The Iron Tactician

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Merlin felt the old tension returning. As he approached the wreck his mouth turned dry, his stomach coiled with apprehension and he dug nails into his palms until they hurt.

He sweated and his heart raced.

‘If this was a trap,’ he said, ‘it would definitely have sprung by now. Wouldn’t it?’

‘What would you like me to say?’ his ship asked, reasonably.

‘You could try setting my mind at ease. That would be a start. It’s one of ours, isn’t it? You can agree with me on that?’

‘It’s a swallowship, yes. Seven or eight kiloyears old, at a minimum estimate. The trouble is, I can’t get a clean read of the hull registry from this angle. We could send out the proctors, or I could just sweep around to the other side and take a better look. I know which would be quicker.’

‘Sometimes I think I should just let you make all the decisions.’

‘I already make quite a lot of them, Merlin – you just haven’t noticed.’

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