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CHAPTER SEVEN

"Huntmaster, there is no picket here. It has been replaced by an automatic buoy." There was a hint of anxiety in the microtremors of the technician's voice.

Huntmaster Thek-ist paused in his reading and considered this news. Their informants had told them there would be a picket at this jump point. It was the only military craft in the entire area, they'd been told.

Now, suddenly, it was gone.

"Let me hear its message," he commanded.

A human's voice burbled unintelligibly over his com.

Holding his pedipalps in the position of the first degree of irritation with an inefficient inferior he hissed: "The translation of the message!"

The message was a very simple welcome to this quadrant of space, giving the names of the humans in charge of Bella Vista's mining community. No mention was made of the missing picket.

"What do you make of this, Shust?" Thek-ist asked his second.

For a moment Shust held a position that acknowledged the honor of having a superior seek his opinion. Then he said: "Could it be that our first attack has panicked these humans so that they withdraw their forces to guard their most important systems?"

Thek-ist acknowledged the possibility with a gesture, another encouraged his subordinate to continue.

Shust froze once again into a position of indebted respect while he thought.

The huntmaster contained his amusement. He made a habit of encouraging his subordinates to think and to speak, in part because he truly enjoyed educating the young. But the greater part was because he enjoyed having his thinking and his work done for him. Their supple young minds, for example, were superior to his in fathoming the motivations of the human enemy.

Yet so skillfully did he weave his traps that he'd heard the pouchlings refer to his command as a superior one for learning the art of war. Therefore the very best vied to stand beside him on his deck, their brilliance adding to the luster of his reputation.

Most never suspected how he used them. Those that did learned his methods and tended to rise quickly in service to the queen. Shust, he thought, would be one of them.

"Could they have detangled our plan?" Shust asked, with a gesture that denoted keen-edged thought breaking through a trap web. "They might have surmised that we are attacking the least-defended of their outposts."

"Then they would hardly leave this planet unguarded, would they?" the huntmaster asked.

"We should see what we can detangle from any neutrino signatures that have passed this way recently," Shust suggested.

Thek-ist allowed his chelicerae to show his pleasure and Shust proceeded to do just as he himself had suggested. As yet the youngster was unaware that his huntmaster sucked knowledge from him. But he was a thinker, and he would soon know. Thek-ist would have to arrange a transfer ere long. A pity, the ones you wanted to keep were always the ones you had to send away.

"The most recent craft through has the signature of an ore freighter," Shust announced. He permitted himself to show disappointment by the position of his pedipalps. "There has been some limited small craft activity in the area. Perhaps someone programming the buoy," he suggested.

"So we have several possibilities," the huntmaster said. "And we have our mission, which is to destroy the industrial facilities in this system. We shall test the web as we go."

* * *

Sutton in his Speed watched the Fibian creep cautiously forward. "Steady," he said aloud. Only he could hear his voice as they were running silent, but Sutton had needed to say it.

His instrument panel had passively registered the Fibs' scan of the area. But then they had come forward. So their sensors aren't as highly developed as we'd feared, the squadron commander thought.

Seventeen of the Invincible's full quota of thirty-five Speeds had been deployed to await the Fibians, as well as two WACCIs. The squadron was under orders to lie silent until the enemy was far enough from the jump point to make escape impossible. Much had depended on what came through. Sutton was delighted to find it was a mere destroyer; he and his few squadron mates should be quite well able to deal with it.

Of course he'd hoped they would charge in without thinking, weapons primed and mischief on their little minds. Then the bugs could have been dealt with in a sensible manner.

The squadron commander tightened his lips. Capture was going to be very difficult. Still, that's all right, Sutton thought, as long as it's not too expensive. If it was he'd have Raeder's hide for a seat cover. The man has no right to change orders for his own aggrandizement.

Deep down inside, he wished it had been his own idea. The first unit to capture a Fibian ship would swim in glory.

The Fibians continued to sweep the area, but after the second time he didn't worry. He'd feared that they might refine their instruments with every pass. Now he was confident that they would or could not.

So there was nothing for them to find. The materials that made up a Speed cooled quickly and they'd hung here waiting for hours, so a thermal scan would register only cold metal. Easily mistaken for meteoroids. They'd run three ore freighters over the Invincible's tracks, and the Speeds had been delivered to their positions by grappling onto the freighter's heavy skins, then dropping off, using only the most minimal power to get into position. So there would be neutrino signatures, but they would be low enough that they wouldn't seem dangerous.

