That was going to hurt morale. Her fighters had already lost their first competition with the Alseans a moon ago. They had been drilling relentlessly since then, determined to prove their supremacy. Unfortunately for them, so had their opponents.

  Ekatya did not intend to lose.

  “We knew we couldn’t finish this with our fighters,” she said. “But they’ve done their jobs. Tactical, find me a target on that elevator.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  From the bottom ring, her engineering officer spoke up. “Shields nearing red line in four sectors.”

  “Show me.”

  The report appeared on her console two seconds later, an outline of her ship with four red lights clustered at the stern. They were trying to take out the shields over her engine cradle. Good for them.

  Too bad they wouldn’t have enough time.

  “Lieutenant Scarp, keep our bow facing them. We’ve got a soft spot in the stern.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  “Target acquired,” said her tactical officer. “Marking.”

  A green circle appeared on the space elevator, overlaid with targeting data. In that area, their fighters had weakened enough of the elevator’s shielding to enable a strike.

  “Excellent. Recall our fighters, tell them to cover our stern. Weapons, concentrate fire on the elevator.”

  The silver fighters scattered, many followed by white Alsean fighters that did not want to let them go. Temporarily abandoning their attempts to disable the Victory, every Phoenix weapons team with a targeting solution now fired at the space elevator.

  The destroyers reacted quickly, sending a flurry of laser cannon fire in an attempt to shoot down the missiles before they could impact.

  It was not enough. A flare of light indicated their success: the space elevator had been severed.

  The Victory immediately activated its tractor beam, capturing the lower part of the elevator and holding it in place.

  “That was a mistake,” Ekatya muttered under her breath. “Weapons, load up for a double spin maneuver, breakers first, missiles second. Lieutenant Scarp, take us back around and get us broadside to the Victory.” It was a direct countermand of her previous order. Their stern would now be exposed.

  Her fighters swooped in to protect it, but the Alseans gave them no peace. Forced to divide their attention between defending themselves and shooting down missiles targeting the Phoenix, they were doing an inadequate job of both.

  Ekatya kept one eye on her console and one on the display, watching as Scarp brought the Phoenix around.

  “Port weapons, ready,” she said. “Fire!”

  Fifty shield breakers launched across space toward the Victory, which had nowhere to go. Having tied itself to the severed space elevator, it could take no evasive maneuvers and had halved the number of weapon ports available to respond to the threat.

  “Rotate!”

  Alsea slid from beneath her feet, up the side, and ended overhead as Lieutenant Scarp flipped the Phoenix in place.

  “Starboard weapons, fire!”

  Fifty more shield breakers hurtled toward their target, which was now frantically trying to shoot down the first set.

  “Rotate!”

  She hadn’t invented this tactic, but she had perfected it, drilling her teams over and over again until they had it down to an art form. No other warship in Fleet could perform even a single spin so swiftly, let alone the second spin she had added as a modification the Voloth would not be prepared for. Ekatya was exceedingly proud that she had taken a new crew of weapons specialists and made them even better than the last.

  By the time Alsea slid back beneath her feet, the port weapons teams had reloaded their launch tubes, this time with missiles.

  “Port weapons, fire!”

  Fifty streaks of light arced across space, hard on the heels of the second set of shield breakers.

  “Rotate!”

  Credit went to Lieutenant Scarp as well: flipping a warship the size of the Phoenix was no easy task. But he was a worthy successor to Candini, flawlessly performing the maneuver for the fourth time in this battle.

  “Starboard weapons, fire!”

  In some corners of Fleet, she’d heard, they were calling the original maneuver the Serrado Spin. She couldn’t deny the pleasure that gave her, nor the thrill she felt watching her modified version work now. As expected, the Victory failed to block the barrage of weaponry that breached its shields. The missiles impacted, creating a brilliant flash of light that briefly blanked out the display.

  The Victory was destroyed—and with it, any chance the Alseans had of saving their space elevator or preventing loss of life as it fell.

