Gabe sighed and fidgeted with his collar. He hated the dress uniform of the Wayfarer Defenders, though today he was obligated to wear it. It seemed that almost every possible feature of the uniform had been tailored for discomfort. The stiff, high collar of the black dress coat pressed far too near his throat, and if he turned his head too far, it tended to choke him. The dark tunic beneath it was a little better, though the tailor who had made it seemed to have been focused on soft fabric rather than something that breathed without giving the wearer the impression that he had been trapped in an oven. The pants, while relatively loose, had been tampered with as well. The gold stripes down the sides felt ostentatious, and golden buttons up the front of the coat completed the distasteful thing. If he had been asked his opinion near the start of the Defenders, the whole sorry mess would never have been created.
Unfortunately for him, his father had insisted on the fool thing. Even more frustrating, his father usually asked him to wear it in situations where Gabe already felt uncomfortable, such as for meetings with the local dignitaries or in press conferences. Today, his father hadn’t mentioned who they would be meeting with, but Gabe was sure that the afternoon wasn’t going to be fun.
His attitude had improved a little once he had received a message letting him know Derek had regained consciousness. Gabe had not known if Derek would make it when his friend had been pulled from the wreckage of his rig. His fellow pilot had been unconscious and bleeding, but Gabe had set his hopes on the Lord’s mercy and the skill of the doctors. Now the medical staff was saying that his friend would not only recover, but might actually be able to fly again.
Which was the reason that, dress uniform or no, Gabe entered the conference room with a whistle on his lips. He found his father waiting there, already seated at the fine wooden table. He smiled and waved a greeting to him, which Clark Miller returned. To others, it might have seemed inappropriate to treat the Speaker of the Way in such a manner, but to Gabe, he was his dad as much as he was a seer and prophet.
The room’s second occupant frowned, obviously unhappy with the casual display, which was something that didn’t surprise Gabe. Colonel Andrew Mccalister had been in charge of the rig flights guarding New Sonora for three months now, practically since the beginning of the Defenders, and the job hadn’t improved his disposition very much. His face was heavily lined, a mark of the stress and constant effort his job cost him, and he had a look in his eyes that reminded Gabe of a tired, angry dog ready to bite.
Then Gabe caught sight of the final person in the room and came to a momentary stop.
She stood near the window, dressed in a formal uniform that reminded Gabe of the one worn by Directorate naval forces. The gray tunic and pants were sharply pressed, and the dark stripes that accentuated the shoulders were decorated with several combat ribbons. Her hair was uncovered and drawn into a braid that fell just past her shoulders, and her hands were clasped at the small of her back. When she turned to face him, dark eyes in a calm face surveyed him for a moment, somehow authoritative despite her slightly shorter height. Compared to that quiet confidence, Gabriel suddenly felt awkward, a feeling worsened by the fact that he realized he had been staring at her for a rather rude amount of time.
His father coughed and drew Gabe’s attention back to him. “Gabriel, this is Susan Delacourt. I felt it would be wise to introduce her to one of our most highly competent officers. Susan, this is Lieutenant Gabriel Miller, our leading rig pilot and my son.” Gabe caught a sparkle of mischief in his father’s eyes and managed to recover somewhat. When his father got that look, it was always a good idea to be on guard.
“Only because you never managed to trade me in for something better, Father.” Gabe turned back to the woman as the Speaker chuckled. He approached her and held out a hand. “Ms. Delacourt, it’s good to meet you.”
She took his hand and shook it. Her grip was firm, professional, and most of all, detached. “It is good to meet you as well, Lieutenant Miller. I will be relying on your expertise in the near future.”
Gabe blinked. He glanced at his father and found only that same sparkle of hidden humor dancing in his eyes. “My expertise? What do you mean?”
Delacourt blinked. “As of tomorrow, I will be taking command of the fleet, including your rig complement. Since I do not have extensive experience with rig squadrons, your perspective would be valuable.”
The statement brought Gabe up short. A new commander—now of all times? And an outsider on top of that? He looked back at Colonel Mccalister, and suddenly the hateful look in his former commander’s eyes made much more sense. This meeting was about to become very, very interesting, and not in a good way.
