There was no need to offload cargo or personnel. Each captured DropShip became crew quarters and cargo module for that part of the starship's payload. Individuals could visit other DropShips or travel to the recreation lounge forward in the starship's nose by passing through hatches and passageways that traversed the ship's length of several hundred meters. Most of the passengers preferred to wait with friends and familiar faces, gaming on the cramped deck spaces between bunks stacked six-high, clustering together in informal bull sessions where experienced veterans described Life As It Was to green recruits, or lying alone in their bunks, reading or worrying.

Conditions were claustrophically crowded and miserably low-G. The starship's stationkeeping thrusters mimicked a fractional G of gravity—far too little to keep the stomachs of spacesickness-prone troops settled. Each section maintained hourly rotating watches called, variously, cleaning details, cookie catchers, or Vomit Brigades. The details were necessary; perpetrators of these low-G nightmare incidents could rarely reach a heaving bag in time, and were invariably in no shape to clean up after themselves.

Ardan, as regimental commander, had the luxury of a tiny cubicle all to himself, complete with bunk, table, chair, desk, closet, and washroom facilities, which—when the facilities were all folded away into deck or bulkhead or overhead—was small enough that he could pace its length in three steps. Low G did not have the same effect on him as jump, and so he spent his time fretting instead of feeling sick.

The plan change had been his idea to begin with. He had set in motion the chain of thoughts and words and events that had transformed Prince Davion's plan of a lightning swoop into the Folly's capital into a war of maneuver and countermaneuver, of slash and grinding attrition in the mountains and swamps beyond. Suppose he were wrong? Suppose Michael Hasek-Davion were right, and the 'Mechs of the 17th became mired in unexpectedly soft ground around the Ordolo DZ? Suppose...Suppose...

Outside the bulkheads of his ship, the last of the strike force's fleet elements assembled and came to full charge. As each ship recorded maximum hypercharge in its banked and shielded accumulators, the crew began the delicate and time-consuming work of furling the jump sail and preparing for the hyperspace transition. This was the busiest time of all for the starship crews, but it was time that hung heaviest on the troops and warriors aboard the DropShips. They could only continue their routine of eating (those who still could), gambling, sleeping, work details, and worry.

And then the time for suppositions was over. The last of the fleet's jump sails was collapsed and furled, tightly rolled into the narrow mast that jutted from each ship's stern like a monstrous sting. Aboard the flagship Avalon,Ran Felsner gave his assent, and Admiral Bertholi gave his command.

In a moment, space opened around the fleet and the ships vanished into it. The next moment, the same fold of space opened twelve light years away, and the Davion strike force rematerialized. The star below them was a Class K6, larger, brighter, and more orange than the sun of Dragon's Field, and just under 1 AU distant. Radar swept the area in all directions, pinpointing a bright, hard return from a large object some 80,000 kilometers away.

That would be the jump station, and the presumed hiding place of any Liao fighters on hand to deal with intrusions such as this one. Davion AeroSpace Fighters were deployed. The JumpShips themselves fired up their stationkeepers but did not unfurl their sails. Those huge, fabric disks were easy targets. Though the ships could not jump again until they had recharged their accumulators, no captain dared open his sails until the threat of enemy fighters was past.

Aboard the ship, the troops still waited. There was little gaming now and no bull sessions. Eyes searched the gray-painted bulkheads endlessly, as though they might see past them and into the surrounding vacuum. They could hear nothing, of course, and so were dependent on word passed down to them from the control room. Each man wondered if the ship's captain would actually let them know if they were about to be hit—and what possible good it would do to know.

Ardan was on the Exeter 'sbridge, which was linked to the bridge of the Sword of Davionby an open vidlink. The Exeter 'scaptain, Harvey Danelle, was shaking his head as he examined the banks of monitors, then turned from the screen to face Ardan. "I think that scares me more than an assault wave of enemy ships incoming at 5 Gs."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"That's right, sir. No-damn-thing. Our fighters turned up a blank at the jump station. There's nothing there...and nobody." He checked his monitor screens again. "The patrols are returning. It looks as though Liao has left the jump point to us."

Ardan worried at this piece of information for a time. It was possible that the entire Liao space strike force was concentrated at the opposite jump point—but foolishly unlikely. Radar and IR sweeps of the entire system had so far produced equally negative results. So, it looked as though Maximilian Liao's defense of Stein's Folly would be concentrated near the planet itself.

The word finally came from the Avalon.Throughout the fleet, DropShip brackets opened, and grapples dropped silently clear. The DropShips began drifting away from their JumpShips like seeds scattered from slender pods. Once clear of the JumpShips, and refueled now from the stores of reaction mass aboard each larger vessel, the Drop-Ships calculated vectors and accelerations and began the long boost toward the Folly. Behind them, metal foil parasols two kilometers wide began unfurling against the stars, as the strike force fleet began the process of recharging for the next jump.

From jump point to star was .9 AU. From star to planet was .37 AUs. Simple geometery gave a distance between jump point and world of a hair under 1 AU, or over 67 hours of travel at a constant 1 G.

Ardan had been over the figures in his head many times already.

Each person in the fleet, Ardan included, now bore the expectant and frustrated attitude of one waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop. Standard doctrine called for a defending force to meet an invading fleet as far off from the planet as possible, to inflict as much damage on the incoming fleet before the DropShips had a chance to release their precious 'Mechs or to land and disembark them.

The first attack wave came forty-two hours into the passage, long after the DropShips had flipped end for end and begun their deceleration. Davion Corsairand Stukafighters launched from their DropShips and accelerated at high-G toward the assault formations that were spreading across the fleet's screens.

Hours passed, an impossible agony of time in which to remain charged with the expectation of immediate fury and death. Beyond the drive flares of the DropShips, ComInt scans registered distant targets and stabbing lances of energy. Screens on the Exeter 'sbridge told a story of exultant life and fiery death in tiny clots of moving, colored lights.

The Exeter 'scaptain grunted. Ardan looked up from the plot screen at him. "You're not happy, Harve."

"You're right. It's too easy."

"We've lost three."

"Damn it, Ardan, their whole air-space reserves should've been there...should've been waiting for us at the jump point! I think we're being suckered in."

Ardan nodded. It would make sense if the Liao ground commander were preparing a surprise—such as luring the Davion invaders into dropping on Steindown and boxing them in from the hills. The problem was, what if there were other, less obvious traps in the offing?