not battle stations?” she replied.

 “No, ma'am.”

 Turning, Scott said, “Kris, maybe we should wait for orders before...”

 “There's no time for that,” she snapped, finding something buried inside that she hadn't known was there, a voice that she had heard her father use on numerous occasions, but one that she had never found within her until now. A voice of command. “Initiate the course change as instructed, Sub-Lieutenant, and get a move on.”

 “Alert,” Perry said. “All decks, alert. Battle stations. Battle stations. This is no drill.” He turned to Harper, and replied, “Missiles loaded and ready to fire, ma'am. All systems coming on.”

 Daedalus' engines roared as a trajectory track sprang into life on the display, showing the old starship curving towards its new target, right through the cluster of the shuttle formation for a fast flyby of the transport, hanging over the moon. The pressure pushed Harper back into her couch, and she looked around the bridge at the officers as they worked. Her officers. Her bridge.

 “Course engaged, ma'am.”

 “I can't get anyone,” Ingram said. “Nothing from either Ensign Cooper or Sub-Lieutenant Salazar, not on any frequency.”

 “Then get me Captain Orlova, right now.”

 Nodding, the technician replied, “She's hailing us, ma'am.”

 Orlova's face appeared on the screen, technicians swarming across the bridge behind her, a low alarm sounding in the background as she asked, “Where the hell are you going?”

 “We're going to have an enemy fleet in the system in a matter of minutes. The death of Transfer One was a distraction, Captain. It can't have had any other purpose. They probably didn't even know who was on board.” Glancing across at another display, she said, “I'm going to fly escort on those shuttles. If an enemy battlecruiser turns up now, they'll have a fun time wiping out shuttles until Alamo can move up.”

 “You aren't even armed, Kris. Not with anything that can do any damage.”

 “They don't know that,” she said, “and we've got a few little tricks up our sleeve.”

 “From what we can see, all hell is breaking loose on the surface. There's a full-scale battle around the settlement, and...” Orlova paused, looking off screen.

 “Dimensional instability!” Arkhipov reported, while Harper caught the trace of Spinelli yelling the same warning over on Alamo. “Something's coming through the near hendecaspace point, and it's pretty damn big, ma'am!”

 “We have it too,” Orlova said. “I read three battlecruisers.” Shaking her head, she replied, “Get Daedalus to safety. You should have a clear run to the far egress point.”

 “I will,” Harper said, “Eventually. Right now, ma'am, we have work to do, and this ship is the best placed to do it. Those shuttles are sitting ducks unless we can do something to save them.”

 Orlova paused for a moment, then said, “And if I make it an order?”

 “Then we'll have a very interesting meeting in your office once all of this is over.”

 A faint smile crossed Orlova's lips, and she replied, “I'll be damned. Give 'em hell, Harper, and keep your collective heads down.” Turning away for a second, she said, “We're on our way to intercept the enemy fleet. Five minutes after you.”

 “We'll try and save something for you,” she replied.

 “I'll hold you to that. Alamo out.”

 Harper looked around the bridge, and said, “You heard the word, so let's do the deed. Scott, we're going to be coming under heavy fire in a couple of minutes, and I want us to make the most tempting target you can find. Turn towards them, and make it look as though we're launching an attack run on the nearest vessel.”

 “You want me to play chicken with a battlecruiser?”

 “Something like that. Sergeant, remember those insults you used last time?”

 “Same again?”

 “Try and throw some more passion into it, but basically, yeah.”

 “Aye, aye, ma'am,” he said, glancing back at her for a second. “You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

 “Get to it, Sergeant.” Turning to the rear, she said, “Ingram, contact the shuttles, and tell them to use every ounce of fuel they have to get themselves to the transport. We're going to try and keep the fleet off their back for a few minutes, but they're not going to have long.”

 “Transport's on the move!” Arkhipov yelled. “Curving behind the moon, taking the long way to the hendecaspace point. If they get it right, they ought to avoid contact.”

 “Good for them,” Scott said, “Not so good for us. The shuttles are going to have further to go.” Turning to her station, she added, “Ingram, assuming we survive this run, they can follow us around to the far side on our swing-round.  Send them our trajectory.” Shaking her head, she added, “I hope Pavel did a good job training those pilots.”

 Harper looked around the bridge, panic beginning to set in as the reality of her situation dawned on her. They were heading towards an infinitely more powerful enemy fleet, and were deliberately setting out to goad them to battle. As the crew raced to follow her orders, making final preparations from the fly-by, she took a deep breath, hoping that no one noticed how she was feeling.

 “Enemy task force changing course,” Arkhipov said. “They're still moving towards the shuttles. Current projection has them wiping them out before swinging around to deal with the transport. I don't think Alamo can get to them in time.” Shaking his head, he added, “We're going to miss contact altogether.”

 Frowning, Harper tapped a button, and said, “Lombardo, how are the power relays?”

 “All nominal,” the harried engineer replied.

 “Good. I need a power surge in the forward section of the ship, a big one.”

 “What?”

 “Can you do it?”

 “I suppose, but we might blow out...”

 “Never mind that. Set it up for,” she glanced at the tactical display, “forty seconds from now.”

 “But...”

 Turning off the channel, she continued, “Scott, when he hits the power surge, I want you to point the ship at the nearest enemy vessel, and make a big deal about doing it.”

 Shaking her head, she replied, “Yes, ma'am, but nothing's going to happen.”

 “Then we hang dead, cutting all power, and let us drift for a moment.”

 “Risky…,” Perry said, looking at the trajectory plot. “We'd be heading right into them at top speed.”

 “Making a target that I think they'll take full advantage of.”

 Scott glanced at Arkhipov for a long second, then nodded, replying, “I'm setting up the maneuver, ma'am.”

 “Good,” she said, settling back into her couch. They had to hold off the enemy vessels for long enough to buy Alamo time to get into the fight. The battlecruiser was on the move, following their trajectory, but were critical minutes behind. As she counted down the seconds, she tried a confident smile, Perry giving her a confirming nod.

 He knew. Knew that inside, she was terrified, that she didn't know what she was doing, was improvising as best she could. She'd sat on the bridge of Alamo for a lot of battles, had watched Captain Marshall and Captain Orlova in the past, but this was different. Now all of these lives were on her shoulders, both on Daedalus and those shuttles ahead. She longed for someone to tap her on the shoulder, Kibaki returning from the dead to take over, remove this burden, but there was no one to do it.

 “Now!” Scott said, and the lights flickered as Lombardo scrambled the power network, warning lights flashing across the monitor boards as systems blew out in the forward section. The engine died, and the starfield began to roll as the ship tumbled through space, turning on its axis as it spun towards the enemy ship.

 “Course change!” Arkhipov said. “Enemy task force now heading in our direction. You've done it, skipper!”

 “Should I gun the engines?” Scott asked.

 “Not yet,” Harper said, watching the screen. “Not yet. Not until they're committed to the maneuver. They could still change course on us for thirty seconds yet.”

 “That's going to put them awfully close to weapons range,” Ingram said, his face pale.

 Scott started to set up an evasive course as Harper watched the screen, the three vessels moving towards them, trajectory tracks locked for a smooth path in. Alamo would have to move to get a shot at them before they could attack the transport, but Quinn seemed to be urging greater than normal speed of the engines, the ship majestically soaring into the fray.

 On board the enemy vessels, they'd be locking on firing solutions, preparing to unleash a hail of death in their direction. She glance ruefully across at the useless e-war panel, shaking her head before her eyes lit up, a smile creeping across her face.

 “Ingram, I need a direct data link with Alamo, and I need it right now.” She paused, then added, “Tap into the gravitational database.”

 “We've got all the information we need for a course out of the system,” the confused technician replied.

 “Just do it, Spaceman,” she said, sliding out of the command chair and over to the cramped defense systems console, quickly booting up the controls. “Sergeant, I want you to fire three missiles as soon as they are within range, targeted at the incoming salvo we'll be getting in a moment. Scott, hold your course change until they fire.”

 Turning in her chair, Scott replied, “Lieutenant, that's insane. We won't have a chance.”

 “They'll be wasting eighteen missiles that they would otherwise be using on Alamo, or on that transport. There are thousands of people waiting for us to find a way to save their lives, Sub-Lieutenant, and I have no intention of letting them down.” She took a deep breath, and added, “I don't do suicide missions, Kat. I've got a plan.”

 Harper thought that Scott was going to refuse the order, but after a long pause, she turned back to her station, resting her hands on the controls, postponing the programmed firing time. Now Daedalus' trajectory track arced through the red oval that represented weapons range for the enemy ships, red warning text streaming down the viewscreen, the ship's computer protesting as loudly as Scott.

 “Missiles ready to fire,” Perry said. “If you're hoping that we can shoot down the enemy salvo, I don't think we've got anything like the explosive yield. We might stop a few of them...”

 “Don't worry, Sergeant, we're going to stop them all. Spaceman, do I have my data feed yet?”

 Nodding, the communications technician replied, “I've got a comm laser lined up, ma'am. I don't think I'm going to be able to keep it in place for very long, though.”

 “I only need a couple of minutes,” she replied.

 “Energy spike!” Arkhipov yelled. “Eighteen missiles, bearing directly, conventional type!”

 “Launch ours, Sergeant,” Harper ordered, “and Scott, full-burn. Get us the hell out of here!”

 Daedalus' engines roared to full power, throwing her back in her seat, and she struggled to work the controls of her station. Their three missiles flew forward to duel with their enemy counterparts, fearless in the face of six-to-one odds, but for the first time, Harper had an advantage that the enemy didn't. She might not be able to hack deep into their systems, not yet, but she might be able to handshake at the most basic level.

 Her fingers flew across the console, finally returning to her element as she ran through the outer firewalls. She wasn't out to change the course of the missiles, just to confuse the hell out of them, and the approaching missiles under her control gave her a critical advantage over the enemy missileman. Time. Already her missiles were closer to those of the enemy than the approaching battlecruiser, and every nanosecond counted in the battle she was waging. The Xandari liked to use distributed networks to boost the strength of their attack, a potential flaw that she was able to exploit.

 Finally, she was in, with access to the data network, and she switched over the feed streaming in from Alamo, forcing it on the basic enemy warheads, drowning them with superfluous information. These were Triplanetary missiles, albeit perverted with alien software, but she'd studied the designs and knew how they worked, knew their capabilities and more critically, their weaknesses. And with at least some understanding of their programming language, she could finally have an element of access.

 The flaw with this plan was obvious. It would only work once, a weakness that would be all-too-easy to correct, but one by one, the enemy missiles dropped out of view, falling from the command net as the systems crashed for the crucial seconds that gave Daedalus a chance to evade, Scott using every trick she knew to fly them clear, guide them to safety.

