LITMIR.BIZ

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said. “We cross their line in twelve minutes.”

      “Very well.”

      “Sir … do you intend to attack?”

      “It won’t come to that, Lieutenant. We will cross their line, they will scatter and refuse to confront us, and we will put our boarding party across. And then …”

      “Sir?”

      “And then we go home.”

      They were ninety-eight light years from Earth, farther than any human had ever before voyaged. The emptiness, the darkness scattered with myriad unknown suns and civilizations, filled him with foreboding and a brooding sense of agitation, even fear. Humans didn’t belong out here, not in a galaxy already staked out and claimed by millions of other technic cultures.

      He magnified the image in the tank. “What ship is that?”

      “The Valley Forge,” the tactical officer told him. “One hundred fifty thousand tons.”

      “Target to disable her,” Giraurd said. “Power systems and weapons. We will push past her, then, and engage the America.”

      “The cruiser is accompanied by a number of fighters.”

      “Those are of no consequence. If they get too close, destroy them.”

      “Our orders, sir, are to effect Koenig’s surrender without causing damage to their ships, or causing casualties.”

      “We will damage them as little as possible, cause as few casualties as possible. But I see no other way of reaching the America, do you?”

      “No, Grand Admiral.”

      “Direct our fighter escort to move out ahead of us,” Giraurd said. “They will be our wedge to sweep the enemy aside. Order them to fire only if they are fired upon.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “And accelerate to combat speed.”

      “Yes, Grand Admiral.”

      Giraurd smiled. They would end this standoff soon enough. Koenig was a fool if he thought he could make military policy for the Confederation. The Jeanne d’Arc would push through Koenig’s outer screen, close with America, and put boarding parties across to capture Koenig and take command of his fleet.

      And then they could all go home.

       VFA-44

       Kuiper Belt, HD 157950

       98 light years from Earth

       1748 hours, TFT

      “Here they come!” Gray called. “Their fighters are deploying ahead of the carrier, and they’re accelerating!”

      “Hold position, Dragonfires,” Wizewski’s voice said in his head. “We’re doing it by the book.”

      “Holding, aye, sir. …”

      By the book meant a warning shot, a formal nicety in which modern naval vessels rarely engaged. Generally, the idea was to launch an attack, all-out, complete and devastating, zorching in before the enemy was even aware that your forces were in the area, with missiles and kinetic kill impactors coming in just behind the light announcing their arrival.

      He switched to the tactical channel. “All ships! Engage squadron taclink.”

      Gray and the other pilots each focused their thoughts, connecting with their fighters’ artificial intelligences. The twelve fighter craft were interconnected now by laser-optic feeds linking their onboard computers into a single electronic organism.

      The Valley Forge was pivoting slightly now, bringing her main battery, a spinal-mount CPG, to bear. A moment later, she fired—a burst of tightly focused high-energy-charged particles invisible to the unaided eye but showing clearly on Gray’s instruments and on his visual display. The beam burned past the shield cap of the Jeanne d’Arc, missing the carrier by less than a hundred meters.

      “Jeanne d’Arc,” Koenig’s voice said over the fleet channel. “That was a warning. Change course immediately, or we will take you under fire.”

      “You’re not going to fire on Confederation vessels,” Giraurd’s voice came back. “Surrender and save your people, and your reputation.”

      “Dragonfires!” Wizewski’s voice snapped. “You are weapons free. Go!”

      “That’s it, Dragons!” Gray called. “Maximum acceleration in three … two … one … now!”

      Twelve Starhawk fighters leaped past the challenge line, hurtling toward the oncoming Pan-European warships. The range was just under 480,000 kilometers. At fifty thousand gravities they closed the gap in just forty seconds.

      A typical strike fighter mission had the fighters zorching through an enemy formation at high velocity after a long period of acceleration. This was different, however, with only a relatively short distance for acceleration before the fighters reached the target. The squadron’s newbies hadn’t practiced this sort of tight, close-quarters maneuvering in training sims, and they were going to be making mistakes.

      Gray just hoped none of those mistakes would be fatal.

      “Jink!” he yelled over the tactical channel. “All Dragonfires, jink!”

      By throwing drive singularities to left, right, above, and below at random, they could jerk their fighters around enough to fox enemy targeting AIs as they continued to close the range.

      On the tactical display, the Pan-European fighters had leaped forward, seeking to head the Starhawks off.

      “Ignore the fighters,” Gray told the squadron. “Stay on the carrier!”

      “They’re firing! Missiles incoming!”

      Missiles streaked out from the incoming fighters, curving to meet the fast-moving Starhawks.

      “Don’t let it rattle you,” Gray said, suppressing the trembling surge of fear he was feeling. “Stay on course. Stay on the carrier. …”

      White light flared, dazzling and silent in the darkness. The Dragonfires flashed through expanding clouds of plasma, emerging … and then the two clouds of fighters interpenetrated, passing through each other in an instant.

      The Jeanne d’Arc and her consorts lay just ahead. …

       CIC

      TC/PE CVS Jeanne d’Arc

       Kuiper Belt, HD 157950

       98 light years from Earth

       1748 hours, TFT

      “Harrison has betrayed us,” Hans Westerwelle said, bitterly. “He warned Koenig, somehow.”

      “We don’t know that,” Giraurd replied. “I … agree that he was less than eager to open the dialogue with Koenig.”

      “‘Less than eager’? The Englander swine fought the idea tooth and nail. Koenig was his friend. We should investigate Harrison when this is over, and see where his true loyalties lie.”

      The plan to have the three British ships pretend to join Koenig’s squadron had been Westerwelle’s. He was the European fleet’s political officer, a civilian appointed by Geneva to maintain loyalty and an acceptable level of enthusiasm within the Federation’s ranks.

      The first nuclear-tipped missiles were detonating in brilliant, savage silence across the CIC’s forward view screens. They were unlikely to cause more than superficial damage to the incoming fighters, but they might deter, might force the enemy squadron commander to break off.

      “Enemy fighters are still approaching from dead ahead!” the tactical officer

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