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the Bridge of any warship, except an Outsider, remained accessible for legitimate errands, and was usually bustling. The Bridge of the Wulf , without any explicit orders from Copeland, had become like the Bridge of an Outsider: quiet, withdrawn, a place where communication was sparse and nuanced.
    The hour started to stretch out. His instincts had produced the mood which infected the rest of them, and made time pass so uncomfortably, but nevertheless most of them trusted his instincts—a trust justified when, just as the hour passed, he activated the alarms and yelled for battle stations, moments before the screen showed the convoy breaking up.
     
    •
    “Freighters Twenty, Twenty-Four and Twenty-Nine no longer respond to signals,” the convoy leader yelled. “This isn’t like the last time. They aren’t coming back. Their remote guidance systems have been completely burned out.”
    “It is like the last time,” Copeland said, “because you don’t know what caused it or where it came from. Do you?”
    “No, Captain, but I’ve ordered members of my crew to board them and take them in manually.”
    “Cancel those orders.”
    “But…..”
    “I’m taking personal command of those three. Re-form your convoy without them and get under way.”
    Copeland cut the connection and watched on the forward screen as the line of freighters moved slowly ahead; automatic filters on the screen compensated for the brief sequential blaze, one by one, of their crude chemical motors. The three which had broken formation stayed where they were, a tight huddled knot of spheres and girders behind the main line of the convoy, like the dot at the bottom of an exclamation mark.
    It was as though someone had made a deliberate gesture, and Copeland knew who: not where, why, or how, but definitely who.
    “Signals, I want that answer.”
    “I’ve just got it, Captain. Anubis 4 have rechecked their satellites around the moon and the planet. They say there’s nothing out there, anywhere in the outer system. Except us and the convoy.”
    “Scanners.”
    “Nothing in the inner system either, Captain. Not even anything of ours. All traffic ceased when we lifted off, as you ordered.”
    “And the convoy?”
    “Nothing new to report, Captain. Our monitoring shows nothing to suggest that the breakup was caused by any external signal.”
    “Alright. Maintain battle stations. Pilot, reset previous course and speed, and go back to our previous distance behind the convoy.”
    He settled back lopsidedly into his chair. As it creaked, he added “And Weapons, destroy those three freighters.”
     
    •
    Coming to the end, Copeland thought. Or nearly the end. Always most vulnerable when it seems we might have made it.
    “Well?”
    “It seems we might have made it, Captain. Scanners still show no other vessels.”
    “Alright. Get me Khan’s.”
    “Convoy leader to Wulf ,” piped the chair-side screen.
    “Yes?”
    “The convoy is ready to go into landing formation, Captain.”
    The forward screen showed the manned leader and twenty-eight surviving freighters strung out in a loose, miles-long line ahead. Beyond them, a similar shade of grey, was the naked single moon of Anubis 4 on which Khan’s gleamed like a dropped coin. Beyond that, and dwarfing everything else, was the planet itself, with a roiling opalescent cloud-cover of plum and ochre. Like most gas giants, its atmosphere made it look out of focus.
    “Captain, the convoy is ready to go into landing formation.”
    Copeland’s chair creaked; it, too, had felt the strain of the last few hours.
    “Thanks. I’ll say when.”
    “I have Khan’s, Captain. It’s Ms. Khan herself.”
    “ Doctor Khan.”
    “Apologies, Captain. Putting her through now.”
    “Doctor Khan, this is Copeland.”
    “Captain Copeland, you’re very welcome….”
    There was a burst of static. Copeland was immediately wary, but said nothing.
    “I said you’re very welcome. I hear your journey was not