Mene, Mene, Tekel Upharsin

February 489 I.C., Iserlohn Fortress

Mittermeyer had never been more struck by the difference between himself and Yang Wen-li than he was while watching the fall of Iserlohn Fortress. Mittermeyer’s ships were responsible for keeping the pace of the battle, but Yang was charged with winning — which seemed like something only he was capable of doing.

Mittermeyer’s scout ships, at the outside edge of his fleet, could see around the side of Iserlohn. Despite the communications blockage, they could report what Yang’s fleet was doing, and they sent Mittermeyer a video feed, which he watched with one eye as he directed the movements of his ships with the other. When he saw the missiles rushing towards the Thor Hammer, he almost didn’t pay attention until the first few hit, and then he lost focus on what he was saying to his aide as the rest impacted the fortress’s shell.

He was well aware of the Thor Hammer’s destructive power: his own fleet had been baiting out its blows and staying just outside its effective range. Even at a distance, it was terrifying. It had felt like an insurmountable obstacle, a force of nature. And yet, there it was, being hit with one bright flash of missile-fire at a time, until the whole thing collapsed in on itself. It had the death-throes of an animal, a giant taken down by a pebble in its eye.

It took Mittermeyer a moment to remember that Yang was his friend, to try to connect this vision of Yang, with the power of life and death wholly in his hands, to the gentle and quiet man he knew. He struggled to resolve the image in his mind, and the resolution came only when he realized why he felt such horror at the gaping hole in Iserlohn’s side.

Mittermeyer, now fighting the fortress fleet, recognized the ships that flew by: he could name many of their captains and crews, all the men he had worked with for months. He knew the staff inside Iserlohn, as comrades, if not friends. The fear he felt watching Iserlohn’s walls tumble down was not just awe at Yang’s skill. He wondered if, even if he had been as brilliant as Yang, if he would have been able to strike that final blow.

Yang felt the same amount of pity for Alliance soldiers as he did for any member of the Imperial forces in Iserlohn— perhaps because he had been born on Heinessen, but Mittermeyer suspected that if they ventured out of this galaxy and found a race of aliens to war with, Yang would open his heart to the inhuman, too. It was a positive quality of his, and on some level Mittermeyer felt ashamed for lacking his indiscriminate compassion, but it also meant that Yang had as little hesitation attacking Iserlohn as he would attacking anywhere else— his universal tenderness paradoxically making him feel more brutal here.

Even after the Thor Hammer had been destroyed and the fortress rendered impotent, the fortress fleet fought with all its strength to keep Mittermeyer’s slow crew transports from making their way in. This was fine. He corralled the Iserlohn fleet to stop them from attacking Braunschweig’s landing party. Whatever contingent of landing forces Braunschweig had on his side, he would be able to use them to force a surrender, so Mittermeyer didn’t press as hard as he could to get his landing forces down. The battle was won— it was just a matter of not wasting lives until Iserlohn acknowledged it.

Many hours passed, and Mittermeyer only got occasional updates on the number of ships that had landed inside the fortress. It was hard to tell how things were going inside, but there were no obvious signs that things were going badly.

The situation only changed when finally, finally, the communications blockage that Iserlohn had been imposing dropped, and their radios picked up a message from the fortress itself. It was Yang’s voice. Although he sounded miserable even over the radio, Mittermeyer couldn’t help but feel elated.

“Iserlohn Fortress Fleet,” Yang said, “Fleet Admiral Muckenburger is dead, and Iserlohn has been captured. Surrender now and you will be treated—” Yang’s voice was strained, and he audibly stumbled. “You will be treated with mercy.”

“And if they don’t surrender?”

Mittermeyer hadn’t realized that the leader of Cahokia’s ground forces had come up behind him on the bridge to listen to the announcement, and he was startled to hear his voice. When he had arrived at Cahokia, he had been surprised to find that he actually knew the man from years ago. They had been former schoolmates, though they had fallen out of contact after they left the IOA. That time was so long ago that it felt like a dream, but they had played their student wargames together. This was undoubtedly why Captain Ferner had been given the position as leader of Cahokia’s ground forces, and why he now had a perhaps unwarranted sense of familiarity towards Mittermeyer— he spoke his mind without considering if he wanted to hear it or not.

“They’ll surrender,” Mittermeyer said.

“I don’t know why you’re sure of that.”

“They’re defeated— there’s not much else they could do.”

