crvboy presents: Queen Of Ice by Christopher Patrick Lydon

He didn't know how long he had been in the escape pod. Minutes seemed like hours, the cold vastness of space beyond the small view port, suddenly breaking into faint radiance as the morning sun rose over Jupiter's horizon. It had been hours; it had to be, since he had ejected the pod from the crippled Colombia under the direction of the other commander's orders. The life pod, designed to keep a man alive for weeks if it had to, rotated lazily through the darkness, and he shivered despite the sun; he had to figure out what he was to do next.

If he was lucky the Colombia was sending back to Headquarters for instructions and maybe reinforcements. A few frigates and enough aero-space fighters would soon send the Stealth cruiser running. A frigate would pick him up and he would be back home before he knew it. That was his best bet; the second best option was for him to be picked up by the Shisak before he floated off into the darkness forever.

He unbuckled his belts, drifting across the pod to stare out of the view port; trying to catch some sight of his would be captors. Had they just tricked him? Convinced the Colombia's Captain to get into a pod just so that they could buy themselves more time? It was a harsh trick, but one that would have been effective. Maguire considered using the pods small boosters to put it on course for one of the outer system colonies. Maybe one of the Jupiter research stations. It was within range, however he had no idea where he was in relation to it, the navigation systems on an escape pod weren't quite on par with a shuttle or inter-planetary hopper. For all he knew he would have been flying in circles.

He gave up the struggle, drawing his arms up close to him, glad that despite the fact he still wore his uniform, he was warm at least. The black sky above him showed him an unobstructed view of Jupiter drifting overhead. If it weren't for the small fact that he was going to die, he would have found it relaxing.

He must have drifted off to sleep; he was surrounded by utter silence washing over him peacefully. Then there was another sound, that of engine vibrations, transferred through the hull of the pod, it meant he had to be attached to something, and that thing was drawing him closer. Maguire hadn't realized it, but there'd been no sound of engines before. That in itself spoke of something being terribly wrong there.

His eyes snapped open, engines?

He craned his neck to get a glance at that sleek black-gray wall that was just in the corner of his view port, and he scrambled forward in an effort to turn and see who his would be rescuers were. The outer hatch opened and an unfamiliar face glanced in before pulling back, whistling as there was a rush on the flight deck about him, the sound of a second whistle and yelled orders he couldn't quite make out, before he was unceremoniously fished out of the escape pod.

He lay on the deck a moment in disorientation, shivering in the cold, feeling rough hands picking through his pockets. He blearily tried to strain to see, and smiled up at the crewman in flight coveralls bending over him holding an American service automatic. Well that had to be good, he thought to him self, if these were the bad guys, they wouldn't have an American gun.

He smiled broadly, "glad you could make it."

"Sein ein Amerikaner!" the sailor exclaimed examining Maguire's pistol in his hand.

Maguire's face fell immediately as he realized the sailor was speaking German. He focused his eyes and looked about him again, the black striking falcon emblazoned on a bulkhead, behind the twin dark dropships with their insect like appearance. The lettering on the crewmen's ball caps read HMS Shisak CLK-17. He glanced over at the two sixteen-year-old scruffy looking boys levelling pulse rifles at him. He stood shakily to his feet and held his hands up, closing his eyes.

"Damn!" he said softly, as the two boys with the assault rifles pushed him ahead of them through the main hatch into the cramped passageways of the ship.

It was hours before an officer appeared. It was as if they hadn't known what to do with the captured American Commander once they had him. He had been handcuffed to a rail, sitting on one of the bunks used by the junior officers. He had stood there, standing uncomfortably for awhile, before an officer pushed his way forward to unlock his cuffs, indicating that he should strip off the now useless space suit, making sure the Commander's uniform was pulled from one of his bags and laid out for him, mismatched between the Class-A and a dress uniform, but Maguire wasn't going to complain, they'd obviously had no idea what went with what. He had been cuffed again a few moments later, shifted around so that he could sit on the small hard bunk. At least he would be moderately comfortable. He still felt cold sitting there listening to the thrumming engines, the crushed cap that had miraculously stayed into the pocket of his jacket where he had thrust it before ejecting. He at least retained some dignity when he put it back onto his head, and he sat patiently handcuffed to the bunk in the middle of an enemy starship waiting until some one came to question him.

