Cordelia, Camlann, Aurora.

Late afternoon, Friday 12th May (Gal.Rel.) 2875. QW-Day -21

The rain was well and truly coming down (again) as the stately black groundcar drove up the cobblestoned entrance to Admiralty House, big fat drops spattering hard against any and all surfaces across Cordelia. The ‘car passed around the courtyard in a half-circle before coming to a halt just by the roofed main entrance, shaped as it was as a miniature Greco-Roman temple front; the Royal Marine guards at the posts at the entrance completely immobile in the downpour. Civilians and soldiers off duty were waiting under the awnings of the columned terrace-ways of the courtyard, waiting for the rain to abate a little before heading home, eager for the weekend. The right-side passenger door opened and Linton Sciacca, the Marquess of Howeland, still dressed in the same suit he had worn when he went to work at the Lords this morning, stepped out and quickly made his way to stand under the columned awning. Two Royal Marines wearing overcoats with ulsterette capes over their No.3 uniforms were on sentry duty, their SLARA rifles held in parade-rest order. Lord Howeland stepped up to them, adjusted his blazer by tugging his lapels and smiled at the Marines. He hadn’t had opportunity to change after the hectic meetings in the Foreign Secretary’s office, and he was very cognizant of the fact that he was running late for dinner with his wife Isobel. Nevertheless, his duty to the Kingdom came before his duty to his wife, although the Kingdom had a tendency to make a lot less fuss about skipping dinner.

“Per Astrum,” he said, looking from one marine to the other, and the at-rest posture of the two stiffened ever so slightly.

“Per Terram, sir,” one of them replied, and Lord Howeland smiled, the reminder of his career as an officer in the Royal Marine half a lifetime ago bubbling to the surface every time he saw the black, white and red uniforms of His Majesty’s Marines.

“If you wouldn’t awfully mind, I have some urgent business with Lordships of the Admiralty. I know my coming is unannounced, and it is Friday afternoon after all, but still…”

He let the unspoken question-cum-order hang in the air and the marine on the right didn’t hesitate, putting one hand up to his earpiece and pressed thrice with his index finger. Verbally unbidden, one of the double mahogany doors of Admiralty House’s main military entrance opened, powered by silent mechanisms.

“Much obliged,” Lord Howeland said with a nod and stepped into the large Admiralty vestibule. Like much of the rest of Admiralty House the vestibule had a hard marble floor in black-grey-brown-cream colours, wood-panelling on the walls and salmon wallpaper where the half-side panelling ended and Doric columns decorated with golden ivy patterns interspersed at regular intervals along the main entry floor. There was no obvious security checkpoint as might be found on tether terminals or civilian space stations, but unseen cameras and feeds controlled by advanced SAI systems carefully monitored every movement and scanned everything in the large vestibule, which was about half the size of a football pitch. Along one side of the hall was a long set of desks behind the protection of mimicglass, where the entrance clerks and admittance officers received and monitored every visitor, and Royal Marines in black combat gear were omnipresent, if slightly discreetly positioned along far walls and by entrances, doorways and staircases, carbines and SLARA rifles slung but just a quick motion away from being presented at the ready. This was all old news to Lord Howeland, who simply stepped up to the last desk before the large double staircase leading up and further into the main wing of the Admiralty. The Secretary of Defence had, by old tradition his own office and staff quarters in the civilian wing of Admiralty House. Howeland often chose to work from there rather than his third-story Goldbrook Palace office, but it was relatively rare for him to enter the military parts of Admiralty; the Royal Navy was very adamant that political and military work spheres should not overlap, and there certainly was an argument to be made that this represented a sensible division of powers. Howeland smiled pleasantly to the man behind the glass wall as he stepped up to it.

“Lord Howeland, the Secretary of Defence to see His Lordship, the First Lord Admiral, if he hasn’t gone home for the day.”

The admittance officer didn’t even bother to ask for his identification.

“Sir Hugh is still on the premises, My Lord, just head up to his main office and I’ll buzz ahead. What should I tell the First Lord’s secretary is the main matter of your visit, My Lord?”

