Chapter 16

 

Caerwyn stood in the throne room. Gathered before him were the reigning patriarchs and matriarchs of the highest ranked nobles still living on Capital World. Most had come voluntarily by invitation; a few had been blackmailed or bribed into attendance. The presence of each of them helped to lend legitimacy to what he was doing. Even more important than the heads of each family were the nobles who served in the Assembly. Again, he had taken the necessary measures to compel their attendance and, in no uncertain terms, his people made it clear to them they were to act appropriately. Solemn when solemnity was required and celebratory when the deed was finished.

Caerwyn stood with his back to the royal throne. All eyes of the Empire were on him, he knew. At least a dozen cameras were pointed at him and the broadcast was being sent live to every home on Capital World, to the farthest reaches of the galaxy, and everywhere in between. No Imperial citizen would be ignorant, Caerwyn had decided. All must know of what was happening here this day. Today was a red-letter day, and a first in Imperial history.

“Today,” said the Supreme Judicator, beginning the ceremony. She was the highest ranking member of the Capital World Supreme Court, and, like the heads of the noble families, she had been adequately persuaded to ensure her full cooperation. “We are honored to gather as friends, countrymen, brothers, sisters, and citizens of this glorious Empire, to raise before us a new sovereign. A leader, a father, a patron, a monarch who will bear the heavy burden that is this crown,” she lifted the ceremonial crown for all to see. “We are here, united, as one people, with one purpose, to witness and accept the vows of our new king, solemn oaths of fealty, guardianship and duty to us all.”

There were cheers. Off camera, there were signs that indicated it was time to cheer, and men standing ready to make certain the crowd complied. They did. And when the signs asked for silence, the throne room fell silent enough one could have heard a pin drop upon the great marble floor.

“Who is he that would be our king?” asked the Supreme Judicator, “and accept this heavy burden?” Again raising the crown for all to see, most especially the cameras.

“Here I stand,” said Caerwyn, remembering his role in this ceremony. It was a farce, a puppet show, showmanship for the benefit of the common people of the Empire, but it was necessary.

“If you would be our king, and accept this tremendous burden,” said the Supreme Judicator, now facing Caerwyn, her back to the crown. “Then kneel before your people.”

Caerwyn knelt.

“What is your name, sir?”

“I am Caerwyn Martel, of the noble Martel family,” he said. “One of the Great Houses. A founding house of the Empire.” Like most nobles, his status was the result of his ancestors, long ago, choosing to support the first king quickly and faithfully. Caerwyn did not miss the irony that now he waged bloody war against that king’s great-great granddaughter.

“You, Caerwyn of House Martel,” said the Supreme Judicator. “Be you compelled to kneel here?”

“No man nor woman compels me. I kneel here of my own free will.”

“And be you of sound and able mind?”

“Yes, Supreme Judicator. I am of sound and able mind.”

“Are you willing to take the Oath?”

“I am willing.”

“Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the People of this great Empire and all her territories, according to our respective laws and customs?”

“I solemnly promise so to do,” said Caerwyn, taking a moment to remember the phrasing exactly.

“Will you, in your power, cause Law and Justice, and Mercy, to be executed in all of your judgments?”

“I will.”

“Will you, to the utmost of your power, maintain the great and longstanding traditions and laws of our Empire?”

“I swear it.”

The Supreme Judicator then turned to face the crowd. “And do you, People of the Empire, accept this man to be your king and sovereign, Guardian of the law and Protector of the realm?”

The people cheered their assent, just as the signs and armed men off camera directed them to do until they were instructed to be silent.

The Supreme Judicator then approached Caerwyn, crown still in her hands, and spoke. “As you have sworn before these witnesses, before all the souls of the Empire, and before any gods that may be; and as these subjects of the Empire have accepted you to perform this providential task and execute this most solemn of duties; I now hereby place this crown upon your head.” She put the ceremonial crown on top of Caerwyn’s head. They’d taken measurements of his head before designing the damned thing, so it fit snugly and perfectly, just as it was supposed to. “Now arise, sir, as King Caerwyn Martel, First of Your Name, Successor of King Hisato Akira, Sovereign of the Empire, and Defender of the Realm. Arise and accept your people even as they accept you.”

He climbed slowly to his feet, trying not to grin from ear to ear, knowing he must appear stately and kingly, serious but not grim. He stood tall and proud, crown upon his head, and raised both hands high in the air. The crowd cheered loudly and raucously, roaring their approval, just as they were directed to.

