A Rising Thunder hh-13

by David Weber

  The ugly sound from the Chamber was louder than it had been, Hadley noted.

  “We cannot demonstrate that Beowulf’s actions led directly to the massacre of so many of Fleet Admiral Filareta’s brave men and women,” Reid continued heavily. “The possibility clearly exists, however. And whether that may be true or not, there’s no question of Beowulf’s actions. And so I rise to move that this Assembly impanel a special commission to investigate and determine the basis and full extent of Beowulf’s actions. To specifically examine whether or not those actions constitute — as I believe they do — treason under the Solarian Constitution. And to determine precisely what Beowulf was promised by Manticore in return for the opportunity to plant a dagger in Eleventh Fleet’s back by preventing Fleet Admiral Tsang from moving to its support!”

  “Second the motion!” someone screamed, and then bedlam broke out.

  * * *

  It took some time for Speaker Neng to restore order, and Felicia Hadley sat very still, waiting, looking straight ahead and ignoring the shouts and loud conversations raging back and forth across the Chamber floor.

  Reid’s motion wasn’t really a surprise, even though they’d managed to keep her from learning it was going to be presented today. And she’d expected him to present it effectively. But she hadn’t counted on the degree of genuine anger she’d heard coming back from the floor. She was pretty sure there were more delegates who hadn’t shouted than who had, yet that was remarkably cold comfort at the moment.

  She’d already pressed her own attention key, requesting the floor. In fact, she’d pressed it before Reid rose to speak, since she’d gotten enough warning to realize what was coming. The rules of the Assembly required that the first request for the floor received it, and her own panel showed she’d gotten in before anyone else. Despite which, she wondered if Neng was going to obey the rules this time.

  She was almost surprised when Neng’s image replaced Reid’s and the Speaker looked directly at the Beowulf delegation’s box.

  “The Chair recognizes the Honorable Delegate from Beowulf,” Neng announced, and sudden quiet descended upon the Chamber. The vast room was hushed, closer to silence than Felicia Hadley had ever heard it, and her image appeared on the huge HD.

  “Mr. Reid,” she began flatly, with none of the customary ceremonial formulas, “has leveled serious and inflammatory accusations against my star system and its government.

  “While hiding behind a pretense of impartiality and fair-mindedness, he’s obviously already reached his own judgment as to precisely what happened to Admiral Filareta’s command when it invaded the Manticoran Binary System without benefit of any formal declaration of war and following repeated warnings from the Star Empire of Manticore that it was aware Admiral Filareta was coming and was prepared to destroy his entire fleet if necessary to protect its own people and sovereignty. In case any of you are in any doubt about that, the Manticoran Ambassador has made public the recordings of his entire diplomatic correspondence with Senior Permanent Undersecretary Kolokoltsov in which he repeatedly requested — almost begged—the League to send an officer to Manticore with orders for Filareta to stand down while a diplomatic resolution to the disputes between the Star Empire and the League was sought.

  “The federal government refused to send that officer. Ambassador Carmichael’s requests, his formal diplomatic notes, weren’t even responded to. So far as we know, none of the official ministers of the Solarian League’s government ever even saw them! Although no one is in a position to prove that at this time, it’s the firm belief of the Planetary Board of Directors of Beowulf that the decisions regarding those notes—and Admiral Filareta’s and Admiral Tsang’s movements — were made at the permanent senior undersecretary’s level by bureaucrats. Men and women who’d never been elected to their positions, without any sort of open debate, committed the Solarian League Navy to an act of war against a sovereign star nation without ever requesting a formal declaration of war as our own Constitution requires!”

  She realized her voice had risen, sharp as a battle steel blade as fury at Reid’s cynicism and the opportunity to finally speak her own mind clearly, without any circumlocutions, fueled her anger. She made herself stop, draw a deep breath, and heard one or two lonely voices raised in angry rejection of what she’d said. Aside from those voices, the Chamber was silent, and she wished she could believe it was the silence of thoughtfulness and not the silence of sullen anger.

