Trosh nodded.
“You are not wrong,” he conceded. “We will do what we must. May I impose on you to warn everyone? I do not wish to remove the gravity without warning.”
So long as no one moved, they didn’t drift off. By the time the gravity actually turned off, Sylvia had ensconced herself in the chair set up for her at the negotiating table, with carefully arranged tools and food around her.
Oran Aval had done the same, hooking herself into the chair carefully and hanging on to a bulb of water as she drank. Rising Principle joined them several moments after the gravity cut out, the Enteni’s trilateral tendrils proving surprisingly graceful in zero-gee.
“We is-are trapped,” they admitted. “Fate-time must-will come. I wonder.”
“Ambassador?” Aval asked, her tone amused.
“If we is-are all trapped anyway, perhaps we should-could complete our discussions,” the Enteni told them. “If we live, a fate-course for peoples can-will have been set. If we die, we will-can have distracted ourselves in our final fate-time.”
The Kozun chuckled, a surprisingly warm sound.
“I think, Ambassador Rising Principle, that if we survive this, there will be far different discussions to be had,” she told them. “The Drifters betrayed us all, I think. I cannot prove they fired the weapons in my people’s launchers, but I know we came here for peace.
“This treachery will be answered, and I think both our peoples are better served if we answer it together. Do you not?”
“This can-will be a possibility, but peace must-will be established first,” Rising Principle told her.
“The Kozun Voices will take formal responsibility for the invasion, recognize the Cluster’s borders as we were discussing, and pay an indemnity of one hundred thousand tons of refined palladium,” Oran Aval said flatly. “In exchange, we want a nonaggression pact for ten years, a good-faith attempt to negotiate trade rights and mutual defense against other aggressors.
“Does that suffice for the La-Tar Cluster to accept peace with the Hierarchy, Ambassador?”
Sylvia had a decent idea of what the La-Tar Cluster wanted out of the negotiations, and unless she was severely mistaken, Oran Aval had just offered Rising Principle’s entire wish list.
The Third Voice of the Kozun was angry—and the Drifters were going to regret betraying her.
Which was fine in Sylvia Todorovich’s books. The Drifters were going to regret betraying her, too.
“Sers, ambassadors,” Trosh interrupted. “We have a problem. The Guardians are splitting up…and as Ambassador Todorovich predicted, one of them is coming here.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
If the soft chime had been an external alarm, it probably would have failed to wake Henry up. Since it was in his internal network and had almost nothing to do with his physical hearing, it actually couldn’t fail.
To his surprise, he’d managed the three hours of sleep he’d set the alarm for. Checking into the status reports as he quickly showered and dressed told him that the Drifters were being surprisingly cautious.
They’d spent hours positioning two of the ships to sweep the entire meteor swarm from the outside while the third swept back along the course Raven had followed to get there. Now he could see the search-and-rescue shuttles sweeping the debris cloud that had been sixty Drifter starfighters, and understood their mission.
From their vector, though, the Guardian was going to continue on to the original ambush site and likely sweep for Kozun escape pods from there. Somehow, he didn’t think anyone they rescued from the UPSF, La-Tar or Kozun wreckage was going to be well treated.
“Ser, it’s O’Flannagain.” Her message popped into his network. “Do you have a moment?”
“I’m awake and the Drifters are only now vectoring into the meteor swarm,” Henry replied. “What’s up, CAG?”
“I need you on the flight deck, ser,” she told him. “We need to talk about this mess.”
“You can talk to me now,” he pointed out.
“Props are necessary,” his CAG replied. “Be here in five.”
Henry arched an eyebrow at a blank wall. That was mildly inappropriate and insubordinate, but he was used to that from starfighter pilots. He pinged Iyotake.
“XO, any idea what’s going on with O’Flannagain?” he asked.
“She wants you to sign on putting our last few missiles on our fighters; I know that much,” Iyotake replied. “I take it she pinged you as soon as you were awake?”
“She did,” Henry confirmed. “Wants me to meet her on the flight deck. Can’t hurt.” He shrugged. “Status?”
“We’re embedded in a hundred-plus-kilometer ice cube, and someone is about to come hunting for us with a laser,” his XO said. “So far, everything I see suggests we’re well hidden and it will take them time to find us. I’m just not sure how much time we’re going to have.”
“I’m hoping for about thirty-eight hours,” Henry replied, checking his network for the time. “That’s why we laid a bunch of traps and distractions. Surprised they haven’t triggered any of them yet.”
“My read is that they think they have all the time in the world,” Iyotake said. “It’ll be four days before the last regular drone reaches La-Tar. Without knowing about Scorpius, they’ve got to think they have at least a week.”
“And if they know about Scorpius, Admiral Kosigan is going to need to launch a bloody witch hunt,” Henry said. “Nobody farther out than Zion knew anything except us. If that leaked, IntelDiv is going be very, very busy.”
“Indeed. Do you want me to check in once you’re on the flight deck?”
“Yes,” Henry confirmed. “Just link in; there’s no need for you to be physically present. She’s probably right about arming the Lancers; they’re the last real weapon we have.”
The flight deck was a busy hive of activity when Henry stepped onto it. One of the largest open spaces on the battlecruiser, it played host to their eight starfighters in bays along each side. Lights glittered in those bays, highlighting the still-odd-looking form factor of the new fighters.
One of the bays was dark, but enough light crept in from the rest of the bay for Henry to see the massive hole torn through three-quarters of the length of Raven-One.
“There you are,” O’Flannagain said, emerging from one of several robotic trolleys running around the deck. “Catch.”
Instinct was enough for Henry to grab the package she tossed him with ease, and he stared down at the familiar colors and bundled shape of a freshly fabricated flight suit.
“What’s this?” he demanded, suddenly completely off-balance. The flight suit was marked with his name. His rank insignia. Even the entirely non-regulation red-gold wings of an ace who’d flown in the first campaign against the Kenmiri.
“It’s a flight suit,” O’Flannagain said with exaggerated patience. “Raven’s fabricators have your size on file. It’s synced with Raven-Eight, though you’ll want to double-check everything.”