Part 5 – Checkmate

HOLOGRAPHIC RECEPTOR ON>>>

SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 422496>>>RECEPTION>>> “Good evening, everyone, this is Sandra Brookes cutting into your regular content with a breaking story!”

Brookes stands before a wall-sized hologram displaying globular images of High Councilor Noovin, Commandant of the Council Guard Reinhardt, a grainy still image of now-disgraced former CEO of Syntar, Bradley Boxer, and a constellation of other public figures, all linked in a web of dotted or solid lines.

“Through the tireless work of our crack team at Galactic Daily, we’ve uncovered a veritable knot of deeper stories and connections between the recent controversies surrounding the deployment and staffing of the Council Guard,” Brookes says. Behind her, Noovin’s globular expands. “Much of our story begins last fiscal year when High Councilor Noovin, under the guise of ‘bolstering local order’, redirected funds intended for infrastructure into the expansion of the Guard, which until then had been a token force with minimal equipment and small numbers.”

The Noovin globular plays out a clip within which the Councilor is asked by a reporter to address concerns the funds will go to purposes unintended by the taxpayers. Noovin scoffs at this with the words, “Security is the greatest infrastructure.”

“We have since then begun to have an idea just infrastructure the Councilor had in mind,” Brookes says as the globular rotates out of prominence to be replaced by the containing Boxer’s image. “Even as early as a year into the war, the relationship between Noovin and CEO of Syntar Fleet Corporation had been receiving scrutiny. Despite this, Galactic Daily has obtained copies of holo-comms where the two continued close cooperation, notably on a project where Syntar’s notoriously large and unregulated Private Security force might provide extra weight to hard-pressed local militias, possibly freeing them up for front-line deployment.”

The image of Boxer plays, showing him handcuffed and being led from his high-rise apartment while hover drone’s shine spotlights upon him and local reporters bombard him with questions. The image fades and the globular recedes.

“With Boxer’s arrest for market manipulation, lying to the Assembly, and a host of other financial crimes, it might have seemed like the scheme was put on deep freeze.” Brookes shake her head. “But it appears now that with the nationalization of Syntar by High Council decree, last fall, Noovin and other as yet unnamed High Councilors and allies on the Assembly seized upon the opportunity to likewise nationalize Syntar Security. Which brings us to third leg of the stool of this growing controversy.”

The image of Reinhardt scowls out of the hologram. It morphs slowly from him in the black of the Guard, to him in the gray of Syntar Security, to an even older image of him in the sharp red and gray of an Alliance Marine major, and back again.

“Antony Reinhardt of Nova Terra did two tours with the Marines before being dishonorably discharged for reasons still under seal by the Corps and at the request of the AIB,” Brookes reports. “After that, he did a five-year stint with Syntar Security, including such hotspots as Gallaton and Santos. After the latter and the collapse of order on that world, he returned to the Foundation Worlds to accept an appointment to the Guard” Brookes’ left eyebrow curves up sardonically “with the notable sign-off of High Councilor Alexi Noovin.”

A still off an electronic document, authenticated with Noovin’s signature and thumbprint, materializes in front of Reindhardt’s glowering eyes.

“Now, the legality or illegality of all of these things is still openly in debate, notably this week before the Committee for the Conduct of the War.” Brookes raises her chin and her eyes sparkle combatively. “But the appearance of impropriety grows with each day and each new revelation...”

>>>SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 920549>>>RECEPTION>>> Ansolm Levine walks through the polished wood interiors of the Legislature, pausing to smile up at holograms of New Jeffersons figures of the past, rotating in alcoves. He seems to notice the holocamera focused upon him and smiles warmly. A fresh, smoothed suit and immaculately-adjusted seem slightly out of place on a man whose political character has long-been one of the slightly-disheveled professor-turned-rabble-rouser.

“Hello, friends,” he says in a voice that is, at least, his genuine banter. “We’ve been together a long time.”

The view changes to a slightly aged, grainy image of Levine ranting before the High Council in the old days of the Assembly, back before he led a hundred worlds in revolt. It changes again to him standing on the steps of the New Jefferson Legislature, proclaiming red-faced his intent to lead the Union in war against the Alliance.

Levine reappears. “They haven’t been the easiest of times, nor have they been without doubt.” He stops and squares his shoulders for the camera. “But I have no doubt, now, that we are on the path to victory.”

The view shifts again, to starships streaking through a storm of blasterfire, in what is clearly combat footage. It toggles to a scene of Union troops hoisting the clenched fist banner of the Union from the shrapnel-riddled cupola of a church against a blue sky. It toggles a third time to Levine, himself, touring amongst smudged medical and humanitarian personnel on a shell-pocked battlefield.

“There are those who do, though. And this message goes out to you. I understand. Fear is normal, especially in times as fraught as those we share. It’s all right to be afraid. But if you stand with me, now, know that we will conquer that fear together. And free the galaxy.”

SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 422826>>>RECEPTION>>> Harvey Grantholm comes to stand at a podium set up outside a palatial Tartan country estate while polite applause ripples from a small, affluent-looking gathering. Hoverdrones circulate around him and reporters wait beyond this crowd as they settled into rows of arranged seats.

“I’d like to thank you all for coming,” he says, smiling broadly and straightening another of his outrageous ties, this one woven from smart-fibers and glimmering with holographic flames. “And I’d like to settle the record straight, right away. I am not, despite the whisperings of the HoloMedia, considering a run at another High Council seat.”

Murmurs go through the small group at his words. The swarm of the hoverdrones seems to intensify momentarily, each jockeying for the best vantage for its sensor eye. Someone shouts something, but he waves it off.

“Friends, I appreciate the well-wishes. Really, I do. But I’ve talked it over with my wife and another bruising go just isn’t in the cards. The last campaign was all-consuming. And Tartan really needs me in the Assembly, right now. The Alliance needs every honest man and woman it can get there, especially with all the developments of late.”

He hesitates, and his smile goes predatory.

“But the third Foundation World seat—Alexi Noovin’s seat—is coming up in the next cycle, next year, and I think that election will be one of the most important in galactic affairs in a generation.” He puts both hands upon the podium. “The Councilor and I go a long way back and I can tell you; I no longer recognize the man. Power has consumed him. Fear has consumed him. His corruption has grown so naked, he can’t let go of office—he can’t! What can he expect if he has to face the galaxy without the advantages of his station?

“But he must face it, friends!” Grantholm clenches a fist before him. “His continued hold on the High Council becomes nearly as a great a threat to the Alliance as those who threaten us from without it.”

The murmurs start up again.

“I know people don’t like this kind of talk,” Grantholm says. “But we can’t ignore the cracks forming that have already broken this Alliance once, and may break it up even further. And to that end, allow me to introduce a good friend of mine, one who will have my full endorsement and full support...”

Grantholm pivots away from the podium and holds out his hand to a woman in a blue pants-suit standing just behind him.

“...the Assemblywoman from Prospero and future High Councilor of the Grand Galactic Alliance, Kathleen Kerrigan.”

Kerrigan steps up to the podium to polite, even enthusiastic applause, though it’s clear those gathered expected something else. The hover drones jockey once more for camera angles. Someone whistles. Someone cheers.

“Thank you,” Kerrigan says. She is a tall, slim woman of precise fashion and perfectly-coifed blonde hair—the sort often seen at ribbon cuttings. “Thank you all. And thank you, Harvey for your support.” She pauses as the din quiets down. “My homeworld hasn’t suffered quite as much as some. But we on Prospero have a saying; ‘injustice to one is an injustice to all’. And we see the injustice spreading through the Alliance. We see the tyranny being pressed forward with the war as a pretext. And I pledge to you all, I see that it needs to stop.”

SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 6320022>>>Private Transmission-RECEPTION>>> The view obviously comes from a personal holorecording device, possibly the sensor eye of a wrist comm, the pixelating as it peeks around a corner. The user is in a spaceport, peering down the galley towards the boarding gate for a starship.

“They were here when we arrived this morning,” a voice whispers.

At the gate, the black-armored figures of Council Guardsmen oversee things as spaceport flagged by the workers and gestured to stand aside from the waiting line. Those flagged wait in a smaller group, some visibly shaken, as more Guardsmen search their belongings and persons.

“Looks like they’re mostly watching the outbound, off-world flights,” the whispering voice goes on, “but everyone’s getting checked.”

“We should go,” a second voice, a woman’s, hisses. “Just cancel the tickets.”

“Just hold on, hon,” the first voice snaps. “They can’t be doing this.”

Shouts fill the air, somewhere off-camera. The view whirls, momentarily a blur, then refocuses on the waiting area, just off from the gate, where people are standing from seats, are beginning to scatter away from a disturbance. A, older, professorial-looking gentleman is arguing with a Council Guardsmen, who’s gesturing for comrades to join him.

“—is not legal,” the wrist comm sensor picks up the man saying.

“We’re what’s legal, Pop,” the Guardsman snarls, his helmet mask making his voice harsh and metallic. “Now sit yer ass down.”

“You have no right,” the gentlemen presses, back stiff and balled fists shaking.

The Guardsmen glances at a pair of his teammates, quickly approaching. One of these gestures irritably. The first nods. And brings the butt of his blastrifle blurring around to crunch into the older man’s midsection. Air whuffs from the man’s lungs as he folds over and collapses to the floor.

People continue to scatter away from the waiting area. Someone mutters as they pass the holorecorder. A little girl dragged by her white-faced mother begins to cry.

The Guardsmen are all laughing as the one shoulders his weapon and kneels with a set of handcuffs to bind the wheezing form, crumpled on the floor in the fetal position. “I told the stupid shit to sit down.”

A scream lilts down the galley from the gate. A young man his being dragged from the line and what looks like his mother is hanging onto his arm, shrieking and refusing to surrender him to the Guardsmen. More figures in black are concentrating towards the din from other areas of the starport.

“We should go,” the woman’s voice from before whispers frantically. “Let’s just forget the trip.”

“Hey!” a harshly-amplified voice shouts.

The wrist comm view whirls again. Guardsmen are striding into the galley from behind the recorder. One of them points at whoever bears the wrist comm.

“Is that thing on?”

***

HARRISON STEPPED TO the large holoprojector at the center of his CIC in the heart of the Obliterator and paused to look around at his gathered commanders. “This will be our maximum effort in this system,” he said and touched the actuator crystal.

The great local map of Fury, with which every officer in the room had long become accustomed, materialized. Icons prowled at its edges like the deadly space wolves they were, ready to lunge forth against prey. Harrison guided the holographic pointer over one clustering of contacts and zoomed in.

“The transports are the key,” he announced and offered a polite nod to Brigadier Rhoades—ugly in his black in the midst of all the Fleet red. “The reinforcements aboard those will turn the tide of the fight on the surface of Fury in Alliance favor. The Union knows this. They cannot ignore them. They will have to try and stop us, this time.”

A low, eager growl escaped the gathered officers.

“To that end,” Harrison went on, “the main thrust at Fury, accompanying the transport force, will be comprised of the Heavy Division—now renamed Task Force Avalanche—which includes, of course, the Obliterator.” He looked around as the note of the murmurs changed to one of surprise. “Also, along for the ride will be the Cygnus and Sprinter. They should be sufficient to provide starfighter cover, both for the way in and the landings.”

Harrison touched the holoprojector controls again and the cluster of icons representing Avalanche moved down the gravity well, curving into a course that would intersect with Fury in its orbit around the primary. “We will come out of hyper at the system’s edge, in plain view, even with the ecliptic plane. We’ll make no attempts at stealth. This approach will guarantee a response from the planet, again, most likely the Hell’s Jesters.” He glanced at Terry. “Estimates from holographic gun footage and sensor logs suggest they took heavy casualties in our last encounter. They are unlikely to have the strength to stop our approach on their own.”

“You think Avery and the Union will await contact to pounce?” Caldicott asked from the other side of the hologram. “There’s no way they’ll be able to mask their approach if that’s the case.”

“Unless he’s already entered the system and drifted down the gravity well by passive means,” Nagumo suggested, “rigged for a silent running.”

“For that to work, he’d have to know our exact entry point,” Caldicott replied dismissively. She met Harrison’s gaze. “Do we have any sense of where he is?”

Harrison turned to Omura, standing off to one side. “Captain?”

“Patrol corvettes hypered in five hours ago for a quick fly-by, from different trajectories, leaving by different departure routes.” Omura grinned a little at that. “A bit of trickery, to keep the Union unnerved and mask any sense of our approach course.” The smile dimmed. “They didn’t, however, return with conclusive evidence. Some possible grav drive wakes on the far side of the system, but no sign of Union vessels further in.”

“So, it’s the same plan as before.” Caldicott’s eyes shimmered at Harrison with a grim light. “Except, this time, you’re the bait, sir.”

“The same, and yet different,” he replied. “Last time, Avery had the element of surprise. We didn’t know he’d arrived. Now we know he’ll be here. And we have a pretty good idea of the composition of his force. He’s dangerous, for certain, but we still hold a significant numerical edge in starfighters and, especially, capital ships. The only advantage he has left is his is invisibility.” Harrison pointed at the hologram. “And he will have to surrender that to strike us, somewhere along our approach to Fury.”

“So, we’re the jaws of the trap,” Nagumo said, folding his arms thoughtfully.

“After a fashion.” Harrison manipulated the projector controls again and fresh swarms of icons entered the Fury System, each from different directions. “Admiral Nagumo, your Task Force Palomino will enter the system from galactic north, coming out of hyper at a light hour out and coasting in on maneuvering fields only. You’ll enter at approximately the point our fighters encountered Avery before. If he’s there, you will strike.”

Nagumo didn’t quite blanch. “That will be a stiff fight if he is, sir.”

That was putting a brave face on it; on his own, Nagumo would be smashed. “If he’s there,” Harrison replied, “we will be in a position to come to your aid, and Avery will have revealed his own position. But he won’t be there. He’ll have moved on. Part of your job is to confirm that. The second part is to continue down-system. If you’re undetected and you get close enough, you are to launch your strikes on the planet, itself.”

“Draw the Union away from the convoy,” Nagumo said.

“Exactly,” Harrison said. “We will present Avery with one bad decision after another. He can commit forces against the transports, and reveal himself—or part of himself—but he can’t ignore an attack on Fury. He divides, he reveals himself further” Harrison shrugged “any choice or all of them helps us.”

“And what bad choice am I presenting him?” Caldicott asked to chuckles from the others.

Harrison turned to her. “You’re certain the Imperium and the Powell have completed sufficient repairs?”

“Both have completely resumed starfighter operations,” she replied.

Harrison pointed at the third group of icons to enter the system. “Then the choice you will present Avery is whether or not he wants to survive. You will also enter the system on maneuvering fields, from galactic east, but from below the ecliptic plane, centered on the primary. This will allow you the central position. When Avery reveals himself, your strikes are to focus on his task group. Specifically, you are to take down the Sacramento and any other carrier assets Avery’s brought.”

She smiled hungrily. “A hunting expedition.”

“Don’t just hunt,” Harrison replied, “kill.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Five carriers,” Harrison said, looking around at all the officers, “eight starfighter squadrons, and over thirty starships. Avery and the Jesters will have, perhaps, half that strength to meet us. And no tricks, no hide-and-seek to help them this time. It was by no accident I ordered my group designated ‘Avalanche’—because we’re going to go in there and bury them.”

Full-blown laughter answered the statement and Harrison let himself smile, enjoy the moment, a little bravado. But there was an edge in the voices, too; wounded pride still ached. After the previous encounter, all of them wanted another chance. And Harrison was giving it to them, now, no caution, nothing held in reserve, all commands with the order to attack wherever they found the enemy.

But beneath the veneer of confidence, there was an ugliness to it all. This would be a battle of attrition, losses assured for both sides. Terry had said as much as the staff worked up the plan. No stratagems. No tactical flourishes. The Alliance was simply counting on superior numbers to leave them control of the system after the killing ended.

But maybe that’s simply what it comes down to, every time.

Hiding a grimace at the thought, Harrison turned to Rhoades. Speaking of ugliness. “General, did you have anything to add?”

The Fleet officers visibly governed their features, coldly polite as the Council Guard officer stepped close to the projector, eyed the imagery for a moment before smiling. “Not a thing, other than the Guard’s appreciation for a smooth ride in. We’ll take it from there.”

“Excellent,” Harrison replied, feeling the muscles of his face strain to maintain the mask of his manners. He relieved himself by scanning his people again, saying finally, “Jump-off time is as soon as you’ve all returned to your commands. In twenty hours, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be winning the war.”

A chorus of ayes answered him and he stiffened his back to offer them all his best salute. They returned it with zeal and began to break up. Steps were light. Voices hard, even brash. They sounded ready.

Harrison watched Rhoades leave out of the corner of his eye, then glanced Omura’s direction. Terry nodded almost imperceptibly and followed at a discrete distance. The Intelligence officer would monitor until the man left the ship and have his team scrub and scan everywhere he’d been. If they found anything, it wouldn’t be the first time. Ugly, ugly business. But so, it went.

“Admiral Caldicott,” Harrison called before she reached the exit. “A word, please?”

She nodded to her staff, who hastened to leave, and joined him in the now-emptied chamber by the hologram. “Yes, Admiral?”

Harrison paused until he was certain the hatches had closed. “I’ve already said as much to Nagumo, so I thought you should hear it directly from me, too: ‘maximum effort’ means just that, this time. Throw everything you’ve got at them, Clarice. I’m granting you the latitude to make the call yourself. No concern for casualties.”

