Surit noticed the same thing. Istara silently pulled into formation beside him.

The tunnel the fleet crept through snaked deep into chaotic space. Banks of turbulence towered around them, moving so slowly that they looked still. But the flicker of movement Tennal had noticed hadn’t come from within the clouds around them: it came from behind, from the clear gap where the Cavalry fleet had first entered chaotic space. A rogue ship.

No—it was more than one ship. The first silver glint arriving at the mouth of the tunnel was followed by another. Then more.

The trickle of ships turned into a flood. Rank upon rank of gleaming warships poured into the entrance of the tunnel. They weren’t cloaked in any way. Surit’s tug sensors struggled to cope with the onslaught of identity pings; every single ship announced itself as Archer Division, Archer Division, one after another in an avalanche on his screen.

They came armed. Surit recognized some of the models and their attachments: holding fields, subduers, even burn cannons. This was a fleet on war footing, come to blockade an unarmed research expedition. And they outnumbered the Cavalry ships ten to one.

“They’re from Archer Link Station,” Tennal said gleefully. “It’s Governor Oma.”

Surit watched, his breath caught in his throat, as the ships streamed in. He’d never seen an Orshan fleet in real force. They filled the hollow in the clouds like the stars in the sky outside.

“Our dear commander crossed the wrong person,” Tennal said in his ear. “She must have already had ships on the way.” He paused, savoring it. “And Lights, I bet she’s pissed.”

PART THREE

CHAPTER 15

Somewhere, a bird sang. Dappled sunlight filtered into the room through gently waving leaves; the air temperature was perfect. There was coffee, freshly dispensed, by Tennal’s bed.

Tennal had not felt easy or comfortable for quite a long time, so—instead of enjoying the unexpected peace—his brain pulsed with a constant drumbeat of suspicion.

He had nothing to complain about. Everything had come up like roses for him. From the first warning shot Governor Oma’s forces had fired, it had been abruptly, starkly obvious that she took the Cavalry fleet’s territorial violation more personally than Commander Vinys had expected. Tennal was going to treasure the moment of realization on the commander’s face for maybe the rest of his life. The whole research fleet had withdrawn—under protest and under forced escort—to the stately spinning discs of Archer Link Station, where they were now.