Plans had been drawn at one point to upgrade at least the repair portion of the system’s infrastructure to Manticoran standards despite the cost, and those plans were taken out and dusted off periodically. But the Navy was stretched too tight to make the project worthwhile. The Admiralty had acknowledged that months ago when it began pulling out picket ships for refit at Hancock or the home system without bothering to replace them. If there was anyplace the Star Kingdom had decided it could do without, Seaford Nine was it. And so there wasn’t really very much here: a fairly good-sized caretaker detachment of techs to keep the huge, mostly empty main repair base more-or-less operational, two squadrons of heavy cruisers, and a reinforced division of superdreadnoughts, supported by a half-squadron of battlecruisers and a couple of destroyers. And, of course, one Lieutenant Heinrich Gaines, Senior Officer Commanding Her Majesty’s Sensor Station, Seaford Nine.

It sounded impressive as hell, he thought with a chuckle, but the same considerations which gave the system such a low priority for modernization and enlargement had also reduced its priority for first-line sensor equipment. He had an extremely limited FTL net, built mostly on first- and second-generation platforms only a very little better than those Lady Harrington had employed in the Second Battle of Yeltsin. They had a far slower data transmission rate than the new third-generation systems he’d heard rumors about, and—

His ruminations chopped off as the holo at his console sudden dissolved and reformed. He stared at it, feeling his eyebrows try to crawl up into his hairline, and his mouth was suddenly dry.

The information wasn’t complete. Over half the identifying data codes continued to blink, indicating that the computers had been forced to assign tentative IDs pending better data resolution, and the emission sources were still right on the K2 primary’s 16.72 LM hyper limit, which put them over ten light-minutes from Gaines’ main sensor arrays. That meant everything he did know—aside from the impeller signatures, which were FTL themselves—was better than ten minutes old by the time he saw it. But even the limited data he had was enough to turn his belly to frozen lead.

He looked at the display a moment longer, then punched a priority code into his com. The delay seemed interminable, though it could not in fact have been more than five or ten seconds, and then a voice spoke in his earbug.

“Task Group Combat Information Center,” it announced in professional tones that still managed to sound ineffably bored. “Commander Jaruwalski.”

“CIC, this is Sensor One,” Gaines said crisply. “I have unknown—repeat, unknown—vessels entering the star system, bearing one-seven-seven zero-niner-eight relative from the primary, range from base ten-point-seven-seven light-minutes. They have not transmitted an FTL arrival report.”

“Unknown vessels?” The boredom had vanished from Jaruwalski’s voice, and Gaines could picture the commander snapping upright in her chair. “Class IDs?” she demanded.

“I’m working with light-speed sensors here, Commander,” Gaines reminded her. “My gravitics make it—” he double-checked to be certain “—fifty-four point sources. At present—” He paused and cleared his throat. “At present, the computers are calling it fifteen to twenty of the wall and at least ten battleships. That’s based solely on the strengths of their impeller signatures, but the data enhancement looks solid, Ma’am.”