Massingill had the appearance of death incarnate.
She was in pain, despite the drugs coursing through her system. She didn’t care. Much of her face was swathed in bandages. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that her eyes were clear and open…and that the pirates could see the look in those eyes.
Her teams had been killed. Bastonge, Cochran, Frijtom, Rushkoff—Elsie Dorrman—all of them and more wiped out in the flailing wedge that had shredded Adder and Mamba and half of Bergen 3. Sixty of the 303rd’s finest, killed where they stood.
Murdered where they stood.
Massingill didn’t care what vague guesses the prisoners had as to what had happened, or why Copperhead had acted the way she had. All Massingill knew was that someone aboard that cruiser had coldly and deliberately made the decision to commit mass murder.
With the rest of Charnay’s forces occupied with Swenson One, Copperhead had managed to escape the Danak system. She was beyond Massingill’s reach.
But someone had given the cruiser’s captain his orders. Someone had connived and conned and manipulated the situation to the point where that decision had been made, and Massingill’s commandos had been murdered.
That person might be beyond her reach for now. But he wouldn’t stay that way. Somehow, someday, she would find him.
In the meantime, she would sit in on Charnay’s interrogations, and stare at the prisoners, and learn everything she could about what was left of their organization.
Because if she stared hard enough, maybe something genuinely useful would shake loose.
* * *
“Well?” Llyn asked.
Captain Katura shrugged.
“They’re not happy,” he said. “But they’ve accepted the situation with the grace of men who don’t really have a choice.”
“Yes,” Llyn murmured, looking over the displays and the reports that were still coming in as he sipped his tea.
It was good. All of it. Gensonne was dead, all of his ships had been destroyed—he’d always suspected that Jaeger had a streak of go-down-with-his-ship dramatics that would guarantee that Loki fought itself to death rather than surrender—and most of the mercenaries dead or captured. The survivors were mostly ordinary spacers who’d never even seen Llyn, let alone knew anything about him. A couple of midlevel officers were reputed to be among the prisoners, but that wouldn’t be a problem, either.
Of course, Copperhead had managed to get away from Bergen 3. But that shouldn’t be a problem. Gensonne would hardly have shared his damning Axelrod information with anyone aboard a lowly cruiser.
That was really the only potential chink in the trap Llyn had so carefully engineered. If Gensonne had lied about being the only one who knew Llyn’s connection to Axelrod, this could still come apart.
But that was vanishingly unlikely. As Gensonne himself had said, knowledge was power, and Gensonne was too smart to hand that power to any of his officers.
He would have left a backup data package, of course, if only to prevent Llyn from murdering him as soon as his usefulness was ended. But the backup was almost certainly deeply buried in one of the computers at the Walther base. If Shrike and the Axelrod Black Ops task force Captain Vaagen had been ordered to collect were on schedule, the station and remaining Volsung ships and men would be an expanding ball of superheated gas long before any news of the Danak debacle could reach them.
Really, the only downside to this whole thing was that he’d now burned his Max Baird identity and could never return openly to this part of space. But that was all right. There were other representatives of the mysterious Master Rowbtham who could make an appearance if and when Axelrod needed someone to poke around Havenite space.
And they well might need to do that. Because while the Volsung Mercenaries had been dealt with, the problem of Manticore was still there. The Star Kingdom remained blithely unaware of the awesome economic power they were sitting on, and it was still Llyn’s job to figure out how to put that asset firmly onto Axelrod’s balance sheet.
It would take some thought. Some very deep, very cunning thought.
But Llyn had the time. He certainly had the cunning.
“Destination, sir?” Katura asked.
“Solway,” Llyn said. “There should be a ship at the facility there that Rhamas and his crew can be certified for. They can then head to Jasper or back to Beowulf for new orders. I’ll probably have Rhamas take Hester with him—the places I’ll be going will bore her to death, and I’m tired of losing all those chess games.”
“Yes, sir.” Katura gave his employer half a smile. “I am sorry Banshee had to go, though. It was a good ship, and I know Rhamas really liked it.”