Susan caught the worried glance toward Colonel Mccalister, but she had expected it. Speaker Miller had not told his officers of the change in command, and she knew there would be discontent, especially among the more entrenched commanders. The colonel had not disappointed her so far, staring at her with visible distaste before the Speaker’s son had arrived. Fortunately, Lieutenant Miller did not look back at her with the same kind of animosity. Instead, when he returned his attention to her, he simply nodded. “Glad to have you with us then, Ms. Delacourt.”
“Admiral Delacourt, actually.” The correction brought the lieutenant’s eyebrows up and drew an angry grunt from the colonel, but she forged ahead, her voice still even. “I heard you are one of the best pilots in the fleet, and have an intuitive grasp of how to deploy rigs to the best advantage. Therefore, you will be placed in command of the rigs in the Defense force.”
The statement appeared to take the pilot by surprise. He stared at her with his mouth slightly open, but before he could respond, the colonel chose that moment to interrupt.
“I suppose he must have come quite highly recommended, then.” Mccalister turned toward Elder Miller. “You convinced her to do this, didn’t you? I thought we settled this last time.”
The Speaker held up both hands and leaned back in his seat. “Now, now, Andrew. Don’t be so quick to assume that I’m pulling the strings here.”
Mccalister sneered. “Yeah right. Look, he’s not a bad pilot—I’ll give him that. Downing two MSSRs isn’t an easy thing to do. But putting him in command is nepotism, and will end up hurting us in the long run. Any fool can see that.” The Colonel ended with a glare in Delacourt’s direction, as if to say that she was the exception to the rule. She raised her chin a fraction and prepared her response, but Lieutenant Miller spoke before she could.
“He’s right.” She turned to look at him in surprise, and found that he was shaking his head. “I’m not going to take a command that was only given to me because of my father. Our survival depends on those rigs, and they need a good leader to guide them. If the only reason I’m in charge is because I’m a Miller, I’ll let them down.” He shrugged. “It’s not worth it.”
His apparent humility was a good sign, though at the moment it was less than helpful. “Lieutenant, you may rest assured that your heritage did not influence my decision.” Of course it had; the inborn respect the Wayfarer’s had for Elder Miller and his son had made him an obvious choice for a leadership position, but she was not about to reveal the fact here. “Your recent victory over the enemy, and the skills you have shown in contrast to other pilots, make you a definite rallying point for your cause. That will be critical in the coming days.”
The logical analysis seemed to fail to reassure the man. If anything, Lieutenant Miller seemed to grow a bit haggard at her response. The colonel, for his part, lowered his head like a bull ready to charge. “Ms. Delacourt, that might be so, but—”
“Admiral Delacourt.” Her cold response cut his half-formed protest off at the knees. “My rank is not mere decoration, Colonel Mccalister. I intend to exercise control over this fleet, regardless of the informal traditions or personal preferences which have organized things in the past. Your leader, as Speaker, has given me this task, and I expect you to respect that. Do you understand?”
There was a tense silence. The colonel’s eyes flicked from her face to Elder Miller’s as if seeking confirmation. Elder Miller, for his part, nodded solemnly. Mccalister’s eyes widened, as did Lieutenant Miller’s, and Susan congratulated herself for including that minor detail. The difference between his actions as Speaker, as opposed to his other roles in New Sonora, was not entirely clear to her, but it obviously was to these people. Elder Miller had taken great pains to emphasize the fact to her, and she had done well to remember it here.
Then Lieutenant Miller spoke up, his voice calm. “Yes Admiral. Of course.” She glanced at him, and found a respect in his eyes that she had not anticipated. He gave her an encouraging nod and a small smile, and she felt herself relax slightly. Having at least one Wayfarer officer on her side would make things much, much easier.
The colonel, however, did not seem to be quite as impressed, though the announcement had made him a bit less sure of himself. He sat back in his seat and crossed his arms. “Be that as it may…”
Unwilling to allow her momentum to fade, she pushed forward before he could continue. “Good. I recognize that the transition in command might engender some hard feelings, but I hope we can work together for the protection of the civilians. Elder Miller, do I have the information on the fleet here?”
Elder Miller nodded. He had seemed content to stay out of the main discussion so far, though she wondered how much of that came from his inexperience with the subject material and how much came from a desire to avoid conflict with the colonel. With a sharp stab of her thumb, she activated a holographic projector located in the ceiling of the conference room. The outside windows quickly shaded to block out the sunlight, and the holographic projections of the future Wayfarer fleet took shape above them.
