by Rick Shelley
“It’s good to see you again, Your Highness,” Captain Penworthy said after the official rigmarole had been concluded and they were headed toward the royal suite. Pen-worthy’s voice was high and reedy, but not because of age. His voice had always been like that, a constant drag on his career.
“And you, Toby. How have you been keeping yourself?”
“Fit as a fiddle, sir. Just waiting for a chance to get at the Feddies.” He said it as if it were an old joke between them, but the way he spoke made Ian frown in concentration. If it was a joke, it was a most sour one to Penworthy.
“This little jaunt might be your chance, Toby,” the prince said. The look he gave Penworthy suggested that he too had noticed something in the way the captain had spoken. “I know you haven’t been given our itinerary yet. We’re going to Dirigent.”
Penworthy stopped and turned to face the prince directly. “Any chance yet of them coming in on our side, sir?”
“Right now, Toby, they are far more important as an independent power. We’re going to Dirigent to meet with representatives of the Federation to try to end this war. Under the auspices of the mercenaries.”
Penworthy appeared shattered by what the prince had said. “A negotiated peace?”
“An honorable peace,” William corrected. “One that leaves the Second Commonwealth intact.”
“If we don’t beat the Feddies properly now, we’ll just have to do it later,” Penworthy said, resuming his course toward the royal suite. “They won’t learn the lesson until we step on their necks, if you get my meaning, sir.”
“Let’s hope that it doesn’t come to that, Toby. There might be some question about who would step on whose neck.”
“You’ve known our skipper for a long time?” Ian asked when he and the prince were alone in William’s quarters.
“He was the first commander I served under during my stint in the navy,” William said. “And we’ve been thrown together now and then over the years, even before he was given command of this ship.”
“Sinecure for an old and loyal retainer?”
The hint of a frown crossed the prince’s face and disappeared before he replied. “I would never put it that way. Someday, when we have the leisure, I might give you a little of Tobias Penworthy’s story. For now, it is sufficient that he is an excellent commander. I never have the slightest concern for my safety in his care.”
• • •
“This journey will be almost like turning back the calendar to before Admiral Truscott rewrote the manuals,” William told Ian and the three other staff members who took dinner with him just after Prince of Wales started to accelerate away from Buckingham. “Certainly closer than anything the navy does today.”
“You don’t mean that we’re going to take two weeks to get there, do you, sir?” Ian asked. “I’d have brought along an extra change of clothes.”
William gave that a gentle laugh. “No, we’re not going that completely back to the old ways. But we won’t make our first jump to Q-space until we’re twelve hours out, and we’ll enter Dirigent’s system eighteen hours out from the planet.”
“One transit?”
William shook his head. “No, we’ll do the traditional three hops. We’ll be met by a ship from Dirigent before we transit Q-space for the third time. They will make that jump at the same time we do, and we will enter Dirigent’s system at coordinates that they specify, and emerge in Dirigent’s space eighteen hours out. That last is at their, ah, request. Any closer and we would apparently trigger all sort of automatic defenses.”
“There’s one question that’s been bothering me since you first mentioned this junket, sir,” Ian said. “A series of questions. Do you really think that these talks can lead to peace with the Federation? If so, how long do you think it will take to negotiate an end to the war? And, one more: Why Dirigent?”
“The last question is the easiest. Dirigent offered to host peace talks.” The prince smiled. “Actually, ‘offered’ is not quite a strong enough word, but it will do. Do I think that these talks can lead to peace? It is possible. If the Dirigenters offer the proper … inducements, it might even be likely. In time. That is the real sticking point. How long will it take two entities with diametrically opposed, and mutually exclusive, positions to reach some sort of accommodation, to at least end the fighting and find a new relationship—or at least return to the status quo ante? On that, all I could do would be to offer a wild guess, with no way to insure that my estimate might be within an order of magnitude of being correct. Days or years, or anything in between.”
“You don’t sound particularly optimistic,” Ian said softly.
“I have no basis for optimism. If I recollect my ancient history correctly, there are some extremely distressing precedents from Earth, one war that took two years of peace talks to arrive at a cease-fire, another in which the diplomats argued for a year or more over the shape of the table they would negotiate across.”
“I’m tempted to suggest that you’re pulling my leg, but I don’t think you are.”
“Not a bit of it, Ian. Unfortunately.”
“A lot more good people will die if it takes that long.”
“Far too many,” William agreed.
The trip from Buckingham to Dirigent took Prince of Wales forty hours. That left plenty of time for Prince William and his team of negotiators to go over their plans for the talks with the Federation. Initial proposals, arguments against certain expected Federation demands, and a series of carefully honed fallback positions were scripted and rehearsed. The individuals who would be doing the actual negotiating were all experienced diplomats, including the prince himself. The Foreign Minister and St. James Palace had been working with all of them for weeks in preparation for this mission.
