Legacy

As usual with my stories, this one is a slow-burner with a heavy emphasis on plot; where sex occurs, it serves the plot rather than the other way around. If you're looking for a quick fix or extensive sexual content, this story is probably not your best choice.

This story is set on a fictional, Earth-like world. The history, current events, and culture resemble those of the U. S. in the late 1930s and early 1940s, with a dash of the U. K. thrown in. Characters occasionally use American English slang terms of the period. Naval traditions draw on a combination of mid-20th Century U. S. Navy and Royal Navy practices.

Just to be clear, this story is not intended to in any way glorify war. Even a "just" war, if such a thing exists, results in life-changing pain and suffering for the ones who fight it, both during the conflict and after. My intent is to show how facing death and destruction can forge unbreakable friendships among women, and how love can find its way through the wreckage.

Shout out to my editor, the incomparable @DawnDuckie, who not only took this story to the next level with her contributions, but also patiently reminded me, more than once, to trust my own voice. You owe it to yourself to check out her works, especially Coming Home from Lost.

Trigger warnings: naval battle scenes, war casualties, PTSD, survivor guilt, grief, mourning.

&@&

Chapter One: Stateroom 5

Pier 14

Royal Naval Base (RNB) Port Westmark

26-VII-1131 | 1529 Hours

Ensign Abigail "Abby" Guilford, Royal Lyrian Naval Academy Class of 1132, stood at the base of the accommodation ladder, her sea bag at her feet. The Port Westmark sun beat down on her crisp white uniform, wrapping her in dry heat that the breeze from the harbor did little to relieve. The familiar mingled scents of fresh paint and fuel oil hung in the air, sparking memories of Abby's childhood.

She gazed up at the destroyer looming over her. Royal Lyrian Navy Ship (RLNS) Jocasta, DF-495, her brass fittings glistening in the afternoon light, bristled with five-inch guns. To Abby, who had grown up around Navy ships, she was a thing of beauty.

Abby's father, a retired warrant officer boatswain with a legendary reputation, had served on destroyers like this one. She imagined him at the rail, looking down at her with the same air of confidence he always showed her and her twin brother Alden.

This was it. No more marching in formation and weekend yawl races on Morningstar Channel.

Abigail Guilford was going to war.

She hadn't anticipated getting to this point quite so fast. When she reported to the Academy in the summer of 1128, the world was at peace, but over the three years since then, conflict had exploded over the entire globe.

Lyria had tried everything she could to remain neutral but had been driven into the conflict by a two-pronged attack: the assassination of King Robert VII by agents of the fascist Zirigathian Empire, and the surprise raid on the Lyrian naval base at Sunset Quay by the religious fanatics of the Chaar Ascendancy. Faced with the real prospect of defeat, the Lyrian people quickly united behind Robert's successor, his popular young daughter Rosalind IV, and prepared for a two-front war.

As part of the general mobilization, Abby's Academy program had been compressed by a full year. Yet, while many of her classmates felt underprepared, she welcomed the challenge. In her mind, the faster she could get to the fleet and begin building a reputation as someone other than Leland Guilford's daughter, the better.

Abby checked her chronograph: 1530 hours. After running her fingers through her blonde shag to tame it, she replaced her cap and climbed the accommodation ladder, leaving her sea bag behind to be retrieved later. Once on board, she saluted the Royal ensign at the stern, then turned toward the quarterdeck.

"Request permission to come aboard, ma'am," she said, saluting again. "Ensign Abigail Guilford, reporting for duty."

The Officer of the Deck returned the salute with precision worthy of a parade ground.

"Permission granted," she said in a clipped tone that commanded respect.

The junior lieutenant standing before Abby looked as though she belonged on a recruiting poster. Even in the heat, her dress whites were spotless and perfectly pressed. Her dark brown hair was neatly pinned up under her cap, without a single strand out of place. Standing straight and confident, she projected a natural air of command. Her piercing sky-blue eyes seemed to take in everything about Abby at a glance.

Abby stared in awe at the distinctive scarlet and sky-blue ribbon on the woman's chest--the rare Golden Trefoil, Lyria's second-highest decoration for valor after the Royal Military Order--and the bronze wound badge on her right breast pocket. She'd been "in the shit," as Abby's father would say. Facing this decorated combat veteran, Abby felt like a child playing dress-up.

She had the sudden sense that she knew the OOD from somewhere. Her face was familiar, but Abby couldn't remember where they'd met. The woman reminded her of one of the Academy's many bronze memorial statues. Maybe that's where they'd crossed paths?

Abby pulled a copy of her orders from her jacket pocket. The OOD took it with a gloved hand and looked it over carefully, then handed the paper back.

"Welcome aboard, Master Guilford." She turned to her watch party. "Messenger, retrieve the ensign's sea bag from the pier and take it to the wardroom. The stewards will handle it from there. Petty Officer of the Watch, escort Master Guilford to the Executive Officer's stateroom. Master Ashcroft has directed that the ensign be brought to her the moment she reports aboard."

The OOD gave Abby a curt nod of dismissal. "The XO doesn't like to be kept waiting. Carry on."

"Aye aye, ma'am," Abby replied, snapping to attention again.

As she followed the petty officer down the passageway, Abby's mind remained tied to the quarterdeck. That junior lieutenant... Abby was sure that she knew the woman. But who she was, and when and where they'd met, remained frustratingly out of reach.

&@&

The XO, Lieutenant Penelope Ashcroft, RLNA Class of '26, didn't acknowledge Abby immediately; she was focused on the sheet of paper in front of her, annotating it with a fountain pen in precise strokes. When she finally looked up to return Abby's salute, her eyes locked onto the younger officer with calculated intensity.

"Master Guilford," the XO said with a nod, her tone as cool as her expression. She held out her hand. "Orders and records." After Abby handed over the manila envelope containing her full record jacket, Ashcroft pointed toward the lone chair in front of her desk in a silent command.

Abby sat stiffly, her back hovering an inch off the chair, as the XO opened her records jacket and began to read... and read... and read. The silence stretched on and on until Abby started to worry that there was a serious issue. At last, the corners of Ashcroft's mouth twitched upward.

"Top twenty class standing, captain of the open-water yachting team... very impressive, especially the part about commanding the yawl that won the 1130 national championship." Sliding the folder back into its envelope, she added, "Yes, I think you'll do just fine. Just in time, too. We just got done with our shakedown cruise, and we're three days away from sailing west. Too bad you weren't around for the shakedown. We definitely could've used you."

Abby relaxed a little.

"Help me settle a bet," the XO said. "When we got the dispatch saying you'd been diverted to us from Amphitrite, the Captain thought she recognized your name. I bet her a lyra it was a coincidence, since Guilford isn't a rare name and there are so many officers in Her Majesty's Navy. So, is your father Chief Boatswain Leland Guilford? And did he serve on the battleship Silvermont about ten years ago?"

Abby managed to hide her surprise at the mention of her father. She wasn't sure where this was going.

"Uh, yes, ma'am, that's his name and rating, and I think he did serve on that ship at some point. He's retired now, but they've called him back for shore duty because of the war."

"Well, I guess I owe her a lyra," Master Ashcroft said, this time with a genuine smile. "Be ready when you meet the Captain. She served with your father. Thinks he sits at the right hand of the Sea God, she does."

Abby instantly knew what that meant: the Captain would judge her by her father's reputation. She didn't like that idea at all.

"But that's as may be," the XO continued, her smile vanishing and her tone sharpening. "Our primary duty is to sink Chaarish ships. When the shooting starts, the enemy won't care about your class standing or your sailing trophies. All that matters is if you can keep your sailors from panicking when the enemy shells hit. That depends entirely on how you train them."

She leaned back, steepling her fingers.

"I'm assigning you as assistant first lieutenant, which means you'll also serve as the division officer for 2nd Division. As for bridge duties, you'll serve as the junior officer of the watch for Watch Section 3. You'll also take over as wardroom mess treasurer on the first of the month. We need someone new in that job." She leaned forward again, her intensity returning. "With your racing experience, I expect you to know how to handle a deck better than any other junior officer here. You're going to need to learn fast to have a prayer of keeping up. We don't have time to spoon-feed you. Is that clear?"

"Aye, ma'am. I'll do my best."

"I'd expect nothing less." Master Ashcroft pulled a looseleaf binder, small enough to fit in a pocket, from one of her desk drawers. "This is the division binder your predecessor put together," she said, handing the book to Abby. "Theoretically, it should tell you everything you need to know about your new division, but she didn't leave it in the best shape, so you'll need to work on it. I've put your own watch, quarter, and station bill in the front. It tells you exactly what your duties are under each operating condition. Memorize those pages, skim through the rest, and be ready at 0745 tomorrow to get started with your new division. Your first watch underway will be three days from now, during the forenoon watch. Our destroyer division is scheduled to sail during that watch. There's a JOOW manual in the ship's office. Read it thoroughly and make sure you're ready. Any questions?"

"Two, ma'am," Abby said, tucking the binder into her jacket pocket. "First, what happened to my predecessor? They wouldn't tell me why my assignment was diverted, other than that I was a high-priority replacement."

"She was relieved for cause. The Captain lost confidence in her ability to lead after a series of incidents during the shakedown. That's all I'm at liberty to say."

Abby wondered how badly the woman needed to screw up to get herself fired when the Navy needed every officer for the war. Was 2nd Division in that bad of a shape? Or could she simply not handle the pressure of a deck during rough weather?

"But why me?"

"The Admiralty works in mysterious ways," Ashcroft said with an enigmatic smile. "Who knows? Maybe one of the detailers is a yacht racing fan. Next question?"

"Yes, ma'am. I know I've only just reported aboard, but I haven't seen any male crew members yet. Where are all the men?"

Master Ashcroft let out a dry chuckle. "There are none. We're a test case. The Admiralty wants to see if an all-female crew can take a destroyer into combat without men holding our hands. Half the brass in Royal Crossing are taking bets on how fast we break. It's a fool's wager. Every officer, warrant, and chief on this ship was hand-picked, the best of the best, including your predecessor. And now you." Seeing Abby's raised eyebrows, she added, "Why? Does the lack of men bother you?"

"Not in the least," Abby said, maybe a bit too quickly. The idea of an all-female crew made less of an impression than the revelation that she'd been specifically chosen for this assignment. It raised a number of questions in her mind, none of which she sensed would be welcome right then. "I was just, you know, curious."

Ashcroft offered a tight smile. "I do know. Now, if there are no further questions...?"

"None, ma'am."

"Then report to the Captain. You won't need an escort; turn left and follow the passageway to the end. You'll see the nameplate on the door. Take your record jacket with you. Dinner is at 1900, show time 1855. It's your official welcome dinner, so wear service dress whites. Do not be late." The XO handed over the envelope, then turned back to her paperwork. "Dismissed."

Abby popped to attention, then turned and marched out. Once in the passageway, she took a moment to digest what Master Ashcroft had told her. Assistant first lieutenant? 2nd Division officer? These were the kinds of jobs she'd been hoping for, working with sailors on deck. Mess treasurer? Pop hadn't ever mentioned that job, but she'd heard stories that made her nervous. Still, she was ready to take it all on.

&@&

Abby found the Captain, Lieutenant Commander Katherine Thorne, RLNA Class of '21, to be even more intimidating than the XO. She had indeed served with Abby's father on RLNS Silvermont some ten years earlier as a new ensign. In fact, after a few perfunctory questions about Abby's background and experience, Pop was pretty much all the Captain talked about during their meeting, other than delivering a final motivational "weapon-of-war" speech similar to Ashcroft's.

Having finished with the Captain, Abby decided it was time to find her stateroom. Unfortunately, her bearings had deserted her, and checking the brass plates on the doors only confused her further. She passed an unfamiliar ladder well, then got turned around in a cross-passageway that stank of fresh floor wax.

A hot prickle of embarrassment crawled up her neck. Getting lost during your first hour on board was a classic ensign mistake.

Eventually, she swallowed her pride and asked a passing sailor where "officer country" was. The woman directed her down the ladder well she'd passed earlier to the main deck, where the large double door to the wardroom loomed in front of her. She knocked twice, and when there was no immediate answer, opened the door, pushed aside the blackout curtain, and stepped tentatively inside.

For the ship's small size, Abby found the wardroom surprisingly spacious, although the fact that it was deserted likely made it appear larger than it really was. A long table, aligned port to starboard and lined with comfortable-looking chairs, dominated the space. There were two leather-cushioned transom benches on either side. A wooden sideboard, a wall clock, and a large wall-mounted chart of the Tavian Ocean completed the otherwise spartan décor.

"Hello?" she called out.

A young steward's mate in a starched white waiter's jacket appeared through a door Abby hadn't noticed at first. When she saw Abby, she stopped short.

"Oh! You must be Master Guilford! Welcome aboard, ma'am! I'm so sorry no one was here to greet you. The duty steward must be out running an errand. I'll be happy to help you get settled."

The steward's mate led her through a door immediately opposite the wardroom entrance and down a short passageway, stopping in front of the third door on the right.

"Here we are, Stateroom 5. Your bag's already inside. Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime? Coffee, perhaps?"

"I'm fine for now, thanks," Abby said, "but I'll probably need my whites pressed before dinner."

"No problem, ma'am. When you're ready, press the 'steward' button on the bulkhead by the door, and someone will come get them."

With a polite nod, she left Abby to survey her new home.

There wasn't much to the room, maybe eight by ten feet at most. On the far side were two bunks, with the upper one folded up against the bulkhead and an open porthole between them. Two lockers, a small four-drawer dresser, a desk with a folding lamp and a matching chair on rails, and a small sink with a medicine cabinet completed the furnishings.

Looking around, Abby had mixed feelings. It was an officer's stateroom, much better than the crew quarters she'd endured during her summer midshipman cruise, but nevertheless noisy and cramped. She looked around for signs of a roommate, but other than uniforms hanging in one of the lockers, there were none. She hoped the woman would be friendly, since they'd be spending so much time in each other's personal space.

She decided to change into the tropical khakis she'd stowed at the top of her sea bag. The rest of her unpacking could wait until she met her roommate and worked out which storage spaces were hers.

Abby checked the time again: only 1620, still two hours and forty minutes until dinner. To pass time until her roommate returned, she sat at the desk to take a look through her division binder.

Her own WQS bill contained two additional duties that the XO hadn't informed her of. The first one, boat officer for the port motor launch, was a happy surprise given her small-craft background, even though she'd only get to captain it during rescue, recovery, or--perish the thought--abandon ship procedures. The second duty, head of Repair Team 2, seemed a good deal less desirable, given that the description contained such unpleasant phrases as "fire-fighting" and "hull breach."

Following the XO's instructions, she skimmed the remaining pages, mostly to get an idea of the forty women assigned to the division: the leading petty officer, a boatswain's mate first class named Camila Rodriguez; a further nine boatswain's mates, three second classes and the rest third classes; and thirty unrated sailors.

It amazed her how much information was packed into one little binder. But as interesting as it was, after a good forty minutes, the words all started running together. Needing a break, she figured she'd return to the wardroom to score that mug of hot coffee she'd turned down earlier. Maybe some of the other officers would be hanging around after coming off afternoon watch.

But when she stepped into the passageway, she saw that the door to the stateroom on her right--Number 7, she guessed--was now open. A low hum of conversation drifted from inside.

Abby figured that this was as good a time as any to meet people. Gathering her courage, she walked to the doorway and knocked on the metal frame.

"By your leave, ma'am, I'm... uh..."

Her jaw dropped. A naked, auburn-haired woman stood near the door, holding what looked like a pair of Navy-issue boxers. She turned to stare at Abby, seemingly more amused than embarrassed.

"Sorry, you're who, now? One of my many fans? Fine, I can do an autograph," she said with a chuckle. "Just let me get dressed first."

Abby tore her eyes away from the woman's sculpted form, but before she could apologize, a high-pitched shriek came from behind the naked officer. A blonde blur shoved the first woman aside and pounced on her.

"Abbeeeee!"

Abby couldn't believe it. Junior Lieutenant Evelyn "Evie" Sterling, RLNA Class of '30--her first cousin--was the last person she expected to see aboard Jocasta. She must be dreaming. Or maybe it was the heat. Yeah, that had to be it.

Yet she quickly realized there was no way Evie's bone-crunching embrace could be the stuff of delusion. Evie was here, in all her willowy, underwear-clad glory; it was really her! Overwhelmed, Abby melted into her cousin's arms.

"Oh-my-god-Abby-my-beautiful-baby-cousin-I've-missed-you-so-much!" Suddenly, Evie pulled out of the bear-hug as quickly as she'd initiated it. She wagged a finger at Abby. "You little brat! Why didn't you write and tell me you were coming? I had to find out by snooping the message traffic!"

"I didn't know what ship you were on," Abby said, unrepentant in the face of Evie's scolding. "You could have been anywhere. Besides, I couldn't have told you anything without getting censored."

"I guess that's fair. Okay, enough sentiment. Time for introductions. I've been looking forward to this for the past two weeks." Evie turned Abby to face the first woman, who had at least put on the boxers she'd been holding. "Abby, the officer flaunting her, um, 'assets' is my Academy classmate, Junior Lieutenant Maeve O'Connor. One of our assistant engineers, and a good friend..." She shot Maeve a sour look. "... heaven help me."

"... and former star center-forward on the varsity women's football team," Maeve added, pulling on her sports bra. "Don't forget that!"

"Oh, wow," Abby said, her memory kicking in, "I remember the name! Women's football, Army-Navy Game, fall of '29. That free kick in injury time was amazing."

"Finally, someone on this tin can with excellent taste in sports," Maeve said with a nod of approval. "The autograph offer stands. Any time you want one, let me know. I'll sign anything paper and..." She paused, grinning. "... selected body parts."

"Stow it, you jerk," Evie said with a disapproving look at her friend's chest. "And secure your weapons, if you please."

"You know you love it, Ev."

"Hah! You flatter yourself. Don't pay any attention to her, Abby." Evie turned her cousin to face the third woman in the room. She'd been lying on the lower bunk until moments earlier, so Abby hadn't noticed her right away.

To her surprise, it was the recruiting-poster officer, but now, her chocolate-brown hair was loose, cascading over her shoulders in waves, and like Evie, she was only wearing her undergarments. Abby tried not to stare, but failed.

"And this," Evie said, gesturing toward the third woman, "is my other classmate on the ship and the best friend a girl could ask for: Junior Lieutenant Alexandra Hawthorne II, our navigator." She frowned at Maeve, who grinned back at her. "At least she has a sense of modesty."

Abby, who had been gaping at Alex, finally remembered not only where they'd met, but also the Academy history force-fed to her during plebe summer.

"Hawthorne... Vice Admiral Alexandra Hawthorne, 1st Countess Hawthorne, Scourge of the Corsairs... the statue in the Quad... the mausoleum in Hawthorne Hall... you're related to that Hawthorne?"

"On this ship, I'm only the navigator. Let the statues stay in Port Argent where they belong. But yes, she was my great-grandmother."

"I thought I knew who you were," Abby said. "You commanded First Regiment when I was a second year--spring of '30, I think. We met a couple of times through Evie, but I doubt you remember me." Abby looked at Alex with disbelief and admiration. "I never thought we'd meet again."

"And yet, here we are." Alex's expression softened a little. "Evie's told us a lot about you, all of it good. And since I trust her judgment, that says a lot." She offered her hand, and Abby took it. "Again, welcome aboard."

Alex's grip was firm, yet her hand was surprisingly warm. Abby almost didn't want to let go, but had no choice, thanks to Evie.

"Okay, that's enough of that," her cousin said, pulling her away from Alex. "You two can get to know her better later. For now, she's all mine. Come on, Cuz. You're bunking with me, and we need to get you squared away. And you still need to meet a lot of people."

Abby let Evie lead her off, but couldn't help glancing back at Alex as she went. The older officer's aristocratic bearing, family connections, and documented bravery all fascinated her. She wished their conversation hadn't been so short.

&@&

Chapter Two: A Woman of Merit

26-VII-1131 | 1855 Hours

Five minutes before dinner, Abby was back in her whites and waiting in the wardroom with Evie, Alex, and Maeve. Their presence helped calm her nerves. Surrounded by a dozen officers, eleven of whom she barely knew, she felt like a tourist among natives.

Some of the others made brief eye contact but otherwise remained absorbed in their conversations. No one moved to introduce themselves. Abby wasn't sure what to make of this. Thankfully, a tall junior lieutenant--Ingrid Jensen, who introduced herself as the supply officer--welcomed her and showed her where her assigned seat was.

As everyone moved to the table, Abby followed the others' lead and stood behind her chair, waiting for the meal to begin.

At 1900 exactly, Master Ashcroft, standing at the head of the table as mess president, called the assembled officers to attention. The Captain stepped out from behind the blackout curtain, gave the order to carry on, and, as the wardroom's honored guest, took pride of place to the XO's right.

"Please take your seats," she said.

Abby would remember this meal for a long time. Evie had said it would be a traditional welcome dinner for a newly assigned officer, and that meant "A-rations" with the best ingredients. But Abby hadn't expected it to be this elegant. The table, covered in linen, was set with crystal, fine china, and polished silver. There was even a formal menu card propped up against her water glass. She studied it, eager to see what was coming.

RLNS JOCASTA

Royal Naval Base Port Westmark, Langstrand Province

28-VII-1131

DINNER

Vegetable Consommé

Roast Young Tom Turkey with Oyster Dressing

Asparagus Tips -- Giblet Gravy -- Fresh Cranberry Sauce

Hearts of Lettuce -- Citrus Vinaigrette

Vanilla Ice Cream -- Assorted Petit Fours

Mints -- Salted Nuts -- Demitasse

"Welcome Aboard, Ensign Guilford"

Abby smiled when she saw ice cream on the menu, knowing vanilla was Evie's favorite flavor. The rest of the courses included dishes she didn't normally eat, but she was eager to try them.

By halfway through the meal, Abby decided the wardroom cook was a genius. Each dish tasted better than the one before. In fact, the food had been so exquisite, and the service so impeccable, that she felt a little self-conscious that it had all been for her, tradition notwithstanding.

But as Pop would say, in the Navy, sometimes things are done simply because they're done.

Abby couldn't see Evie well since they sat on the same side of the table, but she could watch Alex and Maeve and follow what they did.

As the lowest-ranking officer, she sat at the far end of the table to Ashcroft's left. At first, she stayed quiet and listened, as she was supposed to. Eventually, two of the officers seated near her engaged her in direct, one-on-one conversation: Master Jensen, who sat next to her at the table's end, and Ensign Róisín "Rosie" Gallagher, the communications officer, who sat diagonally across from her. By dessert, Abby had decided she liked both women, especially the cheerful, copper-haired Rosie.

When the meal ended, the stewards poured glasses of "Navy wine," which was really grape juice since the conservative Navy brass wouldn't allow alcohol on their ships. Once everyone had a full glass, Ashcroft led the three traditional toasts: to the Queen, the Navy, and absent comrades.

After the third toast, Abby thought everything was finished, but Ashcroft had one more toast to lead.

"A toast to the newest member of our mess."

A chorus of "hear, hear" followed as the assembled women drained their glasses.

"Please be seated, everyone," the XO said, tapping her spoon on the table to get everyone's attention. She gave a short welcome speech, after which Abby, prepared in advance thanks to Evie, gave a brief reply saying she was honored to join the crew and eager to contribute.

It all seemed routine until Ashcroft asked, "Captain, do you have any remarks you want to add?"

"Thank you, Madam President, I do." The Captain studied Abby for a moment, her expression immediately putting the young officer on her guard. "We're glad to have Master Guilford join our crew. It's a rare thing to have such a diverse set of backgrounds among our officers. On the one hand, we have the scion of the Hawthorne legacy, and on the other, the daughter of Leland Guilford, the finest boatswain I ever served with."

Abby noticed Alex's jaw set into a hard line.

"With all due respect, ma'am, my family may have served the Crown with distinction through four wars," the navigator said, "but the Chaar don't care who my great-grandmother was."

"Perhaps not," the Captain said, a little too dismissively for Abby's taste. "And you, Master Guilford? Do you find the 'boatswain's daughter' label a heavy one to carry?"

Abby sensed there was no correct answer. She paused, then chose to respond honestly and directly. "I'm immensely proud of my father, ma'am. He's taught me so much. But I'm not here as someone's child. I'm here to succeed on my own merit."

The Captain nodded, then reached into a pocket and produced a foot-long segment of quarter-inch rope, which she ordered to be passed down the table to Abby.

"Well, then, 'woman of merit,'" Thorne said with a smirk, "tie me a single-strand diamond knot. Under the table. By touch alone. No looking."

The wardroom went dead silent, waiting for her reaction.

Abby felt a quick surge of annoyance. The tricky knot was mainly used for ornamentation. Why not test her with a knot that would be more useful on deck? She suspected she'd been set up to fail, but there was no way she would back down. For a Guilford, failure was not an option.

She held the cord under the table as ordered, and after closing her eyes for good measure, let her muscle memory kick in. Some thirty seconds later, she passed the cord back up the table. The Captain inspected the knot, a grin slowly spreading across her face.

It was, of course, flawless, as Abby knew it would be.

"Well done, Master Guilford. Merit indeed." She passed the cord across the table to Abby's immediate supervisor, Junior Lieutenant Harper Langley, the first lieutenant. "Your thoughts, Master Langley?"

Langley examined the cord closely, then nodded her approval.

"Quality work, ma'am. Speaks of long practice." She eyed Abby curiously. "How long did it take you to learn this?"

"Quite a while, ma'am," Abby said. "I was only eleven. But I had an incentive. My father wouldn't buy me any candy on Sunday unless I could tie the knots he taught me that week perfectly. And I happen to love candy."

The assembled officers laughed, easing the tension.

After the Captain left--shaking Abby's hand along the way--the gathering began to break up. Most of the officers sought out Abby to introduce themselves, including Master Langley. Rosie raved about how brave Abby was to take on the Skipper like that and how they should hang out some evening when they weren't both on watch.

Once things quieted down, Abby was left with Evie, Maeve, and Alex. With the stewards nearby cleaning up, Evie didn't cling to her, although Abby could tell she wanted to. Both Evie and Maeve offered the encouragement Abby needed after the stressful ordeal of her first wardroom dinner, but Alex didn't say much, which Abby found vaguely disappointing.

When Maeve proposed they reconvene in her and Alex's stateroom, Alex finally spoke up.

"You and Evie go ahead. I want a private word with our 'woman of merit' here."

Evie hesitated, but Maeve pulled her toward the door.

"You'd better be nice," Evie said, but Alex ignored her. After the other two left, she turned to Abby and patted her upper arm.

"I owe you an apology. When I first saw you, I figured you for a typical grass-green 'boot' ensign. But not after tonight. Let's just say that people who take on the likes of Katherine Thorne usually get dressed down without mercy. But you gave her as good as you got." She smiled, and this time, it was warm and genuine. "There's a lot more to you than I thought."

"Oh, I don't know, ma'am," Abby said, reveling in the praise from this woman who'd so impressed her. "I'm just, you know, me."

"I look forward to getting to know you better, 'me.'" They both chuckled at this, then Alex turned abruptly serious. "I'm told we're in Section 3 together. We'll stand our first watch underway in three days. I'll expect the same precision on the bridge that you showed when tying that knot."

"Count on it, ma'am," Abby said.

As she followed Alex down the stateroom passageway, Abby's confidence surged. Not only had she passed the Captain's test, she'd impressed Alex Hawthorne. For the first time that day, she felt like she belonged on the ship.

&@&

In keeping with blackout regulations, the porthole in Stateroom 5 had been closed and "dogged down"-- closed and covered with a heavy steel plate--cutting off their only source of fresh air. As a result, the room had grown uncomfortably warm.

Abby sat on the edge of the lower bunk, stripped down to the unofficial stateroom uniform combination of sports bra and boxers, a necessary defense against the heat. Evie, dressed similarly, sat next to her.

"It's a miracle," Evie murmured, leaning her head on Abby's shoulder. "Of all the ships in the Tavian Ocean, you ended up on mine. I was so worried about where they'd send you."

What a stroke of luck that they'd wound up together. Just having Evie near settled Abby's nerves about being "the new girl."

Their mothers were sisters, and like Pop, Uncle Reginald Sterling was a retired warrant officer, except he was a radio technician rather than a boatswain. Their different outlooks always made dinner conversation interesting when the two families spent time together. It also explained why Evie, who had always been fascinated by electronics, had chosen to attend radar training and had been assigned as Jocasta's radar officer.

Thanks to Navy assignment practices of the time, the two families had lived together at RNB Port Westmark for years. Abby, Alden, and Evie had grown up together and were so close they might as well have been siblings instead of cousins.

Abby ran her fingers through her surrogate big sister's blonde tangles, now hanging loose around her shoulders. She remembered how, when they were kids, they'd brush each other's hair. Back then, Evie wore hers in a long, thick braid that hung past her waist. Abby loved brushing those long locks; she actually cried when Evie came home from her first Academy break with them cut short.

"I'm so glad to know someone else in the crew," she said, filing away the memory, "and especially that it's you. I tried to reach you after the news about Sunset Quay, but my last letter got returned. Being here with you is the first time I've felt like I could breathe since graduation."

"We're going to look out for each other." Evie's arm tightened around Abby's waist. "Sisters from different misters?"

"Sisters from different misters," Abby said, briefly hooking Evie's proffered pinky with her own.

She stayed quiet for a moment, listening to the hum of the ship's generators, before finally asking the question that had been on her mind since dinner.

"Okay, Cuz, give it to me straight. Who can I trust? You know, the heroes and zeroes."

Evie sat up and pulled out of the embrace. Her expression grew unusually serious.

"You're in one of the top destroyer wardrooms in the Navy. The Admiralty chose the best people for command and department head jobs because of the experiment." Evie leaned in again. "The Captain pushes us hard, but she's the heart of this ship. She's why we believe we can beat anyone. I was so proud of you at dinner--the way you handled that knot challenge. You passed her test tonight, and that's not easy."

Abby kept quiet about her mixed feelings over how much the Captain had praised her father. She wondered if Evie had gotten the same treatment.

"What about the others?"

"The XO, Master Ashcroft, she's brilliant," Evie said. "Never misses a detail. The downside? She remembers every mistake you've ever made, so watch yourself around her."

"And the department heads?"

"Lieutenants Bergstrom and Winslow are Grads. Sharp as tacks. Harper Langley--your boss--she's a mustang, a former boatswain like Unk. She'll run you ragged, but she knows her stuff."

Abby was happy to hear that last bit of good news. "How about the juniors?"

"Besides Alex and Maeve, Rosie and Fee are my closest friends among the JOs," Evie said. "You've already spent time talking to Rosie, so you know she's a riot. Fiona Walsh, Fee, she's the other assistant engineer. She's grumpy but has a heart of gold. She'll yell at you for the silliest thing, then turn around and ask if you want to play 'Go Fish.' Maeve really respects her as an engineer, so what does that tell you?"

"A lot, I guess."

"Yeah, a lot. Hmm, who else? Oh, right, Gunner Hazel Prescott, our only warrant officer. She knows more about five-inch guns than most people ever will. Then there's Theodora Fairfax-Neville. Avoid her."

Abby didn't need the warning. Theodora, the machine gun officer, hadn't been at dinner because she was standing the second dog watch as JOOW, but Abby hadn't at all minded. They'd already met when Evie took her to set up her wardroom account, since Theodora was the current mess treasurer. Abby had found the meeting quite unpleasant.

"Yeah, I kind of already got that."

"I guess so. Anyway, she's a ninety-day wonder. Went to Southmark College."

"That fancy rich-girl school?"

"Yep. She hates us 'ring-knockers.' Thinks we're all beneath her. Calls us 'pigs in lipstick' behind our backs and always complains about favoritism. Honestly, everyone has a bad feeling about her. She acts tough when it's safe, but we don't think she'll hold up when things get dangerous. And be doubly careful--the girl you replaced was one of her pals from Midshipman School. Theodora was not happy they deep-sixed her--actually got in trouble with the Skipper for questioning it--so she's likely to take it out on you."

"Lovely."

"Also, be careful around Freya Lindstrom," Evie said. "The torpedo officer. The one who sits next to you at meals."

"Freya? Really? She was nice enough at dinner."

Evie shook her head. "That's only because Theodora was on watch. Freya's actually good at her job--her petty officers respect her--and she doesn't dislike Grads the way Theodora does. But she's another one of Theodora's Midshipman School buddies. Be careful, because Freya will follow Theodora, even if it's off a cliff."

"And what about the two next door?" Abby jabbed Evie lightly with her elbow. "You were, um, really chummy with Maeve at dinner. More so than Alex, I mean."

Evie shifted on the bunk, suddenly refusing to meet Abby's eyes.

"No, it's not like that. But Maeve is special. She's the heart of our group and can make anything as exciting as an Army-Navy game, even during the worst of the grind. And she's brave, Cuz. The Zirigathians torpedoed her last ship in the northern Occidental, and she... Well, that's her story to tell. She'll talk about it when she's ready." Evie's playful side returned. "Maeve's a little too carefree. I just wish she'd keep her clothes on for longer than a four-hour watch."

Despite Evie's words, her body language told Abby that there was more going on between her and Maeve than her cousin would admit. Abby decided she'd tease Evie about it another time.

"And Alex?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

With a melodic laugh, Evie gave Abby's shoulder a playful nudge. "Girl, I saw the way you were looking at her. But to answer your question, she's a rising star. Knows her way around a gun plot--used to be assistant gunnery officer before they moved her to navigator and promoted Prescott. She's probably the most disciplined person I've ever met, except for maybe the XO. But she's lonely."

