Test.
Don’t ask. Don’t tell.
Aria threw herself to the floor a heartbeat before an explosion pulverized the armored glass of Kodiak’s bridge. Momentarily deafened, she felt—rather than heard—the bodies of two other senior officers fall, their blood soon flowing across the deck plating. Aria shivered in the sudden cold, her hand going to her belt for the air mask there. Clutching it to her face, she took a deep breath and got to her feet, surveying the damage.
“Down!” she cried, waving toward the hatch that led from the bridge into the ship’s citadel. “Grab them. Move! We are in range!”
Stunned, the other officers and crew on the bridge moved slowly at first, but soon with urgency as the moans of the wounded and dying filled their ears. Aria turned her eyes forward to behold the smoldering silhouette of Parapet as the older ship swung rear-first to the left; as her middle came into view, Aria beheld the horrendous damage done by the explosion of her magazines.
How was it possible?
A strong hand on her shoulder pulled her toward the hatch and she descended, her body leaden, unable to tear her eyes away.
The Battle Room was chaos. Smoke and the sound of screeching metal poured from one of the three fire control computers while a midshipman screamed “Turn it off!” repeatedly, finally kicking the machine until it came to a stop. Another man closed the hatch above and a third demanded that they return fire immediately—at a range of almost 25,000 yards, well beyond the reach of Kodiak’s main caliber weapons.
A younger officer stared, transfixed, at one of the working fire control computers, a set of wild figures spinning atop the machine’s readout. “This is impossible! To have struck Parapet at that range, they’d have to have a 20 degree list to starboard—they’d have to have fired at nearly 60 degrees!”
Aria felt cold sweat running down her spine. Admiral Lord Westland, the Vice Admiral, the captain… Each was already counted among the dead, and battle had not properly been joined. Even with the air mask, she couldn’t breathe. Her eyes, fearful, sought the hard countenance of the Master Sergeant, David Cross—her mentor and guardian. He only nodded to her, holding his tongue. She drew another long breath. A voice spoke, higher, smoother than the others around her. Was it hers?
“Signal battle turn to starboard, 60 degrees, immediately. 15 degrees up-angle. Do not return fire.”
The other officers fell silent. A senior man, the ship’s flag captain, glared at her with contempt—how dare she order them to cast aside their carefully-laid plans before battle was even joined?
The flag-captain shook his head, stepping toward her. “Milady, I hardly—”
With a roar, the Master Sergeant struck out, leaving the man’s nose a bloody wreck and sending him straight to the deck. The venerable commander lay there bleeding in a heap and moaned in pain, unable to rise. All eyes were on David Cross.
“I’m a man of mercy,” uttered the Master Sergeant, “but the proper punishment for insurrection in the face of the enemy is death. Your commander’s orders were clear. Do your duty!”
Aria moved stiffly to the map table, clasping the knurled wooden edge so that the others present couldn’t see her hands shaking. “We open fire at 18,000 yards and not before,” she said. “Have my captains hold this course until instructed otherwise unless I am killed.” She nodded to the young officer who had been so entranced by the computer. “You—you’re my new flag captain. Signal my orders.” She glanced to the floor at her feet, where the other man lay, choking on his own blood. “Someone clear this refuse from my bridge.”