  For the first time since the exercise had begun, she looked across the bridge at Admiral Greve. “Shall we game it out?”

  Though the Thea was still functional, its fighting ability was limited. Everyone knew how this would end. Continuing the exercise would only humiliate a captain and crew.

  As expected, the only captain Greve was interested in humiliating was her.

  “No,” he said crisply. “Send out the ceasefire. Postgame analysis in one hour.” He turned and entered the lift.

  Ekatya took a deep breath, sure that the air on the bridge was fresher now, and nodded to her comm officer.

  The Alsean fighters peeled away, all but one heading back to the planet. The last joined her own fighters in returning to the Phoenix.

  With a tap to open the all-call, she said, “This is Captain Serrado. Stand down from your battle stations. I want to congratulate all of you for a stellar performance that won us the war game. You’ve got bragging rights over the crews of the Victory and Thea, but I’d suggest going easy on them. They’re probably still smarting from the spanking we just gave them.”

  Her bridge crew cheered raucously, a microcosm of what was probably happening all over the ship. Even when playing the role of the enemy, winning felt good.

  “Does Greve have glue on his feet?” At his station on the second ring, Commander Lokomorra had released his harness and now stood upright, bringing his head close to hers. “I thought for sure that a double Serrado Spin would send him soaring.”

  Ekatya barely kept a straight face. “I can’t condone your disrespect for a superior officer, Commander.”

  “That’s not disrespect. I was expressing my extreme admiration for his ability to stay upright.”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded. “I feel exactly the same way.”

  The next hour flew by amidst a flurry of reports and conversations as Ekatya gathered the impressions of her staff. She entered the bridge briefing room armed with data and wishing she could conduct the postgame analysis herself.

  Greve was waiting for her, though she was exactly on time, and did not offer so much as a greeting before initiating the video link. Before she had quite managed to pull in her chair, the captains of the Victory and Thea appeared on the display taking up one wall of the room. They, at least, were accorded the basic courtesies before Greve waded in.

  “Captain Kabbai,” he said. “What was your fatal mistake?”

  Kabbai pressed his lips into a thin line, the motion shifting his long beard. It wasn’t as impressive as Lokomorra’s forked beard, but Ekatya gave him points for the elaborate beadwork woven through it.

  “I know using the tractor beam put me at a disadvantage,” he said. “But what else could I do? Let it fall?”

  “Captain Teriyong? Any ideas?”

  The Thea’s captain looked just as irritated. “Yes, Admiral.” With a nod toward Ekatya, she added, “I had some time to think about it after being sidelined in the first thirty seconds of the battle.”

  “I’d apologize, but . . .”

  “Don’t bother. They don’t call that the Serrado Spin for nothing. Credit where it’s due; I’ve never seen anything that fast. You should be training every warship crew in Fleet.”

  Ekatya thought Alsean empathy might be rubbing off on her. She could almost feel Greve’s annoyance rolling across the table.

  “Thank you. But I have to give credit to Lieutenant Scarp and my weapons teams. They’re the ones who managed not to mutiny when I put them through the same damn drill week after week.”

  “It paid off.” Teriyong scrubbed a hand through her short, graying hair. “I was thinking we should have planned for this. Our first mistake was in believing we had the advantage at two-to-one odds, even with the size difference. The tractor beam was our Plan B. We needed a Plan C.”

  Greve nodded. “What would you suggest?”

  “A shuttle. We’ve all got shuttles with grappling capability. We only need to hold the cable long enough for the Alseans to repair it. But we’d need to have a shuttle prepped and ready to launch into battle.”

  “That could be a suicide mission,” Kabbai said gravely.

  “Depending on where the cable is severed, a shuttle might be more than we’d need,” Ekatya said. “A fighter could have enough power to hold it, at least temporarily. It would also have weapons and greater maneuverability than a shuttle.”

