“An absolute minimum of my best, most trusted people know we’re looking for something, not what it is,” the marshal said. “It’s all in hand, all working. The good, the very good news is that we are almost certain the information is held by probably only one substrate in the Fourteenth’s HQ, and known to a handful of their top brass, at most. Nobody else. Not yet.”

“Not yet for how long?”

“Can’t say. All we know is they haven’t tried to share this so far, to the best of our knowledge.”

Banstegeyn looked to one side and rubbed his fingers as though testing the feel of an invisible piece of cloth. “Of course, they might not do anything with it. They might just sit on it.”

“That is a possibility,” the marshal said, sounding doubtful.

“We could just ask them, I suppose,” he said, looking at the marshal, and smiling. “They might even listen to reason.”

“We could,” she said. “They might.” She held his gaze, kept her expression neutral.

“Let’s do that, then,” the septame said, sitting back. The marshal’s face betrayed the tiniest flicker of surprise. “Though,” Banstegeyn said, sitting forward again, “take me through what else you were thinking of.”

Chekwri frowned. “One approach might preclude the other. To ask would be to warn, and then any other choice would be closed off.”

“What if,” the septame said, “one waited to make this appeal to reason until the other choice was available … at a moment’s notice?”

The marshal seemed to think for a moment. “Given the capabilities of the technologies involved, especially the potential rapidity of response they possess, even a moment might be warning enough to turn a potentially successful action into one that was sure to fail.”

“Hmm,” Banstegeyn said, sitting back again. “Then it would certainly be foolish to give any greater degree of warning, wouldn’t it?”

The marshal’s eyes narrowed a little as she said, “Quite.”

“What did you have in mind?” he asked her. “What does it involve?”

“It involves a fast, powerful ship, a single surgical strike with full end-operator tactical-choice freedom and – in case any further action is required – a micro-force of just two: a highly augmented special forces field-colonel and a non-humanoid combat arbite.”

“And this would be in, on—”

“Eshri, Izenion system.”

Banstegeyn bit his lower lip. He looked away. “Against our own people …”

“Who put a piece of spyware into another regiment’s capital ship nearly five hundred years ago, who might have done the same thing to other elements of the fleet and who could, if they wanted …” The marshal let her voice trail off.

“… potentially jeopardise the whole Subliming,” the septame said, still looking to one side, rubbing his lip now. He looked at her. “How soon can we put all this together?”

“It already is together, Septame. The assets are presently in transit for Izenion.”

Banstegeyn widened his eyes. “Are they now?”