by David Weber
“You intend to stand against us, then, My Lord?” Burgundy asked. “Because if you do, I tell you right now that you will lose.”
For a moment the two men locked eyes, and Winterfall found himself holding his breath. There was a sizeable group of Lords who supported Breakwater or who at least tended to follow his lead. But it wasn’t nearly big enough to force a no-confidence vote and take down Burgundy’s government. Even if it was, the King would undoubtedly offer Burgundy whatever time he needed to work out a new coalition and form a new government.
The other obvious option, that Breakwater would threaten to take his case directly to the people, was even worse. Not only did the King enjoy the support of a sizeable majority of the populace, which would probably doom such an approach anyway, but Edward and Burgundy could never let such a challenge go unanswered. Even just the threat alone would probably get the Chancellor unceremoniously booted out of his job.
Or would it?
Because by all logic Breakwater should have been booted already. Like everyone else in the Cabinet, he’d submitted his resignation when King Michael abdicated and King Edward ascended the Throne. Edward had reappointed Burgundy and most of the others, but the common wisdom at the time had been that he would take the opportunity to remove Breakwater’s perennial thorn from the Monarch’s side.
Only he hadn’t. After a series of closed-door meetings at the Palace, Breakwater had been reinstated to his position.
And as far as Winterfall knew, no one knew why.
There were theories, of course. Lots of theories. One was that Breakwater did have enough support to take down Burgundy’s government, and the Chancellorship had been the price for his grudging support. Another was that he knew where too many political bodies were buried, and his appointment was again the price of silence.
Personally, Winterfall subscribed to the statesman theory: that however annoying Breakwater might be to Burgundy and his government, the man was so good at his job of running the Exchequer that the Prime Minister was able to rise above the politics of the situation and do what was best for the Star Kingdom.
Of course, none of the theories left Breakwater so steel-clad that he still couldn’t blow it. He most certainly could.
And he could do it right here, and right now. Fortunately, he knew how and when to choose his battles.
“Of course I would not stand against the express will of my king,” Breakwater said at last, bowing his head slightly toward Edward. “If he truly believes this is necessary, I will accept his decision.”
He shifted his gaze to Dapplelake. “I trust, My Lord, that the weapons and crews you promised will be delivered to my other corvettes in a timely manner?”
“They will,” Dapplelake said. “As has already been noted, we all have the same interest in adding more armed vessels to the Star Kingdom’s spaceways.”
“Then I believe we are adjourned,” King Edward said gravely. “Thank you all for coming. My Lord Burgundy, a moment more of your time, if you please.”
Breakwater remained silent as he and Winterfall walked from the palace to their waiting car. With every step Winterfall felt his own tension ratcheting upward as he waited for the inevitable explosion, and wondered how much of it would be directed at him.
Because he should have seen this coming. He really should. He’d noted the sudden flurry of private meetings over the past few days between the Prime Minister, Defense Minister, and members of the Admiralty. But he’d put it down to an attempt at damage control in the wake of Salamander’s less than impressive encounter with Izbica and the men who’d commandeered her.
He’d accepted the scenario of Burgundy and Dapplelake scrambling to shore up support. It had never occurred to him to think they might pick that moment to go on the offensive.
They reached the car and got in. Breakwater closed the door behind him, and Winterfall braced himself.
“Interesting,” the Chancellor murmured.
Winterfall shot him a sideways look. Breakwater’s profile was no angrier than his voice. “Excuse me, My Lord?” he asked carefully.
Breakwater smiled tightly. “Relax, Gavin—I’m not angry with you,” he assured the younger man. “Surprisingly, I’m not even angry with Burgundy and his sledgehammer tactics. Intrigued, but not angry.”
Winterfall frowned. He hadn’t seen anything from the Prime Minister that could be construed as sledgehammer.
“I’m not sure I understand, My Lord.”
“Oh, come on,” Breakwater chided. “Surely by now you’re able to read between the man’s lines. He was prepared to go to the mat for those battlecruisers. Including, I dare say, calling in years’ worth of favors.” He lifted a finger. “The question is why? And why now?”
