“For our people, then,” it said, brittle, angry, wound up as a spring. I straightened, looked all round, seeking the place where the silverfish projectors had sketched his spectral image. But the good commander—the Commandant General Lorian Aristedes—did not appear. There were tears unfallen in my eyes then, and I shut them to stop them falling. “The Mistwalker has opened fire on the Imperial swarm.” The pilot’s voice was like thunder.