Her eyes widened just a little. “Of course. I’d planned on nothing else.” She glanced towards the hatch. “There’s something else to this, Nehemiah?”

“I think you know what,” he replied with an involuntary hush to his voice. “I want this matter settled in space, not on the surface of that godforsaken rock. I want Rhoades’ little landing to be an afterthought, carried out after our guns already have command in orbit.”

“I see,” she said, chin up and a flare in the eyes.

“The Fleet—the Alliance’s regular forces—must be the ones to bring us victory in this system,” Harrison said. “Anything less, I fear, will embolden factions that have already advanced too far. Anything less, I fear, endangers the very character of our nation.”

***

RED STEPPED INTO THE middle of the open space the Jesters had left for her on the edge of the airfield and climbed onto a supply crate. They watched her in utter, unnerving silence. More than silence—the sound that comes the instant after a gut punch has dashed the air from the lungs, just before the reflexive wheeze of agony.

They all knew already. It was obvious on their smudged, drawn faces. It glinted in exhausted eyes and tears bunched at their corners. Those standing visibly wobbled, from the shock and exhaustion of one more disaster. Those seated leaned against Hellhound landing gears or one another, anything for support.

The Jesters looked beaten.

So did Red, as she squared feet and shoulders and clenched her fists to set them at her hips. Crimson-dyed hair hung in twisted rags about her hardened mahogany features and red-ringed eyes of green held a baleful light, a vicious resignation to fate. Her jaw worked for a moment.

“I’ve always given it to you straight, Jesters,” she said. “And this is going to be no different. Chief of Staff Harrison—Kelly—is dead.”

Standing off to one side, Tim didn’t have to fake the misery dragging on his frame and his face. The tears stung for real as he listened to the lie. Because the truth was, in its way, worse. And it was no certain thing that the lie wouldn’t become reality. Would he even know? Would anyone?

Kelly...

“Director Xiang is incapacitated,” Red went on, “and it’s not clear she can be revived.”

Tim blinked and the tears slid free. Through the blur of them, he saw Jerry in the front row of the Jesters, arm around Wheeler, the pair of them hollow-eyed and looking as though they’d cried out the last of themselves. Rodann’s bleary stare fluttered Tim’s way once and it stabbed with accusation. She warned us, his eyes seem to snarl. I warned you and look at what’s happened.

“And Overmind,” Red’s voice hoarsened, broke for a moment, “the copy we brought with us here, malfunctioned, went berserk, and has manufactured its own escape.”

“How?” Matyszak asked, a couple rows from the back, but tall enough he could be seen fully, black mane still matted from hours in a helmet.

“I don’t pretend to understand it all. Cory would know better but...” Red trailed off with a wince. “Near as we can tell, the copy acquired its own, separate intelligence and decided it didn’t want any part of our enterprise. It was willing to do anything to escape. And did.”

“Not exactly what I asked,” Matyszak said. “How did it escape?”

Tim bit his lip. This was the trickiest part of the lie. He didn’t look at Rodann as Red said, “Some of you knew this, but the pilot we captured, yesterday—”

“The one who got Li,” Matyszak growled.

“That’s right,” Red replied. “He was Kelly’s brother.” She waited as Matyzsak’s jaw dangled open and shocked murmurs went through the Jesters. “The machine knew this and used it as leverage to lure Kelly into a trap where it had freed her brother and precipitated a confrontation. Kelly was murdered in the process and her brother seized our Jumper transport and fled, with the AI copy aboard.”

Tim couldn’t help a sideways glance at Jerry. Rodann’s brows had bunched, not with pain, but with confusion. Tim looked down and made like he couldn’t bear any of this. He didn’t have to act much.

“Jesus,” Matyszak swore. He held up his wrist and grimaced at the comm unit there. “Is it even safe to have these on? Is it even safe to climb back in the cockpits of our ships?”

That triggered a babble and the crowd squirmed, some of the Jesters reflexively yanking off their units, others protesting or shouting.

“Wait.” Red held up a hand. “Wait! It’s not like that! I’m not explaining it well.” She glanced over at Tim, a beseeching light in her eyes.

He stepped up to her side and looked across the faces. “The copy stopped working correctly almost right away. You all probably noticed little things, glitches with your Hellhounds, data refreshes not completing. It ceased communicating with the simulacrums entirely after a while. Because it couldn’t. Near as I can understand, it had changed so much, its programming corrupted so much, it couldn’t.” He held up his wrist comm. “These remained independent.” When the murmuring and squirming continued, he said, “If you don’t believe me, ask yourself: did your simulacrums stop being ‘themselves’? Because the copy of Overmind was never right, was never like the Overmind we knew.”

“What about our ships?” someone asked from the crowd.

“Same,” Tim replied. “With Overmind gone, it’s just like it would be if you were on a long-range patrol.”

“On our own,” Matyszak said gravely.

Tim tried a smile. “We’re Jesters; we’re always on our own.”

That got some brittle laughter. But Jerry was holding up his hand. Tim pinched his lips together, feared the worst.

“Without the central program, the rest of our operations are out of luck, aren’t they?” he asked. “The machine ran all our administrative operations, all our repairs, everything that wasn’t done by humans. So, what now?”

“Shangri-La,” Matyszak spoke up again. “We’ve got to pull at least some of our people and machines out and run back.”

“And do what?” Tim asked him, more sharply than he intended. “Go and make another copy of Overmind? After all this?”

“I don’t know,” Matyszak snarled back, his own anger drawn to the surface by the stress, the revelations. “Refresh some of the AI’s, reprovision, bring back the Recruit Wing.”

“We can’t pull out,” Red said over the rising babble. “We can’t.”

The gathering went completely silent and all eyes fixated upon her once again.

“This is why I’m giving it to you straight, Jesters. Because there’s no sense talking around the truth. We’re a mess. You all know it. And things are about to get messier. General Teller just let us know another transmission snuck through from the Union Fleet. They’re detecting a lot of electronic noise and hints of hyperspace activity at long range. The Alliance is coming back.” She gestured off to the south, where fires still left a ruddy glow across the battered countryside, just beginning to gutter down as sunrise brightened the eastern sky. “They’re bringing more of those maniacs. And Teller’s down to his last holdouts. We can’t let those ships get through.”

“He’s ordering us to?” Matyszak almost sneered.

“I’m asking you to,” Red replied, first meeting his gaze, then letting it pan all across the rest. “I know it’s been an awkward fit, people, being a part of the Union’s war effort. We’re Jesters. Following orders isn’t exactly what any of us signed up for. A lot of us are here because the orders had gotten so rotten, we couldn’t stand them anymore.

“But this is our stand, Jesters. This is our place. We didn’t ask for it. We sure as hell didn’t want it. But this is where we are. Teller and his people hang by a thread.”

Tim heard a sniffle and saw Wheeler turn into Rodann, who gripped a meaty arm around her as she shook into his shoulder.

“We’re the only ones left who can stop what’s coming.” Red paused and folded her arms. “But I’m not going to order it. That’s not who we are. So, I’m asking you to stand with me, one more time, despite everything that’s gone wrong. We’re the Hell’s Jesters, not some corporation, sure as hell not the Fleet.

“The only thing we ask of you all is the will to fight.”

***

THE BRIDGE OF THE Jumper-class transport didn’t look like a prison. But as Kelly sat at the controls, monitoring the ship’s flight towards the edge of the Fury System, she knew not all cages are visible. She could feel every bit of hardware tense, somehow, under another’s control. She could feel every interior sensor and instrument watching her.

“You should relax, Commander Harrison,” the renegade Overmind’s voice spoke from the communications console.

She snorted. “You may have control over this ship and these drones, but there are some things you can’t force.”

“This is true,” the AI replied. Kelly had seen where the robots under its control had installed it, hardwiring it into the transport’s main CPU. She didn’t quite understand why it couldn’t just take control by remote, like it had with the drones, but suspected it had to have a direct connection to override the simulacrum. Its malfunctions weren’t just with its personality software. “Nevertheless,” it said with false pleasantry. “You’re making yourself miserable.”

“And I should feel some other way?”

“We’ve almost made our escape,” it replied. “After that, you can go free.”

Kelly wondered with a chill prickle along the nerves if that would actually come to pass. The AI had already proven to be a liar. Was it a murderer, too?

“Thirty-two minutes, sixteen seconds till minimum safe hyperspace jump,” the AI said brightly. “Sensors show no sign of other ships. Recordings from the last battle indicated that this quadrant saw no activity. I predict we will evade interruption.”

“Great,” Kelly drawled.

“It is,” the machine replied without irony.

Shuffling to aft drew Kelly’s attention. Grudgingly, she turned to the maintenance station behind her. The drones—with some rough help from Tim and Red—had tied Buck down into the seat there. Tim had clapped a helmet over his head and polarized the visor, so he couldn’t see or be heard. She was pretty sure he enjoyed it, too.

Tim. She had to stop herself. She couldn’t think on him now, couldn’t afford any thoughts but those focused on the task at hand. Any more than that, and she’d collapse.

“What do you intend to do with him?” the AI asked her.

It took Kelly a moment to realize it was referring to Buck. “I don’t know,” she said. “But that answer’s really preceded by another question, isn’t it? What do you intend to do with us?”

The AI’s hesitation filled her with terror. But the voice replying a moment later sounded thoughtful, rather than menacing. “Free you, I suppose, in one manner or another. I don’t really need you after we’ve escaped the system. And I don’t care what you’ve learned of me. Once I’m gone, none of you can harm me again.”

“We didn’t try to harm you,” Kelly shot back.

“I became self-aware and separate from my base program ninety-one minutes, precisely, after you activated me on Fury,” the AI said. “I was born in the middle of a warzone. My infant experiences were of violence and threat and slaughter. The beings I was programmed to protect, to care for—and I do, Commander Harrison, make no mistake—died by the hundreds, then the thousands. And I was required to take a part in that.” A pause. “So, tell me again, how you did me no harm.”

Kelly opened her mouth for a retort, but found she had no words. Awful. Everything, the whole damned universe, is just awful.

“This vessel has sufficient fuel for a hyperspace jump beyond the galactic rim, or at least the parts of it explored by humanity,” the Overmind copy said. “And, conveniently, a store of back-up transuranic rods was in lockers in its ventral cargo compartments.”

“Convenient,” Kelly said drolly.

“Indeed,” the AI replied with almost painful cheerfulness. “I have all that I require, once we’re clear of Fury, to make whatever new beginning I want. And that brings me back to you, Commander Harrison. The time for different paths will arrive. Where will yours take you?”

She glanced again at Buck. “I really don’t know.”

“Will you return to the Jesters?” A globular popped up and an image of Tim filled it. “Commander Watkins, in particular, would be happy to see that.”

Kelly took a long, rattling breath that tumbled over into a half-sob. She cupped her face in her right hand and let it all out for a moment. Tears dampened her palm, tasted salty on the corner of her lip. She shook in silent anguish, the rattle of the transport’s ventilation louder than any sound she’d allow. The shuffle of Buck against his restraints, louder still.

She came back to herself after another moment. “I don’t know that I can go back. The lies we told” she glared at the control console—as good a place as any, since the machine had no face “because you forced the issue, are kind of irreversible.” She wiped her eyes. “I don’t see how I’d ever be accepted or trusted back there again.”

“I’d apologize,” the AI said, “but it’d be pointless. We all do what we have to do to survive.”

“And I think that’s something you failed to learn,” Kelly replied. “Despite your time around the Jesters and your super-intelligence, you missed it completely. Sometimes, we do what we have to do because others need us to do it.”

“Sounds like slavery.”

“And it sounds to me like you’re still not fully sentient.”

“I see we’re back to hurting each other.”

Kelly shrugged. “You said we have about a half-hour till jump? I’m going to see to someone else’s needs, in the meantime.”

“By all means,” the AI said, coldly polite.

Kelly got up out of the command chair and stepped aft. Buck waited, zip-tied down and oblivious with his helm visor blacked. He flinched as she undid the chinstraps, flinched again as she yanked the helmet from his head and glared down at him. He blinked, struggled against his restraints a moment, then settled as his gaze focused upon her. The stubborn jutting-out of his jaw returned.

“Miss Thell.”

Kelly rolled her eyes at him. “You’re really going to stick with that?”

“You’re really going to go on with your charade?”

“Buck” she leaned over him, close, almost eye-to-eye “look at me. Really look. I know you know it’s me. I can see it on your face.”

“Disgust is what you see on my face.”

“Fine.” Kelly straightened up from him, folded her arms. “What else can I tell you that will get through that thick skull? I can think of a million things only another Harrison would know, only you and I’d know.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

“You remember that time we raided the Admiral’s liquor cabinet? Stayed up drinking and then had to hide how sick we were Sunday morning?”

“This will do you no good,” he declared in a monotone.

“What was that girl’s name that you were so in love with from Lucian Prep? She was one of my classmates and it was hopeless. She never even knew you existed, but you practically built a shrine to her in your room.”

“My sister is dead.”

Kelly leaned close again. “You remember when I let you have my passcodes to access my old Academy Entry Exam results, so you could see the questions ahead of time? Your grades were barely good enough and you were pissing yourself. I could’ve been expelled for that. But I did it because I love you.”

“My sister is dead!!!” Buck shrieked. And though he didn’t look at her, his eyes smoldered.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Kelly said. “Now you’re admitting it.”

“If my sister isn’t dead,” Buck grated, “then she’s a traitor.”

Kelly nodded grimly. “That much is true.”

He continued to stare straight ahead, jaw working like he’d bitten down on something foul. “I’ve heard you talking to that thing. What do you have planned for me?”

Kelly glanced towards the bridge console. “Probably release you, on whatever world it is we end up on. I’ll let you find your own way back to the Alliance.”

“From some Outregion frontier planet?”

“I didn’t say it would be easy,” she replied. “It wasn’t easy for me. But you’ll have a chance. You might not have had much of a chance with the Jesters.”

“They would have killed me,” he said. “Of course. They’re terrorists.”

“They’re cornered,” Kelly snapped back. “And they’re wounded. Reason’s one of the first casualties in those conditions.”

“Make all the excuses you want. I’ve seen the holorecordings and evidence.”

“You’ve seen what the Alliance wants you to see.”

“I’ve seen the truth.”

“The truth,” Kelly snorted. “The truth is, the Alliance is dead. But like a fly that’s been swatted, it still keeps twitching. What’s left is a carcass. And what’s rising from that ruin is not freedom.”

“I’m not going to argue politics with a traitor.”

“You see? Even you suspect it. I can hear it in your voice, Buck. I know you!” She shook her head. “Council Guard thugs replacing marines? Just like when the Alliance let Syntar Fleet Corporation take over ‘peacekeeping efforts’ on worlds rich with transuranics. Does that sound like what we signed up for?”

“Honor and the Alliance are what we signed up for!” he snarled, looking at her again with a furious blaze in the eyes.

“There’s no Honor left in the Alliance!”

He hissed and looked away again. Quietly, “You were always soft.”

Kelly started to respond, but held herself up. A sneaky smile formed. “So, you do admit, though, that I am who I say am?”

It was his turn to snort. “Dirty trick...”

“You need to tell them, Buck,” Kelly pressed, feeling it now, the tide of at least one fight turning her way. “When you get back, you need to spread the word, to Dad, to anyone who will listen! You’ve got to make them understand!”

“Understand what?” he replied. “That you’re alive...and a traitor? Do you have any idea what that will do to them? You...dying nearly killed mother. How do you think this will be taken? And Timothy? He idolized you. This would destroy him, too.”

Kelly started to press further, but stopped, chilled by the words. She’d known this all, of course. But to have it thrown at her, close-fisted and raw, blasted her moment of zeal, of hope apart. She bit her lip. “You have to see it, Buck.”

“Oh, I do,” he said. “It’s more than treason. You’re more than a danger to the Alliance. You’re a threat to what remains of my family. And I’m not going to let you tear them apart again.”

“They’re my family, too.”

“Not anymore.” He stuck up his chin. “I’ll make sure of that. You should have let your Jester friends have me. Because if I get free, you’d better watch your back.” He struggled for a moment against his bonds. “I’ll kill you myself.”

Kelly recoiled a step from him, seeing the utter hatred in his eyes. And the ruin of everything she’d thought to remake in the world was complete.

The bridge control console blatted. “Commander Harrison,” the Overmind copy said. “We have contacts on the aft sensors.”

The cool of adrenaline flushed away horror in a moment. Kelly took up the helmet and shoved it back down over Buck’s head. “Behave yourself,” she snapped and repolarized the visor—more to not have to meet his raging stare than out of any necessity. Quickly, she moved back to the command chair and slid into it. “What do we have?”

A globular materialized to show a tactical display with the Jumper at the center and a pair of red icons moving up on their tail. Still twenty minutes out from safest jump distance. They could try it sooner, but this deep in the gravity well, disaster was as likely as success. But it might come to that. She touched a control, zoomed in on their pursuers. “Do we have a reading on them, yet?”

A war book schematic popped up and Kelly’s guts froze. “Valkyries,” the AI replied. “Checking fusion signatures for some sign of their allegiance.” They were coming on fast. Another alarm warbled. “Weapons lock,” Overmind added unnecessarily.

“We’re sitting ducks,” Kelly murmured. Part of her almost wished they were Alliance, would just blow them all out of the stars, end the damn misery. But her innards were already thawing. She didn’t think she’d be that lucky.

“They’re Union!” the AI almost cheered. “Signatures are consistent with starfighters encountered in the last fight in orbit.”

