Carnifex

9/8/469 AC, UEPF Spirit of Peace

In four days Wallenstein had come no nearer a solution to her problems than she had been when she'd found the High Admiral's computer left on. She'd played the scenarios out in her mind many times. One more time couldn't hurt, she thought.

Option one: I inform those people down below that Robinson is delivering nukes to the Salafis. Result: whether they get the bombs or not the Federated States of Columbia probably launches an attack on this fleet which we could not survive.

She sighed, deeply, attracting the attention of her bridge crew. A casual glare put their attention back on their duties.

Option two: Arrest Robinson before he can deliver them and hold him on charges of delivering weapons technology to the Terra Novans. This is a clear violation of regulations and the Governing Council would uphold me.

Right. Sure they would, with Arbeit screaming "treason." Two chances of that, after humiliating two Class Ones: slim and none. Besides, the crew knows the game as well as I do. I couldn't count on their support. Worse, he really might be acting on sealed ordered. I'd be arrested. Sent home, and find myself as guest of honor at one of the Duke of International Solidarity's gladiatorial combats, like as not.

No one paid any attention when she sighed once again.

Option three: Sabotage his shuttle. Forget it. I don't have a clue about making a bomb with what's aboard ship. The most I can do is not see if it hasn't been properly maintained. And, if he notices—and he's been very touchy about the entire subject since that fire that nearly killed him—the bastard will space me so fast . . .

And . . . that seems to be it. Stop him here; stop him en route; or stop him below. And none of those choices work. Fuck.