“I’m guessing that’s not a blockade formation anymore,” the Viking said.

“No, ma’am,” McSchmidt said, swallowing. “It’s not.”

McSchmidt changed the image, revealing a close up of a couple of the Battle Spiders grouped in a wedge formation pointing toward the Meridan border. He’d highlighted some of the armament appendages.

“These show a heat scanner’s evaluation of activity,” McSchmidt said, pointing to the highlights. “The Thelicosans run up-down rotations of their weapon arrays before they think they’re going to use them; it warms up the turrets so that there’s less of a chance of them overheating when the fighting actually starts.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room as everyone took that in.

“Where did all the extra ships come from?” Rogers asked.

“That’s the thing,” McSchmidt said, zooming back out to the overview of the enemy formation as reported by the Meridan’s sensor arrays. “I have no idea. There’s an Un-Space point near the edge of this position, but for so many ships to come out of it in the space of a day and regroup is . . . Well, it’s not really possible.”

“Some kind of cloaking?” the Viking asked.

“It’s possible,” McSchmidt said. “I haven’t heard of the Thelicosans developing any kind of cloaking device that big.”

That wasn’t good news either. If they’d developed that kind of stealth technology, and the sensor arrays’ data was several days old, the Thelicosans could already have ships sitting right next to the Flagship with the cannons armed, and the 331st would have no idea. The Two Hundred Years’ (and Counting) Peace could evaporate—along with the entire 331st—in seconds.

Something about it all seemed very wrong to Rogers, but that could have just been his unabashed, panic-stricken fear of combat.

“That’s all I have for you today, sir,” McSchmidt said. “I’ll talk to the rest of the intel troops and see if we can’t come up with something more solid for you tomorrow.”

The briefing broke up, everyone returning to their normal duties with a somber sense of dread hanging over them. Klein didn’t even stand up and say anything charismatic, though someone in the far side of the room too far away to hear stood up and gave Klein a slow, dramatic salute anyway. Habits were hard to break, Rogers supposed.

For once, though, Rogers didn’t have his mind on an impending invasion or his boss’s incompetence. The Viking was slowly making her way out of the briefing room, and the recurring dream he kept having about being rescued from a burning room wasn’t helping keep her off his mind. Mailn was right. He had to make this right or he was never going to be able to focus on not dying.

“Captain Alsinbury,” Rogers said. “Wait. Hang on a second.”

“I don’t have time for a deserter,” she grumbled as she elbowed past him.

He skirted around the edge of the helmsman’s desk and hopped over a small railing, putting himself directly between her and the bridge’s exit.