“Yes, it was,” Llyn agreed. “But don’t worry. I’ll make sure his next one is even better.”
* * *
The station was quiet, on minimal power, and except for a few Andermani still poking around the corners it seemed deserted.
“It wasn’t difficult,” Basaltberg commented as he led the way around the inner edge of the spin section. “Once their ships were lost, the station forces had little incentive to fight.”
Which didn’t exactly address the question of whether they’d surrendered or gone down fighting, Travis noted. But he had no intention of bringing up that particular subject. Not to the man who commanded a ship that had taken out an enemy battlecruiser in a single, massive, three-wave missile salvo.
At least there were no bodies lying around that Travis had to look at. He was grateful for that.
“I appreciate your willingness to join me aboard the station, Captain Clegg,” Basaltberg continued. “I wanted to show you personally that we have indeed taken the main computer system intact, and wished you present during the final download process.”
“Thank you, Admiral,” Clegg said. “We’re very grateful for your courtesy. Especially given that you carried most of the load of the battle.”
“Hardly a fair assessment,” Basaltberg said with mild reproof, “since it was your plan that laid the groundwork for the battle. You should be justly proud of your contribution, as I’m certain your Navy is justly proud of you.” He shifted his eyes to Travis. “And you, Commander Long. I will be recommending to His Excellency that the Navy look into installing such launchers, with an eye toward using your tactic in future engagements.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Travis said.
“A question, Captain,” Basaltberg said, turning his eyes back to Clegg. “I find it interesting that you initially proffered this idea as your own, and that only after I accepted it did you identify it as Commander Long’s tactic. May I ask why?”
“Certainly, Sir,” Clegg said. “I wished to make it clear that anything that came from Casey’s officers or crew came with my authority and approval. Should the plan have been rejected, nothing more would need to have been said. But once it was accepted—” she shot Travis an unreadable glance “—it was my responsibility to give full credit where due.”
“I see,” Basaltberg said. “Interesting. Is this common Manticoran military procedure and standards?”
Clegg seemed to hesitate—
And in Travis’s mind’s eye, a kaleidoscope of names and faces and voices appeared, the long line of men and women he’d served with throughout his career. Some of those people had been honorable and brave. Others had been cheaters, loafers, or back-stabbers.
The Navy had books full of regulations and procedures. Travis had read them through, absorbing the information until it became a part of his core. Sadly, not everyone lived up to the standards laid out there. Maybe not even half of them.
That wasn’t something the Navy was proud of. But it also wasn’t something they needed to share with a foreign officer.
“It’s the procedure and standard held by the very best,” he said before Clegg could come up with her own answer. “Unfortunately, not everyone in the Navy can be the very best.”
“Perhaps not,” Basaltberg said, his face stern. “Though I wi
ll say that those who are not the best do not survive long in the Andermani Navy.” His expression softened a little—“But we have tasted a great deal of war. The Star Kingdom has not.”
“We have now,” Clegg murmured.
“Indeed you have,” Basaltberg agreed. “Let us pray that you will learn quickly the lessons necessary to survival.”
“Yes,” Clegg said. “Speaking of survival, Sir, have you ascertained whether the prisoners and their planetside dependents will all fit aboard the Volsung freighters?”
“They will,” Basaltberg said. “They won’t be comfortable, but they’ll survive. I’ve detailed Ao Qin and Loreley to escort them to Sachsen, where they’ll be turned over to the authorities. I wish them luck dealing with them.”
He gestured to a hatchway ahead, flanked by two armored Andermani. “And now, let us see if the spoils of victory are ready for us to share.”
Chomps and Hauptman were in the computer room, along with two Andermani techs and another four soldiers. Chomps was seated at one of the consoles, while Hauptman was hunched over a rolling cart covered with small electronic components.
“Ah—Captain,” Chomps greeted Clegg. “You’re just in time. We’re downloading the last data files now.”
