Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

“Captain!” Hawkes shouted, barely audible over the klaxons and equipment of the damage control teams. “Their weapons are coming to bear.”

“What do we have left?”

Hawkes did not even bother to consult his console. “Three starboard beam emitters at reduced power, only one with functional targeting systems,” he reported. “Two port emitters, fore and aft, are online, but their operational condition is unknown. One torpedo, starboard forward, manual launch and guidance only.”

Elizabeth watched the Captain, wondering what she might be thinking.

Go out in a blaze of glory, with all guns blasting? Attempt to ram one of the vessels? Retreat? Surrender?

Devereux’s expression revealed nothing but thoughtful determination. Something in her deep green eyes, though, told Elizabeth that she had made her decision. She turned toward the Tactical station.

“Lieutenant—” she said, her voice firm and clear.

Elizabeth never found out what Devereux’s decision was.

“Captain!” Gho called out, her voice rising toward a high-pitched register.

Devereux’s head snapped toward the Science officer.

“I’m picking up slipstream events,” Gho reported, her voice trembling. “Lots of them.”

“Where?”

Gho stared down at her console, her eyes darting across the displays. Elizabeth felt an ache of sympathy of the young officer, clearly in over her head.

“All over,” Gho stammered, wide-eyed. “Everywhere.”

“On the center screen,” Devereux told her, nodding toward Hawkes to verify the readings.

The middle bridge display flickered into a view of the edge of debris field. Computer-generated false hues showed the multiple event horizons rippling into existence.

“I guess this is it,” Elizabeth whispered aloud, without meaning to.

Devereux glanced at her, but there was no chastisement in her look. She began to open her mouth, but was interrupted by Hawkes.

“Captain,” he said. His voice carried an undeniable undertone of relief. “I’m reading Fleet transponder IDs.”

Devereux’s posture changed from rigid determination to one of cautious relief.

“All of them?”

Hawkes consulted his console. “Confirmed,” he reported as he looked up. “All new contacts are transmitting verified Fleet IDs.”

Around them, the enemy cruisers began to break up under the concerted onslaught of the Fleet armada.

“Helm,” Devereux ordered. “Take us to a safe distance, best possible speed.”

“Aye, Captain,” Pyrafox acknowledged. Blood matted the russet-tinted fur along his jaw. “Engaging thrusters.”

Now, nine hours later, Elizabeth stood, clad in a space suit, outside the emergency hatch on Deck Four aft.