CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Commence deceleration and deploy the drones,” Basaltberg ordered.
“Jawohl, Herr Admiral,” Fregattenkapitän Schlamme said crisply, and looked at one of his petty officers. “Deploy,” he said.
Just under two hours had elapsed since Hansen’s last, defiant transmission, and Gerechtigkeitsgeschwader was halfway across the sparse debris field that was the system’s outer asteroid belt. A little over eighty-seven million kilometers, a little under five light-minutes, yet to go. The squadron had already turned end-for-end, pointing its units’ sterns at the point in space Tomlinson would occupy in the next few hours. Their wedges came back up at Basaltberg’s order, and Travis watched the displays as the ships began decelerating at just over two hundred gravities.
He winced a little with embarrassment. Even the massive battleships Friedrich der Grosse and Vergeltung had an acceleration rate that was almost twenty percent greater than even that of a relatively nimble RMN destroyer. Yet more proof of how far behind Travis’s navy lagged.
Tomlinson’s magnified image was a marble on the visual display, one side bathed in the system primary’s light. But that marble was going to grow…and when it was big enough, the battle would begin.
“I’m looking forward to seeing one of their recon drones in action,” Lisa commented from beside him.
“You’re going to be disappointed,” Travis said. “Those drones are the next best thing to invisible.”
“I was speaking figuratively,” she said with the combination of mock patience and mock exasperation that she was getting quite good at.
“Actually, I wasn’t,” he said. “Their stealth technology’s another area where they’re light-years ahead of us. Once the drones’ running and position lights go down, they really are invisible.”
“Unless you know where to look?”
“Even then it’s problematic,” Travis said. “We saw one in action at Walther, remember. Once it went dark we couldn’t find it on visuals and never got a sniff off of it from any of our active systems. Even when its impeller wedge went active Casey could barely detect it, and that was again knowing where it was. Hansen and her people are going to play merry hell trying to pick it up.”
“Maybe,” Lisa said. “But remember that unlike Gensonne’s people, Hansen knows Basaltberg has at least one of them available to him. Plus, she has the full specs on the system, which gives her all of the stealth parameters.”
“For whatever good that’ll do them,” Travis said. “Granted, the drones are pretty myopic, especially when their wedges are up. But a starship’s a hard thing to hide if you have even a vague idea of the approximate volume to search in. And, as you say, the other side already knows Basaltberg’s got them, so it won’t cost him anything in terms of surprise even when the first one goes active.”
In point of fact, he knew, the number of possible surprises still waiting out there should be fairly limited. Long-range visual observation had already located many of the Freets’ ships, and he had no doubt the drone would use its active systems in its flyby of the planet. Even though it would pass Tomlinson at a fair distance, in order to avoid being successfully engaged by the planet’s defenders, that range wouldn’t prevent it from getting a detailed look at who was waiting for them.
Still, it was always possible to miss something. Even under strict emission control and with the wedge down, a lurking ship usually had a heat signature, but at a great enough distance that profile could disappear into the background. The Andermani fleet would just have to hope the drones would get close enough to spot any such lurkers.
“I’ve always hated the waiting part,” Lisa said, her eyes turning distant. Probably remembering similar times on other ships, Travis thought. “I’d rather just get it over with.”
“I understand,” Travis said. Though for his money, things happened more than quickly enough once the combatants finally reached engagement range.
In this case, the waiting time was going to be longer than usual, or at least longer than the physics and geometry required. A least-time transit would have taken the Andermani to Tomlinson in just seventy-nine minutes, but since it would send them past the planet and insurgent forces at nearly twelve thousand KPS there was hardly any point to it. Alternatively, Basaltberg could have opted to accelerate another eighty-two minutes before starting his fleet’s deceleration and they would have reached orbit five and a quarter hours after their arrival.
But the admiral was in no hurry, and had elected instead to maintain the same steady 18,000 KPS he’d brought across the hyper wall, coasting ballistically towards his objective.
Time is not my enemy. Basaltberg had said that to the two Manticorans two days ago during a private conversation in his cabin.
He’d had a point. Whatever reinforcements may or may not have arrived at Tomlinson would already be there by the time Gerechtigkeitsgeschwader made its appearance, and there was little to be gained by charging in any faster than necessary.
On the contrary, there was a great deal to be said for exercising extra caution during their approach. Fifteen years earlier, another Andermani battleship, Bayern, had been mousetrapped and destroyed in this same system. Hansen was well aware of that incident—and of course knew that Basaltberg also knew the details—and it seemed unlikely that she would try a similar strategy. Still, it would be wise to move slowly and feel out her ship deployment, and from that her likely strategy.