 As they passed closest approach, she tensed up, expecting another salvo of missiles, but the enemy fleet commander wasn't going to be fooled twice, drifting serenely past as though the small raider was somehow beneath them, though the duel between the missiles ranging to their rear suggested otherwise.

 Only five enemy missiles remained, and the enemy gunner had switched their incoming feeds off, allowing the on-board computers to guide themselves without interference. Now the trajectories stabilized, locking onto their rear, sufficient firepower to wreck them if they were allowed to hit.

 “All yours, Sergeant. Knock them down.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” Perry said with relish, his hands working the controls he had been forced to abandon long ago, old skills returning as he delicately guided the missiles towards their approaching target. First one winked out, two warheads mutually destroying each other, then another. Finally, with a triumphant punch in the air, he guided his remaining missile in, knocking out two members of the enemy salvo.

 One track remained, still doggedly locked on Daedalus, and Scott began to use every trick she new, sending the ship tumbling around, lurching on its thrusters in a likely-futile attempt to fool the missile's guidance computer. Harper tried to hack in again, but now she was engaged in a one-on-one battle with an enemy sysop who knew his systems far better than she did, easily countering his blows.

 Sitting back in her chair, she frantically thought over old battles, knowing that she was out of ideas, but hoping that she could steal one from someone else, before her eyes lit up. She turned to Ingram at the rear, the nervous technician staring at the approaching missile.

 “Spaceman, stand by to launch one of the escape pods.”

 Scott laughed, and said, “Kris, that's crazy.”

 “You have a better idea?”

 Shaking her head, the helmsman returned to her console, leveling out the ship, as Ingram pulled down a panel, turning a key, his hand poised over a button. Getting the idea, Perry brought up the guidance computer, entering a series of instructions to the primitive guidance computer of the escape pod, giving Harper a curt nod.

 “Ready. It's going to take split-second timing, though.”

 She looked at Ingram, then said, “Switch over to me, Spaceman. I'll do it.”

 “Yes, ma'am,” he said, throwing a control in relief. She looked at the missile, locked onto their engines, still inexorably closing on their position, and at the last second, tapped the control to fire the escape pod in its way, Perry's programming sending the pod's thrusters on a quick pirouette through space as the missile crashed into it.

 Alarms sounded as debris peppered the rear hull, sirens alerting her to a series of hull breaches, mercifully in unoccupied areas. Daedalus passed out of firing range to the collective relief of her crew, and Harper moved back to the command couch, wiping the sweat from her forehead. She looked up at the sensor display, the shuttles ahead diving towards the retreating transport, course projections providing some good news for once.

 “I don't believe it,” Arkhipov said. “We made it through.”

 “The fun isn't over yet, Spaceman,” Harper said. “Kat, execute the swing around the moon, and take us back towards the planet.” Before anyone could protest, she added, “They'll be another wave of shuttles coming up any time now, and they'll need an escort. We've still got work to do.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” Scott said. “Executing course change.”

 Sitting back in her couch, Harper looked around the bridge, watching the technicians working, the monitor board showing the damage they had already taken from a single missile. Only a madman would go in again for a second try. She shook her head as the engines fired, taking them back into the battle.

Chapter 20

 It had taken seconds for the battle to collapse into chaos. Cooper hadn't even tried to impose any order, knowing that it would be a futile waste of time, instead ordering his platoon into fire teams, trusting his squad leaders to do their job. Over at the landing pads, he heard the roaring of another group of shuttles fighting for orbit, their engines sweeping across the field, getting another hundred refugees to safety. Salazar was getting them off the ground as rapidly as he could, but only so many shuttles could be in the sky at once.

 Leading a rag-tag group of Neander under the command of Lance-Corporal Akjes, he raced to the far left of the rapidly shrinking defensive perimeter, towards a group of Xandari attempting to set up a missile launcher that could ruin all of their hopes. The screams of the dying echoed around the field as he half-tripped over a corpse, a frozen soldier with rifle in hand, defiance on his face even unto death. He might have given his life, but hundreds of his fellow Neander were getting away.

 Raising his rifle to his shoulder, he fired a ball of plasma flame towards the enemy, watching it wash over the Xandari gunners, the rest of his squad finishing them off with a burst of well-aimed rifle fire. Pausing for a second to look at his datapad, he frowned as he saw that the most recent orbital update was minutes old. Alamo had left orbit on its way to intercept the approaching task force, leaving him without any support from the sky.

 Not that it mattered. A quick sweep of the field showed him the tactical situation, which could be summed up in a single word. Desperate. The defenders were fleeing the field to take to their ships, and the Xandari were perilously close to outnumbering them as well as outgunning them. A tower of flame leaped to the sky as another dome went up, over on the far side of the landing field. Now only a defiant pair of habitation modules were still standing, the remnants of a once-proud settlement.

 Pulling out his communicator, he ordered, “Fall back to the field! Go to reserve positions! Move it!” Gesturing at the rest of his squad, he moved to obey his own command. Seeking out the enemy and hitting them wasn't going to work, not any more, and the Neander control structure had collapsed when Salazar had knocked the now-missing Lostok cold. He saw Kelot, the nearest thing they had to a commander on the ground, leading another charge against a series of enemy machine gun nests, desperation taking the place of strategy, and gestured for him to fall back.

 Corporal Stewart had managed to throw up a wall of crates, stores that hadn't been deemed essential enough for urgent transport to orbit, around the perimeter of the landing pad. As he dived behind the improvised cover, he tapped the box, suppressing an urge to laugh at the pitifully flimsy structure they had put together. It might block line-of-sight, but it wasn't going to stop a bullet. He looked back at the landing field, a couple of dozen shuttles still boarding their passengers, explosions ripping through the air all around them as the Xandari artillery found its mark. While he watched, one of them smashed into a small passenger transport, and he saw bodies being tossed through the air like sacks as the shuttle exploded.

 The defenders didn't seem to be faring any better. He caught a glimpse of First Squad, six figures racing back to shelter, Corporal Stewart carrying another trooper over her shoulder, while Yaskova limped at the rear of the column, dropping to the ground with a scream as he watched, Price turning back under heavy fire to attempt a rescue. Raising his rifle, Cooper unleashed a blast of plasma in his direction, towards the unseen enemy that was laying down sweeping fire, and the brave trooper snatched her from the ground, staggering over the barricade, blood seeping from a wound in his back.

 “Sergeant Hunt!” he yelled, not expecting an answer, but the smiling veteran raced over towards him, rifle in hand, sporting an angry welt on his forehead and a cut on his cheek.

 “Here, sir!” Hunt replied, gesturing at the gathering Xandari. They'd paused for a moment to regroup, ready to make their final assault. “Going to be one hell of a last stand, sir!”

 Another shuttle roared from the deck, the pilot swooping low over the enemy in an attempt to provide brief relief for the troops, the blast of his lateral thrusters sweeping a group of Xandari to the ground as he watched. The pilot paid the price for his bravery, a rocket sliding up through the air towards him, but Hunt raised his rifle and fired, shooting down the anti-aircraft missile with one smooth motion, the shuttle rocking to the side from the force of the blast before continuing its ascent into orbit.

 Looking around, Cooper said, “Volley fire, everyone! Ten more shuttles for the refugees, then it's our turn. No one on the perimeter leaves until the last civilian is away!” Some of the Neander looked at each other, Cooper suddenly conscious that all of them were volunteers, pressed into service for the duration of the battle, but Kelot, who had somehow survived his brush with near-certain death a moment before, yelled a battle cry that urged them on, and they turned back to the approaching enemy with renewed dedication.

 Gunfire and flame roared from the defense line, sweeping across the front ranks of the enemy, dozens of Xandari dropping to the ground, either in a bid to escape the devastating counter-fire or from wounds they would never rise from. Over to the right, a cloud of smoke rose, roaring flame punctuated by screams of anguished agony, some of the men under his command dying where they stood.

 If it was as simple as resisting a ground assault, they might have a chance at holding them back, but with bombardment from above joining the fray, survival on the firing line was measured in minutes, maybe seconds. Two more shuttles launched, this time vertically rising, and he belatedly remembered Salazar, out beyond the perimeter at his bunker. Rescue was out of the question, certain death for any party he sent, and all he could do was hope that the Xandari were focused on the attack on this flank, that all of their fire was drawn here, and they were ignoring the forgotten outpost beyond.

 When the battle began, he had hundreds of soldiers scattered across more than a mile of battlefield. Now the scope of his command reduced only to what he could see through the scope of his rifle, his capability limited to the seven shots remaining in his power pack. He spotted a clump of enemy troopers surging forward, and unleashed a plasma bolt in their direction, searing death wiping them from the field.

 In response, four more blasts rocked the field, another shuttle exploding on its launch pad, the others hitting the perimeter. The air tasted of smoke and cordite, growing so thick that visibility was poor, even with the snow that continued to fall, the weather ignoring the acts of the men fighting underneath it.

 He glanced from left to right, the grim-faced Hunt taking a shot at a nearby Xandari raider, Specialist Reeves attempting first aid on a fallen Neander one-handed, his right arm hanging limp. The rest of his men were out of sight, obscured by the smoke and fire, and it was easy for him to imagine that they was alone on the battlefield, everyone else left for safer reaches.

 The roar of shuttle engines broke through the glare, and he saw two more vehicles fly over the battlefield, one of them rocking from side-to-side, dipping its wings in a last gesture of appreciation for the pilot. Three more refugee shuttles to go, before he could start ordering the remnants of his own command to safety. He spent a second cursing Lostok, and all the others who had made this desperate battle a necessity, before reaching down for his communicator.

 He fired twice more with his rifle, two more balls of energy racing towards their targets as a shell crashed into the ground close behind him, a burst of flame soaring into the air, an unknown figure using his last breath to scream in agony. Then, mercifully, the last of the refugee shuttles rose into the sky, kicking its engines into maximum acceleration in a bid to reach safety, to make for the sanctuary of orbit.

 “That's the last of them,” he yelled into his communicator, hoping and praying that his voice was making it across the last shards of the tactical net. He had to keep some sort of order from the chaos, and knew that there was only one option left. “Neander to their ships. Espatiers to the perimeter.”

 Hunt looked at him, nodding. No matter how well they had fought, there was no order to the Neander ranks, and a rout was almost inevitable in the circumstances. His own command, whatever was left of it, would be the last to leave this world, no matter how unfair it felt.

 Turning to the rear, he saw dozens of Neander racing back to the heart of the perimeter, while a roar of plasma fire burst in all directions from the perimeter, the battlefield briefly illuminated a violent green as the pulses of deaths rained down on the Xandari. They might win back this world, but they were paying a desperate price for it.

