“Get those impellers back for me, James.”

  “I’ll try, but we’re shot clean through at Frame Three-Twelve, Skipper. It’s going to take at least an hour just to run replacement cable.”

  Fearless twisted again as a fresh laser gouged deep.

  “Direct hit on the com section!” Lieutenant Metzinger’s voice was ugly with loss. “None of my people got out, Skipper. None of them!”

  * * *

  Thunder heaved as two more lasers ripped at him, and Simonds swore. Missiles were coming in so fast and heavy even computer-driven laser clusters couldn’t catch them all, but he was pounding Harrington with equal fury, and his ship was far, far tougher. A readout flickered on the edge of his plot as Fearless’s impeller wedge suddenly faltered, and his eyes flamed.

  “Increase acceleration to max!” he barked. “Close the range. We’ll finish the bitch with energy fire!”

  * * *

  Fearless staggered yet again as another laser head evaded Ensign Wolcott. The fresh blast of X-rays wiped away two more missile tubes, and Rafael Cardones tasted despair. He was hitting the bastards at least as often as they were hitting Fearless, but Saladin was so damned tough she didn’t even seem to notice, and he was down to nine tubes.

  And then he froze, staring at his readouts. That couldn’t be true! Only an idiot would run his EW that way—but if the Captain was right about who was in command over there. . . .

  The analysis flashed before him, and his lips thinned. Saladin’s ECM was under computer control. It had to be, and the engagement had lasted long enough for his own sensors to spot the pattern. The battlecruiser was cycling through a complex deception plan that shifted sequence every four hundred seconds—but every time it did, it reset to exactly the same origin point!

  There was no time to clear it with the Captain. His flashing hands changed his loading queues, updated his birds’ penetration profiles . . . and slammed a lock on all offensive fire. He ignored the consternation around him as his fire ceased. His eyes were glued to his chrono, watching it turn over, and then he pressed the firing key flat.

  * * *

  Simonds frowned as the Fearless’s fire suddenly died. Fifteen seconds passed without a single answering shot, then twenty. Twenty-five. He felt his lungs fill with air as he prepared to shout his joy, then swore in savage disappointment as her broadside fired again.

  * * *

  Nine missiles charged through space, and Thunder of God’s computers blinked in cybernetic surprise at their unorthodox approach. They came in massed in a tight phalanx, suicidally tight against modern point defense . . . except that the three lead missiles carried nothing but ECM. Their jammers howled, blinding every active and passive sensor system, building a solid wall of interference. Neither Thunder nor their fellows could possibly “see” through it, and a human operator might have realized there had to be a reason Fearless had voluntarily blinded her own missiles’ seekers. But the computers saw only a single jamming source and targeted it with only two counter missiles.

  One jammer died, but the other two survived, spreading out, varying the strength and power and shape of the transmissions that baffled Thunder’s follow-up counter missiles. They charged onward, and then, suddenly, they arced up and apart to expose the six missiles behind them.

  Last-ditch point defense lasers swiveled and struck like snakes, spitting rods of coherent light as the computers finally recognized the threat, but the jammers had covered them to the last possible moment, and the attack missiles knew exactly what they were looking for. One of the six died, then another, but the final quartet came on, and an alarm screamed on Lieutenant Ash’s panel.

  The lieutenant’s head whipped around in horror. He had less than a single second to realize that somehow these missiles had been programmed to use his EW systems, as if his decoys were homing beacons, not defenses, and then they rammed headlong into their target.

  Two of them vanished in sun-bright fireballs that shook Thunder to her keel as twin, 78-ton hammers struck her sidewall at .25 C. For all their fury, those two were harmless, but their sisters’ sidewall penetrators functioned as designed.

  * * *

  Fearless writhed as a fresh hit killed two more missile tubes, but then someone emitted a banshee shriek of triumph, and Honor stared at her repeater. It wasn’t possible! No one could get old-fashioned nukes through the very teeth of a modern warship’s defenses! Yet Rafe Cardones had done it. Somehow, he’d done it!

