Then the Nightlord’s weapons hammered in, concentrating on the battle cruiser’s tower with uncanny targeting. The navigation bridge near the very top of the tower was gutted out by naval-grade shells. More tracked down the port side, chewing through bulkheads and frames, opening up a large scar in the Yggdrasil’s side.

Rail gun strikes found that scar, drilling a ton of hypersonic mass deep into the vessel.

A scream of tortured metal rang through the battle bridge. The floor bucked, and in one place an errant girder thrust through like a spike. It missed skewering the communications station, and the comms officer, by half a meter. Air whistled out through the split in the deck, finding its way toward vacuum.

Overlapping deck plates shifted and buckled. One unlucky wrinkle thrust up beneath Brionns’ seat. The chair broke away from its mounting, spinning up into the overhead and slamming the unfortunate kaptain into the ceiling.

Marines, stationed on the bridge and highly trained in zero-G operations, caught the chair within seconds, getting lanyards on it to fasten it to a stanchion. Medical personnel rushed to their commander’s aid, while damage control teams used slapdash patches and a hardening sealant to make the bridge airtight again. The chaos lasted for half a minute—an impressive display of battle reflexes. But in that time, the two WarShips had drifted several klicks and were quickly coming up on point-blank ranges.

And there was no captain to command the Yggdrasil.

The ship’s executive officer, a leutnant-kaptain, commanded from Central Control deeper into the WarShip’s bowels; the division of command prevented the ship’s two officers from being incapacitated at the same time. But from that position he was more effective in leading damage control teams and supporting orders from the bridge than fighting a pitched battle.

Goran expected the chief weapons officer to take local control, perhaps even Duke Brewster’s relative, who could leverage political clout into the chain of command. But every station had its hands full dealing with the bridge damage or the approaching Nightlord, or worrying for the kaptain.

Only one station had the presence of mind to continue calling out information, and that was Sensors. And he directed it to the next senior rank on the bridge.

“Kommodore. We are at five hundred klicks and closing fast.”

Goran was part of the chain of command. Technically. Brionns had inserted him when making him second seat at Navigation. But to bring him forward in battle to command a vessel he’d never set foot on before today?

Part of command was being decisive, and five hundred kilometers was not much to work with in space. There was no more than a heartbeat’s hesitation before Goran dialed his headset over to the general command channel, patching in to Central Control.

“This is the bridge. Kaptain Brionns is injured. Leutnant-kaptain Franklan, respond.”

Nothing.

“Comms have been severed to Central,” the communications officer yelled out. “We’re working on a bypass.”

“Keep up heavy fire against that Nightlord.” The most obvious order Goran could think of, perhaps, but it filled the void where panic too often started, even among the best crews. He scrambled mentally for a plan of action. If he’d been fighting DropShips, he’d default to his gut reaction. So be it.

“Helm, roll us onto our back relative to that battleship. Weapons, ready a switch from port broadside to starboard.”

“They’ll have our belly, Kommodore.” This from Helm.

“Better than cutting off our head,” he snapped. There was no more argument, and he felt gravity shift as the vessel began to roll.

“Three hundred klicks,” Sensors called out. “Passing within ten kilometers.”

So close? Brionns ran a tight ship and fought a close battle, it seemed. Good Lyran tactics. Walk a big gun up to your opponent, and fire when you can’t possibly miss.

“Helm. Can we use thrusters to put us on direct intercept?”

“S-sir?” The Mjolnir trembled with new damage being spread along her underside.

“Collision course. Scrape the paint and wake the ghosts.” He saw the uncertainty on the officer’s face. “Do it, man!”

“Aye, Kaptain.”

Goran accepted the change in ranks with a grunt and a nod, his attention focused on the flickering main screen and the magnified display of the Emerald Talon. No captain in his right mind would stand for a collision in space, especially at the speeds at which the WarShips closed. Goran wanted the Clanners thinking about it, though, and worrying about something other than how to inflict more damage on the struggling Mjolnir.

Except that his fast-to-action plan did not seem to be working. The Nightlord rolled top-over as well, never presenting its underside but putting fresh armor between the two vessels. There was no attempt to move out of the way. The other captain either couldn’t or wouldn’t believe that Goran would go through with it.

More traded weapons fire. This time the Mjolnir got off light as several volleys concentrated on one of the Overlord s. Maybe the missile barrages were starting to wear on the other crew.

“Two hundred kilometers, passing within five… make it four…” Sensors sounded uncertain. “It’s going to be close, sir.”

Close would have to do. Jasek Kelswa-Steiner had counted on Goran to bring the Yggdrasil into Skye. One way or another, it was going to happen.

Hopefully, not as a fireball plummeting through atmosphere.

“Bridge, Central.” The voice was reedy and distant, but there. “This is Franklan. Status, Lionel?”

He thumbed open his circuit. “This is Kommodore Goran. Brionns is injured and being attended to. I have assumed temporary command. Leutnant-kaptain, are you capable of assuming full control of this ship?”

A new aftershock shook the entire ship, and blanked comms for several crucial seconds. Then—

“I show a collision course and port-for-starboard roll, with massive damage on the lee side?” Franklan asked.

“One hundred klicks…,” Sensors let them both know.

“We’ve brought a fresh side around,” Goran acknowledged. “I’m trying to make the other commander flinch. I’m cutting this circuit in ten seconds, sir. Is Central capable of running this fight?”

To Franklan’s credit, he considered it for less than five. “Keep the ball,” he ordered. With one hand over his mic, his voice barely discernible, he ordered Central, “Ring for collision. All hands, brace for impact.”

“Fifty klicks. Sir, I think… she’s rolling, and thrusting down!”

In his mind’s eye, Goran saw it coming together. The two vessels approaching broadside, both turning belly-up to bring them back on a relative plane. But as he committed the Yggdrasil to an upward drift, relative to the plane of the system, the other captain had no choice but to thrust down.

Main drives would not help at this point. Not without spinning the ship and risking a T-bone collision. The worst you could have, threatening to break your vessel in half.

Which put Goran above the other WarShip, attacking at its belly and then slashing back at the wounded side it had rolled away.

“Roll twenty degrees over, maintain upward thrust. Light off the mains and get ready to swing around! All weapons save for missile launchers, hold for her wounded backside. Missiles continue to fire at will.”

In the time it took to relay his commands, the WarShips were rolling over each other on parallel bearings.

Weapons stabbed out from each, and fire blossomed silently on the outer hulls as oxygen burned off into space.

Fighter craft flashed between and over both ships, adding their needle teeth to the raw damage being dished out by naval-class weapons bays.

The Overlord s absorbed damage against their triple-reinforced hulls, threw out another brace of missiles each. One of them took another desperate salvo, lost its main drive, and tumbled out of control deeper into the system.