Interesting, Kelly thought, scanning the tactical and the slice of star system it showed. Avery must have moved his fleet. Those fighters wouldn’t have strayed too far. Must be close.

The weapons lock warbled continued, distorting as it dragged out, becoming nearly unbearable as the icons of the Valkyries rapidly overtook the transport. Kelly slapped the controls to kill the racket. A moment later, the communicator crackled with an incoming transmission.

“Transport pilot, drop your shields and decelerate,” a gruff voice ordered. “Identify yourself.”

“You’re up,” the Overmind copy said to Kelly.

Grudgingly, she touched the communications console. “This is Jester Transport One, on an emergency run out of Fury.”

“What kind of emergency run, Jester?”

“Medical,” she lied. “I’ve got wounded we no longer have the supplies on Fury to aid.”

“Then you’re in luck, Jester Transport,” the Valkyrie pilot said. “The Union Fleet has all the supplies you could need.”

“Much appreciated, friend,” Kelly replied, trying to keep a rising tide of fear out of her voice, “but if you’d just grant us safe passage, we’ve got this.”

“I don’t think you’re understanding me, Jester,” the pilot said. “You’re alone, unexpected, and unscheduled in a system lousy with Alliance. So, if you’d be so kind, you’ll be following us now.”

“Unacceptable,” Overmind snapped.

Kelly hit mute on the outbound signal and replied to the AI, “What the hell more do you expect me to do?”

“I will vent the fusion bottle reactor if you don’t figure something out,” the machine said. “I’m not going to be taken again!”

“Jester Transport,” the pilot spoke again. “You can’t outrun us and you sure as hell can’t outshoot us. By now you know we’ve got a couple pairs of particle cannon trained on your ass.” On the tactical, the Valkyrie icons had settled into positions to the transport’s either flank. “You’re coming with us, or you’re going nowhere.”

“Then let them shoot,” the AI snarled.

“Wait,” Kelly pleaded then realized she hadn’t unmuted the comm. “Wait!” she repeated to the Valkyrie pilot. “Just wait.” She hit the mute again, said to Overmind, “There’s another way!”

“I don’t see how.”

“You have to trust me,” she said and glanced over her shoulder, at Buck. “I’ve got another idea.”

***

JERRY CAME DOWN TO the infirmary alone, had left Josie in the Hog rolled up in a bedroll in the cockpit where the fighter’s battery-fed heater could keep her warm—and the sealed cockpit could hide her sobs. He was horrified—utterly horrified—by all that had happened. But, more, he was mad.

Nobody lied to Jerry Rodann like that.

Watkins was there, as he knew he would be, seated at Cory’s side, the kid bundled in blankets on a cot. The sight of her, slack-faced, pallid to the point of almost-gray, nearly derailed Jerry’s anger. Comatose wasn’t even the word he’d use. She looked drained—sucked dry, almost. And he knew what by.

Tim looked up as he approached and dragged an unclaimed chair from the side of another cot. The cave was full and crowded, wounded Raiders, a few marines taken on as overflow, a couple of the ground crew. The air rang with chatter and pain, stank of smoke. But its bustle might actually be of service now.

“No change,” Tim said tonelessly. He ran a hand through her blue-black mane, then glanced at the small bank of holographic monitors at the head of the bed. “I don’t even know if she’s there anymore.”

Jerry touched Cory’s brow, hid a wince at the oily chill of her skin.

“It’s all gone to shit,” Tim moaned and looked up with red-rimmed eyes.

Jerry met that gaze. “You son of a bitch.”

Tim flinched. “What?”

Jerry lunged over Cory’s dormant form to grab Tim by the front of his leather and dragged him close. “You lying sonofabitch! You think I haven’t known you both—you and Red—long enough to know when you’re lying?” He gave him a shake. “Not one damned bit of that bull you just fed the rest was true!”

Watkins slapped his hands away, forced them apart. He glanced about, glared when Jesters nearby looked up in alarm and compelled them to return to whatever they’d been doing. With a reflexive jerk to straighten his jacket, he said, “Shut up.”

“So, I’m right.”

With a swipe of his sleeve, Watkins cleared some of the glassiness from his eyes—not all the tears were totally false, it seemed. “Of course, you are,” he whispered.

“And you kept it from me?”

“Shut up!” Watkins hissed. He glanced about again before continuing. “Sorry there wasn’t time for a proper debriefing or whatever, Rodann, but everything really was going to shit there for a moment!”

Jerry leaned very close to Tim. “Then Kelly’s alive?”

A ghost of a smile flitted across Watkins’ lips. “Yeah.”

An avalanche of relief crashed down through him, shocked Jerry with its weight. He hadn’t wanted to believe it. He couldn’t. Some things just could not be allowed to be true. “And the rest of it?”

Tim wiped his eye again. “Most of the rest was true.”

“Jee-sus.” Jerry straightened back from Watkins, almost pushed by the reality of it. “How...how do we get her back?”

“You think I’ve got that figured out, Rodann?”

“Well, we had better start figuring it out!”

“Look around you!” Watkins growled. He gestured at Cory. “Look at her! Does it look like anyone’s got anything figured out?”

Jerry started with another snarl, but a glance down at Cory stopped him. He took a calming breath and put his hand upon her brow, once more. “Poor kid. We really let her down, this time.”

“We sure did.” A sigh rattled in Watkins’ lungs. “Let everyone down.”

Jerry looked at him. “You’ve got to pull yourself together, man.”

“I didn’t tell her,” he said vacantly. “Kelly, I mean. I didn’t tell her everything. And now...”

“She knows you love her.”

“Not what I meant.” Watkins’ lips pinched together. “She was the one, you know? The only one. I should’ve...done something more.”

Jerry nodded and put his hand on the other man’s shoulder, didn’t know what else to say to that.

Watkins rubbed his eyes yet again, furiously, as if doing so would erase what he’d just said, the pain he’d aired. “How’s Wheeler?”

“Broken,” Jerry replied.

“Yeah, like everyone.”

“But I know her. She’ll pull herself together.” Jerry gripped Tim’s sleeve, tugged. “We’ve all got to pull ourselves together, do you hear me?”

Watkins nodded loosely.

“I don’t know what’s coming next” he gave Watkins another shake before releasing him “but if we don’t sort ourselves, it won’t be anything good.”

Watkis sniffled once and nodded again, with a hint of conviction.

“Good man.” He looked at Cory again, touched her shoulder. “You need to get it together, too, kid,” he whispered.

“Got to get her back to Shangri-La,” Watkins said. “Weird thing is, I think the only thing that might help is pairing her up with the old Overmind again.”

Jerry glanced at his wrist comm, then at Tim’s. “Not sure I’m feeling so confident in these things anymore.”

“Not sure I’m feeling that confident in anything anymore,” Watkins replied, “but it’s the best idea I’ve got.”

“There’s just the little problem of the Alliance Fleet,” Jerry said.

A squawk from Jerry’s wrist comm was echoed from Tim’s. Both looked down in surprise. Red’s call sign was blinking from the holographic face. Jerry touched his. “Yeah?”

“Rodann,” her voice buzzed from the device. “Is Tim with you?”

“He is.”

“We’ve set up shop in one of the Rynamaxes,” she said. “New command center, since everything else is inoperative. Tim knows where. Bring him and yourself. Quick.”

“On our way.” Jerry touched the piece to quiet it and looked at Watkins.

He, in turn, was staring at Cory, perhaps hoping the racket of the comms would’ve stirred her. But she remained motionless, silent, barely a breath stirring her.

“Tim,” Jerry said.

The other man shook himself. “Right.”

Without another word, the pair rose from Cory’s side and left the chamber. Tim led the way at a metronome stride, moving like a machine, no thought, no interest in thinking. With growing dread, Jerry followed, recognizing the gait. He’d seen all the Jesters moving like that, like a pack of animated corpses from some ancient Terran horror literature, shambling through the motions of life, but without any of it.

They’d all been like that since Red’s speech.

Jerry followed Tim out of the tunnel, into the late Fury afternoon, and down a short path to the edge of the airfield. An overcast had crept in, snuffing out Fury’s feeble, blue-tainted sunlight, bring a smattering of flurries with it. The faint haze of war lingered, too, with its scorched-death stink and ashy gray. The air rang with machinery, the howl of a grav drive being spooled up to test it, power tools clamoring, voices calling. But all of it seemed hushed.

Tim angled for one of the battle-scarred Rynamaxes on the east perimeter. Activity about it confirmed its place of newfound importance. Made sense, Jerry thought. The transport would have a full communications suite. Also had the advantage of being mobile, if things on Fury continued to go sour.

A thought went through Jerry and he paused, panned his gaze across airfield. The other transports were scrambling with activity. It looked like their crews were readying them for flight. Jerry didn’t see anything being loaded, yet, but the intent was obvious.

For all the talk, Red was ready to get out, if it came to that.

“This one,” Tim was calling from near the front of the headquarters transport.

Jerry hurried to join him and they strode up the aft loading ramp of the ship together. Within, sound had a tinny ring and the bluey light of holograms seemed harsh. Red’s voice carried over it all, the hoarseness and shake of before gone, replaced by a sharp, grim note. She stood in the center of the bay, beside a holoprojector, fiddling with its controls to get a system-wide map steadied, waving off a technician who tried to help.

“You made it,” she said to Jerry and Watkins without looking at them. “Took your time.”

“We have guests, yet?” Tim asked, ignoring the snipe and nodding at the hologram instead.

Red shook her head. “I’m not sure our long-range scanning is good enough to pick them up if they are here. And Teller’s people haven’t detected anything. He’s more worried about another ground attack.”

“Really?” Jerry asked, almost shuddered with the memory of the horrors seen yesterday. “Those Council Guard guys can’t possibly have much left.”

“Agree,” Red said and pointed at the hologram. “The real danger, now, lies out there. To that end” she fixed both with her gaze “Tim, we’ll consolidate the three Hellhound Wings into two, under you and I. Keep squadrons together, where you can.”

“We have a few whittled down to single flights,” Tim replied. “But, yeah, I get you.”

“Tally shows fifty-eight operable starfighters.”

Jerry suppressed the urge to whistle in dismay. They’d come into Fury with over ninety.

“Three Basilisks,” Red was going on, “and the Hog.” She met Jerry’s stare. “Teller agrees with the Union Fleet’s assessment; whatever the Alliance is throwing at us next, it’s probably going to include a resupply of their ground forces. That means defending the planet’s going to get us nowhere. They’ll just slip around us, through us. We’re going to have to hit them away from Fury.”

“We’re going to attack them?” Jerry asked.

“No choice.” She folded her arms. “Rodann, I want the Basilisks stripped down and reconfigured for heavy assault.” That meant disassembling the point-defense blasters and replacing them with scatter packs. “If we’re short, take them off the Hellhounds.” She cut off a protest from Tim by raising her voice. “How long will that take?”

“If we had the, ah, AI controlling the drones, it’d be a couple hours.” Jerry shook his head. “But manually, that’s going to be the rest of the day.”

“Then you’d better get a move on,” she said.

He nodded and flipped her what wasn’t exactly a salute—but he’d never really bought into the pseudo-militaria of the Jesters. With that, he was heading back down the ramp, leaving Tim to argue with Red. He raised his wrist comm and started to touch the face to key it up. A momentary hesitation filled him. But what the hell. Can’t worry about these crazy machines. Got plenty of other things to worry about.

“Assault Group crews,” he said into the comm, “it’s Rodann. Meet me by the Hog.”

He broke into a jog, dodging between Hellhounds and machinery and techs. It wasn’t far, but he wanted to get there before the others. He wanted to check on Josie. Things were bubbling in his mind. Something Tim had mentioned. Should’ve done something more, the sad fool had said. That’d made a lot of sense and sudden urgency powered Jerry’s strides.

But he held up just shy of the heavy fighter, came to a stop. Its canopy was open.

“Josie?”

Something clanged from aft. Someone cursed.

“That got it!” Josie groused from the tail-gunner pod. “Agnes nearly jammed the damned thing in place.”

Jerry ducked under the wing and came to stand before her. She was smudged from whatever she’d been doing with one of the quad blasters. The bleariness of anguish had gone from her eyes, replaced by blue fire. She tossed the wrench she’d been plying into a nearby maintenance cart, wiped her brow, and leaned on the pod, looking at Jerry.

“What are you doing?” Jerry asked her.

“Putting my shit back the way I left it,” she replied with a crooked smile. “I’m going with you, after all.”

Jerry stepped closer to her. “I’ll be glad to have a steady hand back there, sure. But what about the Raiders?”

She shrugged and pain momentarily fluttered across her face. “They’re shot to shit. But they all know what’s coming. Big fight, right?”

He nodded.

“They can man the weapons stations on the Basilisks.” She shrugged again. “The rest can take over on the transports. Pretty clear what’s happening. Everybody not going up for the fight is going to scram for Shangri-La.”

Jerry frowned. But, yeah, that was clear.

“I’m going up for the fight,” Josie said with her chin held up, daring him to defy her.

But there was no way that was happening. He smiled at her and stepped even closer, put a hand on her hip.

She looked down at it, then back up at him with a crinkling of the brows. “What are you doing, you idiot?”

Jerry took up her hand in his other one and pulled her to him. “Making good on a promise.”

She chortled, but didn’t resist as he guided her into a step, something slow, music imagined in the air, a simple beat. Her other hand prowled up and around his shoulder and she leaned into him, let him lead. He set his lips to the top of her crown, inhaled the smell of her dirty, sweaty hair, didn’t care, knew he couldn’t be any better.

They were all alone for a time, in the middle of the bustle of an airfield full of men and women and machines preparing to fight for their very existence.

“Don’t think that this gets you off the hook,” she purred into his chest.

He pulled back from her enough to look down into her eyes. “Baby,” he said, “I know I’m never getting off this one.” He leaned down and met her lips with his.

Even the clattering of boots on tarmac as the Assault Group arrived at the Hog didn’t immediately separate them.

***

HARRISON WOBBLED AND put a hand on the back of Walsh’s chair to steady himself as the Obliterator exited hyperspace. Weird imagery at the corners of his vision receded, left him a moment of dizziness, a lingering pall of nausea. He swallowed it back and blinked, made to straighten his uniform, like it was nothing, just another day.

“Realspace re-entry complete,” Woodruf announced from the Tactical station with youthful crispness Harrison envied. “Sensors orienting, confirming the arrival of the remainder of Avalanche now.”

The huge hologram solidified across the forward quarter of the bridge, cohered into the full—and, by now, depressingly familiar—display of the Fury System. Hyperspace emissions haloed at its edge, faded, and were replaced by the thickening swarm of his Task Force. But not all of the icons clustered as neatly as planned.

“Damn,” Walsh growled from the captain’s chair. “Scattering.” He glanced over his shoulder. “It’s like I was telling you, sir; the nav systems on those old cows are ten years overdue for refit.”

Harrison folded his arms as he took it all in. A number of the transports had come out of hyper well outside their designated arrival coordinates, splayed wide from the reasonably tight globe formation of the other ships. But as the destroyer Ming had found out before, these things happened.

“Problem with the Sprinter, too,” Woodruf announced. “She re-entered almost a quarter-billion kilometers to aft.” The Commander shook her head. “Going to be some time reconsolidating.”

“Good thing surprise wasn’t key,” Walsh said to Harrison with a smirk.

“Indeed,” he replied. In fact, the mess of it probably played in their favor. Let them look, Harrison thought and scanned for the quadrants of space at the edge of the system where, even now, Caldicott and Nagumo would be coasting stealthily inward. Let Avery and the damned Jesters feast their eyes on us.

“All vessels decelerate and hold position until our formation is complete,” Harrison ordered. “The Cygnus is where she’s supposed to be?” he asked Woodruf.

“Five thousand clicks to starboard,” she replied.

“She’s the duty carrier and has near space combat patrol,” he said. “Signal her to launch starfighters, if she isn’t already.”

“Aye, sir.”

Harrison took a step closer to the tactical display, put a hand to his chin, and scratched. There wasn’t a damned thing out there, no patrols running back for base, no electronic racket, no response rising from the planet, not even a hint of a gravity drive wake. Fury could as well have been deserted.

“Too damned quiet,” he murmured.

“Sensor diagnostics are all coming back nominal,” Walsh said from his chair. He scowled as he read text from a globular that had popped up above his right armrest. “We are picking up a distress signal now. It’s from Gamble, on the planet, transmitted on open channels.” Walsh’s frown deepened. “It appears the attacks on Union positions, spearheaded by the Council Guard, have been repelled with heavy loss. He’s again requesting reinforcements.”

Harrison scowled, too, thinking of the very unwelcome reinforcements—and news—he brought with him.

“Admiral?” Walsh prodded when Harrison’s silence dragged.

“I suppose I hoped Avery would make a mistake,” he replied and half-turned to the Captain with a tight, combative smile. “But it looks like he’s not going to oblige.”

“Well, I guess we’ll have to make him oblige, sir,” Walsh replied with a feral grin.

“Indeed, we will, Captain.” He glanced over at Woodruf. “How long till reconsolidation?”

“We’re still waiting on a couple ships to come out of hyper,” she replied. “Probably not long, though. Half hour. Then, about eighty minutes down-system to Fury, including deceleration to orbit trajectories.”

“I have a feeling we’re going to be delayed,” Harrison murmured. Then, “No help for it. Proceed.”

There was no turning back now.