There was also the possibility that the insurgents might decide to make a run for it, in which case Gerechtigkeitsgeschwader’s slower approach might possibly allow them to escape the Andermani force completely. But no one expected them to do that. Not the Freets, because the whole point of their existence was to free Tomlinson from Andermani control; and not the mercenaries, because that would be a betrayal of their employers and bad for future business.
And if everyone else chose to stay and fight it out, Hansen would certainly do so.
Still, there remained one crucial question, one that Basaltberg and his staff had batted around without coming up with an answer. Given that Captain Hansen commanded the insurgents’ lone battleship, it was logical to assume she was in overall command of the Freet forces. But that wasn’t necessarily a given. With the number of ships Gerechtigkeitsgeschwader already knew about, the mercenaries the Freets had hired might be led by a commodore or even an admiral, and that higher-ranking officer could conceivably have assumed overall command of the defensive forces. That would mean all of Basaltberg’s insights into Hansen’s character and tactical habits might be useless.
But like so much else in warfare, that possibility was a two-edged sword. Hansen was emotionally wrapped up in this whole thing—whether or not she was genuinely Gustav Anderman’s daughter, she clearly believed she was and that she’d been cheated out of the crown. A mercenary chief, on the other hand, might be able to look at the situation more dispassionately, recognize how overwhelming the force was that Emperor Andrew had sent against them, and seek some sort of negotiated surrender.
Granted, the terms Basaltberg had been authorized to offer would be far less than the Freets desired. But even the most limited terms would be better than wholesale death and destruction.
That was the best-case scenario. It was the outcome everyone from Basaltberg down hoped for.
It wasn’t the outcome any of them expected.
No, the insurgents would stand and fight, and the result would be an obscene cost in lives and destruction, not just for the combatants, but also for the ordinary people of Tomlinson.
And as Travis gazed across the bridge at Basaltberg, seated square-shouldered in his command chair, his face showing no sign of the anguish and regret he must already be feeling, he wondered just how obscene that cost would be.
* * *
“They’ve begun decelerating, meine Kapitänin,” Korvettenkapitän Kistler spoke up from Preussen’s tactical station. “Two-zero-two-point-two gravities.”
“Acknowledged, TO,” Hansen said, her image on Retribution’s com screen turning to the tactical plot. Llyn took the cue and likewise turned to see the same plot on Quint’s display.
Not surprisingly, the solid red line marking Basaltberg’s projected vector had now changed. Instead of bypassing the planet, it now ended in two and a half hours at a point still over five million kilometers short of Tomlinson. A slowly shifting amber cone continued beyond that point, displaying his possible position if he altered heading or acceleration yet again.
On the com display, Hansen snorted. “Trouble, Captain?” Quint called.
“Just noting the computer’s spread of options, Commodore,” Hansen said. “Gotthold Riefenstahl has many traits, but indecision isn’t among them. I seriously doubt he has any intention of coming this far only to bypass the planet or stop five million kilometers out of range.”
“He might pause there, though,” Quint pointed out. “Take a breather to assess the situation.”
“Yes, he might,” Hansen agreed. “Speaking of which, make sure your people are keeping a close eye out for their drones. You probably won’t see anything Basaltberg doesn’t want you to see, but there’s always the possibility. And I want to know how close they come to the planet, if there’s any way to tell.”
“Understood, Captain,” Quint said. “We’ll do our best. Congratulations on your insight, by the way. You’d said they weren’t going to rush in, and you were right.”
“Basaltberg is a methodical man, Commodore,” Hansen agreed. “He’s also well aware of what happened to Bayern. He’ll come in at a low enough velocity to avoid any ambushes we might have set up.”
“And to keep us from leading him into any,” Quint said.
“Correct,” Hansen said. “He’s also not going to come barreling in too fast to back off if we break orbit and head for The Cloud.”
“I doubt that’s high on his anticipations list,” Quint said. “The planet is the only truly important strategic objective in the entire star system. If we’re willing to move off of it, he’ll be more than happy to seize it and force us to come to him to take it back.”
“Especially since Basaltberg isn’t the type who just wants to kill people and break things,” Hansen agreed. “He’d be more than happy to end this without a single drop of spilled blood if he could.”
Quint looked at Llyn, and he could see the quiet regret in her eyes. Her own bit of bloodlust had died along with Gustav, and like Basaltberg her goal would be the cleanest victory possible.
