Gorruk had been forced to confirm the presence of aliens on Genellan in the face of persistent and pointed inquiries by the Planetary Defense Command—no doubt the work of the elusive Et Avian and Et Kalass. Exasperated, Gorruk bolted back to his hinds and faced his accuser.

"You speak from ignorance!" he responded. "I answer not for what transpired under my predecessor. The presence of aliens was only recently made known to me, and I assure you, had I known sooner, I would have done everything in my power to eliminate them—sooner."

"That is not my point, most excellent General," the southern official replied, ignoring the insult. "Should we not make an effort to communicate with the aliens?"

"As I have reported," Gorruk snapped, "it has been attempted, and the aliens reacted aggressively. One of our most capable scientists was killed while in their hands. They are hostile." The delegates looked at each other, some skeptically, but most shook their heads in fearful condolence. Xenophobia ran deep.

"The fact remains," Gorruk continued, "another fleet of alien interstellar ships has penetrated deep within our system. What other explanation for their persistence than aggression? Remember our vows. We have sworn to repel invaders from space." The vast majority of delegates nodded and rumbled their acknowledgment. The vows were sacred rituals of their history. Gorruk sensed the groundswell of support. "The mission is clear. We must destroy the perfidious enemy! You will appreciate my vigilance and decisiveness before this is over!"

The crowd rumbled in support of Gorruk' s position. The inquisitor sat down and turned to discuss the issue with his neighbors.

"Your vigilance and decisiveness are beyond reproach, Emperor-General," Talsali interjected, turning to the audience. "The obligations of the vows are compelling. We must not let our planet be attacked again. Aliens have arrived in our system, and their intentions must be assumed hostile. We press the attack."

The second wave of interceptors bore down on the ragged screen. Two divisions of corvettes had been assigned new coordinates to compensate for the weakening of defenses caused by Tasmania's engineering casualty. Carmichael piloted Peregrine One in a mad, fuel-consuming dash to its new assignment.

"On station, Commander," his copilot announced. "Retro checklist complete. Weapons are up, and all stations are ready. Fuel state twenty-two point three!"

"Roger, report in to screen commander." Carmichael set the tactical display at maximum range and noted the advancing progress of the first few enemy missiles. Fuel was now his biggest concern. Fortunately, the first wave of enemy missiles had all been target-locked—the missiles had not maneuvered—and fire control solutions required little expenditure of fuel. Peregrine One had taken out two attackers. Regardless, Carmichael would have to conserve fuel. He hit the maneuvering alarm and punched the ignition control button for retrograde burn. The «backward» flying corvette accelerated to zero velocity relative to the screen's reference datum.

"Eire has taken the point. Coordinates are updating," the second officer announced. "Tasmania's still drifting to sector two, and her drift rate has increased. They've been unable to get her to link."

"Can she return fire?" Carmichael asked.

"Only partially," the second officer replied. "Two of her primary batteries are disabled, and she can't maneuver. She has coverage gaps, and she's masking defensive fire from motherships in that sector."

"Bad news—" the copilot started to say.

"Osprey's engaging!" the second officer interrupted, his voice pitching higher. "She's reporting maneuvering targets!" "Picnic's over, kids," Carmichael said quietly.

Sarah Merriwether stared at the flagship's tactical display. Her stomach churned bitterly. She watched Tasmania drift inexorably out of the grid.

"We are at station limits, Captain," advised the Officer-of-thedeck, his voice hinting of anxiety.

"Maintain station on Tasmania," Merriwether said calmly. "Establish and hold grid link. We are the guide. Admiral Runacres will keep everyone together. Order all nonoperational crew to their lifeboat stations and notify weapons they are cleared to fire."

"Aye, sir," said the Officer-of-the-deck, turning to his console.

"What is Merriwether doing?" Runacres demanded, peering down at the flagship's command bridge. "She's taking Eire off the guide bearing!"

"Captain Merriwether is keeping Tasmania in grid contact," Wells reported. "Eire still shows a partial link."

"She can't do it alone. Direct Baffin and Novaya to support Eire's movements," Runacres ordered angrily. "Swing TDF a half span to sector two."

Merriwether was going to have some explaining to do. She was causing the fleet defensive positions to collapse to one side. The enemy could exploit the maneuver and concentrate its attack. Runacres scanned the situation plot and noted with grim satisfaction his motherships moving smartly along the new defensive axis defined by Tasmania's excursion. It would take two hours to complete the realignment. Too late to make a difference in the fleet defenses, but it was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do.

"Engaging alien screens, flight leader," the konish copilot said.

"Very well," the interceptor pilot replied. The noblekone scanned his tactical display, checking the disposition of his squadron. The other interceptors were in position. His mission was to trail two flights of drones through the picket screen. While the first flight disrupted the screen defenses, his flight was to follow the subsequent brace of drones through the gap.

Everything was proceeding to plan. His tactical display depicted engagements in progress. The alien energy beams were powerful; two of the leading drone warheads had already been destroyed. He wiggled his broad shoulders and stretched his neck, trying to loosen the tightness. He scanned the limitless blackness of space before him, the enemy ships invisible in the distance.

Brilliant light ahead! A flowering incandescence provided a reference point in the infinite distances, and his rocket streaked past white and pink wisps of brightness as if they had never been there. A missile ahead of them had exploded, probably hit by an alien picket's beam of destruction. His flight was in the battle zone.

"Enemy ship closing from sector three," the copilot reported.

The pilot checked the tactical display and saw the symbol for an alien approaching. Another enemy symbol popped onto the screen—this one directly «overhead» — also closing on his track. But neither of the enemy ships carried enough speed; their vectorswere inadequate to intercept. His ships were through the screen! The konish flight leader shifted his attention to the radar returns of the distant starships.

"We can't catch them!" Carmichael cursed. He watched in vain as the enemy flight eluded them, moving too fast for an intercept from his position. Another flight of enemy missiles appeared on screen, and Carmichael horsed Peregrine One to a new vector, accelerating abruptly, using precious fuel. He would not allow another flight to penetrate his sector. "Uplink the enemy positions back to fleet ops, and pass the alert. That first group looks like trouble."

"Aye, aye, Commander," the second officer shouted.

"Our fuel situation stinks, Commander," the copilot reported. "I know! I know!" Carmichael replied in exasperation. "We'll make a pass at these targets, and then we have no choice but to bingo. Set up a lead pursuit. You got the ship."