Their fleet was impressive. Well over thirty ships hovered in the air, glowing in a standard formation. The ships themselves had not yet arrived, of course, but they would in the next few days. The Wayfarers had obviously spared no expense in preparing themselves for battle. As she studied them a moment, it dawned on her that she recognized some of the ship types. “You managed to purchase Samar-class escort craft? Where?”
Some of the smug hostility began to return to Colonel Mccalister’s expression. “I had a contact from my time in the Directorate. He noticed they were decommissioning a few, and we managed to scrape together enough money to take them off their hands. That should go a long ways towards teaching the enemy rigs a lesson.”
Susan nodded, impressed despite herself. From what she had seen in her career, the Samar-class escort was a very effective craft. Though tiny and lightly armed, in groups the Samar could be incredibly deadly even to battleships, and their legendary toughness and firepower would be a more-than-welcome addition to any fleet. The Wayfarers had actually overbought the little ships, however; several of the craft had notes explaining that they would be undermanned due to a shortage of qualified personnel. That overzealous purchase did not inspire much confidence in future supply endeavors.
As she continued to study the ships, Susan could not help but frown over the next element of the fleet. “May I ask what these ships are meant to be?” She gestured to six larger craft several times the size of the escorts.
The colonel’s smirk grew as he answered. “Caravan-class frigates, Admiral.”
Susan gave him a level stare. “I am aware of the class of, Colonel Mccalister. The Directorate employs them fairly often. I was referring to their strategic value in the fleet.”
Before the colonel could gather a retort, Lieutenant Miller responded. “They are meant to provide supply and support, Admiral. We got them from a shipping company that participates in the Directorate supply fleets; each one has been refitted to use. You can tell what they do by the names. Foundry is the repair ship, Harvest will hold the food supplies, and so on.”
She nodded, still frowning. The ships were nearly as large as a cruiser, with plenty of cargo space, armor, and a moderate level of weaponry and maneuverability. Though the four Grade 5 plasma cannon made them about as heavily armed as any Directorate merchantman, the names of the ships were unnecessarily revealing. If the enemy managed to learn the names of the ships, it would not take long for them to be able to target the specific elements that made the journey possible.
The very fact that those elements had not been distributed across all six ships bespoke a certain optimism that they would not lose any of them. While the current setup was efficient for now, a single loss could leave the fleet without training facilities, or lacking repair capability, or any number of other crucial needs. The ships could not even be modified to redistribute their capabilities in case one was lost—not without substantial dock time. It was as if they just trusted in the fact that their ships would make it through the challenges to come without a single misfire or disaster.
Shaking her head at this vulnerability, she turned to the final six ships. They were not as familiar to her, and had been labeled as Deliverance-class cruisers. Each had a name that spoke clearly of their religious crews: Redemption, Salvation, Deliverance herself. Susan opened her mouth to ask and hesitated, not willing to give Colonel Mccalister the satisfaction. Instead, she let a wry tone twist her words. “Did you pry these ships away from a shipping company as well, Lieutenant?”
Rather than taking offense, the pilot grinned. “Nope. We purchased them from Grant Yards under the Civilian Anti-Piracy Act. Got them cheap after that scandal. They were supplying some mercenary companies off the books.” Susan nodded. It had not been a good incident for the Directorate, nor for the war effort as a whole. “When the mercs were caught, the ships were either going to be auctioned off to the Directorate or broken up. Since we were buying a colony ship from them anyway, we convinced them we would give them a better price.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And you convinced the Directorate you would be running anti-piracy missions here? That seems like something they would question.”
An uncomfortable expression formed on the pilot’s face. “Well, if the Outriders don’t count as pirates, I don’t know what would. We didn’t have a lot of choice.” He shrugged. “Besides, we paid a fair price for the ships. The Directorate got its money back.”
Susan’s eyes narrowed for a moment. The Directorate probably didn’t see it that way; it was standard procedure to confiscate ships from illegal fleets and use them on the front lines, or even better, lend them to trusted mercenary units for a hefty price. They usually didn’t expect anyone to bid on the ships openly, and the move had likely made enemies. Still, if the Wayfarers had caught the Directorate in the letter of the law rather than the spirit of it, then she had no problem with it.