“I presume because the King wants them reactivated.”
“Yes, but why?” Breakwater persisted. “To pay off supporters? To spite me?” He shook his head. “No. Burgundy might do something like that. Not the King.”
“Personally, I wouldn’t have thought Burgundy capable of much of anything,” Winterfall murmured.
“That’s because you didn’t know him before King Michael,” Breakwater said ruefully. “He was quite the politician during Elizabeth’s time, with a firm grasp of his opponents’ weaknesses and a clear eye for pushing through whatever laws or policies his sovereign wanted.” He shook his head. “I’d assumed that age and the lack of a strong monarch had simply sapped his strength. I appear to have miscalculated.”
Winterfall turned that one over in his head. Only minutes ago the Chancellor’s faction had been striding fearlessly through the Star Kingdom’s political waves. Now, suddenly, they seemed to have fallen in over their collective head. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll tell you what we’re not going to do,” Breakwater said. “We’re not going to make our stand on this issue. This smells too much like the aftermath of the Secour incident, and I have no intention of going through that kind of humiliation again. No, I think that for the moment we’ll support their move.”
“Support it?” Winterfall asked, frowning. “You mean actively, as opposed to staying on the sidelines?”
“Very actively,” Breakwater assured him. “For one thing we’re in the middle of a pirate crisis. For another, playing that card also all but requires them to turn over those remaining corvettes to us in a timely fashion.” He cocked his head. “In fact, if we work it properly, we may be able to make the cause and effect run backwards. That is, we make it look like the Navy gave us the corvettes in exchange for graciously allowing them to reactivate the battlecruisers.”
“Not much of a distinction,” Winterfall murmured.
“It’s all in the presentation, my boy,” Breakwater said. “For now, the perception of victory will be enough.”
He settled back against the cushion. “And sooner or later, Edward will have to show his hand. Once we find out what this is really all about, we’ll find a way to turn it to our advantage.”
Winterfall exhaled a huff of air. “I hope so.”
“Trust me,” Breakwater said. “Burgundy may be an excellent politician. But I’m better.
“Much, much better.”
* * *
The door closed, and it was once again just the two of them. “So you’re not going to tell them?” Burgundy asked.
“Not yet,” Edward said, feeling some of the tension draining away. He’d tried to hide it from Burgundy and Dapplelake, but he’d dreaded this confrontation. Dreaded what Breakwater and his allies would do in the face of Burgundy’s effective coup d’état.
And it wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot. On the surface, Breakwater had committed to supporting the Crown and the rest of the Cabinet. But Edward didn’t believe for a minute that that would be the end of it. Odds were that the Chancellor was merely treading water while he analyzed, considered, and strategized for his next move.
What that move would be Edward didn’t know. But it wouldn’t be good. Not for him, not fo
r Burgundy, and not for the Star Kingdom.
“Then when?” Burgundy pressed. “This is a serious threat, Your Majesty.”
“I almost wish it was,” Edward said with a sigh. “Threats can be faced and dealt with. The problem is that all we have are possible threats, and that argument isn’t going to get us anywhere. Not with Breakwater.”
“I’d say Gustav Anderman’s newly enlarged empire is more than just a possible threat, Your Majesty,” Burgundy countered. “I know he keeps saying he’s not in the expansion business, but somehow his territory keeps expanding. Add to that Haven’s assessment that the Silesian Confederacy is starting to look outside its borders, and we need to be rethinking the Star Kingdom’s security needs.”
“I do understand the problem, Davis,” Edward said mildly.
Burgundy ducked his head. “My apologies, Your Majesty,” he said. “I’m just…Anderman’s forces could conquer practically anyone in the area. Even Haven would have a serious fight on its hands. I’m just suggesting that reactivating our battlecruisers without Breakwater being totally on board will be like driving a car with the brakes still on.”
