by David Weber
Now, two years after Judith's initiation, faced with Ephraim's plans to abort her unborn daughter, confronting a future marked by similar abuse, Judith accepted the mantle the Sisterhood had set upon her shoulders. She would be their Moses, and, though hearing no divine voice to guide her actions, she decreed that the time for the Sisterhood's Exodus had come.
* * *
Although he understood the reasons, Michael still found the wholly male diplomatic corps bound for Endicott rather odd. Every political meeting he had attended since his father's death had been dominated by Beth. Even when Beth had been a minor, her regent had been their aunt Caitrin, the Grand Duchess Winton-Henke. This all male group was positively weird.
Then again, maybe the fact that gender and availability, rather than pure ability, had been key elements in selecting this group was why it was so peculiar. There was also the fact that much of the Manticoran diplomatic corps felt that its first task was preserving peace rather than preparing for war. Many of the best and the brightest among them were employing their energies trying to figure out how to work with the Peeps. Doubtless the Masadan mission was not an assignment those would seek.
Perhaps, too, the reality that Masada was not the Queen's first choice for an ally in this region of space had something to do with those who had volunteered. Those diplomats, like Sir Anthony Langtry, more of Her Majesty's way of thinking and ready to embrace the possibility that war could not be prevented would be striving to win over the Graysons.
The men who had volunteered for the Masadan mission were eager for any chance to prove themselves—as they most surely would if they could win the misogynistic and egocentric Faithful over to an alliance.
Forbes Lawler, a first generation prolong recipient and former member of the House of Commons, was the head of the group. Handsome, with iron grey hair, and a lean, athletic build, Lawler spoke in a straight-at-them, square-jawed fashion that reminded Michael of his first gym teacher. Although Lawler never said so directly, he clearly hoped that in addition to bringing new instructions he would soon be replacing the current ambassador.
Quentin Cayen served as Lawler's personal assistant. Young enough to be a second-generation prolong recipient, Cayen tinted his hair silver at the temples and affected reading glasses in an attempt to bring gravity to his otherwise boyishly plump features. Michael thought Cayen looked rather silly, but since Cayen was otherwise competent, and eager to please without being offensive, the midshipman tried to overlook the other man's cosmetic enhancements.
The last member of the delegation, John Hill, was ostensibly a computer specialist. He was very knowledgeable about the Masadans, including being familiar with the Faithful's religious rituals and dietary restrictions. Hill was pretty clearly a spy, but Michael thought he might well be the most competent member of the trio.
On the day Intransigent entered the Endicott System, Michael was working in the almost empty middy berth when a memo requesting his attendance at a final planning session came from Lawler. Since Michael had a mess of homework—it might be called other things, but it still felt like homework—he wasn't terribly pleased. However, he knew his duty and reluctantly put aside the fusion repair sim he'd been assigned by the chief engineer herself.
"Where are you going, Michael?" Astrid asked, setting her own reader aside, apparently prepared to accompany him.
"Mr. Lawler wants me," Michael replied.
"Oh," Astrid said, disappointed, and turned back to her work.
Michael, who had the vague feeling that Astrid had been trying to get him alone for several days now, saw Sally Pike smirking, and thought he might be right. Relieved, he grabbed a few things, waved a vague farewell, and got out of there before Ozzie or one of the other hangers-on could decide to walk him to the diplomats' suite.
When Michael arrived, Lawler was pacing back and forth, barely containing his excitement.
"A notice just came from the bridge," he said, thrusting hard copy into Michael's hand. "There is at least one Peep ship in system."
"Doesn't the People's Republic have an embassy here, just like we do?" Michael asked.
"They do," Lawler agreed. "However, an embassy is no reason for the Peeps to station a heavy cruiser here, is it?"
Michael felt his eyebrows shoot toward his hairline. Intransigent was a light cruiser, and Beth had considered sending her on a diplomatic mission a rather heavy-handed move. Apparently, the Peeps were less subtle.
