The Duel

May 487 I.C., Odin

Yang had lied to Muller, though it was a white lie. If, as he suspected, the Alliance did have plans to build some kind of outpost inside the Iserlohn corridor, it had suddenly become absolutely vital to his civil war planning to have control of that base instead. He didn’t care about its possible tungsten output; its position on the other side of Iserlohn fortress was more valuable by far.

He had originally become Duke Braunschweig’s subordinate with the promise of being able to orchestrate the capture of Iserlohn fortress. Whoever controlled the fortress would be in a position to strike a bargain with the Alliance, if it became necessary: allow the Alliance fleet through the corridor, and with their massive and fresh forces, install a regent on the throne that suited them. This wouldn’t be the worst outcome, Yang supposed, but he didn’t trust that anyone trying this would have the best interests of the Empire’s common people at heart. In order to stop things from going badly, Yang wanted to have that option in his own back pocket.

Although he had once predicted a way that Iserlohn fortress could be defeated, and with that prediction had narrowly saved the Iserlohn fleet from total annihilation, Yang did not really like the idea of attempting to capture Iserlohn himself. Although he had plenty of ideas, some of them even good ideas, most of them relied on subterfuge, and careful planning, and a delicate touch. All of these were qualities that he had noticed that his superior, Duke Braunschweig, was noticeably lacking in.

Iserlohn fortress had many weaknesses, Yang decided. Most of them were internal, or even psychological. But it did have one physical weakness that he might be able to exploit. The fortress was meant to only prevent attacks from one direction, and the Thor Hammer, the fortress’s fleet-obliterating beam weapon, could only fire in one direction at once. A pincer attack, coming from both sides, would be the surest way of brute-force defeating the fortress. The problem with that strategy, of course, was that he would need to start off with his own forces on either side of the corridor.

If the Alliance was setting up some forward base within the corridor, and he could get it under Duke Braunschweig’s control, that would serve as his second pincer point to allow an assault on the fortress. And, even if he couldn’t capture Iserlohn directly, having a further outpost than the fortress itself would allow him to put up resistance to any ships that passed through in either direction, halting or delaying anyone else’s attempts to ally with the Alliance forces.

The problem was that Yang had to hand only extremely tenuous information from Muller about this possible base. In order to capture it, he would need to first find out where it was. It was possible that the Alliance had mapped some kind of branch within the Iserlohn corridor, one that the Empire didn’t know about, that contained this base. That was likely why there was such intense secrecy around it, to allow the Alliance to truly entrench themselves on this new planet without interference.

The first step would be convincing Duke Braunschweig of the potential value of this place, and getting him to send out scouts to find it— monitoring ships stationed through the corridor to detect any Alliance ships headed through bearing supplies. This would probably be the most difficult part: Braunschweig was not a man who enjoyed chasing ghosts.

Even after that, in order to get permission to bring his own ships out past Iserlohn and seize the base, Duke Braunschweig would need to petition the Kaiser for a charter. Even the highest nobles couldn’t simply take whatever planets they wished and declare them their own territory. This would probably alert Littenheim to the plan, and cause a political fight…

Yang, sitting at his desk, leaned his head in his hands.

And, assuming Duke Braunschweig even won that fight, there would still be the actual matter of capturing the base and holding it. Forward of Iserlohn fortress, the Alliance might be willing to make it quite a spectacular battleground, like Kapche-Lanka was.

But he needed to tackle one problem at a time. That was the worst thing about this job, he thought— he was being asked to solve ten thousand problems that didn’t exist yet.

Yang sighed and stood, resolving to go speak to one of his least favorite people, Captain Ansbach. Ansbach was Duke Braunschweig’s aide-de-camp, or something close enough to it. Inside Braunschweig’s organization, which was crammed top to bottom with family members in nebulous roles of authority outside of their military rank, actual duties and chains of command sometimes grew hazy, and no request for resources could land on Braunschweig’s desk without it going through Ansbach first.

Ansbach and Braunschweig weren’t related— Ansbach wasn’t anything approaching nobility— but he had originated from Duke Braunschweig’s estates before he had joined the Imperial fleet, and there must have been some reason why Braunschweig trusted him, or at least gave him responsibility. Yang didn’t know by what mechanism they had originally become acquainted— he had never asked, and he doubted that either of them would ever say. It was likely that Duke Braunschweig had sponsored Ansbach’s attendance at the Imperial Officers’ Academy, from which he and Yang had graduated in the same year, both among the top ten students in the class.

Although he had his own office in the official building where Yang also worked, Ansbach spent most of his time in Duke Braunschweig’s estate, at his beck and call. So, it was there that Yang headed, a portfolio with all of his gathered speculation under his arm. From his office, it was a twenty minute train ride, and then a short walk away.

Yang didn’t think he would ever get used to the size or splendor of the Braunschweig manor, no matter how many times he visited it. Its white steps and columns dwarfed him as he shook off a misty spring rain from his umbrella and headed inside, greeted at the door by one of the many servants. They were used to him by now, but that didn’t stop them from still looking on him with vague suspicion. He wasn’t sure if that was due to his foreign appearance, or due to them knowing the way he had come to be working for Braunschweig in the first place. Either way, he was always uncomfortable in the dark, opulent hallways of the family home. Even if the overall aesthetic tastes were little different than the Mariendorf house, there was no familiarity or warmth to be found here.

Ansbach had a tiny desk in a corner of the servant’s wing of his own in the house, but that wasn’t where Yang was instructed to meet him. He was instead shown into the library, and he ran his fingers over the spines of a few dusty tomes while he waited for Ansbach to appear. The rain pitter-pattered the windows.

When the heavy door opened after a few minutes of Yang standing alone, he expected that it would be Ansbach coming in, but it wasn’t. It was Duke Braunschweig’s daughter, Lady Elizabeth, the woman upon whose head Yang was theoretically trying to place the crown. She was as surprised to see Yang as he was to see her. He was never sure if he needed to bow to her, and he didn’t particularly want to, so he just nodded and stood with his hand twisting the hair on the back of his head.

“Captain Leigh,” she said, “are you here to see my father?” She walked across the long room with a purposeful stride, and dropped the book she was carrying onto the writing desk by the window with a heavy thump. She looked out the window at the drizzling rain for a second, the shadows made by the droplets on the glass streaming down her face.

“In a roundabout way,” he said. “I usually have to go through Captain Ansbach first when I need something.”

“And what do you need?”

“Scout ships in the Iserlohn corridor,” Yang said. “Out past the fortress.”

“I didn’t actually expect you to tell me anything.”