"Why?"

"It's the Hawthorne legacy. The Scourge of the Corsairs is her great-grandmother, and she's got the same name, so people put a lot of pressure on her to live up to the family reputation. It makes it even tougher that she'll inherit the family's countship someday. I mean, she's already a baroness. It's hard on her, so she tends to use the family name as a shield. Keeps most people at a distance. Some people say it makes her come across as snobby, but that's not fair." Evie smiled knowingly. "I couldn't see much of you at dinner, but from what I did see, you didn't look scared off."

Abby swallowed hard. "She's, um, really sharp."

"Yes, she is," Evie said, back to being serious again. "But listen, Cuz. This is important. Never mention Sunset Quay, especially to Alex. She lost her big brother on Nemandia. And she went through hell herself that day. She won't talk about it, keeps it all inside. Don't push her or Maeve. Let them open up when they're ready, okay?"

Abby nodded.

"Evie, what about you? You were at the Quay, too. On the Eurydice, right? You going to be okay?"

Evie stood up quickly. When she turned back to face Abby, her smile looked forced.

"Me? I'm wonderful! Got through it without a scratch. And now I've got the best radar suite in the Navy, and my sweet Abby is my shipmate. I've got every reason to be happy!"

Abby didn't believe her for a second. She stood up to face Evie, ready to say something, but her cousin stopped her with a gentle finger to her lips.

"Please don't." Evie gestured to the top bunk. "Let's get some sleep. We've got an early call tomorrow." She gazed at her cousin, looking even more fragile than before. "Just promise me one thing: if I wake up screaming in the middle of the night, don't say anything. Just come down and hold me 'til it passes, okay?"

Abby couldn't come up with a response. She hugged her cousin tightly, and Evie hugged her back just as hard. They clung to each other for a long time before Abby finally let go, kissed Evie's cheek, and climbed into her bunk.

In the dark, Abby wiped away her tears she'd hidden from her cousin. She lay awake for hours, the heat of the stateroom weighing down on her, listening to her cousin's shallow breathing and waiting for the screams she hoped wouldn't come.

&@&

Chapter Three: Rites of Passage

27-VII-1131 | 0745 Hours

The stateroom steward shook Abby awake at 0530, dragging her from restless sleep into the frenetic world of a Navy ship preparing to deploy.

Battling ten other women for access to the wardroom head's two showers and two commodes turned out to be a harrowing enough experience. At least Abby didn't need to spend additional time in front of the stateroom mirror; the Navy had made that part easy by banning makeup and nail polish and strictly regulating hair length and style.

At 0745 sharp, after a quick wardroom breakfast, followed by a brief meeting with Master Langley to discuss the Plan of the Day, Abby arrived at the fantail, her khakis crisp and her throat dry, to face the forty-two women of 2nd Division.

"Division, 'tench-hut!"

The sailors snapped to attention, their heels hitting the deck in one sharp clunk.

The command came from Petty Officer Rodriguez. She was short, with chocolate-milk skin; Abby guessed she was in her late twenties. Her sharp eyes seemed to catch Abby's every movement.

Abby returned Rodriguez's salute, sensing forty-two pairs of eyes on her, all judging the new ensign. But it wasn't only the sailors scrutinizing her. Ten paces behind her, the people who would shape the start of her career trajectory watched closely.

Master Langley stood with her arms crossed, her expression watchful. Next to her, Chief Petty Officer Madeline Mercer, the most senior enlisted sailor in the Deck Department--and in fact, the entire ship--eyed Abby's hands as if waiting for them to tremble.

Abby took a deep breath, letting the salty air clear away the last of the heat from below decks. She kept her eyes forward, focused on the center of the group.

"At ease," Abby commanded. The "deck voice" she had practiced at the Academy carried clearly.

The division relaxed into a modified "parade rest" position.

"My name is Ensign Abigail Guilford," she began, her hands clasped firmly behind her back. "I'm your new division officer. Some of you might have heard a rumor that my father is a retired boatswain. It's true, but it's also irrelevant. He is not your division officer; I am."

Rodriguez gave a slight nod of approval.

"Not everyone is gung-ho about the Jocasta experiment," Abby continued. "Certain brass at the Admiralty are just waiting for us to fail. They think that women can't fight without men. That we'll break under the pressure of a war cruise. But we also have sponsors at the very highest levels of the Navy who believe we'll succeed. My job is to make sure we prove our allies right and our critics wrong. Your job is to make sure the aft deck stays ship-shape so when we face the enemy, nothing's left to chance. I need you to be fast and precise, and I want you to look out for each other on deck."

She let her words sink in for a moment.

"When it comes down to it, I don't care about the 'all-female' label. I care about results. Our goal is to be the sharpest deck division in the Tavian Fleet. Petty Officer Rodriguez, take the muster. Publish the Plan of the Day and assign the work details."

Abby stepped back into place, watching as Rodriguez rattled off the day's assignments. She sensed Langley's and Mercer's gazes on her neck the entire time, all the way through the end of the muster and through the raising of the Royal ensign.

As the division split into work groups, she heard footsteps behind her. Abby turned and saw Master Langley and Chief Mercer approaching. When they reached Abby, Mercer saluted, a gesture that, while crisp, carried a subtle hint of insincerity.

"Good muster, Master Guilford," Langley said. She gave Abby a brisk nod--the first sign of the respect Abby had earned at the previous night's dinner. "You spoke well."

"Thank you, ma'am," Abby replied.

"That said, speeches don't secure hatches." Langley gestured toward the harbor. "We sail in thirty-six hours. By tomorrow night, I want every locker in 2nd Division prepped for rough weather. The extra cargo we've got on the fantail, too; I want that tied down behind a cargo net. This isn't a pleasure cruise; we're heading into a war zone. Anything not battened down can become a projectile when we're riding ten-foot swells."

"Understood, ma'am. I'll have the petty officers start the inventory immediately."

Mercer stepped forward, her presence suddenly growing well beyond her physical stature. She avoided Abby's gaze, focusing instead on the single silver trefoil-shaped pip on each of Abby's collar points, as if acknowledging the rank but not the person wearing it.

"With all due respect, Ensign Guilford, inventory is for peacetime," Mercer said.

For ensigns and lieutenants, their rank was usually only used in written communication, while "Master" was their traditional verbal title. Abby winced inwardly, recognizing it for the slight that it was, but didn't take offense. Pop had warned her to expect this type of treatment until she proved herself.

"We're on a war footing now," Mercer continued. "I've already recommended Rodriguez skip the paperwork and go straight to double-lashing the deck cargo. I'm sure you'll want to oversee the process personally."

It was a power move on the Chief's part to make "suggestions" to Rodriguez before Abby could give orders. By doing so, Mercer had undercut Abby's authority, all while still seeming respectful.

Langley watched with a neutral expression; she'd obviously seen this play out a dozen times already. She didn't correct the chief, and Abby knew exactly why: while the division officers' jobs were to make sure the Plan of the Day was followed, the Deck Department's chief petty officer actually ran the deck.

"The Chief's right," Master Langley said, her tone all business. "We have little time and a lot to do. Mercer, get the ammo teams moving. Master Guilford, stay with the Chief and watch how she handles things. You're scheduled to stand watch in two days; you need to know exactly how your ship is loaded before then."

Mercer turned to leave, pausing for Abby to follow. "This way, Ensign Guilford. Try to keep up. The deck gets slippery when the hoses are running."

Mercer led Abby to the fantail, where a 2nd Division detail was attempting to secure a large cargo net over a stack of heavy cargo crates.

"We normally wouldn't stage this stuff here, but we've got no room below decks, and it needs to go to the Quay. The XO wants the cargo net double-lashed to the tie-down points." Mercer pointed to a nearby team of sailors who were working on tying down a corner of the netting. "The petty officer here thinks a standard clove hitch on the bitts is enough for the secondary lines. Since you've got that fancy diploma from the Academy, perhaps you'd like to tell her why she's about to lose our payload--and maybe a couple of sailors' legs--the moment we hit a thirty-degree roll."

It was a typical "chief's trap." Mercer obviously expected Abby to choose between two technical options, hoping she would give a textbook answer that ignored real conditions on a moving ship.

Abby checked the tension in the lines with her foot, testing how much they might move under stress, then took a closer look at the knots. She saw what Mercer had clearly spotted: the petty officer had used a standard harbor tie-down; neat, but meant for calm conditions, not for war.

"The petty officer is thinking about static weight, Chief," Abby said, her voice calm. She reached down to take the line in her hand, running her fingers along it, inspecting it by touch with the practiced ease that comes from years at sea. "But she's ignored the centrifugal force on a narrow-beamed hull like Jocasta's. A clove hitch can't handle a snapping load. It'll bind, then it'll burst." Abby looked Mercer straight in the eyes without flinching. "We don't need a clove hitch. We need a rolling hitch with an extra round turn, finished with a square knot and a wire clip. And we need to lead the bitter end to the secondary cleat, not the bitt, to distribute the shear stress."

Mercer's eyes narrowed. It was the answer of someone who had seen rough seas firsthand, not a solution based on book-learning.

Abby turned to the startled petty officer. "You heard me. Re-reeve the lines. Round turn and two half-hitches for the primary, rolling hitch for the secondary. If I see a clove hitch on this net again, you'll be the one riding the crates into the drink. Carry on."

As the petty officer and her team scrambled to follow orders, Abby and Mercer stood in silence for a moment, the quiet broken only by the sound of steel hitting steel.

Mercer adjusted her belt. Her face was hard to read, but the corner of her mouth tightened slightly.

"Well, Master Guilford, I see the yachting team taught you something besides how to look good in a blazer." Abby immediately noticed the different form of address. It was the closest the Chief would ever come to an apology. "I'll see to the aft racks. I trust you can handle the rest of the K-guns without me holding your hand?"

"I think I can manage, Chief."

Mercer gave a quick nod, then turned and disappeared among the crates. Abby let out a sigh of relief, the tension finally draining out of her.

&@&

Tavian Ocean

860 nautical miles (nm) west-southwest of Port Westmark

1-VIII-1131 | 1539 Hours

For the past three days, Jocasta had steamed across the Tavian Ocean, a restless, empty sea covered in whitecaps. Once they'd left sight of land, the only sign of life had been the other three ships in Destroyer Division 17, arranged in "line ahead" formation with careful precision.

It had taken Abby a few days to get her "sea legs" reacclimated to the open ocean, with its six- to ten-foot swells that had the ship rolling in a deep, regular rhythm. Working on deck posed significant challenges, but Abby didn't mind at all. This was the kind of work she'd signed up for.

At the moment, however, Abby wasn't on deck, but instead staring through a porthole at the front of the pilothouse, her binoculars focused on DESDIV 17's flagship, RLNS Astraea, 1,000 yards dead ahead. She had the conn, essentially driving the ship.

This was the first significant test of her watch training, so she was understandably nervous. Jocasta was nothing like RLNS Amphora, the racing yawl she'd captained to the intercollegiate championship; not only was the destroyer eight times longer, three and a half times wider, and 225 times heavier, she was much less forgiving.

To her left stood Alex, focused on the so-called "zigzag clock" bolted to the pilothouse's front bulkhead. The DESDIV had been using sinuous course navigation--also known as "zigzagging"--since leaving Port Westmark to discourage Chaarish submarine attacks.

For each day, the individual formation turns, direction, and heading were mapped out to the minute in a standard schedule determined by the DESDIV operations officer aboard Astraea. As the navigator, it was Alex's job to set the zigzag clock to sound the alarm at the predetermined intervals. As the conning officer on watch, it was up to Abby to actually execute the correct turns and make position adjustments as needed.

Behind them, Master Ashcroft stood silent and watchful, her presence only increasing the pressure. She wouldn't tolerate any mistakes--or even mere hesitation--on Abby's part.

"Ten seconds," Alex said, her tone as even and professional as ever. If she was concerned about Abby's performance, she didn't show it, although she did do Abby the courtesy of counting down the last few seconds.

"Five, four, three, two, one."

Abby willed herself not to flinch when the buzzer sounded. Her voice rang through the pilothouse.

"Come right to zero-four-five."

"Right to zero-four-five, aye," the helm answered.

Jocasta slid into the maneuver, her full combat load causing her to drift wide in the turn. The gap between her and Astraea grew.

"All ahead full!" Abby barked. "Kick her in the pants!"

Moments after the lee helm's repeat, the vibration of the forced-draft blowers rose beneath their feet as the engines surged. Jocasta accelerated quickly back into position.

"Steady on zero-four-five," the helm called.

"Very well," Abby said, relieved it was over. "All ahead standard."

"All ahead standard, aye," the lee helm responded, working the handle of the engine order telegraph.

Abby smiled inwardly, sure she'd got it right. But the XO quickly shredded her sense of triumph.

"Master Guilford, the correct command is 'come right to zero-four-five, standard rudder.' By issuing an incomplete order, you forced the helm to interpret what you meant, and that led to a sluggish turn and a wide drift. In the Southern Reach, even an extra ten yards of leeway is an invitation to a Chaarish torpedo. Under a new moon, we'd never see the wake. You need to review your conning commands so you don't put us in danger when the time comes."

"Aye, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am."

With that, the XO gestured toward Alex, then turned and stalked through the aft door of the pilothouse.

"I've got the conn," Alex said in response to Master Ashcroft's silent command.

"Master Hawthorne has the conn," Abby confirmed. Face warm with embarrassment, she retreated to her usual station, convinced she'd failed and would have to endure weeks of further training.

&@&

Shortly after Section 3 was relieved from watch duty, Alex pulled Abby into the charthouse to discuss the formation turn.

"Don't let her get to you," Alex said. "To her, nothing's ever perfect; there's always room for improvement. But she'll only give feedback to officers she knows will learn from it. Now, if she'd walked out without saying anything, that'd be a different story."

Abby gazed at the navigator, hyper-aware of her striking blue eyes. "I just want to be as good as my father. If he had the conn, he wouldn't have made a mistake like that."

"Quit talking yourself down," Alex snapped. "Your quick thinking saved us from having Cybele ride right over our fantail. You told the Captain that you wanted to stand on your own merit. Now, all of a sudden, you're comparing yourself to your father?" When Abby attempted to respond, Alex held up a hand to cut her off. "Don't ever do that again!"

Then, as abruptly as her temper had flared, Alex softened. She stepped to a nearby porthole and stared out at the empty horizon as if remembering some long-ago dream.

"My brother Archie bought into that family legacy stuff. When we were kids, he used to make my little sister Audrey and me march around the back lawn with broomsticks as rifles. He'd tell us over and over that as Hawthornes, we didn't just shuffle along like most people. We held our heads high and walked with purpose, because as the children of three generations of flag officers, we represented the heart and soul of the Navy, and we needed to act like it.

"They called him the perfect midshipman. At the Academy, it didn't bother him that he was the great-grandson of the woman whose portrait seemed to be hung in every building. Not in the slightest. He loved being a Hawthorne. Flaunted it whenever he could, actually. But that legacy didn't save him."

She turned silent for a moment, then shook her head.

"The first bomb that hit Nemandia took him out. Never mind the propaganda spin in the Navy Post about him firing a 20-millimeter gun; he never got that far. But that's not the point. What matters is that the bomb didn't care who his great-grandmother was. Or that everyone expected him to be our family's next Marine general, or eventually inherit the family title. Or that Audrey was a week and a half from graduation, waiting for him to come home on leave to help Father and Grandfather pin those silver trefoils on her Marine dress blues."

Alex turned to Abby, her shield lowering in a brief display of deep feeling.

"Stop comparing yourself to ghosts. You want to survive out here? Take Master Ashcroft's standard as a baseline. That way, you'll be ready when the shooting starts, and you won't get caught flat-footed like we were at the Quay." Her eyes met Abby's. "I don't want you to have to go through what I did. So keep working hard, okay?"

"Aye, ma'am," Abby said, grateful for the advice from the woman who had so quickly become her personal hero.

&@&

2-VIII-1131 | 0017 Hours

Later that evening, the wardroom was quiet. Its night lights, intended to protect night vision, cast a dark red glow over the room. The only sounds were the metallic creaks of Jocasta's hull and the soft hiss of the coffee urn.

Unable to sleep, Abby had retreated to the wardroom so she wouldn't disturb Evie. She sat at the long table, alone except for the duty steward in the pantry, holding a lukewarm mug of strong Navy coffee and staring into space.

It had only been eight months since the Sunset Quay raid, but the Navy had done an excellent job of covering up the harsh truth with media spin. The news outlets had all been fed the usual line: heroic Lyrian sailors had been mercilessly cut down by bloodthirsty Chaarish monsters.

At the Academy, the news of First Lieutenant Lord Archibald Hawthorne III's death had come as a profound shock to everyone. Abby remembered how the faculty, embellishing the account in the Post, had painted Archie as a heroic figure making a last stand with a 20-millimeter cannon. Their tales were meant to soothe the midshipmen's nerves by emphasizing the valor rather than the tragedy of his final moments. Yet Alex's clear-eyed truth had dismantled the legend, bringing home the brutal reality of war.

Abby thought of Audrey, who, according to Alex, had just graduated from Marine Officer Basic School when Abby reported aboard. Was the youngest Hawthorne hearing the fantasy version, or did she know the real story of her brother's death?

While she sat deep in thought, Maeve pushed aside the blackout curtain and sauntered in. She looked exhausted, her khakis damp with sweat and her freckled face flushed courtesy of the heat of the engineering spaces. She let out a tired grunt in greeting as she signaled the duty steward for her own mug of coffee.

"What's jumpin', chick? You look like you could use some sleep."

"I was thinking about Sunset Quay," Abby said, her voice soft. "About what people claim happened to Alex's brother. And what Alex told me really happened. He wasn't a hero, she said. At least, not the way the Post spun it."

Maeve turned to face Abby, her expression unusually serious. "In this Navy, 'hero' is the kind of word the brass throw around to distract the public from the facts. We got caught with our pants down, plain and simple. The entire harbor was a slaughterhouse. But heaven forbid that the public knows the gory details." She took a long drink of coffee and, after setting her mug down with a thump, turned her back to Abby. With a practiced motion, she pulled her khaki shirt out of her trousers and began unbuttoning it. "You want to talk about heroes? Let's talk about reality instead."

She pulled up her shirt to show a jagged red scar running from her left shoulder blade, under her bra strap, and down to her hip.

"RLNS Antigone," Maeve said, her voice flat. "Northern Occidental. The Zig wolfpack jumped us at night. Torpedo hit the starboard quarter and took out the aft boiler room. I was in the head at the time, or I wouldn't be here. Dumb luck, right? When I opened the door... the steam... It cooked them. Kids from the Uplands and Ironfells who could barely swim. I just kept dragging them out until the second explosion put me on my face."

Abby stared at the rough, uneven, railroad track of a scar, unable to look away. She didn't remember noticing it when they'd first met, but to be fair, she'd actively been trying not to look at Maeve back then.

After buttoning her shirt and tucking it back in, Maeve turned back around, her expression haunted.

"I woke up face down in a motor launch with two sailors kneeling on my back. They told me later that they were trying to stop the bleeding. They said I kept going back until I passed out. The Navy tossed me a medal and called it 'devotion to duty.' I call it being too stubborn to quit. And honestly, I wouldn't change a thing, except for all the blood and stitches. That part sucked."

"Is that why you came back?" Abby asked, finally finding her voice. "To destroyers, I mean. You should have gotten your pick of assignments after all that. Why not something bigger and safer, like a cruiser?"

Maeve let out a mirthless chuckle. "Cruisers. That's my family's specialty. My father commands Wellstone, and my grandfather was a rear admiral who helped write the current gunnery manual. I'm a 'legacy' like Alex, although I don't have a noble title hanging over my head like she does. Because of that, no one expects much from me now. I'm just a sailor's daughter who likes the 'Dungaree Navy,' working with my hands instead of hiding deep inside a cruiser, writing reports all day, far from the crew. Besides, a cruiser isn't that much safer than a destroyer."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Haven't you heard the rumors about all the cruisers that have been getting shot up lately? Anyway, I was about to say that my parents don't pressure me anymore, not since the Antigone incident. Alex still gets that pressure, even after the Quay. But I've got nothing left to prove. I almost died once in the Occidental. Now, I feel like I'm playing the game with house money."

She picked up her mug again, her green eyes flashing.

"Alex has to deal with all that stuff with her brother, and I get that, I really do. But I'm just trying to make sure the next time a torpedo hits, my sailors have a fighting chance. That's the only legacy I care about."

Maeve leaned against the sideboard, her face suddenly looking thin and tired in the red night lights.

"Don't ever expect her to be a statue," she said. "She's spent eight months watching the Navy try to turn her brother into one. She doesn't need anyone trying to do the same thing to her. Especially not you."

&@&

It was almost 0200 when Abby finally returned to Stateroom 5. She moved carefully in the dark, not wanting to wake Evie by turning on the lights. She could hear her cousin's slow, shallow breathing.

She lay in her bunk, staring at the darkness above her, unable to stop thinking about Maeve's scar and the pain in Alex's voice. As she was finally about to fall asleep, a sound broke the silence: a choked whimper that turned into a sharp cry.

"No! Don't give up! Grab the ring buoy! Grab it!"

Abby scrambled down from her bunk before she was fully awake. She turned on the desk lamp, then knelt next to Evie. Her cousin's face was twisted with pain and fear.

"Evie, it's me. It's Abby."

Evie, her breathing ragged, tried weakly to sit up. "Outta the way... Gotta save my sailors..."

Belatedly, Abby remembered promising to keep quiet. She said nothing more, but instead leaned over the edge of the narrow bunk and wrapped her arms around Evie's shaking shoulders, pulling her close. Her poor cousin's skin was cold and clammy. For a long, tense minute, she resisted Abby's embrace, her body stiff in the face of the horrific memories.

Then, she broke, collapsing against Abby, muffling her deep sobs in her cousin's neck. Abby held her close, rocking her gently.

They stayed like that for a long time, two daughters of a Navy that expected them to be strong, huddled together in the dark. Eventually, Evie's breathing slowed, and her trembling faded.

After a while, Abby was able to pull away and return to her bunk. She lay there, staring into the shadows and waiting for sunrise.

&@&

Chapter Four: The Genuine Article

Tavian Ocean

1,430 nm west-southwest of Port Westmark

3-VIII-1131 | 1515 Hours

The Tavian Ocean was in a restless mood. By now, six days into the nine-day transit, they should have been enjoying smooth steaming on the usually calm seas east of the Crystal Islands, but despite the deceptively sunny weather, four-foot waves--likely an aftereffect of some far-off storm system to the south--had Jocasta rocking enough that the crew needed to mind their footing.

To the untrained eye, underway replenishment resembled a dangerous, twelve-knot tango. Jocasta had pulled alongside the fleet oiler RLNS Boreas, a massive, wall-sided beast that blocked off the horizon. They were barely eighty feet apart, two thousand tons of destroyer dancing cheek-to-cheek with ten thousand tons of fuel oil.

"Watch your distance! Check those station markers!"

The shout came through a megaphone from Master Langley, who was busy on the forecastle. During UNREPs, 1st Division took the lead, handling the main fueling rig, but the most challenging work was at the starboard quarter rail, where Abby and 2nd Division managed the secondary hose and tensioning lines.

This was Abby's biggest challenge yet. If her crew couldn't maintain the required tension, or if something went wrong with the secondary hose, the UNREP attempt would fail, disrupting the replenishment cadence for the entire DESDIV. Having to reposition all four destroyers, not to mention the replenishment squadron vessels, would take hours--precious time they couldn't afford to lose. They were on a tight schedule to arrive at Sunset Quay; if they missed their rendezvous with the convoy they were assigned to escort, there would be hell to pay.

Then there was the danger inherent in the procedure itself. If a line snapped under tension, someone could get killed.

A failed attempt would call into question Abby's leadership. A death could very well result in her being court-martialed.

Understandably, she was anxious, but she clung to Pop's wisdom: train your crew well, and they will execute. And the training had indeed been thorough; they had run UNREP drills six times over the past seventy-two hours--dry runs that had left Abby's face wind-chapped and her voice hoarse.

She stood by the starboard rail outside the aft deckhouse, her life jacket serving as a bulky, deep-blue collar over her salt-stained khakis.

"Line coming across!" Rodriguez shouted.

A light line shot from the Boreas with a loud bang, hissing through the air until landing across Jocasta's aft deck like a large, wet noodle.

"Get it! Move, move!" Abby commanded.

The sailors of 2nd Division lunged for the light line. It was their umbilical cord. They'd use this line to pull over a heavier messenger line, which would in turn guide the four-inch rubber secondary fuel hose across the gap. Chief Mercer watched closely from atop the nearby aft deckhouse as the team began the tough job of hauling the wet, heavy rope.

Everything was going smoothly until Boreas dropped into a trough... but Jocasta didn't.

When the gap between the ships widened, the span-wire supporting the fuel hose snapped taut with a sound like a plucked guitar string. The fixture connecting the hose to the span-wire jammed, which caused the heavy brass coupling at the hose's end to swing dangerously toward a young sailor standing nearby.

"O'Toole, down!" Abby screamed.

The sailor ducked just in time. The coupling whistled over her head, coming within inches of taking it completely off.

"The pelican hook is jammed!" Rodriguez called out. "If that wire goes, it'll take the whole rail with it!"

Abby didn't wait for Mercer's input. She saw the issue immediately: the messenger line had looped around a nearby bitt, preventing the tension from easing.

She leaped forward, grabbing a fid--a heavy wooden spike--and jamming its sharp end between the line and the bitt and using it as a lever to pry the fouled loop upward.

"Rodriguez, slack the secondary!" Abby yelled over the rushing wind. "Now! Ease her off!"

Rodriguez signaled the winch operator. The metal groaned as the loop came free. The span-wire sagged, and the hose dropped safely back into place.

Abby stepped back, breathing hard, knees weak. They'd come within three seconds of a major disaster. She glanced first toward the pale-faced O'Toole, still kneeling on the deck, then up at Chief Mercer.

For the first time, the Chief's weathered face showed a hint of something other than skepticism. She glanced at the fid in Abby's hand, then at the rig.

"Line's secure, Master Guilford," Mercer said. She paused, then adjusted her cap. "Nice piece of deck-work, ma'am."

Being called "ma'am" affected Abby more than the adrenaline rush. It was the Chief's way of finally signaling that Abby had her full respect.

An hour later, Jocasta pulled away from Boreas with full tanks and fresh supplies. Abby was watching Rodriguez direct a team coiling loose lines when Master Langley arrived. The first lieutenant looked tired but satisfied.

"Nice recovery, Master Guilford," she said. "Mercer told me what you did with the fid. Quick thinking. Most ensigns would have waited for orders."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Don't get cocky," Langley added, though her words had no edge to them. "Your positioning was off at the start of the approach. We'll do a post-mortem during the first dog watch. I expect a full self-critique."

"Aye aye, ma'am."

After Langley walked away, Abby was about to get back to observing the deck crews when she caught sight of a familiar figure.

Alex stood next to a nearby ladder, fixing Abby with a gaze that made the already-warm air feel even warmer.

"Nice work," she said once Abby had closed the distance. "I happened to be in the charthouse, so I came out to watch. The Captain and I were on the starboard bridge wing. Best seats in the house. When that span-wire went taut, she nearly took the conn herself."

"I was just making sure we didn't lose the hose," Abby said. Her cheeks grew warm again, though this time it wasn't because of the sun.

"Either way, I couldn't stop watching," Alex said. She stepped a fraction closer, into the small space between a ventilator and the bulkhead, shielded from the view of the deck gang. She reached out to touch Abby's upper arm. It wasn't a quick, friendly pat, like the one she had given Abby after the welcome dinner. This time, Alex's hand lingered on her sleeve, steady and sure. The touch sent a quiet thrill through the younger officer.

"I told the Captain you're the genuine article," Alex said, her gaze dropping to Abby's lips for a heartbeat before snapping back to her eyes. "This time, she saw for herself. It's nice to be proven right. You did well, Abby. Really well."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Belay that 'ma'am' stuff. Call me 'Alex' when we're not on watch."

Before Abby could react, Alex gave her a subtle smile and climbed up the ladder. Abby watched her go, her arm still tingling where Alex's hand had touched her sleeve.

&@&

2025 Hours

"Come on, baby! Big numbers, big numbers!" Evie chanted, shaking a pair of dice in her cupped hands like a high-stakes gambler, then rolling them onto the acey-deucey board. She let out a triumphant cackle. "Double sixes! Read 'em and weep!"

"A statistical anomaly," Alex replied coolly, though her lips twitched with a suppressed smile as she moved her pucks back to the "start" bar. "Enjoy the lead while it lasts."

Maeve sat at her usual place at the wardroom table, looking much different from the way she had twenty minutes earlier. She had washed the engine grease from her hands and changed into clean khakis. Her hair was still damp from her shower. Since she missed dinner while on watch, she was now wolfing down a plateful of ham, peas, and mashed potatoes, gesturing with her fork as she watched the game.

"Don't listen to her, Ev! She's just sore 'cause she can't navigate her way around a bad roll."

Abby sat on a nearby transom bench, one eye on the game, enjoying the smooth ride now that Jocasta had left the morning's choppy waters in her wake. Rosie leaned in close, eyes wide with curiosity as she studied one of the creased black-and-white photos Abby held. Fee sat on the other side, arms crossed, looking somewhere between bored and mildly interested.

"Hey, Fee, check out the hair!" Rosie pointed at the snapshot of Evie and Abby from their junior high days. "Look at that huge braid on Evie! How did she even hold her head up? That's crazy!"

"Evie told me she cried when they cut it off during plebe summer," Abby said. A fond smile touched her lips. "And of course, the cadre smoked her for crying."

Abby pulled out the next photo: Evie and her on Evie's graduation day, both in crisp white uniforms, looking like world-beaters. Then one of Abby and another officer in dress whites, both sporting brand-new ensign's shoulder boards, taken only a few weeks ago.

"That's my Academy roommate, Charlie Hayes. She's in flying training now. You guys would've really liked her."

"Were you two an, um, item?" Rosie asked.

It figured that Rosie's mind would go there, but Abby really didn't want to satisfy her curiosity. Sure, Charlie was indeed her ex, but only in the loose sense of the word. They'd been a lot closer to best friends with benefits. And as close as they'd been--and they were still good friends, at least in Abby's mind--Charlie belonged to her past history. She stole another look at Alex, who represented her future possibilities.

"It was complicated. I'd really rather not talk about it. Still friends, though."

Before Rosie could say anything further, Abby showed them the last picture, one of her standing next to a young male junior lieutenant in a similar uniform: her mirror image, but taller and broader, wearing his usual "bad boy" grin.

"And this is Alden," Abby said. "My twin brother, the Navy dive-bomber pilot. He was home on leave before he deployed to his carrier, so he came to graduation. Helped my Pop put on my ensign's shoulder boards."

Fee snatched the photo with a suddenness that startled Abby. She focused on Alden's image, her indifference turning to intense interest. "Oh, wow! Come to mama! He's... he's a total dreamboat! Even if he is a Grad."

"Hey, now, be nice," Abby said, rescuing the photo from her eager friend's clutches. "He's not a Grad. Never spent a day at Port Argent. Dropped out of college in '30 to sign up as an aviation cadet. You know what really gets me? I'm the older twin, but the knucklehead outranks me. Not at all good for my fragile ego."

Rosie peeked over Abby's shoulder to get another look. "Knucklehead or not, what a dish!" She let out a dramatic, soul-deep sigh. "This ship is a literal desert. If you only knew what I'd give to spend a three-day pass with a guy like him. I'd teach him a thing or two about flying, that's for sure. It's a crime against nature, putting a bunch of dames on this tin can with nothing to look at but other dames."

"Speak for yourself," Fee muttered. "Some of us appreciate the lack of locker-room stench."

Rosie rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. You're as parched as I am. Don't even pretend you wouldn't give her brother a run for his money if you had the chance."

Fee shrugged and grinned. Abby didn't want to think about how much Alden's ego would inflate if he knew two attractive women wanted to get him alone. She found the topic of her brother's romantic life unappealing; to her relief, Rosie took the conversation in a different direction.

"It's the talk of the mess, Abby," Rosie said. "Everyone's busy, um, surveying the landscape, so to speak. You know, since we're going to be cooped up here until the war ends."

"Landscape?"

"Yeah. It's an experimental crew, so the current debate is over which girls are open to, uh, experimenting." Rosie leaned in, her tone turning conspiratorial. "So, here's the straight dope. The Captain, Master Bergstrom, and Master Winslow? All married. Rock solid. The Skipper's got a six-year-old girl back home. Master Bergstrom's husband is a supply officer at the Quay, though I doubt she'll get to visit him during our port call. But the rest of us? Your Academy girls--Evie, Alex, Maeve--they're all definitely 'that way,' and they don't care who knows it, but they keep to themselves. The XO, she's not interested; she mentioned being 'married to the sea' last week. It sounded way too literal to be a metaphor. And the rest of the wardroom? Very single and very, very horny. I mean, for most of us, it's been since March. Even Fee's starting to look good to me."

"You wish," Fee said, twin smudges of blush flanking her frown.

Rosie waved a dismissive hand. "So, Abby, mind telling us where you stand on all this?"

There was no point in warning Rosie to back off. The truth would come out sooner or later.

"My cousin and I are a lot alike. Think about it."

"No skin off my nose, sister. Each to their own path." Rosie's tone turned calculating. "So, what's the word on Evie and Maeve? Are they finally sharing the proverbial blanket? The betting pool is leaning toward 'yes, but they're being weird about it.' Any intel?"