“Tell his outer office it regards important ancillary details pertaining to the King in Council this afternoon. No need for an escort, I know my way around,” Howeland said with a quick reassuring smile, and rapped his knuckles on the wooden desk in a nonchalant gesture before heading towards the stairs and began the surprisingly long trek to the inner chambers of Admiralty House’s main wing. That bit about the escort was ostensibly for security purposes, not to serve as a guide, but the Secretary of Defence did not need a Royal Marine or House Security escort to traverse the Admiralty; that could have been construed as being an affront to the civilian leadership of the His Majesty’s government, impugning Howeland’s personal honour. Every other visitor not attached to the Admiralty or senior government or secretariat offices however, were always assigned an escort.

The further up and further in he went, the number of civilian staffers decreased and the ranks of the officers he passed went up and up. Howeland knew his way about the Admiralty main wing, he had been here on countless occasions during the course of his political career as –in order– Member of the Lords Committee of Colonies, Member of the Joint House Committee of Naval Affairs, then Leader of the Committee of Naval Affairs, Deputy Secretary of Defence and finally these past nine months as Secretary of Defence and First Lord of the Admiralty in His Majesty’s Cabinet (in perfectly confusing manner, not to be mistaken for the First Lord Admiral of Admiralty –Howeland’s title was the civilian head of the Navy, Sir Hugh’s the military head of the Navy–). A few of the officers who recognised him as he strode past saluted, despite the fact that they were not obliged to, but he nodded appreciatively nonetheless. Before long he found himself standing in front of the doors of the First Lord Admiral’s office. Howeland ran a hand through his short dark hair and mentally prepared himself for whatever waited for him on the other side of those outer office doors. If it’s only Sir Hugh, this might be a civil affair, and he will be merely miffed at the procedural course of action Sir Edward is demanding. If any of the other major lords or ladies of Admiralty are present, things will become a lot more… interesting.

Done prevaricating, Linton Sciacca opened the office doors and strode confidently through the outer office of the First Lord Admiral, a very large room with a number of working desks and closed-off meeting spaces, with Royal Navy officers wearing aiguillettes of varying colours and cords sat behind said desks looking up at his unannounced entry. There were frowns, raised eyebrows, confused looks shared and quick glances at watches, but Lord Howeland kept walking until he reached the mahogany door to the First Lord Admiral’s personal office. His path was barred by a Royal Marine on sentry duty in black gear and uniform, wearing the unique commando-green beret of the Corps, who looked in askance over the Secretary of Defence’s shoulder, and Howeland turned as someone politely cleared their throat behind him.

“I’m sorry, My Lord,” the tall male wearing a black and gold RN uniform with the gold bars of a commander said, “but I am afraid that Sir Hugh is not quite yet ready to receive you.”

“And how long until he is ready, Commander…?” Howeland tried to ask politely but he could hear the annoyance colouring the edge of his tone.

“Commander Ioannes Stanton, My Lord,” the officer replied, a ghost of a smile on his lips, “and don’t worry, My Lord, it won’t be long. Sir Hugh is just concluding an on-going meeting with a number of other senior officers.”

“I fear,” Linton replied, “that I must insist on my immediate admittance. The matter I have to discuss is of critical importance and I believe that my delaying will be admonished by Sir Hugh when he learns of the nature of my order of business.”

“My Lord,” Commander Stanton said, and ordered by eye movement alone for the Royal Marine sentry to physically block the inner office door, “I am afraid that I cannot allow you to access the First Lord Admiral’s office just at this time. I must ask that you exercise patience and wait until Sir Hugh is ready to admit you.”

“You seem to forget, Commander Stanton,” Howeland said in a low, annoyed tone, now very done with superficial civility and the rigmarole of prim and proper procedure, “that I am by the power granted by His Majesty King Nicholas I, the Secretary of Defence and the First Lord of Admiralty, the civilian head and overseer of the Royal Navy. The Armed Forces answers to the civilian body politic, not the other way around.”

A flash of something akin to anger or possibly indecisiveness passed over Commander Stanton’s facial expression, but he composed himself immediately.

“If you insist, My Lord, but I must impress that Sir Hugh had planned–”

“My dear Commander,” Howeland rudely cut him off and turned around to face the suddenly very unsure Marine sentry and the closed doors, “please just announce my arrival to the First Lord Admiral.”

Howeland looked around the office as the doors closed behind him, veritably feeling the scathing glare of Stanton as the naval officer closed the doors shut. It was as Howeland remembered it, a palatial combination of argentwood and blood-oak panelling and furniture respectively, Neu-Persian rugs, exquisite oil paintings in ornate gilded frames, large windows with pale cream curtains and chandeliers made up of Dioscurian crystals. There was also a large blood-oak meeting table with upholstered seating for sixteen… of which five seats were already occupied. Howeland swallowed and made a courteous bow towards the seated military officers.