 Somehow, the retreat was holding together, the wounded being dragged to safety. Some of the Neander had disobeyed his order, remaining at their posts, fighting alongside the Espatiers, and it came as no surprise at all that Kelot was one of them, hurling an improvised grenade over the barricade towards the advancing foe.

 As one, five shuttles roared, taking the bulk of the Neander to safety, and the Xandari held for a moment, as if knowing that most of their prey had escaped, and that by a strange process of natural selection, only the deadliest remained on the battlefield to deny them their prize. With one last look around, spotting a tattered flag waving in the air, somehow surviving all of the enemy fire, he knew that the time had come.

 “That's all, folks!” he yelled. “Fall back to the shuttles!”

 Hunt rose to his feet while Cooper prepared for one last burst, willing to cover the retreat of his men, but the veteran refused to give him that option, two pairs of hands dragging him away. Accepting defeat, he sprinted for the shuttle, the inviting hatch waiting for him, Hunt and Kelot on either side. The engines began to roar, lateral thrusters firing at minimal power, and he thought for a second that it was too late, that the shuttle had been forced to launch, but before he quite realized it, they were at the hatch, bullets smashing across the field behind him, the Xandari urging them on.

 He pushed Hunt inside, then Kelot, and stood at the door for one last second, looking around, hundreds of corpses scattered around, Neander, Confederate and Xandari, all together in death. He had no way of knowing how many of his people were left behind, some of them perhaps only wounded, not killed, but as a bullet crashed into the hatch by his head, he knew that he was out of time, and tumbled back into the cabin as the door closed, the pilot not waiting even for a second before activating the launch sequence, the ground rushing away as the airlock slid shut.

 Silently, he stepped back into the passenger cabin, slumping down on one of the couches, his rifle dropping unneeded to the deck. He looked around the room, a dozen faces staring back at him, more than half of them Neander who had chosen to share the last moments of the battle with his men. He glanced down at his datapad, hoping for a tactical update, but the screen had been smashed by a bullet in the last seconds of the melee, the gadget unknowingly saving his life.

 The engines roared as they kicked into orbit, and he looked out of the view-port to see four more points of light ascending alongside him. Six shuttles had been left to pick up the last of the survivors, and five of them were rising. Only Salazar and his team remained on the surface, and he could hear his friend's voice coming from the pilot's cabin, issuing instructions to guide them to safety. He could only hope that at some point, he'd find a way to save himself.

 “Cup of coffee, sir?” a voice asked, and he looked up to see Spaceman Fitzroy, a smile on his face, offering him a steaming plastic cup. He took it with a nod, and looked down at the deck, numb from the battle. As the planet fell away behind him, he struggled to take it in. They'd lived through it. And for the rest of his life, he'd not quite know how.

Chapter 21

 Salazar placed down the microphone, then looked up at the sensor display, smiling with satisfaction as the last of the shuttles crested into orbit, a flotilla of vessels making their way to safety. Outside, the battle was dying down, a few isolated pockets of resistance being defeated by the Xandari, some of the Neander who had been unable to make it to the shuttles, or perhaps had decided that vengeance was preferable to survival. He looked around the bunker at a fidgeting Rhodes and a calm Maqua, before rising to his feet.

 “That's it, boys. We've done our duty, and can do no more. It's time to go.”

 “At last,” Rhodes said, looking through the door. “Our shuttle is still there, though I don't know how. Let me go first and draw their fire, and the two of you run for it after me. I'll give them a few bursts to keep them interested.”

 “It's all a damn act, isn't it,” Salazar replied. “That performance you usually put on.”

 “Don't tell Ensign Cooper, sir,” the trooper said with a grin. “Heaven knows what sort of things he'd make me do if he knew.” He raced out onto the battlefield, screaming his head off and firing controlled bursts of semi-automatic fire, and Salazar followed him, Maqua right by his side as they dashed for the shuttle, the hatch open and waiting for them. The wings were blackened with smoke from a near-miss, and there were a series of bullet marks running down the side of the ship, but as far as he could tell, it was ready for take-off. Not that they had much of a choice.

 As they sprinted across the battlefield, he saw a wounded Neander crying on the ground, and with a quick glance at Maqua, they weaved to the side, snatching him up, carrying him to the shuttle, the injured man's arm dragging on the ground, waving a strange snake-like trail through the snow. Rhodes looked at them as though they had lost their mind, before firing his final rounds and throwing his now-useless weapon away.

 “Lostok…,” the Neander muttered. “Lostok...”

 “Too hell with him,” Salazar said, almost crashing into the side of the shuttle. The two of them loaded the wounded figure on board, before scrambling in after him, Salazar immediately moving to the cockpit hatch, sliding the hatch open and dropping into his seat as Rhodes dived through the door, blood running down his leg, the airlock closing less than a second behind him.

 Salazar ignored the pre-flight checks, immediately tapping the controls to send the shuttle rising into the air on its lateral thrusters, noting with satisfaction as he scattered a squad of Xandari underneath him, the blast sending them flying across the field. Tipping the nose upward, he reached down to throw the engines to full acceleration, the battlefield beginning to recede away.

 “Energy spike!” Maqua said, and a flash appeared on the sensor screen, a missile reaching up from the surface towards them, some Xandari soldier taking one last moment of revenge against their enemies. He threw the ship to the side, dumping chaff into the snow, then cut the engines for a second, lurching forward as the shuttle lost speed, the missile flying ahead and harmlessly away, burning through the last of its fuel before it could recover.

 “That should be all of them,” Salazar said, pulling the throttle back to full, sighing with relief as the engine fired to full power, throwing them back onto a safe trajectory. He looked down at the navigation computer, the systems already guiding them on a course for Alamo, scheduled to intercept just before the ship began its fight to death with the approaching task force.

 “From the frying pan to the fire,” he said, shaking his head, though a part of him was glad that he would share the fate of his shipmates, whatever that might be. As the planet rolled away beneath him, the view fading from blue to endless black as they crested out of the atmosphere, he looked down at the scanner, at the armada of shuttles he'd guided from the surface, most of them heading to the safety of the transport, nestled behind the moon on approach to the hendecaspace point, the others diving for Alamo.

 Daedalus roved around the perimeter of the battlespace, racing back towards the planet on a loop that would sweep it by the side of the shuttles, covering their retreat. He frowned, shaking his head. No matter how hopeless their position, no matter how low the odds, he didn't like retreating, ceding any territory to the enemy. One day they would come back here, and to stay.

 As he started to work through the course to Alamo, fine-tuning the maneuvers in a bid to scrape vitally-needed seconds, the noise of the engines stopped, killing their acceleration, and he heard a loud crack from the rear cabin, followed by a grunt from Rhodes.

 “That's enough, Sub-Lieutenant,” Lostok said, stepping out of the spacesuit locker with a pistol in his hand. “I was hoping that someone would be good enough to give me a ride off that world, and I am especially fortunate that it was you.” Glancing at the wounded Neander on the deck, he said, “And allow me to thank you once more for saving the life of my aide, though he might not be so happy about it once he learns our destination. If you would please set the course for the most distant enemy battlecruiser?”

 “No,” Salazar said.

 “What are you doing?” Maqua asked, glancing from Salazar to Lostok.

 “He's the traitor,” Salazar said, coldly. “All along, he was the one responsible for it all. You delayed the evacuation long enough to allow your friends to arrive, guided me to a docking bay that you knew would be trapped, hoping that it would stop the evacuation. You did everything you could to confuse the situation, to distract us.” Shaking his head, he replied, “I wouldn't be surprised if you were the one that sold your own expedition out to the Xandari, as well as the others that followed.”

 “Very good, Sub-Lieutenant,” Lostok replied. “I suspect you'd have worked it out anyway, given time.” Gesturing with his pistol at the control panel, he added, “None of this talk is computing the course I have requested.”

 Shaking his head, Salazar replied, “Why, Lostok?”

 “Because of him,” he said, coldly, nodding at Maqua. “And others like him. The rights of the Highborn are being ripped from us, one at a time, as we pander to the Undercastes, crawlers in the mud who dare to aspire to that which will always be beyond their grasp. My ancestors worked for a thousand years to claim the stars, worked and bled and died, daring their lives on ancient starships that limped between systems, never knowing if they would see another day, and they presume to demand that we cede that which we earned to them.”

 With a sigh, Salazar said, “You can't believe that the Xandari will permit you to remain in control of your worlds. Why would they tolerate another galactic power?”

 “What do we care who owns the worlds we trade with? All of space is ours, Sub-Lieutenant, ours by right of birth and blood, and I care not for the balls of mud that pollute it. The Xandari will accede to our demands because they have no choice, because they need our ships to support their economy, to supply their empire.” Shaking his head, he said, “For as long as it lasts. Many governments have ruled the worlds we have traded with, empires, confederations, commonwealths and tyrannies, and all of them have faded into dust. Only the Highborn, the Traders, remain, eternal and unchanging.”

 “We're talking about a race who has declared that they will be the masters of all humanity, those they permit to survive at all. One that has sworn that only the strong shall survive, and that the weak will perish.”

 “That is my point,” the Neander said. “The strong. The Highborn control the fleets, the wealth, the space-based industry. We are the strong, and the planet-bound are the weak, and my people are fools to consider their wishes at all. The sheep do not dictate a course of action to the shepherd.”

 “Men are not sheep, Lostok, and neither are your people. Without their labor you would never have ventured into space in the first place, no matter what you might think. You can't just toss them away like the spent stage of a rocket!”

 Shaking his head, Lostok said, “I had hoped you would understand, though it would not improve your situation. None of you will be harmed, I can assure you of that, as long as you follow my orders. Sub-Lieutenant, you will be interrogated for your technical knowledge, before joining your companions in an Extraction Facility in the future. There are others for your race, so you will be at home.” He smiled, and added, “I rather suspect there will be many more of your people in the camps in the near future.”

 Folding his arms, Salazar replied, “We're not quite at orbital velocity. You didn't time this as well as you thought. And if you think I'm going to make a single move to help you, you're very much mistaken.” Shaking his head, he said, “You won't shoot me.”

 “No, but I'm far more willing to shoot your young friend.” Lostok looked across at the co-pilot, who was sternly facing the traitor, and said, “Scum like him are the reason we have been driven to this course.”

 “How about this,” Salazar said. “Put down the weapon and I'll guarantee you safe passage to Alamo. There you will get a fair trial. I suspect that your people would tear you limb from limb if they could reach you now.” Gesturing down at the planet, he said, “You killed hundreds of your own kind today.”

 “No,” Lostok said. “I allowed the lower orders to die. All the Highborn except myself left the planet in good time, and are on their way to safety. When the Xandari board the vessel, they will be spared.”