Abby recoiled inwardly. This was getting too personal. "I wouldn't know. They're just close. Really close. But so are Evie and Alex. And as far as I know, none of them are into playing around. I know I'm not."

Rosie didn't look convinced. She squinted toward the dinner table, where Alex was calmly destroying Evie's pretensions of victory.

"And what about you and our fearless navigator? She usually treats ensigns like they're part of the scenery, but after that UNREP today, she was looking at you at dinner like you were the main course."

Abby glanced across the room and saw Alex leaning forward, the light catching the soft line of her jaw. She looked up and met Abby's eyes for a moment. Abby thought back to how Alex's hand had lingered on her sleeve earlier that morning.

Was Rosie onto something? No, she couldn't have been. The gesture signaled mere affection, nothing more.

"You're imagining things," she said.

The game ended when Evie stood up, stretching her arms above her head.

"That's it, I give. Lady Luck has let me down." She strolled over to the bench, eyeing Rosie and Fee with good-natured suspicion. "All right, what are you two doing to my cousin? I can smell the gossip from across the room. Don't you go leading her astray with your wild reservist ways."

"We're educating her on the local flora," Rosie said with patently false innocence. "Especially all the pretty violets."

Evie responded with a sharp glance at the redhead. She squeezed between Abby and Rosie on the bench, pulling her cousin into a protective half-hug.

"Don't listen to them, Cuz. They've been at sea too long."

Abby leaned into the hug, but her eyes drifted back to Alex, who was putting away the acey-deucey board. Her face was hard to read, but as she turned to the sideboard, she met Abby's eyes and gave her a slight nod and a faint smile.

She smiled back, her gaze lingering on Alex as she tried to decide if it was just a nod of respect or something more. Before she could figure it out, Evie clapped her hands twice, the sound echoing off the bulkheads.

"All right, enough gloom and gossip," she announced, her eyes sparking with mischievous energy. "The ship's riding easy and the coffee's fresh. I'm officially declaring a moratorium on war talk. Rosie, help me clear space around the table. We're breaking out the Victrola."

Fee let out a groan, though she didn't move to stop them. "Aw, come on, Evie! It's almost twenty-one hundred. I can barely keep my eyes open."

"Which is exactly why you need a little exercise," Evie countered, already cranking the handle of a portable phonograph she'd retrieved from the sideboard. "It'll get your blood pumping. Come on, just for one song, okay?"

She picked out a thick lacquer disc and set the needle. After a moment of static, the honey-smooth sound of a saxophone filled the wardroom. To Abby's dismay, it was a romantic ballad: "My Locket," the kind of song that more or less required people to dance close together.

Evie grabbed Maeve's hand and pulled her into the small clearing between the table and the sideboard. Maeve laughed, earthy and intimate, and wound her arm around Evie's waist, pulling her close. Across the room, Rosie had successfully cornered the grumbling Fee and was leading her in a slow rhythm that she eventually stopped fighting.

Abby stood by the bench, her heart pounding as Alex approached.

"May I?" she asked. Her voice was barely above a murmur, lost to everyone but Abby.

The dazzled ensign nodded, unable to speak. She stepped closer, resting her hand on Alex's shoulder while Alex's right hand settled firmly on the small of her back. They started to dance, slowly swaying in the small space.

Being this close was almost too much. Alex's scent, clean with a hint of salt, had her fighting to keep her composure. She had to distract herself somehow.

"Mast--I mean, Alex," Abby said, her breath brushing against her companion's ear. "About the Quay. We're going to get there pretty soon."

Alex's arm stiffened slightly around Abby's waist, but she kept leading their dance without breaking rhythm.

"Yeah, I know."

"Will you be all right?" Abby tried to keep her voice steady despite the weakness in her knees. "After what you said... after what you told me about your brother. I wanted to know if you needed... if there was anything I could do."

Alex pulled back enough for their eyes to meet. She still seemed guarded, but Abby could see that her reserve was fading, softened by the music and the moment.

"You're already doing it." Her blue eyes, uncharacteristically dark in the amber light of the wardroom, looked deep enough to drown in. "Just by being yourself. Just knowing you'll be there for Evie and me to lean on is more than enough."

The song faded, leaving only the sound of the needle scratching. For a few tense seconds, neither of them let go.

Finally, Evie lifted the skipping needle. In the sudden silence, Abby and Alex quickly stepped away from each other.

"Okay!" Evie said, her voice a little too bright, her arm curled around Maeve's. "Bedtime for the brave. Fee's right; we've all had a long day. Some of us have early watches."

As she followed Evie back to Stateroom 5, Abby could still feel the ghost of Alex's hand resting against the small of her back.

&@&

The oppressive heat weighed down on Abby as she lay in the top bunk, staring at the deckhead above. The sound of Evie's soft, even breathing drifted from below, signaling that her cousin was finally asleep.

But sleep was the furthest thing from Abby's mind.

Every time she closed her eyes, she was back in the wardroom, swaying to the music. She could almost feel Alex's arm around her, pulling her close. The memory of Alex's scent--clean, with that intoxicating hint of the sea--made Abby's pulse hammer in her ears just as it had during the dance.

She had to face facts: her feelings for Alex had grown far beyond mere admiration. Her desire fed the ache deep within her that had been growing for the past few days, ever since their first encounter on the quarterdeck.

Moving with agonizing slowness so the bunk frame wouldn't creak and wake her cousin, Abby slid her hand beneath the waistband of her boxers. Oh, goddess! They were soaked. The memory of Alex's body against hers while they danced had left her slick and aching.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against her pillow, imagining that it wasn't her own hand slipping between her folds but Alex's perfect fingers taking control. They circled her opening, only to wander back up to tease her hardening clit, then back down to her entrance, keeping a steady rhythm that matched the thrum of Jocasta's engines. She pictured Alex's striking blue eyes going dark as she leaned in and whispered a command Abby was only too glad to carry out.

Come for me.

The fantasy words pushed Abby over the edge. Clamping her free hand over her mouth, she stifled a ragged moan as her back arched off the mattress. Her release was so intense that it left her breathless and dizzy, her muscles twitching as she rode out the high.

When Abby gradually caught her breath, her mental image of Alex was gone, and she was back to staring at the deckhead once again. Except now, she realized with startling clarity just how deeply she was in over her head. Simply being someone for Alex to lean on wasn't going to be nearly enough.

&@&

Chapter Five: The Quay

Tavian Ocean

383 nm east-southeast of the Crystal Islands

6-VIII-1131 | 0906 Hours

Penelope Ashcroft sat at her desk, absorbed in Abby's training record. Every so often, she'd scribble a few words on one of the pages, which made Abby nervous. She hoped the XO wouldn't find any problems, a distinct possibility given the woman's eagle eye for detail.

"I've signed off on your watch qualification," Master Ashcroft finally said as she scribbled yet again on the training log. "You're a full JOOW now, no longer 'under instruction.' The Captain was satisfied with your ship-handling during the Division's zigzag maneuvers over your past several watches. She thinks you've got a natural feel for the ship's pivot point. Don't make her regret that assessment."

"Aye, ma'am, I won't," Abby replied with an inward sigh of relief. Her quick thinking during the UNREP certainly contributed, but it was her long hours on the bridge that earned her this achievement, not only standing watch, but following Alex's advice to observe the other officers and learn from them.

"The supply ships we're escorting are four days late, so we've got some breathing room," Master Ashcroft said, finally looking up. "I told Master Langley that the Captain wants the Deck Department to finish all minor maintenance--painting, scraping, everything--within twenty-four hours. If you meet that deadline, you can start letting your women go on liberty. Any questions?"

Abby hesitated. "No questions, ma'am. But with all due respect, I do have a suggestion."

Eyebrows raised, Ashcroft leaned back, her chair creaking slightly. "Proceed."

"Ma'am, I recommend Masters Hawthorne and Sterling be temporarily relieved of bridge duties during our transit into the harbor tomorrow. Given their, uh, combat trauma associated with the raid, I can't help but think it would be best for the ship if they were below decks."

The stateroom's atmosphere instantly turned frigid. Master Ashcroft stared at Abby for a long, intense moment, her eyes cold and hard.

"Master Guilford, I lost my Academy roommate aboard Southmark. We were closer than sisters. She's been down there, three hundred yards from where we'll be mooring, for the past eight months."

A lump formed in Abby's throat as she realized she had just made the first big mistake of her career.

"How would I look in front of our crew, the first all-female crew in the history of Her Majesty's Navy, if I ran and hid when we passed the wreckage?" Ashcroft leaned forward, her eyes pinning Abby to the deck. "Master Sterling will stand her watch as OOD. Master Hawthorne will be at the navigator's station. They are professionals. They will stand beside the Captain and the harbor pilot, and they will do their damn jobs. Tell me, did they put you up to this?"

"Certainly not, ma'am. I took it upon myself to--"

"It is not your place to advocate for your fellow officers, especially when they haven't asked you to. Do not insult them again by suggesting they're too fragile for their commissions."

"Ma'am, I--"

"Your lapse in professionalism has given me second thoughts about signing off on this." Ashcroft waved Abby's training folder at her. "Perhaps you aren't as ready to work independently as I thought. I had planned to be in the radar plot tomorrow, but I think I should be on the fantail instead, personally supervising your handling of the aft mooring detail. You'd best get yourself squared away before then. Dismissed."

She pointed toward the door. Abby didn't need to be told a second time.

&@&

7-VIII-1131 | 1030 Hours

DESDIV 17's transit into the Sunset Quay harbor might as well have been a funeral procession. The reflection of the bright morning sunlight off the placid harbor waters appeared to mock the unspeakable tragedies that had unfolded there the previous December.

Abby stood in a formal "at ease" position on the fantail, hands clenched behind her back, every muscle tense. Master Ashcroft and Chief Mercer stood nearby, silent and watchful. Abby forced herself to look away from the XO and out over the water, but after a while, she wished she hadn't.

The scale of the devastation that the Chaar had left behind was staggering.

To port, Fenwick lay on her side in the shallows, her hull rusted and barnacled below what used to be her waterline. Further in, Ironfells and Langstrand stood as blackened hulks, their massive tripod masts twisted into surrealist sculptures by the heat of the fires that followed the explosions.

Abby's breath caught when they passed the wreck of Southmark. The ship hadn't just sunk; she had turned turtle, her broken keel facing straight up, her screws bent every which way, and her rudder pointed skyward in silent surrender. Abby noticed the XO's jaw tighten and her hands clench as she paid silent respects at her best friend's grave.

Then, they passed Nemandia.

Unlike Southmark, this ship had sunk upright, her damaged hull resting in the harbor silt. Her forward masts had been removed, leaving only the blackened top of her superstructure sticking out of the water like a steel islet. Unlike the others, no salvage barges or divers were working on her. The Navy had declared her a total loss, a permanent war grave. Abby's heart ached, knowing Alex was at the navigator's station, forced to look at the spot where her brother died.

"Steady on, Alex," she murmured. "Keep the ship's bearings. Don't look down."

Ashcroft's voice cut through the air like the crack of a whip. "Master Guilford! Lock in!"

"Aye aye, ma'am! Detail, stand by!" Abby called, snapping back to reality.

Jocasta slowly reversed toward her mooring. Petty Officer Rodriguez and her team, having deployed in the ship's port motor launch minutes earlier, maintained position ten yards off the port quarter, ready to receive the mooring chain from the ship and secure it to the buoy. Once they had done so, Master Langley and her 1st Division detail would drop anchor at the bow.

Without warning, a harbor tug swept past Jocasta's stern, its wake sending a series of rolling swells that caught the motor launch, shoving it directly into the path of the still-turning screws.

"Foul! The launch is drifting!" Chief Mercer shouted.

Abby didn't wait for orders. "Belay the chain!" she yelled at Rodriguez through cupped hands. Then, into her sound-activated headset linked to the bridge: "Foul! All stop! Repeat, all stop!"

She tore off the headset and sprinted to the rail.

"Launch, reverse full!" she screamed at Rodriguez. "Now!"

Abby grabbed a heavy rope fender. Leaning over the rail, fighting against her shoes slipping on the wet steel, she dropped the fender right where the launch's bow was about to hit the hull. The impact made a dull thud, but the launch bounced back into safe water instead of being ground to pieces by the propellers.

The launch's engine roared as Rodriguez regained enough control to pull away from the dangerous suction of the stern. Abby stood up, her chest heaving, her uniform wet with salt spray.

"Recover the messenger line!" she ordered her on-board team, her voice now steady. "Line handlers, heave!"

Five minutes later, the mooring chain was secure. In the heavy silence followed, the XO stepped forward to meet Abby, her face wearing an unreadable expression. Mercer nodded her approval, then left to check the lines, leaving the two officers alone.

Master Ashcroft's "Ice Queen" persona had melted, leaving in its place that of a weary woman carrying many burdens. "Master Guilford, I owe you an apology. I lost my cool yesterday. It wasn't appropriate for me to accuse you of a lack of professionalism when I showed none myself."

"You don't need to apologize, ma'am," Abby said, feeling sympathetic over Ashcroft's painful encounter with Southmark's wreck. "I was out of line, and you corrected my behavior. That's all it was."

The XO shook her head. "Maybe so, but your concern for your friends came from a good place. And your work here today shows you haven't let your friendships interfere with running your deck. You handled that foul better than many veterans would have."

Abby felt a wave of relief. "Thank you, ma'am."

"The Captain has authorized liberty for Masters Hawthorne, Sterling, and O'Connor tomorrow afternoon," Ashcroft said, gazing at Southmark's keel peeking above the water. "And because she thinks they'll need someone to keep them grounded, you're going with them. Get some rest, Abby."

Abby stared at Ashcroft as she headed forward. The XO had called her by her given name for the first time, but she was far too worried about tomorrow's shore leave to dwell on it.

&@&

Senior Officer Quarters 4

RNB Sunset Quay

7-VIII-1131 | 1630 Hours

The plantation-style bungalows of Lookout Point had been hastily obscured under matte-gray and olive-drab camouflage paint, their sweeping double-pitched roofs painted to blend into the tropical foliage and their wide windows blacked out with heavy tar paper. The O'Connor housing unit sat atop a bluff amid a small, well-manicured lawn, its foundation surrounded by bougainvillea in a multitude of colors.

Saoirse O'Connor, Maeve's mother, gasped when she opened the door, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Maeve! Oh, gods, my baby!" She pulled Maeve into a crushing embrace, burying her face in her daughter's shoulder. "I never expected to see you so soon. Oh, this is wonderful!"

"Hello, Ma," Maeve said, her tone uncharacteristically subdued. She held her mother close, gently rubbing her back. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too, so much!"

After Maeve made brief introductions, Saoirse ushered the four women into a sitting room that looked like a time capsule from an earlier generation. Silver-framed pictures of Maeve's family, including her father, Captain Desmond O'Connor, lined the bookshelves built into one of the walls. Saoirse offered coffee, the "good stuff" she had saved for special occasions. But knowing the cost of civilian rations, they all declined, settling for glasses of tap water.

After Saoirse left for the kitchen, with Maeve tagging along to help, a brutal silence descended, the kind where there's too much to say and no way to say it. Alex sat rigid on a floral settee, hands folded in her lap like she was in the Captain's stateroom. She appeared to be focused on a nearby painting of sunset over water. Evie sat next to her, picking at her trousers and practically staring a hole in the floor. Both women made a point of avoiding looking out the sliding glass door facing the harbor.

Abby could only watch them, feeling like an intruder. After ten excruciating minutes, she'd had enough.

"They're taking a while. I'll go see if they need help."

She was about to push open the swinging door to the kitchen when the sounds from inside stopped her in her tracks. Easing the door open a crack, she saw Maeve holding her mother near the sink. Saoirse was shaking, her sobs muffled by Maeve's white jacket.

"I thought I lost you once," Saoirse was saying, her voice cracking with a mother's worry and grief. " I can't go through that again, Maeve, not after what happened with Antigone! I just can't! Every time the sirens go off, I die a little inside. And what if something happens to Daddy? What if his cruiser is next? I don't want to lose both of you!"

Maeve was stroking her mother's hair, her own eyes squeezed shut. She was clearly trying not to cry.

"I'm here, Ma. I'm right here. We're Jocasta's crew, fast and tough. They'll never touch us."

"My dear, sweet little girl. I so, so hope you're right. Come back to me, Maeve. Please, promise me!"

Abby backed away, her throat tight, and fled to the sitting room.

"Kitchen, now" she said to Evie, nudging her for emphasis. "Maeve really needs you right, and I mean really. Don't argue; just go."

As Evie hurried away, Abby turned to Alex, motionless on the sofa like a statue carved out of ice.

"It's too stuffy in here," she said. "Let's take a walk, okay? I'll bet it's cooler in the back garden."

&@&

The back door opened on a large, railed-in porch flanked by a riot of colors: stands of hibiscus and bougainvillea. Beyond the porch rail, the back lawn stretched to the cliff at the property's edge, giving Alex and Abby a wide view of the harbor. They stood at the porch railing in silence, taking in the sight.

"Hipponome was right there," Alex said suddenly, pointing to somewhere near the center of the harbor. Her voice was devoid of any inflection, as if she were reading a weather report. "I got stuck with OOD watch that morning at the last minute. It was a non-duty day, and we only had a skeleton crew aboard. I was supposed to meet Evie at the O' Club for breakfast, but I stood her up because I couldn't find a messenger to take a note ashore."

Alex gripped the railing until the wood creaked. Her words grew heavier and heavier with emotion.

"I thought it was a drill," she said, her eyes filling with tears. "Even when I saw that the wings had crosses on them, and not trefoils, I just stood there at first." She turned to Abby, her face twisted with grief. "A 20-millimeter shell... I watched it hit one of my petty officers. He was shouting for the ammo hoist, and then... he wasn't there anymore. Just red mist. I was firing our own 20-millimeter when the first spray of shrapnel caught me. Ten feet closer..."

"Then it was you at the 20-millimeter, not your brother," Abby said, her anger rising. "Why the hell would they make it about him?"

"Because he was the golden child, and I'm just the younger sister. It's always been this way."

Lost for words, and unable to think of anything else to do, Abby held out her arms. Alex slid into her embrace, clinging tightly to her.

"Nemandia blew sky-high," she said, her voice fracturing as the last of the Hawthorne wall of reserve finally gave way. "My goddess, the noise... it felt like the sky cracked open. I prayed Archie was AWOL, or drunk ashore, or anywhere else. But he was on board. Deep down, I knew it. And I was so angry, I just kept firing and firing... the shrapnel kept hitting me, but I barely noticed. The bastards took my brother, and I wanted payback. So I kept shooting until I passed out." She choked back a sob, scrubbing at her tears. "He was going to propose to his girl back home. He'd already bought the ring. It's just... it's not fair."

Abby wanted to say that war was never fair for anyone, but rather than resorting to platitudes, she chose instead to merely hold Alex close and ache along with her.

&@&

Alex had barely regained her composure when Maeve appeared, leading the reluctant Evie by the hand. Maeve's eyes were bloodshot and her face pale, but her jaw was set in that familiar, determined line.

"Evelyn, it's time," she said, her voice betraying that she'd been crying. "You need to tell Abby and Alex what you told Ma and me. You can't keep carrying this like it's a state secret."

Evie stood trembling, her gaze locked on the harbor.

"I was drinking coffee at the O' Club," she said, tears already spilling down her cheeks. "I was so annoyed at Alex for standing me up. Then the windows blew out. Just... shattered everywhere."

The words came tumbling out as the memories overtook her. "I ran to the harbor. Eurydice took a bomb between her two stacks while I was looking at her. The whole ship was one big fireball. We got a motor launch. Went into the water to pull them out, but--" She choked, squeezing her eyes shut. "Oh, goddess, their skin! I was trying to grab them, and it was coming off in my hands."

She sagged against the railing. Alex grabbed her arm to keep her from collapsing altogether.

"There was this boy," Evie said between sobs. "Seventeen, maybe? Asked me if he was going to make it. He was burned to nothing. I lied to him, told him he would. What else could I say? And then he just... died." She tore herself away from Alex and flung herself into Maeve's arms with a wail. "They all burned! My captain, my sailors! Why did I have to be the one ashore? Why did I get to live?"

The four of them huddled together, forming a circle of white that offset the surrounding wall of flowers. Abby stood between Alex and Evie, clinging to them as the sheer weight of collective grief pressed down on her. Between Evie's crushing guilt, Alex's heartbreak, and the heart-rending pleas of Maeve's mother, it was all too much. She found herself crying right along with them.

She hoped against hope that the war wouldn't take any of these women she had come to care about so deeply.

That she would live long enough to make her father proud.

&@&

RLNS Jocasta

2330 Hours

The emotional release in the garden appeared to have gotten a lot out of everyone's system. After composing themselves, the four friends had managed a proper visit with Saoirse, who was interested to know more about Maeve's companions. She offered them a meal, but no one was hungry.

As the end of liberty approached, and after an emotional goodbye between mother and daughter, the group had trudged back to the pier in exhausted silence to catch the motor launch back to their world of steel.

Later that night, Abby sat at the tiny desk in Stateroom 5, the glow of the lamp illuminating the stack of division paperwork she'd been chipping away at. Jocasta was in "darken ship" for the night, the red battle-lamps in the passageway casting long, bloody shadows through the open door.

Evie, who had long since collapsed into her bunk, snored gently a few feet away. Abby hoped there would be no nightmares later.

She'd just decided to put off the rest of the administrative work until the next day when there was a soft knock at the doorframe. She looked up to find Alex, who, unlike Abby, was still dressed in her whites. The red battle-lights of the passageway cast long shadows across her face. Contrary to her usual flawless appearance, her uniform was rumpled, and her hair hung loose over her shoulders. She looked exhausted.

"Alex." Abby instinctively moved to stand, but Alex held up a hand to stop her. The older woman's gaze shifted to Evie's slumbering form.

"I didn't think she'd sleep tonight," she said in a low voice. "I didn't think any of us could."

"Let's step outside," Abby said, nodding toward the door, "so we don't wake her up."

"I came to, um, well, I wanted to apologize," Alex said once they'd moved to the passageway. She avoided eye contact, instead staring at her shoes. "For what happened at Maeve's parents' house. It was totally unprofessional. I'm your senior officer. I'm supposed to be the one to show strength, not the one breaking apart in your arms."

"You're a human being," Abby said, closing the distance between them. "You spent eight months holding all that inside. You can't navigate a sinking ship."

Alex's lower lip trembled for a fraction of a second before she pulled it back into a tight line. Her gaze finally met Abby's.

"The ship's navigator is supposed to be the fixed point. If I lose my bearings, the ship loses hers. If the crew ever saw me the way I was..."

"The crew didn't see you, I did," Abby interrupted. She reached out, daring to take the older officer's hand; it was shaking, but Alex didn't pull it back. Abby stroked the back of it gently. "You didn't lose your bearings, you just finally looked at the chart."

Alex let out a long, shuddering breath, her shoulders dropping slightly. They stood facing each other for what seemed to Abby like forever, with only the hum of the generators and a distant clang from somewhere in the engineering spaces breaking the moment's peace.

"Thank you," Alex said, so softly that her voice was almost a whisper. "For being there when it all came out. For not running away."

"I'm not the kind of girl who runs."

Alex nodded once, briefly returning to her formal self, and then gently pulled her hand away and slipped into the crimson shadows. Abby watched her until she disappeared into Stateroom 7, then stepped back into her own room and slid the door shut.

She watched over her sleeping cousin for a while, processing the day's events. Pop always said that the best way to handle your demons was to confront them head-on. Despite his self-assurance, Abby knew that approach didn't work for everyone. Yet she believed that for both Alex and Evie, it had been necessary.

Abby caressed her sleeping cousin's hair. Poor Evie; maybe the nightmares would come less frequently now.

As she climbed into her bunk, she replayed the quiet conversation in the passageway. For the first time, Alex had let her guard down completely. Abby closed her eyes, savoring the lingering warmth of the moment, before finally drifting off to sleep.

&@&

Chapter Six: The Mess Ledger

30-VIII-1131 | 2254 Hours

Abby sat in her usual seat at the wardroom table, the leather-bound wardroom ledger lying open in front of her. To either side of the book lay stacks of receipts and requisition forms.

The loud ticking of the wardroom clock taunted her. Her next watch wasn't until 0800, so by all rights, she should have been in bed, catching up on her sleep. Yet here she was, struggling to reconcile a ledger that wouldn't cooperate.

Only days before, the ship had stopped at Ifira to refuel and restock supplies. What should have been a simple review of the expenditures from that visit had turned into a nightmare.

Abby's pencil hovered over two columns of figures that refused to balance. How could two lyrae simply vanish? Master Jensen's listing of port expenses didn't align with the wardroom chef's meal plan cost; the two sets of line items matched, but the bottom-line totals wouldn't reconcile.

In the grand scheme, two lyrae really wasn't a huge sum; you could get a decent meal for two at a mid-priced hotel restaurant in Port Westmark for that much. It only represented roughly one-half of one percent of the wardroom's monthly cash flow, but in a Navy audit, it didn't matter if you were off by two lyrae or two hundred.

The ledger was due to the XO for the monthly audit in forty-eight hours. Penelope Ashcroft did not accept discrepancies. If Abby couldn't deliver a perfectly balanced ledger, she might as well submit her own head on a platter.

She chewed her pencil eraser in frustration. The numbers weren't her only concern; she also had a sneaking suspicion that she'd been set up. Theodora Fairfax-Neville had been the previous treasurer until the XO removed her for failing to keep up with the accounts. The handover had been rushed, full of reassurances like "it's all in there" and "you'll figure it out." Abby had trusted her fellow officer, but now she saw that that had been a mistake.

Absorbed in her task, Abby barely noticed when Master Jensen stepped past the blackout curtain. The supply officer had a quiet, almost ghostly presence. Her hairstyle always teetered on the edge of regulation, and she seemed perpetually pale with exhaustion. Though she was a "ninety-day wonder," Abby knew Ingrid had had years of civilian business experience before joining the Navy. In her month as mess treasurer, she'd come to realize that Ingrid understood the Navy's complex supply rules better than anyone.

Ingrid didn't acknowledge Abby at first, drifting instead toward the coffee service to take the proffered mug from the duty steward. She took a small sip of the hot liquid, winced at the temperature, and then wandered over to the table.

"You look stumped," Ingrid said. Her voice was thin, lacking the "deck bark" of the other officers. "Anything I can do?"

"I can't make this thing balance," Abby muttered. "I've gone over the provisioning receipts ten times, but it's still off by about two lyrae." She slid the ledger in front of Ingrid. "I know the mess treasurer and mess caterer aren't supposed to work together, you know, for accountability reasons, but I'm desperate."

Ingrid set her coffee down and leaned over the ledger, flipping through a few pages with a practiced flick of her wrist, her eyes scanning the columns. Then she shuffled through Abby's stack of port paperwork. After less than a minute, she tapped a small, handwritten entry at the bottom of the Ifira manifest.

"There's your answer," Ingrid said. "The portage and lighterage fee. Ifira has a shallow pier, so we couldn't get close enough to use the ship's cranes for the heavy crates. We used local lighters to ferry them instead. Since it involved perishable luxury items, the extra fee was charged to the mess, not the ship's account."

Abby stared at the entry. "I, uh... I didn't even think to look into that. It wasn't in the turnover notes."

"It's a detail specific to the South Tavian stations," Ingrid said, sipping her coffee. "Technically, you should have known, but it's something the last treasurer should have pointed out during the turnover. Details like this matter, especially since the Admiralty is scrutinizing our expenses closer than most ships."

A flash of anger ran through Abby. "Theodora never said a word. She told me the Ifira transactions were 'standard operating procedure.'"

Ingrid sat down next to Abby, her expression weary. "I'm not surprised. Master Fairfax-Neville isn't much of a team player. Listen, you don't have to struggle through things like this alone. Ask me for help anytime, and don't worry about the rules against comparing notes. We're in a war zone. Every lyra that leaves this ship goes through me, and I know where every cent of each one ends up."

"Thanks, Ingrid. You're a lifesaver." Abby began to correct the figures, her anxiety giving way to annoyance. "I don't know why she'd leave that out, though. A failed audit makes the whole wardroom look bad."

Ingrid stared at the steam rising from her mug. "I'm just the SUPPO, and I tend to stay in the background, so people forget I'm around. But I hear things. The Skipper likes how you handle the ship, and the XO expects a lot from you. Langley thinks you're a natural. But I also hear what Theodora's been saying."

Abby stopped writing. "To whom? Not to Chief Mercer, I hope."

Ingrid let out a mirthless chuckle. "Mercer? Not a chance. The Chief's got her pegged; she wouldn't believe Theodora even if she said the sun was hot. The other chiefs feel the same. So do most of the officers. Instead, she's spreading rumors through her leading petty officer. They're talking in the gun shack about your 'administrative incompetence,' hoping the gossip spreads to the rest of the crew and eventually to the bridge. It's ironic, seeing the XO fired her as treasurer for being bad with paperwork."

Ingrid stood up, clutching her mug. "Be careful around Theodora. This won't be the last time she tries to undermine you."

&@&

2339 Hours

Abby lay on her bunk in her underwear, staring at the deckhead. Evie stood nearby in clean khakis, trying to smooth down a few stubborn strands of hair.

"I don't get it," Abby said, frustrated. "I've been nothing but professional with her. We even worked together on repairs to two of the aft 20-millimeter mounts last week."

Evie looked in the mirror, sighing with relief as she finally got the last cowlick under control. "Stop trying to find logic in it. She hates the ring on your finger, and she resents that the Skipper likes you. But mostly, she's embarrassed. She couldn't hack the treasurer job, and you made the audit look easy. But that's on her. Don't waste your time overthinking it."

"It's pathetic," Abby said, rolling onto her side. "We're in a war zone. We should be working together."

"Sure, in a perfect world, which this isn't," Evie replied. "Just go to sleep already. Alex, Maeve, and I have your back. So do the others. We won't let her cause any real trouble. But don't expect her to play nice, either."

Abby closed her eyes, but sleep didn't come right away. Every time the ship rolled, she found herself grinding her teeth over the hidden lighter fees.

&@&

1-IX-1131 | 1934 Hours

On any other night, Abby would have enjoyed the island-inspired dinner menu: fish chowder, smoked ham with pineapple-mango chutney, baked yams, fresh corn, and passionfruit punch. But that night, the tense wardroom atmosphere killed her appetite.

The XO sat at the head of the table, running the meal as usual, seemingly oblivious to the political subtext. When the last of the post-dessert coffee was poured, she picked up a spoon and rapped it sharply against the table, instantly cutting off all conversation.

"As per the Wardroom Manual, a mess treasurer must be elected on the first of every month," Master Ashcroft announced, her eyes scanning the assembled officers. "Master Guilford has performed the duty on an interim basis for the past month." The XO paused, her gaze lingering on Abby for a second before moving to the rest of the table. "The Captain and I have performed the Month VIII audit and found the books to be flawless. Master Guilford is to be commended. Nevertheless, her appointment was only temporary, so we need to vote someone in for Month IX. The floor is open for nominations."

Abby glanced around the table. Nobody moved. Alex sat with her hands folded, a calm, cool presence. Maeve was playing aimlessly with the end of her necktie. Neither would make eye contact.

The silence dragged on, the special kind that descends when no one wants to volunteer for a shit detail.

"No nominations?" Ashcroft asked, her eyebrows rising. "Come on, people, you know the drill. The incumbent retains the position if there's no one else who wants to stand for it."

"Permission to speak, ma'am," Theodora said.

She leaned casually back in her chair. Her baby-faced features carried the hint of superiority typical of someone from old money, no surprise considering her Southmark College pedigree. Abby thought she looked more like a socialite playing dress-up than a real sailor.

"Permission granted," the XO said.

"I think we should consider the efficiency of the mess," Theodora said, her tone a little too sugary. "With the war cruise extending and our monthly dues increasing to cover harbor surcharges, perhaps we need someone with a bit more practical experience. It might be better for the wardroom if someone like Master Lindstrom took the role."

Freya clearly hadn't expected to be nominated. "Begging the XO's pardon, but I respectfully decline to stand," she said quickly, frowning in Theodora's direction.

Abby felt the heat of anger creep up the back of her neck. She glanced toward Alex. The older woman's eyes were practically boring holes through Theodora, but she said nothing.

Master Ashcroft turned to Ingrid, who had her hand raised. "Master Jensen?"

The supply officer cleared her throat. "I'd like to point out that there have been absolutely no complaints regarding the quality of the mess. In fact, we've been eating better than any ship in the division. Quality costs more, and Master Guilford has accounted for every lyra--including the harbor fees that she was somehow never informed of during turnover."

Theodora's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second.

"Master Lindstrom has declined to stand," Ashcroft said, clearly annoyed. "I don't want to drag this out, so if there are no other nominations, we'll vote on retaining the incumbent. All in favor of Master Guilford continuing as treasurer for Month IX?"

Hands went up: Alex's, Evie's, Maeve's, Rosie's, Fee's. After a moment, most of the rest of the wardroom followed suit, including Freya.

"Opposed?" Ashcroft asked.

Silence.

"Abstentions?"

Theodora slowly raised her hand, projecting calculated indifference, a final act of silent insolence that made Abby's blood boil.

"The motion carries," Ashcroft said, rapping the table once. "Master Guilford remains the mess treasurer for Month IX. The mess business meeting is hereby adjourned. Carry on."

With matters concluded, officers began to leave the wardroom. Abby clenched her fists. Clearly, Theodora was too much of a coward to oppose the group, but too stubborn to show support for Abby. As Theodora stood to leave, Abby made her move, intercepting her before she reached the door to the stateroom passage.