A second combination of pressed buttons brought up a list of the Deliverance-class cruiser’s capabilities. Every ship was armed with eight Grade 5 plasma turrets, six of which were mounted on the underside of the craft while two more sat just above the main tetherdrives. Three missile ports were lined up along the spine of the ship, fed by a magazine of thirty-six Javelin anti-ship warheads. She had expected missiles with a thermonuclear or even simply a nuclear yield, but to find the nova-class Javelin missiles present was a pleasant surprise.
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The Deliverance-class also had the capability to deploy up to eight rigs from its launch bays, set just ahead of the turrets along the underside of the cruiser. That ability alone would extend the usefulness of the ships in all sorts of ways, and would give her more tactical possibilities than she ever had with her Directorate taskforce. Those ships had not included rigs, and she had needed to make do with larger craft. She was looking forward to employing those small craft in several ways that she hoped would lessen casualties among her ships and crews.
Thus, despite the grimace on the colonel’s face and the possible dangers ahead, Susan smiled. “We seem to have a very capable compliment of ships, gentlemen.”
The colonel nodded, his eyes sharp. “If competently commanded, maybe.”
Susan’s eyes narrowed again, but she forced herself to turn to the controls for the hologram. They had training plans to cover, and she had no time for the pompous blowhard across the table. “First of all, I need to know our exact situation at the moment. Lieutenant Miller, could you tell me about your rig teams?”
The question pulled Gabe out of his stunned trance. Just the details of the new ships were reason enough to celebrate—the enemy would have a lot more than CSRs to worry about now!—but the followers of the Way had somehow gained much more than that. They finally had the kind of commander who might allow them to win the fights ahead.
It wasn’t just that she was Directorate trained, though that was obvious to anyone who spoke with her long enough. Delacourt had said his father had been acting as Speaker when she’d been given the job, and the fact that his father did not contradict her backed her up. To an outsider it might have meant nothing; the offices of the Chairman of the New Sonoran City Council and Speaker of the Way might have seemed one and the same, but the truth could not have been more different. Acting as a Chairman, Clark Miller was just another public official; as Speaker, he was the Lord’s representative on earth. His call to duty was the Lord’s call to duty, and by extension, His support. Surely they would not fail to defend their home now.
His father coughed lightly into his hand, and Gabe blinked, realizing he hadn’t yet answered the admiral’s question. He grew hot. “We have eight flights of six rigs apiece, Admiral Delacourt. That makes forty-eight rigs, though we’ve got more pilots than machines right now.” Gabe shook his head. “That doesn’t mean we’re going to be able to put everyone right over into the new rigs, though. We will need time to calibrate them first, and a chance to do field testing before we hit combat. That might take a few weeks.”
Delacourt shook her head. “Then you will need to accelerate the process, Lieutenant Miller. We will need those rigs as quickly as possible.” She made a note on an old-fashioned notebook in front of her. “Until those rigs are ready, your squadrons will participate in the fleet maneuver drills I have planned out so the ship officers can grow adjusted to coordinating with you. Please have them ready to transfer to the cruisers once they arrive.”
“Of course, Admiral Delacourt.” A sinking feeling filled him, and he started to have the horrible realization of what he was getting himself into—the fact that he was in charge of the welfare and deployment of every rig squadron in the Wayfarer Defense Force. Doubt and panic started to flood into him, and he wondered all of a sudden if Delacourt was making a terrible mistake.
Colonel Mccalister’s opinion on the matter was clear enough. The former commander of the Defense Force snorted. “Look at him, Delacourt. He looks like he’s going to pass out. You can’t be serious about putting him in command.”
Delacourt sent a stern glare in the colonel’s direction. “The decision has been made, Colonel.” She looked back toward Gabe’s father. “I noticed that we have failed to interact well with the local Guard forces. Have we attempted to talk with them?”
Gabe winced, and the colonel snorted again. When Mccalister spoke, he sounded as if he were lecturing a slow child. “The Guard isn’t going to do anything. Look, it’s fine that you don’t know any better, but you should have at least figured out that they aren’t going to do anything. If they wanted to get off their butts to do some work, they would have by now.”
Her nostrils flared with anger, but Gabe managed to head off whatever heated comment she had ready. “We have sent Elder Evans to talk with the local Guard commanders at Eris Station. We’re hoping that he will be able to act as a neutral observer the next time something happens. Hopefully he can figure out why they haven’t been seeing or reacting to any of this.”
