by David Weber
“I don’t think Kane is alone, Ma’am,” Travis said. He’d been right; she hadn’t liked it. “His last message mentioned other Andermani in Silesia. I’m guessing there are more Q-ships, possibly even a warship or two tucked away somewhere.”
“He never mentioned warships.”
“No, but they have to be here,” Travis said. “You heard how Kane talked about Gensonne. They want him, badly, and they surely wouldn’t risk running an intel mission that might spook him unless they were ready to follow up with an immediate attack.”
“And you assume they think that way why? Oh—right,” she added before he could answer. “Because that’s the way you would do it.”
With an effort, Travis pushed back his anger. Clegg was smart, efficient, and experienced. Why couldn’t she see the logic here?
Or wasn’t it the logic she couldn’t see past? Was it her animosity toward Travis himself, along with Special Order Seven, that was getting in her way?
Probably. And that meant he was endangering the mission. Just by being who he was, he was endangering the mission. He looked helplessly at Chomps—
“I was just thinking, Ma’am,” the Chief spoke up thoughtfully. “That comment Kane made at the end, the one about cooperation including reasonable joint military support?”
“What about it?” Clegg demanded, her eyes still on Travis. “It was pretty clear he was talking about some kind of official Andermani/Manticoran operation at some vague future time.”
“That’s what I assumed, too, Ma’am,” Chomps agreed. “But he’s a reservist, not an official member of the Andermani government. He shouldn’t even be making suggestions like that, let along something that sounds like a promise.”
Almost unwillingly, Travis thought, Clegg turned away from him and looked at Chomps. “So you’re saying that Kane is thinking like Long?”
“As Commander Long said, the Andermani want Gensonne very badly,” Chomps reminded her.
“So what you’re advising is that we go look for Hamman—hat in hand, figuratively speaking—and ask Kane to help us out?”
“More or less, Ma’am,” Chomps said. “If he can’t help us himself, he should at least be able to give us an introduction to whoever can.”
“Mm.” For a moment Clegg gazed at the image of the Volsung base. “You make it sound easy,” she said. “Only it’s not. The Andermani want Gensonne and the Volsungs dead.”
“Good, because that’s what we want, too,” Chomps said.
“Is it?” Clegg countered. She transferred her glare back to Travis. “Is it, Long?”
“No, Ma’am,” Travis said. “Our primary objective is information on why Gensonne attacked us. The Andermani may not care about that.”
“Very good,” Clegg said, inclining her head microscopically. “So how would you go about making it their objective?”
“I don’t know, Ma’am,” Travis admitted.
“Even though they think just like you do?”
Travis felt his lip twitch. “I don’t have diplomatic skills, Ma’am.” He hesitated. “As I’m sure the Captain has noticed.”
Something that might have been a small smile twitched across Clegg’s lips. “Indeed, the Captain has,” she agreed. “Chief? How about you?”
“I’m no better than Commander Long, Ma’am,” Chomps said, shaking his head.
“You just know better when to keep your mouth shut?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” There was no doubting that it was a smile that now crossed Chomps’s face. “I’m sure he’ll learn, Ma’am.”
“If he lives long enough.” Clegg gave a snort. “I have to say, gentlemen, that if this is the best Calvingdell can do, SIS is already in pretty bad shape.” She cocked an eyebrow at Chomps. “Or will she learn, too?”
“I would never say such a thing about a Peer, Ma’am,” Chomps protested mildly.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” Clegg growled. “I’ll take your suggestions under advisement. Dismissed, both of you.”
* * *
For a long moment after they left, Clegg stared at the office door. Then, huffing out a sigh, she turned her attention back to the display.
There were many officers in the Navy who were gifted in managing people. She wasn’t one of them.
Granted, most of that was because many of the people she was supposed to manage were self-seeking careerists, or lazy, or just plain stupid. She’d been forced to deal with officers who were marking time while seniority pushed them steadily upward to positions they were unfit for. She’d had to lead enlisted personnel who were neither led nor driven to true competence in their own duties, watching them lapse into mediocrity.
