by David Weber
Never mind that Mercier himself would die along with everyone else. From his point of view, this was indeed the ideal solution. True Believer . . .
“You all right?”
Charles started. With his brain and gut tied in knots, he hadn’t even noticed Weiss’s arrival. “No, I’m not,” he said, trying desperately to get his brain on line again. Rabenstrange might not listen to him, but he would certainly listen to Weiss. “I can’t shake the feeling that we’re in danger.”
“We’re a warship,” Weiss said dryly. “We’re allowed to be in danger.”
“Not like this,” Charles insisted. “There’s something wrong here. I can feel it.”
“Relax, Herr Navarre,” Weiss said, an edge of amusement to his grimness. “We’re a superdreadnought. They’re a heavy cruiser. There’s very little they can do to trouble us unless we get careless.”
“I know,” Charles said. “It’s just . . . listen, did you read the report of Honor Harrington’s escape from the Peep prison planet?”
“I read what the Manties released,” Weiss said, frowning. “Plus the extra material Imperial Intelligence was able to get. Why?”
“I keep thinking about the way she hit that incoming Peep task force, the attack that got her the rest of the transport capability she needed to get the prisoners out,” Charles said. “As I understand it, she basically slid up between the two halves of the force on her thrusters, and since she didn’t have her wedge up and blazing she was able to sneak into energy range before they even spotted her.”
“Mainly because the Peeps were being sloppy and not doing proper scans,” Weiss said slowly. “But I see your point. You think there’s an ambush waiting out there that the cruiser is trying to draw us into?”
“I don’t know,” Charles said, feeling sweat gathering beneath his collar as he carefully walked his delicate line. He couldn’t have the Derfflinger destroyed, but he also couldn’t have Rabenstrange break off the pursuit completely. “All I know is that something about this is popping red flags like crazy.”
“Let me talk to the Herr Herzog,” Weiss said. He smiled faintly. “The fact that Charles Navarre is actually concerned—about anything—is all by itself worth bringing to his attention.”
He left Charles’s side and moved over to the command chair. This time, the Totenkopfs didn’t need to be told to let him through. For a moment he and Rabenstrange conversed, again too quietly for Charles to listen in. Then, with a nod, Weiss stepped away.
Again, Rabenstrange spoke to the flag captain, who nodded and stepped over to the communications station. As he finished, Rabenstrange swiveled around, caught Charles’s eye, and gestured him forward. Suppressing a grimace, Charles obeyed.
“My cryptologists have been looking over the data chip you gave them,” Rabenstrange commented as Charles arrived beside him. “So far, they haven’t been able to find the overlay code you spoke of.”
“I’m not really surprised, My Lord,” Charles said. “As I mentioned, my life out here depends on no one figuring out they have an investigative journalist looking over their shoulders. If you’d like, I’d be happy to decode a copy of the references for you.”
“Perhaps later.” Rabenstrange nodded toward the screen and the starscape in front of them. “I understand you’re concerned that we’re flying into an ambush. Any particular reason why?”
“Not really, My Lord,” Charles said, painfully aware of the two watchful Marines standing bare centimeters away from him. “But in my line of work, you learn not to ignore your gut feelings.”
“And yet that same gut tells you that Manticore might actually be foolish enough to precipitate a war with the Empire while still fighting for her life against Haven?”
Charles shrugged. “I know it sounds insane, My Lord,” he conceded. “But politicians sometimes do insane things. Who knows what the Manties might do in response to a perceived threat against their legitimate security concerns?”
Rabenstrange snorted, a gentle, thoughtful sound. “Interesting that you should put it that way,” he murmured, his voice that of someone drifting into memory. “Several years ago I sat in my quarters aboard this very ship with a rising young Manty officer. I remember saying those exact words to her: ‘No one can predict where competing ambition and completely legitimate security concerns will lead interstellar powers.’ ”
“Perhaps one of those tipping points has been reached,” Charles offered. “Perhaps Herr Mercier is right that the Star Kingdom of that long-past conversation no longer exists.”