Only something looking for a Speed's distinctive shape would have found what it was looking for. But they were small and easily slipped unseen through the sensory net the Fibs had deployed.

Sutton grinned. The enemy's refusal to consider small to be dangerous was going to cause them a lot of pain in the near future.

* * *

"Huntmaster . . ."

Huntmaster Thek-ist stirred on his couch. A little venom trickled from his mandibles and he groomed them irritably with his pedipalps.

"Yes, Shust?"

Shust's eyes and chelicerae indicated doubt combined with doggedness.

"Huntmaster, I think I have detected the signature of another vessel. See."

He called up data. Thek-ist knotted his chelicerae into a complex pattern that betokened the sentient mind's capacity for seeing patterns that weren't there.

"You are massaging that data with both your pedipalps and a few anterior limbs as well," he said.

"Yes, Huntmaster. But I am convinced that another ship was through before the ore carriers. One with a power plant and normal-space drive of the following characteristics.

Tik-tik-tik. Thek-ist's footclaws drummed on the deck covering. "A ship of war?"

"That is my hypothesis. A major unit—battlecruiser or carrier—and one which arrived here . . ."

" . . . in the minimal transit time necessary from our previous strike target!"

His pedipalps writhed in indecision, then firmed. "Decelerate. Kill our velocity and reverse vectors."

There was no disgrace in running from a superior foe. If there was a superior foe, it would show itself when he fled. If there wasn't, all he'd lost was a little fuel . . .

. . . and Shust would bear the blame for that.

* * *

Raeder watched the Speeds move at Sutton's direction and said: "No!" aloud as they left a gap before the jump point. The Fibian captain saw his chance and leapt for it with astonishing speed.

Too late the squadron reacted, trying to block the Fibian's retreat. The bugs fired relentlessly, expending energy recklessly in their race for freedom. One, two Speeds were struck, to vanish in brief puffs of magenta flame.

I should have been closer, Peter thought. Even now they weren't close enough to be of any help. Raeder watched the enemy slip away, its image fracturing and fading through the jump point.

"Synchronize engine fluctuations with the Fibians," Raeder snapped. "And follow them through. Let's see where that takes us."

"We're leaving the squadron behind?" Truon Le asked.

"If we stop to pick them up there's no hope of following where the Fibs are going." Sutton would be all right; the Speeds were well able to reach Bella Vista. "Brace for jump," Raeder called.

"Bracing for jump, aye," the helmsman answered.

There was a sense of disorientation and for most of the crew the beginning of a lasting nausea that signaled the shift to jump.

* * *

Raeder sat at Captain Knott's place at the conference table and felt like a fraud. Had they followed their original orders the Fibians would still be leading them to their base and they'd have thirty-five Speeds on hand. I'd be breaking my arm patting myself on the back right now. Instead they had lost two pilots.

He couldn't believe how fast it had all fallen apart. There had been nothing, absolutely nothing to warn them of a Space Command presence. Yet, for no discernable reason, they had stopped and begun to leave.

The door opened and Sarah entered. She looked around and finding no one but Peter there she moved over to take the seat next to him.

"Where are we headed?" she asked.

"I hope wherever the Fibs have gone," he said. He reached out one finger to touch her wrist, then let his hand drop. "I only wish we had a full squadron."

"You left them behind?" Sarah said. She put her hand over her mouth as if to hide her grin. "Sutton will kill you."

"What could I do, Sarah? If we stopped to pick them up we'd have lost the Fibians. We may still have lost them, but at least by following on their heels we have a shot."

"You're still just making a stab in the dark," Sarah said.

"An educated stab," Peter said, raising one finger.

She began to laugh. "He'll kill you, Peter. He'll insist you deserted them."

"For crying out loud, Sarah, they're safe on Bella Vista by now—probably having dinner with Manager Hong and her two husbands. We didn't leave them in deep space, nor would we. He really hasn't got anything to complain about."

"Oh, yeah," she said with a sly grin. "You spend a few weeks on Bella Vista and you might feel differently."

He cocked a questioning eyebrow at her.

"Not Bella Vista, but someplace very similar. I was fifteen and my mother and father had a freelance engineering job. I had a few weeks before school began so I went with them. I swear, I could feel my blood congealing with boredom." She shook her head at the memory. "You have no idea."

"Well, he better not complain too much," Raeder said. "His job was to hold them. Did he hold them?"

"No-o." She shook her head.