“Are you going to go repeating it to other people?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t tell you, at least in the generalities,” Yang said, studying her. She was black haired and handsome like her mother, but young, a little younger than Hildegarde von Mariendorf. Her shoulders were always thrown back, her head always held high. Whatever finishing school she had been sent to had drilled that much into her, though Yang suspected that she had been an unholy terror to the other pupils: there was something in the cold way she looked at people, eyebrows furrowing in a scowl that didn’t reach her lips, that conveyed a capability— or desire— for violence, at least of a social sort. That ability, too, had come from her mother, though the desire must have come from her father.

“My father wouldn’t.” Her tone was light, and she leaned back on the edge of the desk to watch him.

“Your father and I are different people,” Yang said. “But if everything goes as he hopes, you will be the Kaiserin one day. And even if there is the chance for peace in the galaxy within my lifetime, I don’t think anyone in the Empire is well served by having a leader who is wholly ignorant of military affairs.”

“I’m told that will be my husband’s concern,” she said, and she drummed her fingers against the edge of the desk, her thin engagement ring making a soft but intentional click.

“And how is Lieutenant Commander von Vering?” Yang asked.

“Hans is fine,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to ask: did you have him as a student, when you were teaching?”

“No, I didn’t have the pleasure,” Yang said. He said nothing more than that. The reason he had not had Hans von Vering, the scion of one of the wealthiest families in the nation, as a student was that he had graduated from the IOA quite in the middle of the pack; Yang only taught the top ranked sections. Yang suspected that Vering had been allowed into the IOA on family name, and had attended for its prestige only. His posting in the fleet was some sort of desk job in the capital.

Similarly, his engagement to Elizabeth was of a wholly political nature, securing his family fortune for Duke Braunschweig’s use, while promising his family power in the coming regime.

“Too bad.”

Yang smiled. “There were plenty of students at the IOA who were glad not to have me as their teacher.”

Elizabeth was about to say something to that when the door opened again, and this time, it was Ansbach who came in. He took in the scene, then bowed to Elizabeth, not glancing at Yang.

“Good afternoon, Captain Ansbach,” she said as he straightened. His sallow face looked even sallower in the dim light filtering in through the rainy windows, but perhaps Yang was being ungenerous to him.

“Good afternoon, Lady Elizabeth.”

“I should get out of your hair, so that Captain Leigh can ask you for his scout ships in the corridor.” She straightened.

“You’re welcome to stay, Lady Elizabeth,” Yang said, before she could start heading to the exit.

“Am I?” It wasn’t quite a question, and when she looked at Ansbach, it wasn’t for approval, it was gauging his reaction. Ansbach always had the same tight lipped expression as he did now. “I don’t think I am.” She nodded to Ansbach as she passed him en route to the door, and then left without a backwards glance at Yang, the door closing behind her with a heavy thump.

“A teenage girl, out-maneuvering the untouchable Hank von Leigh,” Ansbach said.

“What?” Yang asked. He sat down on one of the couches, but Ansbach didn’t take a seat, instead wandering across the carpeted floor, not quite pacing. Yang followed him with his eyes.

“Duke Braunschweig would not appreciate you using her approval or disapproval to sway me.”

“I wasn’t trying to get her on my side. It’s not like I’m here to argue with you.” He ran his hand through his hair.

“Then what was the point of that?”

“If she’s going to run the country, she should know something about how,” Yang said.

Ansbach scoffed. There was very little they could say on the subject without wandering into dangerous territory, so he said, “What did you really come here for?”

“Exactly what she said. Scout ships in the Iserlohn corridor, past the fortress.” Yang held out his portfolio full of evidence, and Ansbach made him wait with his arm outstretched for a long second before he walked over and snatched it out of Yang’s hand. As he flipped it open, Yang explained, “My informant on Phezzan has told me that the rebel fleet is building some kind of tungsten mine somewhere in the corridor. The mine isn’t important, but to take Iserlohn, we need our own outpost on that side of the corridor. Seizing the mine under the pretext of wanting the tungsten profits will give us a foothold. We just have to find it, first.”

Ansbach was silent for a long time as he shuffled through the papers, combing them over. Kircheis had been the one to prepare this report, and Yang had appreciated his thoroughness. He didn’t have much doubt that Ansbach would understand the value in the proposition— for all that Yang had defeated him in war games as a student, Ansbach was talented— but Yang was sure that Ansbach would like nothing more than to sabotage Yang’s plans and position.

“How lucky for you that this critical piece of your Iserlohn strategy has fallen right into your lap,” Ansbach said, dropping the portfolio down on the coffee table in front of Yang. “You don’t have an alternate plan, do you?”

Yang looked up at him. “I do.”

“What is it?”

“If you needed to know it, I would tell you.” He kept his voice even. “I have plenty of ideas for other eventualities. But this is a simple solution, and if we can make it work, it’s one that Duke Braunschweig will like.”

“Committing ships to something your spy on Phezzan thinks is happening? I don’t think so.”

“No, I agree he won’t like that,” Yang said. “But if there is something there, something he can put his hands on— he likes physical resources. And a well positioned planet that can be dug for profit even after the war…” Yang trailed off and shrugged, then looked away. “You know it would be easy to convince him, if you don’t try to stab me in the back here.”

“You think I would?”

Yang shrugged. “We’re not schoolboys anymore.”

Ansbach let out something that might have been a laugh. “You’re usually blunt enough to ask if I have more loyalty to the duke or hatred of you.”

“When you ask a question where there can only be one answer, be it true or a lie, you don’t learn much from it.” Yang stood, pushing up from the couch with his hands on his knees. “Are you going to pass along my request?”

“If I didn’t, I’m sure you’d find a way to ask him yourself.” His lip curled. “I appreciate you going through the middleman, rather than having Lady Elizabeth petition on your behalf.”

“If I didn’t have to go through you, I wouldn’t.” He looked at Ansbach steadily. “If we were friends, I’d give you advice about that.” He would have never wanted to be in Ansbach’s position. It seemed more than a little dangerous to be too indispensable to Braunschweig.

“Good thing we’re not,” Ansbach said. He edged away from Yang’s gaze and picked up the portfolio again. “You don’t have to argue your case with me, but you’ll have to be prepared to fight it with him.”

“Even you can see that this is a good strategy.”

“No,” Ansbach said. “But I want to see you fail on your own merits.” It seemed more likely that Ansbach understood that he would lose his favored position with Braunschweig if Braunschweig caught him deliberately sabotaging any part of the war effort, including Yang’s plans, and so could do nothing against him at the moment.

“I’m glad to hear we have that in common, at least,” Yang said.

Ansbach scoffed, but returned to a businesslike tone as he gestured with the portfolio. “I’ll pass this along. If he needs to speak with you about it, it will be on Friday.”

July 487 I.C., Odin

Yang got his scout ships in the corridor, traveling out with one of Braunschweig’s fleets to perform a fake training exercise, then peeling off to perform their secret duties. This paid dividends far faster than anyone expected, including Yang. It was a scant month and a half later, on a sweltering early July day, that the news reached him that an Alliance supply ship had been followed through a meandering offshoot branch of the corridor, towards an inhospitable little ball of dirt: the third planet orbiting a nondescript star.