He lowered his hands and spoke. “As your king, I accept this tremendous burden and all its responsibilities and I swear to you to defend and honor the Imperial Charter and all the laws of the realm.”

 

***

 

Kalila watched the farce play out on her screen, listening as the Supreme Judicator and Caerwyn Martel traded lines of the mantra of coronation, swapping lines between them like actors in a play. But unlike a play, their performance was meant to be taken very seriously and, for a great part of the Empire, it would mean something stirring and profound. It would give them a symbol to rally behind. For why should any of them kneel before an exiled queen when, seated atop the throne of the capital, they had a king?

The entire thing filled her with disdain and disgust, yet she could not get herself to look away nor mute the sound. It felt very much like witnessing a terrible, grisly accident; something sore and haunting on the senses yet nonetheless compelling to behold.

“Your Majesty should not waste her time with that drivel,” said Captain Adiger, who stood by her side. They'd been discussing operations of the ship, along with the greater portion of her strategy, when the broadcast interrupted them.

“They say he is the first king of the Empire not to bear the name Akira,” she said, her eyes still glued to the display. “But he is no king. He is an imposter, a pretender; a bloody usurper.” She watched as Caerwyn was seated upon the ceremonial throne, her father’s chair; her chair. She had declared herself queen regnant, stood as champion of the Empire, done so much and given up so much to be the one to command humanity into a new, more glorious age. Yet it was not her but he who sat upon that throne. Even though half the Empire, if not more, did not recognize his claim.

“The people know he is no king,” said Captain Adiger, trying to sound reassuring. “I am certain even the common people know this act for the charade it is.”

Kalila was less certain of that, but she appreciated the sentiment. When the pretentious ceremony finally came to its pompous conclusion and the broadcast ended, Kalila felt a kind of relief, as though a sickness in the pit of her stomach had gone away. She knew the people of the Empire expected her to broadcast her rejection of the ceremony. To address the people and rebut Caerwyn’s claims and antics, as she always did. That had been their game since the war began; one of them would speak, addressing all of the Empire, and the other would reply, denying and undoing the words of the first, as best as could be done. She had called for unity, and he'd labeled her a divider. She'd raised a standard to rally the people, and he had called her insane. She had claimed the monarchy and put herself before the people as their ruler and protector, and now he had done the same. It seemed to be a game of moves and countermoves without end, one she'd grown tired of, and she was sure the people had grown tired of it also, yet it remained necessary.

“Shall I give the order?” asked Captain Adiger as Kalila buried her face in her arms, more frustrated and tired than any person should ever have to be.

“Give the order,” she replied. “It is time.”

Rather than face the citizens of the Empire herself, behind makeup and lights, facing more cameras than she cared to know about, she relied upon a different tactic. A rebuttal had to be made; that much was clear. Caerwyn had to be called out and condemned for his behavior, his coronation ceremony rejected as the fraudulent charade it was. But it need not be Kalila herself who did the task.

“You are clear to transmit,” said Captain Adiger, using the comm system to talk to the ISS Indomitable. A few seconds later, a new broadcast appeared, this time a legitimate one, one which spoke the truth.

Before her, on display for all the Empire to see, was the Royal Assembly. They sat in their seats, in the largest spare room of the Indomitable which had been decorated to appear like an assembly chamber should. One of them stood, the chosen Speaker of the Royal Assembly, and the cameras zoomed in on her. She was a beautiful dark skinned woman with black hair and chocolate eyes. When she spoke, she had a commanding tone and, had Kalila not known better, she might have thought this woman had been raised as royalty.

“I am Representative Natasha Mirembi of Tarsonia, Speaker of the Royal Assembly, and a member of the legal legislative body of the people of the Empire. On behalf of the Empire, and all her citizens, and speaking with the voice of the Royal Assembly itself, I hereby repudiate and reject the coronation of Caerwyn Martel as monarch of the Empire. The Assembly that elected him has no jurisdiction over any Imperial citizens anywhere. Its rulings are not binding upon anyone, and that body has been officially declared defunct.

“Furthermore, our Empire stands behind a monarch already. Queen Kalila Akira is the true successor of Hisato Akira, and she reigns as Guardian of the Empire and Protector of the Realm. She is the Heiress to the Andrevine and the Sixth Monarch of the Empire. Let it be known far and wide, the Empire kneels before a queen and not a king. Kalila Akira is our monarch by rights and Caerwyn Martel is a fraud, a pretender, and a usurper. The Royal Assembly declares it so.”

