On the control bridge of Kildare, Communications Officer Beckett whacked a ham fist against her thigh. 'You're crazy, and a goddamned danger to all of us.'

    Jensen regarded her outburst with no other reaction beyond a blink. 'Question my authority one more time, and I'll see you stripped of your rank.'

    His total absence of passion was all that made Beckett back down. Surrounded by taut stillness that gripped the two other crew members present, she looked down and fiddled a few adjustments on her board. The next instant the chime that signaled departure from FTL sounded across silence.

    'Short hop,' murmured Kildare's pilot, and the next instant everybody on the flight deck had their hands full.

    The engineer called in to report a power failure in the main drive. 'Coil leakage,' he said tersely. 'No way of predicting the stress crack that caused it. But FTL's a closed option until the system's been drained and patched.'

    Even as Jensen drew a pained breath to express his annoyance, Beckett delivered worse news: their precipitous flight after Marity

had landed them all but on top of the leading edge of a war fleet. 'Identify,' Jensen snapped back.

    The greenie ensign did so, in tones surprisingly steady. 'Syndicate, sir. On a projected course toward Khalia.' He would have added the pertinent facts, concerning numbers of dreadnoughts and

formation, but Jensen's next order prevented it.'Where's Marity?'

    'Sir?' Now the ensign's voice did quaver. Naively inexperienced, and fearful of questioning a senior officer, he added, 'We should inform Fleet Command, sir. The skip-runner's presence is secondary to the defense of Khalia.'

    'Mac James's presence indicates involvement with the enemy,' Jensen replied with a patience he did not feel. 'Now find me Marity, fast, because in case you've forgotten your notes, draining the coils means we'll be without shields. We're a sitting duck right now for a trigger-happy skip-runner, and that's our first concern.'

    Almost in defiance, Beckett stabbed at her board. The analog screen flashed in response and gave back an image of scuffed paint and rust-flaked vanes, and the faded letters of a registry code that the years had weathered unintelligible. 'She's off our bow,' Beckett added sardonically. 'Close enough to be in bed with, and right

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