The planet was in a system that Imperial starmaps had no name for, just a string of numbers. Alliance starmaps had named all the stars in that region of space, despite them being previously inaccessible. They called the star the planet orbited ‘Cahokia’. The Alliance was much more generous with designating places with names than the Empire was— so many planets on this side of the galaxy were only named after the local noble family.

Cahokia would serve as a name just fine, Yang decided. There was no need to go complicating things by trying to name the star after some ancient German earthwork— after all, those names were probably already taken by some other planet in the Empire. There were a finite number of places in ancient Germany, and all the best ones had already been used up as namesakes.

Although he had not even been sure that the scout ships would turn up anything useful, Yang had nevertheless been sitting on a complete plan for Braunschweig to put into action. Now that he had the information brought back by the scout ships, he was quite confident in it. His plan was made easier by the report that the installation on Cahokia was tiny, probably in an attempt to keep the place undetected. If Yang hadn’t been specifically looking, that might even have worked. But as it was, its small profile was now a weakness: it would be easier to take. There were no ships in orbit, and probably only a very minimal ground force to protect the mine operation.

Yang reported all of this to Braunschweig, standing stiff backed and sweating under his collar in front of Braunschweig’s heavy wooden desk in his estate office. Standing behind Braunschweig’s shoulder, Ansbach glared at him.

“So, sir, the mine looks easy to take now , but we shouldn’t wait on petitioning the Kaiser for authority to start building on the planet,” Yang said. “Every day we wait is another day that the rebel fleet could decide to increase their presence in the starzone. I’m sure there are some people looking at their unprotected investment and wondering just how long it can stay secret. If I were them, I wouldn’t…” He trailed off under Ansbach’s glower, though Braunschweig seemed in good spirits.

“And you’re sure that there’s no way that we could take it before petitioning the Kaiser?” Braunschweig asked.

Yang grimaced and rubbed the back of his head. “This isn’t really one of those ‘better to ask forgiveness’ situations, sir. Whatever we do will have the rebel fleet retaliating, and if that draws a big force into the corridor…” He shrugged. “You’d lose your claim on the planet after that, regardless of if it’s the rebel fleet taking it back, or the crown taking it from you. Nobody in Neue Sanssouci wants to amp up the pressure the rebels are putting on us right now. ”

Braunschweig drummed his heavy fingers on the desk. “And so I’m going to describe that we’re going to do exactly that: antagonize them, so that we can steal their base in the corridor.”

“No, sir,” Yang said. “If Muckenburger hears the words ‘rebel base’, it will become a matter for the fleet proper. You’re going to have to lie to the Kaiser and say that this is a totally unoccupied planet.”

“You’re quite blase about that, aren’t you?” Braunschweig said. “I was under the impression that he trusted you.”

“Sir, the Kaiser himself was only too happy to remind me, the last time we spoke, that I no longer work for him: I work for you.”

Braunschweig actually laughed at that, which made Ansbach’s scowl deepen behind him. “I’m glad you’re keeping that in mind, Leigh.” He steepled his fingers and leaned forward, elbows on his ornate desk. “Now, what lie specifically is it that I’m going to tell my esteemed father-in-law?”

“That you’ve been performing geographic surveys in less-used areas of the Iserlohn corridor, on the advice— which everyone should take to mean behalf— of Count von Vering, since he thinks that you should be equal partners in some new mining venture.”

Braunschweig was silent for a second. “Most people looking to open a mine would survey elsewhere.”

“Exactly,” Yang said. “If there are questions about why you chose the corridor, explain that the other frontier is overdeveloped already, and to find a new planet to mine that far away would mean having an untenably long supply chain. Things in the corridor, out past Iserlohn especially, are ripe for picking, because no one dares build where the rebels could come knocking on their door. But you’re convinced that you have the military strength and expertise to keep the mine profitable. It’s worth stationing ships in order to have such a fast access route to the center of the Empire.”

“I don’t like bringing up Count Vering’s name.” Braunschweig’s face twisted in monetary distaste. Although he had agreed to allow his daughter to marry the son of the Vering family once Elizabeth had taken the throne, he had no love in his heart for them.

“I think you have to, sir. Your estates are primarily agricultural, and you haven’t shown interest in expanding into uninhabitable planets before now. But everyone knows Count Vering has allied himself with you, and is planning to tie his industrial fortune to your lands and the crown. Having a legitimate business interest will make this more believable.”

Braunschweig thought for a second, then stood, nearly knocking Ansbach with his chair as he pushed it back from his desk. “Let’s go immediately, then, if there is as little time to waste as you say.”

“Now? To see the Kaiser?”

“He has lunch with Marquise Benemunde every day at twelve exactly, and then he strolls the garden when he’s feeling well. He’s usually even in a generous mood, since he has a fondness for the flowers.” Braunschweig’s smile was grim. “Bothering him then is not something I like to do often, but is occasionally justified. It would be difficult for him to refuse to see me without very good reason.”

“Urgency might show your hand—”

“Making a formal petition would give things away even more, wouldn’t it?”

Grudgingly, Yang had to admit that Braunschweig might be right. “Yes, sir.”

“You can come. The Kaiser likes you.”

“But—”

But Braunschweig was already heading out of the room.

“Heh,” Ansbach said once he had gone. “I look forward to him realizing that the Kaiser has no desire to save you any longer.”

Yang frowned and followed after Braunschweig’s retreating footsteps.

One very uncomfortable car— and then horse and carriage— ride later, during which Yang mentally rehearsed a thousand different questions he could be called on to answer by the Kaiser or by Duke Braunschweig, they arrived at the wide and imposing entrance to Neue Sanssouci. Although Yang had been here many times, having Ansbach at his side brought back his most unpleasant memories of the place. He kept wiping his sweaty palms on his pant legs, but this didn’t help him any.

Braunschweig strode in like he owned the palace, and the way he looked around made Yang suspect he was dreaming of a future when he did. The staff were all very deferential towards him, but despite their bowing and murmurs of assent, they seemed to be giving Braunschweig the runaround when he asked where the Kaiser was and if he might be able to speak with him. Yang watched one of them run off down the hallway after this first request, and he saw Ansbach notice it too, though Braunschweig was oblivious. He and Ansbach made eye contact, each of them realizing that something was afoot (and realizing that the other realized) then looked away, neither saying a word to Braunschweig. They were led deeper into the palace, and not towards the gardens where the Kaiser was supposed to be having his daily constitutional.

At length, they were let into a small audience room. Servants waited at the door. Yang and Ansbach eyed them, but again said nothing. Braunschweig, who had been given a cup of tea and a plate of cookies to pacify him while he waited, sat on one of the plush velvet couches and tapped his foot.

