Lt. Leary, Commanding by David Drake

They went back home and they dressed in red.

The converse was that the Sissie’s own missiles, save for the pair already loaded in the tubes, would be fighting a great deal of negative inertia as they struggled back toward their target. Der Grosser Karl would be able to avoid them easily.

All Daniel’s missiles were aimed at the battleship: if Der Grosser Karl were damaged, the powerful remainder of the squadron would be more concerned with defending the cripple than in chasing down Commodore Pettin’s force. A big “if,” of course.

They come slippin’ and aslidin’ up and down the street—

Light flickered as the Princess Cecile shifted onto the final leg of her approach. Daniel’s course calculation had taken fifteen minutes, three times as long as so short a voyage would require, because he’d added a fourth parameter to the mix.

Usually an attack was made with a minimum of rig aloft so that the vessel could maneuver on High Drive without damaging its antennas. This time Daniel wanted every possible—every surviving—mast raised to its full height and all sails spread. That was a strikingly inefficient way to navigate the Matrix; but in a portion of normal space bathed with the point-blank output of eight-inch plasma cannon, it was the corvette’s only hope of survival.

In their old Mother Hubbards and their stocking feet!

Daniel paused in his calculations—for rounds fifteen and sixteen, and if the Sissie survived to launch them she and her crew would be very fortunate indeed—to watch the sail schematic change to reflect the new rig. Starboard Three and Four didn’t budge at the thrust of the jacks. Though undamaged at the quick glance which alone was possible after the initial attack, a splash of plasma had welded their base hinges.

Woetjans must have expected that, because at least six mauls slammed rhythmically into the masts within seconds of the jam. Both began to lift. S3 continued normally, but the pump pressure driving S4 flatlined when the antenna had only elevated a few degrees. A hydraulic line—scored by plasma, fractured by an injudicious hammerblow, or simply filled with the cussed determination of machines to fail—had broken.

Brady, Brady, Brady, don’t you know you done wrong?

The mast resumed its rise, again within seconds of the initial failure. The bosun must already have rigged tackle to blocks at the head of adjacent, previously extended, masts.

Daniel felt a rush of affection. By God! he wasn’t going to let Woetjans throw her life away. Not even if saving her required a sincerely offered threat to blow her head off if she didn’t obey.

Antenna Starboard 4 locked into place and, without further hesitation, unfurled its suit of sails. The Princess Cecile was wearing nearly eighty percent of her rig, an unusual event made more remarkable by the battle damage that alone prevented the figure being even higher.

Atoms stripped of electrons and accelerated by repulsion up the bore of a plasma cannon had velocities little short of light speed, but negligible mass. Their ravening touch would destroy the first layer of any matter they collided with, but they wouldn’t penetrate. Damage beyond the target’s outer layer was a result of transmitted impact—which in the case of sail fabric was almost zero.

After the battleship’s initial volley had removed the sails, further bolts would scour the hull. At point-blank range, fluxes intended to change the course of missiles approaching at .6 C would make short work of a corvette.

You bust into my bar when the game was on . . .

The astrogation computer changed the sails’ potentials as programmed; Daniel checked the results against the plan and his instinct. All was well.

He grinned. If that was the phrase to use under the circumstances.

“Three minutes to reentry to normal space!” Dorst said.

The riggers, their job completed, were clanging back within the Sissie’s hull. The inner airlock opened outside the bridge. One figure stepped through, Lt. Mon lifting off the helmet of his rigging suit. He closed the hatch behind him.

You sprung my latch and you broke my door . . .

Catching Daniel’s eye, Mon shouted, “Hogg’s staying in the lock with Woetjans. Says it’s as good a place as the next, he figures.”

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