But as Llyn had long since learned, few people if any ever got what they wanted.
“I can sympathize,” Quint said. “Unfortunately, he’s already rejected that option.”
“Yes, he has,” Hansen agreed. “Maybe once we bloody his nose a little—”
“Active sensors, meine Kapitänin!” Bajer cut into the conversation. “Radar and lidar.”
“Source?” Hansen asked.
“Zero-one-zero, two-zero-one,” Bajer said.
Llyn looked at Retribution’s tactical. The red icon of a hostile impeller wedge had appeared at that location, barely thirty thousand kilometers from Tomlinson.
He frowned. Thirty thousand kilometers past Tomlinson, actually. Basaltberg had let his drone overshoot the planet? “What’s he up to?” he asked quietly.
His intent had been for the question to be heard only by Quint. But the com mic was apparently better than he realized. “He’s waving a big flag at us, of course, Mr. Llyn,” Hansen answered. “Make no mistake: he wanted us to see it.”
“Obviously,” Quint said, as if even a civilian unschooled in proper navy strategy ought to have seen it. “Basaltberg knows that we know he has that capability, and he has two battleships out there that are both equipped to operate drones. If he didn’t want us to see this one, it wouldn’t have been decelerating at maximum power and giving away its position.”
“For that matter, it would never have gone active in the first place,” Hansen added, in the same tone. “He wants us to see this one so that we know it isn’t operating even deeper in-system.”
“Like sweeping The Cloud?” Llyn suggested.
“Not necessarily,” Hansen said.
“That could be what he’s doing,” Quint said. “But the second drone could just as easily be hanging around Tomlinson at a zero relative velocity. He could have released it outside of his alpha translation, let it accelerate to a higher velocity, then braked for a zero-zero with Tomlinson. If he timed it right, it would never have shown a wedge powerful enough for us to detect at anything above half a light-second. So it could be sitting out there right this minute, hiding only a hundred and fifty thousand klicks from us.”
“Held ready in his right hand while he waves this one in his left as a distraction,” Hansen concluded.
“I see,” Llyn said. It was actually more explanation than he’d needed, but he’d learned that letting people finish their lectures had the dual advantage of giving them satisfaction and luring them into underestimating him. “So if it is sitting out there, how likely is it to have detected our surprise?”
“If it doesn’t go to active sensors, not likely at all,” Hansen assured him. “Not unless we do something to draw its attention. Not more likely to see anything than its friend did on its way past, at least.”
“That one’s in the wrong place and looking at us from the wrong angle to see much of anything,” Quint added. “Especially since it would have to pick through all the freight and service platforms’ shadows first.”
“Understood,” Llyn said. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Which unfortunately sums up most of warfare,” Quint said with a hint of a dry smile. “Incidentally, I’m going to be locking the spin section in about forty minutes. If you want to eat or do anything else that’s easier in gravity, now’s the time to do it.”
“Thank you,” Llyn said, pushing himself away from the bulkhead and floating toward the hatch. “There is something I need to do, actually.”
“Just get back here as soon as you can,” Quint said. “You wouldn’t want to miss all the fun.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Llyn agreed.
But then, there was another bit of fun that Quint didn’t know about. Fun that was about to happen right here in her ship.
Fun that Llyn had no intention of missing. Not for the world.
* * *
Lisa was conversing with Oberleutnantin Unterberger about ship-to-ship tactics coordination when a musical tone chimed across the flag bridge.
“Alpha Drone telemetry is coming in, Herr Graf,” Schlamme announced.
“Excellent,” Basaltberg said. Pushing off with a toe, he sent himself across the flag bridge toward the tactical officer’s station. He caught a handhold, brought himself to a halt, and hovered there, watching Schlamme’s display as the fregattenkapitän downloaded the drone’s report.
Lisa pushed off Unterberger’s chair, heading for the admiral’s side and noting Travis heading the same direction.
But she would get there first. Travis had already seen an Andermani drone in action, after all. Lisa hadn’t, and it was only fair that she get the better of the limited number of viewing vantage points.
Sure enough, she brought herself to a stop just behind Basaltberg and nearly three seconds ahead of her husband.
Gerechtigkeitsgeschwader had begun decelerating ninety-five minutes ago, its closing velocity now down to just over twelve thousand KPS. The drones, which had traveled ballistically with the fleet’s initial translation velocity of eighteen thousand KPS, had reached the planet two and a half minutes earlier.
