“Maybe yes, and maybe no,” Reynaud replied. “We’ve got three—no, four—SDs through with no collisions so far. But if two of those babies bump—” He shuddered, and Underwood nodded soberly. “And even if we don’t have any collisions, there’s always the chance the Peeps’ll detect them and stay the hell out of range.”

“Maybe,” Underwood conceded. “But they’ll need damned good sensors to pick up their arrivals through all the jamming the forts are putting out. And once our people maneuver clear and take their wedges down to station-keeping levels, they should be downright invisible at anything above a few light-seconds. Besides,” he summoned up a ragged smile, “at this point I’ll be delighted to settle for the Peeps staying the hell away. It beats the crap out of what I thought was going to happen to us, Mike!”

“Yeah,” Reynaud grunted, turning back to his console. “Yeah, I guess it does, at that. But I want these bastards, Nev. I want them bad.”

Underwood eyed him sidelong. Michel Reynaud was one of the easiest going—and least military—people he knew. In fact, Underwood had always suspected that the reason Reynaud had gone ACS instead of Navy in the first place was his deep-seated, fundamental horror at the thought of deliberately taking another human being’s life. But he didn’t feel that way now, and when Underwood glanced at the display tied into the FTL sensors, he understood exactly why that was.

Vice Admiral Markham’s gallant charge was less than twenty minutes from contact with the main Peep force, and Reynaud and Underwood both knew what would happen then.

“Their EW is getting even better, Citizen Admiral,” Darlington’s ops officer reported. The citizen rear admiral walked over to stand beside him, looking down at the hazy sphere that had enveloped the terminus, and frowned.

“Are their jammers hitting us harder?” he asked.

“No, Citizen Admiral. Or I don’t think so, at least. But look here and here.” The ops officer keyed a command, and the plot blinked as it replayed what had happened over the last several minutes at a compressed time rate. “See?” He pointed at the flickering shift of questionable icons in the display. “It looks to me like their decoys must be considerably more advanced and flexible than we’d thought, Citizen Admiral. We’ve still got probable fixes on the forts themselves, but our confidence in them is degrading steadily because they’re throwing so damned many false impeller signatures at us.”

“Well, we knew it was going to happen.” Darlington sighed after a moment. “Do your best, Citizen Commander.”

“Yes, Citizen Admiral.”

White Haven stood stock still on Benjamin the Great’s flag bridge and stared at the order slowly gelling in the depths of the master plot. He’d brought his Grayson SDs through first, because even if it might hurt the Royal Navy’s pride to admit it, they were newer, more powerful units than most of his Manticoran ships. Eight of them were through the Junction now, with three more to go and the first Manticoran units following on behind them. He’d gotten here in time to defend the terminus against the second prong of the Peep attack, but his pride at his achievement tasted of ashes and gall.