Daniel was in the head of his space cabin when the summons came. He was wearing his commo helmet, but for this he wanted the big display.
"Go ahead, R12," he said, tugging his trousers up as he ran—well, stumbled—toward the bridge. "Over."
Whoever was on duty in the BDC rang the deep bong of Action Stations over the PA system. Hatches began to clang against their coamings, a process that would continue for some while since the Milton had been completely opened up to the pleasant day outside.
"The heavy cruiser Treasurer Johann and the destroyers Z44 and Pigafetta have extracted approximately one and a half million miles from Bolton," Adele's voice stated. Communications algorithms which were designed to counteract the effects of sideband transmission and atmospheric distortion had the odd result of making her sound livelier than she would have been if she'd been giving Daniel a similar report face-to-face. "There are indications that at least a dozen more ships are following. Full data is being streamed in accordance with Alliance standard operating procedures. R12 over."
Daniel threw himself onto the couch of his console; it synched automatically with his commo helmet and came live. "Roger, R12," he said. "We're awaiting developments here, out."
He raised his buttocks and hitched his trousers the rest of the way up. They were still skewed and he'd misaligned the fly when he sealed it, but they'd do for now.
You could say that this had been the most awkward possible instant for the Alliance squadron to arrive, but it hadn't really mattered. Action with the enemy was what an RCN officer lived for, and it was certainly what Daniel Leary lived for. He could've been just reaching the short strokes with the most beautiful woman in the human universe, and he'd still have run for the command console.
Daniel grinned. I'd regret that more afterwards, though.
Sun ran down the corridor, carrying with him the rigging suit that wasn't issued equipment for a gunner—or a Power Room technician, for that matter, which is what he'd been before he'd struck for the specialist rating. If the Milton took the sort of damage that required her crew to suit up, Sun was willing to trade its stiffness and weight for greater protection than an air suit would provide. He was a veteran who'd learned both how to find things that hadn't been offered to him and how to store them in the limited volume of a starship.
The alarm continued to ring. Pasternak was a methodical man who didn't act without communicating his intent, but things could go wrong. "Power Room," said Daniel over the command channel as incoming ships continued to spill onto his display, "this is Six. Do not, I repeat, do not light the thrusters. We can afford a few extra minutes getting under way if it helps convince our Alliance friends that everybody down here is asleep. Six out."
Senator Forbes entered the bridge on the gunner's heels. Daniel didn't grimace, but he certainly wished that his august passenger had joined Lieutenant Robinson in the BDC as she'd done in the past. Apparently Forbes had come to regard him as an associate, not just a glorified chauffeur. In many respects that was a positive development, but the start of an engagement with the enemy Daniel would just as soon have been left alone.
He reached for his cursor to shut off the bell. Before he reached it, somebody in the BDC beat him to it. The hatches continued to ring through the cruiser as they closed, but the sound was almost restful to men and women who'd become spacers because they were ensorcelled by the thought of far worlds.
"Is this what we're waiting for?" the senator said. She stood beside the command console and stared at the display with a look of frustrated puzzlement. "They're coming, I mean, this Captain Varnell and his ships?"
In truth, Daniel didn't have much to do at the moment besides gather information, and retailing that information to Forbes if anything aided his concentration. He glanced at her, smiled, and said, "Yes, Your Excellency. The Alliance squadron has arrived, or anyway most of it has."
After a moment's consideration, he displayed the data in the form of a Plot-Position Indicator centered on the Milton in harbor. Ordinarily one would use the PPI for lesser volumes and only when the ship was itself out of the atmosphere, but it seemed the most effective tool with which to lay things out for a civilian.
"Here's their flagship, the Direktor Friedrich," he explained, highlighting the Alliance battleship with red. The dot was invisible at this scale, but the letters fri and three numbers identified the vessel even without calling up the full imbedded particulars.