“I’m still not certain that I see where any real compromise is possible,” Ian said after sitting in on one of the planning meetings. The others had gone, leaving him alone with Prince William. “The Federation holds that it has absolute sovereignty over all worlds settled by humans, and the Commonwealth refuses to accept that claim.”
“Nonetheless, we managed to coexist peacefully for centuries,” William said. “We even did peaceful business on a regular basis. Despite everything that has happened in the last seven years, it should be possible to arrive at some sort of understanding.”
“But if either side concedes the other’s position, it amounts to an outright defeat, doesn’t it?”
“No diplomat worthy of the name would ever admit to that, Ian.” The prince smiled. “You’d be surprised how many people consider the words ‘diplomat’ and ‘liar’ to be synonymous, and the former more insulting than the latter. It’s all a matter of finding a formula that each side can argue the way it wants to, a way to save face and take credit for a victory.”
Ian shook his head slowly.
“The headaches along the way are part of the price, Ian. And the payoff is an end to this horrible war.”
Ian spent much of the final eighteen hours of the journey watching exterior monitors in what would have been the ship’s flag bridge had it been carrying an admiral. Dirigent was extremely well protected against assault, better even than Buckingham. For a half million miles out, any attacking force would be in extreme jeopardy. Armed ships were only a small part of the defensive screen. The Dirigenters relied more heavily on automated systems, mines, and unmanned orbiting weapons platforms than either the Commonwealth or Federation did. That was why it had been necessary for a Dirigenter ship to escort HMS Prince of Wales in.
While he watched, Ian made extensive notes. He had been a naval officer too long to miss gathering any intelligence he could. Dirigent might be neutral at present, but there was no guarantee that that would always be the case, and even if the Royal Navy never had to go up against the Dirigenters, what Ian learned by observing them might prove useful in another context, against a different foe—or provide data that the Commonwealth could use to bolster its own defenses.
It would take a complete battle group a week to clear asafe path in, even without active opposition, Ian thought after one stretch of observing the defensive patterns. And there would be active opposition. They might be able to launch replacement weapons almost as quickly as we could take them out.
He attempted to discuss the shield around Dirigent with the prince, but William put him off. “I dare say it is fascinating, Ian, but right now, I’d rather not clutter up my brain with it. I need to concentrate on the job at hand. Save your notes for after we get home with our work here done.”
During the voyage, William had become increasingly withdrawn as he forced himself into the task before him. Ian recognized the signs of building concentration. Admiral Stasys Truscott, one of Ian’s former commanders, had been able to do the same sort of thing, with dramatic results. By the time that HMS Prince of Wales approached its parking orbit one hundred sixty miles above the surface of Dirigent, Prince William, Duke of Haven, had put on the persona of the diplomat entirely. Even in limited discussions with his own people, he spoke as if he were already on diplomatic display.
Getting the entire negotiating team down to the surface required both the royal shuttle and the ship’s gig. There were precise navigational instructions for the landers. Dirigent’s Port Traffic Control guided the two craft down almost foot by foot. It was just past dawn in the capital. The approach of Prince of Wales had taken place during the hours of darkness in the most densely populated area of the world.
Dirigent City was the destination. There was really only the one concentration of people that could be called a city, even though the world had been settled before the founding of the Second Commonwealth. Dirigent’s economy rested entirely on its military establishment, the mercenary regiments and a munitions industry that exported as much as was retained on the planet.
Since Prince William refused to be drawn into conversation, Ian was left to his own thoughts during the descent.
He couldn’t avoid thinking about what he had learned about Dirigent.
Fourteen combined-arms regiments, each numbering over five thousand men. Support units to half that manpower. A fleet of armed transports equal to carrying all fourteen regiments at once, with the necessary escorts. A training facility to rival the Marine Commando School on Buckingham. Research and development, factories, and an infrastructure designed to support the military—to the exclusion of everything else when necessary.
Growing up, Ian had thought of Dirigent as a mythical place, the focus of scores of adventure books and vids. Most of those were historical, set in the years before the establishment of the Second Commonwealth, or in its early years, when the mercenaries were the only source of help that hundreds of worlds could look to. When Ian had learned that Dirigent actually existed, still existed, and flourished, he had been almost as surprised as he would have been to meet Father Christmas face to face.
The two shuttles landed and were towed to a location in front of one of the port’s two large buildings. There were perhaps a hundred people waiting, including a small band. Ian turned his face away from the prince and smiled. Whether William wanted them or not, there would be distractions before they could get down to the business of negotiating an end to the war.
Getting from the shuttles to the floaters that were to carry them to their accommodations took Prince William and his staff more than an hour, even though the ground vehicles were no more than thirty yards from the shuttles. The band played. Speeches were made. The prince remained uncommunicative during the ten-minute drive, staring out through the tinted window on his side of the floater he shared with Ian. Their driver was in a separate compartment.
