Winning Colors

Chapter Seventeen

When Heris woke, she saw that the CH group had not wavered from its course; they had drawn back into a tight cluster where shields could reinforce each other, with the damaged assault carrier in the middle, and they could shrug off the fast, brief attacks. Paradox had missed sixty percent of its shots; Heris sent them a tightbeam ordering them to jump a safe distance away and rest for six hours. Faroe, on the yacht, offered to come help harry the enemy. Heris decided against it; the yacht’s weak shields and relatively light armament meant that it could be little help, but easy prey. If it bumped into any of the stray weapons now cluttering the scene, it would have no chance. Instead, the yacht could flit in microjumps, reappearing with different beacon IDs, distracting the CH crews from the real attacks, tempting them to waste shots on it. That was dangerous enough. And, in the end, the yacht should run as fast as possible to spill its scan records at the nearest Fleet base. She warned Faroe that one or more nearby jump points might be mined.

For the next six hours, Heris sent Vigilance in and out of FTL, harrying the CH group. With every run, the mess on scan worsened, until it was almost impossible to find a safe place to shoot from. Although her ship escaped damage, it inflicted nothing beyond temporary ablation of the enemy shields, and the CH group did not maneuver at all in response to the attacks. Typical of the CH approach: they expected to bull their way through to their goal. If she’d had their mass and firepower, she’d have done the same.

“Return no more fire,” Admiral Straosi said. “They’re trying to make us waste it—”

“We have plenty,” one of his subordinates said.

“If that traitor told the truth, and there are no more Familias ships to fight. We cannot count on that.” He admired the discipline of the enemy ships; they had wasted little of their capacity. Even the misses were close enough to give everyone a scare. His crews were exhausted; they were not used to such sustained fighting, and the loss of Zamfir and Cusp had shaken them. And then Snare . . . he still had no idea what had happened to Snare. It could have been as simple as miscalculating the location of ring components, but if that tiny little ship—yacht, the traitor had called it—was capable of blowing a killer-escort, then he had to be wary of it. At least he had not been fooled by the beacon changes, after the first few times.

“If we don’t return fire, they’ll just come in closer and closer until our shields fail.”

“To come that close, they’ll have to be in realspace longer. Then we return fire.” Then we blow them away, he thought with satisfaction. “They are gnats . . . mosquitoes . . . annoying, but not really dangerous. When they get greedy and sit still, we swat them.” They were dangerous, and he knew it, but even so he had no other options. Xavier was his target; he could not waste time chasing a Serrano around the system.

He did hope that Serrano hadn’t managed to find a way to lay mine-drifts out here somewhere. Or around that miserable planet.

“So—do we close in now?” asked Svatek after they’d made two attack runs with no return fire.

“No.” Heris munched on a sandwich. “He’s just conserving his weapons—he’s not helpless. He must wonder if we’ve got more ships coming.”

“If only Despite—” Heris shook her head at him, and he said no more. They had all debated the chance that Despite’s crew might mutiny and come back to help them—assuming that most of the crew, like the crews of Vigilance and Paradox, were loyal. But the hours had passed, with no sign of return.

“If our packet made it out, someone should be getting a poke about now,” Heris said. “That still means hours—more likely days—before other ships could arrive.” If some traitor at the other end didn’t suppress it. If a battle group or wave was ready to set off when the message arrived. She wondered again about her aunt. How much had she guessed of the enemy’s intention? Was there a worse problem somewhere else, that she committed so little resources to this likely target?

“At best—we have to hold them off the planet for—”

“Hours and hours,” Heris said. “Forever, basically. We don’t know how far behind this group their main invasion force is.” Far behind, she hoped. Benignity policy usually required an attack force to report back before the supporting force arrived.

They continued their darting attacks, run after run, as much to keep the Benignity crews tired as anything else. And the enemy closed on Xavier, braking in perfect formation.

Xavier Station died in a burst of coherent radiation that fried its way through the station and on into the planet’s atmosphere, where its degrading beam wreaked havoc on communications and finally on the surface. The station reactors, as they blew, sent pulses of EMC that destroyed surface-based computers. “I wonder how many were left aboard.” Heris glanced at the speaker, one of the enlisted working the engineering boards.

