by David Weber
And that would be folly, because the RMN that Dapplelake envisioned was still the wrong way to go. Big ships were impressive, but what the Star Kingdom needed was a fleet of smaller, more agile ships that could swarm an invasion force and destroy it. The two MPARS corvettes—and Casey herself, for that matter—had clearly demonstrated that the military doctrine of bigger and better battlecruisers was a dead end.
Manticore didn’t need more battlecruisers. What it needed was more and better system defense craft.
What it needed was a larger and more powerful MPARS.
“You coming?”
With a start, Winterfall realized that during his ruminations he’d fallen behind. “Yes, My Lord,” he said, hurrying to catch up. Cazenestro, he suspected, would be on the net within minutes, pushing the RMN’s agenda.
He and Breakwater needed to get there first.
* * *
And suddenly, it was over.
Metzger gazed at the tactical, afraid to believe it. Surely Tamerlane was just repositioning his ships in the wake of his second battlecruiser’s destruction. He was heading out to regroup somewhere near Sphinx, or maybe with an eye toward crossing over to Manticore-B and harassing Gryphon and the completely underequipped Red Force guarding it.
But the invaders’ behavior didn’t fit either scenario. In fact, as the enemy ships poured on gravs and their individual vectors stabilized it was clear that all of them were heading for the hyper limit as fast as they could get there. By the time they reached it they would be spread over a good hundred fifty degrees of sky.
They weren’t regrouping. They were running.
She swiveled in her station to look at Locatelli. The admiral was also studying the tactical, his eyes flicking between the displays and the incoming status reports from the rest of the Manticoran forces.
He seemed to sense her eyes on him and looked up, and for a moment their eyes met. Unconsciously, Metzger braced herself, waiting for the order to do whatever Invincible could to adjust her own vector to pursue…
“Open com to all ships,” he ordered. “Send the following: This is Admiral Locatelli. All ships are to break off any attacks that cannot be launched within the next ten minutes and make for Manticore orbit. Repeat: all ships are to break off any non-pending action and return to Manticore.”
Metzger glanced around the bridge. Judging from the bridge crews’ expressions, they were about evenly split between those who were relieved it was over and those who weren’t quite yet ready to give up.
Locatelli must have sensed that, too. “While I believe we have repulsed this invasion of our kingdom,” he continued, “it’s conceivable that our attackers have more ships at their immediate disposal, in which case this apparent retreat may be a ruse to lure us out of position to defend our homeworld. In addition, we have many injured aboard our vessels, some of whom require more extensive treatment than we can currently give them.”
Metzger looked around again. The fire was slowly fading from the faces of the eager-beaver contingent as they saw the logic behind Locatelli’s decision.
A logic which he had no need to lay out for them, she knew. He was Admiral Carlton Locatelli, System Commander of the Royal Manticoran Navy, one step below First Lord Cazenestro, two steps below Defense Minister Dapplelake, three steps below King Edward himself. Locatelli ordered; his men and women obeyed. That was all there was to it.
But he hadn’t simply given the order. He’d taken the time to bring his people into his confidence and to show them the reasons behind his decision.
There were instances, Metzger reflected, when there was no time to offer explanations. By taking the time here, Locatelli had now planted the seeds of confidence that his officers and spacers would carry when those other instances arose.
One of the marks of a good commander, and Metzger carefully tucked it away for future reference.
“And as you secure from battle,” Locatelli went on, “I want you to know that I am immensely proud of each and every one of you. Today, the Royal Manticoran Navy was given far more than it could chew.” He smiled tightly. “And we chewed it. Congratulations to you all.”
He gestured. “Transmission sent, Admiral,” Warren confirmed from the com station.
“All defenders have broken off, Sir,” McBride reported from CIC. “Though a couple of them seem to be taking their time about heading to Manticore.”
“I see them,” Locatelli said. “Our two MPARS ships. Probably waiting for orders from their own chain of command.”
“Or else they’re concerned about that last enemy destroyer,” Metzger offered. “I note that Damocles is also still on station.”
“Yes, I see,” Locatelli said. “Given the remaining Group Three bandit’s squishy exit vector, Captain Marcello may be waiting to make sure she’s actually leaving.” He snorted gently. “Or else he’s making sure the MPARS ships aren’t left alone.”
“So that he can protect them?” Metzger asked.
“Or to make sure they aren’t involved in any heroics on their own,” Locatelli said. “As I said, Aries and Taurus may still be waiting for orders, and Breakwater may be looking for an opportunity.”
Metzger felt her lips compress. Politics. Coming off a desperate battle, with the survival of the entire Star Kingdom hanging by a thread, and all Locatelli could think about was the whole Navy/MPARS political feud?
Of course he could. And he probably should. Someone had to keep Breakwater under control.
“Chief Warren, get me a signal to Manticore,” Locatelli said into Metzger’s thoughts.