So what was it about Commander Travis Uriah Long that set her teeth on edge?
Because he wasn’t any of the things she’d grown to loathe. He wasn’t incompetent, or lazy, or unmotivated. He was smart, he was dedicated, and sometimes he could be borderline brilliant.
And in many cases, in many of their disagreements, he’d turned out to be right.
Was that what bugged her about him? She hoped not, because that attitude would be the very depths of pettiness.
Maybe it was his earnestness, or his stubbornness, or the way he shot off his mouth without thinking things through that drove her crazy. The problem was that, more often than not, her knee-jerk reaction was to do exactly the same thing.
Going to Kane and the Andermani made sense. In fact, given the size of the Volsung force, it was really the only option she had.
Mentally, she shook her head. What was that she’d said to Long about officers who didn’t think through the logical implications?
Long was a lieutenant commander who lacked people skills. Clegg was a captain. She really ought to be better at this than he was.
Muttering a curse at herself, she keyed her intercom.
“Bridge, Woodburn,” the XO’s voice replied.
“Clegg,” she identified herself. “Pull up Hamman’s itinerary and figure out where we can make rendezvous with her. Compute the two best options, plus a couple of alternatives in case she makes better time than Kane expected.”
There was just the briefest silence.
“Yes, Captain,” Woodburn said, his voice studiously neutral. “I’ll send you the courses as soon as they’re ready.”
“Thank you.” She keyed off the intercom.
And sighed again. Long would undoubtedly feel relieved, and he and Townsend would both feel vindicated. Worse, they’d both know she’d changed her mind and succumbed to their logic, or at least to their arguments.
Put one way, they’d know she’d recognized the validity of their suggestions and overcome her own resistance to accept them. Put another way, they’d know they’d manipulated her into doing things their way.
But it didn’t matter. The survival of the Star Kingdom was at stake. With that threat hanging over them, she could afford to let Long and Townsend think whatever they liked.
She turned back to her computer, her mind filling with thoughts of strategy and tactics.
And diplomacy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Elizabeth had known this day would come. But even with foreknowledge and mental preparation, some events could still deliver a shock.
Today’s was one of them.
“I had hoped this would not be necessary, Your Majesty,” Breakwater said, his voice as grave and earnest as if he actually meant it. “But my duty, and indeed the duty of all your Ministers, is to the Constitution of the Star Kingdom. It is thus with a heavy heart that I must make the following statement.”
He cleared his throat, and Elizabeth braced herself. Here it came.
“Unless Your Majesty takes a commoner husband within the next thirty days, so that the Kingdom may be given an heir as prescribed by the Constitution, I will be forced to submit a resolution to the House of Lords that will bring the whole thing into the open and force you to publicly address the issue.”
It was as if a terrible weight
had been lifted from Elizabeth’s shoulders. Thirty days. Breakwater had vacillated for six months on this issue; and now he was giving her another thirty days?
It was like a gift from God. With thirty more days, assuming Joshua Miller was still willing—
“I understand, My Lord,” she said gravely. “I disagree entirely with your premise, but you must of course do what you think is right. As do we all.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Breakwater said. “And again, I regret that this has become necessary.”
I’ll just bet you do. “Again, I understand,” Elizabeth said. “Thank you for your honesty.”
She waited ten minutes after he’d left the Palace, just to be on the safe side. Then, with only a little trepidation, she screened Joshua.
“He’s a real prince, isn’t he?” Joshua commented after Elizabeth brought him up to speed. “Okay. So what do we do?”
“The same thing we have been doing,” Elizabeth said. “At least now we’ve got a definite timetable and deadline.”
“I suppose,” Joshua said, a bit doubtfully. “Though you know what stress can do to this sort of thing.”
“Try not to think about it,” Elizabeth said. “We’ll just have to do what we can, and hope for the best.”