It smelled awful, sweat and hydraulic fluids, and a constant stream of sailors went past him. Some blatantly ignoring him, but the younger ones too time to stare at the prisoner. For men who spent their time cooped up in a tin can, this was the first time they saw the face of the hated enemy.

Maguire grinned at them, what else could he do? He sat there in mismatched clothing and watched their activity with interest. He was still sitting when his interrogator arrived.

The officer was a Lieutenant by the rank insignia on his pristine uniform, a pinched face young man that looked nothing like the typical European recruitment poster. Maguire was unimpressed; he had expected a blonde hard-faced superman. The awe-inspiring master race that was supposed to over run the world. Instead he was facing a kid barely old enough to shave more than twice a week.

"Maguire, Maguire, Captain United States Ship Colombia." Maguire repeated his service number, the standard rote that had been drilled into him since he had enlisted. It was supposed to be the response to any question asked. And under the Geneva Convention it was supposed to be all he could answer.

The young officer marked onto a sheet of paper, and without saying a word simply left him, walking forward, Maguire craned his head after him looking the length of the starship as the young officer vanished into the control room.

Maguire sank back into the uncomfortable mattress and looked at it. A prisoner of war, he blew out a long breath, Forty-one and that was it. It was a spectacular way to end his sixtieth mission, sitting on an enemy ship waiting to be sent to an interrogation centre or worse, stuffed out an airlock.

The room, if it could be called that, was just a little forward of aft missile bay. Maguire could see the vicious 'torpedoes' that were destined for American ships and the young men that serviced them talking among themselves. Forward was a galley, he could tell by the rattling of pots and pans and the smell of something noxious bubbling away. The bunk was one of eight and he figured they were reserved for officers; a couple had green curtains pulled across them, perhaps occupied. He sighed, for all he knew they were bound for the deeper into the system, or worse for another system entirely. He could be chained to that bunk for a very long time.

He again considered how "lucky" it was that the enemy Captain had offered to trade Maguire's freedom for that of his ships. Sooner or later they would start applying the thumb screws, attempt to learn everything he knew, which wasn't very much at all, and he wondered how he would fare under torture.

That was a scary thought. He realized he was only making things worse for himself and he tried to stand up, awkward considering he had to bend a little to keep his arms form being stretched. It was his duty to figure out how to escape, but considering where he was, where could he possibly go? He sank back to the bunk, wondering if he would ever see the outside world again.

He must have slept, cramped into the bank, hugging the hard pillow and ignoring the noise of the radio room a few feet away, because he had awoken with a start to find one of the crewmen tapping him with his boot, indicating to a plate full of food that he dropped onto the bunk beside the prisoner. A few seconds later he left.

The food was edible, if unappetizing, a slice of dark bread with cheese, cup of coffee, and a bowl of cabbage soup. It was noxious smelling, vile and he had to refrain from choking on it as he swallowed it down. But he was ravenous and he ate it all.

The hours wore on, blending together into days, there was nothing to do but think. They gave him nothing to read, there was no radio. All he had was the bunk and the occasional face of a crewman passing him by. He watched the officers as they talked to one another, occasionally they would look at him and go back to talking amongst themselves in German. Maguire wondered if anyone spoke English, he was almost longing for a conversation. But as he watched the officers enter and exit their bunks, carry on with their lives, he realized that he was an inconvenience, he took up space, was in the way.

He was escorted to the head if he needed to go, one of the boat's crew would always accompany him. He was self conscious about being watched, but there was no luxury of privacy on the Shisak.

Every few days his Lieutenant "interrogator" would enter the room, sit down on the bunk across from him and just watch him. Always in that immaculate uniform, with a pair of eyes that shone with intelligence. And Maguire considered trying to make conversation, but that would be wrong wouldn't it?

He sat on the third visit staring back at the young man, studying him as he himself was being studied. That was the face of the enemy, after so long fighting a war where he was separated from them; he could actually see the face of the enemy. He opened his mouth.