“Supposedly they were all evacuated,” she said. “I hope the General Secretary got people into shelters downside. With any luck, everyone was off the station. . . .” But she knew a few wouldn’t have been—the last shuttles had been overloaded, according to Cecelia, with near riots as they left.

But planets are large, and spaceships, however large, are small in comparison. It takes time to scorch a planet so that it can be garrisoned shortly afterward—easier to flame it, but that makes it hard to install the kind of military base the Benignity was planning. Heris had counted on that, on their need to be careful, precise. Now that it was five to three—the injured assault carrier’s weapons weren’t functioning, and the weapons it carried for installation would be stowed away—she might just pull it off.

The CH ships took up equatorial orbits, spacing themselves around the planet where their scans and weapons could reach the entire surface, the two cruisers higher and the two assault carriers slightly lower. The assault carriers would soon crack their bays and start disgorging drop shuttles and equipment drones. The damaged one wouldn’t even wait for the cruisers to turn the attacks.

“Damn—I thought we made it clear where to lay the mines,” Ginese said, when the data on the orbits sharpened. “Those assault carriers are low enough—or almost—”

“Maybe they went for the lowest orbits—to catch the drop shuttles on the way down. They don’t have diddly for shielding—”

“Mmm. And they don’t have to stick to equatorial transits, either. Idiots. If they’d done what we told them—”

“Captain, there’s a big ship behind us—”

“Behind us?” An icy breath ran down her spine.

“It’s—it’s that ore carrier.” Miners. They’d had a big hull, she remembered.

“Weapons?”

“Nothing.” It seemed to wallow, even on the screens, a huge hull massing considerably more than anything but the assault carriers. Neither weapons nor screens colored its display.

“What—do they think they’re doing?” Heris asked the silence.

“Helping us?”

“With no weapons? Ha. At least, if it has no weapons, it can’t shoot us.” What had made the miners think they could fight with a bare hull, however large? And why now? Heris forced herself to ignore that enigma and went back to the battle at hand.

So far they’d been lucky. The destruction of the killer-escorts had removed the only enemy hulls that could match them in maneuvering at speed. Now, if they were to save Xavier’s population, she had to bring her ships out of hiding and engage in a slugfest. Not her kind of fight, but she saw no alternative. At least, the CH ships were also limited in their options, committed to orbital positions and unable to combine their fire as effectively.

With near-perfect precision, Vigilance and Paradox exited from microjumps in the positions Heris had selected: within a tenth of a light-second of their targets. Heris had chosen to take on one of the CH cruisers; Paradox would hit the weakened assault carrier; and Faroe, on the yacht, would seem to be a new menace to the other cruiser.

The computers fired before even Koutsoudas could have reacted. By the time the scans had steadied, they picked up the results of that salvo, even as Heris emptied another into the nearest cruiser, and sent a raft of ballistics at the ships to either side of her. Her target had suffered shield damage, and the hull flared, hot but unbroken.

“Ouch,” said Petris, as their own shields shimmered and the status lights went yellow. The cruiser had returned fire before their second salvo, and now poured a stream of LOS and ballistics both at them. Shield saturation rose steadily, then levelled off. Their scans wavered, unable to see through the blinding fury outside even at close range.

“Faroe fired something,” Koutsoudas said. “I can’t see if it hit—and he’s jumped again.” That was good news.

“Both flanks engaged,” said Ginese. One of those was the undamaged assault carrier, now clawing its way up from its lower orbit.

Then one entire board turned red, and the alarms snarled. “Portside aft, the missile—” CRUMP. A blow she felt from heel to head, as Vigilance bucked to the explosion of her own missile battery. Before Heris could say anything, Helm rolled Vigilance on its long axis, so that unbreached shields faced the cruiser that had raked them.

“Good job, Major,” Heris said. Around her, she heard the proper responses, as medical, engineering, damage control, environmental, all answered the alarms. Her concern was that damaged flank, now turned to the less-armed but still dangerous assault carrier.