"Master Fairfax-Neville," Abby said, her voice a low growl, "a word. In the outer passageway. Now."

Theodora glared at her, one eyebrow arched. "I'm quite busy. The 20-millimeter--"

"I wasn't asking, Ensign."

Theodora's eyes narrowed at the veiled slight, but she turned toward the main wardroom entrance. Freya moved to follow, but a tall figure stepped into her path.

"Master Fairfax-Neville and Master Guilford have personal business to settle," Abby heard Alex say in a tone that carried subtle menace. "That business does not concern you. Stay and finish your coffee. We'll have a long-overdue chat while you do."

&@&

The two ensigns faced off in front of the wardroom door, staring each other down under the red glow of the night lights.

"All right, Neville, you deliberately withheld the Ifira lighterage fees from the turnover notes," Abby said, her tone low and hard.

Theodora glared back at her. "If you don't know how to read a port manifest, Ensign, that's your failing, not mine. And you will address me by my proper name and title. I have four months' seniority on you."

"Four months doesn't make you my commanding officer," Abby shot back. "It just means you had a head start on failing at the job."

"You think your little Academy clique runs this ship," Theodora said, her composure slipping. "You and Hawthorne, Sterling and O'Connor."

"I think the crew responds to competence," Abby said. "You're just sore because the deck doesn't care that you went to Southmark, and you're using the mess ledger to take it out on me."

"Again with the Academy doubletalk--"

"You tried to sabotage my audit by 'forgetting' to tell me about those port fees," Abby said, talking over her, "and you're feeding lies to your division to trash my reputation with the crew."

"You have no proof of that!"

"I have plenty of proof. Thing is, unlike you, I have friends on this ship. People who hear things, and who tell me about those things." Abby paused for effect. "People the Captain and XO respect."

"See? Right there! That 'mafia' thing!" Theodora poked a finger at Abby's chest. "You're arrogant, Guilford. And careless. The XO already has her eye on you. The second you slip up, I'll make sure she knows it, and it'll go straight into your fitness report."

Abby swatted Theodora's hand away. "Don't touch me. And don't mistake me for someone who cares about your threats. You're nothing but a coward. You didn't even have the spine to vote against me in there. Instead, you threw your only friend in the wardroom under the bus." Abby stepped closer, dropping her voice. "If you ever intentionally sabotage me again, we won't be having a quiet chat in the passageway. I'll take it straight to the Captain and let her decide what to do with an officer who risks the wardroom's readiness over a bruised ego. Do we understand each other?"

Theodora didn't answer. She shoved past Abby, her shoes clattering against the steel deck as she fled through the wardroom door.

Abby stood in the red glow, her hands shaking from the adrenaline crash. She leaned against the bulkhead and took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

She forced herself not to think about what Theodora might try next. There was no use borrowing trouble tonight; she had a watch to stand in a few minutes. Pushing the thoughts aside, she retreated to her stateroom to get ready.

&@&

Chapter Seven: First Blood

Sea of Palms

70 nm east-southeast of the Sikani Islands

3-IX-1131 | 0251 Hours

The glow of the night lights bathed Jocasta's pilothouse in dim red light. Outside, the Sea of Palms seemed to swallow the starlight. The only visual evidence of their sister ships in DESDIV 17 was the occasional flicker of a wake light, a pale blue glow that betrayed the position of the destroyers steaming line-abreast to their port.

Warm, salty air coursed through the pilothouse through the open doors on either side. Abby stood at the plotting table, directly to the port side of the helm, her feet braced against the ship's subtle motion. As the JOOW, she'd been monitoring bridge communications, making sure every order Alex issued was correctly echoed back.

At the forward portholes, Alex, the conning officer and OOD, watched through her binoculars with calm focus. The Captain was asleep in her sea cabin nearby, and the XO was in her own stateroom below. That left Alex and Abby in charge on the bridge, along with the usual petty officers and sailors of Watch Section 3.

Between sneaking admiring glances at Alex, Abby thought about the irony of it all. As kids, she, Evie, and Alden used to play 'submarine hunt' with wooden blocks on Evie's kitchen floor. Now, the game was real, with the Sea of Palms replacing the floor and massive steel ships loaded with explosives replacing the blocks.

Next to Abby, the radar plot talker tensed, her eyes widening as she pressed a hand to her headset.

"Ma'am, Radar reports a surface return, bearing zero-niner-five. Range three thousand yards. Sonar reports propeller noise."

Alex didn't even flinch. "Very well. Messenger, wake the Captain."

"Aye, ma'am!" The young sailor, eyes wide, scurried away. Before she'd even made it through the rear door, Alex had gone right back to conning the ship.

"Right ten degrees rudder." Alex's tone was as cool as if she were ordering a sandwich at a deli.

"Right ten degrees, aye," the helm echoed, her voice noticeably less steady than Alex's. The tension built as she called the turn's progress. "Passing zero-niner-zero... passing zero-niner-five--"

"Meet her," Alex cut in. "Steady on course zero-niner-five."

"Zero-niner-five, aye."

"Sound general quarters."

The duty boatswain's mate acted with practiced fluidity. First came the shrill, haunting warble of her pipe over the main "all-hands" circuit. Then came the announcement: "General quarters! General quarters! All hands to your battle stations!"

Only then did the petty officer toggle the alarm, and the jarring gong-gong-gong tore through the night.

"Captain on deck!" the duty quartermaster called.

Lieutenant Commander Thorne stepped through the rear door, her rumpled uniform evidence of how quickly she'd gotten out of bed. Abby felt immediate relief at the sight of her. As much as she idolized Alex, the Captain was the woman for these moments.

"We've got a contact, last reported at zero-niner-five," Alex said. "I've already initiated pursuit per COMDESDIV standing orders."

"Very well." Thorne turned to the radar talker. "I want the latest from sonar."

"Sonar, bridge, status report," the talker said into her microphone. After a few moments of silence, she relayed the reply. "Sonar reports a hard return, bearing zero-niner-five, range two thousand. Target is diving. She's trying to go deep."

"Ah! Such a lovely night to go fishing," Thorne said with a predatory smile. "I have the conn."

"Captain has the conn," Alex confirmed, stepping aside.

"Maintain zero-niner-five."

"Zero-niner-five, aye," echoed the helm.

"Good thinking, Master Hawthorne," the Captain said. She pointed toward the handset of the talk-between-ships channel--the TBS. "Contact Astraea. Have their bridge inform the commodore that we're in pursuit." Thorne glanced at Abby. "Master Guilford, you're dismissed to your battle station."

"Aye, ma'am," Abby said, already turning toward the aft doorway.

&@&

0257 Hours

Abby slipped through the door and into the cramped world of Repair Locker 2. The air here was thicker, smelling strongly of hemp rope and solvent. Camila Rodriguez stood waiting, her sleeves rolled up to reveal her toned forearms.

"Status?" Abby asked, donning her gray steel helmet.

"All present or accounted for, ma'am," Rodriguez said. "Shoring timbers staged, portable pumps primed."

"Very well." Abby turned to the team's talker standing nearby. "Report ready status to Damage Control Central."

The ship jerked unexpectedly. Abby only managed to keep from falling on her face by grabbing a nearby equipment rack. She guessed the Captain had put the engines in full reverse to slow Jocasta for the attack run--probably down to five or ten knots, as Abby recalled.

Even in the small compartment buried in the middle of the aft deckhouse, she could hear slamming and banging out on the exposed fantail: Freya and her team preparing for the initial depth charge drop. Abby guessed she'd have a pretty good idea of how Freya handled herself in combat when all this was through.

"Central reports Captain has ordered a creeping attack," her talker suddenly announced, confirming the reason for the slowdown. "Stand by for heavy concussions. Pattern Charlie-Four, twelve charges."

&@&

A loud rumble, along with the thumps of the K-guns firing, signaled that the attack had begun. Abby mentally tracked the K-gun launches, trying to estimate when the explosions would begin: port-starboard, port-starboard, port...?

Something wasn't right.

"Central reports a hang-fire on the forward starboard K-gun," the talker said, quickly solving the mystery. "Gunnery says the release rack is jammed, that it's a structural foul and Deck needs to fix it."

Abby turned immediately toward the door. The K-guns were under Freya's tactical control, but their maintenance was 2nd Division's responsibility.

"Rodriguez, you have the compartment. Stay with the talker." Abby pointed to her number three, a sturdy petty officer second class named Siobhan Doyle. "Grab two sailors, the long pry bar, and a couple sledges, and follow me!"

Abby burst onto the fantail. The deck was bathed in the flickering red of the night lights. Freya stood over the balky K-gun, flaxen hair matted to her forehead as she yanked at the frozen release lever.

"The mounting plate shifted!" she yelled over the splashing of the ship's wake. "The weld buckled! It's pinning the safety fork!"

Abby crouched down for a better look and saw the problem right away: a flaw in the weld, hidden by paint and polish. How had that happened? Abby had checked every inch of that mount herself. Even Chief Mercer had missed the cracked weld during the last inspection. It was a hairline stress fracture, hidden under layers of paint, that had finally split open under the strain of the ship's hard deceleration.

"Doyle, get the pry bar in that gap!" Abby shouted, scrambling out of the way. "We have to shock that mounting pin!"

Abby stood back, directing the work with hand signals. "Brace it!" she commanded as Doyle wedged the steel bar into the gap. "Now, hit it hard!"

Clang! Clang!

"Again! Harder!"

The sailors swung their sledges in a coordinated arc. With a screech of tortured steel, the mounting plate yielded. The release lever snapped forward into the "ready" position with a satisfying thunk.

"Clear!" Abby yelled to Freya.

The torpedo officer didn't wait for a relay from the bridge. She stepped forward, her eyes locked on the churning water.

"Fire!"

The K-gun hissed, hurling the depth charge into the dark sky.

"Everyone, back to Repair 2! Move!" Abby commanded, shoving her team toward the deckhouse door.

&@&

"Brace!" Abby yelled once everyone had returned to the repair locker. "Grab the overheads! Keep your knees bent!"

The words had barely made it out of her mouth before the first depth charge, likely one that rolled off one of the aft racks, exploded, sending a shock wave racing through the water in every direction.

BOOM!

It felt less like a sound and more like a physical blow, as if a giant had hit the keel with a war-hammer. Jocasta rocked when the shock wave hit.

BOOM! BOOM!

Abby silently counted off eleven explosions in rapid succession, followed by a twelfth after a several-second delay: the one from the K-gun they'd fixed.

"Report," she said.

The talker relayed the order, and after several seconds, replied, "Gear room reports heavy vibration but no visible leaks. Same from the aft magazines."

Abby immediately started issuing orders. "Rodriguez, you and your team take the steering flat. I'll take the magazines and the shaft alley. Doyle, your team's with me."

For the next twenty minutes, Abby led her sailors through the bowels of the ship. They crawled through the narrow passageways, making sure Jocasta hadn't taken damage from her own depth charges.

Thankfully, everything had held. They'd just returned to the repair locker when the "all-hands" circuit crackled to life.

The boatswain's pipe prefaced the voice of the duty boatswain's mate. "Now hear this! Now hear this!"

There was a click, and then Lieutenant Commander Thorne's voice filled the compartment.

"This is the Captain. Seems we caught ourselves a fish. COMDESDIV confirms it's our kill. Well done, everyone. Secure from general quarters."

The cheer that went up in Repair 2 was primal. Abby grinned so widely that her cheeks ached.

&@&

0331 Hours

The ship had sped up to cruising speed, resuming patrol on a sea that now smelled of scorched diesel. Abby walked back out onto the fantail to inspect the racks. Freya was still there, supervising her gunner's mates as they loaded a fresh set of depth charges.

"Nice work with the sledge," Freya said. "My girls couldn't have cleared that jam."

"Bad weld. Hidden by the finish. Even Mercer didn't catch it. I'll ask Fee to have one of her shipfitters grind it out and reweld it as soon as there's enough daylight."

Freya hesitated. "I've been wanting to tell you I'm sorry about the mess meeting," she finally said. "I should've done something to reel in Theodora. She was being really petty."

Abby stared at her in surprise. "She's your friend. I get it."

"She is my friend," Freya said, "but she takes that Southmark-Academy rivalry way too far. I told her to drop the ledger thing, but she doesn't listen to me when she gets dug in like that." She met Abby's eyes. "Look, I got nothing against you, believe me. And for what it's worth, I think you're going to be a hell of an officer. You've got a great start, anyway." She flashed a brief smile that Abby read as genuine. "Oh, and thanks again for the K-gun. You saved my ass with the Skipper and Master Bergstrom."

She turned and walked over to the sailors reloading the aft racks. Abby watched her direct the team; the sailors moved fast, without hesitation, their respect for their officer evident in every drill-perfect motion. It got Abby to thinking that Evie's opinion of Freya might be justified, after all.

&@&

0435 Hours

After the attack run, Abby almost forgot she was still on watch. Luckily, she got back to the pilothouse fast enough that the Captain only gave her a mild scolding. She appeared to be more bothered by Abby's unkempt appearance than by her late return.

Her primary source of embarrassment had been that because of the bilge stench she was radiating, no one in the pilothouse wanted to stand within three feet of her. Rosie, her relief as JOOW, actually laughed at her!

Half-seriously, Abby had sworn there'd be payback.

After her relief, she'd spent twenty decadent minutes under a hot shower, scrubbing the grime from her hair and body and allowing her tense muscles to relax. She'd been hoping to see Alex after the changeover, but as time dragged on, the older officer hadn't shown.

Now, wrapped in the comfort of fresh underwear, she was about to crawl up into her bunk to grab an hour or so of sleep before breakfast. But the sound of the door opening stopped her in mid-climb.

Evie stepped inside, looking completely spent. "We got 'em, Cuz," she said with a weary smile, sliding the door back in place.

"I know," Abby said as the two briefly embraced. "We all felt it. But we stood down an hour ago. Where've you been?"

"After-action report. The XO wanted to write it while it was fresh in her mind. I needed to help, or so she said. She roped in Master Bergstrom, Alex, and Freya, too. Said she'd get your input tomorrow."

"Oh, joy. Another hour shot."

"Necessary evil. The Navy floats on paperwork, you know." Evie began pulling off her uniform, tossing the pieces onto the dresser in a big pile. She waved off Abby's protest. "Don't worry, I'll get everything squared away before breakfast." Her brow furrowed. "So, I heard about the fantail. Freya told the XO that you saved the pattern. I believe the word she used was 'inspirational.'"

Abby let out a tired snort. "She also used the word 'petty' to describe Theodora."

Evie perked up. "Did she, now? Coming from Freya, that's practically treason."

"Maybe," Abby said, climbing up into her bunk. "But Freya also said she's still Theodora's friend. She's playing both sides, Ev."

"Or she's nothing more than a good officer who knows a sinking ship when she sees one," Evie countered.

"You may be right."

"Just stay out of Theodora's way, okay? She's got a long memory and too much time on her hands."

"Don't worry. She's been avoiding me since it happened. I plan on returning the favor."

"No more about her, please." Evie sounded as though she was already half-asleep. "Get some shut-eye, girlie. We have a date with hotcakes at 0700."

Abby didn't need any further encouragement. Within moments, the vibration of the ship's engines had lulled her into a deep sleep.

&@&

Chapter Eight: Requiem for a Grand Lady

15-IX-1131 | 1106 Hours

Abby sat at the stateroom desk, bracing her feet against the deck as the ship rocked. She gently opened the crumpled envelope postmarked "RLNB Port Westmark" and removed its contents. The paper felt thin and delicate compared to the Navy issue stationery she was used to. She smoothed the letter out on the desk, her eyes stinging as she took in her father's heavy, blocky handwriting, the kind of script expected of someone who gripped a pen like a marlinspike.

Dear Abby,

Received your last letter. Your mother cried for twenty minutes, partly because she's worried, but mostly because she's proud of you. I told her to stow it because you've already got enough salt water to keep you afloat.

I'm glad to hear you've found a solid group of shipmates. This Hawthorne girl you mentioned sounds like the "straight-leg" Academy type, but any JO with enough sand to win a Gold Trefoil is likely to have at least something on the ball. The fact that you respect her says a lot. Listen to her and let her guide you.

Give my best to Evie and tell her I said she'd better not get you into trouble. She was always doing that to you and Alden growing up. She'd better behave, or she'll have to deal with your Uncle Reggie and me.

Most importantly, remember what I told you: a destroyer is just a tin can until general quarters sounds. After that, it's down to the crew guiding it. You're not only an officer, you're a Guilford. Don't let rank go to your head. Take care of your sailors, and they'll take care of you.

Love,

Pop

P. S. No letter from Alden recently. Will advise if we hear anything.

Abby smiled, or more accurately, twisted her lips into a tired grimace. Pop's advice was never poetic, but it always resonated. She would have given anything to see him again just then. She had so many questions...

Setting the letter aside, she turned her attention to the small heap of precious belongings on the desk: her Academy class ring; her chronograph, an expensive, imported graduation present from her extended family; the four snapshots she'd shown off in the wardroom weeks ago; and a tightly folded five-lyra bill she'd set aside for emergency purchases.

She opened the desk drawer and took out a small foil packet. Many sailors believed that if you kept your "life" in a condom, your memory wouldn't drown with you. But since Abby had never been with a man and didn't care to be, the simple act of holding one embarrassed her to the point that she'd avoided them, even during the recent submarine screens. But now, heading into even more dangerous waters, it seemed like the most practical thing she owned.

Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she tore open the foil and pulled out the latex tube. It took her several frustrating minutes to work first the chronograph, then the ring, inside it. Then, after carefully folding them into the smallest squares she dared, her photos, Pop's letter, and the bank note joined the heavier items. She knotted the end tight to create a waterproof, airtight bulb, then stuffed it deep into a trouser pocket. It rested against her thigh like a lead weight, but as Abby patted the bulge, she hoped it might serve as a physical talisman against whatever the Sea of Palms had in store for her.

&@&

1443 Hours

The afternoon sun's merciless glare had turned the Sea of Palms into a sheet of hammered silver. In the pilothouse, propping the wing doors open had done little to ease the stifling heat.

Watch Section 3 was on duty that afternoon, so Alex and Abby were back in their usual roles: Alex had the conn, while Abby kept an eye on the bridge crew and the lookouts.

Alex looked every bit the perfect Navy officer, her khaki uniform as crisply pressed as always despite the humidity. She focused on the ships ahead of them in the formation, oblivious to Abby watching her with admiration.

Unusually, Lieutenant Commander Thorne had joined them. Since midwatch, there had been periodic reports of sonar returns, range indeterminate, that none of the successive duty sonar techs could positively identify. Even the sonar chief had admitted that at long distance, a large dolphin pod could easily have produced the same sonar return as an enemy submarine.

Nevertheless, the Captain had mumbled something about her instincts saying otherwise, and how it was a well-known Chaar tactic to stalk a ship formation from just out of sonar range. So she'd been a constant presence since 0600, stationing herself on the open bridge in front of the pilothouse rather than peering through the portholes.

Two thousand yards off Jocasta's starboard bow steamed "The Grand Lady": Task Force Papa-4's flagship, the aircraft carrier RLNS Paramount. The task force had been directed to escort the convoy transporting the 20th Regiment of Marines to reinforce Telavi, the largest of the Sikani Islands, where a vicious campaign had been raging since the beginning of Month VIII. A week and a half earlier, their DESDIV, together with the rest of Destroyer Squadron 9, had been attached to Task Force Papa-4.2, Paramount's screening force, commanded by Rear Admiral Sir Gideon MacLeod aboard the heavy cruiser RLNS Fingalmont.

The carrier was both impressive and intimidating. The lead ship in her class, home to a crew of more than 2,200, she was essentially a floating steel city that dwarfed the ships in her screen. Abby briefly raised her glasses to the carrier's flight deck, watching the crew scramble to ready aircraft for launch. Then she turned her attention back to the water between the ships, double-checking for any sign of a periscope the starboard lookout might have missed.

Rather than deal with the pilothouse heat, Abby decided to walk around across the open bridge to reach the port bridge wing. She stopped briefly at the front railing next to the Captain, returning her nod before taking another moment to scan the horizon.

"It's too quiet," she muttered.

"Silence can be a gift, Master Guilford," the Captain replied. "Don't wish it away." Her tone turned darker. "But yeah, you're not the only one to think that."

A split second later, the gift was revoked by a shout from the port lookout.

"Torpedo, torpedo! Port quarter! Three wakes! No, four!"

Thorne and Abby both scrambled to the port side of the open bridge.

"Where?" the Captain yelled back. Abby swung her glasses in the direction the woman was gesturing.

"There they are," she said, pointing toward the four white, frothing wakes in the distance, racing through the aquamarine water. There was no time to think. One torpedo was headed directly for Jocasta's port bow. The others raced toward Paramount.

The Captain hurried into the pilothouse with Abby hot on her heels. "I've got the conn! Sound general quarters! Sonar, status!"

"Captain has the conn," Alex dutifully echoed, exchanging worried glances with Abby as the shrill sound of the boatswain's pipe blasted through the "all hands."

"Sonar reports multiple torpedoes, bearing two-five-zero, range three thousand yards," the radar talker said.

"Right hard rudder, hard over! All ahead flank!" Jocasta groaned as the turbines shrieked to life. When the ship began her evasive maneuver, Thorne roared, "BRACE!"

The ship heeled over to starboard so violently that Abby had to grab the plotting table to keep from slamming into the ship's wheel. Her heart was pounding so hard that she thought it might burst through her chest.

Jocasta quickly leveled out, giving Abby the chance to hurry out to the port wing. She looked over the rail in time to see the gray-green cylinder of a Chaarish torpedo streak past the ship's port quarter with barely ten yards to spare.

Paramount wasn't so lucky. A heartbeat later, the carrier erupted as the other three torpedoes struck home.

BOOM-BOOM! BOOM!

A massive column of white water shot skyward, higher than the carrier's island, followed moments later by a huge orange fireball. The shock wave slammed into Jocasta, knocking everyone off balance and scattering charts across the deck.

"Right hard rudder to two-five-zero!" Thorne barked. "Maintain flank speed!"

Abby gaped at Paramount through a nearby porthole. A column of black smoke belched from her ruptured hull, rising miles into the air.

In the meantime, Thorne had already picked up the TBS handset to contact Admiral MacLeod aboard Fingalmont.

"Citadel, Gazelle. Citadel, Gazelle. I've successfully evaded one torpedo strike and am now in pursuit of the enemy sub." After several seconds, her shoulders slumped. "Citadel, Gazelle, wilco. Gazelle out."

Barely concealing her disappointment, Thorne turned to Alex. "We've been held back for possible recovery operations. Master Hawthorne, you have the conn. Keep us within about two thousand yards of the carrier. I need to coordinate with the division commodore." Then, to Abby: "Get to your battle station, but be ready to man the port motor launch."

&@&

1520 Hours

Abby only wound up cooling her heels in Repair Locker 2 for about half an hour when the "launch all boats" pipe call came over the loudspeaker. She and her sailors were on the move before the last notes died away.

Abby was proud of her launch team. They had a friendly rivalry going with Master Langley and 1st Division over whose boat was in the best trim. In her mind, there was no real competition.

Once the motor launch hit the water and the hooks were cast off, the boat's hierarchy took over. Abby's coxswain, Petty Officer Third Class Bianca Rossi, took the helm and served as Abby's de facto executive officer. A motor machinist's mate, one of Maeve's mechanics from her accessories section, crouched next to the engine compartment, ready to make repairs on the fly if needed. The rescue swimmers--three of the division's strongest sailors, women built for hauling heavy cable--sat ready to retrieve survivors. And a young boatswain's mate striker, Rossi's protégé, manned the bow and managed the equipment.

Burning aviation fuel covered the water in large, roiling patches. Thousands of Paramount sailors floated near their sinking ship, uniforms stained black with bunker oil.

"Bring her around parallel to the hull!" Abby commanded, her voice projecting over the sounds of Paramount's death song. "Get as close as possible!"

"The fire's drifting all crazy," Rossi shouted back. "We need to keep a safe distance!"

"Then give me what you can." Abby turned to the sailors seated forward and said, "Break out the crooks and ring buoys!"

With Rossi carefully maneuvering the launch at Abby's direction, they went from group to group, rescuing as many as they could.

"I can't get a hook on her!" one of the rescue swimmers yelled, the metal crook sliding off a survivor's oil-slicked life vest.

"You guys, help her!" Abby ordered, pointing at the uninjured survivors already on board. When they showed reluctance to move, she bellowed, "NOW!" They were careful not to hold back after that.

The launch had nearly reached its load limit when Abby spotted a pair of sailors trapped near a pocket of flaming oil, too exhausted to swim toward the ring buoys. She hesitated, but only for a moment, before deciding that she wasn't about to order her sailors into that burning slick if she wasn't willing to go herself.

"Hold position!" Abby shouted. She quickly shed her shoes, socks, and cap, tossing them into the bottom of the boat, then grabbed a rope and knotted it around her waist, beneath her life jacket.

"Rossi, you have the conn! I'm going in!" She pointed toward the biggest rescue swimmer. "You, follow me." To the other two, she added, "Hold our lifelines. Be ready to pull us back if we get in trouble."

Tapping the waterproof bundle in her pocket for good luck, Abby grabbed a ring buoy and dove in.

The water was a foul cocktail of salt and bunker oil. The life jacket kept her buoyant, but the oil made every stroke a struggle. She made it through the debris to one of the sailors. Little more than a boy, he was paralyzed with fear, eyes wide and white against his blackened face. She managed to get the ring around him, then fought her way through the oil, towing him back to the launch, where the boat crew hauled them in.

Over the next two hours, they picked up boatload after boatload. Abby always took the most dangerous swims herself, repeatedly entering the "killing zone" near the burning hull while secondary explosions sent shrapnel hissing into the water around her. She hauled survivors too weak to help themselves back to the launch, her muscles screaming, her vision clouded by smoke from burning diesel and aviation fuel.

She didn't even think about what she was doing, only that if these were her sailors, she wouldn't want to be the one to write to the women's families, informing them that they couldn't be saved because a rescue was too risky.

The rescue swimmers dove in alongside her to assist, their coordinated strength allowing them to pull the most heavily coated survivors into the boat. They used every tool: the shepherd's crooks to snag vests, the ring buoys for flotation, the lines to create a web of rescue.

On Abby's final trip, a muffled explosion from Paramount sent a hunk of steel splashing into the water near the launch as she was about to be pulled aboard after saving yet another sailor. Fortunately, the projectile didn't land among flaming fuel, but it did spawn a wave that slammed Abby against the side of the launch, the impact knocking her head against the gunwale and driving the wind out of her. She landed face down in the water, diaphragm spasming, vision tunneling. Then her hand brushed against the lump in her pocket.

Hell, no. Not today.

Somehow, she thrashed her way right-side up and was hauled aboard by several hands. She collapsed onto the deck, crusted with oil, her lungs heaving with the effort of every breath. The last thing she heard before the darkness pulled her under was Rossi's voice as she took over the conn.

&@&

1735 Hours

Jocasta rode low in the water, weighed down by the nearly two hundred Paramount survivors rescued by her two launches. Most crowded the passageways or loitered on the decks; the rest were being treated in the makeshift sick bay in the wardroom or at various other temporary aid stations set up around the ship. The air reeked of blood and burnt flesh.

Abby stood on the fantail, surrounded by groups of rescued sailors, not quite remembering how she got there. One moment she was being hauled aboard the motor launch, the next she was standing near the depth-charge racks, wearing her shoes, socks, and cap again.

She looked out over the Sea of Palms, witnessing Paramount's final moments. It had taken a long time for the battered carrier to admit defeat. Astraea had been ordered to scuttle her, but Paramount seemed to shrug off the effects of the three torpedoes DESDIV 17's flagship had put into her. Finally, as everyone watched, the Grand Lady slipped beneath the surface.

Abby felt a touch on her shoulder: Theodora.

The machine gun officer's khakis were a disaster of dark, wet bloodstains. Her hands, usually so perfectly manicured, were coated in the dried blood of the triage station.

"The XO asked me to find you." Theodora's tone, usually so haughty and biting, was instead uncharacteristically gentle. "Doc says you shouldn't be out here. You took a hard shot to the head, and you've got a bleeding gash in your eyebrow. You need medical treatment."

Through her brain fog, it sank in that Abby's head hurt and she was having trouble seeing out of her left eye. She was covered in oil and dried blood stains, though she couldn't tell if it was her own blood or someone else's.

Abby stared at Theodora's damaged uniform, struggling to reconcile the soothing words with her entitled Southmark snob she knew.

"Um, okay," Abby mumbled. She didn't move, her gaze drifting back to the mass of bubbles, now fading into the distance, that served as Paramount's watery headstone. Tears cut clean tracks through the grime on her face. "We were supposed to protect her."

"We couldn't have done any more for her than we did." Theodora gently took hold of Abby's upper arm and began guiding her forward. "Come on. Let's get you to Doc."

&@&

2121 Hours

Fortunately, Abby's eye irritation was caused by blood and not diesel fuel. "Doc," the chief pharmacist's mate, stitched her eyebrow. She had been more worried about a possible concussion, and Paramount's flight surgeon, whom Abby's launch crew had rescued early in the operation, had agreed. With Master Ashcroft's approval, Doc had ordered Abby to rest for the next twenty-four hours, confined to her stateroom because the ship's makeshift sick bay was full of sailors much worse off than her.

Before that, though, Abby had spent a good thirty minutes in the wardroom showers, scrubbing her hair and skin clean. Only after that did she change into a fresh set of underwear and retreat to her bunk.

Except she hadn't had much of an opportunity to relax yet.

Her first visitor was Evie, who put on a brave face, although Abby could tell she was distraught underneath. She'd insisted on Abby borrowing the bottom bunk so she could get in and out of bed easier.

Next came Harper Langley, who said a lot of really nice things about how brave Abby had been and how proud she was of her. Abby spent the entire visit wishing her boss would leave her alone, although she later regretted it, especially after learning how upset Chief Mercer had been over her injuries.

Then it was Maeve, who, although relieved that Abby was going to be fine, spent most of the time scolding her. "You knucklehead! Why'd you have to play hero? D'you know what would happen to Evie if you got yourself killed? And what about Alex?"

Abby noticed that even though Maeve tried to sound cheerful, the red in her eyes hinted that she'd been holding back tears. In that moment, Abby felt closer to her than ever.

Then it was one of the steward's mates, who delivered a "battle sandwich" and coffee at Ingrid's direction. At least she'd had the sense not to linger.

Finally, Master Ashcroft paid a visit. She told Abby not to worry about the watch bill and that Rosie had already volunteered to stand her watches. She'd also conveyed the Captain's gratitude, as well as Thorne's intention to recommend Abby for a decoration for her performance during the rescue.

Abby nodded along politely, but wasn't in the mood to make any sense of what the XO was telling her. Her mind was on the one visitor she'd been waiting for, the one who hadn't come to see her yet.

She lay on her back, staring at the bunk overhead, eyebrow stinging and head throbbing. She checked her chronograph, which she'd retrieved from its latex container along with her class ring. It was getting late. Was Alex still on watch? Or was she asleep next door?

Abby wanted to see her so very, very badly.

When the soft knock came, she nearly banged her head again, this time against the top bunk.

"Come."

Alex looked different from what Abby expected. Her eyes were rimmed with red; all signs of her usual reserve had vanished.

"Abby." The word crackled like dry parchment.

"Alex." Her emotions a jumble, Abby gazed up at her longed-for visitor, finally allowing herself to relax.

"I watched you through my binocs," Alex said. "Every time you went into the water, I couldn't breathe. And when that hunk of steel nearly hit you, I just stood there on the bridge, holding a clipboard, watching it fall."

Alex knelt by the bunk, her hand shaking as she caressed Abby's cheek.

"I've spent my Navy life putting the ship first. It's what I was raised to do. But when I thought you'd been... I almost couldn't maintain my bearing. I was so scared." Her fingers combed gently through Abby's blonde locks. "You stayed in that water for so long. I don't know how you did it."

Abby reached up, covering Alex's hand with her own. The older woman's fingers, finely boned, yet with the calluses of a sailor, were a mixture of soft and hard that Abby found captured her essence perfectly.

"I was only able to get through it because I knew who was waiting for me on the bridge," Abby replied softly. With her free hand, she moved to stroke Alex's cheek. "I knew that as long as you were here, Jocasta wasn't going anywhere."

Alex let out a long, shuddering breath, her thumb stroking Abby's jawline. Her touch was hesitant at first, then firm, pulling Abby a fraction closer.

"Don't ever do that to me again," she said, a faint, watery smile touching her lips.

Spontaneously, they both leaned forward until their foreheads touched. For a moment, the shared comfort drowned out the memory of Paramount burning.

&@&

Chapter Nine: The Saturday Game

Forward Naval Base Karaleti

19-IX-1131 | 1700 Hours

The day after Paramount sank, Jocasta dropped off her seriously wounded survivors at the forward hospital at Esandora, then headed for FNB Karaleti, two days to the south-southeast. She arrived at the busy transportation hub late in the morning of the 19th, and by noon, the last of Paramount's sailors had debarked.

Jocasta was now tied up next to the destroyer tender RLNS Hephaestus. On the passage to Karaleti, Gunnery had discovered a fault in the circuitry connecting the destroyer's fire control computer with the five-inch gun mounts. Master Bergstrom thought it was probably due to a manufacturing defect that had somehow gotten past the shakedown cruise. Gunnery hadn't been able to fix the fault at sea, so the destroyer squadron commander had ordered the ship to stay at Karaleti for depot-level repairs. The tender's fire control experts estimated it would take at least seventy-two hours to fix.