“And why hasn’t Commodore von Leigh radioed us with instructions?” Ferner asked. “He’s perfectly capable of doing so, since we’re receiving what he’s broadcasting to the Iserlohn fleet.”

He understood what Ferner was implying— Yang wanted him to do something that he could not order, and simply trusted him to do. The only thing that was in that category was allowing the Iserlohn fleet to escape. If Braunschweig was giving orders, he would order their destruction if no surrender was forthcoming. Ferner, who had played on Yang’s team for the war games many years ago, was well aware of his merciful tendencies.

Mittermeyer pressed his lips into a thin, annoyed line, then said, “He doesn’t have the authority to issue orders. I’m sure he’s waiting on Duke Braunschweig, or Admiral Merkatz.”

“Of course.”

“Prepare our forces to land inside,” Mittermeyer said. “It sounds like there’s still resistance that we’ll have to deal with.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mittermeyer turned back towards his console, and Ferner walked away, though he could feel his occasional glances back at him. For the fleet, there was only one thing left to do, which was to enter Iserlohn. It would serve the dual purpose of getting their ground troops inside, and giving Yang what he wanted.

He ordered his fleet to take up a spear formation and break through the fortress fleet’s remaining defenses. After such a prolonged back and forth and the confusion that Yang’s message had caused, the fleet was already in disarray, so this was the perfect moment to strike.

He baited them forwards and then back, just like they had been doing for hours, then ordered his fleet to break through as the fortress fleet pulled back from their false retreat. The new rush, much more powerful and deliberate than any of Mittermeyer’s previous attacks, caught the fortress fleet off guard, and they broke through easily. His heavily armored battleships then broke off on either side and circled back around the bulk of the fleet to protect the weaker crew transports.

The Iserlohn fleet attempted to attack Mittermeyer now that his battleships were bunched up near the outside of Iserlohn; they were sitting targets until all of them had gotten inside the liquid metal walls. As the fleet charged, the remaining bulk of Braunschweig’s forces came around the side of the fortress to provide support, and it became clear that the battle was lost for the Iserlohn fleet. When Braunschweig’s fleet charged, they had no choice but to flee. Braunschweig’s fleet chased them, but Mittermeyer suspected that they wouldn’t pursue very far. There was nothing to be gained from killing the fortress fleet.

The battle moving away from the fortress meant that there was an eerie kind of peace as his forces descended. It was punctuated by radio contact with the command center of Iserlohn, finally getting a report on what the status of the fortress itself was. Although the command center was fully under the duke’s control, there was heavy resistance in almost every other area, especially near the engines. There were fires in the greenhouses, along with other acts of sabotage.

The ground troops that had been on Cahokia were greater in number than the Iserlohn garrison, and although the garrison had the advantage of familiarity, Mittermeyer still felt confident in sending Ferner and his men to deal with the issues. Over the radio, Braunschweig ordered them to kill anyone who resisted. He seemed irate at the fact that the fortress garrison still refused to surrender, and his voice was too loud for the microphone he was yelling into— the overwhelmed digital whine on the receiving end caused the radio tech to crank the volume down hastily when his voice picked up.

Ferner, now suited in armor, though with his helmet under one arm, raised an eyebrow at Mittermeyer at this command. “I see that Commodore Leigh is no longer the one giving orders.”

“Some will surrender,” was all he could say, ignoring Ferner’s comment. “Take them prisoner if you can. They’ll be happy to swear loyalty later.”

“Yes, sir,” Ferner said.

Mittermeyer’s stolen white ship descended into Iserlohn, her shields protecting them from the worst of the movement of the liquid metal shell. Other ships in his fleet were already docking, taking positions indiscriminately in the empty bays. There was an odd sense of familiarity in this, despite the situation. How many times had he anticipated the feeling of coming home to Iserlohn? It was no different now, even if it was Yang he was waiting to meet, rather than Reuenthal.

The Alliance-facing side of Iserlohn had been spared the worst of the damage. Mittermeyer’s potshots at it with missiles, and their battle with the fleet, had glanced off the liquid metal shell.

The doors could be easily opened, since the computers were under the duke’s control, so they didn’t have to waste time cutting open paths through the fortress. Mittermeyer let Ferner handle the whole boarding operation— it was what he had been stationed on Cahokia specifically to do, and he knew Yang’s detailed plan for taking Iserlohn well. Their forces would need to meet up with Braunschweig’s soldiers on the other side, and since the fortress was some sixty kilometers across, they would have to take control of all the various elevator shafts and train tunnels, while simultaneously putting a stop to any intentional destruction of vital equipment from the fortress garrison.