"Well, this is the penalty for being just a little too slow." Peter was smiling as he said it, but there was a trace of annoyance as well.

In his secret opinion, which might end up in his report after he'd reflected on it, Raeder suspected his instruction to try to capture the Fibs might have made Sutton more cautious than he needed to be.

In the greater sense I'm responsible, Peter thought. Considering that the orders I gave weren't exactly the orders I got. Raeder pursed his lips. On the other hand, if I'd been in Sutton's position I'd have made my own call and let the chips fall where they would. So he was still right. Which means Sutton is wrong and deserves whatever he gets. 

The bridge officers started filing in, Booth a distant and glowering last.

"Since we were forced to leave Squadron Leader Sutton behind I'm appointing Lieutenant Commander James to take his place."

All but Booth nodded amiably; Sarah and her capabilities were well known to them from her days commanding the WACCIs.

"I think I know what's going on here," Booth muttered.

"Mr. Booth?" Raeder said, leaning forward.

The security chief looked like he'd swallowed his tongue.

"You were saying . . ." Peter invited.

Booth looked around the table to find blank, yet unwelcoming, faces staring back at him. "Uh . . . well, we—we're going to get that final debriefing you mentioned," the security chief stammered.

Nice save, Raeder thought. He wouldn't have expected Booth to be that quick on his feet. Then again, he must have some native cunning on his side. You don't get to be an officer without at least enough sense to come in out of the rain. 

The commander leaned forward, folding his hands on the table before him.

At last he said, "Our mission is to pursue the Fibian raiding party. This is part of a deep-penetration raid into their space. The Commonwealth feels it's time we got a look beyond the Mollie worlds and into the Fibian empire. Assuming they are an empire. We're to be a reconnaissance in force."

Ashly Lurhman, the astrogator, indicated that she wished to speak and Raeder acknowledged her with a nod.

"Sir, isn't reconnaissance in force sort of another way of saying we have no objective?"

"Not while I'm leading it," the commander replied. "I know that my desire to capture the Fibians seemed pure hubris on my part, but now that you know the parameters of our mission . . ."

He spread his hands and around the table heads nodded. Capturing the Fibs would have made their mission much, much easier.

"By synchronizing our engine fluctuations with the Fibians'," Lurhman said, "we should, theoretically, be following them to their destination. The problem is . . ." she paused, looking directly at Raeder, "that no one who has ever gone near Fibian space has returned."

Actually, not true, Peter thought. Scaragoglu had arranged for him to view a recording of a crewman who had been taken from an otherwise abandoned ship. The man was raving, despite all that modern medicine could do for him. Raeder would never forget the sight of that tortured face, while the words and phrases he'd mumbled over and over about "swingers," followed by a despairing cry of, "The females, the females," had kept Peter awake half the night.

Not that I think the mission would be greatly helped by telling them this. There are already enough factual descriptions of Fibian behavior to keep us all in nightmares for the rest of our lives. May they be longer than the next couple of days. 

"Which," he said, answering Lurhman's unwavering stare with one of his own, "is why we need to go there and gather information."

There were nods around the table at that.

Raeder tapped a key and a still holo of the Fibian destroyer they were in pursuit of came up. It had been taken in the last moments before it entered the jump gate and the special filters used to photograph it showed energy beams blasting from every surface.

"I expect this to be a short transit," the commander said. "They wouldn't expend energy this extravagantly to escape if they were just going to run out of fuel on the way back to their base. So I want the crew on high alert. As far as I'm concerned we could be breaking through to real-space any time now."

He tapped the key again and four ships came up: their destroyer with two companions and a carrier. That was the best estimate of the full raiding force that had hit Come By Chance and the base on Marjorie.

"This," Raeder said, and with another tap the carrier alone replaced the view of all four craft, "is the one we have to take out."

Not that the Invincible could take on three destroyers without risk. But the presence of a carrier brought their potential for success down to zero.

"When we come out of jump I want this critter gone. Find it, destroy it before they can react. As we've seen, these people react very quickly. Someone is to be on weapons duty every hour of every day. Understood?"

Once again, nods around the table. Snorri Gunderson, the ensign who was sitting in for Truon Le at tactical, raised his big hand.

At Raeder's nod he asked, "Did intel have any idea at all of what we would be facing?"

Peter shook his head. "What you see is what we've got. As for where these guys are going," he shrugged, "that's what we're here to find out." He looked around the table. "Any further discussion, questions?" They all looked at one another, but no one spoke. "That's it then," Peter said, rising. "Let's get back to work. If anybody has any questions or ideas, please feel free to contact me."