“I understand that, too,” Edward said. “And if I could be sure he would be on our side I’d bring him aboard in a heartbeat. The problem is that if he adds up all the ifs and gets zero, it would be worse than simply having the brakes on. He’d be hitching up a tow truck and pulling the opposite direction, back toward focusing all our efforts and resources on MPARS.”
Burgundy was silent a moment.
“I suppose you’re right, Your Majesty,” he said at last. “He doesn’t have the strength for a serious challenge, but he could still roil the waters and make things more difficult. As long as he isn’t demanding explanations, we might as well let sleeping dogs lie.” He eyed Edward closely. “But sooner or later, you’ll have to tell him.”
“Sooner or later, I will,” Edward assured him. “But he’ll keep for the moment.” He smiled. “Besides, Daddy just promised him a whole set of shiny new corvettes. With luck, he’ll take them back to his favorite corner and play with them for a while.”
“I hope you’re right, Your Majesty,” Burgundy said doubtfully. “If you’re not, there will be hell to pay.”
* * *
“You’re kidding,” Redko said, craning his neck to look over Chomps’s shoulder. “They’re sending you to MPARS?”
“That they are,” Chomps confirmed sourly, running his eyes down the tablet again. This was not what he’d expected.
08-5-76
BuPers Order 76-7762
(1) MT 1/c Townsend, Charles, RN01-962-1183, hereby detached RN duty effective 00:01, 22-5-76.
(2) MT 1/c Townsend, Charles, RN01-962-1183, assigned Temporary Duty MPARS, effective 00:01, 22-5-76.
(3) MT 1/c Townsend, Charles, RN01-962-1183, hereby assigned HMS Aries, CT05 effective 001:01 22-5-76.
(4) Transport MT 1/c Townsend, Charles, RN01-962-1183, to HMS Aries, CT05 hereby authorized, to be arranged BuPers/MPARS liaison at the convenience of the Service. (See attachment No. 1.)
LT CMDR George Sukowski
By direction of
ADMR Anastasiya Dembinski
BuPers RMN
“Hell on wheels,” Redko murmured, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry, buddy.”
“Hey, it could have been worse,” Chomps soothed. “I could have been tossed out completely.”
“You have been tossed out. Just like Calvingdell was.”
“Not exactly the same thing,” Chomps murmured. The last person he wanted to talk about right now was Countess Calvingdell.
“No, you’re right,” Redko said scornfully. “All that happened to her was that she got kicked out of the Defense Ministry and had to go back to a life of ease in Parliament.”
Chomps looked sharply at him. But Redko was still gazing at the orders on Chomps’s tablet, with no hint of secret knowledge or insight in his face.
“But I suppose they needed you to work on their new missiles,” Redko continued. He hesitated. “You know…I never thanked you for keeping my name out of things back at Casca.”
“Not a problem,” Chomps assured him. “The captain was ready to chew nails. No point in both of us catching the shrapnel.”
“I still appreciate it,” Redko said. “Especially—” he waved at the tablet “—with this.”
“Not a problem,” Chomps said again. “You know, I do have two more weeks before I have to report.”
“Right,” Redko said. “Maybe the orders will be countermanded.”
“Could happen,” Chomps said, knowing damn well that they wouldn’t. “Maybe MPARS will collapse.”
“Or maybe we’ll all die in an asteroid collision.”
“You’re a cheery one,” Chomps said. “I was thinking more along the lines that you’d have plenty of time to buy me a drink.”
“More than just one,” Redko said. “In fact, let’s start right now. We’re off-duty, right?”
Chomps checked his chrono. “Seven more minutes.”
“Seven minutes, then,” Redko said. “Start the clock. And if you ever need anything—anything at all—don’t hesitate to ask.”
“I will,” Chomps assured him. “And rest assured that I will collect. You can count on it.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Lieutenant Long?” the gruff voice echoed down the passageway of HMS Phoenix. “Sir?”