Mittermeyer watched the progress of their boarding from his position on the white ship. He wanted to get to the Iserlohn control center and find Yang, but he couldn’t yet abandon his duties as fleet commander. He had various video feeds of his troops as they stormed Iserlohn, and when he wasn’t looking at a map of how people were progressing through the fortress, he watched those. A contingent of his soldiers forced their way through the smoke-filled greenhouses, a line of white armor pushing through rows of corn and soy. They found and deployed the irrigation systems, since the automatic fire-suppression had been disabled by the garrison as they burned Iserlohn’s supplies to nothing. Without gravity, the fire moved strangely, crawling along surfaces in unintuitive directions, and the smoke didn’t roil in clouds near the ceiling, but instead choked the air in a wide river between the fire and the air vents.

Other teams stormed down the elevator shafts towards the central engines, and a real battle raged there for control of the fortress’s heart. Mittermeyer was hopeful that when that fell, and they were able to staunch some of the worst damage, the fortress’s remaining defenders would begin to surrender. Already, there had been some pockets where that was happening. Though they were few in number, it did give Mittermeyer hope that things would calm down.

Mittermeyer listened to the radio. They had open communications now as they solidified control. What he wanted was to get on a private radio channel and speak to Yang, but that was impossible. He occasionally heard Yang’s voice answering questions or giving direction, though it was impossible to divine anything from it other than his exhaustion. Other voices mingled in the airwaves: Ferner, Braunschweig, Admiral Merkatz (apparently coming into Iserlohn in an escape pod— he seemed lucky to have survived), Flegel, and Ansbach.

Although the chaos inside Iserlohn continued— a tempest in a teacup— a call came for Mittermeyer specifically. The voice delivering it, unpleasantly, was Ansbach’s.

“Rear Admiral Mittermeyer,” he said, “Duke Braunschweig requests that you join him on the Berlin for a celebratory dinner.”

It wasn’t exactly an offer that he could refuse, even though the last thing he wanted to see was most of the members of Braunschweig’s closest circle, including the one who was speaking. “Of course.”

“It will be easier to move your ship into closer docks than trying to take yourself through Iserlohn,” Ansbach said. “I’ll provide you with landing instructions.”

“I’m well aware of that. It seems a little early for a celebration dinner, if the fortress hasn’t been brought under control.”

There was a pause from Ansbach, an empty silence like he had taken his finger off the transmit button on his mic. “Nevertheless,” he finally said, “your presence is requested.”

Now that he had been ordered to take his mind off of the battle situation, Mittermeyer suddenly didn’t want to. But Ferner had it well under control, so there was no choice but for him to order his white ship to lift off, circle around Iserlohn, and land in the docking bays next to the Berlin . In this area of Iserlohn, the damage was very apparent, and he saw it up close when he left the white ship on foot (as much as one could be on foot without gravity), flanked by a squad of soldiers, just in case of trouble. He lingered outside Braunschweig’s flagship for a moment to survey the damage.

Here, where the initial push into Iserlohn had been made, the walls were scorched with signs of both exploded zephyr gas and the pockmarks of laser shots. The doors had all been pulled open, and there were dead bodies that had drifted through the air to collect at the intake vents for the air filtration system, which had been turned back on. Their limbs tangled together and wavered in the slow moving air. It was grotesque, but horror wasn’t exactly what Mittermeyer felt to look at it. He turned away and pushed off the floor to head to the Berlin , where the doors were open and waiting for him.

Even after just a short jaunt outside, he was grateful for the feeling of gravity catching him as he entered the Berlin , and landed on his feet with a thump. The ship was a hive of activity, soldiers heading in and out on errands, but there was still someone waiting to escort him up to dinner in Braunschweig’s personal section of the ship.

Outside the dining room was a lounge area, which only had one other person in it when he arrived. He should have been less punctual, he realized, because the person waiting in the lounge, a glass of wine already in hand, was Baron Flegel. He was looking out the huge window at the docking areas of Iserlohn, and at Mittermeyer’s stolen ship in particular. He turned around when he came in, and his smile curled unpleasantly. As Mittermeyer stepped closer, he discovered that although Flegel was clean and washed, one side of his face was bruised in a way that even a dusting of white makeup couldn’t disguise, and though he held himself with his usual proud swagger, he also winced when he lifted his arm to take a sip from his wine.