Captain Varnell's squadron seemed badly scattered, but Ponape was seven days distant, and they'd probably made long reaches to get here. The officers no less than the crews would be looking forward to liberty in St. James City. Well, if things went as Daniel hoped, they'd get complete release from naval duties very shortly.
"She's accompanied by three heavy cruisers—"
More highlights, this time in magenta. The Johann and Eckernferde had extracted within ten thousand miles of the flagship, but the Arcona was a hundred thousand miles away, more distant than most of the freighters.
"—and a squadron of originally ten destroyers according to the dispatches on the Zieten—"
The highlights this time were pink. Adele would be pleased with how much I've learned from seeing her work.
"—but there's only seven present now. I don't know if that means the other three were left on Ponape or if they're just a trifle later—ah, there's eight! And nine as well."
Though he continued cheerful and smiling, mention of Adele reminded Daniel of her circumstances. He wouldn't need the recent examples of the R11 and R16 to inform him of what a heavy plasma bolt would do to a 90-tonne mine tender—but he had those examples.
"But there's more ships than that," said Forbes. "The white ones."
Then, hopefully, she looked from the display to Daniel's face and said, "Are they ours? Are we getting reinforcements after all?"
Daniel's expression went instantly blank. The question was completely unexpected, as much so as if the senator had suggested that they begin to pray to the Gods to grant victory to the forces of Justice and Cinnabar.
It was rather fortunate that he was taken aback. If he'd understood from the first instant what Forbes was saying, he'd probably have blurted something in a tone that would have to be considered insulting.
"Ah, no, Your Excellency," Daniel said, carefully keeping his eyes turned toward the great holographic display. "The blush dots—"
They weren't white, but he might not have emphasized that if he hadn't been so appalled by the senator's misunderstanding. Only desperation could have led her to such a ludicrous fantasy.
"—are freighters travelling in company with Captain Varnell. There should be seven in all, six of them—ah, there's the other two and the last destroyer as well."
He cleared his throat, still looking at the display, and continued, "Six of the transports originally carried materials for the base which Admiral Petersen constructed in the New Harmony system during the siege. They've probably been sent here to carry additional supplies to Petersen's main force which is now off Cacique, but I won't know that until I can examine their orders."
"And the last ship?" said Forbes—evenly, but with a hint of cold displeasure. She had apparently sensed how Captain Leary really felt about her hopeful suggestion. "Since I believe it's colored blush, like the other transports."
Daniel grimaced and met her eyes. "Yes, Your Excellency," he said, "but it isn't a Fleet vessel or even under Fleet command. The Fifth Bureau, that is—"
"I know what the Fifth Bureau is, Captain," Forbes said. "I've known what the Fifth Bureau was since before you were born."
Daniel dipped his torso in what he hoped was a submissive gesture. It was as close to a bow as he could manage while seated at his console.
"Just so, Your Excellency," he said. "Guarantor Porra sends his inquisitors along with every expedition so that they get in on the ground floor, so to speak. My expectation is that this ship, the Oswestry, will be carrying the offspring of the locals whom the Alliance has installed as the rulers of New Harmony."
"Rather than pro-Cinnabar leaders?" Forbes said, surprise finally overcoming her pique.
Daniel shrugged. "That's what we would do on a recently . . . ," he said, then paused.
He gave Forbes a lopsided smile and resumed, "A world recently welcomed to the Friendship of the Republic, I should say. Based on what I've seen of Alliance practice, the people who had been ruling New Harmony in friendship with Cinnabar are now either dead or being tortured back on New Harmony. The Oswestry will be carrying hostages from the present ruling elite, much like the others whom we recently freed from the prison colony on East Continent."
The senator's nostrils flared. "I see," she said.
Daniel looked at the display. The Alliance squadron was reforming. The ships would reenter the Matrix for a brief hop closer to Bolton. They could make the run in sidereal space, of course, but that would take days or weeks.
