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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Hyper limit in one minute, Herr Admiral,” the officer at Zhong Kui’s helm announced.

“Danke,” Basaltberg replied as he swept a quick, almost casual look across the bridge displays.

Travis wasn’t fooled. Casual-looking or not, the admiral’s eyes were pausing briefly on each display, assessing and absorbing all the relevant data there before moving on. He’d seen that same attention to detail before, not just with Basaltberg, but virtually every other Andermani officer and spacer he’d interacted with.

Basaltberg finished his sweep and turned to his two visitors. “One more reminder, Herr Baron, if you will indulge me, that your part in this conversation will necessarily be brief.”

“Of course, Herr Admiral,” Winterfall said, inclining his head. “I understand fully that the purpose of our presence here is to honor the late Emperor Gustav. Be assured that I and every other Manticoran will stay strictly to the background, speaking only when spoken to, and obeying every order as given.”

“I appreciate that, Herr Winterfall,” Basaltberg said, a hint of a smile touching the somberness that had seemed etched into his face ever since he’d heard the news of his Emperor’s death. “But please do not feel that you are walking on eggshells the entire time.”

He shifted his gaze to Travis. “Manticore has already proven its friendship by its willingness to stand with the Anderman Empire in time of need. You have requested the honor of joining with us in our grief, and we honor that request and the respect behind it. And we’re not so rigid and formal that honest mistakes cannot be understood and tolerated.”

“I appreciate that in turn, Herr Admiral,” Winterfall said. “Once again, I thank you.”

“Stand ready,” Zhong Kui’s kapitän der sterne called.

Basaltberg turned back around to face forward. Travis braced himself for the translation, noting peripherally that his brother had quietly slipped a sick bag from under his tunic and was readying it for action. The indicator ran to zero—

Travis had done enough of these to have become almost accustomed to them, though they were never going to be anything but unpleasant. Fortunately, from what he could see of his brother, Winterfall was getting through this one a little easier, too.

“Transmit our greetings to Flotillenadmiral von Jachmann aboard Preussen,” Basaltberg ordered. His voice seemed a little thick, but the effect could as easily have been an artifact of Travis’s stressed hearing as it could have been from Basaltberg’s voice. “Distance?”

“Approximately 17.4 LM, Herr Admiral,” Korvettenkapitän Jason Westgate, Basaltberg’s flag com officer, reported. “Signal sent.”

“Danke.”

Mentally, Travis threw Basaltberg a salute. The admiral had wanted to come out of hyper at the closest approach to Tomlinson and the battleship currently orbiting it. Seventeen point four light-minutes meant Zhong Kui had arrived damn near exactly at its intended entry point. Yet another reminder, if Travis had needed one, of the sheer professionalism of the Andermani navy.

“Locate Rotte and München,” Basaltberg continued. “If they’re close enough to receive our transmissions, send greetings to their commanders, as well.”

He swiveled again to face Travis and Winterfall. “While we wait for their responses, perhaps you’d like to retire to the wardroom,” he offered. “There are couches there if you’d like to rest.”

“Thank you,” Winterfall said. He didn’t sound strangled, exactly, but he wasn’t much off that mark, either. “That would be…most welcome.”

* * *

“Signal coming in, meine Kapitänin,” Bajer said, his voice taut. “It’s Zhong Kui.”

Zhong Kui?” Hansen echoed, her eyes momentarily going wide. “What’s—”

She broke off, her face resettling into its normal calmness. Her eyes flicked to the out-of-the-way section of the bridge where Llyn and Commodore Quint were floating, then returned to Bajer. “Escorts?” she asked.

Llyn leaned a little closer to Quint. Hansen had recovered quickly enough, but Llyn knew how to read people and rooms, and that single flash of surprise had spoken volumes. Somewhere, something had gone off page. “Trouble?” he murmured to the mercenary commander.

“I don’t know,” Quint murmured back, her own eyes hard on Hansen. “Zhong Kui is an Andermani battlecruiser, commanded by Admiral Graf von Basaltberg. One of their best, if reputation is to be believed.”

“I don’t remember that ship being listed as part of the cortège.”

