there, we may be able to knock them out and choke off their supplies, even if we miss an actual interception. And even if we only derail their operations for a few days, that’ll still be long enough to prevent further damage before she gets back and kicks the bas—"
He broke off, a curious expression on his face, and Courvosier cocked an eyebrow.
“Sorry,” Yanakov half-muttered. “I was simply assuming you’d commit her ships to help us.”
“Why in the galaxy shouldn’t you assume that?” Courvosier demanded.
“But you’re not—I mean, we’re not—" Yanakov paused and cleared his throat. “We don’t have a treaty yet. If you lose ships or take damage on your own responsibility without one, your government may—"
“My government will do what Her Majesty tells it to do,” Courvosier said flatly, “and Her Majesty told me to come back with a treaty with Grayson.” Yanakov looked at him wordlessly, and he shrugged. “I can’t very well do that if I let Masada wipe you out, can I?” He shook his head. “I’m not too worried about the Crown’s reaction, or even Parliament’s. The Queen’s honor is at stake here. And even if it weren’t, I wouldn’t sleep too well nights if I turned my back on you people, Bernie.”
“Thank you,” Yanakov said very softly, and Courvosier shrugged again, uncomfortably this time.
“Forget it. It’s really just a sneaky maneuver to bring your own conservatives around.”
“Of course it is.” Yanakov smiled, and Courvosier grinned back.
“Well, I can pretend, can’t I?” He rubbed his chin again and fell silent for a moment. “In fact, with your permission, I’m going to take Madrigal out with your interception force.”
“What?!” Surprise betrayed Yanakov into the undiplomatic exclamation, but Courvosier only shook his head in mock sorrow.
“I told you you need sleep. Madrigal’s sensors are better than anything you—and, ergo, the Masadans—have.