She kept her eye on Weapons, but her crew needed no prodding; they were throwing everything they had at the enemy. The weapons boards shifted color constantly, as discharge and recharge alternated in the LOS circuits, as crews below reloaded missile tubes.

“Captain—portside battery’s breached—casualties—” So it was as bad as that.

“Compartment reports!” That was Milcini, doing much better than she’d expected.

The reports matched the displays Heris could see. Several LOS beams at once had degraded their shields, and then fried a hole in the hull and the warheads of missiles in storage. These had blown, ripping a larger hole in their flank. Lost with it were a third of the portside maneuvering pods. Lost, too, were the crews of the batteries on either side of the storage compartment, and a still uncertain number of casualties in neighboring compartments.

Only Koutsoudas’s boosted scan still penetrated their own screens and the maelstrom of debris and weaponry beyond them. He hunched over his board, transferring position and ship ID data to Weapons, shunting other data to other stations. He stiffened.

“We got the Dylan,” Koutsoudas said. Its trace on his screen fuzzed, then split into many smaller ones; its icon changed from red to gray. “There’s the reactor, that hot bit there.” That hot bit, which would, on its present trajectory, fry in the atmosphere on its way down, shedding a spray of active isotopes. Couldn’t be helped, and the nukes already launched were worse. Their scans blurred completely, as the last burst of Dylan’s attack hit their shields. Lights dimmed; the blowers changed speed. Then the lights came back up.

“Shields held,” someone said, unnecessarily.

The scans cleared slowly. Heris ignored them for the moment to look at the inboard status screens. The breach hadn’t progressed, and hadn’t compromised major systems. The lockoffs held, and would if not damaged further. Slowly, from the spacesuited medics and repair crew working their way aft, Heris learned more. The hole in the hull couldn’t be repaired now—perhaps not at all—but somehow some of the stored missiles had not exploded. The force of the explosion had gone outward through the hull breach, and the heat flash in the compartment hadn’t been enough to overcome the failsafes on those racked inboard. Some had broken loose, and were probably, the petty chief said, out there ready to blow up if the CH would only be so kind as to hit them. Thirty-eight were still racked, and—if they could get airlocks rigged to the nearest cross-corridor—could be transferred to the surviving batteries.

Engineering reported that the ablated shields could be reset when they’d rerouted some damaged cable. Fifteen to twenty minutes . . . if they had fifteen minutes. Heris forbore to hurry them; it would take as long as it took. She checked again with sickbay: most of the casualties were dead, as expected, but there were eighteen listed as serious, and another five as moderate, out of duty for at least twenty-four hours.

Three to two now. If her two ships had been undamaged, if they had had plenty of weapons left—but Paradox, though undamaged, had run out of missiles, and its LOS beams were discharged. In another five or six hours—hours they didn’t have—it could support her with beam weapons. Now, though—an undamaged cruiser a third again the size of hers stalked her. Encumbered as it was with a crippled assault carrier it must shelter, how would it choose to fight? The other assault carrier still had more firepower than Vigilance, but it was far less maneuverable.

“There’s something jumping in,” Koutsoudas reported. “Something big—lots—DAMN!”

Heris said nothing. She couldn’t help whatever it was, and snapping at ’Steban wouldn’t get her the data any faster.

“And skip-jumping. They know exactly what they’re coming into.” Which meant the Benignity, probably. She had small hope that her own message, sent on the station’s equipment, had gotten through.

“It’s Despite,” Koutsoudas said. He didn’t sound as if he believed it. Heris certainly didn’t. Hearne changed her mind? Hearne led the Benignity fleet in herself? With Hearne, it could be either. Koutsoudas leaned over his screen as if that would help. “The distant ones—it’ll be hours before I can get an ID, unless they skip their way into closer range.”

“And here’s the other cruiser,” said another scan tech. “Paganini, their admiral’s flagship.”

“Well,” said Heris, “I suppose it’s time to face that music.” A moment of blank silence, then a groan from half the bridge crew; she grinned at them.

