She was committed. The first shot had yet to be fired—indeed, she didn’t yet have any real proof Sirius was even armed—but she knew what was going to happen. Not how it was going to come out, perhaps, but how it was going to begin… and what she would do about it.

“Mr. Cardones,” she said quietly.

“Yes, Ma’am?” Cardones sounded tense, perhaps a bit breathless, and very young, and she smiled at him.

“I imagine we’re going to be under fire for some time before we can reply, Guns,” she said, and saw his quick flush of pleasure, the slight relaxation of his shoulders, at her choice of title. “I don’t want to do anything to suggest we suspect Sirius is armed until and unless she actually opens fire—she may let us in closer if she thinks we’re unaware of the danger—but be ready to bring up the ECM and point defense the instant something comes our way. Don’t wait for my order.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Mr. Panowski.”

“Yes, Captain?” The navigator sounded much more anxious than Cardones, perhaps because he was a bit older, a bit more aware of his mortality.

“We’re committed to a stern chase. Once we close to two million kilometers, however, I will want to zig-zag randomly either side of his base course to interpose our sidewalls as far as possible. Set up your plot accordingly and maintain a running update for Chief Killian.”

“Aye, aye, Ma’am.” Panowski turned to his console with renewed energy, as if relieved to have something to do. Or, Honor thought, perhaps it was her suggestion that they would survive to within two million kilometers. She felt herself smile once more, and to her amazement, it felt completely genuine. She looked up to see McKeon smiling back at her and shook her head at him. He shrugged, his smile suspiciously like a grin for just a moment, and she returned her attention to the chronometer. Sixty-six minutes into the pursuit.

“Missile flight time now one-eight-eight seconds, Sir.”

“Very well.” Coglin settled himself in his chair and crossed his legs. “Commence jamming and open fire with tubes twenty and twenty-one.”

Buzzers snarled aboard Fearless.

Honor opened her mouth to snap orders, but Rafael Cardones had the reflexes of the very young. He had already reacted. The tactical board flashed as his ECM sprang from standby to active, and two fifty-ton decoys snapped out of their broadside bays, popping through specially opened portals in Fearless’s sidewalls. Tractors moored them to the cruiser, holding the driveless lures on station to cover her flanks, as passive sensors listened to the incoming missiles, seeking the frequencies of their active homing systems, and jammers responded with white noise in an effort to blind them while fire control systems locked on the small, weaving targets.

Cardones started to reach for his counter-missile firing key, then paused and glanced over his shoulder at her.

“Not yet, Mr. Cardones,” she said quietly. “Let the plot settle. Fire at a half-million kilometers to catch them as their drives go down.”