Centre of Gravity. Ian Douglas

Vanderkamp’s tactical officer cried over the bridge link. “Kaufman has been hit!”

      “Show me!”

      The tactical display switched to a view from one of the other destroyer’s external cameras, looking forward up the spine toward the underside of the ship’s massive shield cap. The shield, backlit by a hard blue glare, was deforming, crumpling with shocking suddenness, as though it were collapsing into …

      “Milton is hit!” A second battlegroup destroyer was folding around her own shield cap. “Target is now breaking up.”

      “Breaking up? Breaking up how?”

      “It’s just … just dividing sir. Twelve sections, moving apart from—”

      “Incoming mass!” his exec shouted. “Singularity effect! Impact in seven … in six …”

      Vanderkamp saw it, a pinpoint source of X-rays and hard gamma on the forward scanner display, a tiny, brilliant star sweeping directly toward Symmons’ prow.

      There was no time for thought or measured decision, no time for anything but immediate reaction.

      “VG–24 weapon system, all tubes, fire!” he yelled, overriding the exec’s countdown. They were under attack, and that decisively ended any need for weapons-free orders from base. “Maneuvering, hard right! Shields up full! Brace for—”

      And the H’rulka weapon struck the Symmons.

      It hit slightly off center on the destroyer’s bullet-shaped forward shield cap, causing the starboard side to pucker and collapse in a fiercely radiating instant. Water stored inside the tank burst through the rupture, freezing instantly in a cloud of frozen mist that burst into space like a miniature galaxy. The port side of the cap twisted around, collapsing into the oncoming gravitic weapon effect. Vanderkamp felt a single hard, brain-numbing jolt … and then the five-hundred meter spine of the ship whipped around the object, orbiting it with savage velocity as the entire 29,000-ton-plus mass of the Symmons tried to cram itself into a fast-moving volume of twisted space half a centimeter across. Pieces of the ship flew off in all directions as the spine continued to snap around the tiny volume of warped space; the strain severed the ship’s spine one hundred meters from her aft venturis, and the broken segment tumbled wildly away into darkness. Abruptly, the remaining hull shattered, the complex plastic-ceralum composite fragmenting into a cloud of sparkling shards, continuing to circle the fierce-glowing core of the weapon until it formed a broad, flattened pinwheel spiraling in toward that tiny but voracious central maw.

      The disk of sparkling fragments and ice crystals collapsed inward, dwindling … dwindling … dwindling …

      And then the Symmons was gone.

      Seven of her Mamba missiles had cleared their launch tubes before the weapon struck.

      TC/USNA CVS America

       SupraQuito Fleet Base

       Earth Synchorbit, Sol System

       1540 hours, TFT

      Last on, first off was the custom for boarding and debarking by seniority. Buchanan swam out of the Rutan’s cargo deck hab module and into the boarding tube, followed by other, lower-ranking officers. Rather than wait for America’s forward boat-deck docking bay to repressurize, it was simpler to hand-over-hand along the translucent plastic tube and emerge moments later on the carrier’s quarterdeck.

      By age-old tradition, a vessel’s quarterdeck was her point of entry, often reserved for officers, guests, and passengers … though on a carrier like America it served as an entryway for the ship’s enlisted personnel as well. The boat deck offered stowage for a number of the ship’s service and utility boats, including the captain’s gig—the sleek, delta-winged AC–23 Sparrow that by rights should have taken him planetside and back. The quarterdeck was directly aft.

      “America, arriving,” the voice of the AIOD called from overhead as he pulled himself headfirst into the large quarterdeck space, announcing to all personnel that the ship’s commanding officer had just come on board. Following ancient seafaring tradition, Buchanan rotated in space to face a large USNA flag painted on the quarterdeck’s aft bulkhead and saluted it, then turned to receive the salute of the OOD.

      “Welcome aboard, Captain,” Commander Benton Sinclair said, saluting. Sinclair was the ship’s senior TO, her tactical officer, but was stationed at the quarterdeck for this watch as officer of the deck.

      “Thank you, Commander,” Buchanan replied. “You are relieved as OOD. I want you in CIC now.”

      “I am relieved of the deck. Aye, aye, Captain.”

      The ship’s bridge, along with the adjacent combat information center, were both aft from the quarterdeck, just past the moving down-and-out deck scoops leading to the elevators connecting with the various rotating hab modules. Both the bridge and the CIC were housed inside a heavily armored, fin-shaped sponson abaft of the hab module access, and were in zero gravity.

      “Captain on the bridge!” the exec announced as Buchanan swam in through the hatchway. Using the handholds anchored to the deck, he pulled himself to the doughnut, the captain’s station overlooking the various bridge stations around the deck’s perimeter, and swung himself in. The station embraced him, drawing him in, making critical electronic contacts.

      He sensed the ship around him. In a way, he became the ship, over a kilometer long, humming with power, with communication, with life. He sensed the admiral’s barge slipping into its boarding sheath forward, sensed the gossamer structure of the base docking facility alongside and ahead.

      And he sensed the battle unfolding just half a million kilometers away. God in heaven, how had they gotten so close?

      Long-range battlespace scans showed four Confederation vessels … no, five, now, five ships destroyed, three of them members of CBG–18. The enemy ship was accelerating now at seven hundred gravities … and, as he watched, it appeared to be breaking up.

      “Tactical,” Buchanan said. He felt Commander Sinclair slipping into his console and linking in. “Is it … is the enemy ship destroyed?”

      “Negative, Captain,” Sinclair replied a moment later. “It appears to have separated into twelve distinct sections. Courses are diverging … and accelerating.”

      Missile trails pursued several of the alien ship sections. It appeared that Symmons had managed to get off a partial volley before slamming into the alien’s gravitic weaponry.

      “CBG–18, arriving,” the AI of the deck announced.

      Good, Koenig was aboard. Buchanan allowed America’s status updates to wash through his awareness. Her quantum tap generators were coming on-line, power levels rising. The last of VFA–44’s Starhawks were on board and on the hangar deck being rearmed. Dockyard tugs were already taking up their positions along America’s hull, ready to push her clear of the facility. Weapons coming on-line… .

      “Seal off docking tubes,” he ordered. “Prepare to get under way.”

      “Docking tubes sealed off, Captain.” That was the voice of Master Chief Carter, the boatswain of the deck, in charge of the gangways and boarding tubes connecting the ship with the dock. A number of ship’s personnel were still inside the main tube, or at the debarkation bay at the dock, as the tube began retracting. The last men and women to make it on board were scrambling for their stations.

      “Ship’s power on-line, at eighty percent,” the engineering AI reported.

      “Very well. Cast off umbilicals.”

      Connectors for power, water, and raw materials separated from America’s hull receptors, reeling back into the dock.

      “Dockyard umbilicals clear, Captain,” Carter reported.

      By this time,