"I wouldn't."
"I'm betting that they won't either." Fiske turned to the talker—"all hands—Battle Stations! Full armor. Condition one. Bordoni—stand by with your recordings—report when ready." A cold ball bounced in Fiske's stomach as the reports snapped in. Up until now the Confederation ships had been individually superior to the aliens, an advantage that barely counterbalanced the Eglani's coordination, but these ships were superior to his own in speed at least, and what they might lack in firepower they made up in numbers.
No skipper in his right mind would tackle two to one odds in favor of the aliens. But it was unavoidable now. Fiske shrugged. If he was right about the effect of his broadcaster, he had a chance—but the chance was a slim one anyway you looked at it. Sure—he knew the secret of Eglan coordination, but could he disrupt that coordination? It was a distinct possibility that his attempt at jamming would only be a minor annoyance, and if it was, the secret of the Eglani would die with him.
Of course, there was a possibility that one of the message torpedoes would get through—but torpedoes travelling on a fixed course were usually intercepted and destroyed. At best they were a forlorn hope—sent Earthward more as a gesture than with any expectation of arrival.
And with the Lorcom converted to a subetheric broadcaster he had no exterior communications. The "Dauntless" was on her own—cut off from help—wholly dependent upon the skill of her crew for survival.
"Stand by for breakout," Fiske ordered.—"Execute."
Smoothly the ship swapped ends, halted instantly, and dropped like a stone through the Cth components as Sandoval cut the converters. With scarcely a shudder the "Dauntless" slipped into normal space.
"Full ahead," Fiske ordered and familiar acceleration clutched at the bodies of the crew. With every electronic and visual sense extended, screens glowing on standby, drives flaring a fierce blue against the dark of space the "Dauntless" swept forward toward the frontier far ahead. Her speed was less than a snail's crawl compared to the inconceivable velocities she had been travelling in Cth but in normal spacetime weapons functioned and subetheric communicators worked. Here, fighting was an art—refined by years of drill and practice.
"Bearing zero two four—enemy cruiser. Range two thousand—closing," the talker said. "Bearing one nine zero—nega—cruiser. Range fifteen hundred—extending."
"Not too smart," Fiske observed. "That rear ship'll have to hyper to get ahead of us, and by that time we should get a crack at our long eared friends up ahead."