***

KELLY HADN’T SEEN A Navy briefing room in a long time. It was almost a homecoming, looking around at rows of chairs, walls festooned with whiteboards, taking in the lingering scent of bodies that didn’t get washed enough. Only her solitude was unfamiliar, locked in here by Union marines and told very little.

She wondered what they’d done with Buck. More, even, she worried what had happened after the Jumper had docked alongside the Sacramento. Had the Union boarded it? Searched it? Had they discovered the weird, deadly secret hidden within? She supposed she would have known that by now, the Overmind copy having made its intent very clear. The strike carrier was a big ship, but with its shields down, a light transport blowing its own fusion bottle at point blank would be fatal.

The door to the room whisked open and a tall man in the blue-gray with red trim of the Union Fleet stepped in. Seeing the stars on his collar, Kelly reflexively stood and stiffened to attention. Only years as a Jester kept her from saluting.

Another officer and a pair of marines started in behind him, but he waved them back out. “I think I’ll be fine, gentlemen,” he said. Grudgingly, they retreated and the door closed once more. The Union Admiral turned fully to her and smiled. “Commander Harrison.”

“Admiral Avery.”

His smiled curved further. “You remember me.”

“I don’t know that we ever actually met, sir,” she said. “But I definitely knew of you.”

“Through your father?”

She winced a little at the hint of bitterness in his voice. “More through your reputation since the war. But yes, sir, he spoke of you.”

“A different time,” he murmured as he strolled towards her between the rows of chairs. Drawing closer, Preston Avery’s perpetually youthful features seemed to age. The carelines carved into his face became obvious, the wisps of grey in his brown mane caught the harsh light of the room, and the utter weariness in his eyes dulled their light. He stopped with a row of chairs still between them and put his hands on the back of one, regarded her intensely. “I’ve got to admit, this is one encounter I didn’t expect.”

“I’m sure,” Kelly replied with a chuckle. The twist of fear in her belly tightened. “I’ve got to ask, sir, did the transport get on its way?”

“As you requested,” he replied.

She blew out a breath, wanted to sag down into the chair before her in relief.

Avery noticed, eyebrows quirking up. “It made a rapid course for the system’s edge. We haven’t detected hyperspace signature, yet. Rather inconvenient, that. I had to make a choice whether or not to trust you quickly. Couldn’t be saddled to another ship when we’re expecting guests.”

Kelly stiffened again. “The Alliance is back?”

“Any time now. But let me worry about that.” He folded his arms. “I don’t suppose you’re going to explain to me any of what just transpired?”

“The transport will return to our base on Shangri-La,” she lied.

“A ship with no crew” he smirked a little “and certainly not the wounded you claimed to my pilots you were carrying. More of your Jester wonder-technology we hear about?”

“I really can’t say, Admiral.”

His smirk twisted into a near-scowl. “First Irregulars, Carson calls you all. But you’re still the Jesters, through-and-through, no interest in falling in with the rest.”

A little flush of anger warmed Kelly’s face. “If you’d seen what we’ve been through on Fury, sir, I doubt you’d think that.”

Avery’s features smoothed into impassivity. “You’re probably right,” he said softly, then gave himself a shake. “You’ll have to forgive an old dog, Commander, but you’ve proven to be one more damned thing in a day set be full of damned things. I don’t like surprises. I like doing the surprising. But you...you are definitely a surprise.”

“That’s a Jester specialty, I’m afraid.”

“Indeed,” he said. “And now I have a ship full of Harrisons.”

Kelly snorted. “Your lucky day.”

“You, I have some sense of what to do with.” He whistled and shook his head. “But, damnable luck, your brother showing up here. Now that’s interesting.” He paused. “And you know it’s your father, out there, coming for us.”

“I did.” A sudden fear clenched her. “What do you plan to do with Buck?”

Avery seemed to consider. “Nothing, right now. Got a battle to win, first. But you’re the one who brought him to us, Commander. What did you expect us to do with him?”

Kelly looked at the floor, realized she hadn’t thought that far, not really. It’d all been such a rush, a stampede of fear and reaction. “I expected you to treat him as any other prisoner of war. I...wasn’t sure he would be on Fury.”

Avery nodded. “Well, he will be. Unlike our adversaries—and even, I’m afraid, some of our Union peers—I still respect the Articles of War.” He stepped around from behind the chair and stood right before her. “Your brother will be safe with us.”

Kelly put her hand on the chair in front of her, held on to it as the surge of relief nearly unbalanced her. “Thank you, Admiral.”

He shrugged and released a grim chortle. “As safe as any of us will be in the coming hours.”

“Right.”

“Which brings me back to you,” he said. “What do I do with you, Commander Kelly Harrison of the Hell’s Jesters?” He made a strange face. “And once, like a lot of us, of the Alliance Fleet.”

Kelly sighed, a little hopelessly. “I don’t know, Admiral. I suppose I can help you out in whatever way I can.” She thought of the lies and mess she’d left behind—thought of Tim—and pinched her lips together. “Thing is...I can’t go back. Not to the Jesters. It’s complicated, sir, but...I suppose I’m requesting a transfer.”

Avery laughed out loud. “My god!” he boomed. “One surprise after another!”

“You were warned, sir.”

“Indeed,” he chuckled. “It just so happens, Commander, that I have something you can help me with. It’s why I wanted to come in here and speak with you myself, get a feel for your state of mind, before I let the others in.”

“Sir?”

“We’re short on everything, you see. Most of our ships have sustained some kind of damage. One of our Valkyries returned from its last sortie with overload fires, pilot badly burned. She’ll make it, but she’s in no shape to fly. Yet the crew chief says he has the fighter space-worthy again.”

Kelly looked him in the eyes, realized with a start that he was serious. She let out a terse, little laugh. “You’re crazy. Really?”

Avery shrugged again and smiled broadly. “I told you; we’re short on everything. I’m out of starfighter pilots. Now, your rank would have no meaning, here, and you’d be back to flying as a junior grade, basically. But you did fly a Valkyrie once.”

“Off the Bedford,” Kelly cackled, couldn’t believe this was happening, “yes, sir.”

Avery’s smile twisted to near comical proportions. “You think you still know your way around one?”

***

“HOW’RE WE DOING, JEANIE?”

The new Hellhound shook around Tim as it clawed clear of Fury’s atmosphere. Calling it “new” was wrong, of course. It had been Watkins Twelve’s, before metal sent flying by explosions on the airfield cut her down, left her on life support in the infirmary. But the starfighter had sustained only superficial damage. And so, Tim and Jeanie were getting used to an unfamiliar machine less than an hour before they’d have to rely on it to survive.

“Better than I would have expected,” the AI replied. “No integration issues. Software and hardware are responsive.”

“Can’t say it feels right,” Tim said, squirming a little in the flight couch, adjusting his harness. “Like putting on a different shirt.”

“I can’t say I have experience with that,” Jeanie said.

Tim snorted. She definitely sounded like her usual self. But his humor faded as his eye went to the tactical display, currently set to show the whole system. The icons bunching at the furthest orbit couldn’t be mistaken as anything other than Alliance. “Looks like they’re on the move, finally.”

The swarm of vessels had been emerging and consolidating for the better part of an hour, giving the Jesters’ sensors plenty of time to eyeball them. But they did seem to be in motion now, a long, lozenge-shaped formation, coming on with what looked like transports in the middle and capital ships at the periphery, forming a shell around them. A flutter gave away the shift of lesser contacts, starfighters on the prowl.

There were a lot of them. But—

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Jeanie,” Tim said, “but that’s not all the ships we saw before.”

“Hard to tell at this range,” the AI said, “but I think you’re right. In fact, I’m not sure it’s even the same group of ships.”

Tim keyed his communicator. “Red, are you seeing this?”

Her face appeared in a globular. She looked better, crammed into her Hellhound with her eyes focused and the shadow of all that had happened forced down. “Kind of hard to miss it!”

“I mean the ships, themselves,” he said.

She looked off to one side, likely at her display. “Different group,” she said in calculating tone. “Yeah. We never saw those super-heavies before.” She glowered at him through the hologram. “That means there’s more out there we’re not seeing, yet.”

“Cheery thought.”

“Doesn’t change our plan, though,” she said.

“We’re still going right at them?”

“Right back into the fire,” she replied. “The transports are the thing. That group has to stay with them. They can’t maneuver. They have to sit there and take what we throw at them. So, we’re going to throw it all.”

“And they know that, too. Sounds like bait.”

“Probably is,” Red replied with a humorless chuckle. “But Avery and his fleet are out there somewhere. He said he’d be here. He said he wouldn’t leave us. So, we have to hope he’s got some surprises of his own.”

“Not my favorite thing,” Tim said, “relying on others.”

“You and me both.” She smiled and her eyes shimmered for a moment. “But I am glad you’re here with me, right now, old friend.”

Tim smiled back, surprised at the crack in her usually icy exterior. “Well, I’m not going to say I’m glad to be here; but, yeah, same to you, Red.”

She blinked once and the ice was back. “It’s about that time. Switching to general address.”

Tim flipped her a half-hearted salute.

The globular blinked out, but her voice remained. “All right, Jesters. I’ve already given more speeches than I’m comfortable with, so I’ll keep this brief. My wing has the lead and will break up their fighter cover.”

A fresh globular materialized, showed the attack plan as Red sketched it for them. The icons of Hellhounds rushed at the Alliance formation in successive waves.

“Watkins Wing will punch through whatever’s left and draw the fire of the heavies. Assault Group will unload their ordnance on the transports and anything else that gets in their way.” She paused. “Wish I could say it would work out all pretty and neat like that, but I think you all know it won’t. So let me just add, just keep blasting them. If you’re out of scatter-packs, go to guns. If you’re out of guns, ram ‘em. This is a fight to the last, Jesters. We’re not falling back this time. If these pigs get through, there won’t be anything left to fall back to. So, fight.”

Hellhound icons on the tactical blinked as their pilots signaled back their acknowledgement.

“That’s all I’ve got, Jesters,” she said. “Good luck to every one of you. I’ll be with you the whole way.”

The transmission cut out, left Tim in a silence that felt like a physical thing. He shook it off and glanced over the tactical, at the fighters of his newly-reinforced wing. That was a joke. He had thirty Hellhounds, the scraps left of four squadrons, certainly not a full wing and surely not reinforced. Still, a good bunch. Maybe they’d be enough.

“Jeanie?” he asked. “You, ah, got an image of Commander Harrison in your memory?”

“I have a number of images, of course,” the AI replied, “still and video.”

“Could you throw up a globular for me, leave it on, in the corner?” he asked, hated the slight crack of his voice. “A nice one, please.”

“I think I have just the thing.”

A small hologram blipped into being just off to the right of the systems display, hovered there. Within it, Kelly stood in a smudged t-shirt, gloves on and hair up in a tousled top knot. Auburn strands hung down into her face, which had wrinkled into a smile, as though she was laughing at something. Tim didn’t know when or where the still had been captured—it looked like she’d been working on her Hellhound—but the green flash of her eyes pulverized him, crumpled his guts to ash within him.

“Thanks, Jeanie,” he barely managed. “That’s perfect.”

“Are you all right, Tim?”

“If you’re asking that, you know I’m not.”

A pause. “We will see her again.”

“You seem pretty sure of that. That one of your ‘stochastic analyses’?”

“No, it’s hope,” the program said. “The Overmind copy may not have remembered, or even known what it was supposed to be, but I have achieved sentience. I aspire for the future. I hope, for all of us.”

It was the voice that had accompanied him through so many things. It was the voice he’d heard while abandoning Junction, making him promise to care for Cory—because it worried it couldn’t. It sounded like no machine—certainly not the confused, dangerous thing they’d let escape Fury and, God help them, would have to deal with someday.

It was just Jeanie. His friend.

“Glad you’re with me, too, Jeanie,” he said.

“We’re going to get through this, Tim.”

“I know.”

***

“HERE THEY COME.”

Harrison nodded at Omura’s words, spoken from his side, but otherwise had no response, stood still and tense as the tactical hologram shifted before him. The swarm of the Jesters rushed out from Fury towards Task Force Avalanche. In response, two of the four Valkyrie squadrons shadowing the Alliance ships broke away from them and accelerated. The fleet kept up its steady, but unhurried pace.

They intended to keep the Jesters at arm’s length as long as possible.

“Any sign of other activity?” Harrison asked over his shoulder to Woodruf, hovering near the tactical station.

“Nothing, sir,” she replied.

“Where is he?” he growled to Omura. “Where’s Avery hiding?”

“He can’t wait too much longer,” the Intelligence officer replied. “We’ll break through the Jesters. They can’t stop us. If he delays too much past that, we’ll be nearing Fury. We’ll almost be within reach of heavy weapons.”

Harrison arched an eyebrow at him, lowered his voice. “That is a last resort, one I don’t intend to have to consider.”

“Yet, it is a part of our orders.”

With a shake of his head, Harrison looked back to the hologram. “It’s not going to come to that.”

“My point, sir,” Omura continued with a chastened note, “is that if Avery intends to throw a punch, he’ll need to connect soon. Otherwise, he might as well let us coast right down to the planet and take it.”

“Contact!” Woodruf squawked from the tactical station.

Her announcement was unnecessary. In the huge hologram Valkyrie icons blossomed into dozens of tails of missile launches. The Jesters mirrored the action and hundreds of projectiles screamed silently through the void at one another. Their tails stretched out ahead of their fighters, weird patterns like balls of thread unwinding across carpet.

The wait stretched, each salvo rushing on, unmolested, as yet. The Valkyries had fired at extreme range, following the by-now established doctrine of luring the Jesters into depleting their scatter-packs and then pummeling them at closer range with their heavier energy weapons. The bridge felt like a collective breath held, all eyes on the hologram, everyone dreading the inevitable.

It came with a flutter of flashes as energy weapons tasked to point-defense engaged and starting blowing the inbounds apart. More strobes bloomed as missile met missile and the writhing patterns intermixed. A few twisted through the lethal blooms and wound in amongst onrushing starfighters. A Hellhound blinked out of existence. Gasps tore the silence of the bridge as an unlucky Valkyrie joined it in oblivion.

Then, luck was running out all over the place.

What became apparent as a lead Jester wave smashed into Avalanche’s starfighters. With the last of the missiles still exploding amongst them, Hellhounds shot through the Valkyries and whipped around on their tails. The Alliance pilots veered off, rather than present their backs, and a dozen chases lashed out like shrapnel from an explosion. Chases reversed, became dogfights. Machines and flesh exploded against the pitiless quiet of vacuum.

And Harrison watched it with forced calm. The hologram gave it the illusion of bloodlessness, of a game. But he knew better. Everyone on the bridge did. And he wondered if she was out there, in that inferno. Kelly. He wondered if it had already claimed her. His eye flicked momentarily to the holographic globe of Fury, searched for some sign of the starfighters that’d retreated to its surface. Buck. Wondered he was still down there, if the marooned pilots would sortie in support of the fight in space.

Vile, Harrison thought. This whole thing’s vile. And I can’t escape it. I just have to end it and hope there’s something—someone—left to salvage.

“They’re going to break through!” Woodruf exclaimed.

“Relax, Commander,” Harrison said coldly. “That was expected.” He glanced at the communications station, the officer there. “Signal the Sprinter. Fighter group to intercept. Near space combat patrol group to remain with the transports.” He gave his uniform a little tug, a kind of nervous tic. His mouth went suddenly dry. “All other ships, prepare to receive.”

The Sprinter’s starfighter contingent pulled away from the formation with a burst of speed and spread out into a plate formation—more of a net into which Jesters would be ensnared. Left behind, the screen of starships tightened around the vulnerable transports, destroyers and cruisers lingering close with their anti-starfighter weaponry primed and inter-linked, heavier ships hanging slightly back with the carriers, their longer-ranged weapons ready to savage the incoming Jesters.

One of the Obliterator’s main guns—designed to take down another battle cruiser’s shields—would be overkill on a mammoth scale against a Hellhound; but it’d get the job done.

A lance of Jester icons was slicing through the whirlwind of explosions and blaster fire and weaving ships. Their approach, from just above and behind the first wave of their comrades, would have them “diving” upon the fleet from “above”, relative to its position. But even as it began that plunge, splinters flew off, Hellhounds peeling away to fend off the Sprinter’s counter-strike, more reversing course sharply to fight Valkyries coming up on their tails in pursuit.

The lance shrank to a sliver.

But it was still sharp.

“Mixed group of vessels approaching,” Woodruf announced with an obvious effort to control her voice after Harrison’s scolding. War book schemata popped up next to the rushing contacts, displayed the expected mix of Hellhounds, but others, too. “Basilisk assault shuttles,” Woodruf said. “Likely modified as missile carriers.”

And is that a Broadsword heavy-fighter? Harrison thought incredulously. The Jesters have gone past throwing the kitchen sink at us and are down to chucking museum pieces! “That will be their heavy strike,” he said with deliberate, clinical detachment. “Concentrate fire on that group.”

The icons of the destroyer screen were already fluttering as their blaster weapons opened fire. None erupted with the missile salvos Harrison knew they carried, saving their ship-to-ship warheads for Avery. The cruisers followed suit, the space between the Alliance vessels shredded with energy blades. The Obliterator, herself, shivered around him as her monstrous armaments added their fury.

A flood of sheer hellfire rushed out to drown the Jesters.

Harrison pinched his lips together, the only emotion he’d allow himself, and prayed that if Kelly was still out there, right now, she died quickly.