“That patrol craft has quit attacking,” the captain pointed out. Admiral Straosi grunted. That patrol craft had almost hulled an assault carrier by itself, and that should not have been possible. If only the damn things weren’t so maneuverable.

“What about the others?”

“There’s a big cargo vessel moving very slowly in from the gas giant—it could even be an ore-hauler with no communications capacity, possibly unmanned. It’s no threat. The cruiser’s damaged; Dylan and Augustus have it bracketed and it won’t last long—”

“Sir—” A scan tech, his face paper white. “It’s Dylan—it’s gone!”

“Nonsense.”

“It is—and that damnable Serrano is still there.”

Straosi’s blood seemed to take fire. The bitch had ruined his attack, and his career. The Benignity would have not only his neck, but his family’s fortune. “Enough!” he roared. “First we kill that patrol—we show her! Then her. All ships—” The assault carriers could keep her busy while he blew the patrol ship, and then—then all three of them would blast that stupid, stubborn woman right out of this world.

Jig Esmay Suiza had survived the battle for control of Despite, and after Major Dovir finally died, she ranked all the others—the small band of ensigns and junior lieutenants who had been the nucleus of the loyalists. Now she faced the grizzled, balding senior NCO, Master Chief Vesec, who had just called her “Captain” and asked for orders.

She managed not to say, “Me?” and instead said, “Dovir’s dead, then?”

“Yes, Captain Suiza.” There had been a time when she dreamed of hearing that . . . of coming aboard her first command, of being congratulated. Now she stared back, her mind foggy with fatigue. Vesec stood in front of her, a stocky man her father’s age, with her father’s air of impatience with youthful indecision. She was captain. She had to know what to do. She wanted to burst into tears. She didn’t.

“Position?” she heard herself ask, in a voice steadier than it had been five minutes before.

“Three minutes from FTL exit through jump point Balrog.” That didn’t give her much time.

“Balrog has a Fleet relay,” she said.

“Yes, sir. Also there’s usually a manned station.” A wave of relief washed over her. Help. Someone senior who would tell her what to do.

“We’ll drop a packet,” she said.

“If the captain permits—” he said.

“Yes?”

“It might be wise to take precautions. Sometimes when the Benignity attacks, they’ve mined nearby jump points.”

She hadn’t thought of that. She hadn’t known about that. “And what would Captain—what’s a good way of being careful?” Graceless, but the sense got across. He rewarded her with a careful smile.

“Low relative vee insertion. Shields hot as we come out. Wait for scans to recover.”

“Very well,” she said. “Then make it so.”

“Yes, sir.” A ghost of a twinkle as he turned away. She saw covert glances from others on the bridge. Peli, only six months junior, who had proved more than once he was better at things than she was. He stared at her, then his lips moved. She read them easily. Oh—yes. The captain’s formal announcement of command. She moved over to the command position and picked up the command wand Dovir had given her after he was shot. She couldn’t sit—the command chair still stank of blood and guts—and she had to lean down to insert it in the slot.

“Attention all posts.” They had had to memorize this, back in the Academy, and she remembered saying it to the mirror, to her roomies, to the shower wall. “This is Lieutenant Junior Grade Esmay Suiza, assuming command of the patrol craft Despite, upon the deaths of all officers senior in the chain of command.” She had never commanded anything bigger than a training shuttle, and now—she wouldn’t think of it. The computer requested her serial number; she gave it automatically. Then it was over, and she was formally and finally in command. Her vision wavered.

Peli came closer. “Captain,” he said formally. The challenge she usually saw in his eyes was missing. “Captain, we’re not going back, are we?”

“Back?” She hadn’t thought that far; it had been Dovir’s decision to run for help, to call in Fleet. Now it was hers; she shook her head. “We’re coming out of jump to make our report, Peli. What we do next depends on what we find.”

Jump exit brought a ripple of light to the blanked scan screens. Gradually, the ripples steadied, and became points of light, icons tagged with ID numbers, colored lines defining traffic lanes in the Balrog system. Debris sparkled in a ragged shell around the jump point.