As the Captain usually did, she had promised the crew mass liberty if they could clear the outstanding minor maintenance issues and complete all scraping and painting within twenty-four hours. With the strong motivation of being cut loose on a tropical island, the crew beat this challenge by a full two hours. Now, with fifty hours remaining in the repair window, Abby and her inner circle had been granted the mercy of land.

The Karaleti Officers' Club beach was a smooth curve of white sand lined with leaning palms. The sound of waves washing over the reef in the distance provided the perfect soundtrack for a tropical paradise tailor-made for waterside relaxation.

Because the Navy hadn't included a swimsuit on the list of required uniform items for officers, the six friends had solved the problem with the pragmatic immodesty of sailors: they'd stripped down to their usual stateroom attire of regulation white cotton underwear, arranging their khakis in neat piles near the beach towels the Club had provided. Their loose boxers and functional sports bras were a far cry from the fashion of Lyria's exclusive Emerald Coast resorts, but as they sprawled on the sand, nobody cared.

In the middle of their group sat a metal bucket filled with ice and a dozen bottles of weak 3.2 percent beer, the only alcohol allowed during shore leave at an advanced base.

"Tastes like rusty rain," Fee grumbled, after taking a long swig. Her damp hair, usually tied back in a tight brunette bun, hung loose to her shoulders, still wet from a recent swim. "But it's alcohol, and it's reasonably cold. I would sell my soul to the Queen to have a case of this stuff stashed in the wardroom icebox."

"You can't sell your soul, Fee," Evie said with a grin. "The Black Gang already owns it. Maeve's, too."

To Abby's relief, the cathartic port call at Sunset Quay appeared to have lifted the shadow on Evie's spirit. She hadn't had a nightmare in over a month. Her usual playfulness had returned, and this time, Abby was convinced it was genuine rather than an act.

The group settled into a comfortable silence. They all had the "destroyer tan"--dark arms and faces, pale everywhere else.

Abby ran her fingers over the stitches on her eyebrow, wincing when they pulled slightly. Her headache was gone, at least, but her injuries seemed minor compared to the exhaustion that had built up over the past several weeks. This short break with close friends, doing absolutely nothing of consequence, was exactly what she needed.

Her idle mind wandered in a strange direction: did the other side ever have moments like these? She guessed the Zirigathians did; she'd heard from Pop, who'd faced them in the last war, that despite the flights of fancy of their maniacal emperor, their professional navy's culture was like any other. She imagined that somewhere on the other side of the world, Zirigathian sailors and their officers were frolicking on a beach very much like this one.

She wasn't sure about the Chaar, though. Tales had begun to filter back from the Marines on Telavi of the inhumane conditions Chaarish troops lived in. Their navy wasn't much better. According to one of Master Ashcroft's previous captains, who had spent a pre-war exchange tour in the Chaarish capital, their typical sailor--male, since Chaar doctrine decreed that women weren't fit for combat--was barely fed enough to stay alive, and spent so much time at sea that he'd be lucky if he got liberty once or twice a year. His entire focus was on fulfilling his duty. She figured there would be no beach visit in that man's near future.

As interesting as it was to speculate, Abby didn't intend to while away the afternoon doing it. That would only waste their precious liberty.

"Pop used to play this thing called the Saturday Game," Abby said, sitting up and brushing sand off her legs. "When you're stuck on a station, and you're sick of the sight of the ocean, you describe exactly what you'd be doing on a Saturday back home."

"Oh, I'm in," Rosie said. "Lyceum Theater, downtown. Drafty, smells like dust, but they use real butter on the popcorn. I'd buy the jumbo tub and a ginger ale, and I wouldn't leave until the ushers kicked me out. Newsreels, cartoons, the B-movie, Constable Cathy--"

This prompted a chuckle from Maeve. "Constable Cathy? You're kidding, right?"

"What's wrong with that?" Rosie sounded mildly offended. "I thought everybody loved her. I mean, she's Constable Cathy, the Crime-Fighting Concubine! What's not to like?"

The other five women burst into giggles. Rosie grumbled that they had no "culture."

"A whole afternoon in the dark? Count me out," Maeve said, still grinning as she tossed a bottle cap into the bucket. "I mean, I pretty much spend every watch in the dark as it is. Who'd want that during their off time? Fee digs me, right?"

"Solidly," the unusually sociable engineer said between sips of beer.

"Anyway, Navy junior here, so I don't really have a hometown to speak of," Maeve went on. "But near my grandma's house in Royal Crossing, it's Harvest Fair season, so I'd be at the fairgrounds, riding the Tilt-a-Whirl until I couldn't stand. I'd spend way too much on those stupid ring-toss and milk-jug games, and gorge myself on funnel cakes and corn dogs. Then I'd sit on the hood of my uncle's truck and flirt with all the pretty girls as they walk past."

Evie sat up in a huff. "Maeve! Honestly!"

Maeve flashed a sly, unrepentant grin and took a slow sip of her beer. "What? Can't a girl appreciate the scenery? If you don't like it, Ev, you could always come with me. That way, I wouldn't look at anyone else. As far as you'd be able to tell, anyway."

Evie rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. Abby noted the blush that her cousin didn't bother to hide.

"Well, I wouldn't be stuffing myself with cruddy fair food and getting my face slapped by annoyed women," Evie said. "I'd grab Abby and Alden and we'd all head to Peterson's Drug Store in downtown Port Westmark for an ice cream soda. They have those spinning chrome stools and that gorgeous marble counter. The three of us would sit there and argue about who was going to win the All-League Trophy. Then we'd walk to the pier and watch the boats until the sun went down and it was time for dinner. Civilian boats. Fishing trawlers and sailboats that don't carry depth charges or guns."

Fee snorted, though her expression was less sour than usual. "You guys are way too sentimental. I'd be in my garage, working on my '21 Garrison Zephyr, tuning the carburetor on that big flat eight. Then I'd take her out on Route 77 and see if I could break a hundred before the local sheriff caught me."

Abby turned to Alex, who appeared not to have been paying attention to the conversation. She sat with her knees pulled to her chest, gazing pensively out over the water. Like Fee, she'd let her hair loose, framing her face with the silky chestnut tresses Abby had been dying to run her fingers through. She radiated otherworldly beauty, as if she'd descended from heaven on starlight.

"What about you?" Abby asked her, trying to keep her voice from betraying her feelings.

Alex was silent for a moment before shifting her gaze from the turquoise horizon to Abby.

"It's boring compared to everyone else's. I'd go to the Academy gardens--the old ones, near the North Gate. Remember those stone benches? It's always cool under the willow trees, even in summer. I'd take a book with me, something that has absolutely nothing to do with the Navy. Maybe a historical novel or a poetry collection. I'd read until sundown, and then I'd walk back to the barracks, enjoying the silence. No gunfire or general quarters. Just the sound of my own footsteps."

Abby imagined Alex walking through those gardens, hair hanging to her shoulders, wearing a pretty sundress instead of a midshipman's uniform. That didn't strike her as the least bit boring, only peaceful.

"As expected from our resident philosopher," Evie said.

"Not me," Abby chimed in, leaning back on her elbows. "I'd be in Pop and Mama's backyard at Port Westmark. Pop would be getting salty at his old charcoal grill because the coals weren't lighting, and Alden would be trying to keep the dog out of the potato salad. Mama would be yelling at all of them to keep the racket down." She closed her eyes, the bittersweet image appearing in her mind, clearer than she wanted. "I wouldn't be Ensign Abigail Guilford. I'd just be Abby."

She half-expected Evie to protest about her not wanting to go to Peterson's, but her cousin only said, "I sure would like to see my family right now."

There was a chorus of agreement that Abby noticed Alex didn't take part in.

The group sat quietly, their shared daydreams lingering in the warm air. No one spoke as the sun dipped lower, stretching long shadows across the sand.

&@&

1645 Hours

Abby chose to head back to Jocasta a little early, leaving the others to finish the last of the beer. The salt air had cleared her head better than Doc's pills. She didn't want to leave her friends--especially Alex--but she felt grimy and wanted a quick shower before they continued their evening.

As she approached the gangway connecting Jocasta to Hephaestus, she saw what appeared to be the shore patrol detail standing next to the accommodation ladder: Theodora, accompanied by three petty officers she recognized as being from the Gunnery Department.

Theodora was smartly dressed in her long-sleeved khakis and a tie, and the petty officers were impeccably turned out in pristine service whites. All four wore canvas leggings, web belts, sidearms, and black armbands bearing the large white letters "SP" The petty officers were carrying wooden batons.

Abby slowed her pace. The tension between Theodora and her, an aftereffect of their earlier confrontation, had never really been resolved. She half-expected her adversary to complain about being stuck with SP detail while Abby lounged on the beach.

When Theodora noticed Abby's arrival, her expression flickered, not with the usual resentment, but with something else Abby couldn't quite identify. She said something to the petty officers, who quickly retreated several yards.

"Master Guilford," Theodora said with a nod. "I mean, um, Abby."

Her greeting lacked its usual bite, and when she spoke Abby's given name--for the first time, as far as Abby's memory served--it sounded as if she were lying about a particularly disgusting medicine tasting delicious.

"Theodora." Abby returned the nod. "Enjoying the view of the harbor?"

Theodora let out a dry laugh. She turned toward the edge of the pier, looking down at the oily water between the ships.

"I was at the secondary conn," she said abruptly.

This wasn't what Abby had expected. "Beg pardon?"

"During the rescue," Theodora said, still not looking at her. "My battle station's at the secondary steering station, next to the 1.1-inch mount. My girls were locked and loaded, and I was scanning through my binoculars in case the Chaar tried to finish us off with an air strike or something. But I got distracted by the view to the port beam of Paramount."

She finally turned to face Abby, frowning as she struggled with conflicting emotions.

"I watched you dive into that burning water over and over. I saw you save that last sailor when the secondary explosion almost swamped the motor launch. You were unstoppable."

Abby remained silent, her pulse picking up at the traumatic memory.

"When I was at Southmark, I bought into the story that Academy grads were just show ponies hiding behind fancy rings," Theodora said. "And I resented you and Evie because of your fathers. Because you didn't come from my world." She shook her head. "But watching you dive into that burning oil over and over... it hit home that a Southmark diploma means nothing when the deck's covered in blood. I misjudged you, Abby. I was a fool, and I apologize."

Abby stared at her, stunned. The vague memory of blood-stained Theodora helping her to an aid station suddenly clicked into sharp focus, replacing the image of the entitled socialite who had sabotaged the mess ledger. The last thing she'd expected from Theodora was an apology, but this one felt honest, so she decided to take it at face value.

"Thank you. That means a lot."

Theodora waved a hand dismissively, her usual defensive persona quickly returning. "Don't get all sentimental on me. It's not like we're going to start braiding each other's hair or anything. I still think you're too impulsive, and you still think I'm a snob."

"I do," Abby agreed with a faint smile. "But you may have a point about me, so we'll call it even."

"Good. Then we understand each other. Jocasta is too small for petty drama, especially after what we just went through. We need to keep things civil." Theodora extended a hand, a stiff, formal gesture. "Truce, Abby?"

Abby returned the firm handshake.

"Truce. Let's work together. It's the only way we'll get through this." She started to turn toward the accommodation ladder, then hesitated. "Thanks for coming to look for me the other day."

"I was under orders."

"They told me you volunteered."

"Okay, so I was a volunteer under orders," Theodora said, her cheeks flushing.

"Doesn't matter. You still did it. I needed help, and you helped me. After all I said, too."

After a long moment, Theodora said, "I did." Her eyes met Abby's. "Because I know you'd do the same thing for me without even thinking about it."

"I would. I guess it's how I'm made."

"Good thing for all of us." Theodora seemed suddenly flustered. "Sorry, but I've got to call an end to the schmaltz. My team and I need to get going on patrol." With a parting nod, she turned back to her petty officers.

Abby began the climb to the quarterdeck, mulling over their exchange. She and Theodora would likely never be more than mere shipmates, but she was grateful that they'd reached an understanding. It gave her one less thing to worry about.

&@&

1802 Hours

As twilight fell, the sleepy town outside the naval base transformed into a whirl of color and sound. Makeshift stalls lined the main thoroughfare, lit by flickering kerosene lamps and strings of glowing paper lanterns. The mingled scents of jasmine flowers and roasting pork filled the air.

Abby and her group, now back in fresh khakis, wandered through the throng. Rosie took the lead, her boundless curiosity drawing her toward a stall selling cheap "souvenirs" that were clearly salvaged brass fittings.

"Get a load of this!" Maeve said, holding up a hairy purple fruit. "The vendor says it's a 'star-of-the-palms.' He says it'll make you see the future."

"It'll probably make you see the inside of the head, instead," Evie said with a laugh.

Nevertheless, Maeve was determined to try it, so she bought one of the fruits anyway. When she took the first bite, her face instantly contorted into a mask of pure agony.

"Bwrrgh! Sour!" Her eyes began to water. "Oh, goddess, I think my soul just shriveled up!"

The group dissolved into laughter, the sound drawing curious looks from other service members on liberty.

They found a small plaza where a local band was playing a strange, upbeat fusion of island rhythms and big-band swing.

Rosie grabbed Alex by the arm.

"Come on, girl! Let's see if four years at the ol' Port Argent Finishing School taught you any rhythm!"

"Rosie, please--" Alex protested, but her face lit up with a rare grin.

Abby couldn't stop smiling as she watched Rosie spin Alex around in an energetic dance. Soon, Maeve grabbed Abby, Evie cornered the protesting Fee, and they were all dancing. They kept rotating partners, although when Abby was with Alex, she didn't want to switch to anyone else.

For the rest of the evening, Jocasta didn't exist, only their shared laughter and the warmth of the tropical night.

&@&

2350 Hours

The night market shrank to a soft glow in the distance as Abby and Alex strolled back to the pier. The others had already returned to the ship, but the two took the long way around the harbor shoreline, enjoying the cooler air of the late evening. Abby had been hoping for time alone with Alex, and to her delight, the feeling had been mutual.

They stopped at the end of the harbor wall to take in the view. There wasn't much to see under the dim light of a weak crescent moon other than the silhouettes of the ships at their moorings, dark against the silvery water.

Unable to hide behind the easy mood of earlier, the tension that had grown between them since their encounter in Abby's stateroom four days earlier took center stage.

Alex finally broke the awkward silence. "Well, back to work tomorrow. And the technicians say they'll be done by noon the day after that, and we'll be back on screen duty by first watch Monday night."

Abby's lower lip curled into a pout. "I'm not ready to go back yet."

Alex turned to face her. "I haven't been entirely honest with you about the rescue."

"You told me you were scared," Abby said.

"I was more than scared." Alex sounded unusually tentative. "When I was conning the ship, and I was supposed to be focused on station-keeping... I couldn't stop looking for your boat. I was prioritizing you over the ship. That's dangerous thinking for a bridge officer." She stepped closer, catching Abby's hand in a tight grip. "We have to be careful. If the Captain thinks this--whatever this 'thing' between us is--if it's interfering with the ship's safety..."

Abby's pulse began to pound again, but not from bad memories. She knew exactly what "this thing" was, although she hadn't been ready to put it into words. But after all the time they'd spent dancing around the obvious, Alex had finally gone there.

There was no point in hiding behind denial any longer.

Abby closed the space between them, interlocking her fingers with Alex's.

"I wasn't just swimming back to the launch," she said, her voice soft and gentle. "In my mind, I was swimming back to you."

Alex reached up, her fingers grazing Abby's cheek, lingering near the stitches over her eye.

"We have to maintain decorum in public. But in private, you're just Abby, and I'm just Alex."

"I'm not sure we've been all that good at 'maintaining decorum,' as you put it," Abby said with a slight chuckle. "We're pretty much joined at the hip whenever we're not on duty. It's been noticed."

"Fair enough. But it's not like we can help it, right?"

Abby looked up into Alex's eyes. "There's no way on earth I can resist you, my Lady Hawthorne."

"Please don't call me that. It puts too much distance between us."

"But it's not just a title. You are my lady... if you want to be."

With a wistful smile, Alex leaned in until their noses were almost touching. Was this the kiss that Abby had been waiting for? Eyes fluttering shut in anticipation, she waited for the soft touch of Alex's lips to her own...

... only for Alex to pull away at the last second.

"I think we'd better go," the older woman said, "before someone sees us and starts asking questions."

Abby could only nod. She didn't trust herself to talk. If she had, her first reaction would have been to insist that Alex kiss her anyway, and to hell with anyone who didn't like it. But her emotions were only going to get them both in trouble.

She'd just have to be patient.

They walked back to the ship together in silence, holding hands until they were in sight of the gangway. Reluctantly letting go, Abby followed Alex up the accommodation ladder, trading the escape of liberty for the reality of the fleet.

&@&

Chapter Ten: A Charmed Existence

Sea of Palms, southwest of Telavi

11-X-1131 | 2130 Hours

Jocasta steamed 1,000 yards off the rain-soaked southwest coast of Telavi, third in line in Task Force Papa-2 following the destroyers Astraea and Cybele, her DESDIV 17 sisters. To her aft was the cruiser Wellstone, the task force's flagship. The cruisers Northall and Silverton followed, with Persephone, the fourth DESDIV 17 destroyer, and Selene, on loan from DESDIV 18, bringing up the rear.

For the past three weeks, Jocasta and the rest of DESDIV 17 had been stuck in the exhausting routine of anti-submarine patrols, chasing false signals that turned out to be temperature inversions or large schools of fish. The crew had been gradually worn down by a lack of sleep and the kind of boredom only sailors know.

Then, a few days ago, they'd been relieved from patrol duty and attached to Papa-2. At first, this had provided a welcome break from the tedium, but when the crew had been fully informed of Papa-2's objective, cold anxiety had begun to settle in.

Intelligence reports indicated that the Chaar were planning to send ships to mount a surprise attack on the Telavi airfield, as a diversion for the troop ships they intended to send in twelve hours later. Their formation was supposed to arrive off Cape Imedi, the northern tip of the island, at around midnight. Papa-2, with Admiral MacLeod in command, had been ordered to intercept them and drive them off.

The task force wasn't following the direct route up "the Main Line" along Voghala Sound. Two earlier task forces had tried that back in Month VIII, and it had ended badly for both. Instead, Sir Gideon had taken the more cautious approach of steaming along a parallel course on the other side of the island, intending to round its northwest end and intercept the Chaar from a direction they wouldn't expect. They had spent most of the afternoon and evening hugging the Telavi coast, using the tall, jungle-covered cliffs to muffle their radar signature.

The ship had been at general quarters for hours. On the bridge, only the dim red night lights illuminated the crew's faces, the relative darkness bathing them in strange shadows. The engines seemed to vibrate through the deck and into Abby's bones as they propelled Jocasta toward a destiny that felt increasingly inevitable.

She stood at the plotting table, wearing a sound-activated headset connected to the radar plot. The table was covered in grease pencil marks showing the ship's progress along the course Alex had set. To her left, the green phosphor glow of the search radar repeater cast a light over her hands. Across the table, the chief quartermaster stood with the deck log open in front of her.

It was a significant departure from Abby's usual battle station. Following her performance during the Paramount rescue operation, the Captain made a tactical decision that had raised eyebrows in the wardroom.

"I need eyes that don't blink on the bridge," Thorne had told her. "Chief Mercer can handle Repair Two. You're with me."

Abby glanced through the propped-open starboard hatch. The volcanic silhouette of Telavi loomed over them. Somewhere out there in the dense jungle, Major General Archibald Hawthorne Jr., Viscount Hawthorne--Alex's father--was leading the 3rd Division of Marines in a brutal, bloody defense of the island's airfield. Behind them, on Wellstone's bridge, Captain Desmond O'Connor, Maeve's father, would surely be at the conn.

Abby stole another of many glances at Alex, who stood in front of the helm to Thorne's right. The object of her affection stood as erect and composed as ever, giving no sign of anxiety over heading to war, as if channeling the legendary command presence of her illustrious great-grandmother. General Hawthorne certainly had no idea that his daughter's ship was in the convoy sailing northwest to protect him and his Marines. Abby wondered what he'd say if he knew.

Frustrated, she gripped her grease pencil so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Far away, certain flag officers sitting safe and secure at Admiralty Headquarters in Royal Crossing were likely waiting--maybe even hoping--for this crew of women to fail in the face of real gunfire. She knew, as they all did, that failure wasn't an option, especially after their sinking of the Chaarish submarine had been dismissed in some quarters as "beginner's luck."

Tonight, they needed to silence the doubters.

The Captain stood peering through a porthole, her binoculars nearly touching the glass. She spoke with the precision of a veteran for whom every breath on the bridge was a resource. "Master Guilford, status."

Abby relayed the request to the radar plot. The response came from Evie, which Abby found comforting amid the uncertainty of impending battle.

"Holding station five hundred yards aft of Cybele. Radar is picking up sea returns from rain squalls to the south, but the line is clear. Sonar scans to port show irregular returns, distance undetermined; appears to be noise."

Abby relayed this information to the Captain, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest.

"Very well. Helm, steady as you go," Thorne said. "Sonar, continue sweeping to port."

"Steady as I go, aye," repeated the helm as Abby relayed the Captain's instructions to Evie.

"The Chaar think they own the Sound at night," Thorne said, more to herself than anyone else. "But if we surprise them, we just might have a shot." She turned to the duty messenger. "Go to the wardroom and the crew galley. Tell the stewards to get battle sandwiches and coffee up here. I want us all fed and awake when the shooting starts."

&@&

Voghala Sound

15 nm north of Cape Imedi

2330 Hours

Evie's transmission crackled through Abby's headset. "Radar reports three large pips and four small pips, bearing two-two-five, range eighteen thousand yards, speed twenty knots."

Abby immediately relayed the information, shattering the tense silence in the pilothouse. Then, she spun to the plotting table, her pencil flying as she translated the raw coordinates Evie was feeding her.

The Captain joined her at the radar repeater, her eyes narrowing as the two watched the glowing green blotches crawl across the screen.

"Yep, that's them, all right. Headed straight for the Cape, just as I figured. Probably hoping they can sneak down the northeast coast in the dark and take the Marines at the airfield by surprise. They don't know we're sitting in their shadow."

Unfortunately, the tactical advantage was about to be challenged by the fog of war. On Wellstone's bridge, a signal lamp flashed quickly, sending bursts of white light into the darkness.

"Signal from Wellstone," the signaler of the watch called out, her eyes glued to the flagship. "Message reads: 'Turn one-eight-zero. Repeat, turn one-eight-zero.'"

"Respond with 'acknowledged', " Thorne said.

"Is he really ordering a reciprocal course?" Alex asked with a mixture of alarm and disbelief. "If we try to turn the whole column one hundred eighty degrees, the formation's going to fall apart."

"Left full rudder, all ahead flank," Thorne ordered. Then, to the Gunnery talker: "Train all guns to starboard."

As Jocasta started her turn, the main problem with the maneuver--which naval historians would debate for decades--quickly became obvious: the three destroyers at the head of the line were caught outside the turning cruisers. To get back to the front, they had to speed up and loop around the bigger ships. It was a risky move in crowded waters.

"Captain, Astraea and Cybele are practically rail to rail with the cruisers," Alex said calmly, her eyes glued to her binoculars. "If we open fire now, we'll hit our own destroyers."

The external TBS speaker erupted in a cacophony of panicked voices, the audio quality degraded by the heavy humidity: Astraea trying to tell Wellstone she was stuck between the lines; Northall requesting permission to open fire; and the Admiral aboard Wellstone sending a garbled message that might have been either "open fire" or "hold your fire."

"Gunnery, tell the main battery to hold," the Captain said. "Do not, repeat, do not engage until I'm convinced that Astraea and Cybele are clear. I will not have us sinking our own ships because Task Force can't maintain the formation."

&@&

2343 Hours

After long minutes had dragged by, the night suddenly erupted in the thunder and lightning of battle.

Apparently, Northall's captain assumed that Admiral MacLeod had given the command to open fire, so she ordered her gunners to do exactly that. Most of the rest of the formation quickly followed suit, including Wellstone. The six eight-inch guns of the flagship's forward turrets unleashed a volley that turned Voghala Sound into a strobe-lit nightmare.

The Chaarish task force was caught completely off guard, their own guns still trained fore-and-aft. Despite the confusion, Sir Gideon had somehow managed to successfully "cross the T" of the enemy, and the first salvos were devastating.

An enemy destroyer loomed in the darkness off Jocasta's starboard beam. Shells splashed around her as she attempted to evade. She was concentrating her fire on Wellstone, appearing not to have noticed them.

"Target that destroyer!" Thorne ordered through the gunnery talker, her voice cutting through the din. "Director control! Fire as they bear!"

Jocasta's five-inchers fired in perfect rhythm. Thanks to the Karaleti repairs, the fire control proved deadly accurate. Abby watched through the open starboard door as Jocasta's shells hit the hull and gun mounts of the Chaar destroyer.

The repeated hits set the enemy ship on fire. Then, one final volley from Jocasta hit her forward magazine, sending a column of white-hot flame hundreds of feet into the air that bathed the surroundings with a harsh glare. The stench of burning cordite filled the air as smoke from the explosion rolled across the Sound to mingle with the remnants from Jocasta's own guns.

"Target neutralized. Looks like she's breaking up," Alex reported with icy calm. "Recommend we shift fire to the lead cruiser off our starboard bow."

"Hawthorne, starboard wing, now!" Thorne commanded. "I need a clear visual on Astraea and Cybele before we rake that cruiser!"

Abby watched anxiously as Alex sprinted into the pandemonium of the bridge wing, her heart hammering so hard she could practically feel it in her throat. The air pressure in the pilothouse spiked with each blast of Wellstone's guns. She held her breath until Alex came scrambling safely back through the doorway.

"Astraea is clear off our port bow; she's pulling away to the south," Alex said. "I saw flames but couldn't tell how much damage she took. Cybele looks to be dead in the water off our starboard beam. We've got a clear line of sight."

"Left standard rudder," Thorne said. "Maintain flank speed." Then, through the gunnery talker, she added, "Main battery, target the superstructure of that lead cruiser; maintain director control. Torpedo, ready a full pattern, local control; launch all five fish when able."

Jocasta's guns fired continuously at the Chaar ship, the shells hitting with deadly accuracy. With a sequence of five hisses, a full salvo of torpedoes hit the water. At least one struck home; the resulting explosion lit up the doomed cruiser's entire port side.

While the other Lyrian ships struggled with the confusion of the turn, Jocasta had stayed on target. Abby breathed a sigh of relief.

&@&

0015 Hours

The battle turned into a series of violent duels in the dark. Jocasta charged through the center of the Chaar formation, her turbines roaring as she cut through the darkness at thirty-five knots. Abby had to hold on for dear life to keep from falling as the ship maneuvered first in one direction, then another. Between the cacophony of battle and the steady flow of information from Evie, it was all she could do to keep the Captain updated.

Lieutenant Commander Thorne's commands echoed through the pilothouse. "Right hard rudder, hard over!"

Abby clung to the plotting table as Jocasta heeled to the right. A salvo of shells from a Chaar cruiser straddled the ship, landing first on her starboard side, then to her port. Two massive geysers of water erupted alongside the bridge, drenching the wings and rattling the hull. Thankfully, the rounds failed to find steel.

Abby watched through the port pilothouse door as a Chaar destroyer, different from the one they'd sunk earlier, drifted past them two hundred or so yards away, listing heavily, fire belching from shell holes in her deck and hull, smoke rising from what was left of her main gun mounts. The Chaarish crew were scrambling to fight the fires, their faces orange masks of terror in the firelight.

For a split second, Abby spotted a Chaarish officer on the enemy destroyer's bridge, silhouetted against the flames. Then the ship drifted out of view, leaving her with the cold realization that she had just watched an entire crew heading to their likely deaths.

"Left standard rudder," Thorne ordered, drawing Abby's attention back to the pilothouse. "All ahead full. Main battery, return fire on that cruiser off the starboard bow. Don't let her get a fix on us. Machine guns, get your 20s on that destroyer to port."

Jocasta remained untouched, even as Wellstone and Northall took hits, both sides fired on Astraea, and Cybele burned. It seemed like luck was on her side as she steamed through the thick of battle, shells splashing around her but never finding a target.

"We're hitting her, Skipper," the gunnery talker reported with barely suppressed excitement. "Target cruiser is slowing. Fire visible on her bridge structure. Direct hits on her secondary battery."

"Tell our main battery to keep the pressure on," Thorne said. "Don't give them a chance to find our range. Walk the shells up her spine."

Jocasta's guns fired over and over in a deadly staccato. Thanks to the fire control computer, the shells found their mark on the enemy cruiser's main battery and fantail. Abby watched as the ship went dark, dead in the water.

As the battle finally petered out at 0100 hours, the ringing in Abby's ears began to fade. In the dark distance, what was left of the Chaar task force was beating a hasty retreat to the north. Abby leaned heavily against the plotting table, her sweat-soaked uniform clinging to her skin. She wiped her face with a trembling hand.

They were still alive. The crew had passed another test.

&@&

Straits of Kerakli

12-X-1131 | 0621 Hours

The task force left the wounded stragglers of the Chaar flotilla for the Telavi-based Marine aircraft to finish off and moved down Voghala Sound toward the Sea of Palms. The morning sky's pink and gold colors reflected off the calm water, creating an illusion of tropical serenity, as if the battle had never happened.

As if the Sound hadn't just claimed hundreds of lives.

Through her binoculars, Abby took in the actual cost of the victory at Cape Imedi.

Among the destroyers, Astraea, barely keeping pace off Jocasta's starboard quarter, was in the worst shape. Her superstructure had taken significant damage from both Lyrian and Chaar shells, and she was listing slightly to port, trailing oil as her crew worked hard to patch the holes in her hull. She could barely make fifteen knots. Fortunately, Persephone and Selene, like Jocasta, had made it through unscathed, although the battle had mostly ended by the time they were able to join it. They had been ordered to stay behind and wait for dawn to rescue survivors from Cybele, then torpedo what was left of her.

Silverton was the only cruiser to come through with no significant damage or casualties. Wellstone had taken several five-inch hits, but Abby had overheard that her casualties were minimal. Northall, not so fortunate, struggled along aft of the flagship, slowed by a torpedo hit to her starboard bow. As the task force's ships had changed positions, Abby had caught a glimpse of the shrouded bodies of Northall's dead laid out on her fantail, awaiting burial at sea.

There were far too many.

The announcement went out over the "all-hands" loudspeaker: "Now hear this! Now hear this! Secure from general quarters."

As soon as she'd been relieved, Abby fled the pilothouse, her body a combination of adrenaline high and hollow exhaustion. As tempted as she was to retreat to her stateroom to clean up, she instead headed down to the main deck to check on the women of 2nd Division. She found them mostly in good spirits, although Petty Officer Rodriguez admitted that their elation at the ship's performance the previous night was tempered by exhaustion.

Abby also sought out Chief Mercer, who commented that she'd had no problems with the repair team and that they appeared to be well-drilled. The rare praise from the crusty chief boatswain's mate put a noticeable spring in Abby's otherwise tired step.

On her way back to the superstructure, she glanced up at the starboard bridge wing and saw Alex standing at the railing. Abby suddenly felt guilty for running off without so much as a word to her.

She found Alex staring over the water at the silhouette of Telavi as it rolled past. Her eyes were baggy from fatigue and the strain of thirteen hours at general quarters, and she seemed paler than usual.

"Sorry for disappearing on you like that," Abby said, joining her at the railing. "Forgive me?"

Alex didn't look at her, but she reached out to brush her fingers over Abby's in a clandestine touch that carried more weight than any words could.

"That's a very nice way to forgive someone," Abby said. "Any more where that came from?" Alex didn't respond. Clearly, she wasn't in the mood to flirt. Best to change the subject. "So... we all made it through in one piece, huh?"

Alex surveyed the undamaged deck, then turned her gaze to the battered Astraea a few hundred yards away.

"I can't believe we didn't get hit at all," she said. "Chaar gunners are too well trained for that to be luck. Feels strange, doesn't it? To come through untouched when everyone else gets hit so hard? Something had to be protecting us."

Abby couldn't come up with a suitable answer, so she decided to deflect the question. "Your dad and his Marines, I guess we gave them a break, huh?"

"My father is still in that muddy hell-hole," Alex said. "But at least he isn't under heavy Chaar gunfire today. We bought him some time, even if it's only for one day." She turned to Abby, letting her guard down for a moment. "We made it, but look at the rest of the task force. I'm not sure if I should feel proud or worried that we were the lucky ship. Luck doesn't last forever in war. How much did we use up last night?"

Abby squeezed Alex's hand in a silent acknowledgment of their Karaleti promise.

" We stayed clean today because we were ready," Abby said, her tone firm and even. "That's not luck, that's us.

They stood together as Jocasta led the bloodied task force past the southeastern end of Telavi, bound for the relative safety of Esandora. The Battle of Cape Imedi was over, but as she studied Astraea's battered hull, Abby sensed that the Sound wasn't done with them yet.

&@&

Chapter Eleven: Shared Blankets

Sea of Palms

50 nm east-northeast of the Sikani Islands

4-XI-1131 | 1405 Hours

Abby sat alone in the wardroom, staring down at a small mountain of 2nd Division requisition forms. In a flash of memory, she suddenly recalled a nearly identical experience from three months ago, when she'd been buried in stacks of receipts and requisitions, staring at a mess ledger that wouldn't reconcile. This time, however, the ledger wasn't the source of her misery. She'd long since relinquished her mess treasurer duties to Hazel Prescott.