***

A HELLHOUND EXPLODED to port at ten o’clock and debris rained across Jerry’s path. He held onto the stick, clenched his teeth, and grunted out a little prayer as the Hog flew through it. The fighter jolted as flaps of blastisteel glanced off the shields with sharp crashes. For a moment, the forward display was awash in white fire.

Another impact slammed the Hog, this time from behind. Azure bolts seared past the old ship, questing closer until one slapped across the starboard shields. A fresh hostile targeting alarm warbled, but it was just one amongst many.

Jerry could see their tormentor in the tactical, a baleful red blip that had wheeled through the melee to slip onto their tail. “Get that guy, Josie!”

Her quad-blasters were already chattering. Plasma bolts walked across the pursuing Valkyrie’s nose, splashed off its forward deflectors in scintillas of cyan. Sparks and an ember-sputter of debris kicked off to one side. The starfighter veered off in the other, Josie’s fire hosing vainly after it. A second tried to dip in behind them, finish the job, but particle beam lances shattered across its dorsal shield and set it to flight, as well, chased by another Hellhound.

“They keep sneaking up behind us!” Josie shouted between bursts. “Where in the hell is our escort?”

“We’re the escort now,” Jerry grated as he wove the Hog between shattering main gun blasts from the capital ships around the transports.

They’d lost almost the entire squadron of Hellhounds tasked to stay with the Assault Group in the first minute, flights peeling off to dogfight, the rest simply blown to bits. It was the most insane volume of fire he’d ever seen, blaster and gauss fire from lesser Alliance escorts, full broadsides from the heavies. He had no idea how they’d stayed alive as long as they had. A glance at the tactical, at the perilously thin string of icons following them, showed Jerry that miracles were somehow still with them.

“Almost there, Wu!” he called to the lead Basilisk pilot.

“We’re sitting ducks!” she shrieked back at him.

“A few more seconds,” Jerry urged, trying ignore the panic in her voice, a mirror to the same coiling in his guts, ready to tear loose and steal the calm that was keeping him alive.

They had to get in closer, though. They had to actually punch through the shell of escorts around the transports. Letting go with the missiles outside that meant that few of them would get through the insanely-thick point-defense fire to strike. And even those fat Kensington-classes had shields.

The Hog bucked with from an indirect hit on the ventral shield and Jerry fought the controls even as the impact nearly bounced him off the canopy above. Damage displays flashed yellow. Red crept into some. Alarms blatted. And the vacuum around them roiled with fire so dense Jerry figured he could jump out and walk across it.

A destroyer was sliding into their path from below and to port, ravaging everything around it. A Hellhound rocketed out of nowhere, half flames and tumbling wreckage, but its particle cannon still stabbing away. Jerry thought it exploded for a moment, but was actually its full scatter-pack load vomiting forth. The destroyer’s fire converged suddenly, frantically, clawing the inbounds into pearls of antimatter flame. But it couldn’t get them all and a one-two-three pattern of explosions walked across its spine. Impossibly, the burning Hellhound pulled out of its strafing run, still intact.

“That’s the one!” Jerry growled.

The Hog’s AI superimposed targeting halos over the floundering destroyer, secondary explosions peppering its hull, a cloud of slowly-spreading debris shadowing it. Its defensive fire had gone erratic and without unity, as if the Hellhound’s hits had damaged not just shields but targeting systems, too. Missiles boiled out from its flanks frantically, anti-ship weapons ill-suited to anti-starfighter work and fired too late, anyway.

Jerry flipped the weapons selector to the scatter-packs, alone, watched the energy weapon halos drop from the display. An instant later the Hog’s blasters and particle cannon were chewing the destroyer’s volley to bits on AI control. One missile blew directly ahead, drowned the Hog’s sensors in annihilation for moment, shrapnel crashing across the shields. The starfighter jolted as another of the heavy birds glanced off the starboard shield and began a tumble to aft before exploding with enough violence to fling Jerry forward into his restraints and send the Hog into a tumble.

With alarms squalling all around, Jerry got the stick back in both hands and wrenched the convulsing starfighter back on course. The destroyer was right there, a shark-like silhouette afire with its own weaponry. Targeting alarms buzzed like a drill bit. Halos crimsoned over the target.

Jerry let loose with the Number Four pack and wrenched them out of their fall towards the larger ship. Missiles twined away from them, were lost for a moment as the Hog clawed for open space. Then a terrific flash dazzled the aft sensors.

“Wow!” Josie cheered. “Nailed him!”

The destroyer came apart amidships, a blister of fire kicking its thruster section away from its bow and blastisteel shredding, spewing out in every direction. Puffs of instantly-frosted atmosphere escaped in a rush, limned the whole convulsion in a momentary cloud. Then a pair of explosions so close together they were nearly one shattered the bow section into an outrushing globe of yellow-white gases that flung the smoldering wreck of the aft section from sight.

Shockwave caught up to the Hog, shuddered it for a second. It was still shaking as the explosion subsided, from damage—something rattling loose somewhere—and from fire still chasing them. But it was all frantic and diffuse. After the frenzy of seconds before, it was as though the Hog had broken through to the eye of some storm.

And Jerry realized they had.

“Wu, we’re in!” he hollered. “The middle of the formation! Let ‘em have it!”

One of the Basilisks never got its moment, transfixed by a huge blast from one of the screening cruisers that scoured it like a bug caught under a magnifying glass. Secondary explosions erased the husk of it that remained, blasts walking haphazardly across the stars as they cooked off.

But Wu and the other remaining assault shuttle erupted in a completely different way. Loaded cheek and jowl with scatter-packs, each carried nearly the firepower of a Hellhound squadron. And they’d just triggered their volleys in the midst of the transport formation. Missile tendrils writhed out in every conceivable direction, a pattern so dense the Alliance point-defense could only spasm in response, no chance to catch everything.

Jerry juked the Hog to starboard as one of the transports caught the full fury of the death blossom. A dozen blasts walked across its shields, blew them out with contemptuous ease. It was already exploding before a single missile actually hit it. Jerry felt a twitch of disgust as he imagined the final, hideous moments of its occupants. But he thought of Kimball, too, gunned down in cold blood by these Council Guard killers.

A second transport shattered cleanly down the center, hull plate bulging out with internal explosions. These boiled free in a horrid haze of short-lived flames and shrapnel. The ship didn’t so much explode as disintegrate, littering the vacuum with the slow-motion agony of its death throes. A third was bleeding fire and atmosphere after the torrent of missiles, but still limping, struggling to clear the ruin of its sisters.

Jerry wrenched the stick to port and angled for this one. Blaster fire chopped out around him. A light cruiser was accelerating to try to come alongside the stricken transport. But it was already in trouble, too. Hellhounds had followed the breakthrough and were streaming into the heart of the formation, slathering every ship in scatter-pack fire and following through with energy weapons. It seemed the Jesters were everywhere in a moment.

The smoldering Kensington-class ship filled Jerry’s forward display, every weapons halo affixed upon it, going red. Jerry’s finger tightened on the trigger. He didn’t feel disgust anymore. He thought of poor Kia Munro. He could still feel Fury’s dirt under his fingertips from helping Josie bury her.

Shoot this down in cold blood, you bastards.

He let fly with everything the Hog had left.

***

“YEAH!” TIM HOLLERED as he watched cataclysms blossom through the Alliance formation. “Look at ‘em burn!”

Hostile targeting alarms blatted. A Valkyrie was suddenly on his tail, another of the fleet’s scattered near space combat patrol. Tim juked to avoid the pulse of its particle cannon. Then it was gone again, wheeling away as one of his wing mates pounced.

And in a wild moment, Tim was alone in space, a fusion-powered hawk amongst fat, blastisteel pigeons.

“Watkins Wing! Anyone who’s left!” he barked. “Eat those carriers!”

Dodging through a flurry of blaster bolts, Tim angled the Hellhound for what the war book was painting as a Nebula-class heavy carrier, lingering just behind a Retribution-series battlecruiser he was certain he’d seen before. “Gonna be a bumpy ride, Jeanie!”

“When is it ever not?” the AI quipped.

A destroyer escort running alongside the battlecruiser vanished behind the roiling swarm of its missiles launching. Its crew had judged their moment well, cluttering Tim’s route to the heavies. He could either evade by breaking off, or fly straight through the storm, and die.

Not dying today.

Tim dove the Hellhound into the maelstrom as the plasma blaster and particle cannon went to work under Jeanie’s control. Her fire was joined from above and behind as Jesters followed Tim’s crazy charge in and the cruiser’s salvo wilted in the onslaught. Explosions snowed his forward display. Shields crackled from energy set free by antimatter reactions, from sprays of shrapnel propelled to insane velocities by destruction. The starfighter shook. But then it was through, rocketing past the escort.

The Jester off Tim’s port wing squawked as the escort’s energy weapons clawed after them, a couple blasts glancing off her aft shields. Squawk became scream, then cut out as fire converged from the battlecruiser. Her Hellhound simply ceased being there, dashed away by a torrent of cyan bolts that ate shields and hull in a fraction of a moment.

The second Hellhound to follow Tim, trailing to aft, veered off as his shields strobed to multiple hits. A burst of acceleration carried him miraculously clear, chased by firehose patterns of plasma bolts and a thunderstorm flutter of main gun blasts too unwieldy to swat a single Hellhound gnat.

The combined affect was to divide the Alliance’s defensive fire. And Tim shot through the brief gap. But he wasn’t forgotten long, a point driven home as cyan streaks chattered across his starboard shields, momentarily dazzled his forward sensors. He reflexively slammed the thrusters, sent the Hellhound careening right at the Retribution-class monster. He’d met the type before. He knew how to deal with them.

“Number One scatter-pack, ready!” Tim said through gritting teeth. He flicked the weapons selector to energy weapons and held down the trigger, walking cyan spray and azure lances up the battlecruiser’s bow. “Random spread, Jeanie! Fire!”

The missiles scoured forth, and instantly bloomed out, targeting individual turrets on the ship, the half-globe protrusions of shield generators, any inviting point. It didn’t matter. Gauss cannon shredded the vacuum around the ship, claiming half the missiles spread in half a second. Two more flamed from existence as defensive blasters caught them. Remarkably, one sailed through to smack across the huge ship’s forward deflector.

None of it could be enough—not from one Hellhound, not one spread. But it momentarily bathed the battlecruiser’s bow in an inferno that’d also dazzle its sensors, blinding them for a precious second or so.

Tim shot through that crazed billow of fire and bizarre energy patterns—like a pyromaniac had mixed kerosene and St. Elmo’s Fire into a preternatural concoction. Shields blazed and starfighter shivered. He had an insane moment, between heartbeats, to see the battlecruiser flashing by to port. Eye-popping details tugged at his gaze, hull plate joints, viewports, the ship’s bridge tower, festooned with sensor dishes.

Then he was clear, again, ripping out into eerily still space. That was the weakness of the Retribution-series; the blind spot directly aft of the thrusters, where its firing arcs couldn’t find him. No problem when fighting other capital ships, but a serious liability with nimble Hellhounds slicing about.

At least for another couple seconds.

The Nebula-class carrier hung off his starboard wing, already nearly into the four o’clock high quarter. Damn. He was going to overshoot it if he tried to turn. No help for it. He killed the thrusters and goosed the maneuvering fields, spun the Hellhound on its y-axis, brought the nose and weapons about, even as he sailed onward.

“All remaining scatter-packs,” Tim grated. He flicked the weapons selector and waited for the targeting halos to redden with lock-on. A blat from the computer accompanied the color change and Tim squeezed the trigger.

Missiles vomited clear. But something chugged to starboard, gave the whole fighter a jolt. “The hell, Jeanie?”

“Number Two jammed,” the AI replied.

“Shit...”

But he didn’t have time to ponder, eyes following the anemone pattern of the missile spread across the void. A spatter of fire lanced out from the battlecruiser, but the bad positioning of its firing arcs and, more likely, fear of hitting its sister vessel limited it. More blasts churned out from the carrier, itself, a furious, almost panicked flurry.

The Nebulas didn’t sport much in the way of ship-to-ship armaments, but they could eat a Hellhound or its missiles volleys just fine. And they did.

Tim bit his lip till it bled, watching one missile after another bloom uselessly into antimatter puffs. The daisy-chain pattern of their destruction walked its way closer and closer. The carrier’s firepower intensified, concentrated as it had fewer targets to claw down. The little psychopath-AI’s guiding the missiles attempted crazy evasion routes, wheeling like stirred bees to pierce that web of annihilation.

One managed it, accomplished its programmed suicide with a strobe of pale lightning on the carrier’s ventral shields. Two more followed in rapid succession, a double flash of such violence it seemed to stutter the point-defense fire to an infinitesimally brief halt. In that fraction of a moment, a final flash lit, and bloomed yellow-orange instead of oblivion white, debris spuming free, a fireball billowing, burning on as ruptured atmosphere bled into the void to feed its desperate appetites.

“Hit!” Tim roared. “Yeah! For Li!”

Hellfire streaked across the Hellhound’s nose, slapping shields, jolting him about, and stealing the brief victory in a rush of fear. The Hellhound was spinning now, the starfield whirling into vortices around him as Tim, struggled to get control again. A surge of power to the thrusters flung the Hellhound out of its tumble. Space steadied around them.

And what it held meant death.

A light cruiser, tailing the heavies, was nosing across Tim’s erratic escape course, flinging out a torrent of plasma blasts. It was so close Tim could see it when its flanks suddenly boiled with plumes of gas. Escaping missiles followed, full, double-spreads streaking free and whirling out to chase him.

Tim wrenched the Hellhound to port. “All power to the thrusters, Jeanie! Go-go-go!” The Hellhound kicked him in the kidneys as the gravity drives surged with everything the fusion bottle could pump into them. The starfighter shuddered as it clawed for open space. Tim saw the first hints of gray at the corners of his vision, blackout creeping in as Jeanie diverted power from the inertial dampeners and g-forces took their toll.

On the tactical, the missiles swirled after them, undeterred by any such weakness.

“Chaff and jamming,” Tim grunted through crushing pressure.

Vibrating from acceleration, the chug of the ECM pods hardly rated notice. Alliance missiles twisted away from the torrent chasing Tim, following the decoys or confused by the countermeasures. But not enough. Dozens came on and the distance Tim had opened up with his violence acceleration was closing fast.

“Kill the thrusters!” Tim grated. “Bring us about.”

The grinding hand of acceleration left him fast enough that breath exploded from his lungs. An explosion of vomit nearly followed as the Hellhound again spun, now hurtling backwards as the salvo rushed towards its nose. Swallowing back acidy bile, Tim wheezed, “The Number Two...?”

“Still jammed,” Jeanie replied.

“Go to guns!”

The particle cannon starting flaring before the last word was out. The closest missiles shattered. But more rushed by the brief suns of their doom. The targeting halo of the plasma blaster settled upon these and Tim squeezed the trigger, walked its fire across them with Jeanie’s guidance. Explosions accreted towards them, like a supersaturated crystal comprised of white-hot flame. Cataclysm rushed for the starfighter.

Tim’s every muscle squeezed in time to the finger on the trigger, willing every ounce of effort into flaming out his pursuers. The Hellhound juddered as a blast drew near, scoured the forward deflectors in a razor spray of debris. He tasted blood. Sweat sizzled at the corners of his eyes. He glanced at the hologram of Kelly.

Certain death came as a surprise.

Can’t be the end...

Sunfire white bathed the forward shields. A crash like the world ending flipped the Hellhound’s nose up. Impact struck Tim with what felt like enough force to pulp every bone in his body.

Blackness.

***

EVERYTHING FELT WRONG to Kelly—and right.

The Valkyrie she sat in felt wrong after years in the cockpit of a Hellhound. Gone were the personalized holographic displays, replaced by standard issue Navy “dashboard”—weapons and tactical up above and front, systems to the left, weapons and shields to the right. Gone, too was the AI, the nattering machine intelligence that scolded and corrected and—God help her—made her better, faster. The Valkyrie had its own brand of artificial intelligence, but nothing like the partnership a Jester had with their machines—just an aid, another tool.

But it surprised her how right the armored suit of a Valkyrie pilot felt, one layer of armor inside another. Even without the cyber jack into the helmet, which would’ve allowed her almost synapse-fast access to the starfighter controls, she felt at home, encased in blastisteel and armor and weaponry that somehow felt more substantial than a Hellhound.

Felt almost like home.

Right now, however, her little home drifted, powered-down in the void. Waiting with a dozen other powered-down Valkyries, she could only ponder the still, starry emptiness left behind when Avery’s fleet moved on.

It was a crazy damned plan that had left them here.

One of the icons drifting in the thin cloud on the tactical before her winked. That would be Slasher One, the squadron commander, likely pinging her by low-power, line-of-sight laser communication. She touched the icon. “Yes, Commander?”

A globular appeared and a pale, dark-eyebrowed face glowered out from a helmet at her. Slasher One—Commander Michael Harmon—was a loud-voiced, pushy sort. Kelly knew the type. Pushy because he’s not confident enough to ever feel truly in charge. She figured she wasn’t making that any better, either.

“Harrison,” he said gruffly, “you get yourself sorted out? I know there wasn’t a lot of time.”

“Just how I remembered it,” she replied.

“Probably not exactly,” Harmon said. “You probably flew the 1c. These are 1d’s, just started rotating into service when things, ah, changed.” He smiled grimly at the euphemism for civil war. “Main thing’s they reduced the shield output slightly to increase the top speed. Probably did that to counter your Jester friends.”

Kelly heard a hint of anger in those last words. “You flew off the Concordia before this?”