“You’ve got everything?” Clegg asked, frowning at Hauptman’s cart. “Hidden files, segmenteds, ghosts?”
“Everything,” Chomps assured her. “It’ll take a while to sort through it, possibly months or years for some of the more stubborn ones. But that’s what techs are for.” He nodded toward Hauptman. “Right now, Mr. Hauptman’s the one with the interesting haul.”
“Possibly,” Hauptman cautioned. “Townsend didn’t need my help with the computer, so I decided to poke around the supply rooms to see where Gensonne had been shopping. A lot of the stuff is Silesian, of course, with some Havenite thrown in.”
“No big surprise on either,” Chomps added.
“Right.” Hauptman gestured to his cart. “This stuff, though, I think may be Andermani.”
“Do you, now,” Basaltberg said, a frown creasing his head as he stepped toward the cart for a closer look. “Your evidence?”
“Mostly negative,” Hauptman admitted. “I know that the serial code patterns don’t look Havenite, Silesian, or Solarian, and they’re definitely not Manticoran.” He gestured again. “I pulled some of the more portable pieces together, in case you wanted to take it with you before we destroy the station.”
“I would indeed,” Basaltberg said. “Thank you, Herr Hauptman.”
“My pleasure.” Hauptman looked at Clegg. “We are still going to destroy the station, right?”
“Admiral Basaltberg will handle that part,” Clegg said. “Our orders didn’t specify the station’s destruction. His did. Ergo, he gets to spend the missiles.”
“Done,” Chomps announced, uncoupling a pair of data modules from the computer and standing up. “Here it is, Captain. Admiral, I understand your people have already made their own copies?”
“They have,” Basaltberg said. “And with that, Captain Clegg, I believe it’s time for both of us to return to our respective homes.” He offered her his hand. “Thank you for your assistance, and the assistance of the Star Kingdom of Manticore.”
“I was glad we could make this work, Sir,” Clegg said, taking the proffered hand and shaking it. “I hope this will mark the beginning of a closer relationship between our nations.”
“To be candid, I doubt that very much,” Basaltberg said. “Manticore is quite distant, and the Emperor’s thoughts are much closer to home.” His face hardened a bit. “Remember, too, Captain, that our joint effort here was in no way sanctioned by either of our governments. What will come of it, or whether my superiors will chose to make Manticoran involvement in Vergeltung’s mission part of the official record, I cannot say.”
“Understood,” Clegg said. “To be honest, the whole thing will probably be even more sensitive from our end. Given Manticore’s current political atmosphere, this could fan flames that would be better left alone. I’ll make sure my officers and official records treat this with all the sensitivity required.”
“Then let us say our farewells—” Basaltberg smiled faintly “—and let us hope our next meeting will be under more pleasant circumstances.”
* * *
Casey was thirty minutes from the hyper limit when gravitics spotted the fresh hyper footprint seventy degrees around the edge of the system.
“Report,” Clegg said as she pulled herself onto the bridge.
“Looks like six ships,” Woodburn reported from CIC. “Their wedges read like warships. Small ones—cruiser or destroyer class. Their transponder codes won’t get to us for another twenty-one minutes, which means we won’t know who they are until we’re just about ready to translate.”
“Assuming they’re even running transponders,” Clegg said as she floated to a halt at Travis’s station. “Options, TO?”
“We could cease acceleration, Ma’am,” Travis said cautiously. Clegg wasn’t really thinking about going back to meet an unknown force alone, was she? “That would give us more time to collect data before we hit the hyper limit. But at this distance, we’re not going to get much no matter what we do. We could try shutting down our impellers and hiding, but there’s a good chance they’ve already spotted our wedge.”
“Any chance of finding Basaltberg? He might like to know Walther has new arrivals.”
“No, Ma’am,” Travis said, checking the log. “Vergeltung translated to Alpha nearly an hour ago, and on an entirely different vector from ours. She’s long gone.”