For two hours, she'd been lost in the administrivia that kept the ship running. It was mind-numbing work. Currently, she was trying to reconcile a report about salt-damaged mooring lines with requests for new ropes and steel shackles. It was the same thing over and over: verifying inventory by part number and estimating how much life was left in every coil of rope in the aft lockers.

Five hundred feet of three-inch manila rope. Four dozen galvanized shackles. If Chief Mercer was right about the fraying on the secondary towing line, they were two hundred feet short of being able to assist Persephone if she developed engine problems again.

She rubbed her forehead in frustration. How was she supposed to care about different sizes of rope coils under the ever-present threat of a torpedo strike?

After the engagement at Cape Imedi, Jocasta had been sent right back out on anti-submarine patrol. Until new destroyers arrived to replace Astraea and Cybele, she and Persephone had been temporarily attached to DESDIV 18 with Selene and her three sisters.

Jocasta was back to being just another link in the defensive chain. Cape Imedi might as well have happened ages ago--a fading nightmare of fire and thunder replaced by the endless grind of zigzagging in formation.

The crew acted differently now. They walked with a new swagger, proud to have survived Cape Imedi without a scratch, but under that pride was a quiet worry. Everyone knew their luck could run out at any moment.

Abby's disquiet was more personal. Her and Alex's mutual attraction had grown to painful proportions. It was an itch she couldn't scratch, a conversation they never quite finished. Every time they crossed paths, the glances they exchanged had grown more and more heated. Abby had become irritable and restless; she had to fight hard to keep her frustration from spilling over onto those around her.

The wardroom door's blackout curtain rustled as someone came in from the outer passageway. Abby, absorbed in her task, didn't look up, but when the newcomer called through the pantry door for the duty steward, the voice sent a shiver down her spine.

Swallowing hard, she kept her eyes on the forms. Her pencil hovered over a part number that she suddenly couldn't make sense of. The splash of coffee filling a mug sounded loud enough for the whole ship to hear.

It took seemingly forever for the steward to fix Alex's coffee the way she liked it. The entire time, Abby could feel Alex's gaze on her, almost like a physical touch.

"Problems, Master Guilford?" Alex asked after the steward had retreated to the pantry. Her voice was like velvet, so sexy that Abby thought she might faint.

"Paperwork is paperwork," Abby said, her voice cracking slightly. "I've been staring at part numbers for towing lines for so long that they're starting to look like Zirigathian runes. I think the supply officer at Esandora ignored our last three requests for a replacement tow line."

Alex came around the table, but instead of sitting, she stood behind Abby's chair, so close that Abby had to fight off the instinct to lean back into her.

"Perhaps I can help," Alex murmured. She leaned down as if to scan the papers, but instead, her fingers gently brushed the nape of Abby's neck, pushing aside the short blonde hair that hung above her collar. The soft contact was anything but professional, but Abby was well past the point of resisting.

The touch shattered her last bit of self-control. Her pencil fell to the table, forgotten. She turned in her chair and stared up at Alex, whose usual calm demeanor had deserted her. Her normally brilliant eyes had grown dark with the same longing Abby had been trying to control for weeks.

Abby couldn't take it anymore. She grabbed Alex's shirt and pulled her down until their lips met.

The kiss, tasting of coffee with sugar, finally broke the more than three months of unbearable tension that had built between them. Abby tightened her grip on Alex's shirt, pulling her deeper as the wardroom faded into the background.

It was the best kiss Abby had ever had, hands down. She didn't want to stop, refused to pull away, as if by force of will she could prolong the moment indefinitely. Then a loud clatter came from the pantry, and they instinctively sprang apart so fast that Abby almost fell out of her chair. The two women stared at each other, red-faced and panting, unresolved desire hanging in the air between them.

After a moment, Alex smoothed out her shirt where Abby had grabbed it. "You should, um, probably talk to Master Jensen about that missing line," she managed to force out, then fled the wardroom, leaving her coffee behind. Abby gazed after her, wanting her to come back but unable to collect her wits enough to call out.

There had been no doubt this would happen; it was only a question of when. But now that it had, there would be no turning back, at least as far as Abby was concerned.

&@&

An hour later, Abby left the wardroom, her mind still spinning from the kiss. She couldn't get any meaningful work done afterward. All she could think of was the next one, and how badly she wanted it.

She needed something to do, some physical activity to cure her restlessness, so she decided to double-check Petty Officer Rodriguez's inventory of the aft boatswain's locker. It needed to be done, anyway. No time like the present.

The dim compartment was tucked away at the stern end of the first platform, sandwiched between the main deck above and the steering spaces below. Gears rumbled under her feet, and the smells of hemp and oil filled the air, as she walked to the rear of the storage space, where a heavy canvas divider hung over a bin. She pulled back the curtain, expecting to find stacked coils of rope.

She found rope, all right, but she also found Evie and Maeve.

The two women locked in an intense sexual encounter, bodies pressed together on a pile of canvas tarpaulins. Evie's fingers were tangled in Maeve's auburn shag, her head thrown back in silent pleasure, while Maeve's hand, buried in Evie's loosened trousers, rocked back and forth in a steady rhythm.

For several excruciating seconds, Abby couldn't move, unable to do anything but gape at them. She grew up in Navy junior culture where, in public, "the girls" were just "the girls"--best friends or battle buddies--and anything deeper was kept private. While far from a prude--she'd lost her virginity young and had plenty of experience--witnessing others in the act was a different proposition altogether. And this was Evie, her cousin. She didn't need to see this, yet couldn't manage to move her feet.

It didn't take long for Evie to arch her back and let out a long moan. The sound finally knocked Abby out of her stasis. Tearing her eyes away from the couple, she practically fell over herself scrambling out of the locker, rushing toward the nearest ladder well, her footsteps echoing along the passageway as she ran.

She'd almost made it when Evie caught up with her.

"Abby! Abby, wait!"

Screeching to a stop, Abby turned toward her cousin, face blazing with embarrassment and anger. Evie stood there wide-eyed, uniform askew and hair messy, staring back at her.

"Don't," Abby said, holding up a hand. "Just... don't. I was just doing my job. I didn't mean to--"

"I know you didn't," Evie said, her voice trembling. "But Abby, please. You can't tell anyone. You know how the Skipper is!"

"I'm not going to tell anyone," Abby said, her voice rising. "What kind of person do you think I am? But Evie, how long has this been going on? Rosie's been gossiping about you two 'sharing the blanket' for all this time, and you let me sit there like a sap, listening to her go on and on while you and Maeve were..."

Evie's lips bowed into a sad smile. "Since sea trials. Not long after the ship first left the ways at Redmaid Landing. We didn't plan it. It just happened. We were both hurting and realized we couldn't do this without each other."

"Since sea trials?" Abby said, a stab of resentment cutting through the shock. "I've been pouring my heart out to you about Alex for weeks and weeks! You just sat there and let me think I was the only one going crazy!"

"I was trying to protect you!" Evie pleaded, stepping into Abby's space. "If you didn't know, you couldn't be forced to lie for us."

"I feel like you don't trust me," Abby said, her voice catching.

Rather than argue, Evie simply pulled Abby into a tight hug, an older sister comforting a restless sibling. Abby resisted at first, then returned the embrace, her anger fading into the fatigue that weighed them both down.

"I trust you with my life, Abs," Evie murmured into her shoulder. "I didn't want to burden you with my heart, too. Please, I want you to understand. I was so lonely after the Quay. I'd never even met Maeve at the Academy, but when we crossed paths at the shipyard, we clicked. Can't you just be happy for me? Please?"

Abby pulled out of the hug and began adjusting the buttons on Evie's shirt. "I am happy for both of you. I really like Maeve. But you need to be more careful, okay? Not many people on this ship would have a problem with two women together, per se, but sex aboard a warship on station, especially when it's two officers..."

"Exactly," Evie said, clasping her hands in supplication. "Please, you have to help us keep this quiet."

"I will," Abby said, "but you need to promise me you'll be careful. If you want to use the stateroom, I'm fine with it. I'll even stand guard. But please, just tell me so I can help. And no more hiding in equipment lockers, okay?"

"Okay," Evie said, her relief palpable.

"Now with all due respect, I suggest you go back to Maeve and get yourselves squared away before someone else wanders down there."

&@&

2005 Hours

That evening, the Sea of Palms was unusually calm. The rising full moon hung above the ship, a perfect silver disc. Abby and Alex took a walk on the port quarterdeck, ostensibly to discuss maintaining the support column of the compass on the aft steering station, but in reality to enjoy some time together in the fine evening weather.

"You're quiet tonight," Alex said.

"I went to the aft boatswain's locker to check inventory today."

"And...?"

"I walked in on Evie and Maeve. In the act."

Alex didn't appear to be the least bit surprised. "I see. I imagine that was quite the shock."

"They've been together since the start of sea trials," Abby said. "Evie admitted it. She let me pour my heart out about you for the past three months without saying a word about her and Maeve. Can you believe that? I'm such a chump."

"She was protecting her sanctuary," Alex said, her voice softening. She reached out, her hand hovering near Abby's. "Don't be angry with me, but I've known from the beginning, too. Maeve isn't as discreet as she thinks she is."

Abby kicked at a nearby stanchion. "Great. Everyone knew but me."

"It wasn't a case of not knowing. You were too focused on other things to see the signs, even though some of them were painfully obvious. For instance, I was surprised that you didn't catch on during that game on the beach. You remember, when Maeve talked about only looking at Evie?"

Abby's jaw dropped. "I can't believe I missed that!"

"And another thing: didn't you find it at least a little strange that after all that complaining about this being an all-female ship, Rosie and Fee suddenly weren't interested in chasing men at the O' Club bar?"

"Then the scuttlebutt about Rosie and Fee isn't just talk," Abby said, slapping her forehead.

"Rosie and Fee are just blowing off steam. It's different for Evie and Maeve. It goes deeper for them, far deeper than you probably realize."

Abby gazed up at Alex. "And us? Are we 'blowing off steam,' or...?"

Alex turned to face her, looking somber. "I see what it's doing to Evie and Maeve. They're terrified of losing one another. If one of them falls, the other will break. I didn't want that for you, so I tried to stay away. But because you're who you are, there was no way I could. And here we are."

Abby took Alex's hand. "Yeah, here we are, with me wanting to kiss you so badly and not being able to. That's almost as bad as before!"

"We'll figure something out. Maybe you could drop by for a while before midwatch. That might work if we're careful."

That sounded excellent to Abby. Now, all she had to do was keep her excitement from giving her away.

&@&

2311 Hours

The door to Stateroom 7 opened quickly in response to Abby's knock. Alex was alone, but instead of the usual late-night underwear "uniform," she was wearing a full set of tropical khakis. She still had her hair down, though, which Abby definitely appreciated. She thought it showed Alex's hidden untamed side.

"How come it took you so long?" the older officer whispered, looking annoyed. "We've only got another half an hour until watch turnover."

"Sorry. I had an issue on the deck I had to take care of," Abby whispered back. She held out a small, slightly squished lemon drop. Raising her voice to a normal level, in case someone might be listening, she added, "Here's a leftover from my candy ration. I thought you might want it for the midwatch. You know, since your throat's been a little scratchy today. I came early because I wanted to make sure you had time to enjoy it."

Confused, Alex stared at the candy, then at Abby. Then, her lips curved slowly into a smile. "Really? That's the excuse you came up with for a visit? You could have just shown up without the candy."

"Master O'Connor reminded me that I can't just barge into a superior officer's stateroom," Abby said with a smirk. "She said I needed a reason." She lowered her voice back to a near-whisper. "Now, with all due respect, ma'am, time's running short. Are you going to invite me in, or what?"

Alex leaned out into the corridor to make sure there was no one else in sight. Then, without another word, she grabbed Abby by the sleeve and yanked her through the doorway, dogging it shut with a heavy clack.

As soon as the door closed, Abby practically jumped into Alex's arms, molding her body to her lover's, kissing her again and again. This was what she'd longed for since the wardroom kiss that afternoon. She needed to feel Alex's warmth, to let the passion flow between them.

Alex backed Abby hard against the heavy steel of the dresser, her eyes burning with an intensity that practically melted Abby's insides. She fumbled with the buttons on Abby's uniform shirt, struggling to undo them in her desperation. After a moment, Abby followed suit, aching to explore the softness underneath Alex's starched cotton twill.

Shirts came open. Bras were shoved aside. Hands caressed soft skin, palmed firm breasts, tweaked hardening nipples. Lips crashed together.

Abby thought she might lose her mind.

Too soon, Alex reached for Abby's belt buckle, and for a fraction of a second, the besotted ensign thought they might have gone too far, too fast. That they might get caught. If that happened, would she have had higher moral ground than her cousin, whose desire for her lover had led her to sex in a storage locker?

But then a particular slide of Alex's tongue swept away rational thought.

She tore her lips from Alex's. "You... too..." was all she could manage, before clawing at the front of her lover's trousers, desperate to get them open. When she finally did, she let out a sigh as her hand slid over the defined lower abs, through the sparse bush, between the soft folds, to discover that Alex was wetter than wet. The sensation, evidence of being so badly wanted, drove Abby to the brink of release.

There was no time for gentleness or hesitation. They clung to one another, breast to breast, lips to lips, skin flushed and damp in the stifling stateroom heat. Her consciousness growing foggy around the edges, Abby buried her face in the crook of Alex's neck, muffling her whimpers as they stroked each other.

Under normal circumstances, Abby would have wanted them to move much slower and take the time to enjoy each other's bodies. But they'd be able to do that later. For tonight, not only were they pressed for time, but they'd both been waiting for so long that neither had any patience left.

"Alex!" Abby whined.

Alex answered with a choked-off sob, clinging tightly to Abby as their climaxes hit at nearly the same time. Abby's release ripped through her, fed by the sensation of Alex shuddering in her arms.

Fighting to catch her breath, Abby slowly sank to her knees. Alex followed her down, and the two lovers, their uniforms hanging open, wound up cuddling on the deck, their backs against the dresser. Abby snuggled comfortably against Alex, running her fingers over the older officer's stomach. It was a bit warm in the stateroom for such close contact, but she couldn't bear to be any farther away.

"I've got so much I want to say to you," she murmured into Alex's ear, "but I can't find the words right now."

Alex tightened her embrace, her fingers stroking Abby's hair. "It's okay, darling. Take your time. Heaven knows we've got plenty of that."

"I was so angry at Evie," Abby said. "It was like she was rubbing her happiness in my face."

Alex tightened her embrace, her fingers stroking Abby's damp hair. "We're all just doing what we have to do to survive."

Abby let out a groan of frustration. "Oh, goddess, this wasn't nearly enough. It was all so fast. I still want you so much."

"And I want you, too," Alex said, caressing Abby's back. "I think I've wanted to be with you since the day we met. Believe me, I want to take you to my bunk and make sweet love to you all night, but it's too dangerous. We were taking enough of a risk with what we just did."

Abby planted a gentle kiss on Alex's cheek. "Don't worry. I called in a favor. Evie and Maeve are covering for us. They won't let anyone back here before midwatch."

"What was the deal with the candy?"

"It was part of my cover," Abby said, "just in case someone came out of one of the other staterooms while I was at the door."

"Clever."

"I thought so, too. Maeve's idea."

"That sounds like something she'd think up."

Abby rested her head on Alex's shoulder and closed her eyes, enjoying the closeness. But the moment ended too soon.

"It's 2335," Alex said, checking her chronograph. "We need to be in the pilothouse in ten minutes."

Abby let out a sigh. "Sometimes I really hate this ship."

Alex kissed the top of Abby's head. "She keeps us alive, darling."

"I know. But right now, I'd trade the War Goddess's iron underpants for a hotel room in Port Westmark. Or anywhere else with a lock on the door."

Alex chuckled. "Someday. Maybe the next time we have a port call at the Quay. Let's get cleaned up." She eased out of the embrace, and after helping Abby up, the two began to fix each other's uniforms. "Can you help me pin up my hair, please?"

Once they'd eliminated all traces of their too-brief liaison, they slipped into the passageway and headed for the pilothouse. Abby wanted so much to hold Alex's hand but knew she couldn't. Still, simply being near her was enough. It had to be, at least for now.

&@&

Chapter Twelve: A Ship of Destiny

Sea of Palms

50 nm east of the Sikani Islands

11-XI-1131 | 1945 Hours

Earlier that afternoon, Jocasta, Persephone, and Selene were detached from DESDIV 18 to rendezvous with a convoy bound for Telavi. Four troop ships were carrying Army and Marine units to reinforce the 3rd Division of Marines, along with a considerable load of supplies. Jocasta and her companion ships joined Admiral MacLeod's escort force, Task Force Papa-6, made up of the five cruisers of Cruiser Division 8 and six destroyers from Destroyer Squadron 20. As he had at Cape Imedi, Sir Gideon had chosen Wellstone as his flagship.

Jocasta's officers sensed this would be their most dangerous mission so far. The latest intelligence indicated that the Chaar would likely greet them with several more warships than they'd faced during Cape Imedi. There was also a credible threat that they might launch airstrikes against the task force from their landing strips farther up the island chain.

Under the circumstances, even though the subdued banter gave that evening's dinner the illusion of a routine meal, Abby knew deep down that it was anything but.

The meal itself featured dishes Abby usually ate with gusto, but that night they left little impression. She was too preoccupied.

Masters Bergstrom and Prescott were currently on bridge watch, and Master Winslow was pulling engineering watch below decks. The rest of the wardroom was present, though, and unlike usual, nobody moved to leave after finishing their post-meal coffee, with most opting for a second mug.

The XO sat at the head of the table, seemingly unfazed by what was coming. Two seats to her right, Alex sat with her hands folded, her posture perfect, as usual. Maeve, seated next to Alex, was focused on her conversation with Evie across the table. Closer to Abby, Rosie and Fee discussed load balancing on the secondary switchboard, but their conversation about bus ties and voltage drops came across as forced. Master Langley, Theodora, Freya, and Ingrid sat in their usual spots, talking quietly, their faces serious.

Abby didn't feel up to joining the conversation at the junior end of the table. Instead, she let her eyes wander from face to face, studying the two couples--Evie and Maeve, Rosie and Fee--with new eyes. Her resentment over being kept in the dark over "battle buddies" and secret romances had long since been replaced by protective solidarity, reinforced by the fact that she and Alex had taken their relationship to the same level.

Her gaze eventually found its way to Alex. Even in the crowded room, the attraction between them pulled strongly at her.

As she watched Alex stare at a coffee ring on the tablecloth, clearly lost in thought about what lay ahead, Abby felt a sharp pang of longing. She wanted to crawl across the table and into Alex's lap, wrap her arms around her lover's neck, and tell her between kisses that it didn't matter what happened in the Sound as long as they were together. A flight of fantasy, obviously, since even so much as a wink could prompt uncomfortable questions.

After a while, the group began to break up, heading for their staterooms or duty stations, until only Abby and Alex remained. They stood together near the nautical chart on the wall, discussing the typed sheet of paper pinned to it that contained the recent weather report the task force had received from Wellstone.

"Barometer's dropping," Alex murmured. She didn't look at Abby, instead fixing her eyes on the paper. "The humidity's going to be unbearable by tomorrow afternoon. We may even get rain squalls."

Abby moved as close as she dared. "That's nothing new, though."

"I'm not worried about the weather." Alex finally looked up. Her eyes were shadowed by a fatigue that went far deeper than a missed night's sleep. "It's the numbers. We're escorting a slow convoy into a narrow chokepoint. If the Chaar bring battleships or heavy cruisers down the Sound, we don't have the firepower to stop them."

Abby shivered, even though the wardroom was warm. She knew what Alex meant. Jocasta's lucky streak now seemed less like a blessing and more like a borrowed debt coming due.

"It's the ultimate test, isn't it?" Alex continued. "Whether we're actually fit to carry the names we were given. Whether I'm actually a daughter of Her Majesty's Navy, or just another girl in a tailored costume playing sailor."

Abby wanted to tell her she wasn't "just another girl," that she was so much more. She desperately wanted to embrace Alex, call her "baby," kiss her until their lips were swollen, and promise her that they would both prove themselves. But the too-public setting wouldn't allow it.

"We'll pass the test," Abby said instead, her voice firm. "We have to."

Alex gave a single, sharp nod, her professional mask snapping back into place.

"Let's get some rest while we can," she said. "We'll probably go to general quarters long before sunrise."

&@&

12-XI-1131 | 1313 Hours

By late the next morning, the convoy had reached Ankalia Point on Telavi, a narrow spit of beach down a steep hill from the airfield. As the transports continued to unload, the escort task force formed a protective screen around them, each ship keeping station with zigzag maneuvers.

Abby stood on the secondary steering station, looking through her binoculars to starboard, desperately trying to fight off the fatigue of being at general quarters for hours. The tropical sun beat down, heating the small, open platform atop the aft deckhouse like a griddle. Several feet forward stood the 1.1-inch quad machine gun mount, its crew crowded in the gun tub's shade, faces streaked with anti-flash cream. To the stern sat the Number 3 and Number 4 five-inch gun mounts.

Master Ashcroft stood at the forward rail of the platform near the ship's back-up wheel, her usual battle station for a surface engagement. She looked remarkably relaxed despite the midday heat and humidity.

Abby's battle station had been changed yet again; she was now Ashcroft's personal JOOW. It was a sound tactical decision; she would provide the XO with an extra set of eyes to see around the Number 3 mount, which partially obscured the view astern. But Abby considered it an exile. She was nearly two hundred feet aft of the pilothouse, cut off not only from the center of the action, but also from Alex. She felt the isolation keenly.

Beside her, Theodora, headset hidden under her wide "talker helmet" and binoculars in her hands, scanned the Sound to the east in a slow, 180-degree sweep. If the predicted air attack materialized, she would be responsible for coordinating the 20-millimeter mounts that lined the ship's superstructure and rails, as well as the 1.1-inch quad mount.

Thoughts racing, Abby tightened the straps of her helmet and life vest. As the ship turned to the northwest, she studied the four troop transports lying to port, sitting placidly at their moorings near the beach. To Abby, they looked like sitting ducks.

Her thoughts went to Alex in the pilothouse. She'd be standing next to the Captain, likely with the conn, her eyes locked on the horizon. Abby wondered if, despite the distraction of the approaching battle, Alex was thinking of her, too.

Ashcroft's designated talker, a lanky sailor first class named Sampson, pressed her palms against her headset, her eyes narrowing, then relayed what she'd been told.

"Ma'am, bridge reports enemy aircraft sighted to the northwest. Task Force estimates twenty-five torpedo bombers and twelve fighters. Bearing three-one-five true. ETA fifteen minutes."

Theodora immediately swung into action. The commands into her microphone were crisp, devoid of the hesitation that had plagued her during drills in the early days of the war cruise.

"Enemy aircraft, ETA fifteen minutes. All mounts, load. I say again, all mounts, load."

A series of loud clacks echoed across the aft main deck as gun loaders slammed clips into hoppers.

Abby resumed scanning the airspace to the northwest for any sign of Chaar aircraft, but the sky stayed clear, and it remained clear after fifteen minutes had passed.

Eventually, the Captain relayed a follow-up message through Sampson.

"Bridge reports enemy aircraft ETA revised to thirteen fifty-five. Per convoy commander, transports will put to sea ASAP, heading southeast along the coastline. All escort ships will turn to port on signal to maintain screen."

Abby went back to scanning the northwest horizon. For minute after agonizing minute, there was nothing but blue sky. The transports had left their moorings and headed southeast faster than she'd thought possible. Jocasta lurched into a hard turn to port, aiming to set a reciprocal course and reestablish the screen.

"Bridge reports bandits, bearing two-zero-zero, range thirty miles," Sampson called out.

Tiny black specks appeared, arranged in two groups. The larger formation--the attack force, Abby guessed--dropped down to hug the water, hoping to evade the escorts' radars. A smaller group, at altitude, was most likely their fighter cover.

"All mounts, hold your fire until they're within range," Theodora said into her microphone. "Wait for my command."

To Abby's surprise, both groups split. Half of each wheeled toward the east, while the other halves headed straight for Jocasta's section of the screen.

Suddenly, a third group of aircraft appeared from the south. Abby swung her binoculars around to check them out. The dark blue paint scheme and the massive white trefoil on each wing and fuselage left no doubt as to who they were.

"Friendly fighters off the starboard quarter," she called.

Theodora responded immediately. "All mounts, friendly aircraft on station. Don't hit the blue ones, girls! Aim for the crosses, not the trefoils!"

Moments later, Jocasta's five-inch main battery opened fire. Its heavy guns, fore and aft, began booming in unison in a deafening cadence, firing flak bursts to create a wall of shrapnel to force the bombers to either turn away or drop their loads early.

That said, these were Chaarish pilots. To them, death meant martyrdom. They would keep on coming, without breaking formation, unless they were completely blown out of the sky. They'd treat flak as nothing more than a distraction.

Hands clamped over her ears against the roar of the guns, Abby watched the incoming planes: Chaarish T20Bs, lethal, twin-engine torpedo bombers. She could see the sun glinting off the torpedoes slung beneath their bellies.

Once the enemy aircraft were inside the effective range of the five-inch guns, it was Theodora's turn.

"All mounts, prepare to engage hostile aircraft. Hold fire, Mount Forty-One... wait for it... now!"

The 1.1-inch mount next to Abby erupted. The sound was a physical assault, a thump-thump-thump-thump that shook the deck plates and sent spent brass casings raining down like golden hail. The air was instantly choked with the acrid stench of cordite.

Shortly afterward, Theodora gave the order for her 20-millimeter mounts to open up. She stood in the center of the platform, issuing quick, steady commands into her mouthpiece.

"All mounts, commence firing, commence firing! Mount Forty-Three, pick up the target dead ahead! Mount Forty-Two, target bearing three hundred!"

A massive explosion rocked the ship. Abby searched for the source, but Jocasta's superstructure shielded it. However, she could see a plume of fire and smoke climbing hundreds of feet into the air that appeared to be too distant to be from a hit on Jocasta. She and Master Ashcroft exchanged worried glances, but there was no time for speculation.

Glancing at Theodora, Abby saw a momentary hesitation as a Chaar bomber roared overhead unscathed. A Lyrian fighter followed in hot pursuit, the tracer rounds from its guns flashing.

Unable to communicate through Theodora's headphones, Abby settled for flashing an encouraging thumbs-up. Theodora acknowledged her with a brief nod. Her voice grew colder and more clinical.

"Mount Forty-One, target splashed! Take out his wingman! Swing left, swing left!"

A bomber further forward took a direct hit from a fusillade of 20-millimeter shells and exploded into a fireball. Its remnants slammed into the water's surface and sank, leaving nothing but a smear of burning aviation fuel behind.

Abby's pride surged. Jocasta's crew was showing that their performance at Cape Imedi was no fluke, and that their constant training had made them a force to be reckoned with. She mentally scoffed at the doubters back at the Admiralty.

When the final bomber crashed into the Sound, an eerie silence fell. The gun crews stood catching their breath, faces smudged with soot, staring at the empty sky.

Ashcroft checked her chronograph. "That didn't even take ten minutes. Sampson, convoy status?"

"No hits on the transports," the talker replied after conferring with the bridge. Her voice shook slightly. "Major damage to Wellstone, enemy suicide crash, but she's functional. Selene took major friendly fire; she's been ordered southeast with the transports. All but one enemy bomber destroyed; only three torpedoes launched, no hits."

The duty boatswain's pipe sounded over the loudspeaker, followed by her announcement: "Now hear this, now hear this!"

After a brief pause, Lieutenant Commander Thorne's voice echoed through the ship. "This is the Captain. Radar confirms enemy aircraft are withdrawing. Maintain General Quarters and reload all ready-use magazines. Well done, all hands."

As the crew let out a ragged cheer, Abby noticed that Theodora had yanked off her helmet and headset and sat down on a nearby storage locker, elbows on knees and face in hands.

Trembling from the adrenaline crash, Abby considered whether or not to intrude on what was clearly a private moment. But in the end, she decided she had to say something. She stepped over to the locker and went down on one knee.

"Theodora, you okay?"

The machine gun officer shrugged, but didn't look up or answer.

"Watching you lead your girls, standing out in the open like that... It was one of the bravest things I've ever seen," Abby said, swallowing a sudden rush of emotion. Theodora flinched but still didn't look up. Abby continued, "I apologize for ever calling you a coward. And if anyone ever does, remember today."

Without waiting for a response, Abby headed back to her position next to Master Ashcroft.

Jocasta had continued her run of spectacular luck. Her crew had splashed five of the bombers and emerged unscathed, but as Abby looked out over the oily, debris-strewn water, cold dread settled in her stomach.

The Sound was too quiet.

&@&

13-XI-1131 | 0120 Hours

Night had fallen, but it brought no relief. The humidity had peaked, covering Jocasta with a blanket of dew.

A Navy flying boat had spotted the expected Chaarish formation to the north, steaming down the Main Line, bound for Telavi. They reported two battleships, one light cruiser, and eleven destroyers.

Things didn't look good for the Lyrians. They'd won the Battle of Cape Imedi by catching the Chaar by surprise, but they didn't have that advantage this time. Facing two battleships, they were also badly outgunned.

These issues were moot, given there were no carriers or battleships within immediate sailing distance. Task Force Papa-6 was all the Navy could pull together to resist the Chaarish advance. Outnumbered though they were, they had no choice but to fight.

The damaged Selene and the troop ships had been detached more than four hours ago and were heading for the safety of the islands to the southeast. Jocasta and the rest of Papa-6 turned their bows to the northwest to deal with the enemy task force.

Abby was still in place at the secondary steering station. With the ship remaining in general quarters without a break, the constant tension wore on everyone.

Theodora stood a few feet away, close to the 1.1-inch mount, talking with its captain. Abby stood near Master Ashcroft, supposedly scanning the Sound for any sign of life. In reality, every few minutes, she found herself sneaking a look toward the superstructure.

She pictured Alex in the pilothouse, standing by a porthole with binoculars in hand, ready to give orders to the helm. Even though they were only separated by some 200 feet, the distance may as well have been 200 miles.

Abby shifted nervously; the movement made her life jacket rub uncomfortably against her neck. She glanced at Master Ashcroft, who stood like a statue carved of pure shadow.

"Ma'am?"

Ashcroft turned slightly, responding only with a raised eyebrow.

Abby hesitated. She wanted to ask about what might happen to Alex if the bridge structure took a hit but didn't dare. She needed to keep the question general, even though her heart ached for her lover.

"I was thinking about the people on the bridge," Abby said, carefully choosing her words. "If the bridge takes a hit, how are we supposed to handle that?"

Ashcroft leaned silently against the rail, her gaze drifting toward the stars. When she spoke, her response made her seem decades older than her twenty-seven years.

"Obviously, I'd take the conn right here at the secondary station. But that's not really what you're asking, is it? You're asking how an officer manages to lead when her heart is in the line of fire."

Abby swallowed hard. Ashcroft wasn't just wise, she was perceptive. Maybe a little too perceptive.

"'A ship is a jealous mistress,'" the XO said, repeating a proverb old salts favored. "She demands that you commit to her completely. That your heart be held in reserve. You have to understand--once the guns start firing, you're no longer an individual. You're one with Jocasta. Your love, your grief, they're secondary to her mission."

Master Ashcroft turned to look Abby in the eye.

"If the bridge is hit and I have to take command, I won't be thinking of Katherine Thorne as my friend, but as a casualty who needs to be replaced so the ship can keep fighting. And if it comes down to it, I'm prepared to make decisions that may lead to people dying, people I care about. It sounds cruel, I know, but it's the only way to survive. You have to love the ship more than you love the people crewing her. At least until the shooting stops. Then, and only then, do you grieve the dead."

Abby understood the logic, but that didn't make it any easier to accept. She thought of Alex and all the loving moments they'd shared since their first kiss. It would be devastating to lose her, but she knew Ashcroft was right. The loyalty oath she'd sworn to the Queen on the day she was commissioned meant that if she had to choose between duty and love, duty was her only option.

"Do you think I'm up to it, ma'am?" Abby asked. "Honoring my family legacy, I mean."

Ashcroft gave a small, sad smile that Abby could barely see in the dark. After looking to make sure Theodora was occupied, she leaned a little closer and lowered her voice.

"The First Sea Lord--the Duke of Langstrand, the late King's brother-in-law--is my father. He's the one who fought the Admiralty tooth and nail to get Jocasta commissioned as an all-female ship. So when I say we can't afford to fail, it's not just about the crew's pride. It's about validating the serious political risk my father took to give us this deck to stand on."

Abby stared at her, open-mouthed.

"That's not all," Ashcroft continued. "I'm not only Her Majesty's first cousin, we're childhood friends. We weren't just fellow members of the Class of '26, we were in the same company all four years. She, her roommate, my friend from Southmark, and I were all hoping to be assigned to the same ship, but then Uncle Robert was assassinated. So, you can see I have some idea of the pressure Master Hawthorne is under. You and Master Sterling, too. A legacy is a legacy; social standing doesn't enter into it."

Abby gazed at her in wonder. She'd always admired the way the XO carried herself. She and Alex were two peas in a pod with their steely confidence in the face of danger. Thanks to Master Ashcroft's revelation, Abby had a flash of insight: it wasn't a question of noble birth, but rather that their characters had been forged under the weight of heavy expectations. They faced pressures that made the shadow of Pop's reputation seem insignificant. Yet in the face of it all, neither Alex nor Master Ashcroft had ever flaunted privilege, but embraced the Navy's culture of equality and focused on their duties.

