"Standing by, Virgil. Let's go over pre-arm, Gunner," Buccari commanded. She struggled to suppress her rising anxiety. Was there enough time?

As she orchestrated checklists, Buccari stole glances at Quinn, concerned he would slip back into his stupor of self-pity. Perhaps it no longer mattered: their crippled ship was hurtling helplessly through space, all aces played. During the hectic engagement the pilot had used the ship's decreasing power and diminished weapons to full advantage. His last blast of acceleration had been a desperate, spasmodic action, sapping the last gasp from the main engines, but it had propelled the corvette through a pattern of explosions and slicing energy beams, past the approaching enemy. Up to that point he had fought hard and well, with no hint of surrender, but then came the panicked messages—distress calls— from T.L.S. Greenland, the corvette's mothership. The horrible implication of Greenland's desperate pleas for help had melted the metal in Quinn's spine: his wife was senior science officer on the battered mothership.

"Skipper," Buccari barked, "roll ninety for weapons release."

Without replying, Quinn disengaged the autostabilizing computer, hit the maneuvering alarm, and fired portside maneuvering rockets. The ponderous corvette rolled crazily. Quinn stopped the rotational wobble with deft squirts of opposite power.

"Nash! Evacuation status," Buccari yelled into her throat mike.

Hudson's reply was instantaneous. "Apple needs another minute. Request hold maneuvers until I get the bay doors open. Lee and the injured are in lifeboat one, ready to go. Number two lifeboat is not being used. Still some confusion about who's staying and who's leaving, but that won't stop us from jettisoning on your command."

An anxious voice—Dawson, the ship's communications technician—broke in: "Skipper!" she transmitted. "Flash override incoming."