The clutch of torpedoes went off one by one, like nuclear firecrackers. I felt their shockwaves moving through the star’s fiery soup, but they were too far away to inflict damage. As their sensors were unable to penetrate the plasma, the Fenrir seemed to be using them like depth charges, firing them into the sun and detonating them at random in the hope of hurting me. So far, she hadn’t come within a hundred kilometres of my actual position.

“How are we doing?” the captain asked.

“Our opponent’s wasting ammunition trying to drive us into the open,” I replied via the screen on the bridge.

Captain Konstanz’s face remained grave. Sweat speckled her brow. “We weren’t out very long before she found us. How much heat did we lose?”

“Not nearly enough, I’m afraid.”

She looked sideways at the blank bulkhead. “So we’ll need to surface again soon?”

“Within minutes.”

Her shoulders fell. “How many torpedoes does the Fenrir have left?”

“Two remaining.”

“Unless she’s manufactured replacements?” The captain’s voice was heavy with resignation.

“She hasn’t had time.”

“She’s been sat here for a week. She could have filled her cargo bay with missiles.”

“Unlikely, but possible.”

“Unlikely?” The captain laughed. “You’re betting our lives on something that’s ‘unlikely’?”

I failed to see the humour. “My tactical analysis suggests the Fenrir will not have perceived us as a significant enough threat to begin stockpiling munitions. The Adalwolf will be here in a few hours to assist her. My prediction is that she will wait for me to be driven into space by my need to vent heat. Then she will attack me with the same weapon she used to bring down the Hobo and the Geest van Amsterdam. She will attempt to get me to lower my shields and become passive, then she will use her remaining torpedoes to finish me.”

“And we’re going to let her try?”

“We have little choice, but thanks to Ms Petrushka here, I am both forewarned and forearmed.”

* * *

Despite my apparent confidence, I felt a degree of trepidation as I allowed myself to be once more borne towards the star’s raging surface. Everything I knew about the weapon my sister carried had been inferred and extrapolated from hearsay and guesswork.

And yet, despite my misgivings, I felt a certain wild joy. I was a heavy cruiser, a machine of death and conflict. Hiding, no matter how pressing the strategic necessity, felt like cowardice. I had done it because I had to; but now I was rising to meet my foe head-on, and I had forgotten how heady and intoxicating it could feel. I was charging the enemy from the depths of a furnace, my hull glowing and my torpedo tubes primed and ready to fire.

What could be more glorious?