“Yeah. Hope,” Joshua rumbled. “I’ve never liked that word. I especially don’t like having to hang my hat on it.”
“I don’t, either,” Elizabeth confessed. “But right now, it’s all we’ve got.”
“I suppose,” Joshua said. “Do you want me to come over tonight?”
“You think it’ll do any good?”
“I think so, yes,” Joshua said. “Besides, if we make it work, we’ll need to have some answers and statements ready. If we can’t think of anything else, we can always work on that.”
Elizabeth sighed. He always made it sound so…clinical. “That’s a good idea,” she said. “I’ll send Adler. The usual time?”
“That will be fine,” he said. “I’ll see you later. Your Majesty,” he belatedly added the obligatory honorific.
Elizabeth smiled sadly. So very, very clinical.
But that was her life now. That was the life of the Queen. “I’ll see you at eight, then,” she said. “Good-bye, Joshua.”
“Good-bye, Your Majesty.”
* * *
The realities of space travel, particularly the fact that courier ships were no faster than warships, meant that a ship that came calling on a neighbor seldom if ever had the chance to announce her arrival in advance. If the warship was particularly large and threatening, or the neighbor was particularly nervous, that could create complications and diplomatic panic.
A destroyer like Damocles wasn’t particularly large or threatening, particularly to a system as well-armed and well-defended as Haven. Haven itself was certainly not the nervous-neighbor type.
Which made Haven Control’s coolly formal communications both puzzling and, in Lisa’s view, more than a little ominous. Surely the government and Republic Navy hadn’t forgotten their successful joint venture at Secour ten T-years ago, and should accord a visiting Manticoran ship a welcome that was warm or at least cordial.
The situation bugged her all the way in, and she was pretty sure Captain Marcello was feeling just as puzzled. Fortunately, they were nearly to Haven orbit when the reason was made clear.
“Because I wished to greet you in person, of course,” Commodore Gustave Charnay said, his wide and expansive face beaming from the com display. “Please forgive my theatrics, but it is seldom that one has a chance to renew acquaintances with long-lost comrades in arms.” He cocked his head to the side. “Though perhaps you don’t remember me, Commander Donnelly? I was merely the XO of Saintonge under Commodore Jason Flanders, and sadly did not acquit myself as well as I might have.”
“I don’t think any of us started out looking very good, Captain,” Lisa said diplomatically. She remembered Charnay quite well, in fact. But the years hadn’t been kind to the man. “But once we caught on, we ended up all right.”
“You’re very kind to say so,” Charnay said, inclining his head. “I trust that later you’ll indulge my curiosity as to the lives and further careers of Captain Eigen and Commander Metzger.”
“I’ll be delighted,” Lisa assured him, noting out of the corner of her eye the satisfied look on Captain Marcello’s face. Some commanders, she knew, would find it insulting to be effectively ignored while a more junior officer attracted this much attention. But Marcello had his eye firmly on the mission, and the more friendly and cooperative Haven’s top people were with his officers—any of his officers—the better. “I’d also like to hear how Commodore Flanders has fared.”
“We shall make sure to have a time of reminiscences,” Charnay promised. “And perhaps a third will join us. Brigadier? Are you there?”
“I’m here, Commodore,” a familiar voice came. The com display split; and on the other half—
“Colonel Massingill?” Lisa asked. The question was pure reflex; aside from considerably more white in her hair, Massingill looked exactly as she had ten T-years ago. Leaving Manticore to come work for the Havenites had clearly been healthy for the woman. “I’m sorry: I see it’s Brigadier Massingill.”
“It’s good to see you, too, Commander,” Massingill said with a smile. “And in the spirit of full disclosure, I should acknowledge that I’m the one who asked Commodore Charnay to delay a formal welcome until I could arrive aboard Saintonge. As soon as I saw your name on the officer list Captain Marcello sent, I knew that I had to be here.”