As she watched the Royal Assembly speak her words for her, helping to combat the misinformation so pervasively spread by Caerwyn Martel, Kalila knew it would soon return to blood between herself and Caerwyn. Although, since Apollo, their fighting had turned to rhetoric and propaganda, and in his case pompous and idiotic acts of symbolic value, now he had done the very thing that would demand a military response from one side or the other, or both.

There now existed two competing monarchs and just one kingdom, and each monarch had command of fleets which now had been, by and large, restored to a state of battle readiness. Now he can attack my worlds without fear of a massive political backlash, she thought. Knowing that hereafter Caerwyn could claim any attack he made on another human world, so long as it had declared for Queen Kalila, was a justified, and even necessary, action to “restore the Empire.”

She too could attack his worlds under similar conditions. It was one thing to oppose a political assembly of elected legislative officials plus the fleets they controlled and defend herself from their demands of her capture. But it was quite another to stand as monarch and have to deal with the challenge presented by a competing monarch. To do nothing would be to imply her acceptance of his claim. For him to do nothing would be seen no differently. So it must necessarily come to lethal blows between her loyal supporters and his.

We shall fight again soon. Very soon. Too soon.

 

***

 

“Yes, he gave me the confirmation some time ago,” said Raidan.

He was in the privacy of his office, engaging in an encrypted and clandestine communication with Tristan who, evidently, was more than happy to broadcast from the command position of his ship. Raidan normally would have objected to their conversation happening in front of Tristan’s Bridge crew, but he happened to know Tristan had a very low tolerance for disloyalty among his people and tended to surround himself with officers who were absolutely terrified of his wrath. They would keep the conversation secret, or so Raidan hoped.

“He confirmed what, exactly? That he has them, or he knows Zander has them?” asked Tristan.

“Captain Pellew was very brief in his communication,” admitted Raidan, “but he told me everything I needed to know. Zander did have all the weapons, but by the time the Nighthawk overtook the Duchess it was too late; Zander had already given them all away.”

“More like sold them,” said Tristan, his eyes glowing red at the news. No one hated Zander for his betrayal more than Tristan. It was probably, therefore, a good thing for Zander that he was already space dust.

“Yes, sold them. And I believe to the Rahajiim,” said Raidan.

“Fifteen isotome weapons in the hands of the Rahajiim…” said Tristan. “That makes things very dark for your people, Raidan, very dark.”

“If things are dark for us, then they are dark for you,” said Raidan. A fact Tristan seemed to accept, but occasionally had to be reminded of.

“I imagine once they get those missiles into the hands of a proper fleet, the Rotham will come knocking at your door, and they’ll do it with a very big hammer.”

“Yes, I think that’s a foregone conclusion,” said Raidan.

It was already known that the Alliance had fallen to some evil cooperation between the Rotham Republic and the Enclave, which removed the one great barrier which stood between the Rotham and the Empire. It was also well known that the Rotham had ambitions inside Imperial space; they’d already essentially conquered Renora and, by all accounts, they wouldn’t stop there. Some whisperers suggested the Rotham intended to eliminate humanity as a threat to them once and for all. That could only mean the elimination of the Empire; possibly even extinction for humanity altogether. Raidan hoped such extreme plans weren’t actually the game the Rahajiim seemed to be playing, using the Rotham Senate and military as pawns, but he knew whatever they were up to, it was no good. And that they were willing to use extreme measures to reach their ends.

With the Imperial military engaged in civil war, weakening itself with each engagement, it was only a matter of time before the Rotham could spill over the border and have their pick of any of the Imperial worlds. For all Raidan knew, they could already, especially now that they had the potential to darken entire stars and eliminate whole systems. Most likely the human worlds would submit to their rule rather than risk annihilation. And that would be that: the end of humanity as they knew it.

“There was one small shred of hope Pellew was able to give me,” said Raidan.

“And what is that?” asked Tristan.

“The isotome weapons Zander sold to the Rahajiim, or whoever he gave them to, he only handed over fourteen of them.”

“So our count was wrong, then?”

“No, our count was right. That means Zander intended to keep one isotome weapon for himself, perhaps for sale later. Imagine the price when it’s the last one left.” Raidan leaned forward in his chair. “At least, that had been Zander’s plan, I’m willing to wager.”