“Rear Admiral,” Flegel said, “how wonderful it is that you could join us.”

“For dinner, or in Iserlohn?”

“For dinner, certainly.” Flegel turned back to the window and pointed at his ship. “I wasn’t aware that the high command gave out such pretty flagships to rear admirals who have been in recent disgrace.”

“They don’t,” Mittermeyer said. “I stole her.”

The bluntness with which he delivered the line made Flegel laugh. “You never fail to surprise.”

Mittermeyer didn’t have anything to say to that.

“What’s her name?” Flegel asked.

“She doesn’t have one, aside from Test Ship 744.”

“Doesn’t roll off the tongue. No nicknames?”

“Not in particular.”

“Why not?”

Because he had been planning to offer the ship to Yang, who would want to name it himself. Of course, he couldn’t say that.

“I’m not a creative man,” he said. “And I assume Her Majesty will want to give the ship to someone as a reward, since I stole it for her sake.”

“You aren’t planning to fight for your right to it? As the spoils of war?”

Mittermeyer stared Flegel down. “Baron Flegel, I thought you were well aware of what my thoughts are on soldiers looting.”

Flegel barked out a laugh. “Of course. In this case, I can’t say it won’t benefit me for you to feel that way. I’ll have to ask my cousin for it,” he said. “Or my uncle.”

“You think you—”

Mittermeyer cut himself off as the door opened and Duke Braunschweig came in, followed by Admiral Merkatz, Yang, Ansbach, and some young lieutenant commander that he didn’t recognize. Yang and Ansbach both looked the worse for wear— Ansbach in the way that he walked with a limp and favored his right side, and Yang in the way that his shoulders slumped with tiredness and his eyes roved over everything, searching for a chair to sit down in. Still, when he saw Mittermeyer, though his smile was so dim it could barely be called a smile, their eyes met, and that was all the reassurance that he needed.

Even if they had never spoken before, he had at least encountered most of the group at Yang’s wedding. Braunschweig seemed to have invited Mittermeyer to dinner only out of obligation, and had no desire to speak to him personally as they all headed into the dining room. Merkatz nodded hello, at least, though they were near strangers. The only one that Ansbach introduced him to was the youth, who carried himself with an unpleasantly false assuredness; his voice was too loud in a way that revealed, rather than hid, his discomfort. That was Hans von Vering, the future husband of Kaiserin Elizabeth.

Mittermeyer couldn’t help but study Ansbach as they sat down, and he didn’t seem to be the only one to do so. As Ansbach took a seat at the dining table at Braunschweig’s left side, Flegel narrowed his eyes at him, though he didn’t seem to notice, or at least had no reaction. Yang, next to Ansbach, was so tired that his eyes were mostly closed, and he was staring into space over Mittermeyer’s head.

It was very strange for Mittermeyer to see Yang in this environment. He didn’t exactly seem comfortable— but then again, when did he ever truly appear comfortable outside of their brief hours alone? — but he wasn’t anxiously tugging at his hair. Perhaps Mittermeyer was the least acclimated to the room. He was an outsider to Braunschweig’s camp, and furthermore not a noble. When soldier-servants came around bearing wine and covered dishes, there was an unwritten protocol that everyone else in the room knew how to follow. He watched Yang and Ansbach across the table from himself, and just copied what they were doing.

Ansbach didn’t even look at Yang, but it was clear that neither minded sitting next to each other. When Ansbach, left-handed, reached for his wine glass, his arm bumped Yang’s, and Yang glanced at him with a small smile.

Braunschweig had been saying something across the table to Merkatz, but now Braunschweig raised his wine glass in a salute. “To our victory today,” he said. “They said that it couldn’t be done, but we have done it, gentlemen.”

“To victory!” Flegel echoed.

“How are things going inside Iserlohn?” Merkatz asked. His mood was much less jovial.

“Getting better,” Ansbach answered. “I doubt the resistance will continue for much longer— we have the central computers and the main engines under our control. Without those, the damage that any remaining members of the garrison can do is limited. They’ll surrender—”

“If they haven’t by now, they’re not planning to,” Flegel said dismissively. “If they wish to fight to the death, so be it. There’s plenty of men who would rather be parted from their lives than their honor. Who are we to deny them that?”

Merkatz frowned. “They are Imperial soldiers,” he said. His tone was less ambiguous than his words.

“Just like the fleet admiral,” Flegel said. “If I were in their position, I believe I would feel the same.”