“It wasn’t,” Quint said grimly. “And it’s not just a matter of the guest list having been changed, either. Zhong Kui is too early to be part of the flotilla, and she’s coming from the wrong direction.”

“You think someone here got a message out?”

“I don’t see how they could,” Quint said. “München’s gone to ground out past the hyper limit, but surely they’re sticking around close to the vector the cortège will arrive on. As far as we know the Andermani didn’t have anything else in the system.”

Llyn scowled. And it wasn’t like the Quintessence hadn’t had ships at Tomlinson the entire time, either. Even if the Andermani had some hidden ace up their sleeves—some courier quietly sitting at the hyper limit, say—there was no way it could have slipped out without one of Quint’s people spotting its departure.

“The frigate Drachen is with him, meine Kapitänin,” Bajer said hesitantly. “But also…we’re getting transponder IDs from two ships that claim to be from the Star Kingdom of Manticore.”

“What?” Llyn demanded, shoving off the bulkhead toward the com station, ignoring the surprised and slightly scandalized looks he got from the others for barging into the conversation. “Which ones?”

“Mr. Llyn—” one of the Tomlinson officers began in a threatening tone.

The man stopped at a gesture from Hansen. “Bajer?” she prompted.

“There’s a destroyer, Damocles,” Bajer said, giving Llyn the same reproachful look as everyone else, “and a courier boat, Diactoros.”

“Are you familiar with these ships, Llyn?” Quint asked.

“Very familiar,” Llyn said between clenched teeth. Axelrod had kicked him off the Manticore part of the plan and sent him to the Andermani, and now the damn Manticorans had followed him here? What the hell were they up to? “A couple of years ago Manticore had a run-in with an Andermani expatriate-turned-mercenary named Gensonne.”

It was Hansen’s turn to twitch. “Cutler Gensonne?”

“Yes,” Llyn said. “You know the man?”

Hansen threw an unreadable look at Bajer. “I’m familiar with one of his former associates,” she said carefully.

“How familiar?” Quint asked pointedly. “And how former?”

“That’s not important,” Hansen said, dismissing it with a wave of her hand. “What we need to know—”

“Excuse me, Kapitänin der Sterne Hansen, but it’s very important,” Quint cut in. “If there’s even a chance that another mercenary group is in play, I need to know it.”

“It’s all right, Commodore,” Llyn said before Hansen could answer. “Gensonne and his people are out of the picture.”

“You’re sure?” Quint asked.

“Quite sure,” Llyn assured her, his gaze shifting to Hansen. “But I was under the impression that all his former associates were with him at the end or had already been dealt with.”

“All his known associates, perhaps,” Hansen said. “For the moment, all you need to know is that the causes of both justice and irony will be satisfied when this is over.”

Llyn looked at Quint, noting the subtle signs of understanding in her otherwise neutral expression. Hansen had dropped a few hints about some mysterious person high up in the Andermani government who was supposedly going to be critical in bringing this insurrection to a triumphal conclusion. But so far, she hadn’t shared the details with him.

She’d shared them with Quint, of course. There was no way a competent mercenary commander would sign on to a situation like this without full knowledge of assets and liabilities. Preussen’s senior officers had presumably also been briefed—Llyn couldn’t imagine this many of them agreeing to stay with Hansen’s mutiny without being given a damn good reason. But so far, for whatever reason, Hansen had decided that Llyn should be kept out of the loop.

Which was pretty ungrateful of her, in Llyn’s opinion, seeing as how he was the one who’d engineered her alliance with the Quintessence in the first place. But he’d tried his best gentle probes with Quint and gotten nowhere, and had regretfully decided to cultivate his patience until Hansen was finally ready to open up. He flicked a glance at Flotillenadmiral von Jachmann, floating silently near the com station—

And paused for a closer look. Jachmann had the same hooded look as Quint. Whatever Hansen’s big secret was, Jachmann was on the same page.

Llyn knew all about Gensonne’s part in the coup attempt that had been orchestrated and launched against Emperor Gustav eighteen T-years ago and quickly quashed. The Axelrod reports on the incident were unanimous in their conclusion that all the conspirators had been caught and executed, with Gensonne’s exile being the only exception.

But unless Hansen was just blowing dust, at least one of the treasonous fish had escaped the net.