“I’m glad you’re here, Brigadier,” Lisa said, mentally crossing her fingers. Here was where all the warm fuzzies could suddenly disappear. “This isn’t just a social call, or even a show-the-flag voyage.”
“Of course not,” Charnay said calmly. “It was obvious from the start that you’d come to discuss the attack on Manticore. That was the main reason Brigadier Massingill and I waited until now to speak with you.”
“There are some in the Nouveau Paris political sphere who would frown on assisting Manticore, especially if that aid took resources away from Haven,” Massingill added. “Fortunately, there’s another side to that sphere.” She gave Lisa a half smile. “Most of whom remember Secour very well.”
“Still, it’s not something we wish to banter around freely,” Charnay said. “As far as the public is concerned, you’re here to deliver your new Sovereign’s greetings and best wishes to the Republic.” He smiled. “And while Captain Marcello is wined and dined and endures speech after speech, perhaps Commander Donnelly, Brigadier Massingill, and I will have discussions of our own. Will that arrangement work for you, Captain?”
“Absolutely,” Marcello said. “In fact, that was largely what I was going to suggest.” He inclined his head to Massingill. “The fact that Manticore would once again be privileged to enjoy Brigadier Massingill’s services is an unexpected but welcome bonus.”
“More of a privilege than you know,” Charnay said. “The Brigadier has become Haven’s leading expert on the discovery, assessment, and elimination of pirate and black-merc groups.”
He raised his eyebrows. “So tell me, Captain Marcello. What exactly do you want from us?”
“We’ve brought you a small sampling of debris from the battle,” Marcello said. “Some of it appears to be Havenite in origin.”
“I presume you don’t suspect us of direct involvement.”
“Not at all,” Marcello assured him. “Our thought is that either someone in the Republic is working with our mysterious Admiral Tamerlane or, more likely, Tamerlane purchased Havenite equipment somewhere along the line. Either way, we’re hoping our attackers left a trail you can follow.”
“I presume it will be best for everyone if such inquiries are off-the-books,” Lisa added.
“Absolutely,” Charnay agreed. “If for no other reason than an official investigation might alert the wrong people.” He smiled, his eyes glittering with anticipation. “Le
t me screen the head of Naval Intelligence and find out what we can do.”
* * *
The file was so obscure, so vague, and so old that Winterfall’s search nearly missed it. But he did spot it, and a few evenings’ worth of work took him all the way back to its source and a long-buried truth. A few more evenings’ worth of talking to archivists and spinning stories, and he had a copy of the original document.
It was explosive. Fusion-bomb-level explosive. It might make the difference in Breakwater’s quiet campaign to undermine the Queen.
The problem was, Winterfall had no idea what to do with it.
He couldn’t just turn it over to the Lords. Not the entire body, nor any subset of it. He couldn’t really take it to the Queen. He certainly couldn’t go public with it. If the whole thing blew up, Winterfall’s reputation and future would be well within the resulting blast zone.
But he couldn’t just sit on it, either. Breakwater’s confrontation with the Queen was coming to a head, and everyone in government was figuring out where they wanted to be lined up when the fireworks started. Winterfall had to find a way to get this to the right people, and he had to do it fast.
There was only one person he could think of to turn to. His brother Travis had the kind of overdeveloped sense of duty that would surely put him on his Sovereign’s side in any political struggle. And he would probably know military people who could get the document in the right hands without leaving Winterfall’s fingerprints on it.
There was just one small hitch.
“No, he left here about five months ago,” Travis’s landlord said. “Happens all the time with Navy people.”
Winterfall clenched his teeth. And the one time he not only wanted but needed to make contact with his brother, naturally, was the time his brother would be nowhere to be found.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“Nope,” the man said. “He paid rent for a year, which is a lot longer than they’re usually gone. But even with shorter deployments they’re not always right about the timing. That’s why the Navy has a rent payment guarantee, y’see, that keeps us from just booting them out if—”
