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Emperor, requires it,” said Vice Admiral Georg Krätz, commander of BatRon 12, all its supporting elements, and one Victoria Smythe-Peterwald, now a lieutenant in her father, the emperor’s, Navy.
    â€œI think Dad was afraid I’d starve to death or run out of oxygen or maybe break a nail and not have a file,” Vicky said, dismissively.
    â€œI think he’s more worried about why Iteeche scouts are not coming back at the end of their voyages,” the admiral said darkly, “and very much wants his daughter back after this voyage.”
    Vicky gave him a sideways glance. “I wish I really believed that. I’m not at all sure his new wife wants me back. And her already preggers with a boy, not that she doesn’t mention that every five minutes.
    â€œAnd it’s going to be a body birth. No auto-jug for my new brother. Dad is just always checking in on her. He has Brother’s heart monitor forwarded to his personal computer. Old men should not be fathers!” Vicky said in exasperation.
    Kris had been delighted to have a younger brother. But then she’d been four and already being bossed around by a big brother. To her, Eddy looked like a chance for Kris to even up the bossing. Vicky’s experience of her big brother, now deceased thanks to Kris, had not been a topic for much conversation.
    At fifteen, Kris had made the discovery that her family met most of the requirements for dysfunctional. Poor Vicky had only recently come to that conclusion.
    From the sound of things, the Peterwalds were about to plumb new depths on the dysfunctional scale. In the back of Kris’s head, a small alarm went off. People died in the games Peterwalds played.
    So how could Kris keep her distance?
    Funny thing, people died around those damn Longknifes. Now it was Kris’s turn to watch her back around someone else.
    â€œHow’d your father take to us digging the dirt on the economic wool that’s being pulled over his eyes?”
    Vicky snorted. “He didn’t. He didn’t believe me. Didn’t want to do anything about it. Didn’t want to hear another word about it. If you ask me, between my stepmom’s not liking the sight of me and Dad’s not wanting to hear about the way he’s being snookered on the economy, he’s glad to be rid of me.”
    Kris shook her head. As much as she wanted to hear more about this, she said, “You’ll have to bring me up to date on all the gossip later.”
    â€œYou girls do that on your own time,” Admiral Krätz said, “but I have some official business to perform.” He pulled a flat box from his pocket.
    The form of the box was familiar. They usually held a military decoration of some level, but Kris was more than surprised when he flipped the lid up.
    A blue Maltese cross was surrounded by golden eagles. Kris would have mistaken it for finely crafted jewelry except for the words written on the decoration.
    Â 
    Pour le Mérite
    Â 
    â€œDad, being emperor and all, decided he should start doing emperor stuff, like having a greatest and highest award. The Order of Merit. Or Mé-rite as he insists it be pronounced. Anyway, you’re the first to get it. That oak leaf at the top, that’s for valor. Only people who earn it in combat get the oak-leaf version.”
    â€œWhat am I getting this for?” Kris asked. “Is there a citation to go with that?”
    â€œEveryone else got a citation on parchment suitable for framing,” Vicky said. “Somehow you got skipped. You can decide whether it’s for surviving the admiral here lasing you from orbit on Port Royal, or liberating Kaskatos from our rogue state-security nut, or for saving Dad’s neck on Birridas. Your call.”
    â€œAh, no citation to read at my award ceremony, huh?”
    â€œAward ceremony? What award ceremony?” the admiral said, looking around blandly. “You’ve got the medal.