That could be disastrous. The whole idea was for Quint and Hansen to distract the Andermani so that Axelrod could quietly take over Manticore and the still unsuspected wormhole junction hidden within its twin star system. If one of the old conspirators was planning to use the Tomlinson insurrection to rekindle their old coup—especially with Gustav now dead—it could embroil the Empire in a civil war that could destabilize the entire sector.

And speaking of the late Emperor…

He stole another look at Quint. On the surface she’d taken the news of Gustav’s death well enough, especially considering her private goal of delivering retribution for the murder of her mother. But Llyn could see the tension around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. The next obvious target for her to vent her rage against was the new Emperor, the twenty-three-year-old Andrew. Most of the revenge-thirsty people Llyn had known over the years would have had no problem transferring their hatred onto the villain’s family.

But Quint wasn’t like that. Granted, she’d wanted to gaze into Gustav’s face as she killed him, to make sure he knew exactly who was bleeding away his life and why. But killing Andrew would accomplish none of those goals, and would furthermore be a violent act against a completely innocent person.

So what was she going to do?

Llyn didn’t know. And that worried him, not least because if Quint looked to be going off the deep end he would have to deal not only with her but also with Amos before the politely deadly steward decided to do something on his own. He needed to get Quint alone in a corner somewhere and find out what was going on behind those eyes.

But with a long list of details that had to be completed before Gustav’s cortège arrived—not the least of which was making sure Preussen was crewed, repaired, and ready to fight—he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to do that.

He’d just have to make time. Preferably before the funeral procession wandered into the Freets’ trap.

“In the meantime, Flotillenadmiral von Jachmann,” Hansen said, turning to Jachmann, “Admiral Basaltberg is waiting to speak with you. Have you made your decision?”

“I have,” Jachmann said, his voice even.

“And are you with me or against me?”

“First answer one question,” Jachmann said. “What are your intentions toward Emperor Andrew? Does he live, or does he die?”

“I have no quarrel with him,” Hansen said. “I’m sure some arrangement can be made that won’t require his death.”

For a few seconds she and Jachmann locked eyes. Then, Jachmann exhaled quietly and inclined his head. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll speak with Basaltberg.”

Hansen held his eyes another moment, then gestured to Bajer. “Open his mic.”

“Mic open.”

“And on a ninety-second delay,” Hansen added. “I don’t wish to impugn your honor, Herr Flotillenadmiral, but in this situation one must be cautious. Even among allies.”

“Of course,” Jachmann said with a bitter-edged smile. “I trust the others in this compartment will also remember that attitude.”

Hansen gestured. “Get on with it.”

Jachmann cleared his throat. “This is Flotillenadmiral von Jachmann, Admiral Basaltberg,” he called. “May the Empire endure forever. Welcome to Tomlinson. I see you’ve brought us some guests from the Star Kingdom of Manticore. Well done, my friend.”

He chuckled. “I must say, Gotthold, your string of successes continues unabated. First your genius plan for getting weapons into attack range of Gensonne’s fortified base, then the diplomatic coup of making formal contact with Manticore.”

Llyn nodded to himself as an old mystery was finally resolved. He’d known someone had attacked and destroyed Gensonne’s base—an Axelrod black ops force had been on its way to do exactly that, in fact, when they found that their mission had been preempted. But up to now the attackers’ identity had been unknown.

“I can hardly wait to see what glories you next achieve,” Jachmann continued. “I notice you’re keeping to a low acceleration. Is that because your Manticoran guests aren’t able to achieve anything higher? Von Jachmann, clear.”

“Transmission ended, meine Kapitänin,” Bajer reported.

“An odd question, Flotillenadmiral,” Hansen said, a hint of suspicion in her tone. “Why else would they be running a slow acceleration?”

“I don’t know,” Jachmann told her. “Hence, the question.”

“Seems to me we have a bigger question to deal with,” Quint put in grimly. “Our plans don’t allow for dealing with an additional battlecruiser.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll get rid of him,” Hansen promised. “One way, or another.”

* * *

“It’s a puzzlement, Herr Admiral,” Fregattenkapitän Guiying Schlamme said to Basaltberg, pointing to the mark on the bridge’s main tactical display. “If it’s München, there’s no reason for her to be there instead of on patrol. There’s certainly no reason for her to ignore our hails or leave her transponder off. But if it’s someone else, one would expect them to at least have shown a reaction to our arrival.”