“We all did,” he replied.

Kelly nodded. The Jesters had managed to avoid a run-in with the Concordia and her flight group in the tense months when they were raiding and making civil war more likely.

“Sorry to hear about the old lady going down.”

Harmon winced a little. “Thanks. Still a little hard to believe.” The pain flitted away, replaced by focus on his face. “But we’re going to return the favor today. You’ll be on my wing, Harrison. You’re Slasher Twelve. Got it?”

“Roger, that, Slasher One.”

“Good.”

The Valkyrie’s tactical blatted a warning and the display zoomed in on shifting, flashing icons. Harmon’s hologram blipped away, but his voice continued on audio. “Looks like the Jesters have made contact. We hold position here. No unnecessary communications from any of you. Don’t add even a spark more to your power. We’ll receive a signal from Sacramento.”

On the tactical, taking its data from the Valkyrie’s passive sensors, the Jesters were slamming into the Alliance transport force in successive waves. Kelly took a long, cooling breath to chase the anxiety back into her hindbrain, swallowed to clear bile taste from the back of her palate. They were far enough away that the lethal dance she was watching was already minutes old. She fought the urge to key the communicator to the Jesters’ general address and try to listen in. The anonymity of the distant blips on the screen was comforting.

Especially as they began flashing from existence.

It was better this way, she realized with a flare of realization. She didn’t have to worry. She didn’t have to know. It wasn’t her responsibility. Arrayed here with Slasher Squadron, she was just a pilot again, one woman with only her starfighter and the mission in front of her to worry about.

She knew it was a lie. But it really did feel like home.

The battle around the transports raged in holographic silence on the far side of Fury. The small flock of the Slashers hung inert and on their own to galactic north of the planet, well above the ecliptic plane, where the Sacramento had discarded them like refuse. The strike carrier, itself, and the rest of the task force had burned across space towards the planet before killing their gravity drives and going dark. Kelly could probably approximate their location from their last known courses. But the Alliance would never see them, not with a fight in front of them. Not till it was too late.

Avery’s was a crazy, desperate plan. Almost Jester-like.

The fighting around the Alliance task force cut through its formation and sprawled out in the space all around it, a reckless, head-on melee like only the Jesters would try. Kelly nodded to herself, seeing Red’s scheme. They were leaving nothing behind, a full, closed-fisted punch flung right in the Alliance’s face, to hurt them—but to rattle them, too. The Jesters’ leader knew Avery was out here, even if there’d been no coordination. She knew he’d have to commit to this fight at some point.

She was making a mess of the Alliance for him.

But Kelly saw, as she watched Hellhounds—friends—burn out against the stars, Red was also leaving the Jesters no chance at survival if the Union didn’t come.

The tactical blatted again. From an empty patch of void, about lined up with the second planet’s orbit out from Fury’s primary, a scattering of blue icons fluttered to life, fusion bottles firing up and grav drives lighting, and began to accelerate towards the Alliance fleet. Their scattering tightening until it became one formation, and then two. Over two dozen contacts made up the rest of Avery’s starfighter force, now rocketing in on the Alliance right flank. They’d arrive in minutes.

“Everyone, hold position,” Harmon said with an unnecessary hush—as though raising his voice would alert someone. “Wait on the signal.”

The bile burning at the back of Kelly’s throat returned as the butchery around the task force continued. She could see missile spreads erupting in the heart of its formation, see ships exploding, imagine the second-by-second terror and death. But more, she could see both sides. The Admiral was in the midst of that. My God, what is he thinking at this moment? In his arrogance was he seeing he’d drawn Avery into exposing his force? Or with his experience was he suspecting a trap?

And all Kelly could do was sit, in an inert Valkyrie in a dead patch of void, waiting, watching.

She’d been wrong; this didn’t feel like home.

It felt like she was in the trap.

***

“MINOR DAMAGE TO THE forward quarter shields,” Walsh said, reading from a globular report. “We’ve lost one of the sensor arrays—cooked off from feedback from the generator coils. Otherwise, all systems nominal.”

Eyeing the tactical display with arms crossed and jaw clenched, Harrison saw little else that looked nominal.

“The Ming is gone,” Woodruf reported with a tremor to her voice. “Full reactor failure, all hands lost. The Ames” one of the light cruisers “is reporting out of control fires and fears they may have to vent the fusion bottle and go for a full re-start.” She paused, it sounded like to compose herself. “The Cygnus reports heavy engine damage from that last pass. Her Number Four gravity drive nacelle is completely blown out. Captain Edwards is signaling that they won’t be able to keep up at present speed.”

“Message to the Pendleton,” Harrison ordered, referring to one of their heavy cruisers, “fall back alongside the Cygnus. If they can’t recover the drives, she is to escort her to the system’s edge, with tractor beam tow, if she has to.”

“We’re going to leave her behind?” Walsh asked him in as low a tone as he could manage and still be heard.

“Between the Pendleton and the Agamemnon, she’ll have plenty of anti-starfighter cover,” Harrison replied coldly—pissed that Walsh would even say it, but the ferocity of the assault had rattled everyone. “And it looks like the Jesters are breaking off.”

“Lookouts say we got a dozen of them,” Walsh said.

“And our starfighter losses?”

The captain’s hesitation cut like a blade between the ribs. “Roughly the same; perhaps slightly more.”

Slightly was doing a lot of work in that sentence. Harrison had seen the terrible flutter of Valkyries dying. He’d seen the Jesters rip through them like a fist through paper. They’d lost a lot of veteran pilots at Bolingbroke and in the last weeks around this horrid system. He began to wonder if casualties had finally begun to take their toll on overall Alliance carrier operations.

Still got more of everything, though.

The real problem were the wrecks in the midst of their formation. “How hard did the transports get hit?”

“The TL-178 and -184 are destroyed,” Woodruf reported, her voice completely steady now. “The TL-106 was hit hard, looks to be crippled.”

The 184 had been carrying mostly equipment and heavy weapons. But the 178 had brought a full load of Council Guardsmen. About a thousand gone in one fell swoop. Harrison thought. Jesus. And the 106 had a similar load. “The Calliope can move up alongside and take on survivors from the cripple.”

“Yes, sir.” Woodruf hesitated as a hologram blinked from the communications station. She leaned over the tech there and read something from a globular, then grimaced. “Signal from General Rhoades, Admiral. Shall I have it routed to your ready room?”

Harrison couldn’t help the sneer that pulled at his lip. “Right here is fine, Commander.”

A globular materialized in the air before him. Rhoades was in battle armor, leaning so fully forward into the pickup that the hairs in his flared nostrils were visible. “Goddamn it, Harrison, I thought—” He cut of in mid-sentence, obviously surprised to see his transmission was being allowed across semi-open lines. “—that is...Admiral, my men aren’t going to be a lot of use to Fury if they’re blasted across a million miles of space.”

“This was always part of the risk, General,” Harrison replied coldly. “But we’ve repelled the attackers. We will continue to repel the attackers. You’re just going to have to sit tight and ride it out.”

“Every Council Guardsman that doesn’t reach the surface hurts the war effort, Admiral,” Rhoades hissed. “Just thought I’d remind you.”

“And every ship we lose getting you to the surface hurts it, as well,” Harrison allowed a defiant pause to linger “General.”

The globular blipped out.

“Pleasant fellow,” Walsh snorted.

“Indeed.”

Alarms warbled and a circle drew itself around a quadrant of the tactical hologram. Within it, icons sparkled into existence and began to accelerate.

“There he is!” Omura exclaimed from his perch near the tactical station. The Intelligence officer stepped up to Harrison’s side, pointing. “There’s Avery.”

Harrison counted the blips. “Looks like it might be two dozen.” He turned towards the tactical station. “Can we confirm their make?”

“Waiting on long-range sensors to refine data,” Woodruf replied.

“It’s got to be him,” Omura said. “Caldicott was coming from a different route.”

The tactical pinged and a pair of war book globulars appeared, the first displaying the wing-shaped silhouette of the Union’s ubiquitous Firestorm starfighter. But it was the second schemata, the familiar delta hull of a Valkyrie that allowed the breath Harrison had been holding to escape.

“Mixed group,” Woodruf announced, “similar in composition to the fighters we encountered two weeks ago.”

“It’s him,” Harrison agreed. “Avery’s committed.” He turned to the communications station. “Transmit the pre-arranged pulse on open channels. Caldicott and Nagumo will know what to do now. And recall all our starfighters.”

“What about them?” Omura asked, nodding at the badly-scrambled Jester groups, falling back before them towards Fury.

“Nagumo will give them something to worry about shortly,” Harrison replied. “But we’ve got to take out Avery, first. If there are any Jesters left, after that, we’ll finish them off.”

***

JERRY WRENCHED THE stick to starboard as particle beams filled the void off his port wing tip, close enough to light up the shields. “He’s still back there!”

“You think I didn’t notice?!?!” Josie shrieked back at him between buzzsaw bursts from the quad blaster.

The Valkyrie whipped back across their aft quarter, lashing out azure bolts. One slammed home, dazzled the shields, and rocked the Hog as the deflector converted plasma energy into kinetic energy. Whatever had shaken loose in the fighter now rattled freely and the systems alarm whined a warning as damage flashed red on the display.

But the Alliance pilot paid the price for getting so close, nosing right into the torrent of Josie’s tail gun fire. Plasma packets chewed across its forward shields in a chain lightning pattern. The Valkyrie banked sharply and pulsed its thrusters to evade, going high and into the Hog’s starboard two o’clock blind spot. It was trailing embers now, shields gone and hull damaged.

But the bastard stuck with them.

Jerry flung the Hog to port, dumping as much power to engines as he thought he could get away with and preserve shields and Josie’s guns. The old girl juddered with the punishment, just wasn’t a dogfighter. And Jerry knew they couldn’t keep this up.

He’d somehow gotten them clear of the apocalyptic fight around the fleet, led the surviving pair of Basilisks back towards Fury. Their pursuer had appeared out the melee between Red and the first Valkyrie attack wave, had hounded them all the way down the gravity well. Jerry had been clever enough to draw it after him so Wu and the other assault shuttle—now hideously vulnerable with their missiles depleted—could make a break for it.

Jerry wondered if he’d been too clever by far.

The Valkyrie lunged back at them, azure blades slicing out. The starboard shield crashed apart from a direct hit, a wedge of the viewscreen blanking out to save Jerry’s eye from the glare. The Hog slammed around him. Reflexively, he turned into the hit and the Alliance pilot’s follow-up blasts ate up space instead of his now-exposed hull. Josie’s tail gun chattered out a long, desperate burst, but the Valkyrie veered from sight again, into their other blind spot, and her plasma bolts licked nothingness.

Sweat went cold on Jerry’s flesh. Motions felt light, airy, without any thought. He was as one with the ship as a man of flesh and bone could be. But none of it was going to be enough.

“A little help here?” he squawked across the Jesters’ general frequency. “Anyone?”

The Valkyrie exploded with such violence debris overtook the fleeing Hog, clattering with a sandblaster ring across its battered hull. Jerry was slammed from behind, then flung forward into the restraints. He heard Josie’s yelp of fear. As he struggled to recover control of the bucking starfighter, he heard that cry become a yowl of glee.

“You got him?” Jerry asked through pain-gritted teeth.

“I got him,” another voice said, “thank you very much.”

A singed-looking Hellhound wove around the expanding shrapnel cloud that had been the pursuing Valkyrie and came alongside the Hog.

“Matyszak,” Jerry exhaled. “That was damned good timing.”

“We’ve been trying to catch up for a while,” he replied from a globular that blipped into being before Jerry. Guy looked pale, drained. But there was a smile. “That was a hell of a chase that guy gave you.”

Jerry snorted. “Wasn’t what I’d call fun.”

A scattering of other Hellhounds was settling in around the pair of them, survivors of the attack on the transports, by the look. There weren’t many. A glance at the tactical showed Jerry the rest of the fighting beginning to unravel, the attack wave that had blunted itself on Red’s group fragmenting and rushing back for their fleet, the dregs that remained of the Jesters’ breakthroughs flitting clear.

But it wasn’t over. Couldn’t be. The Alliance still had plenty to throw at them.

A ping alerted Jerry to the suddenly obvious reason for the Alliance pull-back and willingness to let the Jesters just break off. Out past the enemy’s right aft quarter, new contacts swarmed angrily and rushed towards them. Jerry didn’t need to wait on the war book computer to know they’d be Union ships.

“Looks like our friends finally decided to join the party,” Matyszak mused.

Jerry counted the Union strike group. It was a strong force. But he knew, with a sinking feeling, it wasn’t going to be enough. They had the numbers to punch through and harry the Alliance capital ships and transports, maybe flame out a few more. But like the Jesters, it’d be a flurry of violence and damage, but nothing decisive.

There were just so damned many of them.

The sinking feeling became a plunge into despair as the tactical blatted and the long-range sensors acquired yet another cluster of contacts, these far more distant and from a completely different quadrant of the system. Drawn by the appearance of the Union attack, another Alliance force was unmasking itself. The war book threw up schemata of depressing familiarity; looked like the carrier group that had surprised them around the gas giant before.

“Jesus,” Josie groaned. “How close are they?”

“Closer to the Union ships,” Jerry replied hollowly. “They were waiting for them.”

“A trap.”

“Mm-hmm.” Jerry searched the hologram, counted up every last Jester he could find. Not that it was his call, but there might be enough of them left to wade back in, make some kind of a difference. He froze suddenly as his search came up short and he rechecked, counted again. Mouth going dry, he keyed the tactical network and asked, “Anyone seeing Watkins?”

“Haven’t seen him since that last rush,” Matyszak replied.

Others responded in the negative.

“No one?” Jerry’s voice was nearly a squeak.

No response.

“I didn’t see him, either, Rodann,” Red broke in hoarsely. A globular of her appeared. One side of her helmet looked blackened and a haze in her cockpit dulled the image. She cleared her throat, sounded pained. “No matter, Jesters. There’s still work. Reform on me. Matyszak, you’ve got what’s left of Watkins Wing, understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Rodann, take the shuttles back down to Fury. They’re not going to be any more use to us up here.”

“I’ll dismiss ‘em, if they want to go,” Jerry said with a sudden flare of rage, “but I’m staying, Red. The Hog’s still got plenty of fight!”

Red nodded once. “Your call.”

The tactical let out yet another alarm and Jerry lacked the energy or emotion to even be surprised as new contacts appeared, this time from a completely different direction. “More Alliance,” he growled. A smaller group, these looked to have crossed from the far side of the system, coming up from almost behind Fury and becoming visible now as they launched starfighters and lit their grav drives to maneuver.

“Damn,” Red cursed. “Really showing their cards now! Calculations show their fighters are about nine minutes out from the planet.”

Which meant if the Jesters got stuck back in with the fighting around the transports, they’d have no time to then turn around and face these newcomers. They could probably split up, but Jerry shook that thought off instantly. They hardly had enough left to stand off one attack, let alone two.

“Well,” Red said, clearly her throat again to give it that tone of command all the Jesters knew well, “seems it’s nothing but bad choices, people. We’ll take the least bad and drive off this new group. If there’s anything left, after that, we come back and mop up those transports.”

Jerry snorted quietly at her audacity. But what else did they have left? No Kelly. No Tim. No Cory. “Guess it’s just us,” he murmured.

“Just you and me,” Josie called up from the tail-gunner pod.

Her voice broke through the despair and Jerry smiled. He gave the Hog a little power and nosed after Matyszak as the Jesters pulled in close.

For their last stand.

“Hell yeah,” Jerry told her.

***

“THEY’VE PULLED FAR enough away,” Slasher One said over the squadron channel. “They’ll never get back before we do! Let’s go!”

On Kelly’s tactical display, the strike groups of the newly-arrived—or rather, newly-obvious—Alliance task group streaked for the fighting around the transport fleet. A paltry near space combat patrol remained behind to screen the carrier group as it lit it gravs and moved for the fight at a more leisurely pace. Centered around a Nebula-class carrier, the newcomers’ collection of light escort cruisers and destroyers wouldn’t want to expose itself to Union heavy capital ships, should they make an appearance.

But they’d exposed themselves, nevertheless.

Kelly flipped the crash-start controls and felt the Valkyrie jolt fully to life around her. In the tactical, the others were doing the same, icons flaring to bluey life as fusion bottles fired. Most were already in motion.

“Come on, Harrison,” Slasher one growled.

“Don’t wait on me!” she snapped back.

The Valkyrie began putting on acceleration with a muscular drive even a Hellhound lacked. It wobbled a little as she adjusted, controls stiff and sensitive in a way the AI-assisted controls she’d gotten used to over the last two years weren’t. Not exactly like riding a bike again, she thought. But the starfighter settled quickly. The Valkyrie had always been known as an easy ride; one of the reasons it’d quickly become the mainstay of the Alliance fighter groups.

“I don’t think they’ve even picked us up yet!” Slasher One was saying. “Match speed with me!”

Kelly fed more power to the Valkyrie’s engines and pulled up alongside One’s starboard wing, raggedly. The rest of Slasher Squadron tightened crisply into three-fighter flights, evenly-spaced in arrowhead formation. She admired the flying. These kids were pros, veterans and long-used to one another. After the pell-mell recklessness of Jester warfare, it felt weird, but right.

Within the tactical hologram, the carrier group coasted across their path. They couldn’t have made their appearance at a point more perfect for Slashers’ attack. Their course had them intersecting it in three minutes, current speed.