“Well, I’ve been tracking them as best I’m able,” said Tristan. “We know the Duchess stopped in dead space near a neutron star. We’re locked onto those coordinates and will be there soon. We also suspect the Nighthawk followed them there. This is the interesting part,” said Tristan. “Our scans currently show a lot of synthetic debris and nothing else. In other words, there is a ship at those coordinates, but it's in very small pieces. My question is, Nighthawk or Duchess?”

“I’m already ahead of you there,” said Raidan. “According to Pellew, he was able to board the Duchess and capture the last isotome missile and bring it aboard the Nighthawk, after which he ignited charges on the Duchess, eliminating it and all aboard.”

“He killed Zander?” said Tristan, looking unsurprisingly furious. “That was supposed to be me,” he said, his eyes glowing red again.

“According to Pellew, Zander’s own crew did him in before the Nighthawk’s soldiers had even arrived,” said Raidan. “But either way, you’re missing the point. Pellew was able to capture one of the isotome weapons, which means one of the weapons belongs to us.”

“That's good,” said Tristan. “But one against fourteen isn't a contest I'm optimistic about.”

“Yes, the other fourteen remain unaccounted for. And yes, they almost certainly are in the hands of our enemies, whether the Rahajiim has them now or is in the process of getting them. Those fourteen weapons are going to be a very serious problem,” admitted Raidan. “But now we have an option. Now they know if they start using their weapons against our systems, even against just one of them, we could use ours against them, possibly even as deep inside their space as the planet Ro itself. The senate won’t risk that. The Military Command won’t risk that. Which means the Rahajiim can’t risk that. Even with one isotome weapon, we have deterrence power!”

Tristan slowly seemed to come over to his side of thinking. In spite of what sounded like long odds, one to fourteen, so long as one weapon existed and it could be used to threaten Ro, then it didn’t matter if the Rotham had fourteen weapons or fourteen hundred; they couldn’t risk losing their home world. “Very clever, sir, very clever. Well done.”

“You can congratulate me once I have the actual weapon on board the Harbinger and Mira Pellew the hell away from me. Then you may applaud me for my cleverness,” said Raidan.

“True, there’s always the chance Pellew will abscond with the weapon,” said Tristan. Raidan was very aware of such a possibility, which was why he was paying Pellew as handsomely as he was. The man could live as a veritable prince after this...Still, hearing the threat aloud, which remained a real possibility, especially since Pellew had ceased to make his regular check-ins, made Raidan extremely anxious and would continue to do so until he had actual physical possession of the missile.

“I have Pellew under control,” said Raidan, as much to reassure himself as to inform Tristan. “At least I have every reason to believe so. Remember what we paid him to help you on his ship, and then later to turn against his own Special Forces division?”

“Yes. It was a significant sum, I remember.”

“Well, that was nothing compared to this.”

“Then I would say Pellew is not someone you need to worry about,” said Tristan. “Well…at least that Pellew.”

“Indeed,” said Raidan, knowing all too well how dangerous Mira Pellew was. Yet he couldn’t just up and eliminate her, as yet, not any more than she could do the same to him. The two needed each other still, unfortunately, and so long as that need existed, no action could be taken against either one. At least that was Raidan’s take on the situation. Because she had an additional element of unpredictability, he still watched himself around her and made certain to stay within relative earshot of his most loyal officers at all times, just in case.

“How do you know Summers won’t just blow up the missile while it is in transport?” asked Tristan.

“You’re smart to ask,” said Raidan. “I had high hopes she could be made to see the value in having such a weapon for its deterrence value. Unfortunately, Jason Pellew lacked the diplomatic charm to persuade her. So…he had to capture the ship.”

“You ordered him to take command of the Nighthawk?” Tristan sounded shocked, yet oddly pleased by the news.

“Yes. If and only if it was necessary to do so to protect the weapon.”

“Now I understand what you meant when you told me you had other arrangements.”

“Yes. Jason Pellew and his soldiers, most of whom came from my ship anyway, were my other arrangements. I’d hoped not to use them but it seems Summers and her officers gave us no choice,” said Raidan.

“Well bravo to them, I say, and to you, sir!”

“You seem to be taking this news in stride,” said Raidan.

“Well, I always thought that ship needed a changeup in its command structure. Now, at least, we can rely on it a bit more to do what we need it to,” said Tristan.

“I’m not so sure that’s true.”

“Why?”

“For one, I ordered Pellew to make certain his actions appeared to be entirely unilateral. I don’t want my involvement known. So long as that secret stays as such, I can turn the ship loose again, under Summers, and have her do what she needs to.”