"It's the Moscow, Prince Michael," John Hill added. "Not one of their newest models, but not one of the oldest either."
"Has she been here long?" Michael asked, feeling odd, as he always did after existing within the Navy's rigid command structure, to be back among those who subtly deferred to him.
"Not long enough to state that Moscow is stationed here," Hill replied, with the vaguely exasperated note in his voice that Michael had learned was reserved for correcting Lawler's more extreme statements. "Nor would I say that Moscow was sent in anticipation of our own arrival, though that isn't impossible. Mr. Lawler's coming with new instructions has not precisely been kept a secret."
There was no real reason Lawler's arrival should have been, Michael knew, but he had a feeling that Hill was the type of man who kept secrets by reflex. Hill probably thought it would be a breach of basic security if he knew the color of his own socks.
"Ambassador Faldo is most impatient for our arrival," Lawler interjected happily, "but Captain Boniece tells me we cannot be shuttled planetside until tomorrow morning. That leaves us ample time to review."
For the next several hours, Michael tried not to think wistfully of the engineering sim he hadn't completed, nor about the trauma team drill Surgeon Commander Rink had promised to run for the middies. When the twittering of the com broke into Lawler's nearly uninterrupted lecture, Michael realized he'd been all but dozing.
"Ambassador Faldo wishes to speak with you and your shore party," the duty communications officer announced. "If you are free."
Lawler smothered a look of mild annoyance, then nodded.
"Please patch the Ambassador through."
"Just a moment, Mr. Lawler."
Cayen had leapt to his feet the moment the com chimed and, by the time the call came through, he had modified the desk unit so that the ambassador's face was projected on one of the cabin's bulkheads, sparing them the need to crowd around a terminal.
Ambassador Faldo, like Mr. Lawler, was a first-generation prolong recipient. Unlike Lawler, who managed to project incredible vigor, Faldo looked tired. His hair had apparently once been blond, but had now faded to a muddy gray with just enough of the original color left to make him appear molting. His eyes, sunk beneath puffy lids, were a washed-out brown, but their gaze remained direct and penetrating.
"The reaction," the ambassador began after minimal polite greetings had been exchanged, "to the presence of Prince Michael aboard Intransigent has been—to speak mildly—beyond my greatest expectations. Not only has the Chief Elder expressed a desire to meet Mr. Winton, but the Senior Elders are to be included in the reception. In fact, as far as I can tell, everyone who is anyone as well as everyone who wants to be thought anyone is attending some enormous conclave of Elders that the Faithful have 'coincidentally' announced will be happening at this time."
"That's wonderful, Sir," Lawler said.
"I suppose so," Faldo agreed. "However, it means I want to move up the time for our meeting tomorrow. We're to join the Chief Elder at precisely noon, and I want time to prepare for such an important event. The Chief Elder has honored us by putting at our disposal a meeting room at the Hall of the Just."
Doesn't want us talking where he can't try to overhear us, Michael wondered with inbred cynicism. Probably. He knows that'll mean Faldo won't be able to give me too detailed a list of do's and don'ts. Maybe figures he'll be able to trip me up somehow.
Michael listened attentively as plans for the next day's meeting were made, but nothing more significant was said, doubtle
ss because of fear that either the Peeps or the Masadans would hear something they shouldn't. Tight-beam communications were good, but as a communications officer Michael knew all too many ways their security measures could be circumvented.
After the connection had been cut, Lawler resumed pacing, rubbing his hands together with vigorous enthusiasm.
"Well, that's very interesting, very interesting . . ." he was beginning, but Hill interrupted.
"It is indeed," he said. "There have been some rumblings of discontent regarding how Chief Elder Simonds has been making policy. I wonder if this is his way of demonstrating to his own people how integral he is, and of convincing them that they do not want another leader."
"Mountain coming to Mohammed, and like that," Lawler said. "Yes. Well, we can let him play his games."