When the door opened, he stood to bow, thinking it was Kaiser Friedrich, but instead it was the wrinkled visage of Minister of State Lichtenlade. Braunschweig aborted his bow immediately, straightening and frowning. Lichtenlade bowed instead.

“Good afternoon, Duke Braunschweig,” Lichtenlade said.

“I was told that I was going to speak with the Kaiser,” Braunschweig replied, wrinkling his lip. Lichtenlade was unperturbed by his tone.

“His Majesty is indisposed,” Lichtenlade said. “He was feeling quite ill after his lunch.”

Braunschweig’s frown deepened, but he sat back down on the couch. Lichtenlade took the seat across from him. Yang and Ansbach did their best to blend into the scenery, like the servants in the back of the room, though Lichtenlade’s nose twitched in displeasure when he looked at Yang.

“I’m very sorry to hear that His Majesty is ill. Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Nothing that a rest will not cure,” Lichtenlade said. “If there was something that you needed, I’m sure that either I can assist you, or I can pass your request to His Majesty, as appropriate.”

“And am I not allowed to see my father-in-law as simply a friendly visit?”

“If this were a social visit, Princess Amarie would be accompanying you,” Lichtenlade said. “But what is it that I can help you with?”

Braunschweig stared at Lichtenlade for a moment, who kept his obsequious expression on his face. “A charter for an inhospitable little piece of land that nobody else would ever be willing to pay good money to the crown for,” Braunschweig finally said. “Count Vering is breathing down my neck about a joint business venture, now that he thinks he has my fleet at his disposal.”

Braunschweig may not have been a good actor, but he was already annoyed at being faced with Lichtenlade rather than the Kaiser, so that covered up most of the falseness in his tone, though it did nothing to hide the fact that he was talking in a completely abnormal casual register.

“This is a matter for the colonial affairs office, then,” Lichtenlade said, not seeming to notice. “If you have a petition to make, make it through the proper channels.”

“Inhospitable, I said. It wouldn’t be a colony.”

“All land grants are handled through that office, as I’m sure Count Vering has told you, since he is quite familiar with the land grant process. You would have been wise to listen to him.”

Braunschweig seethed. “I would like to speak with His Majesty.”

“His Majesty is not available, and furthermore, would not wish to grant special privileges to one citizen above another.”

“Special privileges?” Braunschweig asked.

“If I can assist you in any way within my legal power, please allow me to do so,” Lichtenlade said, inclining his head. “I would be happy to pass along your request to the Colonial Affairs office if you provide me the details, and this all can be worked through the proper channels.”

“Leigh,” Braunschweig said, and waved his hand. “What’s the name of the place again?”

“Sir. Duke Braunschweig wishes to form a mining partnership with Count Vering on planet 25571-3, just outside the Iserlohn corridor. Recent surveys of the space in that area have confirmed a navigable route, and a planet rich in tungsten, though ill suited for permanent habitation.”

“Outside the corridor? Past Iserlohn, you mean?”

“As I said, no one else would pay for this patch of dirt,” Braunschweig said. “I’m the only one who could station a force there to protect it, if the rebels came knocking.” He paused, then added, “And I wanted to start this venture quietly , keep it away from the papers that report on colonial affairs, so that the rebels don’t appear as soon as Count Vering’s earthmoving machines broke ground.”

“You’re not the only one who could station a force there,” Lichtenlade said. “I see there are several reasons why you would be hesitant to take things through the proper channels.”

Braunschweig’s scowl deepened. “He won’t want it.” He , in this case, was Marquis Littenheim, the father of the other primary contender for the throne.

“That remains to be seen.” Lichtenlade tilted his head. “I hope, for the sake of your business partnership with Count Vering, that he does not, because should there be a competition between you and Marquis Littenheim over the patch of dirt, as you say, His Majesty will not favor one of you over the other.”

Braunschweig stood, which made Lichtenlade rise as well. “If Littenheim wishes to compete with me, there are plenty of other planets in the corridor. He is welcome to make his own surveys and choose one that suits him. Or, if he has a problem with my business, he may address it with me.”

“I see,” Lichtenlade said. “And shall I forward this request to the Colonial Affairs office on your behalf?”

Braunschweig’s lips pinched. “Try to exercise discretion when you do. I don’t want it all over the papers.”

“Of course.” Lichtenlade gave a half bow. “And I will give your regards to His Majesty. I’m sure he regrets missing the opportunity to speak with you.”

“I’m sure.”

“Until some more amenable time,” Lichtenlade said, then bowed again and headed out. As soon as he left, one of the servants standing by the door also swiftly departed, though the other remained, to watch Braunschweig huff and scowl, until they were shown out.

Their way out of Neue Sanssouci was delayed by Duke Bruanschweig meeting one of his extended relations in the hallway, and they stood in a dappled pool of sunlight coming in through the window to chat. Yang wandered a little way down the hall, not caring about Braunschweig’s family matters in the least, though Ansbach stayed at Bruanschweig’s shoulder, ready to take notes on any tasks that this meeting might cause Ansbach to be required to perform. Yang leaned on the windowsill, looking out over the great front courtyard of the palace.

A horse and carriage was approaching at top speed, and it stopped in front of the main steps with a clatter of hooves and wheels on the stones. Yang watched as Marquis Littenheim emerged from the carriage, straightened his vest, and then began walking up the stairs.

“Ansbach,” Yang said.

Deeply annoyed, Ansbach came over to see what Yang was looking at. Braunschweig gave him a weird look as he came over, but swiftly returned to talking to his relative. Yang gave a nod out the window, and Ansbach registered how quickly Littenheim was jogging up the steps, flanked by his own assistant.

“I think we’ve been caught,” Yang murmured. “Can you go intercept that before he reaches anyone important— Colonial Affairs, Lichtenlade, the Kaiser?”

“You’re not in any position to give me orders,” Ansbach hissed.

Yang just rolled his eyes. “Or I will.” He made to start walking down the hallway, but Ansbach thought the better of it and grabbed his arm to stop him.

“Get the duke to the main entrance. I’ll hold him there.”

“Right.”

Ansbach took off down the hall at an unseemly sprint, though when he reached the intersection he skidded to a halt and looked down the next hall to make sure no one important was in his way before he started running again.

Yang wandered back over to Braunschweig and stood at his elbow, which he ignored. The conversation with the grey-haired relative had turned into a screed about how annoyed Braunshweig was at one of the managers of his planetary estates, and the relative was nodding along sympathetically.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and Yang pulled it out to look.

Ansbach: hurry

“Sir,” Yang said, finally trying to get a word in edgewise, “Captain Ansbach says you’re needed in the main entrance right away.”