They'd been reasonable in erring on the side of caution when they made their first extraction in the system, however, especially since there were merchantmen in the convoy. A navigation error that put a ship too close to the planetary defense array would mean instant destruction.
Daniel turned to Forbes again. He was embarrassed at what he was about to say, but he decided to say it anyway.
"Your Excellency," he said, "I'm not a philosopher, I'm an RCN officer. It's my duty and my honor to carry out the Republic's policies, not to worry about whether they're correct in some abstract way. But I've seen what it's like on the edges, a long way from Cinnabar and Pleasaunce . . . and Your Excellency? However much they may grumble, people are bloody lucky to be paying Cinnabar taxes and reporting to Cinnabar bureaucrats, because I've seen what the choice is. Bloody lucky!"
"As you may have guessed, Leary," Forbes said, "the Senate doesn't concern itself with such abstract questions either. But I suspect you're right, and I'm pleased at the realization. Though it obviously doesn't affect our own actions."
She coughed. "Having said that," she went on, "what do we do next?"
"We wait, Your Excellency," said Daniel, returning to the display. The Alliance vessels were vanishing into the Matrix; shortly they would reappear just outside Bolton's minefield, waiting for mine tender R12 to pass them down to the surface. "We wait for Lady Mundy to carry out her task, which she will do with the perfect competence she has exhibited in all her previous duties."
And we'll hope that Adele and the spacers with her are lucky, Daniel thought. Because her skill guarantees success, but it doesn't guarantee survival.
"Squadron Command, this is R12," Adele said, watching her screen coordinate the squadron which was appearing with the ships the Zieten's dispatches had led her to expect. "Bolton Control has changed its procedures. All vessels in your squadron will be passed into landing orbit together, then the array will be reactivated. Please confirm that you understand, over."
Her sidebar list of Alliance ships as listed in the Zieten's dispatches was in white print. Those names were quickly turning black on a white background. Another blip appeared on the main display; the last name on the sidebar changed. All present, and no extra vessels. The number—whether less or greater—of vessels didn't matter, but it pleased Adele to have everything occur according to plan.
"R12, this is Friedrich Signals," said the voice which had made contact by laser communicator when the battleship reentered sidereal space a few minutes before. "Hold one, please, I'm passing this up to Squadron Operations, over."
The mine tender's bridge was cramped. Vesey was controlling the vessel from the signals console, a flat-plate display which left the command console and the vessel's only holographic display to Adele. Tovera sat at the third bridge station, her face placid and her eyes empty as usual.
Adele had never been sure what her servant thought about. A spider's brain had no room for anything but a hunger to kill; were Tovera's thought processes that simple?
Tovera looked up and smiled. Adele stiffened in shock, instinctively afraid that Tovera had read her mind. Though—
Adele returned the smile wryly. It didn't really matter what Tovera knew or thought. She was a loyal dog; or perhaps better, a loyal spider.
The R12 had been holding the usual 1g acceleration. They staggered suddenly and began what would have been a tumble if Vesey hadn't caught them immediately.
Adele frowned, wondering if they wouldn't have been better to give Vesey the command console and herself control the minefield from the signals station. The latter required complex work to be sure, but Adele was sure that she could handle it with the display of her little personal unit if she needed to.
On the other hand, Vesey seemed perfectly comfortable at the two-dimensional screen. Her fingers moved with calm certainty across the virtual controls. She didn't, perhaps, make adjustments like a musician as Adele had often watched Daniel do, but she moved like a chess player confident in her game.
Adele nodded approvingly, though the brief tick of her head would probably have gone unremarked even if the lieutenant hadn't been absorbed with her duties. The tone of the High Drive motors grew harsher, a feeling rather than an audible sound; the ship steadied.
"PDA Control, this is Squadron Three," said a gravelly, forceful, male voice. The squadron ops officer would ordinarily be a full captain, but in the present case he might be a senior commander instead. "What's this about not dicking us around for half a day in orbit as usual? Has Commander Stemphill come to her senses, over?"