“Debris,” Master Chief Vesec confirmed her guess. “One thing about it, whoever got blown took most of the mines with him.” Esmay felt cold. That could have been their ship, coming out of jump with high vee, fleeing trouble.

“The Fleet picket?” she asked. None of the icons showed a Fleet ID; she could see that for herself. All were far away, days or weeks of travel at normal insystem velocities, and all were civilian.

“We’ll hope not,” Vesec said.

“Launch that packet,” Esmay said, as steadily as she could. “Estimate time to a Fleet node with live pickup.”

“Three or four days, sir.” Add to that the response time, and it meant that those two ships back at Xavier would be sparkling debris in someone else’s scan by the time help arrived. The juniors had discussed that, in the hours before someone appeared to offer them a place in the mutiny.

She didn’t want to go back. She had no combat experience. She knew nothing about commanding this size ship on a routine voyage, let alone in combat. She could get them all killed without helping Serrano at all. The smart thing to do was go on, take the jump sequences as fast as possible, back to the central zones, and find an admiral with a battle group ready to go.

She had been a very green ensign, shy, afraid that everyone could see through her shiny insignia and new uniform to the fear—and she had stumbled and dropped her duffel right at the feet of a couple of senior officers waiting to enter the lift. One of them had laughed, and said, “They get younger every year.” The other had picked up her scattered datacubes, and said, “Ah—your specialty’s scan technology? Good—we’ve got an excellent Chief. You’ll like him.”

She had never forgotten that face. She had gotten in a disgraceful (so her commander said) fight with another Jig when Heris Serrano left the Fleet, defending her. And she had seen that face again, trying to talk Hearne into turning around . . . Dovir had played the tape for any doubters among the mutineers.

“We’re going back,” she said. Vesec looked startled, but didn’t argue. “I want the fastest possible transit back into Xavier. They can’t wait.” She still didn’t want to go back, any more than she’d wanted to be part of a mutiny, to have Dovir’s blood and organs splashed into her face, to have this command. But it was her ship now, and she would do what she had to.

“Prepare for battle,” she said, when they were back in jumpspace. No one argued. No one bothered her at all. She still had no idea how she was going to fight, but she would.

“They’re after Paradox,” Koutsoudas said.

“And she’s out of darts,” Heris said. “Dammit, Tinsi, get her out of there!” But the patrol ship was too close to the planet to risk jump, and at these distances its maneuvering advantage disappeared. Scan showed acceleration, but the need to keep the screens on full combat strength held it well below maximum. Then the rising curve took Paradox out of their line of sight, behind the planet. She would have to go closer to Paganini before she could pull away. If she could.

Vigilance couldn’t help. Their flank screens were still down, though the engineers kept saying, “Just another minute or two,” and the damaged assault carrier lobbed enough missiles at them to keep them busy, shifting so that those which broke through met solid shields.

“It’s not Hearne, on Despite,” Koutsoudas said a few minutes later. “Someone named Suiza.”

A moment later, someone said, “By the crew list, that’s a Jig. What’d they have, a mutiny?”

“Must have.” Heris had other things to worry about than who had killed whom on Despite. “But why are they here now?”

“They’re coming almighty fast,” Koutsoudas said. Their scan icon had the bright blue edge meaning a relative vee in major fractions of lightspeed. “Came out fast, and haven’t slowed. Their scans will be useless.”

“They’re running on maps,” Heris said. “Can they slow that thing by Xavier, or are they going to blow by?”

“Wait—there it is—they are braking—by timelag, that’s two hours back—” The scan fragmented, as the incoming ship’s relativistic motion skewed all the data. When it steadied again, Despite was only hours away. Now the audio broke up, until finally Heris could hear a very young voice announcing their arrival.

“Regular Space Service patrol craft Despite, Esmay Suiza commanding . . . in advance of a Familias Regnant force—” She probably hoped that would scare off the Benignity ships; Heris knew it wouldn’t. They had lost too much; they would fight to the death now, having no alternative.

