“Based on your knowledge of the Scimitar’s schematics, and the footage from the messages we’ve received, do you think you could pinpoint the admiral’s position with enough accuracy to put a single cannon shell through his big, fat, stupid head?”

The avatar looked regretful. “The bridge would be too well shielded to pierce with a single cannon round. I would have to somehow tear open the outer hull before I could penetrate the armour surrounding the bridge.”

I tapped my fist against my armrest. “And is there any way of doing that without killing half the crew?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then what about the white ships?” I couldn’t believe a civilisation with the ability and wherewithal to assemble a fleet of such size and sophistication couldn’t find a way to drill a hole in a few metres of armour plate. “Can’t they help?”

“I will ask them.” Her image froze. A second later, she was back and animate again.

“The Marble Armada will not tolerate violence in this vicinity,” she said. “They are worried it will attract… something. They weren’t too clear on exactly what, but they would prefer to end the fighting now, as quickly and painlessly as possible. To that end, they have offered the use of a beam weapon capable of piercing the outer hull. I have supplied them with schematics, and we expect to be able to drill a hole five centimetres in diameter, right through to the skin of the bridge.”

“Without killing anybody else?”

“With minimal risk.”

“And then you’ll be able to send a round down that hole?” I couldn’t help but sound doubtful. “It’s so small…”

The Trouble Dog brushed aside my concern. “I have a million ships triangulating for me.” She raised her sword. “All you have to do is give me the go-ahead.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. I had no desire to kill Menderes, and yet, it was the only way to save his crew and prevent further loss of life.

And, it would be a salutary lesson to the other ships currently watching proceedings.

This man was responsible for sheltering a war criminal. He was responsible for the destruction of the Hobo and the Geest van Amsterdam, and the deaths of all the men, women and children on board those vessels. And he was partly responsible for the death of George Walker.

I ground my teeth.

“Okay,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Fire.”

On the screen, the Trouble Dog’s avatar lowered her eyes and gave a single, respectful nod. An instant later, pencil-thin beams of blue light flashed from the nearest marble ships, their focus converging on a single spot on the Scimitar’s curving flank. Where they met, the metal flared white.

I heard the defence cannon fire once. The clank of it echoed through the hull like the toll of a great bell.

And the deed was done.