“I can do it.” Tusca looked up from the star charts that had engrossed his attention for most of the day. The voice was one of their pilots. A young man Tusca had seen around, but never properly met. He was arguing with Tusca’s navigator. Scorpio was starting to look equal parts intrigued and convinced that the pilot had gone completely insane. That was not a particularly unusal expression when faced with a pilot who wanted to do something stupid, but was not one often seen aboard Carrier Atlantica. “I can do it,” he repeated, completely certain of himself and his abilities. “Yes, I know it’s close, but I can calculate it as I’m flying and everyone else just has to stay tight on me.” “You want to slingshot the entire fleet around the Geronima black hole,” Scorpio said with the kind of fascination that one applies to a train wreck. “As far as ways to destroy the whole fleet at once, that’s pretty complete.” “The fleet will make it through. I calculated our max gravity-well PSI combined with our shields and the bending effect of jump-drive Jumps. If all our escort ships load inside both Carriers, we can make the Jumps without losing anyone.” The pilot just wasn’t backing down. Tusca drifted closer, interested despite himself to see what exactly the projected course actually was. The numbers looked crazy, but surprisingly, both accurate and maybe even workable. “Why even do that?” he asked, cutting off whatever Scorpio was about to say. The navigator looked relieved to have someone with rank step into the argument. “Our normal flight path-“ “There’s going to be an attack on Geronima base,” the pilot said hurriedly and held up a hand to stave off the questions that sprang to Tusca’s tongue. “I have some friends in the trick-piloting circles. If someone is moving a lot of expensive ships somewhere fast, they hear about it faster than anyone.” “And they told you why?” “Because I paid them to, why else? The attack is coming in less than twelve solar hours.” Twelve solar hours. Tusca wished he had some way to confirm what the pilot was saying, because if he was right, they were about to definitively loose the war. The Imperial Family was at Geronima, and if they died, their armies might not rally. It would be a titanic blow to the Galactic Empire. “Carrier Pacifica is there,” he pointed out, even as he punched in a request for urgent information into his padd and hoped one of the information lackeys could get back fast enough. The Pacifica was the biggest of the Carriers, and an army in her own self. With backup, there was almost nothing that could touch her, and she had backup. “And an escort of destroyers.” “I know,” the pilot waved his explanation away with a serious expression. “And she’s a big girl, don’t get me wrong, but the ships moving in are the India, the Mediterranean, and the Caribbean, with most of the rebellion fleet to back them.” The three Carriers that turned rogue two years ago and started this particularly nasty uprising. The floating, moon-sized, dragon-scale-armored ships that were half heavily armed battle station and half destroyer themselves. One could turn the tide of a whole battle. Three could destroy even the Pacifica. If they had enough help, they could probably take the Pacifica and her escort before help could arrive. Information flowed across his padd, confirming the pilot, and also demanding to know how he found out so fast. Tusca ran his hands over his eyes and thought hard. He was a senior commander. The admiral might listen to him. He sent the information off and turned back to Scorpio and the pilot whose name he still didn’t know. “Geronima station is twenty-four hours or at our best speed,” he said finally. “And no one is closer than we are.” Carrier Atlantica was the second largest Carrier in the fleet. Carrier Arctic was smaller, but more heavily armed and faster. If they and their convoy of destroyers could make it to the Pacifica, they could end the war for good. “I can do it.” There was a mad gleam in the pilot’s eyes, and he smiled with all his teeth. Pilots were always a little crazy, but this one was clearly something else. He shoved his math at Tusca. “Look. Time bends around gravity wells, and it bends farther around Jumps. That’s why we can jump light-years in minutes. If we combine both effects, we can cut eighteen hours off the trip. We can make this attack into an ambush.” It was a good plan, if the math checked out, and Tusca had no idea if it did. He sent it off to Science with a muttered prayer, and called for the Admiral. Jacobi was the understanding sort, and he knew Tusca wouldn’t call for less than an emergency. The math came back, marked by a number of Science Exclamations, but confirmed, almost at the same time that Admiral Jacobi hit the bridge and saw their little cluster. “Commander,” he greeted Tusca with a raised brow. Tusca handed him the math and summed up the situation in a few short sentences. “There is an attack coming on Geronima Base, by the three rogue Carriers,” he explained professionally before the pilot could try and get a word in edgewise. “Information confirmed. This pilot thinks he can get us there in time to catch them between us and the Pacifica.” “You’re crazy,” Jacobi pointed out reasonably, and then read over the math in his hand. A former pilot himself, he understood the numbers better than Tusca did. “Science confirm this too?” “They did.” It was hope. The kind of hope that was unreasonable and impossible and might just be enough. The Admiral thought for a few long minutes of silence, and looked at the pilot, who still looked slightly insane. “What’s your name?” “Roja,” The pilot answered, and saluted politely. “Roja Cortez.” Tusca cursed in four languages. No wonder the pilot had crazy in his eyes. Suddenly everything made a great deal more sense. “You’re-“ he started, and cut himself off, not sure what to say when faced by a living legend. “Hell.” “Yup,” Roja shrugged, but that wild light was still in his eyes and in his smile. “Believe me now?” “Explain,” the Admiral ordered, confusion on his lined face. He looked between them and raised a brow. “Tusca, you know this man?” “Never met him before today,” Tusca told him honestly. “You know the Red Baron stories? How there’s always one knocking around somewhere?” “Of course.” “Meet Roja Cortez. The Red Baron.” Roja waved a little, and seemed to vibrate where he stood, eager to do what he did best. Tusca wondered what the Red Baron was doing on a Carrier and decided he didn’t particularly want to know. Jacobi was never one to throw away an asset, and he had family on the Pacifica. “Are you sure you can do this?” he asked Roja in dead seriousness. “You can get us there in six solar hours?” “I can.” That was all it took. “Do it.” Roja ran for piloting, and Tusca scrambled for the communications station even as the Admiral took his chair on the bridge. “Kiss the sun goodbye,” he whispered, and held on as the great engines of the Atlantica roared to life under the hands of a madman who might just save them all. “We’re heading into the Black.”