At the same time, Abby couldn't believe she hadn't recognized the lieutenant when they first met. As royal princesses, she and the then-future Queen would have had their pictures splashed all over the society pages throughout the '20s. While Abby didn't follow those closely, she'd skimmed them often enough that she should have remembered the XO as a royal princess, at least.

"So your commissioning oath cut a lot deeper than mine did," was all Abby could manage.

"I should think that would be obvious, but it's hardly worth discussing at the moment. For what it's worth, I think you'll do fine. The fact that you're worried about it says a lot. It's the ones who act like it's all going to be easy who almost always fall short." Ashcroft's smile suddenly lightened. "By the way, don't spread around anything I just told you. The Captain and Master Bergstrom are the only ones who know my full story. And now you. So, if any of this gets out, we'll know it was you."

Unfortunately, Abby didn't have time to reply.

"Ma'am, bridge reports surface contact, bearing three-one-zero," Sampson said. "Range twenty thousand yards. Large targets. Multiple ships."

Abby's pulse took off at a gallop. This was it: the surface engagement they'd been steaming toward since they left Port Westmark. Cape Imedi had only served as a warm-up for the main event.

Master Ashcroft stood up straight, her binoculars already to her eyes.

"Master Fairfax-Neville, alert your crews. They're to hold their fire until after the main battery opens up. We should be within range of your 20s by then."

"Aye, ma'am," Theodora replied.

Abby gripped the rail until her knuckles hurt. She looked ahead, past the funnels and mast, hoping to see Alex on one of the bridge wings, but her lover hadn't left the pilothouse.

"I'm right here, baby," she whispered into the darkness, a fervent prayer meant only for Alex. "Don't you dare leave me."

She tried to swallow the lump forming in her throat, but it just wouldn't go down. Why was being brave so hard?

&@&

Chapter Thirteen: Day of Reckoning, Part 1

5 nm southwest of Graveyard Rock

13-XI-1131 | 0130 Hours

For four endless minutes since radar contact, Jocasta held steady at fifteen knots, her bow cutting through the dark water of the Sound on a 315-degree course. Ashcroft and Abby remained at the rail, searching the darkness off the port bow for signs of the Chaar force they expected to appear between Graveyard Rock and Cape Imedi.

Sampson finally broke the fragile silence. "Bridge reports orders from Wellstone, ma'am. All odd-numbered ships are to train their batteries to starboard. All even-numbered ships are to train to port."

Theodora let out an incredulous scoff. "Starboard? Why the heck would they fire to starboard?"

Ashcroft didn't lower her binoculars. "It doesn't make any sense," she said with obvious annoyance. "Radar has the Chaar coming toward our port bow. If the odd-numbered ships fire to starboard, they'd be shooting at nothing but the empty Sound."

With a surge of apprehension, Abby swung her glasses first forward at Persephone, then turned them aft past the Number 3 five-inch mount to focus on Wellstone, then beyond her to the rear of the Lyrian line. The formation should have been precisely ordered, but now it was losing its shape, with ships drifting off course to either side.

The fog of war had set in before any shots were fired.

"Oh, fine," Abby said, her voice an annoyed growl. "How're we supposed to fight these guys when Task Force has no idea where they are?"

"Pipe down, Master Guilford," Ashcroft said, though there was no heat in the command. "Keep your glasses to the port bow. If the flagship's blind, we have to be the eyes for the front of the line."

Abby did as she was told, grinding her teeth in frustration. Here she was, trapped on the aft deckhouse, unable to act as the ship followed garbled orders into danger.

Risking a glance toward the superstructure, she pictured Alex standing in the dim light of the pilothouse, steady as a rock. Had she caught on that Sir Gideon seemed to be losing his grip on the tactical situation?

The thought made Abby want to scream. Every moment they waited as the Admiral scrambled to issue further orders felt like a step closer to disaster.

&@&

0148 Hours

With no warning, the bright violet-white beam of a Chaarish searchlight cut through the darkness. It moved quickly across the water until it caught the lead destroyer, Persephone. Then, a second later, it moved to Jocasta.

The cry from one of the bridge lookouts echoed across the aft main deck.

"Searchlight, dead ahead!"

Abby squinted, shielding her eyes from the glare as the light beam stripped away the darkness, leaving the lead destroyers exposed.

The response to the searchlight was immediate. Apparently, the Captain hadn't waited for a signal from Wellstone, and neither had any of the other ships. Jocasta lurched into a hard starboard turn. The forward five-inch mounts, already trained to port, let out a roar that shook the ship to its keel. Their muzzle flashes, blinding, orange-white plumes, lit the dark water off the port bow. Seconds later, the aft mounts joined them. The searchlight was soon shot out.

Suddenly, the huge silhouette of a Chaarish battleship loomed out of the darkness. Abby gasped when she realized that it was headed straight for Jocasta. "Enemy ship, port quarter!" she shouted. "Brace for impact!"

The destroyer bucked as her engines surged. Abby gripped the rail to keep from tumbling over it.

Transfixed, Abby stared at the enemy battleship as the distance between them closed. She didn't know if the Chaarish crew had even seen them. For a few seconds, she was convinced they would be rammed, but Jocasta's rapid acceleration drove her clear. The two vessels passed so close that Abby could see the rivets on the battleship's hull as it slid past, ten feet away at most.

The barrels of the battleship's main battery began to lower, trying to aim downward. But Jocasta was too small, too fast, and too close.

"All mounts, commence firing, commence firing!" Theodora roared into her microphone. "Rapid continuous fire, local control! Target the bridge!"

Every gun on Jocasta erupted--not just Theodora's machine guns, but all four five-inch mounts, whose barrels had been raised to maximum elevation. Jocasta's full armament unleashed a torrent of fire into the battleship's superstructure. Tracers from Theodora's machine guns arced through the dark sky, raking the enemy's bridge and pilothouse. After a few seconds, the unmistakable hiss of torpedo launches echoed from midships as Freya and her team unleashed a full salvo.

Abby stood helplessly in the midst of the chaos with the heat from the nearby 1.1-inch machine gun barrels washing over her. Ashcroft relayed messages to the bridge through Sampson, and Theodora kept giving orders to her gunners.

But Abby had been given no orders to carry out. She stood to one side like excess baggage, unable to do anything but watch the battle unfold.

&@&

The Chaarish battleship began a slow, wide left turn. Despite the flames on her bridge, she showed few signs of giving up the fight. Jocasta's five-inchers continued to pound her, but she shrugged their shells off with little effort. All five torpedoes had either missed or failed to explode.

Even worse, the battleship had now created enough distance to bring her fourteen-inch guns to bear. In the gloom, Abby could see the massive mounts turn in their direction.

Above them, star shells exploded in a series of soft pops. Their magnesium glare stripped away the darkness, leaving Jocasta completely exposed.

Abby looked through her binoculars, first to port, then to starboard. To her shock, they weren't dealing with the battleship alone, but also with a light cruiser and two destroyers.

"They've got us bracketed," Master Ashcroft said, showing the first sign of alarm Abby had seen from her that evening. It didn't help her effort to stifle her own rising panic.

After about ten seconds, which felt like ten hours, the cruiser and destroyers opened fire.

As Abby looked on in horror, their only direct hit struck the port side of Jocasta's superstructure. Apparently a dud, it didn't explode, but it did tear through the charthouse before bursting through the starboard side in a brilliant shower of white-hot sparks.

The charthouse: Abby's mind instantly mapped the space. The sparks may have been the only sign of the impact, but she knew what damage the kinetic energy of that strike would have done. The charthouse was the nerve center for the ship's quartermasters; it opened on the bridge.

Where Alex was.

Before Abby could even shout a warning, the enemy battleship's guns belched flame as she launched her salvo. As with the destroyers' attack moments earlier, most of the rounds splashed around Jocasta, drenching the deck with seawater. But two of the fourteen-inch shells hit home within a fraction of a second of each other, landing like a boxer's knockout combination.

The first shell hit the forecastle deck forward of the superstructure, rocking the ship from side to side. Abby couldn't see precisely where, but she couldn't miss the fireball.

The second fourteen-inch shell hit somewhere near the starboard waterline, forward of Abby's position, and exploded with a muffled roar below decks, likely in the engineering spaces.

Where Maeve and Fee were stationed.

The blast from the second shell bent the main deck plates upward. Abby, thrown into the air, landed hard on the platform, her shoulder slamming into the railing. The impact knocked the wind out of her, leaving her struggling to regain her breath.

Beside her, Master Ashcroft, Theodora, and Sampson were sprawled in a tangle of limbs and headset wires. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the high-pitched ringing in Abby's ears and the distant hiss of escaping steam.

&@&

Abby scrambled to her knees, rubbing her shoulder. She searched for the comforting red glow of the night lights, but there was only darkness.

The steady hum of the generators had ceased. The backup steering console's dials were stuck, their needles frozen in their final positions before the shells hit. The air was thick with the mingled smells of ozone and cordite.

"Power's gone," Theodora said, her voice hoarse as she struggled to her feet. "Everything's dead. The pumps, the hoists, all of it but my 20s. They're manual, so they're still good, but the quad mount's dead."

Ashcroft grabbed Sampson by the hand and hauled her to her feet. "Report to the bridge: Possible engine room breach. No power. The ship's dead in the water."

The shaken woman adjusted her headset and spoke urgently into the mouthpiece, relaying Ashcroft's message, her panicked voice barely below a yell. But as she listened for a reply, her eyes widened. She slapped the microphone as if to jar it back into operation, then tried a second transmission, also without success. She turned to Ashcroft, close to tears.

"Nothing, ma'am. Nobody's answering."

The sound-powered circuit didn't need the ship's generators to work. That meant that if the people on the other end weren't answering, the ones who served as the ship's brain...

Abby's thoughts raced back to the hit on the charthouse, the shell that had torn through it, and the sparks. Anger rose inside her.

Why had the Captain stuck her back here? Why was she still standing, safe on the aft deckhouse, while the woman she loved--and possibly her cousin and her other friends--lay wounded, or even dead?

Her sense of powerlessness had grown to near-physical agony. She fought the urge to abandon her post, scramble across the deck, and crawl through the damaged superstructure to find Alex in the wreckage. But Ashcroft's steadying grip on her arm reminded her she was an officer and duty was calling.

&@&

Maybe thirty seconds had passed. It had felt more like thirty minutes, as if everything had unfolded in ultra-slow motion.

Jocasta drifted to the southeast, a silent, smoking wreck. Flashes from the ferocious battle, still taking place around them, lit the deck in garish blue and yellow. Abby focused her binoculars on the superstructure, hoping to see movement on the bridge.

Then, the Chaar delivered the death blow.

The explosion came from directly aft, but unlike the others, it was muffled, a deep-sea BOOM, as if a depth charge had exploded next to the keel.

A torpedo had found the stern.

The powerful detonation threw Abby off her feet again. The entire 1,600-ton destroyer seemed to lift into the air, then slam back down to the surface. Abby crashed into the rail again, hitting her already throbbing shoulder a second time. Scrambling back to her feet, she bit back a cry of pain and looked toward the stern.

Except there wasn't a stern. Everything aft of the Number 4 five-inch mount was gone.

A fire had started below, likely from a ruptured fuel tank, and it was spreading fast. Abby stared at the flames, their orange glow reflecting off the oily water where the fantail had been just seconds before. She struggled to comprehend that a full quarter of the destroyer, along with everyone on it, had simply disappeared.

&@&

Chapter Fourteen: Day of Reckoning, Part 2

0210 Hours

The heavy silence that followed the torpedo strike was worse than the thunder of the guns. Smoke from the fire below enveloped Abby and the others, obscuring the stars.

Ashcroft's orders broke the spell.

"Master Fairfax-Neville, leave your 20-millimeter teams in place, but take your quad mount crew down into the aft five-inch gun wells. Round up everyone you can find and get them topside. Get the casualties to an aid station. Start with the Number 4 mount--closest to the fire--then go to Number 3. Clear any loose powder you find. We don't need it cooking off if the fire spreads. Get moving!"

As Theodora led her sailors off the platform and into the aft deckhouse, Ashcroft turned to Abby. "Find Master Langley. She should be somewhere near Damage Control Central if she's not already on the quarterdeck. Help her with whatever she needs. I'm going to try to find the Captain. Sampson, you're with me."

"Aye, ma'am," Abby managed to say. She scrambled down the ladder and began to feel her way toward the bow, her shoes skidding on the canted deck. Each step forward was like walking through a nightmare, and the darkness only made progress more challenging.

She passed numerous sailors. A few leaned against bulkheads, overwhelmed by the shock of the attack, while most others frantically tried to lash down equipment that had been shaken loose. Still others were carrying motionless shipmates to an aid station. There was blood everywhere.

So, so much blood.

Abby worked her way forward, unable to find Master Langley, until she passed the superstructure and walked into billowing clouds of strange-smelling smoke. Looking up, she quickly found the source: a gaping hole where the Number 2 five-inch mount should have been. After a moment, it dawned on her that the stench she'd been hit with was a mixture of cordite and burning flesh.

With the first lieutenant nowhere in sight, she swallowed the surge of bile in her throat and doubled back the way she came, intending to search the quarterdeck more closely.

&@&

Abby finally found Master Langley along the aft port rail under the glow of portable emergency lights, supervising a "bucket brigade" of sailors pulling seawater out of the Sound and passing it forward to dump down the ladderways near the fire. Her uniform was disheveled, and strands of hair had escaped her cap, but to Abby's relief, she appeared unhurt.

"Master Guilford! Oh, thank the gods you're alive," the first lieutenant said. "Just in time, too. Take over the bucket brigade. The fire mains are dry--no power. We need seawater dumped into the aft spaces or the bulkheads are going to buckle from the heat. I'm going to see about getting us some pumps."

Abby stepped into her role, projecting a confidence she didn't feel. "You heard her! Bear a hand! Get that water from the rail to the hatch--move!"

The work was backbreaking. Twenty exhausted 2nd Division sailors hauled buckets--and in some cases, steel helmets--of brine over the rail, passing them hand-to-hand. This was no time to stand on ceremony, so Abby jumped in to join them. Before too long, her arms were screaming in protest and her shoulder muscles were cramping, but she refused to stop. Her uniform was soon a ruin of brine and ash.

Abby's mind went to Alex, even as her hands stayed in motion. Was she doing something like this, fighting a fire or triaging casualties? Or was she trapped in the damaged superstructure? The thought of Alex being unable to move, choking on the smoke, lent a frantic, almost violent energy to Abby's movements.

The primitive splashing of the bucket brigade was eventually interrupted by a coughing sputter, a backfire, and then the mechanical rumble of a gasoline engine. Master Langley and a few sailors had finally managed to lug two of the ship's gas-powered portable pumps from Repair Locker 2 and coax them into operating. Once they had gotten the hoses into place, two over the side and two others through the deckhouse door and down the ladder well, there was no need for the bucket line anymore.

Abby assigned a few sailors to mind the pumps, then divided the division's remaining women into teams, each led by a petty officer.

"Search the nearby compartments for trapped sailors," she said, her voice ragged from yelling. "Anyone who can walk, get them to the rails. If you need litters, check Repair Locker 2. I want all hands focused on getting the casualties out of those spaces. That's your priority now. And if anyone sees Rodriguez, send her to me. Move!"

As the sailors scrambled to obey, a dark figure stumbled out of the thick smoke aft of the pumps.

It was Maeve, though she was nearly unrecognizable. Her ruined khakis were soaked with oil, and her face was so caked with soot that only the whites of her eyes showed.

"Abby! You're still alive!"

Abby ran to her. "Maeve!" She grabbed her friend by the shoulders. "Maeve, look at me. Are you hurt? Where're the rest of your people?"

Maeve stared at her, hollow-eyed. "We got most of 'em out. But it's bad down there... the steam..." She grasped Abby's arm tightly. "Fee... that last shell hit the electrical shop on its way to the aft engine room. She and her girls were in there trying to balance the generator loads."

"Oh, no!"

"Oh, yes. It's bad, Abby. She's in the main aid station now. Doc's trying to get her stable, but between the burns and the shrapnel wounds..." Maeve shook her head, unable to finish the sentence. "Have you seen Master Winslow anywhere?"

"Not since before the attack."

"Okay, if you do, tell her I'm still alive and that I'm going back below decks. I won't let this turn into another Antigone if I can help it. I'm not leaving any of our women behind."

Before Abby could offer a word of comfort or process the devastating news about Fee, Maeve tore herself away, disappearing back into the smoke. Abby stood frozen, her mind reeling as the brutal reality of the news sank in.

Fee. The girl who always had a sarcastic comment. Who liked a beer or two. Whose most prized possession was her customized Zephyr. Who would snark at you, then turn around and offer you her candy ration. The thought of her lying broken in the wardroom was almost more than Abby could bear.

She fought off the overwhelming desire to give up, to find a quiet corner and let it all out. But this wasn't the time for tears, as Master Ashcroft had reminded her. She had an obligation to the living.

&@&

Abby was about to head to Repair Locker 2 when Master Ashcroft reappeared. Lieutenant Commander Thorne limped heavily alongside her, clutching the XO's arm for support.

The Captain was a shadow of her former self. Her uniform was scorched and bloodstained, and one of her eyes was swollen nearly shut by a huge lump that had formed on her eyebrow. Her usual iron composure had been replaced by a thousand-yard stare.

Astrid Bergstrom, Cecilia Winslow, and Harper Langley quickly joined them in an impromptu war council. Abby decided to remain close by in case her boss needed her. Standing near the pumps' fuel cans, she had little trouble eavesdropping on their conversation.

"There's no power, Skipper," Master Winslow said, her voice trembling with rage and exhaustion. "The hit took out the aft engine and boiler rooms and all the generators.

Master Bergstrom stared out at the flashes of the battle that still raged around them, her face filled with the same fury as Winslow's. "We can't fight back, ma'am," she said. "The Number 2 main mount's a smoking hole, and Numbers 3 and 4 were thrown off their tracks. Number 1 could work, but it's dead steel because there's no power to the hoists. Same with the quad mount. We've got nothing left but the manual 20s, and they're nearly out of ammo. Even worse, if the fire gets to the aft magazine, we'll turn into a fireworks show."

"We're a single bulkhead away from that happening," Master Langley added. "Repair 2 is doing its best, but they're making no headway against the fire. The steel's starting to warp. We're on borrowed time."

The Captain clenched her fists. "Master Winslow, you've got to go back down into the forward engine room. Use the emergency hand-cranks. Find a way to jump-start the forward turbine--anything to get us underway again. Right now, we're defenseless. We have to get out of here before they decide to use us for target practice."

The usually levelheaded chief engineer had reached her limit. "With all due respect, Captain, the entire stern is gone! We've got no rudder and no screws! What do you want me to do, set sail?"

The deck fell silent, save for the sound of the pumps. Master Ashcroft stepped in, her voice firm.

"Captain, the ship is dead. She's sinking by the stern. We can't control the fires. I strongly recommend we pull all repair teams and abandon ship while we still can. If we wait much longer, the aft magazine will blow."

Lieutenant Commander Thorne heaved a sigh as she finally accepted the inevitable. "Very well. All hands, abandon ship. Gods help us."

&@&

Abby didn't wait for the boatswain's pipe call, which would never be heard anyway without the ship's public address system functioning. She found Camila Rodriguez and Siobhan Doyle--both thankfully unhurt--and ordered them to gather as many uninjured 2nd Division sailors as they could find. She directed Doyle to deploy the port cargo net and Rodriguez to inflate the aft life rafts and get them into the water.

After the petty officers hurried off to carry out her orders, she rounded up Bianca Rossi and the rest of the port launch crew. To Abby's relief, they had all somehow escaped the worst of the shelling.

"Ready the port motor launch!" Abby commanded, her voice barely holding firm. "Rossi, double-check the cables! Prioritize the critical cases; the rest can use the rafts. I want a clear path from the wardroom to the rail!"

As the launch swung out on its davits, the first of the casualties began to emerge from the midships spaces. Abby's heart sank. Dozens of sailors were stumbling toward the port rail, leaning heavily on each other, their uniforms scorched and soaked in blood.

Then Abby spotted the person she most hoped to see.

Alex was still on her feet, but had a sailor with her, helping her walk. To Abby's dismay, she seemed a pale reflection of her usual self. A bloody sling held her right arm close to her stomach, and a thick, crimson-stained bandage was wrapped around her head and one side of her face.

Abby had to fight off tears of relief.

"Alex! You're alive!" She rushed to the older officer, ignoring deck protocol and briefly forgetting the launch. Alex appeared dazed, her eyes tracking slowly, as if seeing a different world.

"Abby. Oh, thank goddess," Alex said with a lazy smile, speaking in a half-speed monotone. "Sorry I'm late. Had a little trouble on the bridge."

"A little? Is Evie okay?"

With a shake of her head, Alex gestured over her shoulder with the thumb of her free hand. Looking past her, Abby saw two sailors approaching, carrying a litter bearing her cousin.

Abby almost didn't recognize her. The entire left side of Evie's face, head, and upper arm was covered in thick gauze that was red with bloodstains. Another thick bandage was wrapped tightly around her chest. The rest of her face was caked in dried blood.

No, no, no! This can't be happening!

"Abby?" Evie sounded sleepy. Her eyes were swimming with tears. "Rosie... she was right there. We were in the charthouse... checking out a radio issue... and then she... she..." Her attempt at the story ended in a tear-soaked sob.

"It was a direct hit," Alex said. "Armor-piercing. Didn't explode, though. Rosie was standing right in front of the bulkhead. And then she was gone." A tear rolled down from each of her eyes. Her detached delivery, so out of character, hit Abby like a gut punch. She bit back a sob of her own.

Rosie, who knew every tube and wire in the ship's radio system, and most of the ship's gossip, too. Who you could rely on for a sunny smile when you were feeling down. Who was as kind as she was intelligent. Whose infectious laughter rang through the wardroom, her jokes brightening even the dreariest of days at sea. Gone before Abby could say goodbye.

Abby locked the anguish away, burying it deep alongside her grief for Fee. If she fell apart now, she'd be useless to the wounded crowding onto the deck. She forced her focus back onto her immediate task: getting as many critical cases as she could onto her launch.

"You're going to be okay," she said, forcing a smile for both Alex's and Evie's sakes. "Both of you." She turned to her boat crew. "Let's get them into the launch! Gently!"

&@&

Abby's crew worked with grim efficiency, pulling the worst cases from the deck into the belly of the boat. Then, when they had taken on all the critical cases, she gave the order to lower away.

The launch landed with a gentle splash. She was about to give the order to cast off, but when she looked up at the rail, she saw Ingrid peering over the side.

"Master Jensen! Come on down!" Abby yelled over the rumble of the launch's engines. "We're pretty full, but we can make room for our SUPPO! Come on, you can climb down the cargo net!"

Ingrid shook her head. A sad smile formed on her lips.

"Not yet. Not until we evacuate everyone. You need to stand clear ASAP!"

"Are you sure?"

"Positive! Fair winds and following seas, Abby!"

Ingrid's words sounded like a farewell, and for some reason, that hit Abby hard. Turning away to hide the tears in her eyes from her sailors, she gave the order to cast off.

With Rossi's steady hand at the helm, Abby navigated the launch through a slow circuit around the port side of the doomed ship. She stood next to the engine well, trying to show strength to those around her, all the while feeling like a fraud.

The Sound's surface was covered with oil and debris. Heads bobbed in the water, sailors who had jumped or been thrown overboard during the initial strikes.

"Over there!" Abby pointed. "Heave a line!"

Her crew hauled them in, one by one, until the launch rode dangerously low in the water. Between those they'd brought with them from Jocasta and those they'd pulled from the Sound, the boat crew had rescued some forty women, many of them seriously wounded; the launch was too overloaded to risk taking on any more. Abby then concentrated on directing the nearby life rafts to take on those they couldn't fit.

She focused on getting as many of the crew into the life rafts as possible. Those left behind in the water faced dim prospects for survival. Given the Chaarish attitude toward prisoners, if their troops from the nearby islands beat the Lyrians to the stragglers, that would mean summary execution for the officers and sexual slavery for the rest.

And that was assuming the sharks didn't get there first.

Through it all, Abby kept a weather eye on Jocasta, watching with growing worry as the burning fuel astern of the dying ship spread farther and wider.

Suddenly, the hollow clang of fracturing steel echoed across the Sound.

Then, Jocasta exploded.

White-hot fire turned the darkness into artificial daylight. The concussion wave hit the launch, knocking several of its passengers back into the water and nearly capsizing it. Abby herself barely avoided being blown over the side. Shrapnel and debris showered down like lethal hail.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a chunk of wood, likely a broken piece of the ship's deck overlay, hurtling through the air toward her. With no time to dodge, she instinctively threw up her left arm to shield her face.

The wood slammed into her forearm with a sickening crack, snapping the bones, before glancing hard off the side of her head. She sprawled backward, her vision tunneling to darkness.

&@&

Chapter Fifteen: Pathway to the Future

Navy Mobile Hospital 12

FNB Karaleti

27-XII-1131 | 0811 Hours

For Junior Lieutenant Abby Guilford--newly promoted a week earlier--the beach at Karaleti had lost its luster. During her first liberty call more than three months ago, she'd seen this place as a scene from a tropical postcard, a paradise of turquoise water and white sand.

Now, after six weeks on this jerkwater island, confined to the shabby excuse for a metal hut that passed for the Female Officers' Orthopedic Ward and eating what had to be the worst food the Navy had to offer, she saw it for what it was: a waterlogged, mosquito-infested dump.

It was her twenty-second birthday, but she felt far too old and burdened to care.

She'd been dreaming about them all nearly every night for the past six weeks: not just Rosie and Fee, but Ingrid and the Captain, both still missing in action. The memories would bleed together. Katherine Thorne's commanding presence on the bridge blurring into Ingrid Jensen's quiet, steadying encouragement in the wardroom. Fee Walsh's snarky asides, the ones that barely camouflaged her fierce loyalty.

And then there was Rosie Gallagher. Kind, generous Rosie, who, as Evie had later told her, was laughing at one of her own jokes when the shell hit.

Even worse, they'd learned that Wellstone had taken a fourteen-inch round directly to her pilothouse, obliterating everyone inside, including both Sir Gideon MacLeod and the ship's captain, Desmond O'Connor. Maeve, usually so philosophical about her own troubles, had nevertheless been crushed by this latest blow. Abby, Alex, and especially Evie had immediately rallied around her, comforting her as best they could amid their own grief.

For Abby, things had been especially hard. The same day Maeve found out about her father, she'd gotten the news that the day after Jocasta was lost, Alden had been shot down during the air campaign his late-arriving carrier had launched to finish off the Chaarish task force. Apparently, he'd been hit in the middle of a bombing run.

She was still having trouble believing Alden was gone. They'd come from the same womb, sixteen minutes apart, and had been joined at the hip from that moment until Abby left for the Naval Academy. He was the yin to her yang, closer to her than even Evie. Abby never imagined that when they'd parted ways back in June, it had been for the last time. She'd taken for granted that the two of them would do their duty in this dirty, stinking war and move on with their lives, and that eventually, their children would spend their summers together just as Evie had with them.

Poor Alden. He deserved better.

They all did.

That morning was just another in a long, monotonous series of identical mornings. After a dreary breakfast of tasteless powdered eggs and lumpy oatmeal, washed down with watery mango juice, Abby and Alex were taking their daily walk along the beach, spending a few private minutes together before the doctors began their morning rounds.

Abby's khakis, standard-issue replacements from the naval base's small stores, were both untailored and a size too large, bunching awkwardly around her wrists and ankles. Her left arm, recently liberated from its heavy plaster cast, was still stiff and weak. A jagged, pink scar traced a path along the crown of her head, above her left temple, disappearing into the blonde stubble where her hair was only now beginning to grow back.

Alex walked at her side, moving carefully on the uneven sand to avoid an accidental fall. Her collarbone was well on its way to healing; she had stopped using her sling, but she still kept her right arm close to her stomach out of habit. The morning sun showed the constellation of tiny pink shrapnel scars on her forehead and cheeks--permanent reminders of Jocasta's final battle.

Since the ship's loss, they'd been each other's anchor, crying together, comforting each other through the recurring nightmares. If not for Alex, Abby likely wouldn't have made it through the initial stage of grief without completely falling to pieces.

"I wish I could shake off the bad dreams, but I just can't seem to," she said, her voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves crashing in the distance. "It's like a bunch of ghosts are chasing me. I spend every night on that aft deckhouse. I see the guns flash, hear the shells splash, but I'm just watching, standing there like a tourist while Rosie and Fee and all the others get blown to bits. While Alden's bomber never comes out of its dive."

"You weren't a tourist," Alex said, stopping in her tracks and turning to face Abby. "You were at your station. I was at mine. We didn't fail Jocasta. The situation failed us."

"I let Pop down. I promised him I'd do my best to protect the ship. But my best wasn't good enough. And now, I'm walking on a crappy excuse for a beach, with nothing more than a broken arm and a minor head wound, while you and the others got it so much worse."

"Darling, stop it. You know I hate it when you talk yourself down." Alex caressed the scars on Abby's eyebrow and temple with her finger. "When you got hit, I honestly thought I'd lost you. If I hadn't been so doped up, I'd have gotten hysterical. But then you came to, and I was so relieved. Then you started swearing, and I knew you'd be fine."

"Figures you'd remember that," Abby muttered, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. But Alex only chuckled.

"I grew up on Marine bases. I know all the words and most of the combinations." Her smile faded slightly. "Listen, darling, so many sailors made it through because of you. Evie and me, too. You didn't let anyone down. You're still my hero."

"And you're mine, baby." Abby reached up to brush a few stray hairs from Alex's forehead. "I just wish we were anywhere but this dump of an island."

"Look on the bright side: it could've been so much worse. We're both still alive, and they haven't split us up."

"Yeah, but we're on borrowed time. Pretty soon--maybe in another month, or even sooner--we'll get our new orders. They'll probably send us to different ships, and that'll be it."

"Borrowed or not, time is still time," Alex said, "and we haven't run out of it yet. Remember what I said the night before the last mission? We need to live in the here and now. Let tomorrow be tomorrow."

They looked into each other's eyes for a long moment. Then, with no corpsmen around to spy on them, they kissed.

Too bad that kisses were all Abby could hope for under the circumstances. They hadn't made love since a few days before Telavi, so they were both desperate with need. But since there was virtually no privacy, sex was out. Kissing was risky enough.

"Don't leave me, baby," Abby mumbled against Alex's neck, despite knowing her plea was pointless. "How am I going to function on my next ship without you there with me?"

"About as well as I'll cope without you. But let's not dwell on this now." Alex lifted Abby's chin up so they were eye to eye. "Instead, how about you kiss me again? No one's watching, and we've still got a few minutes until rounds."

"Aye aye, ma'am," Abby said as their lips met.

&@&

1455 Hours

By mid-afternoon, the metal hut had grown unbearably hot, as it did every day. The sun baked the tin roof until the air inside was thick with the smell of sweat and adhesive. Rest time was from 1300 to 1500, but Abby, like many others, found it hard to nap in a place that was more like an oven than a hospital ward.

To escape the suffocating heat, she and her surviving friends had fled to the shade of their favorite banyan tree. It wasn't much cooler, but the breeze from the lagoon drove down the humidity enough to make it more bearable than the hut.

Maeve sat with her right leg extended, a wooden cane leaning against the trunk. Although she'd escaped the initial attack unscathed, an aluminum panel had caught her during the explosion. The deep gash in her thigh had healed into a puckered scar, and while she'd graduated from crutches, she still moved with a slight limp.

Evie, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Maeve, had mostly recovered from the concussion, dislocated shoulder, and broken collarbone and ribs she'd sustained when the impact of the shell tearing through the charthouse had slammed her into the compartment's aft bulkhead. But she still favored her left hip and knee, which displayed the mottled dark brown of fading bruises. Both girls were quiet; Abby knew they were chasing their inner demons, just as she and Alex were.

Lieutenant Commander Penelope Ashcroft, now the Jocasta survivors' acting commanding officer, had joined the group. Her promotion to two-and-a-half stripes on December 1st--the same day Alex, Evie, and Maeve had been promoted to lieutenant--had suited her well.

"Master Bergstrom's still in isolation," Ashcroft said, wiping sweat from her brow, "but the doctors at the disease ward say she's past the danger zone. She's feeling well enough to want to see the Gunnery Department casualty reports. A good sign."

Abby remembered that Astrid had come through the sinking with minor injuries, but while waiting for transportation off Telavi, she had contracted a severe case of yellow fever. For a while, they'd all worried she wasn't going to make it.

"Any updates on the casualty list, ma'am?" Maeve asked.

Ashcroft's expression grew serious. "No, it's still fifty-nine killed or missing, one hundred fourteen wounded. Only thirty-five uninjured; they really got us good. The Board of Inquiry found that most of the casualties were from the explosion."

"What about the Captain?" Evie asked.

"There's been no sign of Lieutenant Commander Thorne since she was last seen on the forecastle deck near Gun Mount 1. Given the shock of the explosion, the currents in that area, and the sharks... Anyway, she's still listed as missing. Same for Master Jensen. As for Master Walsh..." Ashcroft paused, glancing from face to face. "Since the Admiralty confirmed from third-party accounts that she was mortally wounded with no chance of surviving, they've changed her status to 'Killed in Action, Body Not Recovered.' I'm sorry."

Abby stared at the ground. No tears came; she'd cried nearly all of them out over the past six weeks. Besides, they'd all come to accept that Fee never made it off the ship, given how quickly it had exploded. And even if she had, the poor woman had only hours left, possibly only minutes. Abby doubted she'd even been conscious when the magazine blew.

