He promised himself, as much as he wanted to keep her with him as long as possible, when—if—they got back, he would throw the Barron name behind her, help her get her own ship. He felt a wave of regret he hadn’t done that sooner…but it passed quickly, overwhelmed by the gratitude he felt at having her at his side for this crisis.

He looked back to the display, staring at the holographic depiction of the space around Dauntless. The cluster of incoming fighters was closer, almost in range. And right behind them, seven of his own birds.

“Launch a double spread of probes, Commander. Full active mode…let’s get all the data we can on this enemy ship before we’re engaged. It’s not like anybody is hiding anymore.”

“Yes, Captain.” Travis punched at her workstation, leaning down over her com unit and relaying a series of commands. “Probes launched, sir. Feeding scanning data to your screen.” A few seconds later she added, “Captain, launch control reports all Red squadron fighters safely landed. Refuel and refit operations are underway.”

“Very well.”

“Sir, Lieutenant Federov requests permission to launch fighters piecemeal, as they are ready.”

Barron shook his head. He hated the idea of sending his people out one at a time, to stand in the way of two full enemy squadrons. But then he saw the seven dots in the display, less than half a squadron pursuing the incoming ships. He realized any fighter could be the one that prevented a critical hit to Dauntless.

“Granted,” he said softly.

I’m sorry, Olya, but you’re right. We need every bit of force we can get, no matter how much the risk to your people…

*   *   *

“Come on, baby…you know you can do it…” Stockton wasn’t sure talking to his fighter was something his instructors at the Academy would have considered effective…or sane. But he was close, so close. And he knew the bombers were going to launch their weapons on Dauntless any second.

His eyes were fixed on the range display, the numbers counting down. He was closing. Another ten minutes would put him in optimum range. But he didn’t have ten minutes.

He stared at the targeting display, his eyes locked on the closest fighter. It was long range, very long. The AI was showing the chances of scoring a hit at less than two percent, and below one percent of one causing enough damage to stop the enemy craft. But Stockton had never liked AIs.

Good pilots are born, not made. And they damned sure aren’t programmed.