“Marvelously compelling . . . consummate military-adventure science fiction.”—SciFi In the aftermath of the cold-blooded assassinations that killed her parents and shattered the Vatta interstellar shipping empire, Kylara Vatta sets out to avenge the killings and salvage the family business. Ky soon discovers a conspiracy of terrifying scope, breathtaking audacity, and utter ruthlessness. The only hope against such powerful evil is for all the space merchants to band together. Unfortunately, because she commands a ship that once belonged to a notorious pirate, Ky is met with suspicion, if not outright hostility . . . even from her own cousin. Before she can take the fight to the enemy, Kylara must survive a deadly minefield of deception and betrayal. Praise for Engaging the Enemy “A fast-paced space adventure, with a heroine that will captivate readers.” — Omaha World-Herald “Excels in character development as well as in its fast-paced action sequences and intricate plotting.” — Library Journal “You’ll have fun with this one, for Moon keeps things moving.” — Analog “Marvelously compelling . . . consummate military-adventure science fiction.” —SciFi “A fast-paced space adventure, with a heroine that will captivate readers.” — Omaha World-Herald “Excels in character development as well as in its fast-paced action sequences and intricate plotting.” — Library Journal  “You’ll have fun with this one, for Moon keeps things moving.” — Analog Elizabeth Moon  grew up on the Texas border, served three years of active duty in the USMC (1968–71), and now lives with her husband, also a veteran, near Austin, Texas. She has published more than twenty-five novels, including Nebula Award winner  The Speed of Dark,  Hugo finalist  Remnant Population,  and the enduring epic fantasy series The Chronicles of Paksenarrion. She has published more than fifty short-fiction pieces in anthologies and magazines and in four of her own short-fiction collections, most recently  Moon Flights  and  Deeds of Honor . When not writing, Moon enjoys photographing native plants and wildlife, knitting socks, and cooking. Chapter One In the afternoon sky, the sound of the approaching aircraft rose above the sea breeze, a steady drone. Nothing to see . . . no, there it was, small to make that much noise . . . and then the sudden flood of data from the implant: not an aircraft, no one aboard, a weapon homing on the airfield’s navigational beacon. Visual data blanked, overloaded by heat and light, auditory data an inchoate mass of noise, swiftly parsed into channels again, stored, analyzed: primary explosion, structural damage, secondary explosion, quick flicker of building plans, primary visual restored . . . Ky Vatta jerked awake, heart pounding, breath coming in great gasps. She wasn’t there, she was here, in the dark captain’s cabin of Fair Kaleen, darkness pricked with the steady green telltales of major ship functions. All she could hear beyond her own pulse beating in her ears were the normal sounds of a ship in FTL flight. No explosions. No fires. No crashing bricks or shattering glass. No reverberative boom echoing off the hills minutes later. “Bedlight,” she said to the room, and a soft glow rose behind her, illuminating tangled sheets and her shaking hands. She glared at her hands, willing them to stop. A deep breath. Another. The chronometer informed her that it was mid-third-shift. She had been asleep two hours and fourteen minutes this time. She went into the bathroom and looked into the mirror: she looked every bit as bad as she felt. A shower might help. She had showered already; she had taken shower after shower, just as she had worked out hour after hour in the ship’s gym, hoping to exhaust or relax herself into a full night’s sleep. She was the captain. She had to get over this. This time she dialed the shower cold, and then, chilled, dressed quickly and headed out into the ship. She could always call it a midshift inspection. Her eyes burned. Her stomach cramped, and she headed first for the galley. Maybe hot soup . . . In the galley, Rafe was ripping open one of the ration packs. “Our dutiful captain,” he said, without looking up. “Midshift rounds again? Don’t you trust us?” His light ironic tone carried an acidic bite. She did not need this. “It’s not that I don’t trust the crew. I’m still not sure of this ship.” “Ah. As I’m sure you recall, I’m on third-shift duty right now, and this is my midshift meal. Do you want something?” She wanted sleep. Real sleep, uninterrupted by dreams or visions or whatever . . . “The first snack you pick up,” she said. He reached into the cabinet without looking and pulled something out. “Traditional Waskie Custard,” he said, reading the label. “The picture is an odd shade of yellow—sure that’s what you want?” “I’ll try it,” Ky said. He had put his own meal in the oven; now he handed her a small sealed container and a spoon. She glanced at the garish label;