Extremis by Charles E. Gannon, Steve White

way.
    Except they didn’t come. Instead, a long-range variant of the RFN’s own SBMHAWK—an automated ship-killing missile that could transit warp points independently—had made a most unwelcome debut. Hundreds of the missiles had come sleeting through the warp point. Those that survived chased after ships which were, in some cases, as far away as fourteen light-seconds. It was only modestly reassuring that none of those lone wolves survived the concentrated defensive fire to score a hit, because, as Krishmahnta had realized, the Baldies had not intended these weapons to kill ships but merely to send a message: “Even fifteen light-seconds back from the warp point, you are not completely safe. We have SBMHAWKs that can range that far—and what if we launch twenty, two hundred, two thousand? At what point does the density of the attack wave overcome your point-defense systems? At what point do your ships and your people start to die?” And with a question like that hovering overhead, like a ghostly sword of Damocles, sleep came less easily. And the closer to the warp point a ship was stationed, the less easily its off-duty crews found the solace of sleep, listening instead for the klaxons that indicated an inbound enemy weapon.
    After that first tsunami of long-reaching Baldy SBMHAWKs, there was a pause, and then the alien missiles resumed their intrusions, but this time as an irregular trickle. It was the tactical equivalent of Chinese water torture.
    And that torture had to stop, decided Krishmahnta. The time had come to counteract her enemy’s campaign of psychological warfare via sleep deprivation. “Commander Mackintosh, please pass these orders to the fleet. We are shifting to intercept formation Deep Serry Two. Have all ships confirm their way points and final plots before commencing that evolution. As ships rotate into the second rank, they are to reload all external-ordnance racks from tenders.”
    Sam raised an eyebrow but only said, “Aye, aye, sir.”
    Captain Watanabe leaned over as if to inspect the first small repositionings in the tacplot, but it also allowed him to lean close to Krishmahnta’s ear, in which he murmured, “If the Baldies were to come through, right now—”
    “I know, I know.” Erica resisted—sagely—the impulse to bite her now-thoroughly swollen lower lip. Deep Serry Two was a calculated risk: it would ultimately reconfigure the fleet by breaking her engagement forces into two separate lines—which, in the three-dimensional battleground of deep space, would appear as two separate screens. The forward screen would remain on full alert. The rear screen—into which each ship would ultimately be rotated for four hours—would stand down. Instead of running a full watch on full alert, the rear screen would stand down to full bunks and minimal duty shifts—except for double-staffed galleys. In the corridors and the ’tween-deck companionways of the second line, catnaps and hot chow were to be the watchword of the hour. Of course, only the real veterans would actually manage to get real sleep, but the mere ability to close one’s eyes, drowse, and recover from watch burnout was rest enough.
    “Admiral?”
    Erica swayed straight again. “Hmm…yes? Yes, Captain?”
    There was a wry crinkle at the left corner of Yoshi Watanabe’s thin lips. “Are you ready to stand down yourself?”
    Krishmahnta breathed in deeply and exhaled through a forcibly bright smile. “Not just yet. I want to watch the evolution. If they stumble on us while we’re making the change—”
    “—that would be the worst moment,” agreed Watanabe “So, you’re going to see all your birds safely to their nests?”
    Krishmahnta let her smile relax. “Something like that. Just half an hour more, and then I’ll catch some sack time myself.”
    * * *
    Two and a half hours later, in her bridge-conjoined ready room, lying in full uniform atop her unfolded bunk, Erica Krishmahnta stared at the gray