“We have good passive data on…looks like fourteen units, mein Herr,” Schlamme reported, peering at the data scroll. “Confirm Preussen, four battlecruisers, two heavy cruisers, three light cruisers, and four destroyers. Emission signatures suggest that all four battlecruisers are Iskra-class. Two of the heavy cruisers are probably Kenichi-class; CIC’s not sure about the third. None of the light cruisers or destroyers match anything in our database, although Fregattenkapitän Lindauer says at least one of the light cruisers might be a fairly heavily modified Bataan-class.”
Lisa nodded to herself. She’d learned from Unterberger that Hong Lindauer, Friedrich der Grosse’s XO, was an avid ship completist. If he said the cruiser was modified Bataan-class, he was probably right.
“But only four destroyers,” Basaltberg murmured.
“Ja, Herr Graf.” Schlamme looked up at the admiral. “It would appear the others are elsewhere.”
“Indeed it would.” Basaltberg glanced at the time display. “No doubt we will find out where soon enough.”
He gave himself a half turn, caught Lisa’s and Travis’s eye, and nodded toward where chief of staff Kranz was waiting by Basaltberg’s command chair. He gave himself a push that send him drifting that direction, the two Manticorans following close behind. “You heard, Kapitänin der Sterne?” he asked as the three of them again came to a stop.
“Ja, mein Herr,” Kranz replied. Her lips puckered briefly in thought. “It’s not what we expected.”
“No, it isn’t,” Basaltberg agreed. “Interesting. I wish now that we’d programmed the Alpha Drone for a zero-zero with the planet. I should have liked a more extended examination of Kapitänin der Sterne Hansen’s deployment.”
Lisa nodded to herself. The Alpha Drone had fulfilled its assigned duty of passing by Hansen’s ships and lighting off every active sensor, with the dual purpose of gathering as much data as possible while making its presence obvious to the insurgents. The up side was that it was going too fast for an effective response; the down side was that it would now take the drone over twenty minutes to decelerate to zero. If Basaltberg wanted it to then return to Tomlinson’s vicinity for more data that would add another twenty minutes.
Which would be just about the time Gerechtigkeitsgeschwader would reach Basaltberg’s planned attack position, as well as the time the Beta Drone would reach the outer edge of The Cloud to see what might be hiding there.
The hope was that the Freets would see Alpha and never notice Beta. Not until it was too late.
“So you think the other destroyers are hiding in The Cloud?” Kranz asked.
“I can’t see any other place Hansen could hide them where they would still be available for battle,” Basaltberg said. “Still, I’d expected better. Something more creative than a repeat of the Bayern ambush.”
“Perhaps this offers an answer to the question as to who is in control of their deployment,” Kranz said. “If the mercenary commander is unfamiliar with the Bayern incident, he or she might indeed attempt something similar.”
“Excuse me, Herr Admiral,” Lisa said, feeling uncomfortably like she was talking out of turn. “But I don’t think Kapitänin der Sterne Hansen has yielded command.”
“We’ve been through this, Commander—” Kranz began.
She stopped at a small gesture from Basaltberg. “Explain, please,” he invited.
“Kapitänin der Sterne Hansen is driven by passion,” Lisa said, mentally crossing her fingers. This had all sounded reasonable in her head, and she could only hope it stayed that way when it came out as actual words. “She has a mission, a burning desire to right what she sees as an enormous wrong. The mercenaries are here because they were hired and because it’s their job.”
She waved a hand toward the distant planet. “It doesn’t matter that Hansen may be too involved to see things clearly. It doesn’t even matter if she recognizes that fact. This is her operation, and she won’t let anyone get in her way. Not anyone.”
“And if the mercenary commander insists?” Kranz asked.
“Then that commander is dead,” Lisa said bluntly. “I’ve known people like this, Herr Admiral. She will complete her mission, or die in the attempt. And so will anyone who gets in her way.”
For a moment Basaltberg didn’t speak. Then, he gave a small nod. “I’ve known Kapitänin der Sterne Hansen all her life, Commander and, unfortunately, I must concur. I say unfortunate because it means there is little to no chance of a negotiated surrender.”
He looked at the tactical. “And because I can’t believe Kapitänin der Sterne Hansen will try something she knows I know about. That means she’s come up with something new.”
“Such as, Herr Graf?” Kranz asked.
“That’s the problem,” Basaltberg said. “I have no idea.”
* * *
Llyn had been waiting in Quint’s private galley for about ten minutes when Amos came through the hatch.
“Oh—Mr. Llyn,” the steward said, clearly surprised to see Llyn sitting quietly in the chair he’d placed against the aft bulkhead. “Sorry, sir—I thought you were with Commodore Quint on the bridge.”