Adele's smile was cold as a knife edge. "Squadron Three," she said, "I can't speak regarding Commander Stemphill. The present Defense Systems Officer, Commander Wohner, is responsible for the current SOP, over."
The operations officer might be perfectly willing to accept his good luck and bring the whole squadron into the minefield without concern or further comment. On the other hand, he—or someone younger and smarter on the staff, or even Captain Varnell personally—might think twice about it. News that Commander Stemphill, whose punctilio was apparently well known in the squadron, had been replaced should allay any suspicions.
As it did. "Roger, PDA Control," said the voice. "I'll be transmitting our course data in a couple minutes. But just to be sure, shut the array off right now. We've got civilians in this convoy, and the Arcona had a partial failure in her astrogation computer so she's running at half speed. Unless we want to wait for the cows to come home, we'll have to accept a greater margin of error than you'd usually get from a timber freighter, over."
"Roger, Squadron Three," said Adele. "I am disarming the planetary defense array. No ships will be allowed to land until the entire squadron is present, however."
She paused. The array was already on manual control, but there was no way for the Alliance ships to learn that.
"The array is disarmed," she said. "R12 out."
"Squadron out," said the voice.
Adele took a deep breath. Vesey, who'd been watching her, said, "We're on plan, sir?"
"Yes," said Adele. Vesey ranked her by virtue of a commission as well as command of the mine tender, but it was doubtful whether even Daniel's direct order would have caused her to act as though that were true. "We'll be getting their planned extraction point shortly."
"I'm sorry about the trouble with the motors," Vesey said apologetically. "We refitted the High Drive in a hurry, and I can't hold either of the bow motors steady. I'd been operating with the starboard unit angled to balance the stern pair, but I've had to shut it down too. We can maintain attitude and acceleration with two motors if we have to."
She smiled with a pride she wouldn't have shown in the long months following the death of her fiancé, Midshipman Dorst. "Since we have to, I should say," she added.
"It only has to last for another ten minutes," Adele said. The humor of the situation struck her and she added, "Or even less than that if one of the Alliance ships calls what it thinks is our bluff."
Tovera giggled. A moment later Vesey smiled also and said, "Just so, mistress. But I'll plan on nursing the motors for the entire ten minutes."
They'd been lucky to get the R12 into orbit at all. Because of the necessary destruction of R11 and the suicidal foolishness of R16's captain, R12 was the only ship of her class on Bolton; she'd been undergoing a full refit when the Milton arrived. Though any ship could have been modified to control the minefield, the incoming squadron would expect a dedicated mine tender.
Daniel therefore made the tender's repair his first priority, but that had meant pulling the High Drive motors from a freighter captured in harbor. The motors themselves were fine according to David Reuben, the engineer's mate running the Power Room, but cavitation in the feed lines was causing the front pair to stutter.
The problem probably couldn't be repaired in orbit. According to internal exchanges which Adele monitored as a matter of course, Reuben and his crew were nonetheless trying to do so while the motors were shut down. Daniel had given the mine tender a crack crew for this mission, starting with Vesey as captain.
An incoming data icon flashed on Adele's screen. As she twitched a wand to open it, the ships of the Alliance squadron began to vanish from the display. They were withdrawing into the Matrix. They would hop close enough to Bolton that they could maneuver the last of the way to orbit in sidereal space.
Adele opened the Alliance course data and plotted it on a large-scale image of Bolton and the space well beyond. Varnell was bringing his ships in as though the defense array didn't exist.
That wasn't unreasonable; the tender controlling the array had said it was shut down, after all. She had the suspicion that Daniel would've been a little more careful, however. He knew—and Adele certainly knew—that hardware, software, and bored junior officers all could make mistakes. Daniel wouldn't want to be remembered as the captain who led twenty-one ships to destruction in a friendly minefield.
