Carmichael pushed back from the controls, flexing his hands. They had knocked out two more enemy missiles, one of which had been piloted, but how much longer could they keep it up? The screen ships were scattered over a wide area, most in pursuit, some destroyed or disabled by action, and some—like Peregrine One— too low on fuel to pursue at high power. How much longer would they be able to keep up their end of the defensive load? The motherships could not handle everything.

Tasmania drifted helplessly, spewing lifeboats into the darkness. Only skeleton crews manned battle stations. The lifeboats, infinitesimal motes, each with a cargo of frightened human beings, floated away on assigned vectors, their tiny strobes flickering nervously against the never-ending blackness of deep space.

Belligerent konish spaceships maneuvered to attack; Tasmania was their focus. Tasmania's skipper noted with helpless resignation the flagship maneuvering from the battle axis to support his ship's precarious situation. He could ill afford to dwell on those thoughts; a flight of two alien interceptors approached his weapons perimeter, another flight of four followed closely behind, and four more were behind those. They were coming to destroy his ship.

"Main batteries are recharged. Weapons has good lock, Captain," his officer-of-the-deck reported. "All targets are acquired."

"Very well," the captain replied. "Commence firing at range limit."

The first two aliens disintegrated just after entering Tasmania's firing range, the mothership's lethal directed energy batteries lashing out with massive power and accuracy. The next flight of four missiles poured through the same gap. The aliens had deduced the Legion lasers needed charging time, and the safest place to attack was through the «craters» made by previous discharges.

A second pair of Tasmania's energy batteries deflected hard over to cover the vulnerable sector, locking on the approaching flight. The battery director confirmed acquisition and target lock. She depressed the trigger button, and the great engine of power embedded in the operations core of the mothership hummed its deadly tune. The firing aperture flicked open and the glassy eyeball of destruction flared for a full tenth of second, darting a pulse of pure energy instantaneously across the great gulf of space. Nearly instantaneously!

In that fraction of time three of the interceptors jinked outwards leaving the lead ship to be vaporized as the huge, hot beam raced through its molecules. The surviving ships weaved and darted, but their tracks were unerringly defined by their common objective—the Tasmania.

That Legion mothership unleashed another laser blast of energy and only two interceptors remained.

"Tasmania's fire control has been overwhelmed, Captain!" reported Eire's weapons control officer. "She's receiving fire!"

Sarah Merriwether' s flagship was also fully engaged; the big ship's energy batteries, located twenty-eight levels below the bridge, were firing beyond rated capacity. Seven enemy missiles had been annihilated. More were inbound. Merriwether switched her helmet circuit to pick up bridge-to-bridge communications. She monitored the excited intership gabble. Tasmania reported two more hits to her operations core.

"Can you help her?" Merriwether demanded over the command circuit.

"It'll be a tough shot, Captain. The enemy's between us and Tasmania. We may hit our own ships or the lifeboats."

"If you get a shot, take it!" Merriwether ordered.

"Aye, Captain."

Within seconds the weapons control officer came back up. "Sir, Tasmania's clean, but she'll need a new coat of paint. We picked the last two bogies right off her back."

Merriwether acknowledged and switched her attention to her own ship. Three interceptors were closing on widely separated tracks. One of them disappeared from the screen—a kill. Moments later a second one was destroyed. The third enemy ship pressed closer and closer through the most active quadrant, taking advantage of the recharging batteries. Merriwether wondered if her weapons people had spent too much time worrying about Tasmania. The bogey streaked within lethal firing range. The collision alarm sounded, and Merriwether felt the hollow crunch of explosive impact somewhere deep within her ship. The enemy interceptor had thrust its knife.

The konish pilot swept past the looming shape of the alien ship, maneuvering desperately to avoid the sure death of energy beams. With grim satisfaction, he watched his laser ripple across the thin metal skin of the starship. His missiles had already struck home. Every second of survival this close to the enemy was a victory, his radar images flashing back to Kon, sending vital intelligence data to Defense Command. The information would increase the success of subsequent intercepts, and his death would not be in vain, for he knew he would surely die.

The energy beam struck with merciful instantaneity, and the pilot's atoms joined those of his ship and became one with the universe.

"Damage control, I need reports, now!" Merriwether demanded. The second wave had been destroyed.

"All operations stations are functioning," the officer-of-thedeck reported. "We took missile hits in the core, Level 30, frame 123, above the 'vette bays. Overpressure shield is intact, but battle armor in bay one is penetrated. Damage control reports numerous residual fires. Habitability ring was holed by laser blasts in two places. Preliminary casualty report is four dead, ten injured and eight missing—probably overboard."

Merriwether second-guessed herself—she should have launched lifeboats.

"The fleet? How's the fleet?" she asked her operations officer. "Three corvettes lost, Captain," the operations officer responded. "Including Eagle One."

"How's Tasmania?" Merriwether asked, shaking her head— Eagle One was one of Eire's corvettes—one of hers.

"She's in bad shape, but she's asking us if we need any help." Merriwether smiled grimly.

"Peregrine One is requesting a tug assist for a no-fuel approach, Captain," reported the officer-of-the-deck. "She's completely out of fuel and Tasmania can't take her aboard."

"Bring her in. Can she make it on her own?"

"Negative," said the officer-of-the-deck. "She's bone dry and coasting. We have tugs collecting lifeboats in position to intercept." "Have a tug bring her in," Merriwether ordered.

The officers of the Planetary Defense Senior Command filed into the amphitheater and took their usual seats at the semicircular table beneath the briefing stage. Gorruk was irritated by the briefing delay. He was too busy to be sitting idle, waiting for others to be on time; the responsibilities of running half the world were pressing. And rumors of strange militia movements were filtering in. Gorruk sat and fumed, his gaze wandering about the auditorium. His scan stopped suddenly. Chief Scientist Samamkook was fraternizing with newly arrived noblekones, immersed in deep discussions, on the other side of the center aisle—the enemy side. Gorruk's anger flowered explosively. General Talsali addressed the room, but Gorruk was not listening. Why would Samamkook be consorting with southerners? Gorruk studied the noblekones in Samamkook' s company. They were familiar but Gorruk could not place them. The cluster of noblekones and Samamkook turned to stare directly at him, their eyes unwavering.

"— General Gorruk!" Talsali said loudly, summoning Gorruk' s attention.

Gorruk levered his steely glance from Samamkook and turned to face the podium. "Excuse me, General. Were you addressing me?"