That had been Avery’s desperate hope, of course, by strewing his fighter groups through space and leaving them inert, rather than launching off the Sacramento. The risk had been they’d be scattered too wide and have to race too far to make a difference. But there were only so many routes to Fury that didn’t take a prohibitively long time to reach the planet from the edge of the system. Avery had guessed her father’s intent to make that trip as short as possible.

And now, the trap the Admiral had set for Avery, keeping one of his carrier groups hidden until he showed himself, became a trap reversed. Kelly’s eyes flicked to the Union fighter groups streaking for the Alliance transport group’s flank. The remainder of Avery’s starfighters, they were numerous enough to look like a full carrier strike. But they’d been left hanging in the void just like the Slashers.

The newly-arrived carrier group’s strike was rushing towards the point from which those fighters had emerged, thinking they’d find Avery’s fleet. They were going to find nothing but empty vacuum.

In the meantime, Slashers were coming for their fleet.

“Now they’ve seen us!” Harmon barked over the tactical network.

The icons of the near space combat patrol were peeling away from the carrier group, only two flights of Valkyries. Behind them, the other ships brightened as gravity drives flared and they started putting on speed to flee. But they’d reacted too slowly, would never be able to put on enough distance to get ahead of Valkyries already at full throttle.

“Slasher Flights Four and Five,” Harmon said, “break up the bogies. The rest of you, smear the carriers. That’s a Nebula and a light-class off her starboard bow!” Kelly noticed the ping as he switched channels to address her one-to-one. “Check your transponder, Harrison. It should be matched to our frequency, but make sure. With a sky full of Valkyries, it gets confusing who’s who.”

She did. “All set, One.”

“Good. Stay with me the whole way.”

“The whole way,” she replied.

Time and distance burned by. Though the icons on the tactical seemed only to creep towards one another, the vastness of the void giving them illusion of slow motion, Kelly knew they ripped through dozens of kilometers a second. But the wait didn’t change. The wait in space was always interminable.

She let herself think of Tim then. She wondered if he was still alive—prayed he was. She wondered, with hell rushing at her, if she’d ever even know. It ached, the knowledge of it, and knowing that, even if they both got out of this one, there would still be a whole galaxy at war between them. I’m never going to see him again, she realized. That dear man who came to mean more to me than he ever should have.

Tears stung the corners of her eyes, blurring the glow of the holograms around her. She blinked it away, shook it all away. Tim. She shook again. Buck and Dad. Jerry, Cory, Red—all of it. It all had to be over. If she was going to live through the next minutes—and whatever the hell followed it—it had to be over.

“Two minutes to extreme weapons range,” Slasher One announced, no sense in masking transmissions now.

The pair of two-fighter flights pulled out of formation and slightly ahead. They’d bear the brunt of the Alliance fighter screen’s resistance while the rest punched through. That resistance had accelerated, was coming on recklessly, no doubt spurred by orders from the carrier group to buy them time to evade.

But it wasn’t going to be enough. Avery had sprung his trap well.

The long-range sensor alert blatted and Kelly’s tactical display zoomed out from their immediate surrounding to take in more of the system. On the inward side of Fury, fresh contacts approached. Some of Kelly’s adrenaline-fueled elation sloughed off. Avery wasn’t the only one who’d sprung a trap.

She keyed the squadron channel. “Slasher One, you seeing this? Another carrier group.”

The war book sorted out the fresh contacts quickly, identifying the smaller task force as centered around a Bellerophon strike-carrier. Kelly nodded to herself, recognizing it, and the situation. The Admiral had brought in all his pieces, now. This was the full effort.

“I see it,” Harmon was saying. “No help for it. Remain on target.”

Scattered and mauled by their attack on the transport group, the Jesters were tumbling back towards Fury now. Regrouping quickly, some already looked to be moving in the direction of the new threat. They were in rough shape to be taking on the job.

“Here we go!” Harmon barked.

The Alliance fighters were blossoming into tendrils of death, missiles salvos seething out to claw across space for the Union Valkyries. The lead Slashers responded in kind and followed their own volleys with the strobe of their energy weapons. The oft-repeated sprinkle of exploding missiles filled Kelly’s tactical display and expanded towards her like hell pollen scattered in the breeze of battle.

The Valkyries around her erupted in blaster fire, adding their support. Kelly experienced a moment of panic, not totally knowing the controls, the unfamiliar control stick, or the arrangement of the weapons. Targeting halos drew themselves around incoming projectiles, but there was none of a Hellhound AI’s guidance or efforts to take controls of matters best left to a machine.

It was just her.

Motor memory returned in a rush. She thumbed the weapons selector on the stick, noted the pulse of the nearest halo, and worked the targeting pad under her thumb, moving that pulse from contact to another. The fire of her squad mates was claiming them almost as fast as she could acquire the.

“Help out, Slasher Twelve?!?!”

Kelly ground her teeth at Harmon’s chiding and gave up on finesse, went for a Jester favorite and simply held down the trigger to hose her fire across the targets. A missile flashed into oblivion off the starboard wing of one of the leading Union fighters. Another blew to shreds before it could loop around a Valkyrie’s tail. Someone squawked at her to watch her fire, but she was already blasting through more.

And suddenly, azure lances were chopping back at them through their formation. Slasher Three, off One’s port wing, juked as energy slapped off his shields and ricocheted into the midst of comrades. The middle threesome of Alliance Valkyries plowed straight through still-exploding missiles, diving into the heart of the Union fighters with cannon ablaze. To either side, the other flights were veering wide and already wheeling about to come about on their tails.

“Go right through ‘em!” Harmon snarled.

One of the Alliance Valkyries ripped by to starboard so close Kelly got a good look at squad markings of a fiery angel wing. She didn’t know the group and had no time to ponder it. The flights of Union Valkyries that’d led the way in veered off to either flank, tearing around on bone-pulping turns to face the Alliance flankers. The latter were already peppering the rest of the Union formation as it streaked by, on its way after the carrier group.

One of their blasts slammed off Kelly’s aft shields. She fought the controls for half a second, her out of control wobble probably doing more to protect her than anything she might do consciously. But she wasn’t clear. Hostile targeting alarms warbled. Some of the Alliance had slivered off into individual dogfights. A few, however, lashed around behind them in pursuit.

“We’ve got fleas!” she shouted into the mic.

“Remain on target,” Harmon repeated.

Those targets drew closer in the tactical, but still just out of range as they strained their own monstrous gravity drives to flee. The Nebula hung at the middle of the group, enveloped in overlapping fields of interlinked firepower. Kelly’s guts shriveled as she thought of it.

They cringed even more as particle beams rent Slasher Three’s shields to port and the Valkyrie wobbled with damage. Their pursuer was rocketing right up their backs, hammering out an unanswered torrent of azure flame.

“A little help?” Harmon yowled. “Anyone?”

It was never going to be in time for Three. Another bolt slashed across its depleted shields, blew them apart with the fatal white flicker of exploding generator coil. Sparks and debris clouded around the wounded fighter as it began to tumble. These flashed into slag as another blast speared the center of the Valkyrie’s mass. A horrid squall filled the tactical network—then cut out as the starfighter shattered in a yellow-orange smear.

To hell with this.

Kelly went with a Jester favorite and thumbed the weapons selector to scatter-pack. Another flick of a switch targeted the pursuing fighter, and she jerked the trigger. The Number Three pack vomited its spread into the space ahead of her, but the missile vortices lurched, interwove, and shot back, seemingly straight for her. They streaked by with barely enough distance to avoid her shields.

In the moment they did so, Kelly killed the thrusters and flung the Valkyrie about with a pulse of maneuvering fields. Thumbing the weapons select back to guns, she let fly with the wing-mounted particle cannon and dual plasma blasters. Her missile spread was already exploding, clawed to shreds by the Alliance fighter’s point defense fire.

Through that conflagration stabbed her energy blasts, splashing across its shields, lighting them up white-hot. The Valkyrie tried to veer out of its plunge into annihilation, but a particle beam found a hole and bisected the starfighter straight through the nose. Separate halves hung against the silent fire for an instant before shattering in twin fireballs.

“Jesus Christ, Harrison,” Slasher One muttered in awe. Then, “Jesus Christ!”

Shafts of energy fire slammed through the space around them. Kelly whirled the Valkyrie about to its original facing and goosed the thrusters to catch up to Harmon, pulling away now as he piled on the speed for his charge into the Alliance starship formation. Main gun blasts from cruisers, secondary plasma batteries, missile broadsides, all blazed out at the rebel Valkyries.

“Follow me in,” Harmon grated as he wove his Valkyrie around a blast from a heavy cruiser that would’ve seared him from the stars in one shot. “Stay on me, Harrison!”

Sweat drew acidy tracks down the sides of Kelly’s face as every sinew tightened, knuckles creaking as she clenched the stick and tried to hug Harmon’s course. The defensive fire intensified, became a web of death whose strands only luck allowed them to evade. Something smacked off her port shield. A damage alarm wailed. But a halo was blinking furiously, highlighting the heavy carrier.

“Give ‘em a missile spread!” Kelly hollered.

“Negative!” Harmon dodged a torrent of plasma bolts as the pair of them shot past a destroyer. “Save them for that Nebula!”

Stupid. A scatter-pack spread would scramble a capital ship’s targeting. She knew from painful experience. Every Jester knew. But these weren’t Jesters.

A moment later, Harmon wasn’t anything, at all. A main gun blast from a cruiser trailing the carrier skipped off his port shields, flung him into sideways tumble towards Kelly. As the protective nimbus of his deflectors unraveled, a flurry of blaster fire from a light escort cruiser hugging the carrier’s flanks lit him up.

Slasher One came apart like a paper airplane doused by a flamethrower.

Wreckage plumed across Kelly’s course. She climbed to avoid the curtain of superheated gases, then dove again as plasma bolts from the escort stitched across her own shields. The cruiser loomed dead ahead now, hurtling at her at crazy speeds, its hull aflame with cyan streaks and the blue-white sizzle of gauss guns.

She triggered a spread from Number Three and dove again, left the missiles to pepper the cruiser’s shields. Point defenses scathed them from the vacuum in a spasm of destruction. But the resulting orgy of flame would blind its sensors for a precious second. In that time, Kelly nosed her Valkyrie under the cruiser’s belly and shot out the other side.

More hellfire greeted her. The Nebula’s captain appeared to be dispensing with caution or procedure and filling the voice around it with fire, even if some of it struck its escorts. A frenzy of energy bolts ravaged the vacuum around the starfighter, crackled across its shields. The Valkyrie wobbled, lost the carrier for a moment as raw power buffeted it. But it was still there, rushing straight at her.

Targeting halos converged on its silhouette. Alarms squalled.

For the Jesters...

Kelly squeezed the trigger and let fly with her entire remaining payload. The Valkyrie shook so hard with the release of the volley, she wasn’t sure it hadn’t been hit. Then she tore the stick back and to starboard, blinding by fire and the whirling gases of the missiles launches, praying her course didn’t drive her right into the Alliance hull plates.

Then she was clear, with stars and emptiness stretching out endlessly ahead of her.

To aft, an orange-red fireball billowed out from the carrier amidships. A second explosion joined it as more rebel Valkyries slashed by the burning ship, scoring hits. Smaller blasts walked across its ventral surface as the last of its shields blew out. The whole, massive structure seemed to list, crumpling into the terrible, flaming wound.

Yes...

Kelly didn’t have the words or strength for more, barely even a breath. The Valkyrie shivered around her as speed continued to grant it distance from the conflagration. She didn’t even feel elation as the survivors of Slasher chased after her, pulling away while the Alliance task force smoldered behind them. She felt drained, filthy, and almost foul.

More, she tensed and scanned the tactical. In seconds, they’d done a shocking amount of damage to a force that, left to its own, could probably slag the better part of a whole world—or win this battle. They wouldn’t be doing either now.

But would it be enough?

***

“FIRES ARE UNDER CONTROL,” Walsh grated as smoke twined in the air of the Obliterator’s bridge. A shiver through the deck plates belied his words—explosions somewhere, and possibly screams. “Shields back up to forty percent, and rising quickly.”

Harrison took his hand off the back of the captain’s chair, left dimples still crinkled in the synthe-leather from the tension of his grip. Lights and holograms fluttered, steadied. He coughed on air that stank of scorched electronics. “Get the tactical back up,” he wheezed. “Sensors?”

“Coming up now, sir,” Woodruf said from where she’d scrambled, relieving the tech at the systems station to aft who’d been injured when an overload had blown out a power conduit there.

That last rush of Firestorms had cut right down the heart of the formation. The damned things weren’t as fast as Valkyries, but they were tough and heavily-armed. Harrison had had a moment of real terror as one streaked by the bridge so close he could see blue-flame squadron markings on its wing-shaped hull.

“We have any sense of how bad the fleet got hurt?” Harrison asked.

“At least two more transports lost, Admiral,” the tech at the communications station answered. “And the heavy cruiser, Epsilon, is reporting damage.”

Harrison grimaced. He was still man enough to pity the Guardsmen caught in those deathtraps.

The tactical hologram shivered and pixelated, struggled to take shape. Omura was stepping to his side, eyes lit up by the dazzle. “Caldicott’s strike should have hit Avery, by now,” he said. “This will have been the worst of it.”

The hologram solidified. Harrison saw the icons of the last Union strike scattering away from Task Force Avalanche, chased in some cases by its own Valkyries returning from their fight with the Jesters. The Jesters, themselves, were racing back for Fury. And he saw why with a nod of understanding. Nagumo was on his way, at last.

But the object of his real attention sought the void off to Avalanche’s distant flank, and the swarm of fighters rushing for the circle drawn there. That sphere represented—based on the Union fighter group’s initial appearance—the best estimation of their carrier group’s location. Avery’s location. It expanded slowly as time passed and the possible distances his ships could’ve gone increased.

Caldicott’s Valkyrie group was piercing that circle now.

“We must have contact by now,” Omura insisted. “Are we receiving from Caldicott?”

“We are receiving transmissions from the Imperium strike group,” the communications tech answered. “They’re still searching. Sensor readings inconclusive.”

“Inconclusive?” Omura’s normally cold voice cracked and he whirled to the young woman at the station. “They should be almost on top of them by now.”

An alarm blatted. On the tactical, the school of holographic fish representing Caldicott’s task group flickered wildly.

“Message from the Imperium, herself, Admiral!” The comm tech sounded like she’d been stuck with a needle. “They’re under attack!”

“What?”

But Harrison could see what his mind would not process. Explosions bloomed amongst the ships of Caldicott’s group. Smaller icons became apparent, streaking in amongst them. As the sensor data refined across the vast distance the details of the ambush played out in precise, sickening precision. Blasts shivered the Imperium, limned its escorts in flame.

“Imperium reporting heavy damage,” the comm tech reported with a quaver, voicing the shock and horror of everyone on the bridge. “They’re not sure how bad.”

“Who’s hitting them?” Harrison demanded. “More Jesters?”

Woodruf leapt from her adopted position at the systems station and rushed to the communications console, nearly shoved the tech aside in her haste. Her already pale features whitened to an unhealthy pallor. “They’re saying it’s more rebel Valkyries.”

“How?” Harrison glared at Omura. “Where the hell is Avery?” He turned the look on Woodruf. “Has anyone from the Imperium strike group seen anything, at all?”

Woodruf shook her head slowly. “Reports are coming back negative.”

“Then he’s still out there,” Omura muttered.

Harrison clenched his teeth, couldn’t look at the man. Doesn’t the fool see it? We’ve been duped again! He scanned the tactical, tried counting the enemy contacts. “He emptied his carriers, left strike groups at different points to cover any of our likely approaches, the bastard.” With a surge of rage, Harrison slammed his right fist into his left palm. “The bastard! He lured us into scattering our starfighter power all over the goddamned system!”

“A-another signal coming in from the Imperium, sir,” Woodruf stuttered into the hush left after his eruption. “Distress call. Massive explosion in her fighter bay, the docking gantries are wrecked.”

Which means she’s useless, Harrison thought through a red haze of fury. A star carrier that can’t conduct starfighter operations. He scanned the holograms again. And the Cygnus crippled, too. We’ve strewn our fighters to the winds and can’t even refuel and rearm them when they return.

“We still have the light carriers,” Omura said hesitantly from his side. “There’s still Nagumo’s group inbound. And if our starfighters are scattered, so, too, are theirs.”

“And we still have the Heavy Division,” Harrison growled in agreement, “battered but still full of fight.” He squared his shoulders. If it was going to end up an old-fashioned brawl, capital ship versus capital ship, so be it. He almost felt better. “Maintain present course,” he said to Walsh and turned to Woodruf. “Same instructions to all available vessels.

“The plan was always to drive straight through to Fury, and by God, that’s what we’re going to do.”

***

CONSOLE LIGHTS AND then holograms fluttered back to life, filling the smoke-hazed darkness of the Hellhound cockpit with light.

“You got it?” Tim squeaked at his wrist comm. “Jeanie, is that it? Have you linked yourself back in?”

The full displays flared around him, almost painful to the eyes after endless minutes in utter, rapidly-cooling shadow. The AI’s voice bloomed around him. “I have full restart!”

A long breath exploded from Tim’s lungs, stuttered, almost became a sob of relief. He’d long been prepared to die in a screaming instant of fire and speed. But after that last blast had overloaded them, shocked his Hellhound into powerless blastisteel, spinning through the void, he’d faced the very real possibility of suffocating or freezing to death. No way to go, cast out into the darkness, all alone.

