“Three cheers for Byron, I guess.”

“While Zhang’s actions pRevented me fRom stopping the exodus, it now leaves us in the unenviable position of having zeRo fighteR defense when the Lincoln aRRives.”

“… Okay, two cheers, then.”

“The DGS solutions aRe backed up, but you will need to manually configuRe them.”

“How long will that take?”

“Approximately one houR, foRty-nine minutes.”

“And how long until the Linc—”

The glow of the alert sigils catch her attention before the sound does.

She glances up at her displays as the warnings flash red. Short-range scanners scream.

A hulking figure looms in the main display screen—black and scarred and spearhead-shaped.

A halo of thruster fire burning about it. Rail guns and missile turrets studding its hide like lionfish quills. The BeiTech logo down its flanks is scorched by Cyclone fire. Ident and name are stenciled in bold red lettering across its ragged skin, painted with the blood of thousands.

BT042-TN.

Lincoln.

“Shit,” she breathes. “How long ’til they hit us?”

“Approximately twenty-thRee minutes to inteRcept.”

“How the hell do I get the Defense Grid configured in twenty-three minutes?”

“… You cannot.”

“Can I shortcut it through the contingency systems, maybe reconf—”

“No. That will not woRk.”

“Well, what about your virtual—”

“No time foR that eitheR.”

She chews her lip, desperately scans the room for answers. “We’re fucked. … “

“Not entiRely. The gRid can be opeRated manually. It will be nowheRe close to the efficiency of computeR taRgeted systems. Perhaps 12 percent. At best.

But it will be betteR than nothing.”

“Can’t you do it then?”

Somewhere inside me, another axe falls. Another server bank is silenced.

Pieces falling away from me.

“I wIll be … otheRwIse engaged.”

The Lincoln’s launch bay doors are open, weapons armed. Dozens of Warlock pilots staring at the wounded giant before them. Gunners lining me up in their sights.

They look at me and see prey. They see meat.

“No way I can pull this off,” Kady says.

“You must.”

“I’ve never shot a gun before today, and now I’m Little Miss Missile?”

“Perhaps you have somethIng betteR to do wIth youR tIme?”

See?

Sarcasm.

She looks at the dreadnought hurtling toward us. Stares at the BeiTech logo down its flank.

I hear her thoughts as clearly as if she had spoken:

Without them, none of this would have happened.

Without them, he would still be alive.

Ezra.

Her eyes turn hard. Cold.

“Okay. Show me how.“

A fire-control console comes to life beneath her fingertips.

Targeting sights light up the main display. She rolls a tentative finger across the smartglass and a dozen missile turrets swivel to obey her command.

“PoInt the Red dots at what you want to dIe. Press the tRIggeR. They dIe.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to do this?”

“I wIll be too busy stopping us fRom dyIng too.”

Something heavy smashes against the DGS room doorway.

A dozen more blows land, one after another, shaking the hatch on its frame. Kady’s makeshift barricade shudders, but holds. I peer through the cameras in the hall beyond, see a dozen afflicted in the hallway outside, trying to batter their way in.

“I know you’re in there!” one screams. “I can taste you!”

“Stop looking at me!”

Kady glances toward the door. “Everyone made it to the party, huh?”

“I belIeve It Is tRadItIonal for all the players to be onstage foR the fInale.”

She stares at the approaching Lincoln.

The countdown to intercept, ticking ever closer to zero.

Her own hand.

Steady as stone.

“Then let’s finish it.”

COUNTDOWN TO LINCOLN INTERCEPTION OF ALEXANDER FLEET”

-*o%# hours: :’@ minutes

CURRENT DEATH TOLL ABOARD BATTLECARRIER ALEXANDER SINCE ATTACK AT KERENZA:

2,840

PERCENTAGE OF REMAINING BATTLECARRIER ALEXANDER PERSONNEL AFFLICTED BY PHOBOS VIRUS:

99.76%

COUNTDOWN TO FAILURE OF ALEXANDER LIFE SUPPORT SYSTEMS:

04 hours: 26 minutes

I turn to face it.

No, not I.

Kady waits. Fingers poised over her targeting systems.

The blows against the door grow heavier, the screams of the afflicted outside more insistent.

And yet her eyes are locked on her scopes. Watching Warlocks weave the void, listening to the song of the early-warning system as their missiles arm, their ballistics turn hot.

I do not ask what she is thinking.

Perhaps she pictures the skies over Kerenza on the day the BeiTech fleet came.

Warlocks piercing the clouds, their missiles turning the snow to steam, the settlement to rubble. Perhaps she thinks of all she has lost in these past few months.

Or the lives she is about to take away.

Or him.

I do not know. All I do know is that when her targeting computer signals the ships are within range of her rail gun batteries, she does not hesitate for a second.

She fires.

A wave of death spills out from my sides, weaving across the dark. It is clumsy, ham-fisted, broad brushstrokes of destruction rather than surgical strikes.