Anger and fear ran rampant throughout the colonies. There seemed to be no pattern to the alien attacks. Two Roamer skymines, four uninhabited moons, and a technical observation platform. Political leaders demanded that the EDF mount the greatest possible resistance against the mysterious foe, regardless of cost.

Rlinda Kett, however, felt she was paying a higher price than most. Forlorn, she sat in a mobile administrative station outside the dockyards where construction engineers and inventory specialists moved among the vessels being refitted to new military purposes. Rlinda regarded the great steel whalebones of structural frameworks, new hulls being assembled, powerful engines grafted to commandeered cargo vessels like her own poor ships. She felt sick inside just to watch the butchery. Her merchant fleet would never be the same.

When a door hatch hissed open in the dim lounge, Rlinda did not turn from where she sat brooding. The last thing she wanted was polite conversation with one of the people who had confiscated, with feigned apologies, three of her four remaining merchant ships to convert them into fast reconnaissance vessels and material-supply craft.

The simple act—blithely ordered by King Frederick and signed by some bureaucrat who paid little attention to whatever paper was thrust in front of him—had robbed Rlinda of her dreams, and most of her livelihood. The token payment from the EDF wouldn’t be enough to buy rations for more than a year.

Instead of a bureaucrat or supply expert, though, the next sound she heard was the friendly voice of Branson Roberts, whose Blind Faith had been among the three commandeered ships. “The least they could do would be to offer us some strong drink.” He came forward, and Rlinda shifted in her chair, giving him a wan smile. “A good dose of hard alcohol to help ease my heartache.”

Rlinda wrapped an arm around his waist, hugging him close. “You’re a good pilot, BeBob. Want a recommendation letter? You can get a commission flying reconnaissance surveys. The EDF will give you a pension, and you can have all the military rations you can eat.”

“All I can stomach, you mean,” he grumbled. “Not like your cooking, Rlinda.”

“You’re sweet,” she said.

He leaned over to make the hug closer, and she pecked him on the cheek. He had curly gray-black hair that had grown too long, like a tiny thundercloud over his head. His cheeks had begun to sag a bit with age, giving him an endearing hangdog look, especially with his big brown eyes. They’d had five good years as husband and wife, passionate years, but the two had learned that they just couldn’t stand being together all the time.

“Glad to hear they let you keep the Voracious Curiosity,” BeBob said.

“A small enough consolation prize after losing the rest of my fleet.” Rlinda shrugged. “But I’ll take it, I suppose.”