He put a hand on Sarah's arm as she turned to go. She looked up at him questioningly.

"I just realized," he explained, "our WACCI commander was left behind in Bella Vista's space. His second is good, but much less experienced. I was going to go over these recordings with her to see if there was anything useful we could find. I'd appreciate it if you would join us."

Sarah frowned slightly. She needed to brief her people and prepare her Speed for action. True to WACCI tradition, where she'd spent so many years, she still checked out her own craft.

"We're meeting in," he checked his watch, "two hours."

"Oh," she said, relieved. "Here?"

He nodded.

"See you then." She smiled at him and with a nod turned and walked away.

Raeder watched her until the hatch slid closed. Maybe he was soliciting her expertise. Maybe he just wanted to spend as much time with her as possible, because he didn't know what the immediate future would bring. But the possibilities are grim. And with that cheerful thought he returned to his office and his own work.

* * *

Peter was on his feet and running before he was fully conscious. The klaxon warned that they were coming out of jump momentarily. He swung himself into the captain's chair just barely more awake than he had been.

"How long?" he asked Lurhman.

"Minutes, sir," Lurhman snapped back. "Computer estimates four."

"Full gun crews," Raeder said to Gunderson. "Weapons hot."

"Full gun crews, aye, sir. Weapons hot, aye."

Then there was nothing to do but wait, the seconds counting down with a dreamlike slowness while their bodies sped up as they prepared to fight.

They broke through to real-space with a last stomach-turning lurch. The enemy was immediately before them.

"Kill that destroyer!" Raeder snapped.

The forward laser array struck out and caught the Fibians amidships as they made a turn to fight their larger foe. It was a spectacularly lucky shot, cutting all the way through to the center of the ship and its dangerous containment vessels. The ship blew apart with a white flare, blinding even with the computer's almost instant dampening of its glare.

"Well, that was a little less subtle than I'd hoped for," Raeder muttered.

"They managed to get off a partial communication, sir," Hartkopf said from his communications console.

Raeder sighed to himself. Then I suppose sending up a flare like this doesn't matter. 

"Please send a copy of that communique to our resident linguist with my compliments, Mr. Hartkopf. And ask Mr. Ticknor to provide me with a translation if possible."

"Aye, sir."

"What am I looking at?" Raeder asked.

What he was seeing was a small red sun off in the distance.

Lurhman brought it in closer for him.

"Red dwarf," she said, unnecessarily. "No planets, an asteroid belt."

"That belt has a big buckle," Peter said. He tapped his stylus on the screen and the computer brought the object he'd selected into focus. "That's a station," he said, his voice slow with awe.

It was huge and would easily have made three of Ontario Station. Like the Fibians' ships it had a mechano-organic look to it. And just now it was imitating something organic all too well.

"Looks like somebody kicked over a hive," Truon Le said over the commander's shoulder.

It did at that. Ships and the Fibian equivalent of Speeds swarmed out of the station in appalling numbers.

"Sensors report the neutrino footprints of a large task force," Gunderson said. "Almost a fleet in itself."

Peter felt a distinct sinking feeling as the data flashed by; monstrous power plants surging up from standby to full operational mode, one after the other, coming up on the screen like constellations of minor suns. This was a great deal more adventure than he'd planned on.

Here I thought I was daring for wanting to take out a carrier. Sheesh! 

Suddenly in the center of his screen was the face of Sirgay Ticknor.

"Commander," Ticknor said, "I can certainly translate this message but it will take time. I hope you're not waiting for it right now."

"How did you get through to this console?" Raeder snapped.

"If there's one thing I know about," Sirgay said smugly, "it's communications equipment."

"Well, Mr. Ticknor," Peter said, "we're about to have a great big battle with the Fibians, so I don't have time for this right now."

"Fibians! I thought we were supposed to try and talk to them?" Ticknor's face crumpled into a perplexed frown.

"I don't think they're inclined to conversation just now," the commander said. "And, truth to tell, neither am I. Don't attempt to speak to me again unless I've given you express permission, Mr. Ticknor. Or you'll be doing your work in the brig. Do you understand?"

Looking only slightly abashed the linguist agreed that, "Yes, of course I understand, Commander."

"Then would you please get off my screen so that I can see what's going on?"

"Oop!"

Ticknor's face disappeared, to be replaced by the sight of the Fibian horde alarmingly closer. Raeder assessed the situation for just a moment longer.