 “So they say,” Rhodes said.

 “They have always kept their bargains in the past, Private.” He sighed, then said, “I'm getting bored with this exchange. I might not be an expert pilot, but I know enough to increase the thrust of an engine sufficiently to boost us into a stable orbit. Of course, to reach the controls, I would have to kill you all. So you have one choice, and only one. Do you live as a servant of the Xandari, or do you die here, your bodies dumped into space? I don't really care either way.”

 “I don't think so,” Salazar replied, “Or you wouldn't be talking to us now. We're payment to your masters, your side of the bargain.”

 “Wait!” Maqua said, eyes darting nervously around. “I'll do it. I don't need the softskin. Just don't send me back to a camp.”

 “I will consider it,” Lostok said, a grin on his face. “I'm sorry, Sub-Lieutenant, but it looks like you are expendable.” He leveled his pistol, and said, “I'd say that this won't hurt, but there's no point wasting a lie on you.”

 Salazar looked over at his co-pilot with feigned shock, glancing down at the master throttle, and quietly braced himself. With a deep sigh, Maqua entered in a course correction, sending a trajectory plot racing towards the enemy fleet, then threw the throttles full open, the shuttle surging to maximum acceleration, well beyond the usual safe limit.

 Lostok and Rhodes tumbled to the floor, and as Maqua steadied the ship, Salazar jumped from his couch, diving towards the prone traitor, a pair of shots resounding across the cabin, one of them sending a burst of flame running down his arm as he collapsed on the figure, knocking the wind out of both of them. One of the bullets smashed into the panel sending sparks flying, wrecking the communicator.

 They tumbled across the floor, the shuttle still spinning out of control as the engine roared, Maqua desperately fighting with the controls as Salazar and Lostok fought on the floor, exchanging futile blows, before finally the Neander turned limp in his hands, falling backwards to the deck, Rhodes holding up a hypodermic with a triumphant grin.

 “Never leave home without it,” he said, before slumping down to the nearest couch, exhausted. Salazar tried to move his arm, only to send a wave of pain running through him that made him feel sick, and looked across to see his blood dripping onto the deck, crimson on the blue-carpeted floor.

 “I've got it,” Maqua said, sighing with relief.

 “I never doubted you for a second,” Salazar said, reaching over to the navigation computer with his good arm, reinstating the original course to Alamo, before his face fell, a deep sigh escaping his lips as red lights flashed on.

 “Does that mean what I think it means?” Rhodes said, peering at the controls as he started to rummage in the shuttle medical kit for bandages.

 “That bastard held us up too long, and the burst of acceleration kicked us in the wrong direction. There's no way we can reach Alamo before it has to jump from the system. We're stuck here.” Looking at the shattered controls, he said, “We can't even call for help.”

Chapter 22

 The strategic display constantly updated, a confusing tangle of trajectories and ships dancing around each other, Orlova struggling to make sense of the situation. As it stood, the first wave of shuttles would easily reach the transport, some of them already on final approach. That meant two hundred refugees safe and well. The remaining shuttles were another matter. Alamo was already taking six, all it could manage, the last ones leaving the planet, leaving another twelve stuck in the middle, far enough from the transport that they were at risk of attack, near enough that they had a chance of reaching it.

 She looked at the crazy course of Daedalus, sweeping back around the planet like a bird-of-prey, racing to reach the shuttles before the enemy task force could attack them. While she would never admit it to anyone else, she would have done exactly the same thing in her place, used what little strength she had to shield the civilians from attack.

 As she watched, one of the shuttles dropped behind, the last to leave the planet, its engine failing as it began to lose speed, gravity dragging it back to its point of origin. Nelyubov walked around the table by her side, looking down at the passenger list.

 “Salazar, Rhodes, Maqua,” he said. “Maybe they suffered damage in the attack.”

 “Can you raise them?” she asked Weitzman, who resignedly shook his head in response.

 Belatedly, the shuttle's engine fired again, kicking them away from the planet, but they'd fallen too far behind to make contact with Alamo. Nelyubov looked down at the display, trying to work out a modified course, some way of snatching them from their fate, but Orlova shook her head.

 “We can't do it.”

 “If we...”

 “We'd be leaving ourselves open to a second attack. He knew the risks he was taking, waiting as long as he did.” She looked up, nodded, and said, “That doesn't mean I have to like it.”

 With a smile, he turned to Cantrell, and said, “Have Transfer Two ready for launch in...”

 “Belay that order,” Orlova said, turning to Nelyubov. “You wouldn't last five seconds out there, and even if you did make it back to the shuttle, you'd never be able to get on an approach vector. Even if you launched right now.”

 He closed his eyes, then said, “Damn it.”

 “Get your head in the game,” she said, looking at the approaching ships. “We're six minutes from hell, and I need the ship ready to get through it in as few pieces as possible. One, preferably.”

 “Damage control teams are on standby,” Erickson said. “We'll have shuttles coming in on all three elevator airlocks just before we enter firing range. Sub-Lieutenant Bradley has prepared hangar deck for emergency ingress.”

 “Very good,” Orlova said, turning back to the display, while Nelyubov moved to stand over Cantrell, looking down at the tactical console. Despite the confusing strategic view, the battle they were about to fight was really very simple. Alamo had to fly past three Xandari battlecruisers in order to reach the hendecaspace point and flee the system. Even with the acceleration boosted beyond safe limits, they were still going to be in mutual firing range for at least a minute, maybe more if they managed some fancy maneuvers.

 Of course, they didn't have to fight at all. Alamo could still, even now, avoid contact, swing around to the other hendecaspace point and leave the system without firing a shot. Except if they did that, the Xandari would be able to methodically wipe out every Neander in system, every shuttle, the transport, without a single missile fired to stop them. Alamo was a distraction, something the Xandari could not ignore, able to buy the civilians the time they needed to escape.

 She glanced down at the intercom, wondering for a second whether she should make such a speech, but shook her head. This crew didn't need it. They all knew what they were doing, they knew why they were fighting, and nothing she said would spur them to greater efforts than they were making already. All she would do was distract them at a crucial time.

 Three minutes to contact. The tactical board was green, a salvo of missiles ready to fire, the laser fully charged to unleash a pulse of devastating energy at the enemy. With careful management of the power system, they might get two shots during the firing window. Assuming there was anything left of Alamo to take that shot.

 At least the second wave of shuttles were ranging far ahead now, curving away to match Daedalus' track as it moved into a supporting position. Behind Alamo, the third wave was lining up, edging in to dock, three of them a familiar Triplanetary design, the others strange and misshapen, modeled on vehicles from the Collective.

 “I've got the count,” Nelyubov said, looking up from his screen. “It took a while to put it together, but we're getting back fourteen of our Espatiers, and thirty-nine Neander. As well as the pilots, of course. Seventeen casualties, and there are medical teams working to get them to a triage facility in Storage Three.”

 “Who didn't make it?”

 “Price, Donegan, Anghwis and Lloyd.”

 “I thought Lloyd was on the sick list.”

 “He was,” Nelyubov said with a sigh. “Apparently he managed to make his way down to the surface to join the fighting. I guess he thought he could help.” Looking up at Orlova, he said, “It was all kinds of hell down there. Civilian casualties in the hundreds. We might never get an accurate count. One thing, though. No report of Lostok among the survivors.”

 “I'm afraid I can't say I'm sorry about that. They're better off without him.”

 “Ninety seconds to contact,” Cantrell said. “I have a green board, ma'am. Orders?”

 “Fire off your first salvo twenty seconds before firing range,” Orlova replied. “Keep all of your missiles for defense. We're not going to win a shooting war today, and I don't think there's any sense in trying. Our goal is to take the least damage possible and live to fight another day.” She looked around the bridge, and added, “There will be another time, I promise you. Another chance for us to avenge our fallen comrades. Today we make sure that we don't join them.”

 The door opened, and Hooke slid inside, moving over to the defense systems station, and with a brief nod at Orlova he logged into the vacant terminal.

 “Spaceman,” Nelyubov said. “You're supposed to be in sickbay. Something about a fractured...”

 “I'm doing no good lying down there, sir, and I'm just stealing a bed from someone else.” He looked up, his eyes pleading at Orlova, and added, “I don't know what I can do, but anything is better than nothing, isn't it?”

 “Yes it is,” Orlova said. “Take your station, Spaceman.” She glanced at Nelyubov, and smiled, before quickly glancing at every position, drinking in the status reports and systems checks, making sure that everyone was at their best for the battle, that everything possible had been done to prepare Alamo for the onslaught she was about to face.

 “Thirty seconds,” Spinelli said. “No sign of change to target aspect, ma'am. None at all.” He frowned, then said, “They could be turning to increase the firing time, or beginning their maneuver to intercept the shuttles.”

 “Maybe they're scared of Daedalus,” Foster said.

 “Any ship with Harper in command terrifies the hell out of me, Lieutenant,” Nelyubov replied.

 “First salvo away,” Cantrell reported, and Alamo rocked back as six missiles raced into the air, rendering the strategic view even more complicated. Orlova tapped a control to remove everything not actually involved in the battle, the field of vision zooming down to show four large dots slowly converging, the three battlecruisers ranging towards Alamo, and six smaller tracks pioneering the way into the fight.

 “Ten seconds,” Spinelli said.

 Turning from her station, Foster said, “I've got the hendecaspace plot now, ma'am. As soon as we reach the egress point, we can leave the system.”

 “Very good, Sub-Lieutenant,” Orlova said. “You may initiate random walk at your discretion.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” she said, tapping a sequence of controls to set Alamo's thrusters firing, weaving them around from side to side, giving the Xandari targeting computers something to worry about as they prepared to fire.

 “Five seconds,” Cantrell said. “First salvo running true. Second salvo ready to fire in eight seconds.”

 “Don't wait for the order,” Orlova said. “Fire at will. And see if you can do some damage with the laser. If we can stop some of the missiles launching, so much the better.”

 “Foster,” Cantrell began, but she interrupted.

 “Six seconds, mark, ma'am, at the missile launch tubes of the nearest enemy vessel.”

 “You're not going to need me at this rate, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 Taking a deep breath, Orlova said, “Here we go,” as Alamo crossed the invisible line in space that made then vulnerable to attack. Instantly, a series of alarms sounded as the Xandari launched their full force against them, eighteen conventional warheads flying on an intercept course. Alamo swung around, and her laser ripped through the hull plating of the nearest battlecruiser, sending it stumbling to the side. Cantrell slammed her hand on the console, a triumphant smile on her face as she looked across at Orlova.

 “Right on the nose,” she said. “Four missile tubes knocked out. That should help even the odds a little!”

