Two smaller blossoms erupted at the heads of the streaks of light that were destroyers.
“Two out,” the gunner chanted. “Port cannon raking two more—belly cannon raking three . . .”
Light exploded all about them.
Pain, unbearable, filled Sales’s whole being—then passed; and, in the moment of consciousness left to him as a part of that luminescence, Sales, too, realized that he had been chasing the wrong enemy.