Travis came to a reluctant halt, taking the calming breath he’d taught himself to do at times like this. Senior Chief Osterman was a major pain in the butt, on a ship much of whose officer corps and enlisted personnel seemed to take a special pleasure these days in competing for honors in that position.
“Yes, Senior Chief?” he replied, catching one of the passageway handholds and bringing himself to a floating stop.
Osterman was about twenty meters away, moving from handhold to handhold toward him, deftly avoiding collisions with the other crew members also moving through the narrow space. Phoenix had its share of first-tour crewmembers bumbling awkwardly in the zero-gee, but long-time veterans like Osterman made it look quick and efficient.
At the moment, though, Osterman didn’t seem to be putting much effort into the quick part of that solution. In fact, now that Travis had stopped she seemed to be taking her time closing the rest of the gap between them. Travis waited, cultivating his patience and resisting the urge to order her to snap it up. He’d been on the other side of the line once, back when he was enlisted, and remembered all too well what it was like to have officers barking at you.
Finally, after a few seconds, and in her own sweet time, Osterman reached him. “I just wanted you to know, Sir,” she said in a voice that skated the same not-quite-insubordinate line, “that Captain Castillo wants to see you.”
Travis frowned, glancing at his uni-link to make sure it was active. It was. “I haven’t heard any such orders.”
“That’s because he doesn’t know it yet, Sir,” she said calmly. “But I guarantee he’s going to.”
So even Osterman’s department had heard. “Ensign Locatelli brought it on himself,” Travis said firmly.
Or tried to say it firmly. Even in his own ears the edge of defensiveness was painfully obvious.
Apparently, it was obvious to Osterman, too. “It was one of three separate tracking sensors,” she reminded him. “The next shift’s diagnostic run would have spotted it in a minute.”
“That diagnostic run was two hours away,” Travis countered. “What would have happened if you’d had to fire one of your autocannon sometime during those two hours?”
Osterman raised her eyebrows. “At…?”
“At whatever Captain Castillo decided needed shooting.”
Osterman’s expression was worse than any raised eyebrows could have been. And, to be honest, Travis couldn’t blame her.
Because, really, there wasn’t anything out there for Phoenix to shoot at. There were no invaders, no enemies—foreign or domestic—and the
last boogeyman who’d shown himself around these parts had vanished into the stardust nearly a century ago. There were supposedly pirates out there, but aside from the incident at Secour nine T-years ago none of them had so much as shown their noses.
There was the so-called “Izbica Incident” a couple of months ago, which the local newsfeeds and ’faxes had had a field day with. But the truth was that the freighter’s theft had been more along the lines of a hijacking than genuine ship-to-ship piracy. As far as any sort of outside incursion went, Manticoran space was about as secure as it was possible to be, and everyone knew it.
Still, what had happened to Izbica ought to serve as a wake-up call for everyone involved. If one ship could be hijacked in the Star Kingdom’s space, so could a second…and the only thing standing in the way of such a recurrence was a Navy staffed with competent people and equipped with fully functioning systems. If anyone could understand that, it really ought to be Osterman.
Besides, men and women who wore the RMN uniform were supposed to care about their jobs.
Osterman might have been reading his mind. “And you think you’re the only one who’s getting it right, Sir?” she asked politely.
“No, of course not,” Travis muttered. “But…”
He was saved by the twittering of his uni-link. He keyed it and raised it to his lips. “Long,” he said briskly.
“Bajek,” the voice of Phoenix’s Weapons Officer came from the speaker. “Report to the captain’s office immediately.”
Travis swallowed. “Aye, aye, Ma’am.”
“Commander Bajek?” Osterman asked knowingly as he keyed off.
“Yes,” Travis said sourly. Was the smug chief always right? “Carry on.” Turning in the zero-gee, he gave his handhold a tug and once again launched himself down the passageway.
“Learn to play the game, Lieutenant,” Osterman called quietly after him.
Travis glowered. Play the game. It was the same advice everyone else in the universe seemed ready and eager to give him. Learn to play the game. Never mind whether the game was good or bad or clean or rigged. Learn to play the game.