 “That still leaves eighteen heading in our direction,” Nelyubov reminded, looking grimly at the tactical display. Alamo's missiles ranged towards the incoming swarm, ducking and weaving as they attempted to do maximum damage, trying to take out multiple warheads at once. The ship rocked again as six more missiles raced out to join their comrades, Cantrell frantically working to reload the launch tubes, trying to even the odds any way she could.

 As the first salvo reached its target, fifteen tracks disappeared from the display, leaving six Triplanetary against nine Xandari missiles, ranging closer and closer to the ship despite Foster's best efforts at the helm. At the rear, Erickson's eyes were locked on her status holodisplay, waiting for the inevitable impact. The enemy force had found sufficient time to navigate into perfect position, surrounding the ship before diving for the kill, and despite the best efforts of Cantrell, there was no way to stop them all.

 The hull seemed to scream as two missiles smashed into Alamo amidships, the bridge bathed in red as the damage reports flooded onto the holodisplay, Erickson hurriedly directing the engineering teams to their stations.

 “Not too bad,” she said. “Underside communications array, Storage Three, and Construction Module One. No reported casualties, engineering teams moving in to repair hull breaches.”

 “Energy spike!” Spinelli reported, and Orlova's heart dropped as she saw six sluggish missiles lumbering towards them, moving to surround the battlecruiser as it flew through the heart of the enemy formation. She didn't need the database to tell her what they were. Laser-missiles, once again, each one more than capable of ripping Alamo to shreds if they made contact. Glancing at the helm, she saw Foster redoubling her efforts, pushing the ship to the limit and beyond in a bid to remain clear, stress warnings running down the side of the viewscreen.

 Cantrell tapped a control, and a third salvo raced from the ship, each missile heading towards one of the enemy, but they would spend precious seconds on their flight, while the Xandari commander set them up for the kill. The only defense against a laser blast was not to be in its way, and with six shots available, the odds were that one of them would impact.

 Looking up at the strategic display, there was some good news at last, as they raced past closest approach on their escape from the system. At this point, they'd even beat the transport to the hendecaspace point, the lumbering Neander vessel trailing a couple of minutes behind them, but assuming they survived this run, there was no way for the Xandari task force to intercept the civilians in time.

 The ship danced through space to a manic tune that only Foster could hear, her hands a blur as she worked the controls, fighting a silent battle with the enemy tactical team. There was nothing Orlova could say to help her, no advice she could give. All she could do was watch and wait, as Alamo's missiles raced in a desperate bid to safe the craft.

 “We've got a spike!” Spinelli said. “One of them just detonated. Miss by three hundred meters.”

 “That'll do,” Orlova said. “I guess they thought they might get lucky.”

 “Got one,” Cantrell said, as another laser-missile disappeared from the display, Alamo's warhead slamming into it and blotting it from the map. That just left four, each of them moving to surround the ship, turning ominously towards them as they prepared to fire, the incoming missiles seconds too slow. Foster tried a last, desperate turn, then killed the acceleration for a second, the ship's engines stuttering to a stop as four laser bursts fired as one, terawatts of energy briefly occupying the same part of space at the same time, a space where Alamo should have been.

 The battlecruiser cruised serenely on, passing through the battlespace as though there had never been anything there, and Foster turned to Orlova, disbelief on her face, her hands shaking over the controls.

 “I didn't think it would work,” she said, shaking her head. “I didn't...”

 “Frank, take over,” Orlova said, gesturing Nelyubov to the helm. Foster rose with a nod as the older officer took her place, standing over by the viewscreen, her face pale. Orlova walked across to her, resting her hand on her shoulder.

 “Good work, Sub-Lieutenant. Damn good work.”

 “Energy spike!” Spinelli said, shaking his head. “Fifteen missiles, incoming, seventy seconds to impact.”

 “I've got the laser back,” Cantrell said. “Sir, give me a shot and I'll reduce the odds.”

 Alamo spun around, lining up on the incoming missile swarm, and at the correct nanosecond a beam of energy raced through empty space, lining up on three of the approaching targets, vanishing from the display as the blast tore them to pieces. Once again, Alamo rocked, six missiles firing from the launch tubes to duel with their fellows, the battlecruiser mercifully pulling out of combat range.

 “They're improving,” Cantrell replied. “This is going to get tougher.”

 Nelyubov worked the controls as Foster looked down at the helm, the ship surging to greater speed as he raced for the hendecaspace point, trying to extend the time before impact as long as possible, to give Cantrell another chance to launch a salvo. Orlova glanced at the status board, all the amber lights showing the damage they had taken in the first battle. A few hits to the surface armor they could handle, but any serious impact could finish them, leave them dead in space, an easy target for the pursuing ships. The enemy battlecruisers altered course, swinging down towards the planet, trying for a gravity assist to speed them towards Alamo, but there was no chance they could reach them in time.

 Alamo's salvo reached the approaching missiles, and a series of flashes briefly appeared on the sensor display, only five tracks continuing through the devastation, still on a collision course with the ship. Orlova looked at Cantrell, doing everything she could to launch a final counter-strike, and at Nelyubov at the helm, urging maximum acceleration from the ship, the acceleration triggering a series of alerts as the strained superstructure protested.

 Ten seconds. Orlova looked at the projected impact areas, with one prominent, and obvious, target. The hendecaspace drive. If they couldn't flee the system, then they would be destroyed. As the final seconds ticked away, Cantrell slammed down a sequence of buttons, the ship rocking as the last salvo raced away, tracks quickly locking onto the closing enemy warheads, smashing into them with less than a second to go.

 “Secure to normal acceleration,” she ordered with a sigh of relief.

 “Hendecaspace in four minutes, ten seconds,” he said, looking at her. “I can...”

 Shaking her head, she said, “We've done all we can do here. The transport will be less than a minute behind us.” Glancing back at the tactical display, her eyes widened, and she asked, “What the hell is Daedalus doing?”

Chapter 23

 “They're in the clear!” Salazar said, looking at the sensor display. “Right through the middle of the enemy formation, and only two missile impacts.” Glancing at a readout, he said, “They'll be out of the system in a little over four minutes.”

 “Great,” Rhodes replied, sitting in a rear couch, looking down at the unconscious Neander on the deck. “How does that help us, exactly? Can they send someone back to get us, slow down to let us catch up?”

 “I wouldn't order it,” Salazar replied. “Neither will Captain Orlova. She won't risk a hundred -plus lives for four.” Glancing at the slumped, snoring figure, he amended, “Five.”

 “Then what do we do?” the trooper asked, wincing from the pain in his leg. “We're in no condition to mount a guerrilla campaign, just the three of us, and I'm not happy with the idea of surrendering.”

 “Well,” Salazar said, “I was thinking about that. I can easily manage an uncontrolled re-entry.” With a sigh, he added, “It would all be over in seconds, and there are plenty of things on board we could take to make it painless. Or I could just turn down the oxygen levels, knock us all out that way.”

 “We can't give up,” Maqua said. “What if we tried to evade. Make for another hendecaspace point. There are hundreds in the outer systems.” He paused, then said, “And there are other bases in the system, supply depots. I helped set up a couple of them, they liked to use us for the heavy labor.”

 “And we'd be spotted in a second, and someone would be there to meet us when we arrived,” Salazar replied. “Assuming, of course, that the battlecruiser didn't try and overtake us.”

 “Lostok?” Rhodes asked. “A bargaining chip?”

 “I doubt it. He failed, and disastrously. I doubt they'd trade a cup of coffee for him.”

 “Sir, we've got to do something,” Maqua pressed. “We can't just give up.”

 “We tried our best,” Salazar said, “and we haven't quite made it this time. That's all. At least...” He looked at the sensor display, breaking off for a moment, then said, “Wait a minute. Look at Daedalus. She's cresting around the planet, altering her trajectory.” Shaking his head, he said, “The crazy...”

 “An intercept course,” Maqua said, eyes widening.

 Glancing at the system readouts, he said, “This is going to be fun. If I'm reading it right, then we're heading right into the heart of the enemy formation on our way out.”

 “Brilliant,” Rhodes replied. “So rather than force them to come after us, we're going to be bringing the fight to them.”

 Salazar tried to move his left arm, a savage burst of pain running down his side at the slightest twitch, and shook his head, turning to Maqua and saying, “You've got the helm.”

 With panicked eyes, the Neander replied, “I can't! I've only got a dozen hours, and none of those as pilot-in-command. Just a ten-minute solo.” He looked at the sensor display, and said, “I just don't know how to do it!”

 “Well, we're dead if you don't,” Salazar said, “so I suggest you learn quickly. I think I can plot your course for you.” Straining his working arm to the controls, he entered a series of sequences into the navigation computer, a long, thin line reaching out towards the battlecruisers, sliding through space towards the fleeing scoutship. He saw a pair of flashes up ahead, Alamo and the Neander transport reaching the egress point, and smiled.

 “Getting lonely around here,” Rhodes said, shaking his head.

 “Course computed,” Salazar added. “Implement at your discretion, Maqua. You've got the chair.”

 With a curt nod, the Neander tapped a control, and the engine roared into life once again, pushing them onto a trajectory that would get them at least close to Daedalus in a matter of minutes. Salazar shook his head as he looked at the approach speed, far higher than the usual safe limits for a docking. Daedalus couldn't afford to slow, not if it was to have a chance of surviving the fly-through, and the shuttle could only fly so fast. Not quite enough to make it. They'd have one chance to get on board, no more than that.

 At the moment, that was information that Maqua didn't need to know. The Neander worked the controls, engaging systems and bringing the thruster suite on-line, fine-tuning the course to gain any advantage they could. Going through the enemy formation in a battlecruiser was dangerous, risking it in a raider insanity, and Salazar couldn't immediately think of an appropriate word for riding the gauntlet in an unarmored shuttlecraft.

 Rhodes watched intently as the two of them worked, Salazar switching all of the active controls over to his co-pilot, running his eye across the gauges and systems to make sure he had the smoothest possible ride. He glanced across at Maqua, the Neander intent on his controls, and fought the temptation to provide him with a running commentary. Flying was a one-man job, and though a co-pilot could assist, any distractions could prove disastrous.

 As it was, Maqua was doing an excellent job, nursing the shuttle to maximum acceleration and a little beyond, the force pushing them back on their couches as the engines roared to full power. Lostok, slumped on the floor, groaned as he rolled to the side, bare deck under him rather than a crash couch, but neither Salazar nor Rhodes were in any condition to do anything about it. Nor, in all honestly, did he care. Lostok would live through the flight, and if he sustained a couple of broken ribs along the way, he had brought it all upon himself. The blood of hundreds, thousands of his people was on his hands. A little discomfort didn't seem too much to ask.