“I was,” Llyn confirmed. “Now I’m here. Why are you here?”
“I heard the announcement that the spin section would be locking down in half an hour,” Amos said. “I thought I’d make the commodore some tea before we lost gravity. It’s much harder to prepare in zero-g.”
“Very thoughtful of you,” Llyn said approvingly. “Did you have any plans as to where you would wait out the battle?”
Amos shrugged as he crossed to the stove and popped the kettle loose from its restraints. “My official station is in aft damage control, but I’m going to try to also keep an eye on the commodore’s cabin. Clean up anything that gets knocked loose, make sure it’s ready for her return. Just basic tidiness.”
“Also very commendable,” Llyn said. “Though if things start getting knocked loose the entire ship is probably in serious trouble already. I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention to the repeaters, but we’ve got some heavy-duty trouble coming at us.”
“Indeed we do,” Amos agreed soberly. He got the water heating, then crossed to the pantry cabinet and began perusing Quint’s selection of teas. “I’m afraid Captain Hansen is in for the fight of her career. And Commodore Quint, too, of course.” He looked over his shoulder at Llyn. “I presume you have a plan for getting us off the ship before all that trouble starts happening?”
“There are a couple of options,” Llyn said. “Simplest is to forge an order giving us access to a shuttle for some sort of special mission or errand on Tomlinson. Once we’re there we disappear into the population, wait for all the dust to settle from New Berlin’s response to all this, then wait a little more until Axelrod sends a transport.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Amos said. “You have new identities for us?”
“I have a new identity for me,” Llyn said. “I didn’t know you were part of the equation when I was making the arrangements.”
“Of course.” Amos flashed him a smile. “That’s all right. Bryce set me up before she left Retribution.”
“I rather thought she would.”
“She’s one of the best,” Amos said, selecting a package and turning back to the kettle. “A nice Da Hong Pao, I think. An import from Potsdam the commodore has become quite fond of since our arrival here. Captain Hansen would probably hate it just on general political principle. When were you planning on leaving?”
“Actually,” Llyn said, “I wasn’t.”
Amos frowned, pausing in the middle of opening the tea packet. “Excuse me?”
“I’m staying,” Llyn told him. “Quint is going to see this through. I’ve decided to see it through with her.”
“That wasn’t the plan,” Amos said. His casual, almost light-hearted tone was gone, leaving something cool and dark in its place. “We—you—were supposed to get Quint’s mercenaries here, stir up enough chaos to draw Andermani attention away from Manticore for the next few years, and not leave any traces behind.”
“Oh, I won’t leave any traces,” Llyn assured him.
“Your dead body qualifies as a trace,” Amos countered bluntly.
“I’m not expecting Quint to lose.”
“You were the one who just told me how much firepower Admiral Basaltberg was bringing to the table.”
“You’re welcome to go,” Llyn told him. “Those falsified shuttle orders I mentioned are already in place. You can go whenever you want. Sooner rather than later would probably be best.”
“That’s not how this was supposed to go,” Amos said, his voice darkening a little more. “And I have no interest in returning to Axelrod just to tell them I took off and left you behind.”
“You want me to write you a note?”
Amos’s eyes narrowed. “I’m serious, Llyn.”
“So am I,” Llyn said. “Leave if you want. I’m staying.”
Amos hissed out a breath. “Fine.” He turned his back on Llyn, stepping to the cabinet beside the stove and pulling out a vacuum flask. “Just don’t forget I warned you.”
“I won’t,” Llyn assured him. “Incidentally, don’t bother looking for your poisons. I’ve already found and destroyed them.”
Amos’s face was still turned away. But the sudden stiffness of his back was all the confirmation Llyn needed. “Excuse me?” the steward asked, his voice far too casual.
“Oh, and I got your scratch-stick, too,” Llyn added. “Nice little gadget, that. Someone gets poisoned after drinking tea, you naturally suspect the tea. When it turns up safe, they start hunting for something else that was eaten or inhaled. No one pays any attention to a small scratch that even the victim probably didn’t notice at the time.”
“It has to be done, Llyn,” Amos said, still not turning around. “She has to die.”
“There’s a fair chance the battle will do that without any help from you.”
“She has to die before Basaltberg gets here,” Amos amended, his voice still calm. “That way the insurgent battle plan collapses, the Andermani win quickly and handily, and the status quo remains.”