As a reflex, Adele also copied the data to Vesey: that was what she would have done if Daniel were commanding. Vesey opened the file and set it to plot, then gave Adele a look of suppressed concern.
"Mistress?" she said. "What would you like me to do with this?"
"What?" said Adele, surprised into allowing herself to sound irritated. "Oh—it's just informational, Vesey. There's nothing either of us—any of us—can do with it."
She cleared her throat, embarrassed because she had been a little sharp. "If they can extract where they're supposed to, then we'll be able to relax in less than the ten minutes I'd estimated. But in a good way."
"Yes, mistress," said Vesey, obviously relieved not to have made a mistake. "Still on plan."
Adele turned toward the display again. She kept her face blank, but she was frowning internally as she thought about Vesey.
An officer who thought she was incapable of making a mistake was a boneheaded fool—and the RCN had its share of the type. But officers had to act as though they were incapable of error; otherwise they frightened everyone around them. If Vesey couldn't learn that sort of theater, she wouldn't be fit for command of a warship.
Ships began to extract above Bolton. Most of them were well within the minefield. It's working. . . .
Adele manually keyed the microwave link to Daniel's console rather than use a verbal cue. She didn't want to leave anything to the whim of an unfamiliar—and third-quality—computer.
"Bolton Command, this is R12," she said. "I estimate that Squadron Varnell will request landing instructions in three minutes, thirty seconds. All vessels noted in the dispatches are present. Over."
She was being extremely formal. Though intercepting the coded signal was within the capacity of any warship's sensor suite, isolating it from the clutter would be beyond most, maybe all, of the signals personnel in the Alliance squadron. Nonetheless this wasn't a time to cut corners.
The form of a message could tell a great deal to someone knowledgeable and careful, even if the contents couldn't be deciphered in the available time. Officer Adele Mundy was knowledgeable, careful—and competent. She wasn't willing to assume that her opponents weren't all those things as well.
"Roger, R12," replied Daniel. "I'm transmitting instructions on the order in which the squadron is to land. Command out."
The Alliance ships continued to extract close to the planet, tripping the sidebar that now recorded vessels which had reached the immediate neighborhood of Bolton. None of them had too badly handled the final short jump. Naval officers tended to sneer at the astrogation ability of civilian skippers, but these freighters were under contract to the Fleet; their officers were obviously competent, and the ships themselves were well found and reasonably up to date for equipment.
Even the Arcona, the cruiser with computer problems, extracted within three thousand miles of the Direktor Friedrich. That may have been luck, of course, but it was good luck for Adele. A powerful cruiser had to be within the trap before it was sprung, but too long a delay for landing instructions would have provoked a confrontation.
Though in theory planetary control officials had complete authority over landing operations, Captain Varnell had the same rank as Commodore Harmston and carried the far greater prestige of a space appointment over a ground-based one. The length of time Varnell would twiddle his thumbs on Harmston's say-so was indefinite but not great.
Adele let out her breath with a gush of satisfaction. She hadn't realized that she'd been holding it. "Bolton Command," she said, "this is R12. Squadron Varnell is in position. I'm ready to relay your directions to Captain Varnell, over."
"Officer Mundy," said Daniel, "this is Bolton Command. There'll be a lag and the possibility of interference if you relay my transmissions. Handle the matter yourself in my name, copying me as you go. Six out."
Adele weighed the plan. She supposed this way was as satisfactory as the other, though she certainly wouldn't have suggested it herself.
"All right, Daniel," she said. She smiled. That wasn't the correct form, but the time for trickery was over. "Break. Squadron Three, this is R12. Emergency, emergency. Order all ships to hold their current heading and acceleration. There's a problem with the planetary defense array. Confirm immediately, over."
"PDA Control, this is Friedrich Signals," said the first voice. "Repeat your most recent transmission, over."