  But he hadn’t scored direct hits. Saladin’s impeller wedge flickered as she staggered out of the fireballs, clouds of atmosphere and vaporized alloy streamed back from where her port sidewall had died, but she was still there, and even as Honor watched, the maimed battlecruiser was rolling desperately to interpose the roof of her impeller wedge against the follow-up missiles charging down upon her. Her wedge restabilized, and her drive went to maximum power as her vector swung sharply away from Fearless.

  She accelerated madly, breaking off, fleeing her mangled opponent, and HMS Fearless was too badly damaged to pursue.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Two brutally wounded starships swept onward around Yeltsin’s Star while their crews fought their damage. Medical staffs fought their own wars against the horror of maimed and broken bodies, and every mind aboard them knew their next clash must be the last.

  Honor Harrington listened to the reports and forced the living side of her face to hide her desperation. Fearless’s communications section had been blotted away, rendering her deaf and dumb, but there was more than enough internal bad news.

  A quarter of her crew was dead or wounded, and Commander Brentworth had found a job at last. The Grayson officer manned the damage control net from the bridge, releasing Lieutenant Allgood, Lieutenant Commander Higgins’ senior assistant, for other work, and Higgins needed him badly.

  Fearless’s entire after impeller ring was down, and her starboard broadside was reduced to a single graser and eight missile tubes. Almost worse, the combination of damaged magazines and seven minutes of maximum-rate fire had reduced her to less than a hundred missiles, and her sensors had been savagely mauled. Half her main radar, both secondary fire control arrays, and two-thirds of her passive sensors were gone. She could still see her enemy, but her best acceleration was barely a third of Saladin’s until Higgins’ vac-suited engineers restored her after impeller ring (if they could), and even then, she’d lost so many nodes she’d be down to barely two-point-eight KPS2. If the battlecruiser’s captain guessed the truth, he could easily pull out and lose her. He’d already reopened the range to almost ninety-four million kilometers; if he opened it another two light-minutes, Honor wouldn’t even be able to find him, much less fight him, without Troubadour to relay from the recon drones.

  Agony struck again at that thought, and she thrust it away. There was no time for it, yet try as she might, she couldn’t forget that there’d been three hundred men and women aboard Alistair McKeon’s ship; few of them could have survived.

  But Rafe had hurt Saladin badly, too, she told herself. Maybe even badly enough. If her damage was severe enough, even fanatics might withdraw; if they didn’t, it was very unlikely Fearless could stop her.

  * * *

  Sword Simonds held himself rigidly still as the medical orderly put the last stitch into the gash in his forehead, then waved aside the offer of a painkiller. The orderly retreated quickly, for he had more than enough to do elsewhere; there were over twelve hundred dead men in Thunder of God’s hull, two-thirds of them soldiers who’d brought no vac suits aboard.

  Simonds touched his own ugly, sutured wound, and knew he was lucky he’d only been knocked senseless, but he didn’t feel that way. His head hurt like hell, and if he couldn’t fault his exec’s decision to break off, that didn’t mean he liked the situation he’d found when he regained consciousness.

  He clenched his jaw as the latest damage reports scrolled up his screen. Thunder’s armor and the radiation shielding inside his wedge had let him live, but his port broadside had been reduced to five lasers and six tubes, and half of them were in local control. His maximum acceleration had been reduced twenty-one percent, his gravitics and half his other sensors—including all of them to port—were gone, and Workman’s report on his sidewall generators was grim. Thunder wasn’t—quite—naked to port, but spreading his remaining generators would weaken his sidewall to less than a third of design strength, and his radiation shields were completely gone. Simonds dared not even contemplate exposing that side of his ship to Harrington’s fire . . . but his starboard armament and fire control were untouched.

  He touched the stitches again, and his mind was cold and clear despite his exhaustion. The bitch was still there, still stubbornly defying God’s Will, and she’d hurt him. But he’d hurt her, too, and he’d checked the Havenite data profile on the Star Knight class against her missile expenditures. Even if she hadn’t lost a single magazine, she had to be almost dry.