“Would you?” Vering asked. Mittermeyer looked at him— Flegel had taken it as an insult, but the tone in his voice had been startlingly open.

Before Flegel could snap back some kind of response, his face twisted in a sneer, Braunschweig said, “I don’t want people in my camp who aren’t ready to accept the Kaiserin,” he said. “It’s all the better if they make that known now, rather than later.”

“Of course,” Merkatz said. “I wouldn’t expect anyone who surrenders to fight for you until the civil war is over. They can be kept confined to specific quarters in Iserlohn until then.”

“On that subject,” Braunschweig said, continuing as if Merkatz hadn’t said anything, “What do we all think about that amusing message from the Iserlohn fleet?” He laughed.

“What message?” Mittermeyer asked.

“Oh, you wouldn’t have heard it,” Flegel said. “Our fleet that was chasing them picked it up— they were transmitting to all the other Imperial forces.”

“We’ve made enemies of the Imperial fleet as a whole,” Merkatz said. “They ordered the Embassy on Phezzan to hunt any of Duke Braunschweig’s family down if they attempted to find refuge there.”

Yang, who hadn’t said anything yet, smiled down at his plate, presumably thinking about his Phezzani spy.

Flegel gestured with his wine glass. “It’s quite entertaining. Why would we flee through Phezzan, if we have control of Iserlohn? They forget that there is more than one path through the galaxy.”

“Would you really want to spend the rest of your life in the rebel territories? I’m sure they just think you’d like to retire to Phezzan itself, if you were forced to make that kind of choice,” Mittermeyer said.

Flegel sniffed. “Maybe. I think they just find it difficult to understand what the writing on the wall means: we’ve won this war.”

“Overconfidence is a poor quality in a soldier, it leads to under preparation,” Merkatz cautioned.

“I don’t think there’s any way we could fail to take Odin,” Braunschweig said. “Now that we have our ground force, and our alternate plan is in place, as much as I doubt I doubt we’ll need it.”

Ansbach spoke up. “So long as we can do it quickly. The destruction of Iserlohn’s supplies is going to put real pressure on our fleet’s resources.”

“It’s not that long of a trip to the capital. And we can call in our favors to resupply us here, if need be.”

“We should do that now, sir. The faster we can move materials, the better our position will be later, regardless if that’s a prolonged battle for Odin, or rebuilding after the war.”

Braunschweig waved his hand. “Fine.”

“Though it is a little unfortunate that the Imperial fleets are going to consider us their enemy,” Flegel said. “But none of their real outposts are anywhere near Odin, so I doubt we’ll have trouble getting there.”

“Do you agree, Admiral Merkatz?” Braunschweig asked.

“I’m not aware of any movements of the Imperial forces, no. Fleet Admiral Muckenburger wanted to stay out of this war, and so if they are going to move, they’ll only have started now. They will try to obstruct us on the way to Odin— we should avoid that if we can. We’ll have to move quickly.”

“Then we should leave as soon as possible. It’s a race to Odin once again, it seems.”

“Sir,” Yang said. His voice had a strange effect on the room— everyone stopped what they were doing to listen to him, except for Braunschweig, who speared a piece of potato and put it in his mouth before looking at Yang.

“What is it, Leigh?”

“I was looking through the recent transmissions that Iserlohn received, and I saw a message from the Phezzani embassy— it appears that Muckenburger was very concerned with a rebel invasion—”

“A rebel invasion?” Flegel asked. “Is that really likely?”

“The Empire is fractured and weak right now, and it would be difficult to gather a coordinated defense. The rebels know this— it would almost be stupid of them not to launch an attack on us right now.” He paused. “The fleet admiral understood that.”

“Is Iserlohn defensible without the Thor Hammer?” Mittermeyer asked.

Yang met his eyes. “As defensible as any narrow corridor is,” he said. Mittermeyer’s mouth opened in surprised recognition of Yang’s meaning, but he said nothing.

“Then if the rebels come, we’ll defend it,” Braunschweig said. “I don’t foresee any problems.”

“May I say something, sir?” Yang said.

“What?”

Ansbach cut in before Yang could even open his mouth. “I believe Commodore von Leigh should discuss the details of troop placement over a map. He and I were just talking about how you yourself should remain at Iserlohn, with the bulk of your fleet. The ground troops should go to Odin.”

Yang’s face flitted through several different emotions and settled on anxiety, and he tugged at his hair, his meal forgotten.

“Why shouldn’t I go to Odin? Shouldn’t I claim the throne for my daughter?”