"Squadron Varnell, this is an emergency," Adele said. She knew she didn't sound as though it were an emergency; she never did. When things were at their worst, she spoke even more slowly and distinctly than usual; and things were potentially very bad now. "Captain Daniel Leary of the RCN has captured this minefield."
She didn't know whether Daniel's name would mean anything to the Alliance officers listening to her. Even if it didn't, the very specificity of her statement was its own confirmation.
"You are in great danger," Adele said. Perhaps she could shout and pretend to be angry? But she just wasn't an actor. "The mines around you are in suspense for only as long as they receive a signal modulated by an encryption program on the R12. If the R12's transmitter should fail, the minefield would destroy your entire squadron."
She took a deep breath, then concluded, "Hold your course and acceleration, over."
Signals passed in growing alarm among the ships of the squadron, but for nearly a minute nobody on the flagship replied to Adele's transmission. When someone finally did come on, it was a third male voice saying, "R12, this is Varnell. Who's your captain, over?"
"Captain Varnell, I'm Officer Mundy of the RCN," Adele said. "Mundy of Chatsworth. Please observe the Oswestry in your squadron, over."
"Mundy or whatever your name is," said Captain Varnell, "I can only assume you've gone mad. Hand your command over to the next senior officer before I'm compelled to end this farce myself."
Adele expanded her minefield control screen. It was entirely text and numbers, the ship names and codes in place on a white background. She highlighted the Oswestry, then keyed the delete icon.
"We're going to begin landing in St. James Harbor," Varnell said, "where I'll sort this out with Commodore—"
confirm command the screen said. Adele touched delete again. Oswestry Osw791 disappeared; the seven names and codes farther down the alphabetical list hopped up one place each.
"—Harmston, and we'll—bloody hell, they what? What?"
The transmission broke off. Presumably the last of it had been Varnell's response to the underling babbling about what had just happened 14,000 miles from the flagship.
Adele called up the imagery. She knew what she would see; she'd seen it before, after all. But she felt that she should always look at the consequences of her actions, lest she begin to find it easy to do the sort of things which her various duties required.
Besides, there was time. Varnell was going to have to discuss what had just happened before he accepted her offer. Or called her "bluff," of course. If he did that by blasting the R12 the way the Milton had destroyed the tender in orbit when they arrived, then Adele wouldn't be around to watch the Alliance squadron vanish a few heartbeats later.
The Oswestry was a largish freighter whose chunky design increased the internal volume on a given tonnage. It had been a Cinnabar vessel initially, but an Alliance privateer had captured it some years before the recent interval of peace. Not that it mattered.
The mines of a planetary defense array were thermonuclear weapons with sensor and communications suites. Its magnetic lens squeezed the discharge into a line, much the way a warship's plasma cannon did. The differences were that the mine destroyed itself completely in the first usage . . . and that the mine's jet of ions was orders of magnitude greater than that from a cannon.
In normal time the propagation wave was so fast that the Oswestry simply disappeared, replaced by a swelling gas ball. Slowed down by a thousand, the freighter bulged noticeably. Seams ruptured to gush fire, but only for an instant even at the greatly magnified interval. The fusion bottle had burst on the spike of ions, turning everything into an iridescent bubble.
It was more beautiful than any pearl, if you viewed the thing itself as separate from the cause.
"Mistress," said Vesey. "Mistress. That was the ship with the hostages!"
"Yes," said Adele. She turned to meet Vesey's eyes. "I chose it for the earnest of intent because according to the manifest, there were eighty Fifth Bureau personnel aboard. Mostly low-level, of course."
"Mistress," Vesey said. "I . . . you can't . . ."
Adele shrugged. "Varnell has to understand that we, that I, can and will destroy his squadron unless he surrenders unconditionally," she said. "If I hadn't proved that in a fashion he couldn't doubt, he or someone in the squadron would've tried to get out of the situation by destroying us. Then they would all have died."
She smiled coldly. "And us as well. But we might not have known that, depending on what they hit this tender with."
