Daniel shut down the High Drive, then let out his breath and felt all the strength drain from his body. Goodness, he’d merely been sitting at his console for the past hour. It felt like he’d been breaking rocks!
He switched the intercom manually. “Lieutenant Mon,” he said. “Take the conn if you please. Coordinate with Engineering as to the best way to proceed toward the flagship while refitting our High Drive and plasma thrusters. Break. Mr. Pasternak, you may resume repairs. Coordinate with Lieutenant Mon.”
The Princess Cecile was still streaking toward the rim of the Strymon system and the void beyond. The velocity at which she’d entered sidereal space would take days to brake with the High Drive, even if all the nozzles were operating. If Woetjans couldn’t get some sort of rig operable with the corvette’s own spares, Daniel would have to beg help from the Active.
“Daniel?” said Adele. “The Yorck is signalling that it surrenders. Commodore Pettin’s ships are much closer than we are, but I’m not sure they’re monitoring the open channels at the moment. Would you like me to retransmit on the squadron’s command link?”
“What?” said Daniel. “Yes, if you would please, Adele. There’s no point in having hundreds more of the poor devils die when there’s no reason for it.”
“Captain?” Woetjans said. The bosun was breathing hard. “We’re getting three antennas on each of the aft rings rigged. Forward we’re fucked, maybe even in a shipyard we’re fucked, but you’ll be able to crawl into the Matrix inside of ten. Over.”
Daniel beamed. “Woetjans, I’d marry you if I thought I were worthy!” he said. “Break. Lieutenant Mon, the Chief of Rig says we’ll have partial sails available in ten minutes. Plot a course toward the flagship, if you please; and also a course back to Strymon, where I expect we’ll be directed as soon as the commodore learns who our passenger is. Captain out.”
Daniel stood carefully, using the back of his chair as a support until he was sure that his legs weren’t going to fail him. When he sat at the console he locked one leg under the chairpost. During the battle just over, he’d clamped it firmly enough that he’d cut off circulation.
“Adele?” he said. “Would you care to come with me to the wardroom? I think it’s time to release President Vaughn and offer our apologies. I’d like some company.”
Offering Adele his hand, Daniel added—smiling but truthful nonetheless, “In addition, I prefer to have you beside me when I talk to Tovera.”
Daniel had left a short imagery loop running on the command console. Der Grosser Karl hung in a black field, gouting plasma from its turrets—
Then spewing gas and flame from both flanks as the Princess Cecile’s fourth missile struck.
Cinnabar forever!
EPILOGUE: Xenos
Barnes and Dasi, hired to bring Adele’s personal gear from Harbor Three, walked ahead of her like a noble’s retainers. They were joking with one another and whistling, either man able to carry both duffle bags without noticing the weight. Civilians watched them curiously: this wasn’t a district that saw many of their sort.
Woetjans and Pasternak both had offered Adele a real escort, as many spacers as she wanted from the crew of Frigate 204—renamed Little Sis while in RCN service. She’d refused. Adele had an increasing disdain for empty state, and to appear with forty or more servants would be making a boast to her neighbors that the reality of her purse couldn’t live up to.
“I was a fool to ask for this house back,” Adele said to Tovera beside her. “I can’t afford basic maintenance, let alone the kind of staff it requires to be run properly.”
Tovera shrugged noncommittally. She might not have responded even if she’d been asked a real question. Money simply wasn’t something that Tovera cared about.
Adele smiled faintly. Tovera was quiet, self-effacing, and abstemious. Viewed from the correct angle, she was a saint.
“The one with the guy in blue out front, ma’am?” Dasi asked. He gestured with his free hand, an underhanded motion as though he were lobbing a ball.
Adele leaned to look past the two burly spacers. There shouldn’t be—