  He glanced once more at his plot, his hate like ice at his core as he noted the way she continued to loaf along between him and Grayson. He didn’t know how she was monitoring his every move, and he no longer cared. He was God’s warrior. His duty was clear, and it was a vast relief to throw aside all distractions and embrace it at last.

  “How much longer to restore the port sidewall?”

  “I’ll have it up in forty minutes, Sir.” Workman sounded weary but confident, and the Sword nodded.

  “Astrogation, I want a straight-line course for Grayson.”

  * * *

  “He’s changing course, Skipper.”

  Honor looked up quickly at Cardones’ report, and her blood ran cold. Saladin’s captain had made up his mind. He was no longer maneuvering against Fearless; instead, he’d shaped his course directly for Grayson, and his challenge was obvious.

  She sat very still for a moment, mind racing as she tried to find an answer, but there was none, and she cleared her throat.

  “Put me through to Commander Higgins, Mark,” she said quietly.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Brentworth replied. There was a brief pause, then a strained voice spoke over her intercom.

  “Higgins,” it said.

  “James, this is the Captain. How much longer on those control runs?”

  “Another ten minutes, Ma’am. Maybe a bit less.”

  “I need them now,” Honor told him flatly. “Saladin is coming back.”

  There was a moment of silence, and the chief engineer’s voice was equally flat when he replied. “Understood, Ma’am. I’ll do what I can.”

  Honor turned her chair to face Stephen DuMorne.

  “Assume we get our remaining after impellers back in ten minutes. Where can we intercept Saladin?”

  She felt her bridge crew flinch at the word “intercept,” but DuMorne only bent over his console, then looked back up at her.

  “On that basis, we can make a zero-range intercept one-five-two million klicks short of the planet in just over one-five-seven minutes, Ma’am. Velocity at intercept will be two-six-zero-six-eight KPS.” He cleared his throat. “We’ll enter missile range eleven minutes before intercept.”

  “Understood.” Honor pinched the bridge of her nose, and her heart ached for what she was about to do to her people. They deserved far better, but she couldn’t give it to them.

  “Bring us around to your new course, Steve,” she said. “Chief Killian, I want the belly of our wedge held towards Saladin.”

  “Aye, aye, Ma’am.”

  Fearless began her turn, and Honor turned to Cardones.

  “We should be able to run a fair plot on Saladin with our belly radar, Rafe, but tracking missiles through the grav band will be difficult.”

  Cardones nodded, and his face was very still. Honor saw the understanding in his eyes, but she had to say it.

  “I intend to hold the belly of our wedge towards her all the way in. We don’t have the ammunition to stop her with missiles, so we’re going to close to pointblank range unless she shears off. Set up your fire plan on the assumption that I will roll to bring our port energy broadside to bear at twenty thousand kilometers.”

  Cardones simply nodded once more, but someone hissed. That wasn’t energy weapon range; it was suicide range.

  “She won’t know exactly when we intend to roll,” Honor went on in that same, calm voice. “That should give us the first shot, and at that range, it won’t matter how tough her sidewalls are.” She held Cardones’ gaze with her single eye and spoke very softly. “I’m depending on you, Rafe. Get that first broadside on target, then keep firing, whatever happens.”

  * * *

  Matthew Simonds’ grin was ugly as his ship accelerated towards Grayson. There were no fancy maneuvers for the bitch now. Harrington was still inside him, still able to intercept, but this time it would be on his terms, not hers, and he watched her projected vector stretch out to cross his own. They met 152 million kilometers short of the planet, but Fearless would never survive to reach that point.

  * * *

  “Andy.”

  “Yes, Ma’am?”

  “Go aft to Auxiliary Fire Control. Take Harris with you, and make sure he’s completely updated on Rafe’s fire plan.”

  Venizelos’ mouth tightened, but he nodded.

  “Understood, Skipper.” He hesitated a moment, then held out his hand. Honor squeezed it firmly, and he nodded once more and stepped into the lift.