Travis felt a touch of air against his skin as his brother floated closer to his side. “Not getting the subtext here,” Winterfall muttered. “Can you fill me in?”

“There’s a ship at that marked position,” Travis muttered back, wondering if the problem was the subtext or the language. Travis’s own German proficiency was reasonably good—better than he’d expected when he first started his studies, in fact—but while Winterfall had been conversing quite fluently in his hosts’ language over the past two or three weeks Travis had always had a sense that his brother was still a bit uncomfortable with it. “About six light-minutes away, sitting right at the hyper limit. It’s running a very minimal wedge, just barely above standby, which suggests a degree of nervousness.”

“If they’re nervous about being seen, why have the wedge up at all?”

“At a guess, because they’re not just nervous about being seen, but also about being attacked,” Travis told him. “A wedge on standby takes time to fully spin up, and until then the ship’s vulnerable from every direction.”

“And they also can’t run or dodge,” Winterfall said, nodding in understanding. “So they’re walking a compromise between invisible and defenseless.” He smiled slightly as Travis gave him a look of mild surprise. “I’m in politics, remember? Compromise is what we do. So what’s the admiral’s plan?”

“He’s still weighing the options,” Travis said. “We could head over to check her out, but if she rabbits we’ll probably lose her. We could ignore her and continue in toward Tomlinson, but that would eventually put her at our backs, which no one really wants.”

Winterfall muttered something Travis couldn’t catch. “I just noticed. She’s sitting right where Emperor Gustav’s cortège is supposed to arrive, isn’t she?”

“Very good,” Travis said with a flicker of new respect. He hadn’t expected his brother to pick up on that. “And yes, that’s probably Admiral Basaltberg’s biggest concern.” He hesitated. “That, plus the fact that, even if that’s München out there, we can’t seem to locate Rotte at all.”

Herr Admiral, we have a reply from Preussen,” Westgate announced.

“Danke, mein Herr,” Basaltberg said. “Let me hear it.”

“This is Flotillenadmiral von Jachmann, Admiral Basaltberg,” a calm, measured voice came from the flag bridge speaker. “May the Empire endure forever. Welcome to Tomlinson…”

Travis listened as the rest of the message played out. Westgate clicked it off, and for a long moment Basaltberg remained silent. Then, slowly, he swiveled to face Travis. “Lieutenant Commander Long,” he said, his voice suddenly and unexpectedly formal. “Your analysis, bitte?”

Travis felt his chest tighten. His analysis? Where could he even start? He didn’t know this Flotillenadmiral von Jachmann. He had no history with him, no personal knowledge of him—hell, he barely had the language down, let alone the military and civilian cultural protocols. What was he supposed to say?

“Easy, Travis,” Winterfall murmured. “You’ve got this.”

Travis sent his brother a quick look.

And in that taut moment he suddenly realized something he should have spotted from the beginning. This feeling of having been thrown into the deep end of the pool—this lack of stable footing and sense of a huge and undeserved weight dropping onto his shoulders—was the reason Winterfall seemed so uncomfortable. Because it was the way he himself had been feeling the entire time since they left Manticore.

Only Winterfall was carrying the possible diplomatic future of the Star Kingdom. All Travis had to deal with was a single tactical analysis.

He took a deep breath and turned back to Basaltberg. Maybe the admiral wanted his thoughts because he had no history with Jachmann. There was nothing to distract him from the message and its wording.

Winterfall was right. He did have this.

“I’ll do my best, Herr Admiral,” he said. “I assume first that the opening sentence, may the Empire endure forever, is an all-is-well code phrase?”

“It is,” Basaltberg said. “The question is whether it was given legitimately or under duress.”

Travis nodded. That aspect he’d already figured out. “My first question would be why he brought up the Volsungs in the first place. It was a solid Andermani victory, certainly, but it seems to me his thoughts and concerns should be on the cortège and his duties in that regard, not military history. Certainly not military history that Emperor Gustav wasn’t personally involved in.”

“I agree,” Basaltberg said. “Anything else?”