“But if Hansen wins, the Empire collapses into chaos,” Llyn said. “Then Silesia rises to the forefront, Manticore screams to Haven for help, Haven moves in to protect them, and suddenly Axelrod has a much harder time taking over the system. Yes, I’ve heard all the doomsaying and run all the scenarios, too.”
“Then you agree it has to be done.”
“I agree that Axelrod thinks it has to be done,” Llyn said. “But for once, that’s not good enough.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Amos said. “I will, of course, have to report—”
And in the middle of the threat, he spun around and hurled the vacuum flask directly at Llyn’s head.
He was halfway into his follow-up leaping attack when Llyn’s shot caught him squarely in the chest and dropped him to the deck.
Llyn got his arm up mostly in time to deflect the flask, bouncing it off forearm and cheek and sending it clattering across the galley. Wincing at the sudden double dose of pain, he nevertheless kept his eyes and gun focused on Amos. At this range electric-discharge rounds were nearly always instantly lethal, while the completely silent break-apart airgun that fired them was guaranteed not to attract unwanted attention.
Still, it was theoretically possible for Amos’s clothing to have muffled the shock just enough to leave him alive. And if there was anything about this that Llyn couldn’t afford right now, it was leaving Amos alive.
But the other remained motionless, with none of the twitching that might indicate parts of his nervous system were still functional. Just to be sure, Llyn fired a second shot, this one into Amos’s back, before crossing to the figure and confirming the man was indeed dead.
For a long moment Llyn gazed down at the body, an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’d killed many people throughout his career, more than he cared to remember. But those deaths had always been necessary to complete his assigned mission. This was the first time he’d killed one of Axelrod’s own.
The fact that Amos was simply trying to fulfill his assigned mission just made it worse.
But Llyn had had no choice. Quint was a good commander, and she’d come into this in good faith. She’d delivered value for Axelrod’s investment, and there was no way she deserved to die. Certainly not by Amos’s hand. Certainly not to mitigate vague future problems that no one could possibly predict with any reasonable accuracy.
Llyn had never defied his superiors before. Never. He’d had to improvise, or change details of a plan, or sometimes scrap a plan entirely. But he’d never done anything of the sort unless it was absolutely necessary, and he’d always done it with an eye toward finding a way back around the thistles to the ultimate goal he’d been set.
Maybe he could think of this one in that same way. He wasn’t defying Axelrod, but merely stopping another agent from making a tragic mistake. It certainly wasn’t—
He bared his teeth in sudden anger and contempt. For the love of a good woman was such a horrible cliché that his mind refused to even consider the concept.
Axelrod black ops agents had no emotions. They couldn’t afford them. Not hate, resentment, or joy, and certainly not love. Good agents planned and carried out their missions with calmness, efficiency, and dedication—nothing more, nothing less. Quint was merely one more in a long line of assets Llyn had used and then abandoned. She simply had too much use left in her to be discarded this soon.
From across the galley came a familiar chime. Standing up, checking his throbbing cheek to see if Amos’s attack had drawn any blood—it hadn’t—Llyn crossed to the intercom and keyed it on. “Llyn.”
“Quint,” the commodore’s voice came. “Just reminding you that lock-down’s in fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you,” Llyn said. “Do you need me to do anything before that?”
“Actually, I was wondering if Amos might be there and might brew me up a flask of tea,” Quint said. “It’s going to be a long couple of hours in here.”
“I haven’t seen him,” Llyn said, looking over at the body. “But if I can figure out how to use the kettle I’d be happy to make you some tea myself. Anything in particular you’d like?”
“Surprise me,” Quint said. “Thank you.”
“I’ll be there soon,” Llyn promised.
The intercom keyed off.
Llyn checked the water, confirmed it was almost hot enough, and finished opening the tea packet Amos had chosen. The steward knew Quint’s tastes even better that Llyn, and if this was the one he’d picked as the last beverage she would ever drink, Llyn was happy to go with it.
But before he made the tea, he had a body to get rid of. Fortunately, he’d scoped out the options and made the necessary plans a long time ago.
He was in a lift car with Quint’s flask in hand when the lock-down alert began to sound. Somewhere down the line, he knew, he would probably be called on to explain Amos’s disappearance, and he knew the explanation had damned well better be good. But that was the future, and there would be a massive battle before that question even arose.
And in the meantime Commodore Quint would be alive.
Besides, there was still the question of Quint’s charge of murder against the late Emperor Gustav. Llyn had no idea how the Andermani or Emperor Andrew would deal with that when she was finally able to make her case.
But he was rather interested in finding out.