"In all deference, Sir," Hill replied, not sounding deferential at all, "I wouldn't use that particular analogy. The Faithful have rejected even the New Testament of the Christian bible. They view the Islamic faith—if they recall it at all—as a heresy."
Lawler looked momentarily nonplussed. Then he resumed his hand-rubbing.
"Right! That's why these briefings are so important. We don't want to make any mistakes."
Michael raised one hand, feeling more than ever that he was in school.
"Mr. Lawler, I really should report this change in schedule to Lieutenant Dunsinane."
Lawler waved his hand in a wide, breezy gesture.
"Do so, Mr. Winton. I shall write her myself requesting that you be freed from your more routine shipboard duties during this crucial moment in Manticoran diplomacy."
As Michael moved to com the ATO, he found himself wondering precisely what tomorrow would bring and hoping against hope that it would not include a very pissed-off Lieutenant Dunsinane.
* * *
Carlie looked at the memo from Mr. Lawler first with disbelief, then with anger. She continued staring at it for so long that at last the two emotions blended into a generalized confusion.
" . . . requests that Mister Midshipman Winton be relieved from a portion of his shipboard duties in order to be better able to serve the needs of Her Royal Majesty at this crucial diplomatic juncture."
There was more of the same, all soothing, all vaguely pompous, and all boiling down to what had already been clearly said in that first line. Midshipman Winton was being given a holiday from his responsibilities as a member of Intransigent's crew so that he could go play prince.
She'd known that Michael would be going down to the planet with Mr. Lawler's contingent, but she hadn't considered that Mr. Lawler would be so bold as to think that a midshipman's shipboard responsibilities could be superseded by anything else. She'd figured that Midshipman Winton would fit his trips planetside into his free time. He'd managed his numerous meetings with Lawler and company then, hadn't he?
Her first reaction was to refuse. Then she thought again about that phrase "crucial diplomatic juncture." It was no secret that there had been a Peep presence in system. The Havenites weren't being either coy or subtle. The fact that the Peeps—like the Manticorans—were demonstrating an armed presence indicated their own awareness of how touchy the situation was.
Could the presence of Crown Prince Michael make a difference in how the Masadans felt about the Manticorans? Would she be doing something foolish if she stuck to regulations? Reluctantly, for she very much wanted to go by The Book, Carlie commed Captain Boniece and was granted his first available appointment.
Tab Tilson gave her a lazy wave as he exited the captain's briefing room, and Carlie had a moment to wonder if the communications officer was also present on Michael Winton's business. Then she was summoned into the captain's presence.
"Yes, Lieutenant?" Abelard Boniece looked amused as he motioned her to a seat. "Your call said you needed to consult me regarding Mr. Winton. I have read the memo you copied to me. You may proceed from that point."
Carlie could have far more easily handled the captain's looking stern or even angry than she could the twinkle in his eye, but she straightened herself in her chair and tried to report as if in the middle of a battle.
"Yes, Sir. Frankly, I don't know what to do. This is Mr. Winton's midshipman's cruise. I feel that the distraction of playing diplomat has not been good for him."
Captain Boniece merely raised an eyebrow and Carlie hastened to explain.
"I knew from the start, Sir, that Mr. Winton was going to have these distractions. However, to this point they have been secondary to his shipboard responsibilities. Mr. Lawler is, effectively, requesting that we give them precedence."
"That is exactly what he's doing," Captain Boniece agreed. "Moreover, his request is not precisely out of line with what we were told to expect from the moment Intransigent was diverted to Masada."
"I suppose not, Sir," Carlie admitted grudgingly.
Captain Boniece met her gaze squarely, any hint of amusement gone from his expression.
"Have you been dissatisfied with how Mr. Winton is conducting himself, Lieutenant?"
"Not really, Skipper. He does his duties, but he doesn't seem much like the other middies."
"Perhaps," Boniece replied, "because Mr. Winton is not like any other snotty—not on Intransigent, nor on any other ship in Her Majesty's navy."