“Ansbach?” Braunschweig asked, and then seemed to process that Ansbach had indeed disappeared. He frowned. “What does he need me for?”

“About our visit here—”

Braunschweig finally caught on to the urgency. He clapped his relative on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, Pieter, I must run. If your son wants the position, tell him to call me. We’ll see what we can arrange.”

“Thank you,” the man said. “I appreciate it—”

But Braunschweig was already taking long legged strides down the hallway, with Yang jogging at his heels.

They didn’t make it to the entrance, because Littenheim had escaped Ansbach’s delay tactic, whatever it had been. They met him as he was walking purposefully and alone down the hall. Littenheim, who was slick where Braunschweig was stocky, gave a menacing smile as he saw them.

“You may have sent your dog to yap at my heels,” he called, “but you can’t stop me from speaking with my father-in-law.”

“What do you want, Littenheim?” Braunschweig asked, stepping in front of him to block his passage. Yang, already nervous that this would come to blows, crept towards the edge of the hallway. Both nobles ignored him completely. He could see Ansbach in the distance, approaching at a more sedate pace.

“I’m afraid I want the same thing you do, Otho,” Littenheim said. He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “A charter to build a mine and small colony on planet… 25571-3, in the Iserlohn corridor.”

“You bastard—” Braunschweig said, and took a menacing half step forward. Littenheim dipped away.

“The walls have ears, Otho! If you had gone directly to Colonial Affairs with business as usual instead of running so urgently to His Majesty, we could have avoided all of this trouble.” His smile stayed plastered on his face, and this only made Braunschweig step even further towards Littenheim, reaching out for his cravat, snagging his fingers on the silk, though again Littenheim stepped back. He smoothed his necktie back down from Braunschweig ruffling it out of place.

“What do you want it for?” Braunschweig asked.

“I have my own business interests,” Littenheim said, rushing the words breathlessly. “I need to protect my investments. This sometimes requires me dealing with the competition.”

“Like you dealt with the Schaffhausen family.”

Littenheim smiled, predatory. “Would you like to resolve our dispute that way?”

“The Kaiser isn’t going to give you that charter,” Braunschweig said.

“Oh, you say that. You don’t know. He may favor me.”

“You don’t have any idea what you’re doing here. You’re in over your head.”

“Is that a threat, Otho?”

“If you try to go to the Kaiser with this request, yes.”

Littenheim laughed. “I’m sure you’re right— His Majesty won’t favor me over you. He’s been very careful not to. But that just means I have to put in my claim as well so that there isn’t an appearance of favoritism. So, I will. And we’ll settle this between ourselves like gentlemen.”

“You’re eager to start a fight with me. You’ll lose.”

This time, it was Littenheim who stepped forward and clapped Braunschweig on the shoulder, brushing past him. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that, if I were you. When you and I duel, and I win, I think that will make everyone reconsider just how much the odds really favor you.”

Braunschweig tried to grab him again, but Littenheim was swiftly walking down the corridor, and Braunschweig didn’t chase him as he left arm’s reach. “You issued the challenge, so I get to choose the time and place.”

“Of course,” Littenheim called over his shoulder. “Make it sometime convenient, will you? And a big arena. I’m sure the attendance will be excellent.” And then he was gone, chuckling to himself as he went.

Braunschweig scowled, and Ansbach finally made it the rest of the way down the hallway. “I will write a formal challenge, sir,” Ansbach said. “And contact your hired duelist.”

The duel, though it was not announced in any of the papers what it was about, was the talk of the capital for the week or so leading up to it. The sums being bet were astronomical, according to Magdalena, who was listening in to all the gossip.

“You’re going to it, right?” she asked on Thursday night, voice crackling over the phone. She was driving— he could tell because the wind blasting through her open-top convertible made her hard to hear, despite her practically yelling into the phone. It was quite late, so he wondered where she was going to or from. Probably some party. It didn’t matter— he was happy to talk to her on her drive. He was in bed, his phone on the pillow beside him, staring up into the dark ceiling of his bedroom.

“I have to go,” he said. “Ansbach said that all of Braunschweig’s officers in the capital are required to attend. It’s supposed to be a show of strength, but I’d think he wouldn’t want me…” He trailed off.

“Great,” Maggie said. “I’ll see you there, then.”

“You’re coming?” Yang asked. “Why would you want to?”

“Am I not allowed to love bloodsport as much as the next man?”

“Nobody’s going to get really hurt. These are professional duelists,” Yang said.

“It’s the social event of the summer. The year, even. Everyone really is looking at it as a forecast of who will claim the throne.”

“Don’t be superstitious.”

“I can’t help it, darling.” She laughed. “Men are coming to revel in superstition and gossip, and women are coming to gape at bloodshed. The fainting in the stands will be spectacular.”

“You can’t see it, but I’m rolling my eyes right now.”

“Besides,” Maggie said, “it’s an excuse to see you.”

“You don’t need an excuse for that.”

She just laughed at him. “I should have said, ‘an excuse to drag you out to dinner after.’”

“And eating takeout at my place or at your house with your mother isn’t good enough for you?”

“Shhhhh,” she said, still laughing. “At the very least, you have to admit that having me there will save you from boredom.”

“That has always been true,” Yang said.

“It makes me happy to hear you say it.” Her brakes screeched as she presumably pulled up outside her destination. “I’ll talk to you later, Hank!” she said. “I’ve gotta run.”

“Have fun,” Yang said. And then she hung up, leaving his bedroom in a sudden, empty silence. He rolled over and shut his eyes, intending to fall asleep, since he had to get up early the next morning. But the quiet of his small apartment weighed on him, and he found it impossible.

Although, months ago, he had been conflicted about proposing to Magdalena, once he had done it, he had realized it was the correct decision. Now, although he was dreading the event itself, which they had set a date for, he almost wished they could simply already be married so that he could stop existing in this strange stasis. It was just one more thing in his life that felt like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for his entire life to change.

He could have asked to push the date up. Magdalena certainly would have agreed. If he called her back right now and asked if she wanted to go to the courthouse tomorrow, she would have said yes, he was sure of it. Or he could move into her house at any time, and it wouldn’t even be that much of a scandal, and she would find it entertaining. He wouldn’t do any of that, of course.

After sweating, tossing, and turning for a while, completely unable to sleep, he got out of bed and opened a beer, leaning on his elbows on his windowsill to drink it, listening to the summer wind rustle the trees. It was a beautiful, peaceful night, but that did little to soothe him.

He could admit that he was lonely. Reuenthal and Mittermeyer were both still operating out of Iserlohn, and he hadn’t seen either of them since the winter, which didn’t help any. But that wasn’t the entirety of the problem. It was the loneliness that came from keeping secrets— he was the only one who held the whole sum of his civil war strategy in his brain, despite handing pieces of it to many other people— that was pressing on him, more than simply being physically alone. He had thought, after so many years of secrets, that he would somehow be used to it, but that was not the case.