“At least her weapons are hot,” Ginese said, as the newcomer lit up the scan screens like fireworks.

“No Jig can fight an admiral of the Compassionate Hand on his own flagship,” Oblo said. “He’s no fool. . . .”

Despite had arrived with too much relative velocity, and now she swung wide of Xavier, still trying to brake. “Fire now!” Ginese pleaded. “Dammit—microjump into position—do something—” But Despite rolled on.

A moment later, just as Paradox came back into line of sight, clawing its way up, its shields flared.

“Damn,” Heris said. “He’s going to lose them—” Now they could see the enemy cruiser, in the textbook position for killing smaller, faster ships. Its greater firepower had full weight now; the shields flared again and again, each time a little more. Heris wanted to close her eyes, but forced herself to watch. Toward the end, Tinsi must have realized his position was hopeless. Suddenly Paradox accelerated, full power—

“He cut the shields,” breathed Ginese. “He’s going to ram—”

“He’s too far away.” Koutsoudas was right; the Benignity commander hadn’t let Paradox get close enough for that. Instead, a final round of fire poured into the unprotected ship, and Paradox blew. The enemy cruiser’s shields sparkled briefly as it fended off debris. One thousand, eight hundred, twenty-three, Heris thought . . . no one was going to survive that blast.

“Well.” Koutsoudas looked up a moment, and rubbed his eyes. “Dammit—if that idiot on Despite had done something—anything—to distract that admiral . . .”

“Later,” Heris said. If they had a later. Even with Despite, the odds were no better than before, and she could not count on an inexperienced captain. Three to one, she faced—and here came the cruiser, and the other assault carrier.

“Shields are up,” said an engineering rating.

“Good,” said Heris. It didn’t make that much difference. They’d lost over half their remaining missiles; they were outgunned and too close to the planet to go into jump. But shields would help—at least delay the end.

The end came first to one of the assault carriers, the one with damaged shields. Heris, concentrating on the enemy cruiser, had no idea why the carrier suddenly burst and spewed its load of vehicles and personnel and heavy equipment into space. No one did, until afterward, when the sole survivor of the shuttle that had used its phase cannon told them. At the time, she assumed that Despite had gotten off a lucky shot.

The captain of the other assault carrier reacted by taking his ship down—trying to cut beneath Vigilance and perhaps also release his load. He paid for this mistake when he hit a drift of mines so crudely made that they neither showed on his sensors nor responded to countermeasures intended to make mines blow prematurely. Individually, or clustered at any distance, they could not have damaged the ship, but enough of them in direct contact, lodged in the many crevices a deep-space ship offered, blew a sizeable hole in the hull. The carrier immediately launched its drop shuttles, only to have most of them blown by other orbiting mines on the way down.

Heris had no leisure to enjoy his plight, for the remaining cruiser attacked with all its force. Vigilance faced the same problems as Paradox; its shields bled power from the drive, and kept them from using their superior speed and maneuverability. Through the maelstrom that combat made of their scans, no one could find Despite.

“If she’d only come up his rear,” Ginese said. “She couldn’t blow him, but she could distract him—take a little of the heat off us—”

Then the Paganini blew, a burst of debris and radiation that completely blanked their screens. “Ouch,” said Koutsoudas. Heris said nothing. She didn’t quite believe it. She would have pinched herself if a dozen people hadn’t been staring at her, their faces full of her own disbelief.

When the scans cleared at last, Despite hung steady, a light-second away, with a very nervous-looking young Jig on a tightbeam link to Vigilance.

The extra signals Koutsoudas had noted when Despite first blew into the system belonged to Regular Space Service ships: cruisers, patrols, escorts, battle platforms, and the supply and service ships needed to keep them going—tankers, minelayers, minesweepers, troop carriers.

“The question is,” Heris said, “whether they’re with us or against us.” She felt drained; what she saw in the faces of her crew was the same exhaustion. “Considering the last multiple arrivals—”

“More likely they’re answering your signals.” Koutsoudas fiddled with his scans, and grunted as if surprised. “Well, Captain—it’s family, whether that pleases you or not. That’s the Harrier, Admiral Vida Serrano’s flagship. Signalling admiral aboard, too.”

