Commodore Anders Dunecki cursed vilely as the other cruiser snapped up on its side. He’d hurt that ship—hurt it badly—and he knew it. But it had also hurt him far more badly than he had ever allowed for. He’d gotten slack, a cold thought told him in his own viciously calm voice. He’d been fighting the Confeds too long, let his guard down and become accustomed to being able to take liberties with them. But his present opponent was no Silesian naval unit, and he cursed again, even more vilely, as he realized what that other ship truly was.

A Manty. He’d attacked a Manty warship, committed the one unforgivable blunder no pirate or privateer was ever allowed to commit more than once. That was why the other cruiser had managed to get off even a single shot of her own, because she was a Manty and she’d been just as ready, just as prepared to fire as he was.

And it was also why his entire strategy to win Andermani support for the Council for an Independent Prism had suddenly come crashing down in ruins. However badly the People’s Republic might have distracted the Manticoran government, the RMN’s response to what had happened here was as certain as the energy death of the universe.

But only if they know who did it, his racing brain told him coldly. Only if they know which system government to send the battle squadrons after. But that ship has got to have detailed sensor records of Annika’s energy signatures. If they compare those records with the Confed database, they’re bound to ID us. Even if they don’t get a clean hit, Wegener will know who it must have been and send them right after us. But even he won’t be able to talk the Manties into hitting us without at least some supporting evidence, and the only evidence there is in the computers of that ship.

There was only one way to prevent that data from getting out.

He turned his head to look at Commander Amami. The exec was still listening to damage reports, but Dunecki didn’t really need them. A glance at the master schematic showed that Annika’s entire port broadside must be a mass of tangled ruin. Less than a third of her energy mounts and missile tubes remained intact, and her sidewall generators were at barely forty percent efficiency. But the Manty had to be hurt at least as badly, and she was smaller, less able to absorb damage. Better yet, he had the overtake advantage and her impeller strength had dropped drastically. He was bigger, newer, better armed, and more maneuverable, and that meant the engagement could have only one outcome.

“Roll one-eight-zero degrees to starboard and maintain heading,” he told his helmsmen harshly. “Starboard broadside, stand by to fire as you bear!”

Honor watched the other ship roll. Like War Maiden, the bigger ship was rotating her crippled broadside away from her opponent’s fire. But she wasn’t stopping there, and Honor let herself feel a tiny spark of hope as the raider continued to roll, and then the weapons of her undamaged broadside lashed out afresh and poured a hurricane of fire upon War Maiden. The belly of the Manticoran ship’s impeller wedge absorbed that fire harmlessly, but that wasn’t the point, and Honor knew it. The enemy was sequencing her fire carefully, so that something pounded the wedge continuously. If War Maiden rolled back for a broadside duel, that constant pounding was almost certain to catch her as she rolled, inflicting damage and destroying at least some of her remaining weapons before they ever got a chance to bear upon their foe. It was a smart, merciless tactic, one which eschewed finesse in favor of brutal practicality.

But unlike whoever was in command over there, Honor could not afford a weapon-to-weapon battering match. Not against someone that big who had already demonstrated her capabilities so convincingly. And so she had no choice but to oppose overwhelming firepower with cunning.

Every fiber of her being was concentrated on the imagery of her plot, and her lips drew back in a feral snarl as the other ship maintained her acceleration. Seconds ticked slowly and agonizingly past. Sixty of them. Then seventy. Ninety.

“Helm! On my mark, give me maximum emergency power—redline everything—and execute my previous order!” She heard the helmsman’s response, but her eyes never flickered from her plot, and her nostrils flared.

“Now!”

Anders Dunecki had a handful of fleeting seconds to realize that he had made one more error. The Manty had held her course, hiding behind the shield of her wedge, and he’d thought that it hadn’t mattered whether that arose out of panic or out of a rational realization that she couldn’t have gone toe-to-toe with Annika even if she hadn’t been so badly damaged.

Yet it did matter. The other captain hadn’t panicked, but he had realized he couldn’t fight Annika in a broadside duel… and he had no intention of doing so.

Perhaps it wasn’t really Dunecki’s fault. The range was insanely short for modern warships, dropping towards one which could be measured in hundreds of kilometers and not thousands, and no sane naval officer would even have contemplated engaging at such close quarters. Nor had either Dunecki or Bachfisch planned on doing any such thing, for each had expected to begin and end the battle with a single broadside which would take his enemy completely by surprise. But whatever they’d planned, their ships were here now, and no one in any navy trained its officers for combat maneuvers in such close proximity to an enemy warship. And because of that, Anders Dunecki, for all of his experience, was completely unprepared for what War Maiden actually did.

Strident alarms jangled as HMS War Maiden’s inertial compensator protested its savage abuse. More alarms howled as the load on the heavy cruiser’s impeller nodes peaked forty percent beyond their “Never Exceed” levels. Despite her mangled after impeller ring, War Maiden slammed suddenly forward at almost five hundred and fifty gravities. Her bow swung sharply towards Annika, but it also dipped sharply “below” the other ship, denying the big privateer the deadly down-the-throat shot which would have spelled War Maiden’s inevitable doom.

Annika began a desperate turn of her own, but she had been taken too much by surprise. There wasn’t enough time for her to answer her helm before War Maiden’s wounded charge carried her across her enemy’s wake.

It wasn’t the perfect up-the-kilt stern rake that was every tactical officer’s dream. No neat ninety-degree crossing with every weapon firing in perfect sequence. Instead, it was a desperate, scrambling lunge—the ugly do-or-die grapple of a wounded hexapuma facing a peak bear. Honor’s weapons couldn’t begin to fire down the long axis of the enemy ship in a “proper” rake… but what they could do was enough.

Six grasers scored direct hits on the aftermost quarter of PSN Annika. They came in through the open after aspect of her wedge, with no sidewall to interdict or degrade them. They smashed into her armored after hammerhead, and armor shattered at their ferocious touch. They blew deep into the bigger ship’s hull, maiming and smashing, crippling her after chase armament, and the entire after third of her sidewall flickered and died.

Annika fought to answer her helm, clawing around in a desperate attempt to reacquire War Maiden for her broadside weapons, but Honor Harrington had just discovered that she could be just as merciless a killer as Anders Dunecki. Her flying fingers stabbed a minor correction into her tactical panel, and War Maiden fired once more. Every graser in her surviving broadside poured a deadly torrent of energy into the gap in Annika’s sidewall, and the big privateer vanished in a hell-bright boil of fury.