“Pardon the intrusion, Lords and Ladies,” he said in a much more carefully maintained tone of voice than what he had employed while talking to the previous staff officer, “but I am afraid I bring dire tidings from the King in Council, as well as from a series of subsequent meetings in the Foreign Secretary’s office in the Emerald Gardens that concluded just a long hour ago.”

“Then you better get seated, Lord Howeland,” Sir Hugh said, standing by one of the windows with a datapad in his hands, and he indicated towards the chair at the head of the table. Linton could not help notice that all the senior officers, apart from the chair no doubt pulled out for the First Lord Admiral himself, were seated to his right with their backs to the windows. He did as he was bidden without comment and sat down in the upholstered chair, and buttoned open his blazer, using the courteous and fashion-forward action to hide his quick inspection of the seated officers.

“I am terribly sorry for bursting in on you like this with little to no forewarning,” he said while looking at each of the officers in turn, “but I’m afraid I had little choice in the matter. Time is really of the essence here, but Sir Edward Ranganekary has chosen to adhere to common political and professional courtesy, and insists on informing both Houses first come Monday of these affairs. However, I do believe you all in the Services would be rather cross with me as your nominal civilian head if you were to learn these news at the same time as Parliament. Ergo here, rather rudely, I am.”

He allowed himself a lopsided smile at that and gauged the reaction among the others. Howeland had never gotten a good grasp of Vice Admiral of the White Adrienne Bower-Henton, the Fifth Lady Admiral of Intelligence. One just instinctively assumed, Linton supposed, that a leader of Spooks would be some sort of an enigmatic, almost ephemeral viper-esque person, but the short pale-skinned Bower-Henton, with her pale brown hair in a neat little ponytail under her white-black-gold officer’s cap seemed just like any other woman Howeland met on a daily basis. She sipped tea from an engraved porcelain cup with slow, meticulous motions, looking at Howeland in turn with her chocolate brown eyes. Yet Howeland suspected Adrienne probably already knew what he was about to say, and her whole air of innocence was in all likelihood put on; but damn was she a fine actor if that was the case. The tall, stern-looking man sitting to her left wore a uniform with the insignia of a Rear Admiral of the Red and the same quill-and-lightning badge that Bower-Henton wore, and Howeland assumed he was her chief of staff or some equivalent within Royal Naval Intelligence.

As his eyes travelled further along the length of the table, he smiled warmly at two people he often met in social circles, and the Countess New Acre and the Countess of Suncrest & Rubyvale smiled in return. The two could almost not have been more unlike each other, despite their similar social status and military ranks. Admiral of the White Lady Emily Chiang of Suncrest & Rubyvale was a lissom woman of average height, very directly descended from East Asian stock and wore her long dark hair in a tight regulation bun, while her sharp facial features accented her dark eyes bespeckled with tiny glints of gold. Admiral of the Black Lady Adeline Le Fey was of comparable height, but she was much more (but not completely) Caucasian in phenotype and was slightly stockier. Her hair was fiery red and worn in a crown braid that put an emphasis on her quite triangular face and dark blue eyes. Where Suncrest was objectively femininely attractive, New Acre had more of a dichotomy about her, with classical beautiful facial features and feminine hairstyle and makeup, but her visibly muscular physique and prominent right arm prosthetic in black with silver ivy detailing lent her a very martial vibe as well. What the two of them shared was keen military minds, unwavering loyalty to His Majesty, the Kingdom and its people, and very finely attuned social radars.