Travis hesitated. If he’d misjudged Basaltberg—if the man wasn’t the honest and honorable soldier he thought—then he was about to land himself, Winterfall’s diplomatic mission, and possibly the entire Star Kingdom in trouble. “Yes, Herr Admiral,” he said. “Flotillenadmiral von Jachmann said that you’d come up with the strategy of sending missiles on ballistic courses against the Volsung base.”

“And I didn’t?”

“No, Herr Admiral.” Travis looked him straight in the eye. “I did.”

“You did, indeed,” Basaltberg said, inclining his head toward Travis, a small smile creasing his lips. “Have no fear, Commander. In every report, in every hearing, I always strive to give full credit where it is due. So it was with the Volsung battle.”

He looked at Winterfall. “Which is, after all, why Emperor Gustav wished to meet you and your fellow officers in the first place.”

“But not everyone would have taken the time to read that report,” Travis said as he finally picked up on Basaltberg’s logic. “If Flotillenadmiral von Jachmann is acting under duress, he might have thought that detail might slip past his watchdogs.”

“Yes,” Basaltberg said, his voice going cold. “And when combined with the verbal all-clear signal, that leads us to the conclusion that his keepers are fellow Andermani officers.”

“But that would mean mutiny, Herr Admiral,” Schlamme protested. “How could such a thing happen?”

“I don’t know,” Basaltberg admitted. “But perhaps Flotillenadmiral von Jachmann gave us one final clue. Lieutenant Commander Travis’s tactic involved slipping missiles in on ballistic courses. Perhaps whoever moved against Preussen invaded the system the same way.”

“Which would imply the Freets have additional backing and resources,” Schlamme said. “Or it might warn that a new player has entered the game.”

“And either way, we have no idea what we and Emperor Gustav’s cortège are facing,” Basaltberg said grimly, turning to Travis. “Commander Long, I need you to send a message to Damocles and Diactoros ordering them to drop their acceleration to zero. I’ll do the same with our two ships.”

“Understood, Herr Admiral,” Travis said as Westgate detached a mic and handed it to him. If there was trouble with Preussen, the last thing Basaltberg would want was get closer to her and farther in from the system’s hyper limit. “Herr Korvettenkapitän?”

“You’re connected,” Westgate confirmed.

“Danke.” Travis keyed the mic. “Damocles, this is Lieutenant Commander Long. I need to speak to the OOW immediately.”

Damocles,” Lisa’s voice came back in the properly formal tone of an official conversation. “Commander Lisa Donnelly Long.”

“Admiral Basaltberg needs you and Diactoros to drop acceleration to zero,” Travis told her.

“Zero acceleration, acknowledged,” Lisa said crisply. “Signaling Captain Cherise now. Timing?”

Travis looked questioningly at Basaltberg, got a nod in return. “As soon as you can,” he told Lisa.

“Acknowledged,” she said again. “Reconfiguring wedge now.”

Travis turned to look at the tactical display, mentally counting out the seconds. He’d reached fifteen when Damocles’s icon suddenly turned red. “Damocles acceleration at zero, Herr Admiral,” Schlamme confirmed. “Diactoros acceleration…also zero.”

“Signal Drachen to suspend acceleration, then do likewise,” Basaltberg ordered.

It took a bit longer for a ship the size of Zhong Kui to go to zero acceleration, but the usual Andermani efficiency was again on display. Ninety seconds after Damocles dropped into ballistic trajectory, the entire four-ship group was likewise.

Though the staggered time frame in which that had taken place meant that the four ships were now strung out over a long stretch of space instead of being in a compact travel formation. If there was an enemy out there waiting to pick them off one by one, the uncomfortable thought flicked through Travis’s mind, Basaltberg had just handed him a golden opportunity—

“Hyper footprint, Herr Admiral!” Schlamme snapped. “Just outside hyper limit, almost directly behind us.”

“Set Readiness Two,” Basaltberg ordered calmly.

“Travis?” Winterfall murmured, his voice tense.

Travis looked at the displays. The newcomer had made translation about eighteen light-seconds behind them. “We should know in about ten seconds,” he murmured back. Automatically, he began mentally counting down the time as he watched the bridge crew coolly and efficiently move the battlecruiser toward a war footing. His count ran to zero—

“We have transponder ID, Herr Admiral,” Schlamme said. “It’s München.”