"I think discretion would be the better part of valor, here. Ms. Lurhman, direct us out of here, if you would."

"Sir!" Gunderson shouted. "There's a carrier and two destroyers exiting the jump point behind us!"

Raeder thought a vile word.

"Launch! Enemy carrier is launching Speeds!" A second later another voice chimed in:

"Missile lock-on! Enemy ship killers inbound—three minutes forty-seven seconds to intersection!"

Well, what do I say now? Raeder thought. "Oh, shit!" is definitely out, I think. How did Knott always look so Goddamn calm at times like this? 

It occurred to him that Knott might have felt as terrified of screwing up as he did. That was both comforting and alarming.

"Ms. Lurhman? Does this place have a back door?"

An agonizing pause, then, "Yes, sir. Information is at helm."

"Helm," Raeder said tightly, "get us out of here."

"Getting us out of here, aye," helm responded.

"And in the meantime, Tactical, I suggest we stay alive."

He sat silent, eyes flicking from screen to screen. The energy output bar was red-lining, and he saw the little flashing beacon that showed the crew in the engineering spaces was going into their hardsuits. The weapons officers hunched over their consoles, like birds mantling over their prey—not that merely human reflexes could do much at these distances. At most, they made decisions for the machines to implement. It was a matter of whose machines did better, that and pure luck. . . .

"Interception," someone said tonelessly.

Globes of magenta fire bloomed in vacuum, geometrically perfect in the absence of air. Counter-missiles lashed out, and were met by the counter-counter-batteries of automatic energy weapons on the big ship killers.

"One . . . two . . . three . . . four are through. Activating point-defense batteries."

Vibration growled through the hull as tubes spat plasma and coherent light. Popularly known as the OH GOD batteries, Raeder throught mordantly. Meanwhile he watched the overlapping cones on the viewtank, the possible normal-space trajectories of the various actors—the hideously numerous Fibian ships, and the lone yellow path that the Invincible could thread among them to the weakness in the fabric of space-time that would let them jump out. Jumping blind . . .

"Navigation, don't forget to get a good fix while we're here," he said calmly. "It'll give the computers something to work with at our next stop."

Navigation answered with a jerk of the chin. Everyone's eyes were pinned to the defense battery screens. The last of the big enemy missiles went up—not a sympathetic explosion, but the idiot-savant kamikaze mind of its guidance system trying for some damage on target after a beam killed its drive. That one was close enough that the Invincible's kilotonnes of mass toned and shook. And that meant close, in vacuum.

"Rad dosage below critical parameters," a tech announced. And: "Prepare for—"

Reality twisted, and if Raeder's stomach hadn't already been knotted with tension he would have lost all interest in food. They found themselves spat out of jumpspace into the vicinity of a small yellow sun.

"No planets," Lurhman said almost at once.

"Lots of traffic, though," Gunderson observed. "Too much to distinguish any one craft type. It's busy out there."

"Station," the astrogator said.

"Two of them," Gunderson's voice followed Lurhman's with no pause. "Small ones. But well armed."

Raeder's screen showed a small fleet of destroyers, backed up by three cruisers.

"That's a little too large a mouthful, even for the Invincible," Peter said. "Plot us out of here, Ms. Lurhman."

"Aye, sir," the astrogator said.

She had them jumping almost as soon as they made their turn.

"We weren't as closely followed as I'd feared," Raeder said to the XO.

"No, sir." Truon licked his lips.

"And I wonder why?" Raeder said thoughtfully. "They were plenty determined before—and even if we were jumping blind, it was to somewhere they had the plot for. They should have been able to tag us." He shook his head. "Well, at least we've got—" he looked at the view "—a couple of hours' grace."

"Where to now, sir?"

Peter rubbed a finger across his upper lip and frowned. Going on seemed absurd under the circumstances. The enemy, the well-prepared enemy in its overwhelming numbers, was somehow sending word in advance that a Welter had blundered into their territory. Which kinda means we've lost the element of surprise, Raeder thought dryly.

"I think we should try this when they're not lined up at the door with clubs," he said aloud. "Ms. Lurhman, can you get us back to Bella Vista?"

"Not directly, sir. We'll have to go back to our last jump point and skip across to the one that leads to Bella Vista."

Raeder thought for a moment. "Maybe that's something they won't expect us to do," he said. "So let's do it, Ms. Lurhman. Plot us a course for Bella Vista." We'll just have to hope for the best. 