  “Plans C and D?” Teriyong asked. “Each of us trains a shuttle crew, and you train half a dozen fighters?”

  “Along with the Alseans, yes.” She faced Greve across the table. “We should also work with the fighters to provide protection if a shuttle is needed.”

  He gave a crisp nod. “So ordered.”

  “Speaking of fighters,” Kabbai said with a twinkle in his eye, “yours have nothing to write home about.”

  Ekatya had to smile. “I’m dreading that. Being beaten by the Alseans once was bad enough. Twice? I’ll have to go back to Tlahana Station just to load up on alcohol.”

  They laughed, three peers enjoying a moment of mutual understanding, until Greve pointedly cleared his throat.

  Like a teacher admonishing the students, Ekatya thought. No, worse: like a bully admonishing his minions for laughing with the wrong person.

  She spent the next forty-five minutes ignoring him whenever possible, an easy task given the expertise of Kabbai and Teriyong combined with her own. They dove into their analysis, trading commentary and ideas. Every now and again, Greve would interject, but his battle experience was minimal and they all knew it. His long-ago ship assignments had been in the calmest parts of the Protectorate, far from hostilities, and his rank didn’t hide the truth: he had little to offer here.

  Ekatya soaked up the camaraderie and the sheer enjoyment of doing her job with competent peers. It was a welcome reprieve until the captains signed off, leaving her alone with an admiral stewing over his irrelevance.

  “Captain,” he said with an unpleasant smile, “congratulations on your victory. I have to say, I was surprised to see you being so effective attacking the Alseans.”

  She thought she deserved more congratulations for not leaping across the table and flattening his smug face. “It was a critical training exercise. Did you honestly expect me to do less than my best?”

  “I don’t always know what to expect from you. Sometimes you surprise me. Other times, you do exactly what your reputation suggests.” He stretched his arms overhead and blew out a gusty exhale. “Well, it’s been a busy afternoon. I think we’re done here. Except . . . we do need to do our check-in, don’t we?”

  In that moment, she loathed him. Having been sidelined by more experienced captains, he would reestablish his importance by putting her in her place.

  Again.

  “Captain Serrado,” he began.

  She drew one hand off the table, resting it on her thigh to clench it where he couldn’t see.

  “Have you received instructions from Lancer Tal or any member of the Alsean government?”

  “No,” she snapped.

  He looked pleased, and she cursed herself for letting him see her anger.

  “Has your command been mentally or emotionally influenced through your tyree bond?”

  “No.”

  “If you receive an order in conflict with anything you’ve promised Lancer Tal or your wife, how will you respond?”

  “I will uphold my oath to the Protectorate.”

  He made a production out of recording the day’s check-in on his pad. “Then we’re done.”

  “It must gall you,” she said, unable to stop herself. “Being stuck here in such a dead-end post. Babysitting me isn’t a step up the ladder for a rear admiral. Are they punishing you for something? Did you step on the wrong toes?”

  He abandoned all pretense. “It won’t be a dead end if I get the proof they’re waiting for.”

  “What proof? What is it that you think I’ll do?” She pointed in the direction of Alsea, a gesture likely to be lost on a desk pilot who had no feel for how the ship was oriented. “Has it escaped your notice that we’re allies? We signed a treaty. Our goals are aligned. What do you think I could possibly do that would betray Fleet or the Protectorate?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Crash your ship on the planet?”

  She stared at him in disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

  “You did it once. Gave them a top-of-the-line warship to play with. Don’t think we don’t know the Alseans are planning to put the Caphenon back into orbit. A free Pulsar-class warship to seed their fleet, that’s quite a deal. What’s to keep you from doing it again?”

  “Besides my responsibility to my ship and crew? How can you think any captain would put them at risk?”

  She wasn’t surprised that Fleet knew of the Alsean plan. It was too big a project to keep secret. But she could not believe they actually suspected her of this. Losing the Caphenon had been one of the worst nights of her life, and they thought she’d done it on purpose?