The last chair was occupied by Sir Morgan Mizushima, Admiral of the Red and Commander-in-Chief Fleet. The tall, bushy-bearded officer was a regular feature in the Committee of Naval Affairs meetings, and for the man who had the unenviable task of being the chief of staff and executor of the head of the largest space navy in the Galaxy, it seemed like the day had thirty-eight hours instead of twenty-eight. Sir Morgan (and his large staff) was responsible for ensuring any and all orders and plans despatched from Admiralty was carried out by the different fleets, stations, task forces, task groups, squadrons, flotillas, patrol groups, and any other platform to the exacting will of the Powers that Be. In many cases, Sir Morgan was the go-between of Cabinet, Parliament and Admiralty as well, making sure that the Senior Service did not act out of bounds with what Parliament and the elected leaders of Aurora decreed. On top of that, he was near the tippy-top of the Royal Navy’s almost pyramidal hierarchy, meaning everything going up to the very top had to go through his office, and everything going out to the several million servicemen- and women and the hundreds of platforms out in the vast ether of space had to go through him as well. It was no wonder his large dark beard was growing grey in places, and Lord Howeland did not envy the man his job, despite the challenges of his own. Speaking of which…

“Yes, quite,” Howeland said after realising he had used up his socially polite allotted time by a tine margin and cleared his throat, “as I said, I come from a rather extended set of meetings in the Emerald Gardens. More specifically, these meetings took place in the Foreign Secretary’s personal office.”

He cast a quick glance at Bower-Henton to gauge if there was any reaction, but if there was one the Lady Spook hid it well.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“Sir Edward met with, in their respective turns, the excellences plenipotentiaries from the Independent Systems Alliance, the Sacred Kingdom of Dionysia, and the Republic of Corinth. Yes, all had managed to book an audience with His Majesty’s Foreign Secretary at roughly the same time on the same day. I feel quite certain I do not have to extrapolate on the topic of the discussions that went on, I have the utmost confidence Ma’am Bower-Henton here has already informed you all of this, or at the very least the distinct possibility of such discussions taking place in the near future.”

“We know of the situation in the Vistula System, Howeland,” New Acre said, her voice betraying it was well-past working hours on a Friday and she wanted to go home. Her accent was audibly Kilthrim in origin, one of the low/wetland counties of New Anjou on Angevin. “And as you might imagine, it was one of the topics discussed with the senior heads earlier today. We, the merry few,” Le Fey smiled as she waved her right, artificial arm in an exaggerated gesture, “are simply here to pick up the threads.”

“And it is not like it is a state secret, My Lord,” the unknown man commented while folding his hands on the tabletop, “the rumour mill is awash with all sorts of stories, details and fake news, and we at RNID have had to sift through it all.”

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced, Sir…?”

The officer straightened in his chair, his uniform precise down to the fold of his sleeves, the quill-and-lightning insignia glinting under the room’s muted light. “Rear Admiral Marcus Khanavkar, My Lord,” he replied in a neutral tone, his hands folded neatly on the table. “Director of Strategic Analysis, Department of Naval Intelligence.”

Howeland inclined his head, his features betraying none of the mild irritation still simmering from his earlier encounter with Commander Stanton. “Well, Admiral Khanavkar, I hope you’ll excuse my ignorance—it’s been a day. I take it you’re the one most in touch with the situation developing in the Corridor?”

Khanavkar hesitated for just long enough that it might seem deliberate.

“I am but one amongst others, My Lord.” His tone was pensive, and his dark eyes betrayed no emotion.

“In accordance to our standing orders and operational mandate, RNID has a series of assets deployed both inside the Corridor, as well as more covert resources assigned to adjacent gravity wells and polities.”

“What a polite way of saying you have spies and agents scattered all over neutral and not-so-friendly space,” New Acre remarked with more than a little bite to her tone, and Khanavkar allowed himself to appear stung.

“My Lady,” he answered in the same, emotionless tone, “I will not insult your intellect by pointing out that RNID does not employ spies, but rather remind you that our responsibility is military intelligence gathering and analysis. How we come about information that pertains to our interests are both overt and covert. If you want spies, I suggest you contact the Ghosts of the Royal Intelligence Services.”

Khanavkar looked back at Lord Howeland and cleared his throat.

“Pardon me, My Lord, that was a non sequitur. But RNID has been following the situation in the Vistula System closely, and it that the ambassadors from the closest great power nations chose to approach Sir Edward at this point in time is… unsurprising.”

Howeland clicked his tongue. He rarely liked talking to members of the military intelligence services, neither the RIS nor the RNID; they all extruded an air of being in possession of secret information that even a Secretary of Defence and leader of the Parliament’s Naval Affairs Committee was not privy to. They knew as well as Linton did that they’d still be there come next election cycle, and a lot of what they knew could make or break not only Parliament cabinets, but relationships between stellar polities.

