The Speakers and syndics wanted to know who had attacked the Ascendancy. They were looking in the wrong direction.

The more interesting question was not who, but why.

Because the Obbic had been right. No one attacked Csilla for the fun of it. That went double for an attack that cost three major warships without providing any obvious gain. Either the attacker had misjudged badly, or else he’d achieved a more subtle goal.

What could such a goal look like?

The majority of the Syndicure clearly assumed the attack had been a prelude to a more sustained campaign, and once they finished their posturing they would undoubtedly start urging the Defense Force to pull its ships inward for the protection of the major systems. More than that, they would probably insist the Expansionary Defense Fleet likewise withdraw from the borders to augment them.

Was that the goal? To keep the Chiss looking inward and not outward? In which case, bowing to the Syndicure’s demand for security would play directly into the enemy’s plans. On the other hand, if the syndics were right about this being the start of a full-fledged campaign, leaving the Espansionary Fleet out in the Chaos could be an equally fatal move. Either way, if they guessed wrong, it would be too late to correct the error by the time they knew the truth.

But as Ba’kif weighed the possibilities, it occurred to him that there was one other possibility. Perhaps the attack wasn’t meant to draw the Ascendancy’s attention from something that was about to happen, but to distract it from something that had already happened.

And that possibility, at least, he could look into right now. Surreptitiously, he keyed a search order into his questis.

Midway through the Cupola session, as he continued to make his soothing noises to the Aristocra, he had the answer.

Maybe.

One of Ba’kif’s aides was waiting when the general finally made it back to his office. “Were you able to locate him?” Ba’kif asked.

“Yes, sir,” the aide said. “He’s on Naporar undergoing his final round of physical therapy for the injuries sustained during the Vagaari pirate operations.”

Ba’kif scowled. Operations that, while successful in a military sense, had been a complete disaster on the political front. Months later, many of the Aristocra were still brooding over that whole mess. “When will he be free?”

“Whenever you wish, sir,” the aide said. “He said he would be at your disposal whenever you wanted him.”

“Good,” Ba’kif said, checking the time. Half an hour to bring the Whirlwind to flight status, four hours to get to Naporar, another half hour to get a shuttle down to the Chiss Expansionary Fleet medcenter. “Inform him that I want him ready in five hours.”

“Yes, sir.” The aide hesitated. “Do you want the order logged, or does this qualify as a private trip?”