Carlie's eyes widened. The term was openly, sometimes even affectionately, applied to middies, but as far as she could recall, it was the first time she had heard it applied to Intransigent's berth.
Captain Boniece seemed to think he had made a point of some sort, for his smile momentarily returned before he continued his train of thought.
"Even as you have been observing Mr. Winton," he said, "I have been observing you, Lieutenant. It seems to me that you're trying to make Michael Winton into just one of everyone else. What you must understand is that even if he serves in the Navy for a hundred years, Michael Winton will never be just like anyone else. Even if Queen Elizabeth has twenty children, Michael will always be her only brother. I want you to accept this and work with it. That's an order."
"Yes, Captain."
The snap in his tone was such that Carlie started to rise and salute, believing herself dismissed, but Captain Boniece motioned for her to remain.
"I want you to think about something else, Carlie," he said. "Not only is Mr. Winton unlike everyone else with whom he serves—so is every member of this crew different from every other."
Carlie blinked at him, too startled to manage even a routine "Yes, Sir."
"Have you ever wondered, Lieutenant Dunsinane," Boniece continued, "why the assistant tactical officer is put in charge of the middy berth? After all, what do a dozen or so snotties have to do with planning an attack or defense, deciding whether to roll the ship or fire from all ports?"
"Yes, Skipper," Carlie said, too confused now to be indirect. "Honestly, I have."
"Tactics," Boniece went on, "is the most direct track to command, and a commander needs to learn to work with the most important asset the ship possesses—the crew. Unlike energy batteries or missile tubes, crews don't come with neat specs listing limitations and advantages. Crews are unpredictable, annoying, surprising, and astonishing."
Carlie, beginning to understand now, was feeling like a complete idiot. Boniece, however, wasn't done with drumming his lesson home.
"If you win your white beret, you're going to need to deal with every variation of human temperament. You're going to need to learn the way to get the best out of each one. Sometimes that's going to mean preferring someone who seems too junior to merit preferment. Sometimes that's going to mean passing up someone who, by The Book, has every advantage going for him. Once the ship leaves base, there's no supply room with spare crew members. You need to train your crew for diversity and flexibility—and contrariwise, you need to train them for perfect expertise in their departments."
Carlie nodded.
"I think that I haven't been treating my snotties," she grinned as she said the formerly tab
ooed word, "as they deserve. I'll remember that, Sir. And now that you mention it, Mr. Winton has been drawing rather more than the usual workload. I believe he can miss a few hours here and there. I would, however, like him to report back to the ship to sleep."
Captain Boniece cocked an eyebrow at her.
"I don't think Mr. Winton will forget where his duty lies," Carlie explained. "However, I suspect that Mr. Lawler might. I'd like to make certain that Mr. Winton has at least a good night's sleep."
"I support you on that, Lieutenant," the Captain said. "Now, tell Mr. Winton to get ready to go planetside, and remind him that we expect him to do the Navy proud."
* * *
Judith had reasons other than her own crisis to set the Sisterhood's Exodus in motion.
From tapping into Ephraim's private communications channels, she had learned that envoys from other star nations regularly visited Masada. She had also learned that some of those envoys—specifically those from an enchantingly named place called the People's Republic of Haven—sought to win Ephraim's support in the Counsel of Elders with more than mere words.
Two of the vessels in Ephraim's privateer fleet, Psalms and Proverbs, had been offered technological modifications. Much of what the Havenite engineers did to the two ships merely improved their eyes and ears, but at Ephraim's insistence, their teeth had been sharpened as well. Since the Havenites were eager to show how useful they could be as allies they had agreed with few hesitations.
The modifications to both Psalms and Proverbs were carefully installed, so that the alterations were not evident in a routine external scan. Ephraim said this was because neither the Council of Elders nor the Havenites wanted anyone to detect the work and think ill of the acceptance of advanced technology. However, such care had been taken to conceal the modifications that Judith fleetingly wondered if the Havenites might suspect the dual use to which Ephraim turned his vessels.