Merkatz seemed to have caught onto something that Mittermeyer hadn’t. “Duke Braunschweig, to put it bluntly, no you should not.”

Braunschweig’s face reddened. “And why is that, Admiral?”

Merkatz cleared his throat. “Sir, I am a soldier first, and I always have been.”

“An admirable quality,” Braunschweig said, warning in his tone.

“But before he left, Count Mariendorf, acting in your best interest, charged me with understanding the political view of things.”

Across the table, Ansbach and Yang were both following this exchange with interest— it seemed they hadn’t coordinated this with Merkatz at all.

“And?” Braunschweig asked.

“If you, sir, go to Odin without your daughter, and rule in her stead, you will turn the people against you. It is your daughter who has the right to rule, not yourself. If you make it clear that you do not respect the Goldenbaum line— what will this all be for?”

The silence around the table was profound— interrupted only by the sound of Vering putting down his wine glass a little too hard after an uncomfortably long second.

“Littenheim—”

“Sabine, at the very least, has a crown on her head on Odin.”

Braunschweig’s voice was uncharacteristically even. “And who will go to Odin?”

“I’ll go,” Flegel said immediately. “It shouldn’t be difficult. And then you and the Kaiserin can meet us there, when we’ve taken control.”

Flegel taking advantage of the situation deflated some of Braunschweig’s anger. “If we must,” he said. “Admiral Merkatz will take command of the fleet.”

“Yes, sir,” Merkatz said. Yang looked across at Merkatz, rather searchingly, and Merkatz added. “I would appreciate Rear Admiral Mittermeyer joining me, if possible.”

Braunschweig glanced at Mittermeyer with undisguised distaste. “Whatever for?”

“My wife is on Odin,” Mittermeyer said quickly. “If only for that, I’d like the opportunity to get back to her quickly.”

“The rear admiral is a capable commander,” Merkatz said. “We will have to coordinate troops on the ground and in the air, and if Baron Flegel and I are on Odin, I would like someone with a proven track record in the skies.”

“Fine,” Braunschweig said. “And I’ll be here at Iserlohn, waiting for the rebels.” He laughed, then looked at Yang. “Maybe it is a pity that we’ve destroyed the Thor Hammer.”

“If at all possible, we shouldn’t let the rebels know that,” Yang said. “If they do come to the corridor, we should try to head them off with the fleet long before they get here.”

“Of course.”

“Was there anything in Iserlohn’s computers that would tell us what the situation on Odin is?” Mittermeyer asked.

“No, not much,” Yang said. “Just that Littenheim has set himself up in the capital. Lichtenlade is still alive, but in hiding.”

“Do we know how many troops he has?”

“Yes, approximately,” Yang said. “I can go over all the information I have with you after dinner— Admiral Merkatz and Baron Flegel have already seen it.”

Mittermeyer nodded.

“Have we been able to contact Geiersburg?” Flegel asked. “I would love to report our victory to them.”

The conversation turned towards Braunschweig family matters, which didn’t interest Mittermeyer at all. He studied Yang, who had returned to looking down at his plate, and Ansbach, who now took the role of echoing Braunschweig’s thoughts back to him. Although he had never liked Ansbach, and had once had gotten great satisfaction out of decking him across his sallow little face, watching him act the parrot felt somewhat beneath him. When their eyes happened to meet across the table, Ansbach looked back at Mittermeyer unwaveringly.

Which of the three of them had changed since their school days? Mittermeyer wondered. He didn’t feel the difference in himself, nor in Yang— at least, not anything that he could put a finger on. But something inside him must have changed, imperceptibly but permanently. He disliked the sensation.

When the dinner was finished, Braunschweig and Flegel left to attend to something on the bridge of the Berlin , and Vering, Ansbach, and Yang followed them out. Merkatz and Mittermeyer stayed behind in the dining area for a moment.

“I assume we’ll have plenty of time en route to discuss our plan for Odin,” Mittermeyer said.

“We certainly will, and Leigh’s plan is quite comprehensive,” Merkatz agreed. “I appreciate you coming all this way. I’m not sure we would have won the day without your help.”

“Leigh would have found some way to win.”

“You’re very confident in him.”

“You don’t think so?”

Merkatz made a noncommittal noise. “Leigh is brilliant,” he said. “That can’t be denied. And he has loyal friends.” There was almost a warning in Merkatz’s tone.

Mittermeyer paused. “And is that why you asked me to go with you to Odin?”

