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surface, of reports of landings by heavily armored assault forces and the destruction of the Dylan underground naval base.
    The scout-courier engaged its primary program, dropping into Alcubierre space and vanishing from the sane and normal matrix of spacetime. It had taken the signal 5.3 light minutes to crawl out from the planet, but at its maximum Alcubierre warp effect, the courier would cross the 19.5 light years between 35 Ophiuchi and Sol in just one hour, eighteen minutes.
    It was pure coincidence that news of two Confederation naval disasters would arrive at Earth within a day of each other.
    Freedom Concourse
    Columbus, District of Columbia,
    North American Union
    0749 hours, TFT
    “Captain Gray, Comm. Important message coming through, priority urgent.”
    Trevor “Sandy” Gray, commanding officer of the star carrier America , paused in mid-stride as the AI voice spoke in his head. Around him, the Freedom Concourse was thronged with people, part of the brawling, noisy celebration following the president’s re-election. “Go ahead,” he thought.
    “Voice only, full immersion, or text?”
    “Text, please.”
    A window opened in his mind and the words scrolled down.
    PRIORITY: Urgent
    FROM: Confederation Naval HQ
    TO: All CN Commands
    Courier packet reports Confederation research colony Silverwheel on Arianrhod, 36 Ophiuchi AII, has just fallen to Slan assault forces. . . .
    The message, terse and to the point, went on to say that at least twelve Saber-class destroyers, fifty Trebuchet-class bombardment vessels, and a large number of Stiletto fighters had taken part in the attack, and that both the colony and the underground naval base were now presumed lost. The final attack had gone down less than two hours ago.
    The message was signed Ronald Kinkaid, Admiral, CO CNHQ, Mars.
    The words faded, and Gray’s awareness returned fully to his surroundings. A man, fashionably nude except for animated tattoos and an anonymously opaque sensory helmet bumped into him from behind. “Sorry, Captain.”
    “S’okay.” The man’s tattoo display included the word FREEDOM stretching from collar bone to groin, flashing across the entire spectrum of colors and highlighted by the strobe and flash of fireworks writhing across his skin.
    Gray shook his head and started walking again. The crowd was thick enough that stopping in midstream could be hazardous. Ahead, the government building towered above the plaza in a series of curves and ornamental buttresses, and the mob appeared to be centered on the building’s base.
    Koenig’s victory, he thought, appeared to have opened the Freedom party floodgates, an anti-Confederation mandate for USNA freedom.
    Or possibly, the cynic within Gray’s mind suggested, it was just that Americans enjoyed the popular sport known as politics. Give them something to cheer about, to demonstrate about, to vote about, and they were there.
    It was, he thought, exactly the right sentiment at exactly the wrong time. If 36 Ophiuchi had fallen to the Slan fleet, it meant that the Sh’daar were on the move once more, and it meant that North American independence simply was not going to happen. Humankind, a united Humankind, would have to face that threat, and all the popular demonstrations, all the fireworks, all the noise on the planet wasn’t going to change that.
    Gray had come down on a shuttle early that morning specifically to offer his personal congratulations to the president . . . but this, he decided, would not be the best moment for personal visits and reminiscences.
    He hesitated a moment, bracing himself against the crowd, then turned and began to retrace his steps toward Starport Columbus.
    Gray needed to get back to Synchorbit, back to the ship, and quickly.
    He was almost all the way back to the Star Carrier America , on board the shuttle, when the second message of disaster arrived.

Chapter Two
    8 November 2424
    Approaching USNA Naval Base
    Quito Synchorbital
    1435 hours,