Vesey simply stared. Adele shut down the insert in which the Oswestry exploded in a continuously looping image; she studied the PPI again. It would be at least five minutes before the ships which were headed away from Bolton reached the fringes of the minefield. One had been going in that direction when she sprang the trap, but the other two had changed course in defiance of her orders. She readied the field.
"What the mistress isn't telling you, girl," said Tovera, "is that before the Oswestry surrendered, they'd have put the hostages out an airlock. That's Fifth Bureau SOP, you see—you never permit hostages to be taken alive. When word gets around that trying to rescue hostages means that they're all killed, there aren't so many rescue attempts. Besides—"
Adele looked at Tovera, who was grinning.
"—it's fun. Speaking as a former Fifth Bureau agent."
"I didn't know that," said Vesey. She swallowed. "Mistress? Lady Mundy? Why didn't you say that instead of . . . ?"
"I gave you my reasoning, Vesey," Adele said sharply.
"Perhaps she thinks that you're too soft for this—" Tovera said.
"Tovera, that's enough," said Adele.
"No, mistress, it's not," said Tovera. The pupils of her eyes were trained on the lieutenant like pistol muzzles. "Too soft for this job, because sometimes it means killing. If you can't kill, you can't be a good RCN officer. You can't even—"
"Tovera!"
"—be a piss-poor RCN officer. What do you really want to be, little girlie?"
"R12, this is Captain Kendall Varnell," said the voice from the Alliance flagship. "You said you were Mundy of Chatsworth. That is, Lady Adele Mundy, over?"
Adele frowned. "That's correct," she said. "At present, I'm Signals Officer Adele Mundy, acting for Captain Daniel Leary. Do you unconditionally surrender to the RCN, Captain Varnell, over?"
"I know who you are," said Varnell. "I don't know how you did this unless you really are in league with the devil, but I won't throw away the lives of my crews."
There was a pause, followed by what seemed to be a deep intake of breath. Then Varnell said, "I tender the surrender of the ships under my command, on the condition that the crews will be treated as honorable prisoners according to the law of nations, to be exchanged if agreed by the parties and to be released upon termination of the present hostilities, over."
"Your surrender is accepted on the terms stated," Adele said formally. "I'm transmitting now—"
Her wands twitched, forwarding Daniel's landing instructions to the Alliance commander. The freighters would go down first, one at a time; then the destroyers, followed by the cruisers. The Direktor Friedrich would remain within the minefield's kill zone until the remainder of the squadron had been boarded and disarmed by Daniel's forces in St. James Harbor.
"—directions on how you are to proceed. If I may add my personal caveat to the general orders? If the Eckernferde, Z40, and Insidioso don't begin braking into landing orbits around Bolton within the next ninety seconds, their crews will shortly have a chance to exchange greetings with the crew of the Oswestry. R12 out."
"Received and understood, R12," said Varnell. "Squadron out."
The cruiser and two destroyers which were headed outbound immediately reversed their thrust. Adele watched to make sure that they weren't simply feigning obedience. When they continued to brake hard, she gave a sigh of relief and rubbed her forehead hard with her fingertips.
After a moment, she cued the two-way link again. "Daniel," she said, "they're coming down. It seems to have gone all right."
"Of course it did, Adele," said Daniel. His voice sounded thick, but that might have been the form of transmission. "I had my best officer in charge of the operation. Bolton out."
Adele stared at the display, exhausted and empty. A captured freighter, the Conestoga, would lift shortly under Midshipman Cory to take over control of the minefield. The R12 could land then, having completed its mission.
A ball of plasma, rippling with all the colors of the rainbow. Perfectly beautiful, in an inhuman way. . . .
"Mistress," said Lieutenant Vesey. "I'm an RCN officer. I won't disappoint you."
Adele looked at her. Disappoint me by acting human? she thought.
But aloud she said, "Very good, Vesey. Captain Leary will be as pleased to hear that as I am."