TFCC, Eagle

Admiral Thomas watched his screens intently. In the vastness of space, even the high-speed maneuvers of the two fleets seemed to move in slow motion. But slowly, gradually, the League fleet was pulling away from the baryworld. Left behind on its surface was a collection of sophisticated sensing equipment, even now relaying information to the Task Force Command Center. The baryworld sensors would be destroyed in hours, but by then they would have done their job. But now it was time to look forward instead of back. Their retreat from the Capital fleet was moving them straight for the smaller Outpost fleet. "Comm, give me all-ships relay."

"You have the relay, admiral."

"This is Admiral Sir George Wilfred Thomas to all ships. All ships without specialized assignments are to attack the smaller enemy fleet coming from Outpost." There was only one ship with a "specialized" assignment—Sapper— but never mind that now. "Their ships and ours should be in range of each other's weapons in a few minutes. Should your ship be hit by any sort of missile, I need hardly emphasize the need for the strictest decontamination procedures. We must assume that any and all Guard weapons include a biological component. I want a moving attack, not a stationary defense. I want to pass through their fleet. Good luck."

The two fleets moved toward each other at a pace that was almost leisurely by the standards of modern spaceflight. Thomas watched his screens intently. This was it, the make-or-break movement.

"Admiral, Captain Robinson wishes to speak with you," the comm officer said.

"Thank you, I'll take it on the private channel." It was just about time for Robinson to get a little nervous. Thomas couldn't blame him for that—if he was as much in the dark as the master of the Eagle was, he'd be a little on edge, too. Especially since he was dealing with an alcoholic commander-in-chief. . . .

Thomas slipped on a headset and punched up the private channel. "Yes, captain."

"Admiral, with all due respect, you're aware that by passing through the Outpost fleet, you're leaving nothing between them and the Capital fleet. The two of them can form up into a larger combined force."

"I am aware of that, Captain. That is in fact my intention in ordering the maneuver."

"Sir? Could you elaborate?"

"Captain, I am sorry, but no. We have had a very serious breach of security already. That Prigot might have put some sort of tap on our internal communications. I may have said too much already. But I assure you that the situation is under control. Thomas out." At least I bloody well hope the situation is under control, Sir George thought If Bannister worked as advertised, all would be well. A quick drink would have gone down very well just then, but Sir George shook his head to clear his mind of that idea, and concentrated on the evolution of the battle.

The League and Outpost fleets drifted into each other, pretty colors on the screen. A dot of League-green light labeled Bismarck took the first hit, flared into incandescence and nothingness. But a pair of last frigates revenged Bismarck, their lasers tearing open her killer's hull from stem to stern. Thomas gripped the armrests of his crash couch hard, and tried to think of dots of light and not ruined young bodies.

Elsewhere aboard the Eagle, Captain Robinson sweated out the battle far more personally as the flagship went into harm's way. This was his ship, the lives aboard were in his care, and he was following the orders of a man he no longer had faith in. At least his fighters were staying close to home, assigned to protecting the flag rather than forward attack. After what one torpedo full of foam worm eggs had done to Britannica, no one wanted to risk a Capital ship in the fore of the action. If the Eagle hadn't been the only operational combatant large enough to carry a planning staff, a full tactical system, bio specialists, a clutch of diplomats and so on, she would have stayed behind in orbit of Kennedy. At the moment, that sounded just fine to Josiah Robinson.

A Guard destroyer got entirely too close to the Eagle, barely a thousand kilometers away, and let off a salvo of torps. The fighters got all the torps, but the enemy ship got away. Robinson considered dispatching a flight of fighters after her, but instead he let her go. Eagle was to defend herself, nothing more. No grand attacks. The most powerful ship in either fleet, and they didn't dare risk her.

Score one for Mac Larson.