“Ah…somehow I knew this would be about her in some way,” said Tristan.

“Silence, I’m still explaining,” said Raidan, annoyed. “If, however, the secret gets out, then Summers and her crew will never trust us again. You can forget about them taking any kind of action on behalf of the Organization ever again.”

“So what?” asked Tristan. “Just let Pellew control the ship.”

“Pellew is a hired gun; a mercenary. His loyalties are fluid at best, and he has no starship flight expertise,” said Raidan. “The Nighthawk is a state-of-the-art military intelligence frigate; she needs a professional touch to handle her. Whether or not Summers uncovers the truth of this matter and chooses to work with us again or not, she shall retain command of the ship, at least until Calvin gets back.”

“You know what you’re doing?” said Tristan. “You’re protecting her.”

“I am not,” said Raidan, his face feeling a bit hot. “Anyway, all of that's beside the point for now because I have lost contact with the Nighthawk.”

“What?” Tristan sounded alarmed.

“It might be nothing,” said Raidan, hoping that was true. “But Jason Pellew has stopped making regular contact. We agreed to a schedule of check-ins and, as of the last three, he's not made any effort to contact me.”

“Or perhaps he’s made the effort and they just haven’t gone through,” said Tristan. “Communications malfunction is one possibility.”

“Yes, and a good one at that,” said Raidan, since he was essentially banking on that to be the case. And thought it probably was the case.

“Why don’t you try to contact the Nighthawk from your end?” asked Tristan.

“I can’t do that,” said Raidan.

“I don’t see why not. You have a whole division of officers who specialize in communications, just aboard your single starship!”

“Think it through,” said Raidan. “Suppose I attempt to make contact; there are two possibilities. Possibility one: Pellew answers my hail, at which point it's obvious to the captured crew I was behind it all. Or, if not behind it, directly involved.”

“I see. And you really don’t want her to find out.”

“It’s strategically useful she doesn’t find out,” said Raidan. “Now, possibility two: I attempt to contact the ship and eat static. That leaves me no better off than I am now, in fact it gives me more reason to worry. But not anything new upon which I can act.”

“You want my opinion? You’re rationalizing,” said Tristan. “But I trust your reasoning in this matter.”

“You’re damned right you do,” said Raidan, as if to remind Tristan which of them was in command here.

“So, I take it you want me to continue to track the Nighthawk as best as I can, then?”

“If you’re able.”

“They may have gotten too far ahead; we might find no useful alteredspace jump signature in the region by the time we arrive. Even if we do, the Nighthawk might have stealthed. On top of that, the Nighthawk is faster than the Arcane Storm, so I might be unable to get you any useful intelligence.”

“I’m aware of that,” said Raidan. “But I’d sleep easier knowing you’re out there and on the trail as best you can be.”

“Very well. We shall continue the pursuit.”

“Thank you.”

“You seem genuinely worried,” said Tristan. “You don’t actually think something has gone wrong, do you? Surely Summers and her crew haven’t retaken the ship or anything.”

“Calvin managed to do it.”

“With Pellew, not against him,” said Tristan. It was a healthy reminder.

“Honestly, no, I'm not worried Summers or any of the crew have retaken control of the Nighthawk from Pellew,” said Raidan. “But there are any number of things which could have gone wrong: the weapon may have been mishandled and detonated, the Enclave may have intercepted the Nighthawk and boarded it. We both know they could defeat Pellew and his soldiers and that they have a penchant for having intel they shouldn’t have. Not to mention Pellew may have double crossed me. Perhaps he found a buyer of his own that would pay him even more.”

“That last one sounds far more like Zander than Pellew; it just comes across as paranoid,” said Tristan. “And as for the first two, I’m sure they are treating the missile gingerly, and the Enclave; come on. Yes, they're dangerous. And yes, those bastards are evil, vile, and hellish, and could easily take the ship. But they’d have to find the damn thing, and the Nighthawk is sneaky as hell, even without its stealth active! Besides, the Enclave would have to know the Nighthawk had the missing missile, and the only person who could have told them that is space dust! You said it yourself: Zander is dead.”

“Or so Pellew told me,” said Raidan, now wondering if somehow Pellew could have struck a deal with the Enclave. No; now I’m just being ridiculous, he thought.

“Take it from me, Raidan,” said Tristan. “You’re being paranoid.”

“Good,” said Raidan. “If I’m not at least a bit paranoid in this game, then I might as well write my epitaph. My paranoia is my edge.”

