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the horizon of Anubis 4’s single moon. He tried to imagine Her there, and tried in particular to imagine Her commander—for surely, whatever She was and wherever She came from, there would be something inside Her like a commander—who had done this.
    She could easily have attacked the convoy direct. She could easily have destroyed the Wulf —though he would never, never have said this in anyone’s hearing—and then destroyed the convoy. But this had such flavour, such symmetry: to get them to do it for Her, while She scrupulously observed the one-at-a-time landing protocols which they themselves had negotiated. He had no language for it. Foord , he thought, if it’s true that they’re sending you to face Her at Horus, I hope you’re strange enough. I’m not.
    Again the particle beam stabbed out. Again. Again. Seven, Eight, Nine. The freighters were unmanned, non-military and therefore defenseless, which somehow made it worse. The filtered wreckage-less frame on the screen, the dark area where the beam waited for them and where they entered passively, was like the curtain across an abattoir door.
    Ten. Eleven. And then a roaring swamped the Bridge and something rose over the horizon of the moon.
    It was a patch of empty space. Just like the empty space around it, but something was wrong. This was like a patch of empty space from another day, or seen from another angle. It was different; and it moved.
    Copeland screamed as the forward screen erupted with light and a deep violet afterimage settled across his eyes like a piece of hot iron. When his sight returned, the screen was still shuffling filters and the Wulf was left bobbing in the wake of whatever had passed. The screen cleared, voices returned to the comm channels, and normality crept back, injured, to the Bridge. The disruption had been total but lasted no longer than a heartbeat. The Weapons Officer was first to recover and, without speaking, resumed firing on the freighters. Twelve. Thirteen. The screen filtered the glare of the explosions almost gratefully. After what had just passed, that was easy.
    “Khan to Copeland.”
    “Engineering! I want damage reports. Scanners! I want…”
    “Khan to Copeland.”
    “A moment, please, Doctor. Scanners! I want…”
    “Yes, Captain, I have it. Unidentified ship, dimensions equivalent to a large cruiser; shrouded, but we can track Her drive emissions. Emerging from planetside of the moon and travelling on ion drive, about seventy percent.”
    Fourteen. Fifteen.
    “Travelling into the system.”
    “Yes, Captain.”
    “Towards Anubis 3.”
    “Yes, Captain. And She’s still putting out that override signal.”
    Copeland’s head cleared like the screen, totally but perhaps too late. Suddenly the decision was easy.
    “Captain, we have damage reports.”
    “No time. Pilot, Engineering, I want immediate pursuit on ion drive at eighty percent.” He hit the alarms. “Signals, tell Anubis 3 what’s happened, and tell them what’s coming. Weapons, stop destruction of the freighters now. Copeland to Khan.”
    “Captain, those freighters will crashland!”
    “I said now. Copeland to Khan. Doctor, did you hear that?”
    “Captain, Anubis 3 has defences. I don’t. There are two thousand people down here.”
    “Doctor, I wish we were down there with you, it’s the safest place to be. If –” Copeland gasped as his impact harness whipped round him. All the seats sprouted impact harnesses; it looked like the ship was attacking its own crew. The alarms increased a semitone, and red Final Warnings flashed from screens and displays. On the forward screen, Sixteen was halfway through landing descent, Seventeen was following and Eighteen had shuffled into position behind it. “If you don’t see what She’s done, I can’t explain. No time.”
    “Two thousand people, Captain.”
    “I’m sorry. No time.”
    The manoeuvre drives flared. The Wulf was wrenched round a hundred and eighty degrees in little more