Ships, lives, men, a planet. Who would say Now! and not be afraid?
The Orion fleet springs at the viewports. The ships grow large, the intervals between them widen out. The Starsong flies at the point of a wedge shaped like an axe-blade. Behind her, on either side, the squadron follows in close formation.
In a tight, flat voice, the Commander says, "Prepare to engage."
The Fifth Lyra, the falling wedge, the axe-blade, hits the line of cruisers from above and cuts it in two.
Instantly the close-held wings fan out, driving the severed sections apart, opening the gap so wide it can never be closed again. Shells burst, little blinding suns, little fountains of hellfire, racking the ships, burning them, destroying them. But the wings sweep on. Part of the Orionid line is rolled up and driven into the drift of the Belt, where the Earth ships strike and strike again, and the proud cruisers with the polished sides become wreck and flotsam to join the cosmic debris in its endless journey around the Sun. The other section is driven outward into space, back toward Orion.
And the Starsong hunts down the Betelgeuse, flagship of Solleremos' fleet.
Kirk says, If we can get her, I think the rest will all go home. Fire One—
Fire Two.
The Betelgeuse answers, and space is drowned in a flaming cloud. The Starsong staggers and men are thrown down on the reeling iron deck. A red light flares on the telltale board. Somewhere deep in the ship's vitals the bulkhead doors slam shut, sealing off. The Starsong has a hole in her and some men have died, but she's still alive, still strong to move and strike.
Fire Three.