Delacourt glanced in his direction and nodded curtly. “Excellent. Now, I need to know what level of expertise your personnel have obtained. How many—”
“Oh, forget this nonsense.” The colonel stood. His face was ugly with disgust. “Elder Miller, I respect your decisions and I hope that your guidance can lead us to a better place, but there have to be more qualified people to command our fleet.” He glared at Delacourt. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other things to do.”
“No.” Delacourt’s reply was cold and hard. When Mccalister’s face turned red with rage, she kept going in the same tone. “You’re going to sit down, Colonel. You’re going to listen, and you’re going to provide the information I need, or you will find yourself looking for a new position. I’m not about to let you disrespect my position and ignore the needs of our fleet out of your petty pride. Do you understand me?”
Mccalister said nothing for a moment. The two officers studied each other, anger plain on their faces, until Gabe cleared his throat. They both glanced at him, and he spoke up before they could turn away. “Look, we’ve all got a lot to do here. There are people depending on us, and I’m sure that the last thing any of us wants is for the Outriders to win. The best way we can avoid that is to work together, right?” Gabe looked at Mccalister, then to Delacourt and back again. “Right?”
Slowly, the two officers started to relax. Delacourt was the first to respond. “You are correct, Lieutenant Miller. Our best chance is to combine our efforts.” She turned to Colonel Mccalister. “Can we depend on you to help?”
Another tense silence followed, and then Mccalister nodded. He settled back into his seat, where he obviously intended to brood over the situation. For his part, Gabe sighed in relief. His interruption had probably not won him any points with either officer, but someone had to do something. Otherwise, New Sonora would burn while they argued each other to death, and Gabe was more than willing to deal with their anger if it meant he could avoid that fate.
As Admiral Delacourt began to discuss the rest of her plans, he wondered briefly what else the Lord would expect him to do. If the still-mischievous look in his father’s eyes was any indication, his job was still far from over.
Nearly an hour and a half later, Gabe left the conference room, still feeling a little dazed. Colonel Mccalister might have been willing to stay, but he hadn’t been willing to stay quietly. Within a few minutes, the arguments had started again. The former commander of the Wayfarer Defense Force had fought Delacourt on nearly every planned maneuver and training drill, voicing objections on practically everything but the color of the hulls on the ships that would arrive within the week. By the end, it had seemed like Delacourt and Mccalister were ready to tear each other apart with their bare hands.
Gabe had done his best to keep the peace between the two, as impossible as that proved to be, until finally the admiral decided that she had enough for the day. His father looked almost as tired as Gabe, and had quickly bid his son farewell as they left the conference room. Gabe hoped that his father’s other duties were more pleasant than the necessary task of preparing for war. His father had suffered much in his struggle to bring the Way to the people of the Known Worlds, and had known far too much sadness for someone so selfless. The Speaker simply deserved better.
Gabe looked back at Delacourt as she rummaged through the notes she had taken. She was packing everything with an almost terrifying degree of neatness into her small notebook. The old-fashioned style of the thing amused him, and he smiled. Delacourt paused and looked up in time to catch the fading edges of that smile. “Yes, Captain Miller? Is there something I could do for you?”
Being addressed as a captain now—his new responsibilities had come with a promotion—brought a sour taste to his mouth. To cover his reaction, he coughed into his hand. “No, no, Admiral Delacourt. I was just thinking about something else.” It wasn’t technically a lie, so Gabe hoped the Lord would forgive him for it. He watched as she finished gathering her things—notebook, reader, and the rest all went straight into a duffel bag she must have brought for that very purpose—and hefted them over her shoulder. Gabe stood. “Here, let me help with that.”
Delacourt gave him a calculating look. She hefted the bag again uneasily, as if weighing its burden against the cost of his company. Finally, she nodded. “Fine. Here you go.”
He took the bag as she held it out to him. Swinging it over his shoulder, he discovered that Admiral Delacourt had somehow managed to pack the mass of a neutron star into its small frame, but he forced a smile. “So, what do you think?”
She blinked and glanced at him. “About what, Captain Gabriel?”