“Yes, I thought that would be the case.” Clegg lowered her voice. “I assume you don’t have a plan up your sleeve for taking on six cruisers all by ourselves?”
Travis clenched his teeth. Was she mocking him? Probably.
“No, Ma’am.”
“Pity,” she said in the same low voice. “You seem to have a knack for such things. I suppose Delphi’s gain is the Navy’s loss.”
Travis frowned. A compliment? From Clegg? “I—uh—thank you, Ma’am.”
“You’re welcome, Commander,” Clegg said. “We may not mesh very well personality-wise, but you’re good at combat. And I can appreciate that.”
“Thank you, Ma’am.”
“Everyone as you were,” Clegg said, raising her voice to normal volume again. “Continue course. Keep the transponder off—if they’re who we think they are, we don’t want them to know who just wrecked their base. CIC, call Chief Townsend, and tell him he’s got one hour to pull everything he can on the visitors.” She tapped Travis’s shoulder. “And while everyone else is looking backwards, TO, you keep a sharp watch everywhere else. Just in case they’re not alone.”
* * *
“Bogey One just translated to Alpha, Sir,” the XO reported from Shrike’s CIC. “They never activated their beacon, and we weren’t able to get anything but their wedge strength.”
Captain Vaagen scowled. So one of the Volsung ships had escaped. Unwittingly, probably unknowingly, given that she had already been well on her way before he and the Black Ops force even hit the hyper limit.
Still, when the vagrant returned to a ruined base her captain would hardly have trouble putting two and two together.
Mr. Llyn wouldn’t be pleased. He hated loose ends. But there was nothing Vaagen could do about it. He, and Llyn, would just have to live with it.
In the meantime, he had a job to do.
“Continue on course,” he ordered. “And keep trying to raise the Volsung base. There must be somebody awake there we can talk to.”
* * *
“Good day, My Lord,” Elizabeth said as she seated herself at the Palace conference room table. “Thank you for coming by on such short notice.”
“As always, Your Majesty, I serve at my Monarch’s convenience,” Breakwater said, bowing courteously.
But the smoothness of his words belied the wariness in his face. Even as he seated himse
lf, he threw a surreptitious look at Elizabeth’s father, seated at the far end of the table.
The Monarch, the former Monarch, and the Chancellor of the Exchequer, alone at a meeting. In Breakwater’s place, Elizabeth reflected, she would probably feel a little nervous, too.
“I’ll get right to the point, My Lord,” she said. “Four points, actually. First point: I’m pregnant.”
Breakwater’s eyes widened. “You’re—? Ah…my congratulations, Your Majesty. May I ask…?”
“Who the father is?” Elizabeth shook her head. “No, you may not. Second point: this child is the rightful heir to the Star Kingdom, and will succeed me to the Throne. Third point—”
“Excuse me, Your Majesty,” Breakwater interrupted. The initial shock had passed, and he was back on track again. “Once again, I must remind you that the Constitution requires the Monarch to marry a commoner, which carries the strong implication that the heir must come from such a union. If the child you carry is your late husband’s, you’re in violation of that provision.”
“The Constitution may imply, but it doesn’t explicitly state,” Elizabeth said. “Which brings me to Point Three: with the backing of the House of Commons, I intend to propose an amendment to the Constitution that will remove that ambiguity, and bring my child fully within the law.”
Breakwater’s face stiffened. “With the Commons, Your Majesty?”
“Yes, My Lord,” Elizabeth said. “You see, my final gift from Prime Minister Burgundy wasn’t a list of potential suiters, as we all first thought. It was, instead, a list of potential allies in the Constitutional crises he knew would be coming.”
“I see.” Breakwater drew himself up. “There is, of course, another way to avoid such a crisis.”
“There are several,” Elizabeth agreed. “But since I don’t feel like bartering my future for your support, this is the one I’ll be using.” She keyed the file on her tablet over to Breakwater’s. “Especially given Point Four.”
Breakwater glanced down at his tablet. Took a second look. Carefully picked up the tablet and held it a bit closer.