“I think we will have to trust each other, Rear Admiral,” Merkatz said. “No, I didn’t do it to separate you from him— he asked me to do so. I think he planned to remain on Iserlohn even if Duke Braunschweig went to Odin, and he trusts you to take care of things elsewhere.”

“I don’t know why he’d prefer to stay at Iserlohn by himself.”

“You’ll have to ask him.” He looked at Mittermeyer squarely. “But it doesn’t escape me that you are personally loyal to him, rather than the duke— and I won’t ask about your loyalty to his daughter. I’d prefer not to know.”

“I wasn’t crossing my fingers behind my back when I took my oath to serve in the fleet,” Mittermeyer said. “Sometimes I feel like I might be the only one.”

Merkatz was not a laughing man, but he did have some approximation of a smile. “There are plenty of loyal men in this world,” Merkatz said. “But I’m glad we can work together.”

“We’ll need to.”

“Yes,” Merkatz said. His thoughts about Baron Flegel came through quite clearly in that one word, and Mittermeyer couldn’t help but smile. Merkatz stood. “This is a strange world we find ourselves in, Rear Admiral.”

His words reminded him of something he had said to Reuenthal, months ago, when they were out celebrating Yang’s wedding. “It is,” he said. “I never could have predicted all of this. But I hope— when it’s all over— whatever’s on the other side will be better.”

“That, I believe, is a quality that most of Leigh’s friends share.”

“Maybe.” They headed out into the lounge area. Merkatz glanced at his stolen white ship out the window.

“That is a beautiful ship.”

“I’m trying not to get attached— I doubt I’ll be able to keep her.”

“Oh? Who will have her instead?”

“Leigh, I hope. He deserves it. We’ll see if it happens.”

“Leigh’s friends outnumber his detractors. I’m sure that between all of us and the facts at hand, we can make a compelling case to the Kaiserin. Leigh would never ask for himself.”

“I wasn’t aware that Leigh had many personal friends around here— aside from yourself.”

“Allies, at the very least,” Merkatz said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Rear Admiral. We should prepare ourselves.”

“Yes, sir.”

They came to the door to the hallway, and he and Mittermeyer turned in opposite directions, Mittermeyer intending to head to the bridge to find Yang, Merkatz turning towards the exit of the ship.

He didn’t have to go far— he heard Yang’s voice around a corner. It seemed like he had decided to wait for him so that they could spend the evening together, which made him smile, but the warmth was tempered by what he heard Yang saying.

“—it would be worth it. A full scale invasion by the Alliance would be one of the worst things that could happen right now.”

“Then let me suggest it. You need to learn to keep your mouth shut, My Lord.”

“You won’t, though.”

Mittermeyer didn’t get a chance to hear Ansbach’s response— a moment of silence fell between them, and he decided that was his time to interrupt. He turned the corner to see Yang leaning against the wall, his head pressed against it, with his hair tousled and falling around his face. The wall seemed to be the only thing holding him up. Ansbach stood before him, arms crossed and a scowl on his face.

“Commodores,” Mittermeyer said, announcing himself. Ansbach glanced over at him, smoothed out his facial expression, and then nodded.

“I’ll be going,” he said. “Goodnight, gentlemen.”

“Ansbach—” Yang said.

But Ansbach just held up a hand in a half-wave and walked away. Yang didn’t straighten up from his lean against the wall until he was well and truly gone and Mittermeyer walked over. He smiled— a real smile this time.

“Don’t lecture me,” Yang said. “I’ve already heard it from him.”

“I don’t know what I’d lecture you about. I seem to be missing much of the context.”

“Don’t worry about it, then. Just assume you’d agree with him— I know you would.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Yang put his hand on his arm. It was shocking, after so long in space by himself, and very welcome, though he couldn’t help but turn his head to make sure there was no one else coming down the corridor. “He’s—”

Yang didn’t seem to know how to complete his thought, but he looked at Mittermeyer, clearly hoping he would nevertheless understand him. He resigned himself to it. “Does he call you ‘My Lord’ to make up for trying to kill you?”

Yang visibly reddened and looked away. “He just does that because it annoys me. You notice it doesn’t stop him from telling me to shut up.”

Mittermeyer laughed. “Come on. Let me show you my stolen beauty.”

Yang dropped his hand from Mittermeyer’s arm, though with a lingering brush of their hands together, and let him lead him towards the white ship.