“Even if you know the overall topic of discussion,” Howeland continued, “I think I might surprise when I say that one direct measure that was brought up…” He paused for a few moments, and relished internally at the brief, barely noticeable glint of uncertainty in Khanavkar’s eyes.

“Was the formation and dispatching of a joint Union naval group to act as a peacekeeping and observational force to the Vistula System.”

Khanavkar looked at Bower-Henton without moving his head, and when his superior simply took another sip of tea from her engraved porcelain cup, he looked back at Howeland.

“I see,” he said in that same, seemingly uninterested tone of voice. “That is indeed fascinating news.”

Could have fooled me, Linton thought sardonically.

“May I ask,” Sir Hugh said from where he stood by one of the large windows, “who broached the subject and presented this idea?”

“Nominally,” Howeland replied, “it was His Excellency Lykosphendates from the Republic of Corinth.”

“But it was Sir Andronikos Erymachos-Williams who mentioned it first, was it not.” Bower-Henton said it as a statement, not as a question, and put her teacup down on the saucer with a little clink. Howeland nodded.

“It was, after a little back and forth, decided that the recommendation from the Foreign Office to Parliament, would be the formation of a joint Auroran-Corinthian naval task group which would be despatched as a Force of Observation, to oversee the peaceful restoration of legitimate and democratic governance to Nova Polonia. Naturally, as the leading representative of the Ministry of Defence, I concurred to this plan of action be presented forthwith to both Houses at their earliest convenience. That just happens to be Monday, almost two and a half days from now. So I thought I would stop by here at the Admiralty so that the senior leaders of the Service were appraised and kept abreast of the developing situation.”

“Much obliged, My Lord,” Sir Morgan said, stroking a large hand absentmindedly through his beard. “I reckon there would have been choice words to be had if Adrienne over here had to tell us what you’ve just shared over breakfast tomorrow.”

“With that out of the way,” Howland said with a smile that quickly vanished, “what is the military situation in the Corridor like, as of your latest reports? I ask this as the First Lord of Admiralty.”

Khanavkar clear his throat politely and adjusted the fold of his gloves on the table, the motion precise and deliberate, much like the man himself.

“As pertains to the Alliance side of things, we’ve been closely monitoring activity around First Fall in Starfall, and the large orbital stations there. First Fall is of course the closest major Alliance spaceport to the Corridor, and home to the ASN’s Starfall Fleet. The intelligence we’ve gathered remains fragmented, My Lord. What we do know suggests heightened activity at First Fall’s industrial yards. Dock schedules, requisition manifests—there’s a pattern, but not yet a clear picture. What we’re looking at could be anything from a simple fleet rotation to the early stages of assembling a task group.”

“And this is not cause for concern?” Howeland hiked up an eyebrow, betraying what he thought of the matter-of-factly presentation by the Spook. Bower-Henton inclined her head slightly, the subdued light catching the black enamel pin of her RNID insignia against the high collar of her uniform. Her tone, calm and deliberate, betrayed none of her thoughts.

“That is the everyday conundrum of Naval Intelligence, My Lord. We collate information, details, signals, communiqués, sensor-data, information packets, and every other type of communication. But we usually lack confirmation of intentions. The information we have gathered and subsequent analyses suggests a higher-than-usual level of activity in First Fall orbit, yes, but that could be due to a drive to complete overdue maintenance, changes to Starfall Fleet’s order of battle, refits, and a myriad of other potential reasons. Speculating too far and adopting an aggressive mindset risks us preparing for the wrong scenario. And the Royal Navy is never caught unawares.”

The last comment was accompanied by an uncharacteristic flinty tone in Bower-Henton’s voice.

Howeland allowed a brief silence to settle, his gaze steady as he glanced at each officer in turn. “Let us concentrate on one issue at a time; first off Nova Polonia. The Alliance’s intent to involve themselves in the Vistula System poses an existential threat to the Corridor’s neutrality, that much is clear. If they succeed in framing their intervention as benign—restoring ‘peaceable relations’ or facilitating a plebiscite to apply for the Alliance Charter—then our strategic position becomes untenable.”

Lady Emily Chiang folded her hands neatly on the table.

“And yet, Nova Polonia itself is far from stable. Our intelligence reports—not to mention the pictures and feeds coming from their national media and over the webnet these days—makes it clear that the system’s internal divisions are being weaponised and are spiralling rapidly out of control. If we act too overtly, we risk reinforcing the Alliance’s narrative that the Union are the ones destabilizing the region.”