  “You’re not any captain. You’re the captain who disobeyed orders and gambled the future of the Protectorate on the toss of a coin. By the luck of the Seeders, you came out of that smelling like a perfumed courtesan. It could just as easily have gone the other way. We already knew you were reckless and arrogant. Now we know you’re reckless, arrogant, and you’ve got an alien influence embedded in your brain.”

  “And if I had obeyed my orders,” she snarled, “the Voloth Empire would have Alsea’s nanoscrubbers. They’d be doing what we’re doing right now, developing them into a weapon. But they wouldn’t use it as a deterrent. They’d use it offensively, and in a few years the Protectorate would be confined to the core worlds. So you tell me, who was right? The politicians who sold Alsea for a profit, or the people on the ground who saw what was really happening?”

  “It was not your decision to make, Captain! If I can stop you from doing it again, then yes, this shitpile of an assignment will be worth it.” He shoved his pad into his sleeve pocket. “You’re dismissed.”

  “You can’t dismiss me from my own briefing room. Next time you want to pull rank, make sure you’re in your office. The one place on my ship where you actually have power.”

  He looked as if he might choke on his tongue, a wave of red moving up from his neck to the top of his head. Without another word, he shoved back his chair and stormed out the door.

  She stared at the chair, sitting out by itself while all the others were neatly stowed beneath the table. It seemed a perfect metaphor for his presence on her ship: disruptive and a potential threat. In a battle, that loose chair would become a danger.

  Her fingers twitched with the sudden need to throw it into the bulkhead. But every move she made, every word she said, was subject to spot checks of the security vids. Unless she went to her quarters, she didn’t even have the privacy to vent her anger.

  Hades, she missed Admiral Tsao. Her former supervisor had richly deserved the promotion to Fleet Admiral, but replacing her with Greve was akin to trading a warship for a used shuttle. A rusting one, with ancient seats whose springs jabbed her in the ass.

  The visual image cheered her somewhat. Calmer now, she pushed away from the table.

  “Captain.” Lokomorra’s voice on her internal com stopped her. “You have a call on the priority blue channel.”

  She dropped back into her seat. “Thank you, Commander. I’ll take it here.”

  The display came alive with the distinctive priority blue emblem and a prompt for her com code. She activated the deskpad embedded in the table, entered her code, and waited for the system to corroborate it with her fingerprints.

  Onscreen, the emblem shrank and was replaced by the last com ID she wanted to see and the first one she should have expected.

  “Shipper shit,” she said wearily. “That man has galaxy-class timing.”

  At least she no longer had to worry about Admiral Greve checking the security cams. Priority blue automatically encrypted all security data at both ends for the length of the call. Greve would need a writ from Fleet Justice to access it now, and the name on her display guaranteed he would never receive it.

  She tapped the deskpad, accepting the call. “Director Sholokhov. What can I do for you?”

  The director of Protectorate Security raised his shaggy eyebrows, observing her with interest. As always, his blue eyes were unsettlingly vibrant against his black skin. “Captain Serrado. You’ve looked better.”

  “We just finished a war game and the first postgame analysis. It’s been a long day.”

  “Ah. Did you lose?”

  Her expression was probably as friendly as she felt. “What do you think?”

  “I think you look tired for a victorious captain. But perhaps your victory feels hollow, given that you played the role of the Voloth.”

  “Is there a purpose to this call?” she asked pointedly.

  “Do you know, I almost miss the days when you made a pretense at courtesy. It was inefficient, but charming in its way.” He gave a small nod. “I’m calling to discuss two things. One, I now have credible intelligence that Alsea is the target of the latest Voloth activity.”

  At last, confirmation of what everyone had suspected. “Do you know what they’re sending? What is Fleet sending in response?” She would have to rewrite the plan for the next war game to include additional ships.

  “Regrettably, none of my sources are embedded that high up. As for the Fleet response, that’s already been sent.”