  * * *

  The warships slanted towards one another, and there was a finality in their movements. The challenge had been issued and accepted; they would meet at an invisible point in space, and one of them would die there. There could be no other outcome, and every soul aboard them knew it.

  * * *

  “One hundred minutes to intercept, Sir,” the astrogator reported, and Simonds glanced at his tactical officer.

  “If she keeps coming in behind her wedge, we won’t have very good shots until she rolls down to engage, Sir,” Ash said quietly.

  “Just do your best, Lieutenant.”

  Simonds turned back to his own plot and the crimson dot of the enemy ship with an inner sense of total certainty. Harrington wasn’t going to roll for a missile duel. She was going to carry straight through and engage him beam to beam, and he felt a grudging, hate-filled respect for her. Her ship would never survive at that range, but if she reached it alive, the damage to Thunder would be terrible. He knew it, and he accepted it, for terrible or not, Thunder would live to attack Grayson. He knew that, too.

  God would not permit any other result.

  * * *

  Neither of the maimed, half-blind ships any longer had the capability to look beyond the other even if they’d wanted to. And because they didn’t, neither of them noted the wide-spaced hyper footprints as sixteen battlecruisers and their escorts suddenly emerged from hyper 23.76 light-minutes from Yeltsin’s Star.

  * * *

  “That’s it, My Lord,” Captain Edwards said. “Tracking’s got good reads on both impeller signatures. That’s the battlecruiser at three-one-four; the one at three-two-four has to be Fearless. There’s no sign of Troubadour.”

  “Understood.” Hamish Alexander tried to keep his own emotions out of his voice as he acknowledged his flag captain’s report. If Reliant couldn’t see Troubadour, that meant Troubadour was dead, yet all the way here, he’d known they were almost certain to arrive too late, despite the risks he’d run with his hyper generator settings. Now he knew they hadn’t, and a sense of elation warred with the blow of the destroyer’s loss.

  He’d spread his battlecruisers by divisions, spacing four separate formations about Grayson’s side of the primary as they translated from hyper to give himself the best possible coverage, and brought them into n-space in a crash translation. He could hear someone still vomiting behind him, but he’d carried the highest possible velocity across the alpha wall with him, and it was as well he had.

  Reliant’s own division had come in with Grayson directly between them and Yeltsin, covering the most important arc of the half-circle, and the vectors projecting themselves across his plot told their own tale. Alexander’s ships were not only ahead of the two warships on his plot but cutting their angle towards Grayson. That gave him an effective closing velocity of almost twenty thousand KPS, and the range to Saladin was barely twelve light-minutes, which meant Reliant would cross her course five-point-six light-minutes short of Grayson . . . and enter extreme missile range three minutes before that.

  They were in time. Despite all the odds, despite Troubadour’s loss, they were in time for Grayson and HMS Fearless.

  “I don’t understand why Saladin isn’t trying to run,” Edwards muttered. “Surely she doesn’t think she can fight all of us, My Lord!”

  “Who knows what religious fanatics think, Captain?” Alexander smiled thinly at Reliant’s commander, then looked back at his plot and hid a wince.

  Fearless’s course made Harrington’s intentions brutally clear. It was no less than he would have expected of an officer with her record—which made him respect her courage no less—and he thanked God she wouldn’t be called upon to make good her determination after all.

  He raised his eyes to Alice Truman, and for the first time since she’d come aboard Reliant, some of the strain had faded from her face. She’d brought the relief force to Yeltsin two full days before it should have been possible . . . and that meant Fearless would live.

  But he knew from Truman’s report that the cruiser’s gravitics were gone, and without Troubadour, she had no one to relay from the recon drones for her. That meant Harrington couldn’t know his ships had arrived unless he told her, and he turned to his com officer.

  “Record for transmission to Fearless, Harry. ‘Captain Harrington, this is Admiral White Haven aboard HMS Reliant, closing from zero-three-one with BatCruDiv One-Eight, range twelve-point-five light-minutes. I estimate eight-two minutes before I can range on Saladin. Break off and leave her to us, Captain. You’ve done your job. White Haven clear.’“