Ian watched the passing scenery. The portion of Dirigent City that the motorcade took them through looked functional—appropriate for such a militaristic society, everything laid out by careful military planners with little concern for anything so abstract as esthetics.
I wouldn’t be surprised to see civilians marching up and down the streets to cadence-calling, Ian thought. Instead of bringing a smile to his face, the idea brought a chill to his back, a shudder he could not completely suppress. A world entirely dedicated to the practice of warfare could not be taken lightly, even when it appeared to be strongly interested in ending the war between the Second Commonwealth and the Confederation of Human Worlds.
What’s their angle? Ian wondered. What do they get out of all this? He turned to look at the prince, but William was still staring out—or at—the other window, his body stiff and motionless. Ian did not ask his questions. But he could not forget them either.
10
Walter Kaelich wasn’t certain what had wakened him. That anything less than gunfire or a shout from one of his mates could wake him was something of a surprise, as exhausted as he had been. But he did come awake, immediately alert, the way he always did on campaign, when danger might be close. He did not make any sudden movements. That lesson had been drilled into every man going through commando school, if they had not learned it before. Move before you know what woke you, and you could end up dead, very quickly, the line from the drill instructors went. When necessary, they had not hesitated to reinforce the lesson with a swift kick to the rump—or to the helmet. Don’t move. Give yourself a chance to evaluate the threat, if there is one. Think, then respond as needed. Walter had been on one combat mission before entering commando school, so the lesson had not been hard to learn. He had seen men who had been through several campaigns, and the way they responded to noises, even very slight noises. Wake like a cat. Even with nine lives, he’s always careful.
If anything, Walter was more quiet when he woke than he had been asleep. His breathing was softer, less frequent. He didn’t move anything but his eyes, and since he hadslept with his helmet on and the visor down, not even the whites of his eyes could give him away.
How could an enemy get in the middle of us? He listened. The sound pickups in his helmet were extremely sensitive. For a minute or more, Walter listened without hearing any sounds that did not belong. He watched, but he had gone to sleep on his side, using his field pack for a pillow. His field of vision was restricted to what he could see on that one side.
That it was still dark came as no surprise. It would still be dark when they got up and started moving through the jungle again, unless the captain changed his plans.
Walter could see the form of the next sleeping man, six feet away, facing away from him. He could not see anyone walking about. That would have been difficult. The commandos had moved into the thick underbrush near a small stream before making camp. Walter had been forced to crawl into his position. That there was open space close to the ground had surprised him, but there was between eighteen inches and two feet of clearance, except close to the roots of whatever trees or bushes formed the skeleton of this thicket. There he had a little more room, almost three feet right next to the tree trunk. It was almost like being inside a dome tent, except for the open space around the bottom.
It couldn’t have been anything flying over, Walter thought. They had heard shuttles or fighters a couple of times. That sound was distinct, and it would not have disappeared quickly enough to be gone in the instant that Walter had taken to wake.
After several minutes of motionless watching, Walter saw a hint of movement at the edge of his field of vision—very low to the ground. He blinked once, then strained trying to see more of whatever it was without moving, without giving himself away. Then he held his breath once he had identified the … thing.
Walter knew a snake when he saw one. There had been no briefings about the wildlife of Camerein, so Walter hadno way to know if the specimen staring at him from two feet away was poisonous or not. Its mottled hide made it difficult to see, even through night-vision gear. It was only really visible when it moved, and it seemed to be in no hurry. The snake’s body appeared to be as thick as Walter’s upper arm. He could not tell how long it might be. Only the head and a section of the body were visible. The rest was cut
off from his view.
A lot of thoughts, memories, and learned data flitted through Walter’s brain more rapidly than he could cope with consciously, trying to assemble knowledge quickly enough for him to make an “instinctive” response to the threat. Afterward, Walter would not recall the chain of thoughts. It would just be, “I did what I had to do.” If he survived the encounter.
He might have more trouble seeing me than I do seeing him. If he hunts by infrared, he might not see me at all. Under helmet and field skin, a Marine was almost invisible in infrared. As long as I don’t move, he might go on by without giving me a second thought.
Walter’s rifle was right in front of him, but even if he could get the weapon raised and aimed fast enough to do any good, he dared not use it. That would be a breach of noise discipline. In any case, it would take far too much movement to do that. The snake was too close. There would not be enough time.
I can’t just lay here and do nothing. That was the bottom line for Walter. He had to do something, and faster than he could reason out the steps, his mind leaped to the only possible alternative.
He waited until the snake’s head was level with his waist, looking ahead, away from Walter’s head and upper body. When Walter finally moved, he wasted no time thinking through each action. Like most commandos, Walter wore a sheath knife strapped to his left arm. His right hand pulled the knife out as he lurched up and to the side. His left hand made a desperate grab for the snake, aiming for a spot close behind the head.