“Perhaps,” Rabenstrange said. “We shall soon see.”
* * *
“The Derfflinger is approaching the mine field,” the Ellipsis’s sensor officer reported. “Still bearing true.”
“Acknowledged,” Tyler said, smiling in satisfaction and anticipation. At the Derfflinger’s current speed and acceleration, Rabenstrange would have perhaps twenty seconds between the time the mines activated, lighting off their drives and heading directly toward the superdreadnought, and the point where their laser heads burst into a searing torrent of X-rays and flooded the ship with death.
A death that would be as complete as it was awesome. The Derfflinger was coming straight into the field, which meant the mines’ energy bursts wouldn’t even have to expend any of their energy cutting through the ship’s sidewalls. They would have a clear shot straight down the Andermani’s throat.
Tyler gave a little snort of contempt. And those twenty seconds would be just enough time for Rabenstrange to see that death coming, and to realize it was his blundering that had killed his ship and his crew. “Still bearing true?” he asked, just to make sure.
“Yes, sir,” the sensor officer said, peering closely at one of his displays. “But the LACs have altered position. They’ve moved from flanking points to a lead-and-tail configuration: one ahead and slightly above the Derfflinger, the other astern and beneath.”
Tyler snorted again, but this time it was a snort of contempt. So Rabenstrange had finally started to wonder if this was too easy, and had sent his LACs ahead and behind to take the brunt of any sneak attack that might be lurking along his path. So much for any propaganda that the Empire’s leaders actually cared about the lives of their subjects. Rabenstrange had sent the LACs’ crews out to die in his place, probably without even a second thought.
But it would do him no good. The mines weren’t especially smart, but they weren’t stupid, either. Their computers would have no trouble picking out the better target and locking onto it. All Rabenstrange would accomplish by putting the LACs out there would be to leave a few witnesses behind.
Which was all to the good, of course. Someone had to survive to take back word of the attack, along with a recording of the speech Citizen Charles had written for Tyler to deliver. After all, New Berlin had to know who exactly to declare war on.
He took a final look around his bridge, taking in the Manty equipment and Manty uniforms all around him, preparing to deliver his message with full Manty arrogance. The Emperor would know, all right.
And by the time the Ellipsis arrived back at Haven for its heroes’ welcome, the Star Kingdom would be in a two-front war even they couldn’t possibly win.
“Ninety seconds to minefield,” the sensor officer announced.
“Acknowledged,” Tyler said. Smiling again, he settled back to watch the show.
* * *
Charles was standing silently beside Weiss, gazing across the bridge and wondering what death would feel like, when the tactical display abruptly exploded into activity. “Mines!” the tactical officer snapped. “Many mines, one point three million klicks, bearing zero-zero-two, zero-one-zero!”
Charles caught his breath, staring at the swarm of wedges arrowing straight toward the Derfflinger’s bow. So that was it. He’d been right, all the way. Tyler had sprung his trap, and there was no way Rabenstrange or anyone else would be able to react before the terrible energies of those mines slashed through its open throat,
killing and destroying everything in their path.
“Acceleration zero,” Captain Preis called, his voice calm and even.
“No!” Charles barked reflexively. Killing the Derfflinger’s forward acceleration was exactly the wrong thing to do. Preis had to use that acceleration to twist the ship sideways, to try to put as much of sidewalls as possible between them and the approaching laser heads. “Captain—”
He broke off as Weiss grabbed his arm. “Wait,” the other said, his voice as calm as Preis’s.
Charles wanted to snap out a curse, to remind Weiss about the horrible death screaming toward them. But it was too late for that. It was too late for anything. Clenching his hands into impotent fists, he waited for death. Abruptly, incomprehensibly, the stars in the main display vanished, and the insane thought flashed through Charles’s mind that without even a flash of vaporized bulkheads he had somehow been killed.
And then, with a surreal silence, utterly divorced from the noise and the fury he had expected, the mines simply . . . disappeared from the tactical display.
An eerie stillness descended on the bridge. Charles stared at the tactical, fighting against his frozen mind, trying desperately to figure out what had happened. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Weiss watching him in grimly amused expectation.