  “Completely irrespective of any actions on Beowulf’s part,” she continued after a moment, “the action of those bureaucrats in committing the Solarian League — without the constitutionally required declaration of war — to war against a star nation whose war-fighting capabilities were far superior to the League’s surely constitutes an act of treason against the League.

  “I observe, however, that Mr. Reid has not moved to investigate their conduct. No, he’s chosen to accuse Beowulf of treason and collaboration with the enemy. Although he’s been very careful never to call Manticore ‘the enemy,’ hasn’t he? He’s referred to the Star Empire repeatedly as ‘a hostile star nation,’ but not as a formal enemy. And the reason he’s avoided that term is because there’s been no formal declaration of war.”

  The last seven words came out slowly, precisely spaced and enunciated, and she let them fall into the Chamber’s silence.

  “I remind all of you that while the Constitution recognizes the paramount authority of the federal government in time of war, in time of peace, the self-defense forces of the League’s member star systems are not subject to the federal authority. They remain answerable to the star system which buids, mans, and maintains them. And the territorial autonomy of member star systems is absolute except in time of war. Precisely how is Beowulf supposed to have committed treason while acting solely and entirely within the letter of the Constitution in time of peace?

  “Yet let that question lie for the moment. Instead, let’s consider the question of system autonomy and our actions in conjunction with Admiral Truman’s task force to bar Admiral Tsang’s passage through the Beowulf Terminus.

  “There were Beowulfan personnel on the terminus traffic control platforms. Solarian citizens, employed by the Beowulf Terminus Astro Control Service, a joint Beowulfan and Manticoran Corporation. They were civilians, not subject to the orders of the Solarian military, and with all the civil rights of Solarian citizens. Yet Admiral Tsang had made it clear she intended to take possession of the platforms by force and to compel those citizens — against their will — to pass her vessels through the terminus. Indeed, she specifically said that in so many words. Not only that, when Admiral Holmon-Sanders announced her intention to defend her fellow citizens from the assault of their own military, Admiral Tsang informed her that her hundred-plus superdreadnoughts would open fire on Admiral Holmon-Sanders’ thirty-six. Clearly the decision of a fearless naval officer fully aware of her constitutional obligations and the need to avoid loss of Solarian lives.”

  Hadley’s tone cut like a scalpel, and her nostrils flared in contempt which was not at all feigned.

  “The only thing which prevented Admiral Tsang from carrying through on her courageous threat against an enemy she outnumbered three-to-one was the sudden discovery of the presence of a Manticoran task force. A Manticoran task force which could, had there been any truth to this bizarre notion that Admiral Filareta was massacred for no good reason after he’d surrendered, have annihilated Admiral Tsang’s entire command from stealth before she even knew those ships were present. Instead, the Manticoran commander gave warning of her presence and allowed Admiral Tsang to withdraw without the loss of a single life on either side.”

  She paused once more, letting her words sink in, then straightened and squared her shoulders.

  “Mr. Reid has made what he obviously believes is an eloquent case for how the sudden appearance of Admiral Tsang’s fleet in the Manticorans’ rear might have somehow prevented the destruction of Eleventh Fleet. He’s been
very careful to avoid saying unequivocally that it would have, yet he’s clearly implied that the sudden appearance of a twenty-five percent increase in Admiral Filareta’s strength would have influenced the Star Empire and its allies. He was also careful to say that he is no naval officer. That much, at least, is obvious…since any trained naval officer would have known that no more than thirty to thirty-five capital ships — less than a ten percent increase in Admiral Filareta’s strength — could have been put through the Beowulf Terminus in a single transit. And that putting that many ships through the would have destabilized the terminus for many hours before any additional vessels could be passed through it.