 It felt strange to be riding shotgun while someone else did the work, guiding the shuttle smoothly along its trajectory towards the enemy ships ahead. He looked around at the physical countermeasure panel, or at least, where it was meant to be, only to find a blank sheet of metal in its place. Either they had never been installed, or they had been removed. Not that they would have provided much more than a psychological boost in any case.

 The electronic warfare suite was in place, and he reached up with an effort to turn the systems on, a loud series of bleeps as the panel booted into life, but aside from providing more information about the exact moment of their death, there didn't seem to be anything else they could do. The shuttle wasn't armed, and didn't even have anything they could jettison as a decoy. Frustrated, he shook his head, turning to look at the pilot once again as he worked his controls like a veteran.

 “One minute to contact,” he said. “One hundred and thirty seconds to rendezvous with Daedalus.” Salazar called up the docking computer, the reticule sliding into position on the heads-up display, a mass of confusing data streaming along the side of the screen, a green light that washed information over the cabin, almost too fast to read it. Maqua glanced up at it, nodded, then returned to his work, adding a slight pulse of thruster to send them further to the side of one of the approaching battlecruisers.

 “Maybe we could pretend that we're surrendering,” Rhodes suggested, but Salazar shook his head.

 “At this velocity? We're coming in like a missile.” Gesturing at the blinking red lights from the communications panel, he added, “Besides, our unwanted guest smashed the transmitter. We can't send a signal, even if we wanted to.” He cursed Lostok once again, muttering under his breath. Docking was difficult enough when both computers could talk to each other, make minute adjustments to slide together. Without communication, that was only going to make it harder.

 “Engaging docking clamps,” Maqua said, starting the checklist far too soon, going down as far as he could before they entered firing range. Salazar nodded appreciatively, flicking the few controls he was able to reach, keeping one eye on the scanner for signs that the enemy vessels had fired.

 “Daedalus will be twenty seconds behind us, going into the battlespace,” Salazar said. “That means they're going to take first crack at us, but with a little luck, they won't launch a full salvo.” Glancing at the course projection, he added, “They'll have all the time they need to fire a second round, though.”

 “And what do I do, sir?”

 “Run your random walk, Maqua, and hope like hell that it confuses the enemy targeting computers. That's about the only chance we've got.” Bringing up a schematic of the missile, hard-won data reaped from earlier encounters, he added, “You can't outrun them, but you might be able to out think them. Or whoever is controlling them at the other end.”

 “Aye, sir,” the Neander replied. “Out think them. Got it.”

 “Firing range,” Salazar said, and as three lights winked onto the display, he added, “Energy spike. Incoming missiles from the lead ship, three in number, bearing directly. Impact in fifty-two seconds.”

 “Can't we do anything?” Rhodes asked.

 “Initiating random walk,” Maqua said, tapping a series of controls that sent the shuttle swirling through space, the missiles still remorselessly flying towards them. One would be overkill. Three an apocalypse. Behind them, Daedalus drifted into the firing line, and another half-dozen missiles flashed onto the display, surging towards the pursuing ship, ignoring the shuttle completely. For a moment, Salazar thought of moving between them, drawing their fire, shielding their would-be rescuer, but the raider launched a missile spread of its own, four missiles diving forward towards the enemy salvo.

 “This isn't working,” Maqua said, looking at the sensor display. “I've going to try something.”

 “God help us,” Rhodes said, as the Neander spun the shuttle around, lurching it to the side, sending the trajectory plot sweeping out of the projected path, Daedalus hurriedly maneuvering to catch up. Far from moving away from the battlecruisers, he was now diving towards the nearest, an echo of the maneuver Salazar had undertaken when they had first entered the system.

 Shaking his head, Salazar said, “That trick won't work twice.”

 “It will, sir,” Maqua replied, a smile creeping across his face, an expression Salazar had occasionally seen in the mirror. “They're still on my tail. Mutual collision in thirty-one seconds.”

 Almost on cue, the enemy missiles veered off, ignoring the risky, helpless shuttlecraft and turning around to sweep towards Daedalus, joining the incoming warheads. Salazar closed his eyes, with a deep sigh, then looked again at the scanner, watching all of the missiles diving towards the same point in space. That maneuver had drawn the missiles close enough to Daedalus' salvo to give them a chance of fratricide, and whoever was at the tactical controls used that opportunity to the full, an explosion washing across the screen for a second, leaving nothing but vacant space in its wake.

 Salazar's communicator chirped, and he belatedly realized that the were now in signal range of the hand units. He quickly clipped it into the half-ruined primary feed, and a stream of telemetry surged into the computers, guiding them towards closest approach for the docking. As he watched, a series of lights erupted from the enemy battlecruisers, fifteen new trajectory tracks flashing onto the screen, heading right for Daedalus.

 “Harper to Salazar,” the overhead speaker screamed. “That was great flying, Pavel!”

 “You'll have to think my chauffeur,” he replied. “I'm just a passenger on this trip.”

 “You're clear for docking, anyway. I thought you might want a lift.”

 “Perfect timing as ever, Kris. We'll be on board in a minute.” He looked across at Maqua, concentration on his face as they closed on the Daedalus. The world was reduced to the target reticule and the fine thruster controls as he guided them into final approach, trying to guide them with millimeter-perfect precision to their goal.

 The loud cluck of the docking clamps was almost an anticlimax, and the overhead hatch burst open, a young technician urging them forward, dropping down to help with the two unconscious Neander while Rhodes made his way into the ship, Salazar following, throwing a few switches on the automatic pilot while Maqua dragged Lostok away.

 “Something I forgot, sir?” he asked.

 “Nothing you need to worry about,” Salazar said. “Just a last surprise for our friends out there.” He tapped the control panel, and muttered, “Thank you,” as he turned, climbing up the ladder one handed, before collapsing on the deck of Daedalus. Behind him, the hatch closed, the shuttle racing away from the ship, now under automatic control.

 “Where's she going?” Rhodes asked.

 “She's got a date with the Xandari, Private, and I don't want her to be late to the dance.” Climbing to his feet, he looked at the young technician, and said, “Who are you?”

 “Spaceman Perry, sir. Third class.” She looked down at the two unconscious forms on the floor, and said, “Isn't that...”

 “Just tell me how I can get to the bridge.”

 “Spaceman Garland will...”

 “This can wait,” Salazar said, gesturing at his wounded arm, staggering along the deck. “Directions, Spaceman.”

Chapter 24

 Harper smiled in satisfaction as her status board reported that the shuttle had docked, only to frown again as it separated from Daedalus, racing off towards the oncoming missiles. Frantically, she tapped a control, but before she could raise the lower deck, the door behind her opened, Salazar limping in, holding his left arm with his right, crashing down on a couch.

 “Pilot,” he said, “You should have control of the shuttle. Guide it in.” Shaking his head, he said, “Control channel Three-Alpha.”

 “Do it,” Harper said, turning back to Salazar. “You all right?”

 Raising an eyebrow, he replied, “Next stupid question.” He smiled, weakly nodded, and said, “I'll be fine. Just get us out of here.”

 “Scott, you heard what the man said,” she ordered.

 “Aye, ma'am,” Scott replied. “Initiating 'get the hell out of here'. Moving to full acceleration, positive course track for the hendecaspace point.” Reaching over to a second panel, she said, “I've got good guidance on the shuttle, but signal strength is weakening fast.”

 Nodding, Salazar said, “It's linked into a hand communicator. Main system was wrecked.”

 “On it,” Ingram replied, not waiting for orders. “Boosting transmission strength. I think I can give you ten thousand kilometers. Maybe.”

 “Keep it close,” Harper ordered, watching the missiles range in as they soared past closest approach. She looked at the sensor display, shaking her head. Every other friendly ship had either left the system or been destroyed. Daedalus was all that remained. That she'd chosen this course of action didn't make her feel any better about the consequences.

 “Damn,” Perry said. “I'm getting more energy spikes, three of them, one from each enemy vessel. Looks like the laser-missiles, moving to envelop us.”

 “More speed, Kat,” Harper said. “Give it everything we've got.”

 “I already am!” she replied, throwing the ship into a dizzying array of evasive maneuvers. Up ahead, the shuttle completed its final mission, soaking all but one of the missiles meant for Daedalus, only one still diving towards the raider.

 “Hold on!” Harper said, as the warhead smashed into the side of the hull, a horrible grinding noise reverberating around the ship as it tore into the hull armor, the ship tossed to one side as air escaped from broken compartments, Scott fighting with the helm in a bid to bring Daedalus back under some sort of control.

 “It's bad,” Arkhipov said. “Damage to secondary power relays, primary water reservoir is wrecked, as well as oxygen tanks two and three. Storage Two is essentially gone, and the armory is exposed to space.”

 “Vent any affected compartments,” Salazar offered. “Scott, you do it, and add it to the random walk. If you don't know where they are going, they won't either.”

 Scott glanced at Harper who nodded in response, before turning back to her controls, her fingers rattling the keys on the board as she worked to merge the effects of the ship's damage into her evasive maneuvers, the forward trajectory plot twisting around like spaghetti as they lurched towards their goal, the enemy ships now behind them, struggling and failing to keep up with their acceleration.

 All around them, the three laser-missiles moved into range, lining up their shots. Alamo had been able to launch a retaliatory strike, but Daedalus lacked that luxury. Harper glanced at the sensor display again, shaking her head. They were clear, near as damn it, with a straight run to the egress point if they could only evade contact.

 “Come on,” she muttered, urging the engines on was Scott dragged the ship around, giving it all the speed she could muster as the vessel slid through space. As far as she could see, they were less than fifteen seconds from destruction.

 Perry turned, and said, “Let them make their run. We'll never stop them this way.”

 Nodding, Harper said, “Kat, make it look as though we're damaged again.”

 “They'll never buy that trick twice,” Ingram said.

 With a shrug, Scott said, “They might. It's all I can do to keep us on a stable course as it is.” Stabbing at the thrusters to set them on a slow, rolling spin, she said, “Lateral thrusters ready to fire.”

 “Guess right, Kat,” Harper said, as the laser-missiles locked onto their target, their courses converging to prevent any risk of failure. Salazar looked on, his face pale, glancing at the helm, obviously longing to take it himself, his arm confining him to the crash couch.

 “Now!” Scott yelled, slamming down the controls, less than a second before the laser-missiles detonated, sending their deadly terawatt blast harmlessly careening through space.

 “We did it,” Harper quietly said, shaking her head. “We really did it.”

 Nodding, Scott replied, “Egress point in two minutes, ten seconds. Course is computed and on the screen, and all systems show clear for dimensional transit.”

 “You have the call. Sergeant, start gathering damage reports,” Harper said, turning back to Salazar. “What the hell happened back there?”