Bower-Henton tapped her teacup with a gloved fingertip.

“Internal divisions are exactly what the Alliance will exploit. The call for a plebiscite is a masterstroke on their part—it appears democratic on the surface, but the conditions under which such a vote would occur are far from neutral. With Alliance personnel on the ground or with steel hanging in orbit, the outcome is almost guaranteed.”

“Which begs the question,” New Acre said, her artificial fingers drumming against the table’s edge, “what’s our play? Do we trust the Polonians to maintain their sovereignty, or do we intervene to ensure the vote doesn’t go the way the Alliance wants? The latter option isn’t exactly subtle, and subtlety seems to be the watchword here.”

Howeland leaned forward, his expression taut. “We must be very careful about how we position ourselves. The independent systems within the Corridor will be watching every move we make. Any suggestion that Aurora—or the Royal Union at large—is trying to exert control over Nova Polonia could turn them against us. That’s not a risk we can afford.”

Sir Hugh nodded. “Then our preparations must remain entirely deniable. Intelligence assets already embedded in Nova Polonia should focus on assessing the legitimacy of their government’s actions. We need to know if this call for aid they’ve sent us comes from a faction with true political mandate or merely a group seeking to counter the Alliance by any means.”

“Steady on,” Howeland said, back straightening, “I did not mention the call of assistance from the alleged Nova Polonian government.” He looked at Bower-Henton, who flashed him a lopsided smile as she ran a finger lazily along the rim of her teacup.

“Oops, I might have let that slip out before you joined us, My Lord,” she said in a playful tone and her smile grew wider. Howeland sighed, choosing not to be indignant about the fact that there were probably several RNID and RIS moles in every government minister’s office. She sobered up.

“Preliminary reports suggest that the missive was in fact sent by what can be approximately called the legitimate government of the Polonian Nowosejm, but that was as per the situation three days ago. The political landscape on Nova Polonia is fragmented and changes daily. While the quote-unquote ‘official’ government have claimed to speak for the system as a whole, it’s no secret that various factions have competing loyalties—some to the Alliance, others to Dionysia, Corinth, or Aurora. But the largest party, to no one’s surprise, would be those who favour their own independence from any other interstellar polity. And sub factions of all these disparate groups have incited violence or taken up arms these past few days.”

“And some,” Rear Admiral Khanavkar added, “to no one but themselves. Smuggling, contraband traffickers, and other sordid types thrive in the shadows of Nova Polonia’s orbital ports. No one wants to admit it, but Nova Polonia is the perfect foil for any sort of clandestine undertakings of operations going into one of the great powers of the Union or the Alliance.”

New Acre shook her head, frustration evident and she crossed her arms over her chest. “And yet, we’re expected to uphold this fiction of neutrality, this fig leaf of interstellar diplomatic propriety. The Corridor’s balance is an illusion—a house of cards propped up by implied threats and mutual distrust. The Alliance knows this, and they’re playing the long game, chipping away at that balance one move at a time.”

“True,” Howeland conceded, “but the illusion is all that stands between us and open conflict. If the Corridor collapses into a battleground, it’s not just Nova Polonia that’s at stake—it’s the entire foundation of interstellar trade and diplomacy for half of the settled galaxy.”

“But doing too little risks leaving the Corridor entirely at their mercy,” New Acre cut in sharply. The golden braid of her aiguillettes gleamed faintly as she leaned forward, the cuff bands on her sleeves slightly worn—a subtle indication of how often she worked in uniform, even outside formal duties. “The Alliants are not amassing resources at First Fall for a pleasure cruise, Sciacca. We need to move beyond analysing, all the while playing make-pretend, and start preparing for the worst.”

“We’ve already begun enhancing surveillance in Starfall, Lady New Acre,” Bower-Henton shot in, trying to calm the senior fleet admiral, who had a warranted reputation regarding her temper.

“Additional covert assets have been dispatched to monitor the yards and stations at First Fall. However, I must reiterate that actionable intelligence will take time. The Alliance’s counterintelligence measures are robust. Patience, Adeline. You’re not wrong to push for readiness, but intelligence isn’t a lever you pull for instant results. It’s a mosaic, built piece by piece. And it’s precisely because we don’t yet know the Alliants’ intentions that we must avoid rash conclusions, ‘police force’ or no ‘police force’.”