Gabe shook his head and chuckled. “The fleet, Admiral, the fleet! We have quite a few ships on the way, and I’m looking forward to the new rigs, too.” That news had nearly made him weep for joy. To replace the old CSRs, the Wayfarers had paid for the redesign and upgrade of their rigs. Better guns, superior handling, and actual, purpose-built scouts and heavy weapons rigs—it was the stuff his flight-mates had always dreamed about!
The reminder of his fallen friends stole Gabe’s smile. As they left the room, Admiral Delacourt finally answered him. “The ships show promise. We will have the potential to prevent any more simple asteroid strikes, at the very least.”
Something about her measured, careful words struck a chord of warning in Gabe’s heart. He turned to look at her. “You still sound worried though, Admiral. What else are you concerned about besides asteroids?”
There was another long pause. From the expression on Delacourt’s face, she was struggling to find a way out of answering the question. A frustrated frown crinkled her brow; she had failed. “The group who has been attacking your people. What did you call them?”
“Outriders.” Gabe shifted the bag on his shoulder. “We call them Outriders because we thought at first that they piggybacked their rigs on those rocks they keep firing at us. It seemed that would have been the only way for them to fly so far from a base.” He grimaced at the memory of the MSSRs blasting through his flight. “They’re a bunch of feral monsters. I don’t know what idiot gave a pack of pitchfork-waving loons a fleet of rigs, but we are definitely paying the price for it now.”
“Yes, I suppose.” She shook her head. “These Outriders have been remarkably resourceful in their attacks. The effort of propelling the asteroids with just the right course and speed to hit New Sonora and not another part of Eris is not insignificant, yet they have managed to continue doing it on a regular basis for weeks.”
Gabe nodded. “At this point, I’m starting to wonder where they keep getting the rocks.” They turned down a side hallway, presumably toward Delacourt’s office or personal quarters. “The Lord bless us with that particular situation.”
Delacourt snorted. “I highly doubt that will happen, Captain Miller.” She shook her head again; a wry, half-amused grin twisted her lips. “These Outriders are operating like a professional military team, not a mob. Their behavior does not match the profile you have assigned them. They’re too disciplined, their attacks too organized. If I had to analyze them for the Directorate, I would almost have called them an MFO.”
He blinked. “MFO?”
She laughed. It was a surprisingly agreeable sound that brought a chagrined smile to Gabe’s face. Delacourt saw it and grinned. “I apologize, Captain Miller. At times I forget that I am not back among my comrades in the Directorate forces. I still need to adjust to working with people who are not necessarily familiar with the vocabulary.”
Gabe shrugged the bag again. The weight wasn’t quite as bad as he had thought, but the strap was beginning to chafe his shoulder. Delacourt continued, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort. “An MFO is a classification that the Directorate uses for mercenary fleets. They can range from small groups to fairly large paramilitary forces, and can represent a danger if one is not prepared well enough for their attacks.”
“So let’s say these Outriders are part of a mercenary group. Why would they want to kill us?” Gabe frowned as Delacourt laughed a second time. She wagged a finger at him in reproach.
“The same reason a mercenary wants to kill anyone, Captain Miller. They’re being paid.” Delacourt sobered slightly, and her professional demeanor started to reassert itself. “Unfortunately, that means that they will likely increase the level of their attacks soon. The asteroids they have sent so far are a means of keeping things cost effective and quiet, two things most MFOs prize. When we raise the stakes by defending ourselves more thoroughly…”
“Then the Outriders will have no choice but to increase the level of their own strikes too, if only to satisfy their employers.” Gabe nodded. The prospect of a greater threat to his home was disturbing, but any reservations he had were being washed away by the prospect of fighting his enemy in the open at last. No more worrisome patrols, no more searching the void for incoming rocks and rigs. Pure, simple confrontation, where the Lord would show without hesitation who His people were. It was something to look forward to, at the very least.
Delacourt nodded, though her expression suggested that she was not looking forward to the experiences ahead. “I expect them to put their plan into effect within the month. We may not even have that long to train these new crews you have for the ships. They could come earlier, catch us by surprise when our people are half trained. It would be a massacre.”
Gabe remained quiet for a long moment. He felt a chill as he pictured a rock hitting New Sonora; nightmares of that disaster had been his companion ever since the fight with the MSSRs. Bitter exhaustion swept through him. “You think we will lose everyone.”
She did not turn toward him. “It remains a possibility, Captain Miller.”