"Herr Admiral!" The Lieutenant shot to his feet, and Maguire craned his head to get his first look at a Shisak's Commanding Officer.

The officer was rough and unkempt, a stark comparison to the Lieutenant, he was unshaven and a beard was beginning to form on his face. The clothes were rumpled and dirty, and his face was lined and leathery. This was the fox who had outfought him, the man that had beaten Vice-Admiral Langdon and had handed Colombia's ass to it literally. Admiral VonGrippen, spoken of with such disdain by Headquarters, but was already well on his way to becoming a feared enemy in the American rank and file. The first man to fight back, and to win.

He had a brooding look on his face as he indicated for the Lieutenant to go forward, he took his place on the bunk across from Maguire and sat back a little.

"Commander?" he asked, his English was heavily accented but flawless.

Maguire nodded, "Commander Desmond Maguire, United States..."

The Shisak's commander nodded, "Admiral Alexander Richard VonGrippen, and this is the Shisak, you are a prisoner of war."

"I gathered," Maguire replied dryly lifting his handcuffs.

VonGrippen looked at them and his eyes tightened a little, "I am afraid I have no plans to put into a port for a long time. I have some simple rules, out of necessity to ensure the safety of my boat."

Maguire sighed and nodded, "alright Admiral."

VonGrippen nodded, "first if you try to escape you will be shot. There is nowhere to go, except back into space, a place I will be happy to send you." He gave a tight smile, "my second rule is no interference with my crew. If you interfere with any of them once you hear the ship clear for action, you will be..." he made a slicing motion across his throat, "I do not care about the Geneva Convention when it means the safety of my boat."

Maguire nodded again, "I understand Admiral."

"Good." VonGrippen replied as he stood and marched forward again. Maguire collapsing back to the hard bunk, wondering for the umpteenth time why he hadn't simply been left adrift.

"It's mildly cruel to keep him chained up like that," Octavius murmured to the Admiral as he passed through the connecting hall that linked the galley to the Bridge.

"It's also cruel to make him think no one speaks English," VonGrippen responded stepping aside as a couple of crewmen darted past them heading aft, "but Geldan, fortunately is a bilingual colony, German and English, and it's good practice for the crew to remember their roots. Also it prevents him from learning too much about us and our situation."

"Understood, sir," Octavius, the immaculate Lieutenant that Maguire was encountering, opened his uniform tunic and relaxed a little, "the freighter is manoeuvring into position to come alongside, so far there are no indications it was compromised."

"Let's err on the side of caution shall we?" VonGrippen requested, "have a team of Kaynin armed and ready should we find an American assault team on the far side of that hatch ready to storm us."

"Understood Admiral," Octavius nodded and ducked down one of the side companionways to the lower decks to round up the men he would need. VonGrippen turned to his right, opening the doors to his small cabin and crossing to his table/desk, turning the swivel chair as he sat heavily scrubbing his face and pulling the Shisak's log book over to him as he made detailed notes about the events of the past few days. Cruising to evade American patrols, keeping an eye on the crippled Colombia as she was towed back to Earth in disgrace.

He allowed his crew to work on the docking manoeuvres with the freighter, a couple of his younger Midshipmen needing the responsibility of command, and the chance to gain the experience they needed for their own eventual commands. He liked the feel of that, being responsible for shaping the military minds of the future, guiding and moulding them into the kinds of officers they would need to become to be good Captains. His crew performed well, hard drills, and strict routine kept them in fine fighting form, it had helped when dealing with the Colombia, and VonGrippen was certain that it would help in the future.

Derek had no idea what was going on, after nearly a month going stir crazy locked in a little room exercising only when they allowed him out, into an enclosed pen where he couldn't talk to anyone. He'd felt for certain that they had stuffed him into a hole to die.

He hadn't expected being set free. Well as free as being tossed his old clothes and shoved onto a space bound freighter headed for god knows where without so much as an explanation.

Not that he was alone, there were about a half dozen people in the freighter's passenger cabin. A couple in British naval uniforms, engineers from the insignia on the cuffs and shoulder boards. There was a pair of North Africans, southern Libya he thought he'd heard when they had been brought aboard. As well as a Russian soldier and a rather pleasant Cuban woman who had yelled loudly in Spanish at her marine guards who had deposited her and her bags into the freighter without acknowledging her.