 “Lostok was the traitor,” he gasped. “All the time. He managed to get on board the shuttle and tried to force us to surrender.” Shaking his head, he added, “We had other plans.”

 “So I gathered.”

 “Kris, thanks. For coming after me.”

 “You've done the same for me.”

 “Still,” he said, looking around the bridge, “You did it with style.” His head dropped back, the exertion finally too much for him, and he slumped in the chair, unconscious. Unclipping her restraints, Harper stepped back, quietly took his pulse, then strapped him into position, careful with his wounded arm.

 “I'll get Garland up here as soon as he's finished with the Neander,” Ingram said. “Looks like both of them are going to pull through.”

 Without a word Perry rose from his chair and stepped off the bridge, his face locked in grim determination. Harper glanced at Arkhipov, who leaned across to his station before shaking his head with a deep sigh.

 “I think he's heading for the Armory.”

 “Why?”

 “According to this, there was only one fatality.”

 “Damn. Scott, take the conn.”

 Without waiting for acknowledgment, she raced down the corridor after the silent Perry, trying to catch him before he reached the compartment. She called after him, but he didn't respond, instead simply implacably marching as though on parade, until he reached the compartment, opening the hatch.

 Harper sprinted after him, glancing up at the status board to make sure the auto-sealant had done its work, and looked into the smashed chamber, as Perry knelt by the battered body of his granddaughter, tears flowing from his cheeks as he reached down to gently close her eyes with his hand, granting her a little peace in death.

 He looked up at her, his face a mask of rage, and said, “Get out of my way.”

 “Sergeant, I'm so damn sorry.”

 Ignoring her, he pushed past, pulling his pistol out of his holster, and stepped across the corridor to the medical unit, ignoring the protestations of Garland as he walked over to the nearest bed, looking down at the prone figure of Lostok. Harper stepped in after him, gesturing the medic away, as Perry leveled his gun at the unconscious Neander.

 “He did this,” Perry said. “He killed them all. Thousands of people, dozens of my friends, and my only grandchild.” Taking a deep breath, he said, “This is justice.”

 “No it isn't,” Harper said, “and you know it. This is revenge.” She stepped over to his side, and said, “If you're going to do it, at least admit why.”

 Tears running down his cheeks, he said, “This man...”

 “No, he didn't. You can blame me, if you want. I'm the one who decided to make a second pass through the system, held us up to rescue Salazar, Rhodes and Maqua.” Looking back across the corridor, she said, “That's what she died for. To rescue three of her shipmates.”

 “Not enough,” Perry said, lowering the pistol at Lostok's head.

 With a sigh, Harper turned to Garland, and said, “Spaceman, leave the room.”

 “Under no cir...”

 “That is a direct order, Spaceman!” she barked. “Leave this room at once!”

 He jerked back, looking at her as though she was a stranger, then nodded, heading out into the corridor. Harper looked down at Lostok again, then up at Perry, his hand trembling.

 “If you really feel you need to do this, Sergeant, then go ahead and do it. The record will show that he died during the battle, and no one will ever know what you did. I won't tell a soul. The only person you'll have to live with is yourself.” With one last glance down at the Neander, she said, “He's a cold, ruthless bastard who deserves to stand trial, but if you feel merciful enough to grant him a quick death, that's your choice. Do as you wish.”

 Without looking back, she stepped out into the corridor, closing the door behind her. The lights dimmed for a second, and she realized that Daedalus had escaped to hendecaspace, leaving Cyndar behind forever. Garland stared at her with cold eyes, and a shot echoed around the ship, coming from sickbay. A moment later, Perry walked out, and passed the pistol to Harper, butt first.

 Garland raced in, and said, “He's alive. He didn't...”

 “Promise me something,” Perry said. “He will come to trial. He will face punishment for what he has done.” Turning to look at him, he added, “And when twelve good men and true find him guilty, I will command the firing squad myself. When he dies, I want him to know who pulled the trigger.”

 Waving her datapad, she replied, “From what Salazar said, I don't think there's any risk of him being found innocent, and while I suspect there will be a long list of people wanting to be on that firing squad, I'll make sure you're in charge on the day. That's the least I can do.” She turned back to the armory, looking through the door at the body of Spaceman Perry, lying prone on the deck, almost as though she was asleep, and shook her head. “Go and take care of her, Sergeant.”

 “I will.” He turned, paused, then looked back at Harper, saying, “It wasn't your fault.”

 “Go, Sergeant.”

 He nodded, and she walked down the corridor, quietly stepping into the bridge. Scott turned, and triumphantly gestured at the screen, their path through hendecaspace flashing into view, a five-day flight through the somehow welcoming alien dimension, that would see them reunited with their friends at the other end of the journey.

 There was a small hatch by the side of the communications station, the cramped office of the ship's commanding officer, and she stepped inside for the first time, looking around at the clutter within. Evidently the Xandari had never bothered to clean the place up, had decided it was too unimportant for them to bother with. Not that it mattered right now.

 She swept a cloud of dusty documents from the only chair in the room, sat down behind it, held her head in her hands, and started to weep. All she could see in her mind was the twisted form of Spaceman Perry when she stepped into the armory after the battle. She'd been on dangerous missions before, and this wasn't her first taste of death, not by any means. This was different, somehow. Worse even than Thule, than Phaeton. Then someone else had been in command, someone else had the final responsibility, even if on some level she still blamed herself.

 The difference was that there was no room for doubt, not this time. She was in charge, and she had made the decision that had condemned Perry to die. She longed for someone to step into the office and comfort her, to tell her that it wasn't her fault, that she didn't have a choice, that she had traded one life for five, but none of that helped.

 For a long time, she sat alone in the office, her tears watering the desk, running through her hands. Reaching into a cupboard, she found a half-used box of tissues, and snatched one to her face, wiping the wetness away, before taking a deep breath and standing to attention, looking at her reflection in the viewscreen.

 Then, stepping out onto the bridge, she said, “The fun part's over, people. Now let's clean up the mess. I want this ship pristine by the time we return to normal space.” Now, at least to a degree, she understood how Marshall and Orlova coped.

 They didn't. But as long as no one else knew that, it would all work out in the end.

Chapter 25

 Salazar watched as Harper loitered at the airlock hatch, giving the latest in a string of last-minute instructions to Scott, who shook her head as she entered the new orders into her datapad. She finally ducked inside, and Salazar's eyes widened as he saw her hair. The bright green was gone, replaced by a mousy brown, arranged in a semblance of a regulation haircut, and her uniform was clean, well-pressed and pristine. Not once in the year he had known her had he ever seen her outfitted in such a way. Strangely, it seemed to suit her.

 “That's it, I think, Kat. I suppose the rest of it will be up to my successor.” Taking one last look through the hatch, she said, “Take good care of her.”

 “Don't worry, Lieutenant,” Scott replied, shaking her head. “We're only in parking orbit. Everything will be fine.”

 “I hope so. Oh, that Number Two Regulator...”

 “Enough!” Salazar said, “See you later, Scott.” He tapped a control, and the door swung shut. “Maqua, get us moving.”

 “Aye, sir,” the Neander replied, turning back from the helm with a grin.

 Shaking her head, Harper said, “I could charge you with insubordination.” A thin smile crossed her face, and she continued, “How bad was I?”

 “Insufferable. But in a better way than normal, I think.” As the shuttle detached from Daedalus to begin the flight to Alamo, he saw her looking wistfully out of the window, and said, “They say that first command is like first love. Always special.”

 “Last command,” she replied. “No one in their right mind would ever put me in charge of anything again.” Shaking her head, she sighed, and added, “Nor should they.”

 “Don't put yourself down, Kris. You did magnificently back there. Trust me, I've seen the best, and you're up there.”

 “Maybe some of my father rubbed off on me after all.”

 “No,” he replied. “That was pure, distilled Kristen Harper, and all the more glorious for that. Everyone approaches command in their own way. I know that much, anyway. You take what you know and build on that.” Gesturing at the hair, he said, “What's with the change?”

 “I just felt like it,” she said. “Thought I'd go back to my old color.” She looked at him, then added, “Maybe I decided it was time I grew up.”

 “Alamo in one minute, sir,” Maqua said. “I guess this is the end of the line for me, as well. I had a signal from the Redemption half an hour ago. I'm to report to duty in Shuttle Maintenance. It's a promotion, I suppose.” Looking around, he said, “Maybe one day I'll get to fly one of these babies again.”

 “Hang around when we land,” Salazar replied. “Someone's going to need a ride back to Daedalus, and I'm sure the hangar gang can use the help.”

 “Thanks, sir,” the Neander said, tapping a control. “This is a lot easier with working computers, but not as much fun.”

 “You're crazy,” Harper replied. “After the last fortnight, I'll take nice and normal for a while.”

 “I'm not sure we're going to get the chance,” Salazar said. “We've still got the Xandari on our tail, and the Neander are still tearing themselves apart over Lostok's confession. And...”

 “The trouble with you, Pavel, is that you are a natural-born pessimist,” Harper said. “I intend to savor any moments of peace and relaxation I can get, especially now that I have cast off my cares and worries. Something I intend to demonstrate when I break open the Titanian Vodka I've been saving.”

 “You planning on drinking alone?” Salazar asked.

 “Always glad to have a friend along for the ride,” she replied, as the transfer shuttle slid into the docking bay. As the shuttle began to climb, she took a last look out of the view-port, Daedalus in the distance, running lights seeming to wink at her. Salazar looked at her, and shook his head.

 The shuttle rose to the deck, and he pulled himself to his feet, stepping to the airlock as it opened to the sound of applause. An Espatier honor guard was lined up on either side of the hatch, standing at attention, and what looked like half the crew was waiting, as well as a couple of dozen Neander from Redemption, Aussketi, Ghewon, Kelot and others he didn't recognize. There were several Neander he didn't recognize in Espatier uniform, almost a majority of the platoon.

 “I'm sorry,” he said. “The President's on the next one. This is the transfer shuttle from Daedalus.”

 “Lieutenant Salazar,” Nelyubov said, “Front and center.”

 “What?” he asked, looking around, before walking forward. Harper, who had obviously been in on it, followed him down the steps to the deck, moving to his side while Cooper took the other. Ghewon, wearing an intricately-decorated robe, took a box from Orlova and held it forward, opening it to reveal two shining chromium pips, the insignia of a Lieutenant in the Triplanetary Fleet.

 “Captain Orlova kindly permitted me to award these to you, as a small measure of our esteem for your actions on the surface of Cyndar. By remaining behind to operate flight control, you were responsible for the survival of four hundred and fifty-seven refugees.”

 “Not to mention fifteen Espatiers,” Cooper added.

