And after they punch out Markham’s task force, they’ll destroy every single installation in Medusa orbit, he thought with a dull sense of horror. Will they give the orbit bases’ personnel time to evacuate? Of course they will… unless their CO is one of the new regime’s fanatics. But even if they do allow an evac, that’s still sixty T-years’ worth of infrastructure. My God! Who knows how many trillions of dollars of investment it represents? How in hell will we manage to replace it in the middle of a damned war?

The ringing silence about him returned no answers to his questions, but then another, even uglier thought suggested itself to him.

“Did Reynaud say anything about Admiral Hanaby’s intentions?” he demanded.

“No, Sir.” McTierny shook her head, and White Haven scowled. Reynaud should have passed that information along, but the earl reminded himself to cut the ACS man some slack. For what was basically a uniformed civilian, he’d already done more than White Haven had a right to expect. Which didn’t make the lack of information any more palatable.

Still, he thought, you already know what Hanaby is doing, don’t you? Exactly what any admiral worth her gold braid would do: steering for the sound of the guns.

Which may be exactly what the enemy wants her to do.

He frowned down at the plot that showed his own command still holding station forty-five light-seconds from the Trevor’s Star terminus of the Junction, and his thought stream flashed too rapidly for him to split it down into its component parts. His staff stood behind him on Benjamin the Great’s flag deck, staring at his back, with no idea what thoughts were pouring through his head. Their own brains were still too shocked to think coherently, but they could see the weight of his conclusions pressing down on him, see his broad shoulders slowly hunching to take the weight. And then he turned back to them once more, his face set and hard, and began to snap orders.

“Cindy, record the following message to Admiral Webster. Message begins: ‘Jim, keep your ships where they are. This could be a trick to draw Home Fleet into Basilisk to clear the way for an attack on the capital. Eighth Fleet will move immediately to Basilisk.’ Message ends.”

Someone hissed audibly behind him, and his mouth twitched without humor at the reaction. They should have thought of that possibility for themselves, he thought distantly, but his eyes never moved from McTierney.

“Recorded, Sir,” she replied. Her voice was still shaken, but her eyes were coming back to life and she nodded sharply.

“Good. Second message, this one to CO Manticore ACS Central. Message begins: ‘Admiral Yestremensky, upon my authority, you will clear all traffic—I repeat, all traffic—from the Manticore–Basilisk queue immediately and stand by for a Fleet priority transit.’ Message ends.”

“Recorded,” McTierney confirmed again.

“New message,” White Haven rapped, “this one to Rear Admiral Hanaby via Basilisk ACS. Message begins: ‘Admiral Hanaby, I am headed to relieve Basilisk at my best speed from Trevor’s Star via the Junction with forty-nine of the wall, forty battlecruisers, and screen.’ ”