A collection of prisoners of war, all being stuffed into a freighter. That couldn't bode well, what if it was some kind of disposal mission or something? Derek's imagination could picture any number of explosive and fiery deaths that would be definitely un-cool for his social life.

There was a thin Greek businessman in a power tie, speaking with an English accent. A number of sixteen year old boys in flight suits trying to pretend they were crewmembers, but there was no hiding their age and obvious curiosity about what was going on around them.

The last person that Derek had seen was a dark haired Scottish man, his hand resting on a crowbar every time the US Marines boarded to deposit another passenger, his goatee twitching as he chewed suspiciously. Intelligent eyes that fished around the various faces and back at the Greek man, whispering at him in a low tone.

A few words from the Greek didn't seem to ease the Scot's temperament, however there was no question the Greek man was in charge.

They'd flown for hours, and Derek had dared to open his mouth to ask a question, the seemingly obvious question none of the passengers had yet asked, "where the hell are we going?"

"Probably to some concentration camp," the Cuban woman responded, pulling her hair back from her face and trying to tie it off. She'd stripped down to just a tank top in the warm compartment and a sheen of sweat glistened upon her skin, "why are you here, you are American, no?"

"I thought so," Derek muttered shaking his head, "I pissed off a Congressman running for Vice-President and... here I am."

"Typical with the Fascist States of America," the woman hurled over towards the Scottish man sitting further up the fuselage, the man lifting his eyes and narrowing them a moment before he returned to his reading, "Isabelle Diaz," she extended her hand to him.

"Derek Walczak," he accepted it.

"Ukrainian?" She asked with a smile.

"My father's family was Polish," he bounced back to get comfortable in the economy style seat, far too cramped for its own god and decidedly lacking in any kind of in-flight entertainment, "so why are you here?"

"They think I am a spy, I was a flight engineer for an airline, they arrested me when this war began, I have spent five years in prison for being Cuban." She uttered some choice curses in Spanish, "I hate the paranoia that has infested America, it used to be better, my grandmother used to speak of how wonderful life in America was. I wonder now what happened to that."

"War happened Miss Diaz," The Greek man stood, stripping off his shit jacket and unbuttoning his shirt. Beside him the Scot was doing the same unabashedly.

Derek gaped a moment as clothes came off, looking a little startled at Diaz who wasequally as shocked by the sudden strip show. She stood from her chair, "No, no, no, that isn't gonna happen!" she wagged her finger, hand on one hip appearing matronly.

The Greek smiled back as he reached into an open cargo container and pulled out a bag, setting it down he drew out a pair of uniform trousers and a tan shirt, pulling them on without a word, adjusting it so it settled properly. The Scot pulled on combat fatigues, both men wearing a strange black bird on a red disk upon their shoulders. On the left arms, beneath the bird insignias, the EU flag of gold stars on a field of blue.

"What's the meaning of this?" One of the British engineers, a Lieutenant Commander from his rank insignia, stood as well.

"You've been rescued," the Greek gave a polite bow of his head, "after a fashion of course, I'm the Executive officer of the HMS Shisak..."

"Never heard of it," the Lieutenant Commander snapped.

"House VonGrippen," the Exec responded, "Lieutenant Worth?" He turned to the Scot.

Worth nodded back, "You're free to get up, move around. But the Admiral will answer all your questions once we link up with the Shisak in a few minutes."

"That... isn't good enough," the Lt. Cmdr turned to the Exec, "who are you Commander? What's house VonGrippen doing here? None of this makes any sense."

VonGrippen looked at Ben as he rested a hand on the door into the mess hall, the only space large enough to hold meetings of that fashion. Ben offered a tight nod.

"They're confused, but I've had them fed and promised them you would explain."

VonGrippen nodded, pushing his way inside, as beside the door Dominic bellowed out, "Admiral on deck!"

The military officers in the room sprang to their feet, as the civilians, watching them jump hesitantly stood as well, eyeing each other uncertainly as the Admiral walked into the room, his hands knotted at the small of his back, his hair hanging across his bearded face, his eyes hard and sharp as he turned to face them.

