“We might not be able to see the defences, sir,” Farley pointed out.  “We’re operating at quite some distance from the planet.”

Ted smiled, calculating the vectors.  If the alien battlecruiser didn't make its appearance, he would be tempted – very tempted – to pause long enough to lay waste to the system.  The outcome of modern wars were largely determined by the production war, with one side out-producing its rival and crushing its enemies under the sheer weight of its produce.  But the aliens knew where humanity’s industrial centres were located, allowing them to target their attacks on facilities that had taken years to produce, while the human race had no idea where to hit their enemy’s industrial base.  A few deep-strike raids, Ted realised, and the human race would lose many of its industrial complexes.  And the war itself would be lost with them.

“Continue on our present course,” he ordered, finally.  Where was the damn battlecruiser?  Surely the aliens would want to keep tabs on Ark Royal, rather than let her wander through alien-controlled space without supervision.  “Alert me when we make our closest approach to the planet.”

He glanced at the timer.  Nine hours to go.  Fitzwilliam was right.  He did need to sleep.

Once he’s had his shot in the sleep machines, I’ll take mine, Ted thought.  He disliked the sleep machines – they just didn't feel right – but there was no alternative.  And then I might feel more alert.

***

“They reacted rather oddly, sir,” the Marine reported.  “As soon as we jumped, they started keening.”

Charles frowned, studying the alien prisoners through the surveillance sensors.  The aliens hadn't shown much reaction to the quarantine compartment or the human observers, but that could be nothing more than lessons from an alien version of the dreaded Conduct After Capture course.  What would the aliens, who had presumably known about humanity long enough to devise protocols for any of their race who happened to be taken prisoner, have told them to do?  Humans were supposed to restrict themselves to name, rank and serial number ... although if the captors felt like conducting a more rigorous interrogation, it was unlikely that any of the prisoners could have held anything back.

Not that it matters, he thought, wryly.  They can't speak English and we can't speak their language.  We might have captured the King of all the Aliens and we’d never know it.

“Interesting,” he said.  The human observers had retreated hastily, complaining about their ears hurting.  “Have they done anything else?”

“No, but they must have sensed the jump,” the Marine said.  “They know there’s no hope of recovery now.”