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unbuckled his harness and rushed for the companionway leading from the quarterdeck to the fire room, arms out to catch himself in case the ship took another hit. As Huff clomped down the ladderwell, the Comet ’s cannons began to roar, making the deck tremble beneath Tycho’s feet.
    Tycho stared at the main screen, on which the enemy ship was little more than a brighter point of light against the stars. At this range and without sensor data, the Comet ’s gunners had no chance of doing real damage to their foe. Their best hope was to keep the enemy gunners off-balance.
    The bright spot on the viewscreen pulsed momentarily brighter.
    â€œMissile launch detected,” Vesuvia warned.
    Carlo yanked back on the control yokes and stomped on the pedals, lifting the privateer’s bow, then rolling her hard to starboard. The stars spun crazily on the main screen, and a streak of light flashed across their view—a projectile fired by the enemy ship.
    â€œPortside controls are sluggish,” Carlo grunted. “But it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
    â€œReleasing chaff,” Huff growled over the comm. A moment later they heard a faint series of popping noises, and three bursts of light flowered in front of the Comet . The light faded, revealing expanding clouds of glittering particles—bits of metal launched into space to confuse the targeting systems of enemy missiles.
    â€œWho do you think they are?” Carlo asked his mother.
    â€œThe ones shooting at us,” Diocletia said. “That’s all that matters right now.”
    Sitting at his station, Tycho found he had nothing to do but worry—there were no communications to monitor. His eyes jumped from his sister, hunched over her instruments, searching for a weakness in the jamming, to his brother and his mother, both busy at their stations with their backs straight as ramrods.
    Tycho understood his mother’s dilemma. Missiles were long-range weapons, and with the Comet ’s sensors blinded, there was no way to tell what kind of ship had fired them. If the Comet ’s attacker was small, the best strategy was to engage at close range, where the privateer’s cannons would make short work of their opponent. But if the enemy ship was larger and better armed than the Comet , drawing nearer could be a fatal mistake.
    â€œI’ve got it!” Yana said. “Punching through on the PKB band, oscillating within spectral harmonics . . . and sensors are coming back up. Nobody keeps Yana Hashoone blind for long!”
    â€œYou can congratulate yourself later. What do you see?” Diocletia said.
    â€œShe’s a Harrier-class missile boat, maybe twenty-five meters long.”
    â€œNot for long, she isn’t,” Carlo growled. A Harrier was no match for a frigate like the Comet —with her sensors restored, the ship’s heavier weapons would chew the enemy craft to bits.
    â€œMr. Grigsby, the pirate that fired on us is a Harrier,” Diocletia said into her headset. “Yana’s sending the gun crews a target profile now.”
    â€œMom, wait—” Yana said.
    â€œSend it!” Diocletia barked.
    â€œDone,” Yana said, spots of color flaring in her cheeks.
    â€œThank you,” Diocletia said. “Now, what is it?”
    â€œThere’s two more ships behind the Harrier. Still building sensor profiles, but one’s about seventy-five meters long, the other maybe twice that. Probably a frigate and some kind of pocket cruiser. They’ve shed tanks and are on course to intercept.”
    â€œWell, that changes things,” Diocletia said. “What’s the range?”
    â€œStill calculating,” Yana said.
    Missiles lanced out from the Comet , white streaks in the darkness of space. A moment later, there was a flash, and the crewers belowdecks roared in triumph.
    â€œHarrier disabled,” Vesuvia said in her flat voice. “Scan indicates