"I am Admiral VonGrippen, Highlord of the House VonGrippen and master of this starship. You have been recruited for your expertise in deep space salvage, an expertise that shall be put to the test." He gauged each of them, "I promise, those of you who were prisoners of war, at the first opportunity upon the completion of the appointed task, you shall be returned to the first base or ship that is considered friendly to your appropriate nation. You are not prisoners on this vessel, and will be treated with the respect and dignity befitting your rank, providing you show the same courtesy to my crew and officers."

"I'm sorry sir," the Lt. Commander interrupted, "but will it be possible to contact our homes?"

"Arrangements will be made this afternoon for encoded messages to be sent back to Earth. However I would ask that you not discuss this vessel, its mission or its crew with anyone. Your conversations, out of necessity for the security of this ship, will be monitored." He bounced on the balls of his feet and surveyed each of them, "Quarters are close aboard the Shisak, and I apologize in advance, however you will be sharing the same conditions as the rest of us. Respect privacy as much as you can. If you require personal effects they will be provided for you." He turned back for the door, as a young Cuban woman rose angrily.

"And what about the rest of us Captain? There are those of us who aren't your 'Allies', do we get calls to home?"

VonGrippen paused and turned back to her, "yes. And the same conditions apply. Also the Bridge is off limits to civilian crew members." He exited the mess hall and looked at Ben for a long moment as the door closed on the hurried conversations inside, "Keep an eye on them Ben."

"Sir," Ben nodded anxiously, "there's a young man amongst them... he's important to..."

VonGrippen angled his head, "then I'll keep an eye on him." He reassured.

There was an excitement running through the boat. He didn't understand what was being said, but he could feel it. Over the past week of hyperspace jumps he had become accustomed to the sudden rushes as the ship cleared for a jump. The nervous hush that settled over the crew when they waited in anticipation for the all-clear order to go through. But this was different; the crew was exchanging knowing looks with each other. And at one point Maguire had even seen one of the officers pull out a set of rosary beads from his locker.

He had heard of naval superstition, but now that he saw it, he felt as though he could understand it. He was nervous as well, what ever was scaring the crew it was contagious. The Admiral, VonGrippen had made an inspection of the aft torpedo room, not even bothering to look at the prisoner. He congratulated his men, and Maguire caught something about Centauri.

Alpha Centauri, wasn't that an American Colony? Wasn't that light years away? He suddenly knew why they were nervous; the space around Centauri was heavily patrolled by American frigates, and would be exceptionally dangerous for the Shisak as it slipped through the space lanes like a silent shadow, the Americans persecuting them mercilessly as they searched for the errant vessel. He had read a dispatch about Centauri before he had left his ship. And it suddenly made sense why everyone on the Shisak was scared. He swallowed and began to sweat; he felt the tinge of that same fear begin to affect him.

The jump klaxon rang out, and there was a scurry of activity as everyone secured for the run. Maguire had lost track of time, day was night in that dimly lit world aboard ship. He rolled as far as he could onto his back and stared at the bunk above him. He began to wonder if he would survive, or if his fellow Americans would kill him along with the Shisak's crew when they found and destroyed the vessel.

He wondered about some of the things he could have accomplished if America had stayed out of the war. If London had never been bombed. He would be working in his Dad's store, continuing to amount to nothing as he looked for some kind of purpose. He had been a good pilot; he had earned the Commander's oak leaves on the shoulder straps of the worn G-2 jacket he wore. His purpose had come out of a need to stay alive, and now, instead of being in the sky, fighting the enemy, he was with them, trapped in a metal coffin in deep space. And he felt like every one else did on that boat, fearful.

He opened his eyes to see VonGrippen moving aft again, a final check before he ordered his ship to almost certain death. The man, in his mid-thirties seemed so much older at that moment, he stopped at the edge of the bunk and knelt down beside his prisoner. His face softening, "I am wishing my crew luck." He said almost awkwardly, "you are not part of my crew, but you will share this..." he searched for a word, "challenge with us. Good luck Commander, this will soon be over."