That brought the officer casualty count to fifteen out of fifteen: four killed or missing, ten wounded, and one sick. No one had made it out unscathed, even Master Ashcroft, although Abby and her friends had been the only ones in serious enough condition to require extended hospital stays. Cecilia Winslow, Harper Langley, Freya Lindstrom, Theodora Fairfax-Neville, and Hazel Prescott had all been treated aboard Telavi for minor wounds and had long since rotated back to sea duty.

Master Ashcroft had already told them what had happened to most of that latter group. Master Winslow had been promoted to lieutenant commander along with Ashcroft and had been assigned to command one of the Navy's new destroyer escorts. Master Langley had been promoted to lieutenant and given command of one of the harbor tugs at Sunset Quay. Freya and Theodora had both been promoted to junior lieutenant, but had been split up and sent to different ships: Freya to a cruiser and Theodora to a carrier. However, Lieutenant Commander Ashcroft had deflected any questions about Hazel except that she had recovered from her wounds and returned to duty.

Abby had gotten the same treatment when she asked about Madeline Mercer. All she'd been told was that the Chief had visited her at the 3rd Division Hospital daily before leaving the island, although between the concussion and the morphine, she had no memory of any of it.

She still had the hastily scribbled note Mercer had left for her:

Master Guilford: It takes more than a shiny Academy ring to earn the respect of the deck plates. You earned every bit of yours. I'm proud to have served with you.--Madeline Mercer

That small, scruffy piece of paper held a place of honor alongside her letters from Pop. But beyond that note, she knew nothing of Mercer's eventual fate. And for whatever reason, Ashcroft wasn't talking.

Abby wished she'd been able to properly say goodbye to all six women, but it obviously hadn't been possible. Maybe one day, she'd be able to seek each one out and buy her a drink for old times' sake.

Assuming they--and she--survived the war in the first place.

Eager to change the subject, Abby asked a question she knew was on everyone's mind.

"Ma'am, we've seen officers get orders who got here about the same time as we did. Some of them were hurt worse than any of us. Why are we still here? Is the Admiralty waiting for us to fail physical therapy so they have an excuse to ship us back to the mainland to make coffee for the admirals?"

Ashcroft's voice turned as icy as it had been during the dressing-down she'd given the young officer before the Sunset Quay port call. "Master Guilford, mind your words. I understand your frustration, but how you've chosen to express it is unprofessional in the extreme."

"Sorry, ma'am," Abby said, mentally scolding herself for letting her mouth run.

"I may have been attached to SOTAV Headquarters to reconstruct the ship's records and deal with the Board of Inquiry, but that's not all I've been doing," Ashcroft said, her deep freeze having thawed as fast as it had set in. "I'm working every one of my contacts to make sure the 'Jocasta Experiment' doesn't end in a hospital ward."

Abby remembered what Ashcroft had said about her royal pedigree and family connections. It gave her a small measure of hope she really needed.

&@&

1835 Hours

Abby lay on her bunk, glaring up at Evie, who loomed over her, arms crossed. "The answer is still 'no,' Evelyn. What part of 'no' do you not understand?"

But Evie wasn't about to let this go. "It's your birthday. 'No' is not an option. We already went through this with your promotion party. You are not spending the evening sitting in this hut and staring at the deckhead. I dragged you to the O' Club last week, and by the Seven Sisters, I'll drag you again, even if I have to carry both you and Maeve personally."

"Hey, I can walk," Maeve said, sitting up and grabbing her cane. "Don't expect me to dance, though. Come on, Abby. Quit being a drip about this."

Abby glanced at Alex, hoping for support, but didn't get any.

"Please, Abby. It'll be fun."

Abby reluctantly gave in. She couldn't say no to Alex.

They stepped out of the hut and into an evening filled with the calls of tropical birds and the rumble of distant aircraft at the nearby Marine airfield. They found Lieutenant Commander Ashcroft waiting for them outside, but to Abby's pleasant surprise, a sharply turned-out Marine second lieutenant was with her.

"Audrey!" Alex's face lit up with the first genuine smile Abby had seen from her all day as she returned the lieutenant's salute, then clasped her hands in greeting.

Second Lieutenant Lady Audrey Hawthorne, Royal Corps of Marines, Alex's younger sister, greeted the group with a grin. By sheer coincidence, she'd been assigned a couple of months ago as the assistant communications officer for the Marine air group on the island. And by a further twist of circumstances, she'd seen the patient manifest for Alex's medical evacuation flight come over the wire and immediately sought out her older sister. Abby remembered how the emotions had flowed at their unexpected reunion. Since then, Audrey's sister's friends had become her friends, especially Abby, who had found in her a kindred spirit.

"You all look about as lively as a chain gang," Audrey said, her dry wit reminding Abby of Fee. "I heard it's Abby's birthday, so I came to invite this whole motley crew to the club to celebrate. I have a surprise, though I have to admit it's mostly for my sister. But consider it a birthday gift by association."

Abby felt a spark of curiosity that had been rare lately. "A surprise?"

"A big one," Audrey said, gesturing toward the club. "And even better, the drinks are on the house tonight."

&@&

Officer's Club

FNB Karaleti

1845 Hours

The O' Club was noisy and crowded with aviators and non-flyers, Navy and Marine officers, all drinking cheap beer to forget the war. But rather than the main bar, Audrey led them to a door marked Senior Officers Only.

The room smelled of brandy and leather, entirely too elegant for the island. By the window, a tall, powerfully built man in Marine greens stood in the fading sunlight, his presence commanding the room.

Major General Lord Archibald Hawthorne Jr. turned as they entered. When Alex spotted him, her composure faltered.

"Father? How? When?"

Their reunion was far less formal than Abby expected. Given what Alex had shared about their troubles getting along, she half-expected her lover to pop to attention and salute.

But Alex did no such thing. Not that she would have had the chance; with no thought to military decorum, the General caught her in a fierce embrace, holding her close for several seconds before he pulled back to stroke her cheek, his fingers tracing tenderly over her scars.

"I'm only on base until tomorrow morning," he said, his voice a deep rumble. "Conference with COMSOTAV, then off to the Quay. I happened to run into Audrey at headquarters, and she told me you were here. There was no way I was getting on that plane without spending time with my girls."

Releasing Alex from the bear hug, he smoothly recovered his military bearing.

"I'm glad to meet all of you," he said, surveying the assembled women. "You may not realize it, but your ship's sacrifice wasn't in vain. The Chaar have pretty much given up the island. Apparently, they've lost so many ships, soldiers, and aircraft that it isn't worth it to stick around. Your task force was a major contributing factor to their decision to pull out. It's going to save us tens of thousands of casualties. I'm grateful to all of you, and so are my Marines. But enough shop talk. I want to put faces to the names in my daughter's letters."

He turned to Master Ashcroft, then glanced at Audrey, who had apparently been designated as his acting aide-de-camp for the evening.

"Lieutenant Commander Her Royal Highness the Princess Penelope, Countess Ashcroft," Audrey said. "Acting commanding officer of the destroyer Jocasta."

Lord Archibald stared at her for a moment. Then, his eyes widened in recognition.

"Oh, my god! Are you really that Penelope? 'Little Penny?'" When Ashcroft nodded, he continued, "Last I saw Your Royal Highness, you were ten years old and hiding on your father's battleship during the commissioning ceremony. How's he doing these days? Still running the Admiralty like a private yacht club?"

Ashcroft smiled, looking not the least bit intimidated. "He's doing well, My Lord. He has fond memories of your time together aboard Westmark. I'll make sure to let him know I got the chance to pay my respects. He'll be delighted to hear it."

Alex, Evie, and Maeve immediately whirled on their acting commander.

"Hang on, you're a 'Royal Highness'?" Evie asked. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"The Navy doesn't use social titles afloat, so there was no reason to say anything," Ashcroft said, exchanging knowing glances with Abby.

"Sheesh, you think you know a person," Maeve muttered, causing the other women to suppress giggles.

Heart in throat, Abby stood at parade rest as Audrey introduced Evie, then Maeve. At last, Alex pulled her in front of Lord Archibald. Meeting your girlfriend's father for the first time is nerve-racking enough, but when that father is a larger-than-life Marine general...

"Junior Lieutenant Abigail Guilford," Audrey said. "Jocasta's assistant first lieutenant."

The General shook Abby's hand. His grip was firm, and his eyes were just as piercing as Alex's. It was easy to see where she got them from.

"Guilford, eh? Alexandra's written about you most of all. I'm delighted to meet the officer she considers such an important friend."

The party began in earnest. As they moved to a table, Abby watched Ashcroft lean in to have a quiet conversation with the General. She gestured toward the four of them, her expression intense, and he was nodding in response. Abby realized then that her acting captain wasn't only "looking into things"; she was lobbying the highest levels of the Lyrian military.

She mostly stayed quiet, watching and listening, unless the General spoke to her directly. Despite the veneer of formality, Alex and Audrey weren't the least bit intimidated by Lord Archibald's rank, and he never once flaunted it. In that moment, they were nothing more than a father and his daughters.

As they were about to leave, Lord Archibald pulled Alex aside for a one-on-one chat. Abby retreated with Audrey out of respect for their privacy, but was left curious about what they were discussing.

"That conversation's overdue by about a year and a half," Audrey said, answering Abby's unspoken question. She let out a long sigh. "Father wanted us all to be Marines, but Alex wasn't having it. She was very close to our late great-grandmother--closer than any of the rest of us--and always wanted to be just like her. She and Father fought over her choosing the Navy over the Corps, and then they fought some more when she chose destroyers over battleships." Audrey shook her head. "Grandfather tried to stay out of it, but he finally gave Father a dressing-down. Said he always felt that Alex carried the same spirit in her as Great-Granny. Told Father that the least he could do to honor his grandmother was to let his daughter follow in her footsteps. I think Father felt guilty after that, but he and Alex haven't really spent much time together since then."

Abby glanced toward father and daughter. "You think they're going to bury the hatchet tonight?"

"Gods, I hope so," Audrey said with a sardonic chuckle. "I'm getting tired of playing mediator." Her tone softened. "But I think they'll be fine. They've had some legendary battles over the years, but they never could stay angry with each other for long. It all would've been settled more than a year ago, but then the Quay happened, and we lost Archie, so..."

Abby gazed at Alex and her father. "I just want her to be happy."

Audrey smiled knowingly. "I've seen the way she looks at you when she thinks nobody's watching. I'd say she's pretty happy right now."

&@&

Deciding to wait for Alex to open up, Abby didn't mention Lord Archibald on the way back to the hut, other than to say how he'd impressed her. But as they walked, Alex said nothing, even though her conversation with her father had clearly affected her deeply.

They'd made it halfway back when Abby couldn't take it anymore. She slowed down to let Evie and Maeve walk ahead.

"You okay, baby?" She draped a protective arm around Alex's good shoulder. "What happened? He wasn't mean to you, was he?"

Alex came to an abrupt stop. Her face dropped into her hands, and her shoulders began to shake. Abby took her into her arms and let her cry it out.

Maeve and Evie noticed they were behind and started to come back, but Abby waved them off.

Finally, when Alex pulled away, Abby dug into her pocket to retrieve the repurposed gauze pad that doubled as her handkerchief.

"He wasn't mean at all," Alex said, wiping her eyes with the proffered cloth. "He apologized to me. Actually, we apologized to each other. It's a long story. Maybe some other time."

"Audrey already told me the gist," Abby said. "You don't have to tell me the details until you're ready."

"And he told me he..." Alex's breath hitched. "... he loved me. I can't tell you how long it's been since I heard those words from him. He said he never got to say it to Archie before the end. That he almost didn't get to say it to me. Told me he didn't want to miss his second chance."

Losing the fight against a fresh wave of emotion, she nestled against Abby, who held her until she was ready to continue.

"He also said that Great-Granny would have been proud of me like he was, and that when he read my Golden Trefoil citation, he had a brief mental image of her on the bridge of her flagship. Given all that's happened, he's even more proud now. And not just proud of me--of all of us, including you. Especially you, because I told him about the Paramount rescue and how many Jocasta sailors you saved. For what it's worth, he said we both would have made model Marines."

It was the highest praise a Marine could offer a Navy officer. Overwhelmed, Abby clung to Alex, her own tears finally spilling over.

There was no longer any doubt in her mind: she wasn't some random girl who happened to be the daughter of a man named Guilford anymore. She was Junior Lieutenant Abigail Guilford. She'd earned her own place, just as she'd always intended.

&@&

Navy Mobile Hospital 12

25-I-1132 | 1900 Hours

Nearly a month had gone by since Abby's birthday. She'd felt more restless with every passing day as she watched other officers on the ward continue to get new assignments while she and her friends were left behind in that kiln-like hut. Her depression got worse as time passed. Even though Lieutenant Commander Ashcroft and the others all tried to reassure her, Abby still believed the Admiralty wanted the "Jocasta girls" to disappear so they could forget about the whole experiment.

That night after dinner, Master Ashcroft unexpectedly gathered them under their usual banyan tree. This time, Astrid Bergstrom joined them. Recently released from bed rest, she was still thin and pale, but the fiery blonde's spirits had mostly recovered.

The acting captain held a large stack of papers that immediately caught Abby's attention.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I called this little meeting," she said, looking quite pleased with herself. "To cut to the chase, I have your orders!"

She handed the packets out one by one. Abby was afraid to look. What if the ship's name on her orders didn't match the one on Alex's?

While she procrastinated, the other women studied their copies in silence until Astrid eventually spoke up.

"RLNS Iris, huh? Isn't that one of those new Gaia-class jobs?"

Everyone started talking at once as they compared paperwork. By the time the chatter had died down, they'd discovered that all six of them had been assigned to Iris.

Abby stared at her orders, hardly daring to believe it. But there it was in Paragraph 6:

6. Upon completion pre-commissioning instruction proceed Fenwick Iron Works Ltd South Fenwick Harbor Fenwick Province and report officer in charge nucleus crew RLNS Iris for duty as prospective first lieutenant and for follow-on duty on board that vessel when commissioned.

"We're being assigned as the nucleus crew along with a hand-picked team of warrants and chief petty officers," Ashcroft said. "And Master Bergstrom's correct: the ship is one of those big new fleet destroyers." Her mouth stretched into an uncharacteristically wide grin. "Her name's Iris for now, but the Admiralty is already processing the request to change that. Within the month, she'll become the next Jocasta."

"All of us?" Evie said, sounding incredulous. "The same ship?"

"All of us. I'll stay as your Captain with Master Bergstrom as my XO. The rest of you are my department heads: Master Hawthorne in Gunnery, Master O'Connor in Engineering, Master Sterling in Operations--you know, the new comm and nav center we were going to convert to before Telavi." She paused, her eyes lingering on Abby. "And you, Master Guilford, are my first lieutenant."

Abby looked from her orders to Ashcroft, then back to her orders.

"But I'm so junior," was all she could manage.

Ashcroft shook her head. "You've proven yourself in combat more than once. I wouldn't have settled for anyone else." She briefly glanced through the papers still in her hand. "Besides, the new ship won't get commissioned until much later in the year. The odds are that you'll be promoted again before that happens."

"Thank you, ma'am," Abby said, still not quite believing it.

"And I have further news that will interest all of you, especially Masters Bergstrom and Guilford," Ashcroft continued. "You two have been badgering me for weeks for news about Master Prescott and Chief Mercer. Well, now that the Admiralty has finalized everyone's assignments, I can tell you that Master Prescott has been promoted to chief warrant and assigned as our ship's gunner, and Chief Mercer has been promoted to warrant officer and will serve as our ship's boatswain."

"Oh, thank the gods!" Astrid said. "We're going to have one hell of a leadership team. The Chaar better watch out. They're about to get beaten down by a bunch of girls."

"My thoughts exactly," Ashcroft said, her grin undimmed.

Abby could hardly believe it. Her dream of being assigned to the same ship as Alex had come true, and not only was it a plum billet aboard a new destroyer, Madeline Mercer came as part of the package. What a kick-ass Deck Department that was going to be!

The crushing weight of the last six weeks finally began to lift.

The celebration that followed was their most joyous since that first dinner after they'd sunk the Chaarish submarine. There were hugs all around; Evie even hugged Astrid, who looked surprised but pleased. And, of course, Abby and Alex shared a too-quick embrace of their own.

"This is more than a reassignment," Ashcroft said, looking searchingly at each of them in turn. "This is a personal message from the First Sea Lord that he considers the experiment successful. He convinced the Admiralty to give us a new ship to prove it further. On top of that, he's arranged for our sister ship to also have an all-female crew. They've even stood up an all-female fighter squadrons, and more are coming."

"Have they chosen a name for the sister ship yet?" Alex asked.

Right now, she's RLNS Tyche, but after the renaming order is signed, she'll be..." Ashcroft paused, hand briefly covering her lips. Abby had never seen her look so emotional before. "... RLNS Katherine Thorne."

In itself, the mention of their fallen captain sucked much of the joy out of the gathering, but what Ashcroft said next hit like a hammer blow.

"They're already planning for her daughter to attend the hull launch next year." She paused, took a breath, then another. "I wrote the child a letter. One of the hardest things I've ever done. And she's probably too young to understand it. The rest of you might consider it, though, so she'll have a collection, and when she's older, she can read them and remember."

Abby, who'd thought she'd long since cried herself out over her lost shipmates, suddenly found herself fighting for control, something that hadn't even happened when she'd heard Thorne had been declared killed in action.

Fuck! That poor little girl!

"Damn this war to the Seven Hells!"

Abby wasn't sure who said it, but she didn't dare look to find out, afraid her friends' expressions would set her off.

Astrid finally broke the long silence. "Her crew better do her justice. Never back down, fight to the end, just like the Skipper." She stared into the distance, as if revisiting that final night in her mind. "Man, I'd give my left hand to command a ship named after her, class ring and all. And if I was half as good at it as she was, I'd consider it duty well done."

Abby and the others murmured their agreement.

"You never know, it just might happen," Ashcroft said, now back to hiding the grief of her painful memories behind an enigmatic half-smile. "But apart from all that, Katherine Thorne wouldn't want us to dwell on how she got a ship named after her. So let's talk about our next steps instead, shall we?"

To Abby's relief, the group launched into a lengthy comparison of their orders, discussing the training each of them would need and the similarities and differences between the two destroyer classes.

Before long, it was almost time for taps. Abby and Alex took the chance to slip away, as they usually did, to say good night in private. They went back to the same beach that Abby had labeled dismal a month earlier. Now, it didn't seem quite so undesirable. From her vantage point on the sand, she thought the moonlight reflecting off the water looked like a path to the future.

When they were sure they were alone, Alex tenderly took Abby into her arms.

"We're going to be together, darling," she murmured.

Abby gazed into her eyes. "I love you. Can't seem to say it enough."

"And I love you, too, more than my life," Alex replied, then kissed Abby gently on the lips.

To Abby, that was their sweetest kiss yet.

&@&

Chapter Sixteen: Set the Watch

Aboard RLNS Jocasta (DF-724)

Pier 21, Fenwick Iron Works

29-IX-1132 | 0857 Hours

The newest incarnation of RLNS Jocasta, the fourth of her name since the Royal Lyrian Navy's establishment, lay moored to her shipyard dock, waiting for the ceremony that would send her to war. On the fantail, the crew stood at parade rest in a large, U-shaped formation, their blue service dress uniforms crisp and their lines razor-straight. At the head of the formation stood the newly promoted Lieutenant Commander Astrid Bergstrom.

Abby, wearing full dress blues complete with medals, had taken her place in the front rank of the officers, with Alex, Evie, and Maeve to her right. The officiating party stood facing the officers: Commander Penelope Ashcroft--also recently promoted--along with the Navy's shipyard liaison, senior shipyard executives, and brass from nearby Fenwick Harbor Navy Yard.

Abby had herself been promoted to lieutenant in June, joining her friends, and now four sets of double sleeve stripes shone in the sunlight. She'd even been awarded two shiny new decorations to go with her promotion: a Bronze Trefoil for her conduct during the Naval Battle of Telavi, and a Robert VI Medal, First Class, for noncombat valor for her heroic efforts during the Paramount rescue.

She also had a bronze wound badge to remind her of the challenges she'd faced over the past fourteen months. Her left arm, once shattered and useless, was now as strong and fully functional as if it had never been broken. In contrast, the pink scar over her left temple would serve as a constant public reminder of her war service for the rest of her life.

The pre-commissioning work-up had been tough. Their new Jocasta was larger and far more complex than her predecessor. The nucleus crew of officers and chiefs had spent long, sometimes frustrating months at the Iron Works learning everything there was to know about a Gaia-class destroyer. But they'd made it through and had grown their nucleus into a well-trained crew of 325 that was more than ready to take on the Chaar Ascendancy.

Abby recalled the congratulatory telegram she'd received from her parents:

CONGRATS ON NEW SHIP STOP SORRY WILL MISS CEREMONY STOP ALDEN WOULD BE PROUD STOP FAIR WINDS AND FOLLOWING SEAS STOP LOVE POP AND MAMA

Abby sneaked a glance at Alex. The scars on her lover's cheek had faded to a light pink, barely visible in the shade of her cap. She stood with perfect posture, looking every bit like the gunnery officer the ship deserved.

At 0900 sharp, Lieutenant Commander Bergstrom called the formation to attention, then to present arms. As the Navy Yard band played the Royal anthem, Abby recalled the brief, handwritten note she'd received from Queen Rosalind earlier that year, commending her for her bravery in combat. No doubt it was sent at Commander Ashcroft's prompting, but Abby didn't care. She had immediately shipped the irreplaceable letter home for safekeeping, unwilling to trust it to a condom with the rest of her valuables.

When the final notes of the anthem died away, the Navy liaison's amplified voice boomed over the silent rows of sailors.

"Commander Ashcroft, I hereby deliver RLNS Jocasta into your charge."

Ashcroft saluted, then stepped to the microphone, calm as always. She took a sheet of paper from her jacket and began to read:

"ROSALIND THE FOURTH, by the Grace of the Pantheon, of the Kingdom of Lyria and of Her other Realms and Territories Queen, to our Trusty and Well Beloved Commander Her Royal Highness the Princess Penelope, Countess of Ashcroft, KCLO, ST, Greeting:

We, reposing especial Trust and Confidence in your Loyalty, Courage, and good Conduct, do by these Presents Constitute and Appoint you to be Commanding Officer of Our Royal Lyrian Navy Ship Jocasta from the Twenty-Ninth day of the Ninth month of Kingdom Year 1132.

You are therefore carefully and diligently to discharge your Duty as such, and you are in such manner on such occasions as may be prescribed by Us to exercise and well discipline in their duties such officers and women as may be placed under your orders from time to time and use your best endeavors to keep them in good order and discipline. And We do hereby Command them to Obey you as their Commanding Officer, and you to observe and follow such Orders and Directions as from time to time you shall receive from Us, or any superior Officer, according to the Rules and Discipline of War, in pursuance of the Trust hereby reposed in you.

Given at Our Court at Graywater Palace the Thirtieth day of the One Thousand, One Hundred Thirty-Second Year of the Kingdom, in the Sixth Year of Our Reign.

BY HER MAJESTY'S COMMAND."

Ashcroft restored the orders to her jacket pocket and addressed the crew.

"Officers and sailors of Jocasta: To the Admiralty, this ship is Hull DF-745, a collection of guns and turbines, but we know better. This ship bears a name bought with blood. We carry the lineage of the brave women who stood firm during the Naval Battle of Telavi, who fought gloriously until the Sea God claimed them."

She paused, her gaze sweeping across the assembled ship's company.

"Your executive officer and department heads are battle-tested leaders who have seen the worst the enemy can offer, but while experienced leadership is important, it is not enough to turn a ship into a weapon of war. That can only happen if the entire crew, down to the most junior sailor, transforms itself into a weapon first. We shall be that weapon. We shall honor those we lost by taking the fight to the enemy. And we shall prevail."

Ashcroft turned toward her XO. "Lieutenant Commander Bergstrom, set the watch."

Astrid responded with a sharp salute. "Aye-aye, ma'am! Boatswain, pipe the watch!"

The sound of Madeline Mercer's boatswain's pipe echoed across the harbor.

After the call ended, Astrid commanded, "Sailors, report to your stations!"

As the square broke apart and the sailors went about their business, Abby felt an adrenaline rush. With her full crew aboard, the new Jocasta seemed almost like a living being. If Abby had her way, she would make sure that this larger, more powerful Jocasta avenged not only her predecessor, but Abby's fallen friends, as well.

&@&

Room 424

Royal Bainbridge Hotel

Fenwick Harbor

2134 Hours

Distant harbor sounds drifted through the open window. Inside, moonlight bathed the disorganized heap of Navy uniform parts scattered across a nearby easy chair.

Abby and Alex had been given one final day of freedom before the new Jocasta departed on her shakedown cruise. They'd spent the bulk of it, hours and hours, making love over and over.

On the double bed, Abby knelt over Alex, fingers thrusting, drawing gasps and moans of appreciation. After nearly a year together, she knew exactly how Alex liked to be touched. How deep she needed to go to make her lover's back arch. How firmly she needed to push her fingers into Alex's G-spot to make her hips thrust and her legs twitch. The exact way to tease Alex's clit so that her usually stoic composure shattered.

"Abby... please," Alex groaned, her fingers clutching at the bedsheets. "So close..."

"Let it go, baby," Abby murmured. She thrusted deeper, pressed harder, coaxing further whimpers of need from her lover's lips.

This side of Alex, stripped of her military bearing and the weight of her family legacy, leaving only her bare essence, was a sight no one else got to see. Abby couldn't help gloating over that fact; it made all the heated glances Alex had been getting from her fans among the JOs easier to bear.

With a final curl of her fingers and flick of her thumb, Abby pushed Alex over the edge. She cried out, calling Abby's name, her body bowing upward as her climax overwhelmed her. Shivering as the intense waves slowly subsided, she pulled Abby into a deep kiss.

The room settled into a peaceful silence. The scent of their arousal hung heavy in the warm air. Abby lay down next to Alex, pulling her close, ignoring the sweat that covered both their bodies.

"Don't you ever get enough, darling?" Alex let out a muffled giggle against Abby's shoulder.

Abby laughed with her. "We're making up for lost time," she said, tracing her fingers over Alex's back. "A lot of missed opportunities over the past year."

"What missed opportunities? We spent most of our leave back in February in bed. We've been living together since April. Give a girl a break already. You're going to wear me out."

"Baby, you give as good as you get, and you know it." Abby nibbled gently at Alex's shoulder. "Anyway, the night's still young. And who knows how long it'll be until you have me all to yourself again? We won't be able to do this kind of thing in our stateroom."

"Fair enough. Can't argue with your flawless logic. I was only kidding, anyway. You know I can't resist you."

With a sudden burst of energy that took Abby by surprise, Alex flipped them over so that she was on top.

"I guess you weren't as tired as I thought," Abby said, grinning up at her. "Should I be worried?"

Alex answered with the gentlest of kisses to Abby's lips, then to each cheek, then to the side of her neck, flicking the tip of her tongue against it.

"No fair, going for my weak spot like that!"

"You said I give as good as I get." Alex trailed her lips along Abby's jawline on the way to the other side of her neck. "Well, I got, and it was very good. Now it's time to give. But I'm going to go nice and slow. Tease you until you go crazy. Let's see how long you can hold out."

"Oh, you're so evil!"

"If making love to you, showing how much I love you, is evil, then guilty as charged."

Despite her determined effort, Abby's resistance was hopeless in the face of the lover who knew her body so intimately. Alex's slow, relentless assault with fingers, lips, and tongue, focusing everywhere but where Abby wanted most, drove her to the best kind of insanity.

After her pleas for release grew desperate, Alex finally relented, her fingers sliding through drenched lips and into Abby's entrance, then back up to her clit, over and over in an excruciatingly slow rhythm. But just as Abby could feel her release gather momentum, Alex abruptly pulled her hand away.

"Aww, c'mon! Why're you stopping?"

Alex answered by devouring Abby's pussy, exploring, probing, hitting all the right spots. Abby gave in to the glorious assault, making sounds she'd usually consider embarrassing, and saying all sorts of things she'd never dare say in polite company.

It didn't take long from there. When Alex finally found her way to Abby's clit, wrapping her lips around it, caressing it with her tongue, Abby was done for, writhing and twisting and speaking in tongues as her orgasm swept through her.

&@&

As they lay next to each other, savoring the intimacy of afterglow, Abby ran gentle fingers over the tiny shrapnel scars on Alex's sides, arms, and face. Not that she found them repellent; far from it. To Abby, each mark was a testament to her lover's courage, and it only made Alex that much more beautiful. The warmth of her skin, the steady beat of her heart, the fit of their bodies together... it all felt sacred, especially now that Abby had seen firsthand how easily it could be taken away.

They'd been together for nearly a year, and over that time, Abby had come to believe that she could easily make a life with the woman lying in her arms, something she'd never even considered for her and Charlie. Despite the difference in their social positions, their personalities and values fit so well together. The horror of combat and the pain losing dear friends had bound them together.

Best of all, their shared passion still burned as brightly as it did all those months ago, during their very first kiss. The words "I love you" were no longer just desperate whispers in the dark; they had become an unshakable mutual promise.

Abby tried not to think about what might lie ahead. War had a way of interfering with "happy ever after." As long as they both remained in active service, their chances of being separated for extended periods were high. Then there was the ever-present threat of permanent separation in the form of combat death. Abby doubted she'd ever recover from losing Alex like that.

Even so, there was no way she'd give up now. She loved Alex far too much to walk away.

Not wanting to ruin the night with dark thoughts, Abby shifted her focus.

"It was kind of strange walking onto our new ship," she said, breaking the long, comfortable silence. "It almost felt like Rosie and Fee and Ingrid were right there in the formation with us. And sometimes when I go into the pilothouse, I can imagine Lieutenant Commander Thorne strolling through the rear door, the way she always did."

"Same for me. We'll always remember them, every time we toast absent companions. So I guess in that sense, they'll be with us wherever we sail."

The silence grew heavy as the dark memories of loss briefly returned.

"You know, I really like our wardroom," Abby said, eager to lighten the conversation. "The JOs really seem to get along."

"That they do."

"But they're all so young. Besides the eight of us and the two new junior lieutenants, we've got nine brand new ensigns. They look like kids."

"I saw the Class of '33 grads on the quarterdeck today," Alex said, running her fingers idly through Abby's hair. "They were like two peas in a pod. Very close. They're going to need seasoning, but I have a feeling they'll do okay. So will the other seven. Good thing they've got the two sharpest warrant officers in the entire Navy and a solid group of chiefs to keep an eye on them."

"We will, too." Abby propped herself up on one elbow. "So, where do you think we're headed after the shakedown?"

"The Tavian," Alex said, yawning. "Maeve's been hanging around the shipyard engineering offices again. Apparently, the last six Gaia-class hulls were all sent west. Maeve's sources think something big's going to happen, but they don't know what or when. I guess we'll see."

"There's a rumor going around that Commander Bergstrom may be getting her own ship. Heard anything definite?"

"It's a fact, not a rumor. Remember my meeting with the Captain this afternoon? That's what we talked about. Bergstrom's going to take over Katherine Thorne sometime before the end of the year, once her current captain gets her through her shakedown cruise. I meant to tell you earlier, but you were, uh, just a little impatient to get over here."

"Oh, come on, you've been waiting for tonight as much as I have," Abby said, leaning down to give her a peck on the lips. "Good for Commander Bergstrom, though. I'll bet she's really happy." Then she remembered what Astrid had said all those months ago about wishing she could command Thorne and how the Captain had responded. "Hey, you don't suppose our well-connected skipper had anything to do with this, do you?"

"Wouldn't be a bit surprised. She has a tendency to get what she wants. And she told me something else: when Bergstrom goes, she's going to ask I be assigned as the next XO."

"That's swell, baby! Really good for your career!" Then Abby had a sobering thought. "It'll be even harder for us with you as my boss. You could get in serious trouble if we're not careful."

"We'll have to take what we can get, darling. She said the Admiralty's been looking at me for an XO billet, anyway, so if she can arrange it, the Navy won't move me. That gives us a year, maybe a year and a half, before Personnel splits us up, unless something like Telavi happens again. But after that, we'll have to learn to deal with spending most of our time on opposite sides of the world. I don't even want to think about how hard that'll be."

Abby leaned over to touch her forehead to Alex's. "I've thought a lot about this. When the war ends... if the Admiralty tries to split us up, I'll transfer to the reserves, if that's what it takes to be with you."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Alex said, smoothing Abby's bangs out of her eyes. "You belong in this Navy just as much as I do, and I won't let you throw that away. Besides, my parents have been married for over thirty years, and Father's been deployed for at least half of that, but they've survived it. He told me once that the only way he and Mother made it through was by focusing entirely on the reunions, never on the separations." She drew Abby into a lingering kiss. "We can do it, too, because we love each other. That's the most important thing, isn't it?"

With that tender reassurance, the last of Abby's misgivings finally faded. If the war tried to tear them apart, she would just have to endure it. Whatever it took, she would survive to find her way back to Alex.

She pulled Alex tighter, her emotions surging. "Have I told you lately how much I love you?"

"Yes, but I like it better when you show me," Alex murmured, wrapping her arms around Abby and gently guiding her back down onto the mattress.

Tomorrow, they would take an untested crew into the Tavian Ocean. The war was still waiting for them, but as their lips met, their kiss felt to Abby like a promise: whatever the War Goddess demanded of them next, they would face it together.

&@&

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