München is signaling,” Westgate added. He touched a switch—

“Fregattenkapitänin Deutschmann to Admiral Basaltberg,” a woman’s voice came over the bridge speaker. She sounded tired, Travis thought, but fully alert. “Be advised that Preussen is in hostile hands and Rotte has been destroyed. Beware unseen enemy forces.”

“Such as that one,” Travis said to Winterfall, nudging his brother and gesturing toward the spot on the tactical marking the mystery ship. “Probably been waiting for München to come out of hyper, hoping she would drop in close enough for an attack.”

“Send acknowledgment,” Basaltberg ordered. His voice hadn’t changed, but Travis could feel the sudden tension filling the flag bridge. “Order all ships to return at once to our entry point at their best possible speed.” He keyed a set of coordinates over to the comm officer. “Also signal all ships—including München—that we’ll rendezvous at this point.”

He looked at Travis, and Travis felt a chill run through him. “And,” the admiral added, “bring the formation to Readiness One.”

* * *

Preussen’s bridge had gone unnaturally silent. But then, Llyn thought darkly, there really wasn’t much to be said. Zhong Kui had been warned, and was running for the hyper limit, along with the Manticorans and the elusive München.

And there wasn’t a single damn thing any of them could do about it.

He looked at the tactical again, just to be sure. The Norfolk-class destroyer that Quint had sent to the hyper limit in hopes that München would pop back in for another intel sweep was still in position, and coincidently was lurking close to where Basaltberg had arrived.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t nearly close enough to get to the admiral’s force. It certainly was too far away to get to München.

Anyway, right now there were more urgent matters to deal with than Basaltberg’s inevitable escape. Llyn had noted the fact that the Andermani and Manticoran ships had stopped their inward acceleration well before they received München’s warning. That meant that somewhere in the brief message Hansen had allowed Jachmann there’d been a signal or warning that had alerted Basaltberg to the danger awaiting him in the inner system.

Which further meant that the support Hansen had hoped to obtain from the Flotillenadmiral was no longer on the table.

From the expression on Hansen’s face as she turned to her former commander, she knew it, too.

“A wasted effort, mein Herr,” she said, her voice under rigid control. “They will still come—alerted and better prepared than they would have otherwise, perhaps, but still with no true understanding of what they face. The end will still be the same.”

“An interesting analysis, Captain,” Jachmann said in a voice that perfectly matched hers, “given that I was about to give you the same warning in reverse.”

“My rank is Kapitänin der Sterne.”

“No,” Jachmann said flatly. “When you committed treason you lost the right to be treated as an officer of the Andermani.”

“Treason?” Hansen spat out the word. “You saw the evidence of my claim.”

Llyn frowned. The evidence of Hansen’s claim? What the hell did that mean?

“I saw your evidence,” Jachmann countered. “Given that it can’t be confirmed out here, I have no reason to believe it.”

“The confirmation is on Potsdam.”

“You’ll never reach Potsdam,” Jachmann said. “You’ll die here in Tomlinson. One way or another.”

“Andrew will never push things that far.”

“You may be surprised.”

“I’m already surprised,” Hansen said, a flicker of pain crossing her face. “I thought you were a man of honor.”

Jachmann snorted. “You have no idea what true honor means. Furthermore, I never said I was joining you, Captain. I made the mewings of defeat and acceptance, and you simply heard what you wished to hear.”

“If you think Andrew is the leader the Empire needs, you’re a fool.”

“My thoughts and opinions are irrelevant,” Jachmann said. “Andrew is the rightful heir to the throne.”

“You saw the—” Hansen broke off. “So that’s it? You’re just going to yield to some rigid tradition?”

“Of course not.” Jachmann drew himself up. “When you first pleaded your case in front of me, Captain, you made a point of telling me that you’d kept casualties to a minimum. In fact, you seemed rather proud of that.”

“You would have preferred a mass slaughter?”

Jachmann shook his head. “You really don’t understand do you? It never even occurred to you that there was only one number of casualties I would find acceptable. The number zero.”

Once again, the bridge descended into silence. Once again, Llyn knew, there really wasn’t anything more to say.