“Yes, Sir. Ready, Admiral.”
“This is Admiral Locatelli, commander of the Green One and Green Two Home Defense forces,” Locatelli called. His voice was subtly different, Metzger noted. Richer, deeper, more commanding. A voice for Parliament and the people. A voice for the ages. “We have met the enemy. He is vanquished. We have spilled our blood upon the field of combat. The field remains ours. We have faced doubts about our strengths and resolve. Those doubts are ended. A long life to the King, and may the Star Kingdom endure forever.”
He gestured, and Warren again cut off the com. “Very stirring, Sir,” McBride said, sounding a little bemused. “A bit short, though, wasn’t it?”
“Shorter is always better, Commander,” Locatelli assured him. “The time for long speeches will come. Chief Warren, signal Damocles. Tell Marcello he’s authorized to remain on scene until he’s sure the threat in that area has ended.”
“Yes, Sir, I’ve been trying to raise Captain Marcello,” Warren said uncertainly. “I’m not getting anything.”
“What do you mean?” Metzger asked, shifting her eyes to the proper display. Damocles’s wedge was there on the gravitic, which meant reactor and impellers were still functioning.
“I’m not getting any response to my transmissions,” Warren said. “Something must have happened. Something bad.”
“I see,” Locatelli said. “Signal Swiftsure to head over there and assess the situation.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Thank you,” Locatelli said. “Captain Metzger?”
“Sir?”
The admiral took a deep breath…and as he did so, some new age lines seemed to settle in across his face.
It was an illusion, Metzger knew. A person’s face couldn’t really age that quickly or that visibly. But the sense nevertheless remained.
The admiral let out the breath in a long sigh. “Take us home, Allegra,” he ordered quietly.
Metzger nodded. And wondered distantly if she perhaps had a few new age lines of her own. “Yes, Sir. Heading home.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Admiral Locatelli finished his statement, and for a moment the palace conference room was silent. Surreptitiously, Winterfall studied the other faces gathered around the table, trying to read their reactions to the report.
The analysis wasn’t hard. Nor was it in the least bit surprising.
Prime Minister Burgundy, Defens
e Minister Dapplelake, and First Lord of the Admiralty Cazenestro were solidly behind Locatelli. Chancellor Breakwater, Secretary of Industry Baron Harwich, and former Defense Minister Lady Calvingdell weren’t convinced. The rest of the Cabinet members were more or less neutral.
As for King Edward…
The King was sitting aloof at the head of the table, his expression and body language suggesting that he was trying to stay above the politics roiling across the table beneath him.
As, really, he should be. He was the monarch, and his job was to somehow weld all the disparate elements and points of view into a functioning whole.
Or perhaps his distance was more personal. He had mourned the death of his son, as had all of Manticore, as he had mourned the other losses of that terrible day. But the scars would remain, as would the pain, for a long time.
Still, as Winterfall studied the King, he had a sense that there was something more going on behind those dark eyes. Something that wasn’t just the concern and anxiety that everyone around the table was feeling.
Something he was waiting for, and expecting.
Edward let the silence go on another second. Then, he nodded gravely toward Locatelli. “Thank you, Admiral,” he said. “The Star Kingdom is immensely grateful for your courage and commitment, and for the courage and commitment of the rest of the Navy—and MPARS—” he added, nodding in turn toward Breakwater, “—in repulsing this unexpected attack. I know that everyone around this table has questions, and we’ll endeavor to give all of you a chance to raise them in the time we have left before Parliament convenes.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Locatelli said. “Before we move on, there’s one other matter I’d like to bring up.”
And there it was. The words, the tone, and the body language all made it clear. Whatever Locatelli was about to say, it was something he and the King had already set up.
Winterfall shot a look at Breakwater. The Chancellor’s eyes were narrowed, his torso a few centimeters forward from the back of his chair. Winterfall hadn’t been given advance notice of this; clearly, neither had Breakwater.
And that had been a mistake. A serious one. In the current confused fog swirling through the Star Kingdom, it wasn’t a good idea to cut out one of the major political players. Throwing something at Breakwater without giving him a chance to consider it first was an invitation for immediate opposition.
“I note that Defense Minister Dapplelake and First Lord of the Admiralty Cazenestro have recommended several RMN officers and enlisted for the Manticore Cross and the Cross of Military Valor,” Locatelli said, his tone going subtly more formal. “As most of you already know—” he glanced around the table, his eyes lingering a bit on the least militarily astute among the group “—these awards are the highest honors that can be bestowed on military personnel who have shown exceptional valor in the face of an enemy. The Manticore Cross is awarded to officers, while the Cross of Military Valor is reserved for enlisted.”
All of which Winterfall knew, though up to now the award protocol had been mostly a matter of historical interest. Only one MC had ever been awarded, to Captain Franklin Casey, and that had been over a hundred years ago. As far as Winterfall knew, no one had ever received the Cross of Military Valor.
