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the
Lynx
‘s defensive status, so she brought up the diagnostic channel in synesthesia. A number of projectiles had plunged through the vessel.
    That explained the momentary blaze. The quantum computers of the
Lynx
used phosphorus atoms suspended in silicon as q-bits. Free, the phosphorus was flammable, even in what little oxygen there’d been for the agonizing seconds of decompression.
    Tyre covered her mouth with a loose flap of uniform to ward off the glass vapor hanging in the air, looked again to Kax.
    His eyes were clenched shut and bleeding. He’d been the only one in the station without full-strength headsups covering his upper face. And his body had shielded hers from the blast of glass and burning phosphorus.
    “Medical, medical,” Tyre said, her voice gritty and plaintive from the glass dust she’d inhaled. “We need major medical in DA Station One, deck fourteen.”
    She heard the background murmur of other stations begging for medical assistance.
    Data Master Kax reached out a bloody hand and clenched Tyre’s ankle, coughing. She knelt beside him.
    “Don’t try to talk, sir,” she said.
    “The blackbodies, Tyre. Keep looking,” he managed.
    She glanced around at her crewmates, realizing that the
Lynx
was still in battle. With Kax out, she was in command now. The data from Master Pilot Marx’s scout was invaluable, and he was far too busy flying to grasp its tactical implications.
    “Rogers, try to help the Data Master,” she commanded. “You two: Back to your stations.”
    Still in shock, her crewmates moved numbly to follow her orders. Tyre sank into her webbing, and flipped back to second sight. She gestured with bloody hands, and adopted the scout drone’s viewpoint again.
    Master Pilot Marx was under fire.
Pilot
    Marx discovered that he was still alive.
    A small cleaning robot moved beneath his feet, sucking up the thin, acid bile on the floor with a gurgling sound that set his stomach flopping again. His hands were shaking, and his ears rang from some nearby decompression.
    The
Lynx
had been hit all right. But somehow Zai had kept them alive. The strike certainly hadn’t numbered five thousand flockers. It had sounded like only ten or so. Marx scanned the icons of internal diagnostics. There were no more than twenty crewmen dead. He turned his eyes from the display before he could recognize any names. Later.
    What mattered most was that Marx’s control hardware—the trans-light array that connected him with the drone complement—was still functional. He could still see from the scout drone’s perspective, if only fuzzily. He checked the clock. Another thirty seconds remained before his foremost drones passed the Rix battlecruiser and became irrelevant to the battle.
    There was still a chance.
    But the question remained: How to disintegrate the dead sand-caster?
    Marx considered his remaining assets. Only four drones were left inside the Rix defenses that could respond to his orders. The scout itself, tumbling with no reaction drive. The two stealth penetrators, smaller than dribble-hoop balls. And the decoy, weaponless. And if any of them switched on active sensors or accelerated noticeably, the Rix monitor drones would shred it within seconds. He could see the sentinels now as the scout neared the hot background of the receiver array: rank after rank of blackbody monitor drones, dark spots against its reflective surface.
    Good god, Marx thought. Other than a few thousand flockers and hunter drones, the battlecruiser’s drone complement had been committed almost entirely to defensive weaponry. The Rix captain had prioritized the receiver array above everything else.
    He shook his head. The
Lynx
had never had a chance.
    Looking at the ranks of fearsome monitors, Marx envied their firepower. If he could just take over a few of the blackbody drones and turn their weapons back on the receiver…
    Then the master pilot realized what he had to do.
    It was simplicity itself.
    He watched the