This time it was Bajer who spoke first. “Request permission to relieve the Flotillenadmiral of his life, meine Kapitänin,” he said coldly.

For a moment it looked to Llyn like Hansen was going to agree. Then, she shook her head. “You will escort the Flotillenadmiral to his quarters,” she said. “I may wish to talk to him later.”

“Jawohl, meine Kapitänin,” Bajer said. He drew his sidearm and gestured, and Jachmann and his two Tomlinson guards headed for the hatch.

Llyn moved closer to Quint. “So what are we looking at?” he asked quietly.

“Your basic two-point split,” she said. Her voice was calm, but Llyn could tell she wasn’t any happier at how this had gone down than any of the rest of them. “Option one: Basaltberg collects his ships and Gustav’s cortège and charges straight into battle. Option two: they all scamper off to New Berlin and return with everything that can fight.”

Llyn winced. And given the size of the Andermani fleet, that would be a very bad thing. “Which do you think they’ll go with?”

She shrugged. “Hard to say. If I were in charge, I’d go with number two. From what we let München see of our forces, Basaltberg may figure he already has enough of an edge for a likely win, so he might be tempted toward number one. But the fact that someone successfully ambushed Preussen and Rotte strongly suggests a bunch of hidden aces, and I’d be very leery about charging into anything that looks too easy. Even given that postponing a confrontation gives Hansen and the Tomlinsons more time to repair and consolidate, that’s still where I’d go.”

“Especially when you had four more battleships and the rest of the Andermani navy to play with?”

“Especially then,” she agreed. “Actually, in this case there may be a third option. Our new Emperor Andrew might look at the situation, do some math on what it would cost him to retake Tomlinson, and decide to negotiate. Hansen is probably hoping it’ll break that direction.” She smiled crookedly. “As is your employer, I presume.”

“It would make things easier,” Llyn conceded. Certainly Lucretia Tomlinson and PFT were hoping Andrew would make a deal. Axelrod, for its part, didn’t really care one way or the other. “You think he’ll do that?”

Quint shrugged again. “Impossible to say with such an unknown quantity. My guess is that he’ll want to follow in his father’s footsteps and charge in for flag and Empire. What will happen once he’s had his nose bloodied, though, is anyone’s guess.”

Across the bridge, Jachmann and his guards disappeared through the hatch. “Any idea what Hansen meant about a claim? A claim to what?”

Quint hesitated. “I’m sorry, but I can’t talk about that. Not because I don’t trust you,” she added, “but because Kapitänin der Sterne Hansen has something of a mistrust for civilians. Particularly civilians whose life details are, shall we say, as sparse as yours.”

“There are reasons for me to keep a low profile.”

“I know,” Quint said. “And if it were up to me…but it’s not. Even though you provided the funding, and are therefore technically my employer, Hansen is the task force’s commanding officer. In a military situation, which this is, my first loyalty has to be to her.”

“That makes sense,” Llyn agreed. “And I certainly wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.”

“I appreciate that,” Quint said. “I’ll tell you this much: If things work out the way Hansen expects, we’ll get through this with a minimum of bloodshed. On all sides.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Llyn warned with mock severity. “Anyway, the excitement appears to be over for the day, so I might as well head back to Retribution. Are you coming?”

“I should probably stay a bit longer,” Quint said. “I imagine Kapitänin der Sterne Hansen will have things she’ll want to discuss. I’ll send word to the shuttle to take you across.”

“Thank you,” Llyn said. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

There was no point going after Preussen’s officers or crew, Llyn knew. Even if any of them were willing to talk to him, they also talked among themselves. There was even less chance he could get anything from Hansen.

But Jachmann was a different story. He also knew what was going on, and he was confined to quarters. No one to talk to in there.

Of course, given what Quint had just told him, Hansen’s people were undoubtedly keeping a close watch on Retribution’s mysterious civilian. If Llyn was seen wandering around Preussen on his own, let alone caught near Jachmann’s quarters, there would be some serious trouble. Not just for himself, but also for Quint. There was no way he could get to Jachmann.

But no one ever noticed stewards.

Amos had been coasting long enough, Llyn decided. Time for him to start earning his keep.


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Framed