Maguire struggled to sit up, "good luck yourself Admiral." And he realized he meant it. As much as he wanted the American's to destroy any one who threatened the security of his home, he wanted this insane man to succeed, and not just for his own life.

VonGrippen smiled, the first time Maguire had ever seen the man do so, "I am a Highlord, I am luck." And with that he continued his final checks of the boat.

The hours passed, the tension onboard the boat was so thick that Maguire nearly choked on it, the time trickling by, as nervous sailors crept past his bunk moving through the ship like mice. Afraid to make any sound, terrified of the destruction that a lucky frigate could bring down upon them.

And when Maguire awoke the next day, he blinked in surprise. He hadn't expected to be alive, none of them had. And there was a feeling of relief onboard the ship. It was as if god had heard their prayers and spared them. The boat wasn't in the clear, but it had reached the relative safety of the deep space routes, navigated solely by the Orions and seemed to be pushing onwards with a new sense of morale.

VonGrippen had been right he was luck.

As the days ground into weeks, the constant rush to battle stations, followed by the equally sudden rush to stand down wore on the former Starship Captain turned prisoner. He knew the Shisak had engaged some Orion shipping and that it had destroyed an enemy vessel. He also knew it had dodged an American Colonial patrol that had searched for her. That had been a deadly cat and mouse game that had driven the ship deeper and deeper into the dark void.

The Lieutenant that visited him, continued to say nothing, but eventually produced a small peg chessboard and even though they never spoke to one another, engaged in epic battles across the checked field. VonGrippen had observed this activity, but hadn't admonished the Lieutenant for fraternizing with the enemy. It was something to end the monotony of being chained up, and Maguire accepted it greatly.

He observed many of the comings and goings of the crew, noting over his time that there were three separate factions onboard. The English/Germanic members of something called "House VonGrippen" all wearing striking falcons and drilling to military precision. The brigade of sixteen-year-old kids, overtly affectionate with each other when not on duty, romping and tussling, yet the moment an alarm sounded they performed their duties with the kind of professionalism of soldiers twice their age. Lastly he had caught sight of a small group of civilians, mostly keeping to themselves, wide-eyed and confused whenever the alarms resounded, trying their best to stay out of the way.

It had been one of those that had caught his eye, an uncertain, if quiet young man that had poked his head into the aft compartment every so often, recognizing the American uniform and making as if to ask something before he vanished again.

VonGrippen came occasionally, checking on the status of his prisoner, yet there had been no effort for interrogation. The enemy Admiral folding his arms and talking lightly about one simple matter or another, asking Maguire about his home and his family. Life before the war things, things of no consequence. Yet whenever Maguire tried to engage him with similar questions, VonGrippen would merely excuse himself and return forward.

Enigmatic was a word that best described VG, as he had learned the crew referred to their fearless leader.

He sat reading in his small cabin, reaching out occasionally to pick up the cup of coffee from the shelf beside his bed and sipping it as he enjoyed the old volume of Hemmingway. The ship was rigged for silent running through a one of the American held colonies, not that he expected trouble, but with the Orion's on the warpath, it was better to be safer than sorry.

He looked up at the gentle tapping on the door, and he closed the book, pushing his hair back away from his forehead, "come?"

Even though it was early, Ben's smiling face was still a welcome sight as he nudged his way into the cabin bearing a couple of cups of fresh coffee, one of which he handed over to the Admiral while he pulled one of the retractable chairs out of the wall to sit down.

"Can't sleep?" VonGrippen asked as he cupped his hands around the mug and took a deep draught.

Ben opened the collar of his shirt and slumped a little in his chair, "You know I would never question you in front of the men..."

"But?" VonGrippen urged.

Ben licked his lips uncomfortably, "I have to question the wisdom of taking on board an American Prisoner of War, it seemed... pointless. Like you were showing off."

VonGrippen leaned back against a bulkhead, "you can rest easy, I didn't take Commander Maguire prisoner to satisfy my own ego. I am going to use the good Commander to deliver a message to the Americans, that the colonies are no longer their playground."

"What makes you so sure that you can use him?" Ben asked pointedly, "he has no reason to help us."

