He wanted to believe it, he tried to make himself believe it. But he was plagued with doubts. The only thing that drove him on was the sound of Jamison’s voice, urging him to do his duty, to focus on what had to be done. No matter what the cost.

He pulled the throttle, feeling the impact as he blasted forward at full acceleration. He was burning half his fuel, he knew that. But the sight of those laden-down fighters was impossible to ignore.

Lined up like just so many sheep…

*   *   *

“Optiomagis, we’ve pushed through the center. We’ve knocked out seven fighters from the central squadron, and the rest are scattered.”

“Very well, Optiominus. Continue to engage. Do not allow the enemy to reform.”

“Yes, sir.”

Junus knew his orders fell squarely into the category, “easier said than done.” It seemed clear the Confeds had positioned their weakest pilots in the center, but now that they had broken, chasing them down would obliterate his own formation.

And that squadron on the flank is good. Too good…

He cursed himself for not outfitting more of his birds for anti-fighter operations. Commander Rigellus would have listened to him, he was sure, if he’d urged a pure interception strike…or the commitment of Invictus’s sixth and last squadron. But arrogance had reared its ugly head. He’d been sure he could defeat anything the Confeds threw at him with three squadrons, but now doubts were eating away at his certainty. And even if he could prevail, the losses were going to be…

He thought about ordering a withdrawal, but every bit of his training rebelled against the idea. Alliance forces did not run.

But they do retreat when it makes tactical sense…or at least they can.

He knew few Alliance commanders were willing to risk the dishonor of fleeing from an enemy, no matter how much it was tactically the right thing to do.

No, we’ve shed too much blood to come away with nothing. It’s time. The best time we’re going to get, at least.

“Black Fist and Hydra Squadrons…full thrust now. Vector directly toward enemy capital ship. All other squadrons, protect the flanks of the attack force. Keep the enemy fighters from breaking off and pursuing. At all costs.”

Losses had been heavier than he’d expected, and now he was doubling down. It was all or nothing. If Black Fist and Hydra could do enough damage to the enemy vessel, the casualties wouldn’t matter. Invictus would finish things. And the Confeds were losing as many birds as he was. Two crippled strike forces canceled each other out.