The anxiety about the future fed his loneliness, and the loneliness fed his anxiety. It was a vicious circle, each trouble chasing the other’s tail, but he didn’t want it to stop, because he knew when it did, that would be the end. Of what, exactly, he couldn’t put a name to.

If Reuenthal were here on Odin, he wouldn’t have to stand here drinking to fall asleep, that was certain. But for Reuenthal’s sake, he was glad he was off on Iserlohn with Mittermeyer. Yang made himself content with that knowledge.

So, he would stand here and drink a beer or two more, until his thoughts stopped twisting round like snakes in his mind, and he stumbled his way back through his too-hot apartment and draped himself across his bed.

The day of the duel was sweltering. Yang wore his uniform, because he had come as part of Braunschweig’s cohort of officers, but the black fabric trapped the heat next to his body, and it was a wonder that he didn’t pass out under the hard glare of the sun’s beady eye. Magdalena fluttered her fan at his face as they sat in the stands, and Yang wasn’t sure if she was trying to be comedic or actually trying to help. In her light blue summer dress, she was far more suited to the weather than he was.

On Yang’s other side, Kircheis was similarly suffering. The final seat in their short row, near the top of the stands overlooking the arena, was for Hilde, but she had volunteered to buy their group drinks and so had vanished into the crowd.

“How long until the main event?” Yang asked Kircheis, as he was the only one of the four of them who had remembered to pick up a program. As duels were usually over very quickly, but drew a large betting crowd, the arena owners liked to pack the day full of as many events as they could conjure, with the bigger drawing matches near the end.

“Just three more,” Kircheis said. “All of them pistols, and shouldn’t go to swords.”

“Thank goodness,” Yang said, and wiped his face on his sleeve. His hair was clinging to his face with sweat. Kircheis had a sunburn blooming across his nose.

Yang craned his neck to look around for Hilde. “I hope Hilde doesn’t miss it if she wants to see it. It’s taking her a long time to get drinks.”

“Patience is a virtue, Hank,” Magdalena said, tapping his nose with her fan.

“I don’t think she cares about dueling that much,” Kircheis said. “When I mentioned I was required to come, she asked if I wanted company. But she has been gone a while. You don’t think she’s having trouble, is she?” Kircheis asked, looking around at the crowd.

Though everyone had started out the day yelling and cheering, now the whole assembly was melting into their hard plastic seats under the heat, and the emotion of the day had turned from the elation of a day out to a simmering restlessness. The losing duelists were jeered as they walked off to tend their wounds, and it wasn’t the winners who were cheered, but the money that was won. The only real winners in every duel were the bookies, who sat in their shaded booths and were paid regardless of the outcome.

“Trouble?” Magdalena asked. “You be the judge of that. It seems to me that it was neither you nor the duel that she really came here to see.” She pointed far down and across the stands, towards the VIP box where the Braunschweig family was sitting.

Now that Yang’s attention was directed there, he could see that Hilde had abandoned her quest to get drinks, and was instead leaning on the side of the box, over the railing of it, having some sort of talk with the young Lady Elizabeth. Elizabeth’s parents were oblivious to this, or uncaring. Princess Amarie was fiddling with her parasol in an attempt to block as much of the sun as possible, and Duke Braunschweig was deep in conversation with a man sitting behind him, probably one of his many relatives, though Yang couldn’t see his face well enough to recognize him from here.

Yang sighed, then fished in his pocket for his wallet, and handed Kircheis a twenty mark note. “Can you get us all drinks, sub-lieutenant? I’d better go make sure…”

“Yes, sir,” Kircheis said. He headed off.

“You’re going to leave me all alone, Hank?” Maggie asked, batting her eyelids.

“Someone’s got to save our seats.”

She laughed at him, and Yang squeezed his way past her and through the crowd, making his way down to Hilde. The route down to the VIP section took Yang through the closed off interior of the arena, past the bookies. It was marginally cooler in there, with great fans blowing air in a steady stream through the concrete hall, and Yang took half a moment to stand in the shade and take a few deep breaths, leaning on the cool stone wall and closing his eyes. He would go fetch Hilde in a moment, but he needed to gather his strength first.

Unfortunately, the sounds of an argument reached him, and caused him to crack open his eyes at the familiar voices raised in a spat. The heat had raised the tensions to a breaking point, even among Braunschweig’s closest subordinates, it seemed.

Down the hall, near the wall of bookie booths, Captain Ansbach and Baron Flegel were engaged in an argument. Ansbach was trying to stop Flegel from heading to the bookies, cash in hand.

“Sir,” Ansbach said. “Duke Braunschweig was explicit that none of his staff should bet on the outcome of his match.”

“That obviously does not apply to me,” Flegel said. “If my uncle has instructions for me, he would tell me directly, rather than sending his lapdog.”

“Sir, you are a vice admiral under Admiral Braunschweig. The instruction pertains to you as much as it pertains to his lower staff.”

“And you are a captain, and in no position to be giving me orders.” When Ansbach refused to yield, Flegel bared his teeth. “You are out of line, Ansbach. Don’t get confused as to what your station is.”

Yang didn’t think Ansbach was going to win this argument, and if he kept trying, it was going to end badly for him. And Ansbach, for all his flaws, was a more sensible right-hand man for Braunschweig than anyone else in his camp, especially his nephew. Yang had no desire to watch Flegel flex his familial privilege to have him dismissed. He let out a sigh, then plastered a smile on his face and wandered up to the argument, pretending to be guileless.

Ansbach glared daggers at him as he approached, but Yang ignored him completely.

“Baron Flegel,” Yang said. “Putting in a last minute bet on the Ferox-Wilhoff match, I see? 5:1 is pretty good odds on Ferox, but I’m not sure I’d put money on it.” The disgusted look on Flegel’s face was almost satisfying. Yang rubbed the back of his head and kept talking. “I suppose I don’t know very much about dueling, so I couldn’t say if the underdog has a chance to win. Princess Amarie was looking for you, by the way.”

“What for?”

Yang splayed his hands. “Do you think she’d tell me? She might just want you back in your seat so you don’t miss the big show. There’s only two more matches.”

Flegel narrowed his eyes, but turned on his heel and stomped off. Yang’s shoulders slumped in relief, though he was sure he was in for it when he went to retrieve Hilde and Flegel discovered that he had just been lied to.

“I didn’t need your help,” Ansbach spat.

Yang shrugged. “It’s not worth risking your skin over something like this. But by all means, if you want me to let Flegel, or any of his relations, stomp on you next time, just let me know, and I will.”

Ansbach just shook his head. “You should worry about yourself before anyone else.”