VonGrippen stroked his close-cropped beard; "there is no symphony sweeter than that of an enemy becoming a friend. And I've studied American military practices, when faced with a threat they do not understand, instead of studying it to find a weakness they can exploit, they rely upon superior firepower to bring it down. Once Commander Maguire realizes his lot is tied to ours. He will assist us."

"Stockholm syndrome," Ben surmised, "you are counting on the fact that, as he shares in our ordeals, he will come to identify himself as one of us."

"Thus the order to only speak German, he must first feel isolated," VonGrippen leaned forward.

"My German was never that strong to begin with, you should have seen me playing charades just to get the engineer to give me a diagnostic this morning. Plus there were some complaints from the chiefs that some of the Kaynin speak better German than they do, well maybe not the swear words, which, I might add, German has an exceptional amount of."

"German is still taught in Geldan schools as a second language," VonGrippen folded his arms, "it's good practice for the men and lets them remember their heritage. Geldan was jointly founded..."

"Yes, who ever had the brilliant idea of cross-breeding German pride with Scottish sense of humour..." Ben grumbled.

VonGrippen lifted his mug, "how are the letters from home?" he asked.

"Lance seems very diligent, every morning he has a dispatch ready for the FTL comm. It's nice to receive updates about Victoria and..." Ben paused not certain he should continue.

Reading his hesitation VonGrippen shook his head, "how is she?"

"Strong," Ben replied quietly, "she reads your letters, every day. Lance knows she misses you, but give her time, she will forgive you. She is coming along nicely," Ben offered, "she is planning to call the boy Jason."

"My grandfather's name," VonGrippen said half closing his eyes, "he was another proud and stubborn man."

"Don't loose Katherine over this," Ben pleaded, "she is grieving, because she learned on Phobos what war does to people. If you continue to have faith in her, hers will be restored in you, in time." He drowned the last swallow from his mug and stood, "I should return to the watch, with my atrocious German. I don't suppose you know the German words for faster?"

"Schnell," VonGrippen replied, "it has many uses, best if you yell it repeatedly while hitting the back of a person's head. Just ask your husband, he seemed remarkably fond of that when we were children,"

"That sounds like Lance," Ben did up his shirt button and straightened his uniform tunic he never wore closed, "we jump in..." he shrugged, "what ever the number is that sounds like you really need to spit, number of hours."

"Right," VonGrippen nodded, "wake me before we jump, and I'll spell you at the conn."

"Aye sir." Ben replied as he left the cabin, returning forward towards the Conn.

VonGrippen stood up, pulling the Overlord mobile unit out from its storage locker, flipping it open and setting it on the desk before him. There were so many questions that the device posed for the Admiral. Chief amongst them was the intentions of one Markus Aquinas. Ben had assured him that there was no threat posed, that Markus had genuinely wished to help. And that rang alarm bells in VonGrippen's head. Ben was normally very pragmatic, always careful to balance his advice with warning. Looking at the deeper meaning of something, and yet when it came to Markus, he seemed to accept what he had been told as gospel truth.

Overlord was a Command Information System, capable of co-ordinating a digital battlefield, tying in everything from the smallest ground unit right up to the orbital satellites and deep space observatories. It was a powerful tool, and the fact that he had it meant he had the key to defeating the United States.

The same United States that Markus Aquinas was running for Vice-President in. VonGrippen closed the computer and turned behind him, opening a secure locker and setting the device away in it. Locking it for good measure. He would have to think about the meaning behind the gift, and its implications.

He stood up, walking out of the door and back along his starship, fishing through his keys as he walked into the aft compartment, finding the key he wanted he looked down at Commander Maguire staring up at him.

"I don't think we need these," VonGrippen commented as he knelt unfastening the cuffs and straightening upright again, "the same rules apply, however we are too far from anything for you to risk sabotaging this ship. Besides, we're no longer a threat to your government this deep."

"Deep?" Maguire asked rubbing his wrists.

"Yes we are close to the Galactic core, currently passing an extended course that will take us around Polian Territory. It's a month's journey back to Earth, and the nearest Orion vessel is at least two weeks away." VonGrippen turned to move back to the doors.