And then, finally, he got it.
He turned to Weiss. “Very nice,” he said quietly. “The LAC, right?”
Weiss nodded. “Standard Andermani military minefield doctrine,” he said. “You wait for the mines to activate and lock on, kill your forward acceleration and go ballistic, then turn your escorts over to put their wedges between your throat and kilt and the mines.” He smiled tightly. “A doctrine partially developed by Admiral Herzog von Rabenstrange himself.”
“With a bit of inspiration from Hancock Station,” Rabenstrange added. He had swiveled around, Charles noted, and his eyes were squarely on him. “Do we have an ID on that cruiser yet?”
“Yes, sir, he’s finally started broadcasting,” someone called. “It’s the RMN Charger, Captain William Grantley commanding. Intelligence data shows no current location or assignment for either ship or commander.”
“We’ve reached extreme missile range,” another voice put in. “Firing solution plotted and laid in.”
“Acknowledged,” Rabenstrange said. “Well, Herr Navarre. It appears your gut was right.”
“So it would seem,” Charles said, forcing as much calmness as he could manage into his voice. It wasn’t a lot. Distantly, he wondered how Mercier was reacting to the situation, but didn’t dare look at the Peep to find out. “Well executed, My Lord. What now?”
Rabenstrange swiveled back around again. “They’ve had their shot,” he said quietly. “Now it’s our turn.”
* * *
“No!” Tyler screamed at the bridge crew, at the Derfflinger’s intact image on the screen in front of him, at the universe at large. “No, no, no!”
The attack couldn’t have failed. It couldn’t. The setup had been perfect, the Derfflinger’s insertion vector had been perfect, the mines’ operation had been perfect. It simply wasn’t possible for Rabenstrange to have come up with that blocking maneuver so fast, let alone have executed it.
He felt his lips pull back in a snarl. Of course. Navarre. Tyler had no idea how the slimy little Solly had pulled this off, but he knew beyond a stealthed doubt that Navarre was behind it somehow.
He drew himself up in his command chair. “Stand by to transmit,” he bit out. So Navarre had ruined his chance to destroy the Derfflinger and strike a solid blow for the oppressed Andermani people. Fine. He would just have to let the Manties do it for him.
“Transmission ready,” the com officer called.
“Make sure it’s a wide focus,” Tyler reminded him. Navarre had insisted on that, to the point of underlining the order. The Imperials needed to see a Manty bridge, hear Manty-style orders, and see a whole group of up-to-date Manty uniforms. Only then would they truly be convinced that the Manties were the ones responsible for the attack.
“Wide focus, aye,” the response came.
Tyler smiled again. Royalists against Imperials . . . and when it was over, the People’s Republic would be there to gather together the pieces and bring freedom to the oppressed of both nations. Tyler’s only regret was that he wouldn’t be there to see it.
He let his smile fade, and set his face in a dark, Royalist glare, and touched the switch. “This is Captain William Grantley of the RMN Charger,” he announced. “IAN Derfflinger, you are trespassing on territory claimed by the Star Kingdom of Manticore. Leave at once, or face the consequences.”
* * *
“. . . or face the consequences.”
Weiss stared at the com display, his stomach a single hard knot of horror and disbelief, his brain battling to make sense of what his ears and mind were telling him.
But he couldn’t do it. Even after the evidence of Mischa’s Star, even after the casual violation of Imperial territory and property that that attack had demonstrated, this sudden ultimatum was more than his mind could wrap itself around.
Because he knew the Manties. He’d met many of them, soldiers and politicians both, in the days before the war. He’d spoken with them, dined with them, interacted socially with them. Some were geniuses, some were merely competent, and others were fools who clearly owed their positions to family name and political influence.
But never had he sensed from any of them the sort of arrogant galactic-level supremacy or false-smile, hidden-dagger scheming that he’d felt from so many of Haven’s politicians. The Star Kingdom was proud, certainly, and all too often that pride swerved across the line into annoying cockiness.