Suncrest spoke next.

“Then our focus must remain on bolstering Nova Polonia’s ability to resist Alliance interference without overtly involving ourselves. We can’t hand the Alliance a pretext for escalation. But at the same time, we can’t let the system fall into their hands unchallenged. Ergo, the suggestion of a joint Union ‘force of observation’ sounds like a plausible enough of a scheme.”

New Acre’s artificial fingers rapped against the polished table, her tone clipped. “Positioning, posturing—it’s all semantics if Nova Polonia falls under the sway of the Alliance. We’re playing their game, reacting instead of dictating terms. If Western Fleet is moved now, at least we’ll have the semblance of initiative.”

Chiang, seated beside her, exhaled slowly, her dark eyes narrowing. “And if that move is seen as an act of aggression? The Alliants would seize on it in an instant, painting us as provocateurs. You’re so eager to act, Adeline, but you’re not considering the ripple effects. The Corridor is a tinderbox, and a single misstep could light it.”

“And doing nothing risks handing Nova Polonia to the Alliance on a silver platter,” New Acre shot back, her tone sharp. “The balance you’re so keen to preserve will mean nothing if the Alliance controls the Corridor’s only major port. Or have you forgotten that? Prevaricating and planning, maintenance of diplomatic good will; all it takes for a house of cards to collapse is a single blast of air.”

Sir Hugh raised a hand, his voice steady but firm. “Enough. Both points are valid, but this bickering serves no one. We must find a middle ground, one that allows us to prepare without provoking. Sir Morgan, your thoughts?”

Sir Morgan Mizushima, who had been quietly observing the exchange for a time, leaned forward, his hands resting on the table. “A compromise, if you will. We issue a communiqué to Western Fleet command, framing it as routine preparations. Hartcastle might order a composite squadron to Corinth, which can be repositioned closer to Vistula under the guise of training exercises—nothing overt, nothing provocative. If Parliament grants us broader authority on Monday, they’ll already be in place and can quickly cooperate with the Republican Navy. If not, they remain within our jurisdiction, and we maintain plausible deniability.”

Howeland nodded thoughtfully. “That’s... workable. Sir Hugh, would you draft the communiqué, or shall I?”

“I’ll see to it personally,” the First Lord Admiral replied. “Hartcastle will need clear guidance. We cannot afford ambiguity at this stage.”

“And we must ensure that every aspect of this operation is watertight,” Mizushima added. “If questioned by Parliament—or by the press, God forbid—we need to be able to justify every action.”

That last comment drew mild chuckles from Bower-Henton and Lady Suncrest.

Sir Hugh stole a glance at the mechanical clock in the far corner of his office and cleared his throat.

“I believe we’ve come as far as is practicable today, given the current situation. I suggest we adjourn for the weekend, charge our collective batteries, give a few ideas a whirl and come back fit for fight on Monday.”

Howeland straightened in his chair, smoothing his necktie with deliberate precision. His voice, when it came, was calm but edged with finality.

“Well, I agree we’ve done as much as we can for now. I must add, however, that discretion on our part is key. Everything we do now must be framed as defensive, reactive. The Alliance is counting on us to misstep. Let’s ensure we don’t give them that satisfaction. Preparations must proceed, but we’re at the limit of what I can authorize without the explicit backing of Parliament. Monday’s session will be pivotal, but until then, we must tread carefully. I trust each of you to act within the boundaries we’ve discussed.”

He turned his gaze briefly to Sir Hugh. “The Cabinet will be watching closely, First Lord Admiral. As will the King.” Sir Hugh nodded solemnly in understanding.

Howeland nodded back in approval and rose from the chair, straightening his blazer lapels.

“Thank you all for your time, and I wish you a good weekend. I pray our next meeting will provide more answers and less frustration than this one, but I am unfortunately not in a position to make promises to that effect.”

“You wouldn’t be a politician if you could, My Lord,” Adrienne Bower-Henton said with an accompanying smile.

The doors to the office opened, the same Royal Marine as had been on sentry duty when Lord Howeland had arrived still there. The senior officers and the Secretary of Defence all filed out in order, the topic of discussion now on weekend plans and how drawing bets on what sort of repercussions Howeland would face from Lady Isobel for being so late for dinner. As the meeting adjourned, Sir Hugh remained by the window, his expression unreadable as he stared out at the rain-soaked courtyard below.