* * *

Huntmaster Sek-Thh signified his approval of final repairs to his ship and settled down on his couch. He fixed his eyes upon the jump point with a frozen patience, half watching, half planning.

"Surely, Huntmaster," his second said, "the humans wouldn't come back this way."

"Who can tell what these creatures will do?" Sek-Thh answered. "My thought is that this might have been a sacrifice intended to relay information to a larger raiding party."

"No outgoing signal or message-pod was detected," the second reminded him.

"No," the huntmaster mused. "That is true. But, if our human allies are typical of the breed, there's no telling what insanity will appeal to these beings."

His subordinate adopted a position indicative of complete agreement.

"And so we wait, and we watch," the huntmaster said.

"The jump point is becoming active," a subordinate called out.

The huntmaster's attention achieved a sharper focus. As he watched a human vessel came through.

"Fire on my call," the Huntmaster said.

 

* * *

"Whoops!" Raeder said.

Some of the other cries on the bridge were considerably more profane, but a captain—even an acting one, recently promoted—had to keep a certain dignity. In a flat tone he continued: "Fire forward batteries on acquisition!"

"Target acquired," Gunderson said. "Firing forward batteries, aye."

These were weapons usually used for close-in defense against missiles or Speeds, not intra-ship fighting. I wonder who was more surprised. 

The Fibian destroyer swelled in the screens, the distance scales on either side blurring as the vessels approached. Raeder felt his hands clenching on either arm of the combat couch; you never got this close to another vessel in open space—the only time he'd seen data like that on an approach screen was when they were docking with a friendly.

The organo-mechanical shape of the Fibian would have been visible to the naked eye by now. Foamed ablative armor blasted off in chunks, and then the energy weapons began to gnaw deeper into its vitals. They were launching missiles—insane, at this distance, where the chances of damage from their own warheads were so great. Then—

The screens went blank for a second; when they cleared there was nothing but an expanding mini-nebula of gas and dust where thousands of tonnes of fighting vessel and scores of sentient beings had been.

"That's got her," someone whispered.

That's got us, too, Raeder knew. Their path to Bella Vista was well and truly blocked. If they hadn't had their weapons hot they might be the ones currently enriching the interplanetary medium.

"Mr. Goldberg," Raeder said to the helmsman, "turn us around, if you please."

"Aye, sir," Goldberg answered. Invincible began to swap ends.

"Ms. Lurhman, plot us into that jump point."

"Aye, sir."

"Sir," Gunderson said. "We have incoming. That destroyer launched everything and some of it was lying doggo—programmed, or knocked out for a second, I can't tell. But it's coming in fast."

Raeder swallowed and looked at the interception cones. The missiles were accelerating straight in; the Invincible was killing her forward vector and going straight back the way it had come . . . rather slowly.

"Time to intercept?"

"Right when we jump, sir. Can't say closer." Hands skipped over boards. "Launching counter-missiles . . . sir, we're going to be awful short on munitions if this keeps up."

"Better an empty magazine than a warhead sunk in our middles," Raeder said.

Time slid away. The carrier was a fast boat with a high power-to-mass ratio, but you still couldn't throw a capital ship around the way you did a Speed. Seconds to jump, one second—

Invincible shuddered, the alarms crying out like a human in pain. Gunderson looked up from the console, pale and face dripping with sweat.

"That one got through," he said. "It was big. . . . We'd be fragments if we hadn't been transiting to jumpspace. Just caught the fringe of the energy release.

Damage Control was going into what looked like a Mututhu ritual dance. "Sir, we've got a problem. We're losing containment on one of the main antihydrogen lines—we're going to have to vent it."

"Let me see—" He looked, the instinctive reluctance to waste fuel the war had bred fighting with the figures . . . and losing. "Vent," he said.

Raeder let out a pent breath. Well, going back is out. They were using antihydrogen at twice the designed rate—you couldn't shut down a line while you were in jumpspace.

"Ms. Lurhman, please find us the next untried exit point," he said. I sounded admirably calm, just then, didn't I? 

"Aye, sir. It looks like it will be some distance away, sir. I don't have precise data."

"Don't worry, Ms. Lurhman, we can keep occupied." Raeder looked around the bridge at his busy crew. God, I love these guys, he thought. I sure hope we get a chance for rest before the next foray. "Have the crew stand down, Mr. Truon," Raeder said. He stood up. "I'll be in my office if you need me. You have the bridge."

"I have the bridge, aye, sir."

 

 

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