Barron’s eyes moved back to the main display. The ship’s AI had projected yellow cubes representing the buoys. They were off to the side of the blue oval that depicted Dauntless’s position. Barron could see his ship moving farther from the deadly weapons platforms. But the ship shook again, another hit. They weren’t out of range yet.

He gripped the sides of his chair, keeping his composure, his eyes darting around the bridge, checking on his officers. Few of them had seen any real action before, but they were performing well, and there was no panic, no discernible fear.

“Commander Travis…” His eyes dropped to his screen, scanning the readout. Blue squadron was on duty. “…Blue squadron is to launch at once and assume a defensive position.”

“Yes, sir,” Travis snapped back. Then, a second later: “Blue squadron, you are ordered to launch at once and conduct combat space patrol operations.”

“Blue squadron leader, here. Launch order acknowledged, Commander Travis.” Jake Stockton’s voice was hard, confident over the com. Stockton was a cocky sort, just the type to do well in the fighter corps. But Barron knew there was more to Dauntless’s ace pilot than just bravado…and he was glad his elite squadron had pulled the duty shift.

A moment later, less even, Barron felt the familiar lurches of his ship. Not hits this time, but fighters launching. His mighty Blues. Fifteen pilots he’d put up against any in the Confederation…or the Alliance. He might be wasting time and fuel with the launch, but he’d already been caught careless once. He didn’t intend to let it happen again.

“Blue squadron launched, Captain.”

“Very well, Commander. Order Red squadron to the bays. Just in case.”

His eyes dropped to the display. His gunners were earning their pay. Over two-thirds of the laser buoys were already gone, and Dauntless had moved out of the arc of those that remained. He stared at the screen, watching as his batteries cleared away the last of them.

“Scanners?”

“No further contacts, Captain.”

“Report from Blue squadron.”

“Blue squadron reports all clear, sir.”

“Damage reports?” Barron caught the hint of an ozone smell coming from the air vents. Something was fried.

“We’ve lost hull integrity in three compartments, sir. None of them vital. But we took eleven casualties. Six dead, five on the way to sickbay.”

Barron felt the reports of the crew losses like a thunderbolt. He had served in peacetime, not war. That didn’t mean he’d never lost anyone, but it had always been an isolated accident involving one or two crew members. They hadn’t been in the system for an hour yet, and six of his people were dead. He thought of his grandfather’s battles, of the thousands killed, blown into space, incinerated in their dying spaceships.