Even Yang, who was usually loathe to express admiration for weapons of war, couldn’t help but admire the ship. When they made their way into the open bay doors, he caught himself on the side for a moment and touched the gleaming white shell with his palm flat to the coated metal. Mittermeyer, from previous experience, knew how strange it felt— even when in their inactive state, the shields, with their machinery just below the skin of the ship, had such a strong effect that the delicate nerves in the hand could feel it. Tingling, like gooseflesh on a part of the body that couldn’t get gooseflesh.

They didn’t talk about anything important on the way to Mittermeyer’s quarters— Yang was too tired, or too sad, to even ask about how his half of the battle had gone, aside from confirming that Captain Ferner was alright. Mittermeyer filled the silence by telling him about how he had acquired the ship, and what had happened to its red companion. The story made Yang smile.

“I can’t help but feel sympathy for expats,” Yang said. “Kircheis would like the story, I think. One going, one staying behind.”

“Well, I hope they don’t just take her apart. She’s too nice of a ship for that.” He decided not to tell Yang that he hoped to give this ship to him— he would protest. So instead he just held open the door to his personal quarters and let him step inside.

The furnishings left something to be desired. Usually, whoever was given a flagship of this stature would have their own furniture at hand to decorate with. But since he had stolen the ship on very short notice, the rooms were mostly bare, and only contained a few pieces that had been moved from the enlisted mens’ lounges and quarters. Since the ship’s crew was so minimal, the furniture’s absence hadn’t been noticed. But it gave his quarters an impersonal feeling. Yang didn’t notice, or at least didn’t care, and sat down on the creaking sofa, draping himself across it in his usual haphazard way.

“Do you want something to drink?” Mittermeyer asked. Yang just yawned and held his hand out, inviting him to the couch with him.

“I’m going to fall asleep before I could even finish drinking it,” he said. “I haven’t slept in about thirty hours.”

“Not even the tank bed?” Mittermeyer asked, taking Yang’s hand. It was his left hand— with his wedding ring on it.

“Too busy,” Yang murmured. “It’s been a hard day, Wolf.”

“I know.” He should have sat on the couch, but instead he sat on the floor in front of it, leaning back against it, still holding Yang’s hand in his. Yang shifted, rolling onto his side so he could look at him. “We don’t have much time right now, do we?”

“Iserlohn’s always just a place people pass through,” Yang said, sounding very melancholy. It was a funny thing to say about a place that had been intended to be a wall, rather than a door, but Yang had his own way of seeing things. “I’ll see you again on Odin— soon.” It sounded like he was promising it to himself, more than to Mittermeyer.

“I don’t really understand why you’re having me go to Odin. I feel like I just got to you.”

“I feel responsible for all of this. But you can take care of things on Odin. I trust you.” His voice was low and quiet, half asleep already, maybe. “It won’t be long,” he said again. “And Oskar’s there…”

“And you’ll be by yourself.”

“I won’t be by myself.” With his other hand, Yang combed his fingers through Mittermeyer’s hair.

“Yes, you’ll have Ansbach.” Despite Yang’s sleepiness, Mittermeyer’s tone remained a little scathing.

“I do trust him,” Yang said. He seemed to have figured out what he had wanted to say earlier. “He’s a good man.”

“It’s hard for me to believe you.”

“No, he is,” Yang murmured. “Things would have been different if we had met somewhere else— if we all lived in the Alliance… or even Phezzan… somewhere else. Not that school…” He was trailing off in tiredness.

“What does that have to do with it?”

“He was trapped— just like the rest of us,” Yang said. “That’s all.”

There were plenty of things he should have asked Yang about while he was still awake— what Ansbach had stopped him from saying to Braunschweig, what they should do about the possible Alliance invasion, what Yang wanted him to do when he got to Odin, what the rest of the civil war would look like— but all of that fell out of Mittermeyer’s mind as he sat there with Yang and held his hand, touching his gold wedding band, twisting it around his finger.

Mittermeyer pressed Yang’s hand to his face— his lips, not quite a kiss, then his cheek, then his forehead. He held it there, closing his eyes.

“Wen-li, when I get back to Odin—” Mittermeyer said.

Yang waited.

“I’m going to tell Evangeline.” It felt somehow more real to say it aloud.

Yang’s breath was a little unsteady, but his fingers continued their inexorable journey through his hair, across the crown of his head, towards his ears, the nape of his neck, then back up.

“I’m sorry,” Yang said.

“For what?”

“I love you.”

Mittermeyer did kiss Yang’s hand, then.