As if to emphasize the point, Dauntless shook again, another hit slamming into her. Barron took a deep breath. There was no choice.

He jumped up from his seat, rushing toward Travis’s station, waving Darrow away as he did. He landed hard in the chair, his hands on the controls, bringing up the targeting screen. The AI was already calculating firing solutions, displaying them on the scanner.

He was tense, his muscles twisted into rigid knots. He knew he needed to relax, to watch the target’s attempts to evade, to let his mind run free, to sync with the enemy.

What will you do? Which way will you go?

The enemy’s positioning jets could only minimally affect its vector…but even a move of a ship length was enough to evade a shot.

“Primaries charged, sir.”

Barron stared right at the screen, shutting out the world. He pushed aside his thoughts—memories of his grandfather, concerns about his crew, his own fears—banishing them all. There was nothing, nothing save the enemy ship, and Dauntless’s deadly primaries.

He reached out, stretched his fingers, and closed them on the firing control. He moved the lever, too much at first and then back, more gently. His gaze was focused, his hand tight, ready.

He moved his wrist again, just a small tap. And he pressed his finger, firing.

His eyes darted up to the display, watching for a scanning report. And then it came. He’d missed clean.

He felt despair rising up from inside. He’d let them down, all of them. His people would die, and the Confederation would face a two front war…all because his aim had been off.

“Captain.” It was Travis. “The primaries are still online. We’re recharging them now for another shot.”

Barron felt his spirits rise again, and the tension in his gut worsen. He stared at the targeting display, waiting. Thirty seconds to full charge.

Dauntless gyrated again, yet another hit. The enemy was targeting the savaged launch bay. It was an unexpected benefit of Barron’s ruse. He’d wanted the enemy to believe his ship was crippled…but it hadn’t occurred to him they would target the area they believed was vulnerable.

They weren’t wrong—the bay was destroyed, and the inner compartments exposed, unprotected. But there was nothing there, nothing important, at least. Just Bulkhead Eight, the entrance to the quarters of the fighter wing. And his pilots weren’t there. They were floating around the system in their exhausted craft, waiting to be picked up. Or they were dead. Either way, their quarters were about the least vital spot on Dauntless right now.

He was impressed with the enemy captain’s insight and attention to detail. But this time it had served his purposes instead, bought him time. Time for a second shot.