“I would very much like to go home,” Jesus Ramirez said softly, the ache in his deep, rumbling voice reminding them all that San Martin was the planet of his birth, “but I believe you may have a point, Honor.”

“That’s probably true enough,” McKeon acknowledged, “but it’s also going to be true in just about any Allied system by now. At least Trevor’s Star is the closest friendly port we know about, which means less time in transit and less opportunity for life support to fail.”

“That’s certainly a valid point,” Gonsalves said. “And look at the compensators and hyper-generators on those transports. They’re basically converted longhaul bulk freighters the Peeps have been using to transport work forces or haul peacekeeping troops to domestic hot spots for decades. That’s probably why StateSec had them immediately available, but like Alistair said, they’re a hell of a lot slower than anything a regular navy would consider using that close to a combat zone. They can’t even climb as high as the top of the delta band, so their max apparent velocity isn’t going to be any more than a thousand lights or so, and we’re an awful long way from friendly territory. Even the voyage to Trevor’s Star would take the next best thing to fifty days base time. The dilation effect will shrink that to about forty days subjective, but that’s still over a full T-month for something to go wrong with their life support. If we send them still further to the rear—” She shrugged.

“I know.” Honor frowned and rubbed her nose harder, then sighed. “I was hoping to send them clear to Manticore, or at least Grayson,” she admitted, “but you and Alistair are right, Cynthia. The shorter the flight time the better. But in that case, they’re going to have to be very careful how they approach the system perimeter.”

“Careful I think we can manage,” McKeon assured her. “I know abject, quivering terror tends to make me cautious as hell, anyway.”

“All right, then.” Honor looked around the table. “In that case, I want you and Fritz to take care of making the most careful estimates we can of our actual life-support capacity on a ship-by-ship basis, Cynthia. Gaston,” she looked at Commodore Simmons, “you’re in charge of drawing up the evac priority lists. I need three of them immediately: one of the people who should go in the first lift, assuming we use only the Longstops; one of the people best suited to crew any warships we take; and one that lists every soul who wants off this rock but who isn’t on the first two. In addition, I want the last one organized to indicate the order in which they’ll be moved out as extra lift becomes available. I don’t want there to be any room for panic and fighting for places in the evac queue.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Should I consider some sort of lottery for the evacuation lists?”

“I’ll leave that up to you, at least until I see how they break down. As for the second list, I want all-volunteer crews for the warships if at all possible, but if we’ve got anyone with recent experience, I need them. Try and talk any reluctant heroes into volunteering. If you can’t, give me a list of their names and let me have a go at them.”