  “It would have been possible to pass them through in a sequential transit, instead of a simultaneous transit, of course, had not Admiral Holmon-Sanders and Admiral Truman prevented it. Had Admiral Tsang done so, however, her ships would have emerged one by one, at intervals of several seconds, into the concentrated fire of the Manticoran fortresses protecting the Junction. Fortresses which each have many times the firepower of a regular Manticoran ship-of-the-wall. The truth is, it wouldn’t have mattered whether she’d attempted a simultaneous or a sequential transit; in either case, anything which passed through that terminus, as my government has repeatedly pointed out since the event, would have been annihilated. By preventing her from making transit at all, Admiral Holmon-Sanders and Admiral Truman saved the lives of well over a hundred thousand Solarian military personnel. If you wonder what malevolent, Machiavellian motives we might have had for allowing those Manticoran warships to transit a terminus of the Manticoran Wormhole Junction without informing Admiral Tsang of their presence, look no further than those lives. If we had slavishly rolled over before the unconstitutional assertion of federal authority over Solarian citizens and an autonomous star system government in time of peace, those people would be dead today.”

  She looked out across the Chamber, huge holographic eyes sweeping scornfully over the men and women seated in the boxes spread across its floor, and shook her head.

  “We all know what’s happening here. We all know the script, although the exact schedule may still be in some doubt. And we all know where this little play is headed and who’s directing and producing it. So I don’t expect truth and rationality to be any sort of effective defense. But the record will show what actually happened in Beowulf that day. Someday, the record of exactly what happened to Admiral Filareta will also be clearly and undisputedly available to anyone looking back at Mr. Reid and his motion and its consequences. A clean conscience and a reverence for the truth may not be much in demand in this Assembly today, but both of those are very much in demand in the Beowulf System. So bring on your inquiry. Present your case, and we’ll present ours. Not because we give one single solitary damn for your prepackaged, predetermined ‘impartial conclusions,’ but because we care about history. Because unlike you, we do care about truth. And because someday your successors, whoever they may be, will have a record of what you actually do here and will revile your memory with all the contempt and all the disdain your actions will so richly merit.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Organ music swelled and the massed choir’s voices rose in the words of the ancient hymn which had announced every marriage in the groom’s family for over four T-centuries:

  “Though I may speak with bravest fire,

  and have the gift to all inspire,

  and have not love, my words are vain,

  as sounding brass, and hopeless gain.”*

  The groom, clad in the blue and silver of the House of Winton stood before the altar rail and turned to face down the nave towards the narthex of King Michael’s Cathedral as the music soared about him. The cathedral itself was packed as it had not been in years — not since the somewhat premature state funeral of one Honor Harrington. Which was rather ironic, since Duchess Harrington was a member of the wedding procession and the current representatives of the star nation which was supposed to have executed her sat in the pew set aside for them as they, too, turned to watch that procession move down cathedral’s central aisle towards the waiting sanctuary.

  The cathedral was like an immense jewelry box, packed with aristocrats in the formal court dress and colors of their houses and commoners whose sartorial splendor and jewelry tended to put the understated elegance of court dress in the shade. Stained-glass windows glowed with late morning light, filling the cathedral’s interior with pools and patterns of gleaming, slowly moving brilliance. Centuries-old wooden paneling glowed in that light, the deliberately antique organ’s bronze pipes shone with hand-polished brilliance, vestments glittered with rich embroidery, candle holders flashed back the light, and the crowds of newsies had been banished to the discreet concealment of the balconies just inside the narthex.

  Against all of that visual splendor, that richness of texture and color, of light and sound, the slender, white vision with the armful of flowers at the bridal procession’s heart stood out with heart stopping purity as she moved gracefully through the music.

  Brides, and especially royal brides, were always beautiful. That was an incontrovertible law of nature — just ask any publicist or newsy. In this case, however, it was true, Honor decided. Not because Rivka Rosenfeld was a stunning beauty, because she wasn’t, although she was undeniably attractive with a face full of wit and intelligence touched with the bloom of her youth. And not because of the hours of effort the Star Empire’s best cometicians had put in, either. No, it was because of the glow in her eyes as they met Roger Winton’s down the length of that long, long cathedral aisle.