“Hah,” Yang said. Ansbach had probably meant it as half a threat— his voice was cruel and his lips were twisted— but Yang couldn’t help but respond with as much of a genuine smile as he could muster, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “If I was good at doing that, I certainly wouldn’t be here.”

Ansbach looked at him in disgust, then turned away without another word, leaving Yang to shove his hands into his pockets and work up his remaining resolve to fetch Hilde from the VIP section. This turned out to be unnecessary, because just as he headed towards the lower exit of the hallway, she entered it at a trot, pushing through the crowd.

“Fraulein Mariendorf!” Yang called, getting her attention. Her head snapped up, and she jogged over, looking a little chagrined.

“Were you looking for me?” she asked when she made it to him.

“I knew where you were,” Yang said. “Though I was coming to fetch you. I think it’s best to get some distance from the VIP corner during the actual duel. There’s no way that it will stay calm, win or lose.”

“Right,” Hilde said. “Sorry that I got distracted and didn’t get drinks.”

“I sent my deputy to get them,” Yang said. “I’m sure he’s already back and wondering where we’ve vanished to.” He nudged her with his elbow. “We’d better get moving so he doesn’t think we disappeared.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What were you talking to Lady Elizabeth about, if I may ask?”

“Nothing,” Hilde said. “I just wanted to say hello.”

“I see,” Yang said.

She frowned. “It’s fine, right?” Her voice was on the borderline between being defensive and seeking reassurance.

Yang looked over at her. “Hunh? Oh. Well, she could use some friends,” Yang said. “And if she counts you as one of them, I can hardly think of a better one for her to have.”

She nodded. The emerged back into the blistering sunlight, and it took a moment of shielding his eyes and looking around before he spotted Kircheis and Magdalena. Kircheis was struggling to hold three large cups full of foaming beer, while Magdalena was waving at Yang and Hilde with her fan.

Over the loudspeakers, the announcer was saying that one of the matches had been canceled, and that the Braunschweig-Littenheim duel was moved up.

“Sounds like we’ve made it just in time,” Yang said. They found their seats, and Yang gratefully accepted his beer from Kircheis.

“Is there a reason Baron Flegel keeps looking over here, Hank?” Magdalena said, gesturing down the stands with her fan.

“Oh, yes,” Yang said. “I annoyed him a few minutes ago. He’ll get over it.”

Magdalena laughed. “I hope so, for your sake. I am going to have to invite him to the wedding, you know.”

Yang grimaced. “Please don’t joke about that.”

“I’m not joking! When would I ever joke about such a thing?”

“If he and Reuenthal are in the same place, it won’t be pretty.”

“It’s very sweet that you think he’ll come.”

Yang frowned into his beer, but his attention was diverted from his own troubles by the cheer that rose from the crowd as the two duelists walked out into the arena. Yang consulted Kircheis’s pamphlet in an attempt to remember their names— Charlie Wurtz and Marc Ackner. They were dressed in outfits much finer than the many previous duelers that Yang had barely paid attention to. They were decked out in the Littenheim and Braunschweig family colors, respectively, making them easier to identify at a distance.

“This one will go to swords, for sure,” Magdalena said. “The past couple times these two have faced each other, they have.”

“Braunschweig and Littenheim haven’t dueled before, have they?” Kircheis asked.

“Not recently, but these are hired duelists who matched up when other people contracted them,” Magdalena explained. “Didn’t you follow dueling as a kid?”

“No,” Kircheis said. “Nobody I knew liked it.”

“I thought you said you were on your school’s fencing team,” Hilde said.

“That’s different.”

“Well, when I need someone to defend my honor, I’ll hire you as a duelist,” Magdalena said, and she swished her fan like a sword.

Kircheis was spared from having to respond to that by the action down below picking up. The duelists, having checked each others’ weapons, bowed to their sponsors, and then lined up. The announcer counted down.

Yang didn’t look at the arena, and instead busied himself with drinking his beer. Magdalena leaned forward in her seat.

“Who’s going to win this, Maggie?” Hilde asked, squeaking in the question right before the count reached one.

“Not a clue, but that’s what makes it exciting, right?”

Yang was still looking down at the pamphlet when the four pistol shots rang out, sounding in such close succession that they almost couldn’t be distinguished from each other. The crowd roared, and Yang looked up to see what the status was.

Littenheim’s duelist had been hit in his right shoulder, and was wincing and clutching it. Braunschweig’s duelist had been clipped in the leg, but it looked like a shallow wound, and he was standing on both feet, the blood just staining the white calf of his trousers crimson, and dripping down onto the sandy arena floor.

Although Braunschweig’s duelist was calmly being handed his sword by his second, Littenheim’s duelist looked reluctant to stand and take his own. The crowd’s elation and excitement soured, and turned into jeers, people in the lower stands chucking garbage into the arena, while Littenheim’s duelist considered if he should yield.

“Damn,” Magdalena said. “It was a good strategy, to go for the leg. If he had got a better hit, it would have been a fair fight. Wurtz is ambidextrous, so taking out his arm wouldn’t have done any good.” She sighed and leaned back in her seat. “Would have been fun to see it go to swords, though.”

“I’m glad it’s over,” Yang said.

“Oh, no, wait, he’s standing up!” Magdalena said. “Littenheim would probably kill him himself if he yielded now.”

It was clear that Ackner was not ambidextrous, from the way he initially tried to pick up the sword with his right arm, despite his shoulder being wounded. He passed it to his left hand and grimaced, lining up as the commentator announced the start of the swordfight. The two duelists faced each other, swords up, and various photographers snapped their dramatic pose before the fight began.

It was over quickly. Ackner, Littenheim’s duelist, was clearly only participating as a formality, and had no hope of winning. Despite Wurtz’s leg being injured, he was faster with his sword, and more adept, and their blades only clashed a few times before Ackner ended up on the ground, with Wurtz’s blade at his throat, and he yielded.

The crowd was silent for a second, then rose into loud jeers and cheers. Below, in the VIP box, Braunschweig was standing up and waving to the crowd, pointedly giving a look across to Littenheim’s box on the other side. Littenheim shook his head, and then walked away, vanishing with his family into the crowd.

“What would you have done if he lost?” Maggie asked. Hilde looked at Yang curiously. He hadn’t explained the cause of the duel beyond that it was about land rights, and both of them had immediately surmised that whatever the two families were fighting over was something vital to the overall strategy to claim the crown.

“I’d figure something out,” Yang said. He scratched his head. “I still have to figure things out now. Just different things.”

“You will, sir,” Kircheis said.

Yang finished his beer. “Let’s get out of here, before everybody trying to collect on their bets starts a stampede.”