“Some paranoia, yes. Not so much that you drive yourself mad, though. After all, you’ve got to trust somebody.”

Raidan knew he was right. Still, he’d feel a lot better if he heard from Jason Pellew. And better still once he had the weapon in his hands. Then he’d just have to keep it secret from Mira Pellew long enough until he could deal with her.

Raidan briefly wondered if somehow the two of them could be working together. An evil duo of brother and sister, both playing Raidan from separate angles. Impossible, thought Raidan. Or at least, improbable; highly improbable. Considering his primary request…

There was the sound of a click, his sealed door unlocking. “I have to go,” said Raidan, terminating the transmission an instant before Mira Pellew herself entered his office. In the distance, the chief engineer could be seen walking away.

“That door was locked for a reason,” said Raidan, making a mental note never to trust the chief engineer again. Clearly, he was one of hers, now. Perhaps he had been all along.

“No one has seen you for hours,” said Mira as she stepped closer, then took the seat opposite him. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.” All that stood between them was his cedar desk. He could easy climb over it and go for her throat. No one could stop him…Not in time, anyway.

“Well, I assure you, I’m quite all right,” he said. “You can stop having engineers break electronically sealed doors to check on me.”

Mira smiled. “Whatever you say, Captain. But I think we both know you left me very little choice.”

“And why is that?”

“I think it’s pretty obvious; you’re avoiding me.”

“And why, I wonder, might that be?” asked Raidan, as he poured himself a shot of whiskey.

He’d just raised his glass to his lips when she said, “Drink up,” her tone was taunting. “Drink deep.”

He lowered the glass and set it on the desk. “Do you mind telling me just what the hell you want, Mira?” He looked her squarely in the eyes. He would not be intimidated by the likes of her, even if he did know precisely how dangerous she truly was. He highly doubted she could have, or would have poisoned his whiskey. She just liked to give the appearance of control…to imply greater power than she actually had, or to exaggerate her reach, especially around Raidan.

Well, he would have none of it. He decided to pick up the glass after all to show her he didn't believe her, to call her bluff. He downed it before her eyes and poured a second shot. Mira smiled as he knew she would. But that didn’t matter; he was still too useful to her to poison, just as she remained too useful to him. For now…

“Bravo,” she said, after he’d finished the drink. “So, you are a man with some backbone still after all.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I think we both know why I’m here: action. It needs to happen, and it ought to happen now,” her eyes widened as she spoke and, in the lights, she seemed almost mental.

“Drastic measures are only called for in drastic times,” he said, downing the second shot. “To play a trump card too early is to be shortsighted. You don’t win the hand only to lose the game.”

“You and your metaphors,” she said, annoyed. “It doesn’t matter what metaphor you use, the fact is you have a chance to act, we have a chance to act, and we’re not doing it. We’re sitting here, waiting, watching as the civil war rages on. As the Rahajiim are out there scheming. And who knows how many other enemies we have? Yet you would have us continue to sit here. Why is that?” she eyed him suspiciously, probing him. As if knowing he had an ace up his sleeve he hadn’t told her about which, in fact, he did in the form of the isotome missile.

Raidan kept his best poker face and met her gaze. If she was going to uncover his secret, which in time she inevitably would if no one stopped her, it wouldn’t be by reading his facial cues and interpreting his body language; that much Raidan was certain of.

“It’s all about timing,” he said. “All things in their proper order, in their proper time. Not before.”

“What happened to you?” she asked. “You used to be a man of action. The old Raidan, the one who destroyed those damn Rotham freighters because he heard they had class one cargo, that Raidan wouldn’t be sitting here drinking himself stupid. That Raidan would act. Now.”

“I’m the same man,” he said calmly. “However, one never uses the solution of force when the option of diplomacy remains on the table. Use of force creates opportunities for errors. People slip up, make mistakes. I don’t want to risk that. Not until I absolutely have to.”

“Dammit, Raidan, at least summon the Forum. You know it’s long overdue!”

He gave her a long, hard look before replying, coolly as ice, “Not. Yet.”

Mira looked back at him and then, to his surprise, smiled. “As you wish, Captain,” she said, in her sweetest, most obedient tone. Then she left.

Dangerous bitch…he thought, pouring himself a third shot. He had to be careful with that one, had to remain vigilant. Above all, she could not be allowed to gain knowledge of the isotome weapon. Such a weapon in her hands would be almost as dangerous as one in the hands of the Rahajiim.