“Of course, Your Grace.” Talbot sounded suddenly crisper. “It was transmitted as soon as they were picked up, exactly—” he paused, obviously checking the time “—seven minutes and forty-five seconds ago. There’s been no response.”

“I see.” Honor refrained from pointing out that if there had been a response, the hyper footprint would scarcely have still been unidentified. Then she felt a tiny pang of guilt at the thought. Good officers learned never to assume that someone else was aware of all they were aware of, and subordinates who were willing to risk sounding foolish to be certain their superiors had all relevant information were to be cherished, not scorned.

“Well,” she went on, “they could still be friendlies who’re just a little slow responding, I suppose.” Her tone was that of someone thinking out loud, and Talbot made no response. Nor was any required. Both of them knew that by now every Manticoran or Allied man-of-war was equipped with FTL grav-pulse transmitters… and that no Allied com officer was “slow” enough to not have responded by now.

“Still,” Honor continued, “this isn’t a good time to take chances. My compliments to Captain Cardones, Lieutenant, and ask him to bring the task force to Action Stations.”

“Aye, aye, Ma’am!” Talbot said crisply, and the General Quarters alarm woke to clamorous, ear-hurting life less than four seconds later.

· · • · ·

Admiral of the Green Francis Jurgensen felt his belly congeal into a single, massive lump of ice as he stared at the report on the display in front of him. For several seconds, his brain simply refused to work at all.

Then the real panic set in.

Sheer, shocked disbelief had held him paralyzed as he read through the brief, terse communique and the attached copy of the official news release. None of it could possibly have been true! Except that even as he’d told himself that, he’d known that it was. Now the shock had worn off enough to lose its anesthetic edge, and he jerked up out of his comfortable chair with an abruptness which would have startled anyone familiar with the eternally self-possessed exterior he was always so careful to present to the rest of the universe. For a moment, he stood poised, looking almost as if he wanted to physically flee the damning information contained in the report. But, of course, there was nowhere to run, and he licked his lips nervously.

He walked over to the window of his office, his strides jerky, and leaned against the towering panel of crystoplast as he gazed out over the early evening skyline of the City of Landing. The Star Kingdom’s capital’s air traffic moved steadily against the darkening cobalt vault of the planet Manticore’s star-pricked heavens, and he closed his eyes as the serene, jewel-bright chips of light floated steadily about their business. Somehow, the tranquility of the everyday scene only made the report’s contents and conclusions even worse.

His brain began to function again, after a fashion. It darted about, like a frightened fish in too small an aquarium, bumping its snout again and again against the unyielding crystal wall which kept it pent. But, like the fish, it found no escape.