 “Indeed. It is therefore my great pleasure and privilege to promote you to the rank of Lieutenant, and to award you honorary Guildsman status in the Interstellar Collective.” Salazar looked for Rhodes, now with the single stripes of Lance-Corporal insignia on his arm, who flashed him a grin.

 “I only did my duty, sir,” Salazar protested.

 “Willingly, and without a second thought, only caring to save as many lives as you could. This small honor is the least we can do.”

 At a nod from Orlova, Cooper and Harper removed the small insignia from his shoulders, pinning the larger replacements in position. He looked from one to the other, then back up at Ghewon.

 “I don't know what to say, sir, but thank you.” Looking around, he said, “All of you.” Glancing back at the shuttle, where Maqua was standing he asked, “I wasn't the only one down there, sir.”

 “Maqua has been promoted, and Lance-Corporal Rhodes shares your status, Lieutenant,” Ghewon replied. “We do not forget. We will never forget.”

 Stepping forward, Nelyubov said, “That's all people. We've had our little fun, and now we've got to get back to work.” With a loud murmur, the crowd dispersed, several of them taking the opportunity to clap him on the back and shake his hand, Corporal Stewart even kissing him on the cheek, Harper giving the trooper a sharp look in response. His blush had barely faded as Orlova guided him and Harper into the hangar deck office, closing the door behind her.

 “Captain,” Salazar began, but she raised her hand.

 “Recent circumstances have caused me to re-evaluate the command structure, Lieutenant, and the more I looked at your contribution, the more I realized that you had merited the promotion. You're at minimum eligible time...”

 “By thirty-seven minutes, to be precise,” Harper said.

 “And while this isn't exactly usual, these aren't normal circumstances.” Shaking her head, she added, “Frankly, I think Cooper and his gang would have mutinied if I hadn't promoted you. As for Rhodes, well, God only knows how long he'll keep that stripe, but I'd say he's earned a crack at a promotion.”

 “I'll do my best, ma'am,” Salazar said.

 “You always do.” She looked down at a datapad, and said, “I've got to replace Lieutenant Kibaki. Losing him is a hell of a blow. Do you want to take Operations?”

 “Operations?” he asked. “That's...”

 “Fifth in the chain, yes. Which should give you some idea of how highly I value you.” Taking a deep breath, she said, “Pavel, we're deep behind enemy lines, and we're going to be operating in a wartime environment for the next few months. The idea of a quick run in and out has died, I'm afraid. Three months to get the Neander home and return to our current location, and that's being optimistic. We're going to be under attack again, and there are going to be more casualties. That's a fact.” Turning to Harper, she said, “How's your ship?”

 Nodding, she replied, “Well, we suffered a lot of damage, and I could do with another damage control team. Lombardo has a list of...” She paused, then said, “What do you mean, my ship?”

 Passing her a datapad, she said, “Lieutenant Harper, you will assume the bridge of the Daedalus on my order. I'll try and get some more repair teams over to help you prepare for the next transition. Now don't expect that this will last. When we get home, either the ship will end up in a museum, or someone else will be placed in command, but that could be months away. For the moment, you've got a job to do, and you've managed to prove that you are the best choice for the job.”

 “Give it to Pavel,” she replied.

 “No, I'm giving it to you.” With a smile, she added, “Maybe it's the hair.”

 “I'm not ready,” she replied. “I never thought...”

 Nodding, Orlova replied, “Kris, I'll be honest with you. Giving you that assignment was a way for me to show you what responsibility meant, how it was on the other side of the command structure. I thought you might learn something from it, but it was never meant to be a combat assignment. I'd always planned to move Joe Kibaki across to take over before we left.” Sighing, she added, “And that decision cost both him and Spaceman Parker their lives.”

 “Captain, I...”

 “Let me finish. I'd hoped that you might learn something, but I think you taught me something instead. You performed superbly, better than I could have dared hope. True, under normal circumstances you would never even be considered for such a role, and you'll be moved somewhere else when it's over, but for the present, I can't think of a better choice for the job. Daedalus is yours, for the duration.”

 “Congratulations, Captain,” Salazar said, holding out his hand.

 “Congratulations, Lieutenant,” she replied, taking it. “I guess we'll have to split that bottle in my quarters on Daedalus.”

 “You've got to go over there anyway, Pavel,” Orlova said. “One of your responsibilities is to supervise the midshipmen, and...”

 “About that, Captain.”

 “Way ahead of you. I don't think Spaceman Armstrong needs to wait until we get home. I'm minded to get her started on her training right now. I'd like you to sit down with Frank and work out a curriculum for her, starting with guidance control.”

 “I have someone else in mind, ma'am.”

 Raising an eyebrow, she replied, “Go on.”

 “There was someone else on Daedalus I've been working with very closely, and I think he should be considered for such an assignment. We had all of the testing materials on board, and as you can see, he performed very well on the preliminaries.” He pulled out a datapad, tapped a couple of controls, and passed it to her.

 She nodded, replying, “Better than Armstrong in some areas, though a bit weak on the theory. I suppose we can build on that, though. Practical experience is what we need right now, anyway. I guess Garland did the medical?”

 “Page Five. I know that Doctor Duquesne will have to do the formal check...”

 “No, you were quite right,” she replied. “I know she trusts his judgment, and I'm willing...” She paused, looked up at him with surprise on her face, and said, “This is a Neander, Pavel.”

 “Maqua. He's a born pilot, ma'am, but there's more than that. His instincts are good, his judgment is excellent, and I think he has potential that simply won't be exploited if he stays with his own people.” Looking out at the hangar deck, where the man in question was eagerly looking at the shuttles, he added, “You heard Ghewon. They'll lock him in a maintenance hangar for the rest of his life. He's worth more than that, and if they don't want to use him, we should.”

 “You feel strongly about this, don't you, Pavel.”

 Nodding, he said, “Maybe it's just my instincts, but I see something in him that I recognize. Something I like.”

 “I agree with him, Captain,” Harper said.

 “Shall I call him in?” Salazar pressed.

 “Wait a moment,” she replied, skimming down through the file, taking a deep breath. “We're making history today, Pavel, and I feel like savoring the moment. Have you told him about this?”

 “Not in detail, though I did hint that we might hire him as a shuttle pilot. He doesn't know what the tests were for.”

 “Right. Go get him.”

 Opening the door, he yelled, “Maqua, come in, will you? The Captain wants a word with you.”

 Ghewon looked at him in surprise as the young Neander walked over to the office, Aussketi glancing at Salazar with a smile on her face, and a barely perceptible nod. As Maqua stepped in, Harper closed the door, moving beside him.

 “You wanted to see me, ma'am?”

 “Stand to attention when you are addressing a senior officer.”

 Panic in his eyes, he snapped to attention, and replied, “Sorry, ma'am.”

 “That's more like it. I understand that Lieutenant Salazar has put you through some rather extensive testing over the transition through hendecaspace.”

 “Yes, ma'am, but I found it challenging.” Turning to him, he said, “Sir, I'm grateful for everything you've done over the last two weeks.”

 “Look to your front,” Orlova said, and Maqua turned back, standing ramrod-straight. She held up a datapad, and said, “He has suggested that you might be interested in a position in the Triplanetary Fleet. Is that the case?”

 Maqua's face lit up, and he said, “Yes, ma'am. I'd like that very much.”

 She shook her head, and said, “They'll call you a traitor. Strip you of your citizenship. You'll never be able to go home, ever again, most likely. There are some Neander in the Confederation these days, but only a small minority. You understand that?”

 “I do, ma'am. I know the risks I'm taking, and I'm willing to accept them.” He glanced across at Salazar again, and said, “Lieutenant Salazar has given me more chances than any member of my own race ever did. If I have a home, ma'am, I'd like it to be here. At least, I'd like to chance to try.”

 “Very well. In that case, there are two possibilities open to you, and I want you to consider them both very carefully. Based on your test scores, and everything Lieutenant Salazar has told me, I'm happy to enlist you into the Fleet as a Spaceman Second Class. Certainly the experience you have means that you have no need for the probationary training period. You would be assigned to the hangar deck as a shuttle pilot.”

 “Thank you, ma'am!” he said, all smiles.

 “Please don't interrupt,” she said. “There is another option, and one that I know Lieutenant Salazar is hoping that you will accept.” Leaning forward, she continued, “Never mind flying a shuttle. How would you like to fly Alamo?”

 “What?”

 “Before we left, I was asked to find potential candidates for officer training. There's a substantial shortfall in the training pipeline, and I have the authority to name midshipmen. Lieutenant Salazar has put your name forward, and you have already passed the preliminary examination.”

 “Midshipman?”

 “Officer cadet.”

 “An officer? On a starship?” he asked, wide-eyed.

 “It'll be months of hard work,” Salazar warned, “harder than anything you have ever done in your life. It'll push you to your limits, and beyond, and even if you receive a commission, it never gets any easier. Trust me, I know.”

 “Nevertheless,” Orlova said, “We both think...”

 “All three of us,” Harper interrupted.

 “...That you are at least potentially suitable for the role,” she finished.

 “It's up to you,” Salazar said. “You'd be a fine shuttle pilot. But after what you did back at Cyndar, I think you might make a great officer. Someday.”

 After a long pause, Maqua nodded, and said, “If you think I have a chance, I'd like to try, ma'am. I'll work as hard as I possibly can, I promise.”

 “I hope so, Midshipman,” Orlova said. “I damn well hope so.” Salazar handed her a datapad, the paperwork already prepared, and she placed her thumbprint to authenticate it, before passing it over to Alamo's newest recruit. “Take that to Chief Kowalski. He'll assign you quarters and issue you with the correct uniform. Lieutenant Salazar and Senior Lieutenant Nelyubov will be organizing your training, and I assure you that no matter how hard you think it will be, the reality will be a hundred times worse.” Gesturing at the door, she said, “Dismissed.”

 “Thank you, ma'am,” he said. “I'll not let you down, I promise.”

 “Haven't you forgotten something, Captain?” Salazar prompted.

 “Oh, of course,” she said. “Feel like making history, Maqua?”

 “Yes, ma'am.”

 “Then raise your right hand, and repeat after me. I solemnly swear...”

 As Maqua became the first Neander to take the officer's oath of the Triplanetary Confederation, Salazar looked on with a smile, shaking his head as he ran over the current situation in his mind. They were stranded in enemy territory, facing an unknown reception with an interstellar power, with the Xandari set to harry them all the way, and a ship that was hanging together by the sheer force of Engineer Quinn's will.

 Just another day on the Battlecruiser Alamo.

Thank you for reading 'Forbidden Seas'. 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.

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Look out for Battlecruiser Alamo: Final Testament, coming in June 2016…