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have so far been unable to deliver.” 
    “What does Battle Fleet propose to do then?” Clifton asked.
    There was silence on the military side of the table.
    “We won’t lie to the Council,” Wingate said heavily, “we are still actively considering all possible options. We are currently massing the bulk of the fleet around Earth. A few elements are being retained at Rosa and Hydra Stations to harass the flanks of the Nameless breakthrough. Several others are being withdrawn from Dryad.”
    It was a non-answer that the career politicians of the Council recognised, but they also realised there was nothing to be gained by pointing it out. The militaries of individual nations were being mobilised, states of emergency had been declared and martial law was already in place in a dozen cities. If changes to the leadership of Battle Fleet could have achieved anything, that time had come and gone.
    “I appreciate your candour, Admiral,” Clifton said. “So I need you to answer this question: what are our odds?”
    Wingate didn’t reply for moment.
    “The truth is... the truth is that we will need to beat the odds to be still here in six months.”
    There was a kind of collective sigh in the chamber.
    “Is there anything we can do to improve those odds?”
    “Anything that can be done is being done. The only thing I can add is that I have faith in the officers who will lead this fight. They are the best that are available to us.”
    “I see,” Clifton said before looking up and down the Council side of the table.
    “I assume you remember the discussion of three months ago?”
    Wingate took a long, slow breath.
    “The Lazarus Protocol, ma’am?”
    “Yes. I believe the time has come to activate it.” Clifton again looked up and down the table. “Does anyone here object?” 
    “Is there sufficient time?” the President of France asked quietly.
    “Yes, sir, there is,” Wingate replied. “The preparations have been made. The ships needed have been moved to their start positions. Detailed orders are ready to be issued to the necessary officers.”
    “Is there any knowledge of this outside your office?”
    “No, Madam President, but they will need to be told.”
    “No earlier than they absolutely have to,” Clifton snapped before sitting back. “I’m sorry, Admiral, we know your concerns. We know that they are valid ones, but this… this will be a very difficult thing for the public to swallow, so it will be announced at a moment of the Council’s choosing.”
    “Very well, ma’am,” Wingate said. “I have made my objections, ones I continue to stand by, but I will not waste the Council’s time repeating them.”
    “There is one final matter,” Prime Minister Layland said.
    “I’m not sure that…” Clifton began.
    “With respect, I am,” Layland said, before turning back to Wingate. “Admiral, it has been agreed among the industrialised nations that whatever else happens, we will not suffer the same fate as the Centaurs. The human race will not be marched into extermination camps. If the Nameless make planetary landings, those landing zones will be hit with all means still at our disposal – up to and including nuclear weapons. If the Nameless take this planet, then all they will gain is a radioactive wasteland.”

 
    Chapter Three
    Ghost Ship
     
    20th November 2067 
     
    Crowe glanced up briefly in response to the tap on the hatch.
    “Come in.”
    Alanna entered and came to attention. “You asked to see me, sir.”
    “At ease, Lieutenant,” Crowe said looking up from his work. As usual her face was completely blank. The last time she had been in this cabin was when he’d chewed her out for leaving the civvies on Mars. He’d expected to receive orders to go back and drag them out, but it appeared that higher authority had decided they’d made their bed. Instead Deimos had received something completely unexpected and, in its own way, just as unwelcome.
    “Lieutenant, we’ve