“At us, or in general?”

“In general. They won’t have us on scan yet.” Even after so long, even with exhaustion dragging the flesh below his eyes into dark pockets, he still had that smug tone about his scans. And deserved to.

“Fine,” Heris said. “Then continue our present broadcast, and I want this shift bridge crew to go down for six hours.”

“We’re as rested as the others,” Ginese protested.

“Which is not rested at all. I want my mainshift crew rested first, then the others in rotation. Tabs for all. Oh—and add a timetag to that broadcast, with the end-of-battle-all-secured code. That way they won’t have conniptions if they come roaring in and find out I’m asleep.” They would anyway, but she would tell the next shift to wake her, once she’d gotten this gaggle off to their racks.

The second shift, called back, looked no worse than the ones they relieved. Heris waited to be sure the young major understood what to do, then headed for her quarters. She had to be awake and alert for the coming confrontation with her aunt. She remembered to put in a call to Despite, telling them to get some rest, then fell into dreamless sleep.

She woke feeling entirely too rested, and a glance at the chronometer told her why. Nine solid hours? She would rip the hide off someone, just as soon as she quit yawning. A shower woke her the rest of the way and she came back into the compartment wishing she had a clean uniform. The one she had worn for days looked almost as bad as it smelled.

In that brief interval, someone had made her bunk. Someone had also laid out a clean uniform. She could see where other insignia had been hastily removed, and the right number of rings sewn on. She tried it on; although it was a bit loose and slightly longer than she preferred, it would do. As she fastened the collar, the com chimed. She grinned. Of course they knew.

“Yes?”

“Captain, if that uniform fits, we can have a complete set ready in a few hours.” She didn’t recognize the voice; it wasn’t any of her former crew.

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s fine. Whom may I thank for the loan of it?”

“Lieutenant Harrell is pleased to be of service, sir.”

“I’m most grateful,” Heris said. She noted the name on her personal pad, and headed for the bridge. The familiar uniform felt so comforting—it was going to be hard to take strips off a crew that took such good care of her.

The bridge officer, Milcini again, looked guilty when she glared at him. “He said to let you sleep,” he said. “I thought it was your orders, sir.”

“He who?” Heris asked.

“Me, sir.” Major Svatek, bleary-eyed and haggard. “I know what you said, but we haven’t had any urgent messages, and the incoming group hasn’t changed course. It’s continuing to decelerate. The senior surgeon recommended that all shifts take a full eight hours—”

“You haven’t,” Heris pointed out. “Does this mean second shift’s just going off?”

“No, sir. If the captain recalls, second and third had been on a four-hour rollover standby, while first was on that last long watch. First went out, and after four hours I sent second down, and brought in third. First had eight hours off, six in full assisted sleep; second’s been down for five hours, and third’s just gone down. In another three hours, second will have had its eight hours, and by the time they’re off—”

“Makes sense,” Heris said. It wasn’t what she’d ordered, but it was what she would have ordered if she’d been thinking clearly. “Good decision. Now—why are you still on the bridge?”

He grinned. “Because, Captain, I’m the one whose neck you could wring if you wanted to.”

“Better decision.” She had to admire that. “Now—take yourself off to bed and don’t come back until you’ve slept it out. At least eight hours. And this time, obey orders.” She put no sting in that last.

“Yes, sir.” A pause, then, “If I could make a suggestion, Captain?”

“Of course.”

“The galleys are back in operation. I’m sure they’d be glad to send something up.”

Heris felt her mouth curling into a grin. “What are you, my medical advisor? No—never mind—you’re right. I presume first shift ate on the way up?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Go on now—don’t hover.” He smiled and left the bridge. Heris looked around, checking each position. Everything seemed normal, as normal as it could be with a hole in the side of the ship and a civilian very illegally in command of it. She checked the status of the casualties in sickbay, the progress of repairs, and realized that Svatek was right. She needed food.

“I’m going to my office,” she said to Milcini. “You have the bridge.”