But cockiness was one thing. A deliberate invasion, a deliberate act of war, was something else entirely.
But he couldn’t ignore the evidence of his own eyes. It was all right there, staring him in the face. He’d been aboard a number of Manty warships, though the Manties themselves probably weren’t aware of that, and the bridge stretching around and behind Captain Grantley was without a doubt that of a Star Knight-class heavy cruiser.
“RMN Charger, you have violated Imperial Andermani territory,” Rabenstrange was saying, the admiral’s voice faint through the hissing of blood in Weiss’s ears. “It is you who will strike your wedge and surrender your ship and crew.”
“I think not, Admiral,” Grantley said. “You can destroy me if you choose, but that won’t change the facts of this situation.”
“And those facts are . . . ?” Rabenstrange asked.
Weiss frowned, tearing his eyes from Grantley’s image and looking at Rabenstrange. There had been something odd in the admiral’s voice just then.
He frowned harder. Because it wasn’t just Rabenstrange’s voice. The admiral’s face was still grim, but to Weiss’s amazement he could the hint of a smile twitching at the corners of the other’s lips.
Weiss had known men like that, men who went into battles with smiles of anticipation, especially battles that promised to be unmitigated slaughters. But Rabenstrange wasn’t like that. He was a servant of the Crown, going into battle when he had to, or was ordered to, and never simply because he enjoyed it.
Or did he? What did Weiss really know about his patron, anyway?
“The fact that the Star Kingdom hereby lays claim to this system and everything within it,” Grantley said evenly. “We now have vested interests here, interests that we will defend.”
“With your fleet fully engaged against the People’s Republic of Haven?” Rabenstrange countered. “Surely your leaders aren’t foolish enough to take actions that would open up a second front.”
Grantley smiled, a thin, evil thing. “Your intelligence services are slipping, Admiral,” he said. “We have new weapons and delivery systems which will end the war with the Peeps within three months at the latest.” The smile vanished. “And when we’ve finished with them, you’d better pray that the Star Kingdom hasn’t fou
nd someone else who needs to be taught a lesson about the galaxy’s new realities.”
“Is that a threat?” Rabenstrange asked softly.
“Take it as a threat, a warning, or a simple statement of fact,” Grantley said. “But take it seriously.”
“Oh, I will,” Rabenstrange promised. “As seriously as the new reality demands.”
He turned to Weiss. “Well, Herr Weiss?” he asked quietly, his voice as calm and cool as if he was asking which wine the attaché wanted with dinner. “Do you see it?”
Weiss stared at him. Do you see it? What kind of insane question was that? “I’m sorry, My Lord?” he managed.
“The larger picture, Lyang,” Rabenstrange said, lowering his voice even more. “Ignore Captain Grantley. Take in the larger picture.”
Weiss looked back at the screen, as bewildered as he’d ever been in his life. Grantley hadn’t moved, his defiant glare still blazing from the screen like the laser head of one of his own mines. Behind him, the bridge was still a Star Knight-class bridge, and the people sitting or standing at their consoles were still clothed in the proper Manty uniforms . . .
And then, Weiss saw it.
Or rather, he saw her.
She was standing at one of the fire-coordination consoles at the rear of the bridge, just over Grantley’s left shoulder, her expression as grim and defiant as the captain’s own. Her lips were moving as if she was speaking, though her voice from that distance would of course be inaudible on Grantley’s pickup.
Only she shouldn’t be here. She couldn’t be here.
He looked back at Rabenstrange. The admiral was smiling openly now, a smile like the approach of death itself. “I see it, My Lord,” Weiss said.
“Excellent.” Rabenstrange nodded his head fractionally to the side, then swiveled his chair to look behind him.
Weiss turned. Over the past couple of minutes Charles had drifted back to the rear of the bridge and was now standing beside Mercier, the two of them flanked by a pair of Totenkopfs. “Tell me, Herr Navarre; Herr Mercier,” Rabenstrange called, loudly enough for the entire bridge to hear as he gestured toward the screen. “Which one of you knew I’d personally met the Duchess Honor Harrington?”