The defeated tone in her otherwise-calm voice irked him. He fought to keep his own voice level. “The Lord has looked after us so far, Admiral Delacourt. By rights we should have all been dead weeks ago, with these mercenaries celebrating over our ashes. God has watched over us, and I know He will not abandon His people.”
Delacourt’s dark eyes studied him. “Perhaps you are right, Captain. I prefer to rely on my own methods to guarantee our survival, however.” She gave a small hint of amusement. “No offense meant to your family, of course.”
“None taken.” They walked quietly for a few moments. Gabe shifted the pack to his other shoulder, easing the sharp pain along his arm. It was somehow relaxing to walk together through the hallways of New Sonora. No explosions rocked the building, no plasma bolts burned through space in his direction. Just a pleasant walk with an admiral. He saw what were probably her quarters up ahead and felt a surprising amount of disappointment that the brief exchange was nearly over. “Well, here we are.”
“Yes, we are.” Delacourt stopped and held out a hand. “Thank you for your assistance, Captain Gabriel, but I believe I will be fine from here on out. I will see you at our next meeting with Elder Miller.”
Gabe handed over the bag gratefully. His shoulders now cried out in relief. “It was nothing, Admiral. Thanks for your patience. After all, not many superior officers would have been able to deal with the Colonel.” He paused and realized he was not quite ready for the conversation to end. She turned to go, and he spoke despite a tremor of uncharacteristic nervousness that ran through him. “Admiral Delacourt.”
She stopped. Those dark eyes were curious, but still cool and distant. “Yes, Captain Gabriel?”
“I was thinking we could get together later and talk. Maybe discuss tactics against our current opponents.” Her face was nearly unreadable behind that professional expression. “What do you think?”
“No.” The single word hit with the force of a blow, but Gabe managed to avoid a wince. Probably. “I don’t believe it would appropriate to socialize with someone under my command. Besides, you will see that I keep my own council in terms of our long-term strategy. I have found it best to work things out for myself before I present it for approval or improvement.” She paused. “And to be perfectly honest, Gabriel Miller, there is little that you could offer in the way of help, in any case.”
Surprise and shock raced through him, but Gabe bit down a harsh retort. That control was a remnant of his father’s teachings about courtesy, but at the very least, it was helping him here. After all, it would not pay to upset a woman who had the ability to fly you into enemy fire. Gabe shook his head. “Okay. I see how it is.” He turned to go. “I guess I will see you at the meeting, Admiral.”
“Until then, Captain Miller.” He heard the door to her quarters slide open and then shut, but he did not look back. Gabe continued to walk back toward his own quarters on the opposite side of the building. He could already see how they were forming a beautiful working relationship.
In her quarters, Susan shook her head and grimaced. The rig pilot's clumsy attempt to be charming was laughable at best—she hoped he wouldn’t continue with those kinds of gestures in the coming weeks. It would make things awkward when she had to command the fleet. Though he did have a rather refreshing way of looking at the world, and the respect he had for her was a breath of fresh air compared to the disdain she had experienced so often over the past few years…
She shook her head at the thought. The last thing she needed was to allow her perception to grow clouded by such things. That had happened before, on Victorious, and she was still paying the price.
The quarters she had been given were simple—only a small bed, a window and a computer terminal. She would be spending most of her time on the ships once they arrived. Susan heaved her duffle bag onto the bed and sat down at the console. She brought up the simulation programs she had organized during the meeting and started the most probable scenario for an enemy attack. Her fleet appeared in space above a representation of New Sonora, ready for battle.
Susan began to tap the keys. As she assigned orders to her ships, they shifted in the projection to form a coherent, ordered formation. The Caravan-class frigates were nestled behind a wall of Deliverance-class cruisers, with a screen of Samar-class escorts around the larger ships. She watched as it settled into orbit, and then started the enemy attack.
Asteroids hurtled toward New Sonora. Plasma bursts shot out to intercept them, and particle cannons sprayed streams of annihilation that swept the stone from space. Rigs dueled and struck, mere specks against the void compared to the rest of the fleet. By the end of the simulation, the warships had shattered the incoming barrage and pushed the debris beyond the orbit of Eris. New Sonora was safe.
Susan watched the simulation to its conclusion. Then, with a sigh, she touched a switch and the projection shut down, shrouding the room in twilight darkness. If only she could believe the coming battles would be so easy.