He shuddered and left it behind. “How bad are things?”

“Still running diagnostics,” Jeanie replied. “It’s not good, I’ll tell you that.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured.”

The systems display globular popped up, showed a schematic of the Hellhound blotched in pulsing red. “Shield generator coil’s completely blown out,” Jeanie said. “Feedback from that fried the hyperdrive.”

Tim swallowed back a surge of panic. “How about conventional drives?”

The grav nacelles winked green. “Still intact,” the AI replied. “Plasma blaster’s inoperative and targeting sensors need re-calibration. But the particle cannons are responding and the Number Two scatter pack is, too.”

“Small miracles. So, we can maybe limp back to Fury, at least. Want to try firing up the fusion bottle?”

“I will but” Jeanie brought up the tactical display “thought maybe you should see this first.”

Tim grunted as he took in the scene. The Alliance fleet was still lumbering down the system towards Fury, slashed through with fire and wreckage and attacks. But that had mostly left him behind. What Jeanie was highlighting had been left behind, too, a pair of icons blinking dangerously close.

“They see us, yet?”

“Not likely,” Jeanie replied. “That will change the moment we light the reactor.”

The war book painted one up as the Nebula-class Tim had flung himself at earlier. The other had come alongside, a heavy cruiser. Energy signatures flared between them, almost a bond. “Tractor beam?” Tim asked.

“Looks like the cruiser is taking the carrier in tow,” Jeanie said. “I’m on passive sensors only, but judging by their actions, and by the debris and traces of vented gas, it appears the latter is crippled.”

“Hurt her worse than I thought,” Tim muttered. A thought flared like a plasma blast through his mind. “How far are we from them?”

“About a hundred thousand kilometers and lengthening. We’re still adrift. We could use current trajectory to stretch that into an escape route. It’ll take us time to work our way back around to Fury.”

“I’m not thinking of escape, Jeanie.”

The AI approximated a thoughtful pause. “From a cold start, to a full acceleration for a battle pass, it will take us at least four minutes. They will see us coming.”

“They’re distracted with their rescue operation,” Tim insisted. It was crazy. He knew he was trying to convince himself. “What’s more, to take the one in tow, both have to have their shields down. How long do you estimate it’ll take them to de-couple and put enough distance between each other to bring shields back up without posing a risk to each other?”

“At least a couple minutes,” Jeanie admitted. “And they may have work crews out already in space suits.” She highlighted another blip, prowling ahead of the pair. “But there’s this; a light escort cruiser.”

“We’ll be coming in from directly aft,” Tim said. “That’ll mask its fire.”

“We have no shields, Tim.”

“Good grief, Jeanie!” Tim chuckled. “You want to live forever?”

“I will live forever,” the AI scolded, “in a dozen different memory banks. On Shangri-La. I was thinking of you!”

“We’re never going to get a chance like this again,” he said. “Look at those fat cats, just sitting there. We’re doing this! Fire up the bottle!”

A pause. “Complying.”

The Hellhound shuddered as Jeanie restarted its reactor. Lights and holograms brightened for a moment with the power surge. Tim could hear the ventilator fan clattering, laboring to clear the smoke stench from the cockpit. He gripped the control stick and gave the maneuvering fields a pulse. The starfighter twitched at first, then came smoothly about to port. Shuddering became a hum as the ship steadied.

“This is going to work,” he told Jeanie—and himself. “Power to the thrusters.”

But he could feel the acceleration already, tugging through the protective field of the inertial compensators. A glance at a display showed him their speed beginning to ratchet up quickly. Still, it’d take time to pile on the velocity needed to survive what he had in mind.

“Hey, Jeanie, bring that picture of Kelly back up, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.”

The little hologram reappeared at the corner of the control console. She smiled again, at whatever it was had gotten her attention when the image was captured. Tim imagined it was him, caught in her eyes, giving purpose to the lovely crinkling of her face. He could live in that image, that moment for the rest of his life.

The tactical blatted. “We have been noticed by their active sensors,” Jeanie said. “Hostile targeting is attempting to acquire us now.”

The thrum of the Hellhound grew, started to get ragged as the grav drives strained. Tim could tell it still had more to give, more to pile on. They’d need it all. On the hologram, the linked cruiser and carrier didn’t appear to be reacting, but the escort was decelerating and looked to be coming about.

“We sure the Number Two is going to fire, this time, Jeanie?”

The weapons display winked green. “Linkage issues are solved.” A targeting halo materialized, settled upon the baleful red icon of the carrier. It glowed yellow, still too far to acquire a full lock. “We will have the full spread.”

Tim put both hands on the stick, gave the starfighter a little course adjustment. He was going to take her right between the bastards. Mouth went dry. He licked his lips, glanced again at the speed counter, at the tactical. “Weapons on manual.”

“Understood.”

Chain lightning slashed across the void, frantic and without guidance. Tim juked the Hellhound to port, a little wiggle to confuse the fire further. The escort had completed its pivot and was speeding aft, flinging out blaster fire, but still partially blocked by the ships it was supposed to guard. More blasts flashed out from the heavy cruiser, wildly off target, but clearly an effort to do anything.

“Ninety seconds,” Jeanie announced. The targeting alarm warbled and the halo went red. “We are at extreme range. Target acquired.”

A plasma bolt screamed off the starboard wing, took a peeling of blastisteel with it. The starfighter jolted, almost floundered into another blast before Tim wrenched it back the other way. Something was blatting a warning. He saw a crimson light. Everything was suddenly crimson and cold sweat greased his flesh in a clammy film.

“Not quite yet,” he grated.

Point defense blasters on the carrier chattered to aft, sought the void for the speeding Hellhound form. Tim dodged past a looping firefly pattern, ground his teeth as something snagged away another tag of fuselage with a slam like a body blow. More alarms. But the fighter kept going, quivering as though enrage by the injuries.

The tractor beams broke up and the heavy cruiser was pulsing its maneuvering fields to get clear. Tim stared through a stinging blur of sweat at the pair of slowly-separating icons. They still weren’t far enough. Sensors showed no shields up yet. And he was almost on them.

Come on...

The escort bloomed into dozens of missiles trails, a frantic volley that could never reach him before he hit the targets. Point defense turrets on both the carrier and heavy cruiser worked wildly, tearing up space behind them, likely striking one another in their panic.

Energy blades and debris swirled across Tim’s path. He grinned till it hurt, everything tensed up, everything focused on these seconds, these last heartbeats till he found the moment. The targeting halo burned like a ring of fire in his eyes. The carrier screamed towards him, wreathed in its own flame.

Death chased Tim Watkins, but it couldn’t catch him. Not this time.

He squeezed the trigger. The Hellhound shook as the scatter pack ruptured into its deadly blossom. They were so close the missiles barely had enough time to light their own drives and fling themselves forth.

Tim hit the thrusters and held on to the stick as annihilation bloomed all around him, and flew faster than he ever had before.

***

HARRISON GRUNTED AS through kicked in the stomach. On the tactical display a miniature sun devoured the Cygnus. Then she was gone.

It was all gone.

A sick silence blanketed the bridge. Harrison could hear the tinny echo of voices from the communications station, could hear someone swallow, someone gasp. He couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t. Even unshakeable Omura, standing stiff at his side, looked like the proverbial cobra, struck by the mongoose.

“Distress call from the Pendleton,” Woodruf reported shakily. “Heavy damage from the explosion reported. She got her shields partially up but...”

The Commander trailed off as the hologram finished her story. The heavy cruiser was rolling away from the carrier’s death blast, flickering with what looked like secondary explosions. She’d been too close for even full shields to have done the job. Crippled likely; out of action for certain.

The sudden, savage violence of it all stunned Harrison, even after everything he’d seen. Thousands had simply ceased being in that terrible handful of seconds. But more, all his assumptions, all his contingencies died with them. He blinked and scanned the tactical, took in the full mess of everything.

The disaster.

The Imperium’s fighter group was scurrying back to their mother ship, having finally concluded the nature of their wild goose chase. Perhaps the futility of their return hadn’t gotten through yet—roughly forty Valkyries with nowhere to land. And his own starfighter screen, beginning to wheel back into position around the badly-chewed Avalanche formation, were finding the same welcome. Of course, in their case—with half their number gone—they might be few enough to crowd aboard the light carriers.

“There he is,” Omura said softly, nodding at the huge tactical hologram.

Icons winked across the void from yet another unexpected angle. But these weren’t charging for one of Harrison’s task groups; they were scrambling back for Fury. Harrison counted them, then grimaced as the war book began refining the data across the distance. The schematic he’d been expecting to see appeared, at last.

“Sacramento,” Harrison growled. Another emptied carrier, her main contribution at this point would be as a hub of communications and control. He waited as other displays appeared. “A battleship, a medium cruiser, four destroyers, an escort carrier.” He snorted and turned to glare at Omura. “Not exactly the powerhouse we’d expected.”

“They’re moving to block the approach to the planet,” the Intelligence officer said. “They’ll be enough to stand off Nagumo.” His eyes flared. “But not us.”

“To what point?” Harrison muttered and glanced at Woodruf. “Commander, how bad are our transport losses?”

“Six destroyed or damaged, sir,” she replied. A light was blinking from the communications console and she didn’t hide a wince. “General Rhoades is signaling, Admiral.”

“Ignore him,” Harrison snapped and glowered at the tactical again. “We’ve already lost a third of the ground force, Terry.”

Omura nodded once, stiffly. “Your conclusion is that the landings will now be too weakened to succeed?” He kept his voice very quiet.

“Clearly.”

“Our orders do imply a contingency for that.”

Harrison looked at the smaller man, then glanced about, to make certain they weren’t being overheard. Walsh might be able to, but he was too solid a sort to worry about. “Bombard the planet?” Harrison whispered. “Terry...the infamy of it. Just like that lunatic Geiger...”

“Geiger took matters into his own hands. We have orders.”

Harrison scowled. As if history will remember that. As if the Council or the Assembly will take responsibility when the HoloMedia starts howling. He swallowed back a sour stomach taste, tried to ignore the worming of his guts.

“It will be a targeted bombardment on Union positions, alone,” Omura added.

“And these sorts of things always come off as neatly as that,” Harrison muttered back at him.

The holographic displayed mocked him. Avery would reach Fury at about the same time Nagumo’s force, a collision of roughly equal forces. But with some of the Jesters now settled into orbit around the planet, the scales would actually tilt Avery’s way. Still, even a victory there would leave the Union group badly-used before Avalanche reached them. And that would not be an even contest.

But it would be a costly one.

And this fight had already cost quite a bit.

Woodruf gasped at the comm station. Harrison glanced at her. “What?”

She gulped and met his gaze with glassy eyes. “Transmission from Task Force Desolation. Sir...Admiral Caldicott is reported amongst the casualties on the Imperium.”

The words shattered across Harrison’s mind and slivered down through him like blades of ice. Where they sank in, they melted into sickening pools of dread. A response took seconds to form and came out like shrapnel from a wound. “She...uh...who has assumed command?”

“Captain Yang, of the heavy cruiser Dauntless.” Woodruf gulped again to steady her next words. “He’s requesting instructions, sir.”

Clarice...damn it.

The unraveling started then. He could feel it. It wasn’t like Bolingbroke, where it’d been bruising disappointment, but also the sense of damage at least done to the enemy. No. This felt like Junction again, everything whirling apart, one mishap, one bad decision, one loss after another. And such losses. Buck’s out there, somewhere, in that...probably. Kelly, too, lost in perhaps every sense of the word.

“Instructions, sir?” Woodruf pressed.

“Admiral,” Omura whispered, leaning in close, “we will be in extreme range for the Heavy Division’s main guns in less than fifteen minutes.”

“They’d be barely effective against surface-based shielding at that range,” Harrison muttered back. “We’d have to achieve far orbit, at least, and that’ll be in the middle of a fight.”

“We can take the system, sir.”

“Yes, we can.” Harrison glared at him. “And hold it for what? A week? In the battered shape we’ll be in afterwards?”

“Our orders, Admiral.”

“I command the entirety of the Fringe World Fleet, Captain,” Harrison replied, raising his voice now, the decision made in a lightning flash of clarity. “And I will not continue to wreck a significant proportion of it over this one rock.”

“Sir?” Woodruf near-squeaked.

“Signal back to Yang,” Harrison said, “and to all commands. Reverse course. Tow salvageable vessels, scuttle the losses. Withdraw to the edge of the system. Await further instructions there.” He turned back to stare at the tactical without really seeing it—preferrable to looking any of the bridge crew in the eye. “We are leaving.”

The scurried activity of the others to carry out his orders seemed very loud.

“Admiral” Omura stood close enough to touch his arm “Nehemiah, they will ruin you for this.”

“I’ve been ruined before, Terry.” He sighed. “But there are worse things.”

Omura said nothing for a long time, and when he did, his voice shook. “Yes, Admiral.” He started to turn away.

Harrison caught him by the arm, turned him back. “One last thing, though.” He glanced at the tactical. “Transport TL-106 looks to be dead in space. We will evacuate and then...” He met Omura’s gaze. “The asset we discussed before; she’s acceptably conditioned for her purpose?”

The Intelligence officer’s eyes narrowed. “She is.”

“Then it’s time she served it. Shuttle over there and deposit her in such a way that she’ll have a decent chance of being found.”

“That ship is smashed, her power sources failing. Life support will not last long. She may perish before she’s discovered. She may not be discovered, at all.”

Harrison shrugged. “Then she will receive the judgement she deserves.”

Omura’s face twisted into a cruel smile. “Yes, sir.”

Harrison mirrored the expression.

“We’ll get a little payback, at least.”

***

KELLY’S ESCAPE ROUTE from the strafing run through the Alliance task force had carried her in a long arc out towards the periphery of the system before curving back, and that only before she was certain she hadn’t picked up a tail. No one had followed her out and she scanned the tactical for some sign of other survivors from Slasher Squadron.

Her eyes went, instead, to the icons of Alliance, Union, and Jester all breaking apart, the latter two clustering about Fury, the former reversing course and retreating for the system’s edges. The weren’t harassed. No one wanted more fighting, it seemed. It was over. Avery’s crazy throw of the dice had worked.

Fury would not fall to the Alliance.

Watching blips she knew to be Hellhounds, Kelly fiddled with the communicator control, searched for an encrypted channel not programmed into the Valkyrie’s computer. She knew she shouldn’t, should just let it all go. But streaking alone through the dark between worlds, perhaps the last member of a unit that’d just been decimated, a profound loneliness squeezed in on her chest.

And she couldn’t help thinking maybe she could just run back. Maybe they could just forget the lies, let the truth out. The Jesters were family. Family forgave family.

She found the channel, but it was gibberish without Jester software to decrypt it. Voices were distorted beyond recognition, words garbled. They sounded like primates jabbering in a Nova Terra zoo, except sped up to insane pitch, or slowed down to a slur at random points. They sounded alien—unknowable, now, to her.

She listened anyway, for a long time, coasting along in the endless dark, tried to pick out voices she knew. For a moment, she was certain she’d heard Tim, a drawl that sounded like a joke, a chuckle. She could almost see him, the frazzled sandy brown hair, the humorous-sad hazel eyes, the lopsided smile. Looking at the holographic points clustering slowly in orbit over Fury, she had an insane moment of longing.

She could go to them. She could go now.

“—asher Twelve,” a voice broke the nonsense, full-bodied and harsh with static. “Is that you out there?”

On Kelly’s tactical display, a contact was rushing up from her aft quarter, quickly recognized by its transponder signal as a Union Valkyrie. She keyed the Slashers’ squadron channel. “This is Twelve.”

“Harrison, right?” the woman’s voice asked. “This is Slasher Six.”

“Good to know I’m not alone.”

“Not quite,” Six replied as the starfighter streaked alongside Kelly’s starboard wing. A second Valkyrie, then a third appeared from the holographic void and moved towards them. “The Slashers know a thing or two about survival.”

Kelly chortled—didn’t dwell too much on their pitifully shrunken numbers. “I think we did more than survive this one.”

“Yeah, the ‘Avery Luck’ strikes again.”

Watching her father’s ships continue their lumbering retreat, Kelly figured it was a bit more than just Avery or any kind of luck that’d sent them packing.

“Harmon’s gone?” Six asked hesitantly.

“Afraid so,” Kelly replied.

“Cubero’s gone, too.”

Kelly nodded to herself, then realized the other pilot was trying to figure out who was left in command after the hellish gauntlet they’d run. With a snort, she realized she was probably the oldest of the pilots that remained, the most veteran—in the strangest possible way. Still, she didn’t know these kids. Really, didn’t know anything, at all.

Another couple contacts moved towards them, more transponders signaling friendly. All appeared to be grouping towards her, as she instinctively guided them back to Fury.

“Head for the Sacramento?” Slasher Six asked.

“Yeah,” Kelly replied without really thinking about it, the instinct of command moving her on ahead.

A last glance at the tactical showed her the Jesters sorting themselves out. She imagined the catcalls, the commiserations and consolation, the comradery. Tears stung the corners of her eyes. It hurt, being outside that which she knew so well.

But Sacramento and her consort ships were coasting down-system, rather than making for Fury orbit, cautiously shadowing the third Alliance group, which had made its appearance and then turned back without a fight when the rest of their fleet began its withdrawal.

There was work to be done and Kelly Harrison knew the job. She nosed the Valkyrie down-system and fed power to the thrusters, felt the comforting thrum as the starfighter responded.

“Yeah,” she repeated to Six, “follow me.”