After winning the duel, as fairly as such a thing could be won, Braunschweig was given the charter to form a small outpost and mine on Cahokia-III. He was inordinately elated about this, more so than Yang had expected, given that it was an outlay of resources that Braunschweig might have been annoyed about previously. But it seemed that winning something over Littenheim had buoyed his spirits, and when he called Yang to his office to discuss the actual taking of the planet, he was practically jovial, leaning forward on his elbows and smiling broadly.

“I understand that this is a complete plan of attack,” Braunschweig said, tapping on the sheaf of papers that Yang had put on his desk in front of him. “Has Ansbach seen it?”

“Yes, sir,” Yang replied. Ansbach said nothing, standing in his usual spot behind Braunschweig and trying to ignore the fact that Yang was in the room.

“And what do you think of it, Ansbach?”

“It uses the minimum number of ships feasible,” Ansbach said. “It should work, but leaves very little room for error.”

Braunschweig turned to Yang. “We can send more than— how many ships?”

“Six, sir,” Yang said. “But we shouldn’t. We can’t admit that there is any rebel force on the planet, so if we sent more than is required to build a preliminary base, it would cause trouble. That many ships should be enough to deal with the rebel presence there, and if a larger rebel force comes through the corridor, it will be a fleet off of Iserlohn that will be able to oppose them.”

Braunschweig nodded. He flipped through the sheaf of papers detailing the strategy. “And who do you propose should command?”

“That’s your decision, sir,” Yang said. “I wouldn’t presume to make it.”

“Flegel won’t want the job,” Braunschweig said. “And can’t very well pull on anyone outside of my fleet yet…” He turned to Ansbach. “We could take Commodore Bachmeyer from Westerland, if he’d get here in time.”

“I suggest that Captain Leigh command the mission, sir,” Ansbach said, looking straight ahead. “He knows the plan better than anyone else.”

Yang tried not to grit his teeth, but he was unable to resist jamming his hands in his pockets.

“Hm, not a terrible idea,” Braunschweig said. But then he looked at Yang’s face more closely, and said, “You’ve never had much of a command before, have you?”

“No, sir. Not much.” He absolutely was not going to bring up the incident at El Facil.

Braunschweig drummed his heavy fingers on the desk. “Ansbach, you’ll go with him. You can be in co-command. Two captains for six ships should be more than sufficient,” he said with a little chuckle.

“Sir—” Ansbach began to protest.

“I’ll survive without you for a few weeks,” Braunschweig said. He picked up the papers and shuffled them on his desk. “And I’d rather have you there to make sure this doesn’t go wrong. I’ve spent a lot on this venture already. I’d like to ensure its success by putting the right people in command.”

“Yes, sir,” Ansbach said. His voice was flat again, but perhaps there was some pride in it. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“Good.” He waved his hand. “You should go make your preparations with Leigh, then. I’d like to get this moving as quickly as possible.”

Ansbach and Yang both saluted, and they headed out of the office.

“Well, I guess you’re stuck with me,” Yang said. “You could have just let him pull one of his officers from his estates.”

“If your plan gets us both killed—” He cut himself off, shaking his head, as he marched down the hall of Braunschweig’s estate.

“It’s very funny that you’re worried about me getting you killed,” Yang said, following Ansbach. “I haven’t changed that much in twelve years.” When they reached the door, where Yang was sure they would go separate ways, he tacked on, “I have to hope that you have.”

“You don’t think he is going to kill you, do you?” Magdalena asked. Yang had stopped by her house after his day in the office was over, and in the cool of the evening, they were reclining on lawn chairs beneath her pavilion in her garden. The heady scent of flowers drifted through the air, and lightning bugs dotted the grass and sky, just now starting to light up as the sun finally descended below the treeline. He had finally needed to confess to her at least part of what was going on, since he was being sent off planet. She could be trusted to keep the secret.

“No,” Yang said. “I’m sure he won’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Yang said, and found it to be true as he said it. “He hates me, but…”

“But what? He tried to kill you before.” Magdalena tipped her drink in her hands, the ice cubes tinkling the glass.

Yang shrugged. “I understand him. I hope I do, anyway.”

Magdalena made a dubious noise. “It sure seems like he was trying to get you killed, by volunteering you.”

“He doesn’t expect me to die out there,” Yang said. “He remembers me from school well enough. If things go badly, I’m sure he thinks I’ll just run away. He wants me to fail by my own merits, and making me, and by proxy Braunschweig, look bad by fumbling the job would be an easy way to do it.”

“And will you run away if things go badly?” she asked.

“Of course,” Yang said. “It’s not worth that much. If we can’t hold onto the planet from the rebel fleet, I’ll figure something else out. Or Braunschweig will decide I’m not worth the trouble to keep around, and he’ll send me back to Muckenburger, and I won’t have to worry about any of this anymore.” He laughed. “Can’t say I’d mind that too much.”

Magdalena nodded, her lips pinched and brow furrowed.

“What’s the matter?” Yang asked.

“It may shock you to learn,” Magdalena said, trying to inject levity in her voice, “but it would cause me quite a number of problems if you go off and get killed.”

Yang laughed, but when she didn’t smile, he kicked his leg off his lawn chair and poked her with his bare foot. “Cahokia’s not worth anybody’s life, not even Ansbach’s. I’ll stay safe. Besides, we’ll have the upper hand there.”

“You’ll take your little red-headed protegee with you, right?”

“Kircheis? Probably.”

“Good. He can make sure no one stabs you in the back.”

“Or shoots me from the front.”

“Either way.”

“I’m really not worried about Ansbach,” Yang said. “The worst he’ll do to me is give me a job I hate.” He shrugged. “He’s not—” He realized that anything he could say wouldn’t make sense to Magdalena. “We’re in the same position, almost,” Yang said. “I don’t know if we’re on the same team, exactly, but working for Braunschweig and not being part of his family— we have more in common than we lack. He probably hates that, but I’m sure he recognizes it.”

“Mm,” Magdalena said. “And you weren’t in the same position when you were students?”

“No. The IOA is built to pit students against each other. And that worked because we were stupid and sixteen.” He shook his head. “Both of us.”

His reminiscing tone caused Magdalena to change the subject. “Will you stop by Iserlohn?”

“Pass by,” Yang said. “There’s no reason for us to stop at the fortress. So I won’t see Reuenthal, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She laughed and kicked at him, her leg lazily tangling with his as they dangled off the side of their adjacent lawn chairs. “Too bad.”

“Yeah,” Yang said. “Maybe on the way back.”

She laughed. “You’d better write him a letter before you ship out, so if you get killed on Braunschweig’s little scheme, he’ll know what happened to you.”

“It’s more my scheme than Braunschweig’s,” Yang said with a yawn. “But yes, I’ll tell him. And Mittermeyer, too. If the rebel fleet ends up in the corridor, it might be one of them who will have to intercept it.”

“Good,” Magdalena said, sounding satisfied.

“Why is that good?”

“Don’t ask me any questions, Hank,” she said.