  And, Honor conceded, it was also because of Rivka’s own impeccable taste. As her matron of honor, Honor had been deeply involved in planning the wedding. Her duties had been less extensive than those of Lord Chamberlain Wundt or Dame Arethea Hart, perhaps, but they’d been focused on the official aspects of the day. Honor had been focused on Rivka, and on more than one occasion she’d found herself acting as the young woman’s champion as she stood up against the demands of an occasion of state.

  Rivka had held out steadfastly for an elegantly simple wedding gown, without glamour or elaborate embroidery or glittering jewels, and Honor — whose own tastes ran in very much the same direction, if the truth be told — had supported her strongly. Not that simplicity implied cheapness, of course. Honor had become far more knowledgeable about fashion matters and designer gowns than she’d ever expected to, and she knew how expensive that deceptively simple, flawlessly fitted gown had actually been. Yet it was also perfect, the inevitable setting for the slim, dark-haired and dark-eyed young woman advancing to meet her fiancé.

  The one concession she’d made was her bridal train, which stretched far down the aisle behind her as she advanced to meet her waiting groom. Honor and her maids of honor followed her, and at Rivka’s insistence, Faith Harrington led the entire procession scattering flower petals across the rich-toned carpet with solemn concentration. Her brother James followed her, carrying the royal blue cushion with the waiting wedding rings and the princess’ coronet.

  Arranging it all had been a long journey and plenty of hard work for everyone, Honor reflected, following Rivka in her own Grayson-style gown and over tunic in deep, rich, “Harrington green” with the Star of Grayson, glittering about her throat on its crimson ribbon, her only jewelry. And a welcome one, in the aftermath of what had happened to Massimo Filareta and his fleet. A distraction, yes, but also a reaffirmation of life and a promise of hope, and she’d needed that. Being there for Rivka, helping to choose the wedding theme, to pick designs for the invitations, support her in fighting for the simplicity of the gown she’d chosen, choosing flowers, picking gifts for the bridesmaids. She’d never gotten to do something like that before. Her own wedding had been a much more…impromptu affair, and she’d discovered that planning a bridal shower had helped to heal a heart weary with killing and bloodshed.

  Of course, finding time for all of that had been something of a challenge am
ong her “merely” official duties as the commander of Grand Fleet. Fortunately, most of her subordinates had happily conspired to take as much as possible of that load off of her, and she was grateful to all of them. She’d always liked Rivka; over the last few months she’d come to understand exactly why Elizabeth approved of her son’s choice so strongly.

  She’s going to do well, Honor thought. She’s exactly what Roger needs. If anyone can keep him sane when he finds himself on his mother’s throne, it’ll be Rivka.

  Not that Rivka didn’t have some qualms of her own. Even now, Honor could taste the undercurrent of trepidation in the composed young woman’s mind-glow. Becoming the future queen consort of the Star Kingdom of Manticore at the age of twenty would have been daunting enough for anyone; becoming the future empress consort of the Star Empire of Manticore was even worse. And the fact that the Star Empire in question faced a fight for its very life against all the ponderous might of the Solarian League was downright terrifying. But somehow Rivka had coped with all of that, and the clean, focused taste of her mind-glow, the joy and eagerness which infused it — and Roger’s — despite all of those worries, all of those future threats, as they looked at one another told Honor how well they both had chosen.

  The procession reached the waiting groom and his party and dispersed into its perfectly choreographed components, and Hamish Alexander-Harrington, standing with Roger, smiled at his wife as she stepped up beside Rivka and took the bridal bouquet — made up of native blossoms from each of the Old Star Kingdom’s habitable planets. Honor smiled back, remembering how much simpler (if unexpected) her own wedding had been, then stepped back with the flowers to let Rivka take Roger’s hand while both of them turned to face Bishop Robert Telmachi.