“What I’m proposing,” Locatelli continued, “is a change in designation to something more personal and, as future generations look back, something more relevant to the Star Kingdom’s history.”
And then Winterfall got it.
The Manticore Cross, one of which was already slated to be posthumously awarded to Locatelli’s nephew, was going to be renamed the Locatelli Cross.
Winterfall looked at the King, his mind churning with a mixture of chagrin at the manipulation and grudging admiration at the subtlety. With Admiral Locatelli standing as the undisputed hero of the battle, as well as being the public face of the Navy, the Cabinet could hardly deny him that small bit of glory. Certainly not with the nation still riding the emotional rush of Manticore’s victory.
The subtlety came in the way that glory would feed straight back into the admiral’s own prestige. Having his name attached to the nation’s highest military honor would give him a small but significant bit of extra psychological leverage as Parliament settled down to make the hard decisions about the future of the Star Kingdom’s defense strategy. And as Winterfall had seen time and again, major decisions often hinged on the tiniest of margins.
The real genius of it was that there was nothing Breakwater could do to stop him. Rejecting Locatelli’s request would come across as the most petty and vindictive of political actions, a mud ball that would bounce straight back at the Chancellor. There wasn’t even the option of compromise—either the Manticore Cross became the Locatelli Cross, or it didn’t, with no middle ground.
The fact that the King was clearly backing Locatelli’s play made it all the more pointless to oppose it.
But that didn’t mean Breakwater wouldn’t try. Winterfall knew the man, and knew that he would stand by his convictions and fight to hold onto his territory no matter what the cost.
“Accordingly,” Locatelli continued, “and keeping in mind the tremendous heroism and skill involved in the reactivation of HMS Phoenix’s laser and the subsequent destruction of an enemy battlecruiser—”
Breakwater leaned forward a little more in his seat, and Winterfall sensed him bracing himself for combat—
“—I propose that the Cross of Military Valor be renamed the Osterman Cross.”
Winterfall stared at Locatelli, feeling the profound sense of having all the wind sucked straight out of his sails. The Osterman Cross?
And an instant later felt a flush of shame. Of course the King hadn’t been playing politics with this. Not the Battle of Manticore, where for a few hours the very existence of the Star Kingdom had hung in the balance. What the public needed now was the trust in their leaders, and the confidence that their defenders were up to their role.
They needed heroes. And Locatelli and the King were giving them one.
Winterfall looked at Locatelli, another small rush of shame rolling through him. He’d never really liked the admiral. But today, at least for a little while, he could respect him.
“An excellent suggestion, Admiral,” King Edward said, nodding. “There’s an official procedure to go through, but I have no doubt that the name change will be approved.” He looked around the table, as if daring anyone to object.
And for once, even Breakwater was silent.
“Then let’s move on to questions,” the King continued. “My Lord Burgundy, perhaps you would care to start.”
* * *
“I wanted you to know,” Heissman said, gazing up from his desk with an unreadable expression on his face, “that I put in for a Conspicuous Gallantry Medal for you.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Travis said, feeling an odd warming inside him.
Though like every other emotion that he’d felt over the two weeks since the battle, the warmth was stained with darkness.
He was relieved he’d survived, of course, and equally relieved that so many others had done likewise.
But too many hadn’t. Far too many. Five ships had been destroyed completely, including every other ship in Janus Force. Many other ships, like Casey herself, had come away with serious damage and loss of life, either from enemy fire or catastrophic failure of their own run-down systems.
Given all that, even talking about awards felt painfully premature, if not flat-out obscenely morbid. But Admiral Locatelli was already well on his way to grabbing the lion’s share of the credit for the victory, both in Parliament and with the media. It was only right that the rest of the heroes—the true heroes, in Travis’s opinion—got some of the recognition before Locatelli made off with all of it.
“Don’t get too excited,” Heissman said sourly. “The request was denied.”
The warm feeling vanished. “Sir?” Travis asked in confusion.
“Certain persons in autho
rity,” Heissman said, pushing through the words as if he were trudging through a set of snow banks, “are of the opinion that your ideas were mostly luck, and that their success relied on both that luck and on the overall competency of Casey’s officers and crew.”
“Yes, Sir,” Travis said. “I mean…well, of course it was a ship-wide effort. Ideas aren’t worth anything without teamwork and—”
“And teamwork alone isn’t enough when you’re facing impossible odds,” Heissman cut him off brusquely. “Which I attempted to make clear. You’ll still get the same Royal Unit Citation medal as everyone else aboard—they can’t deny you that—but career-wise, I’m afraid you’re going to be lost in the general shuffle.” He stared hard at Travis’s face. “I get the feeling you have an enemy or two in high places, Lieutenant.”
Travis winced. What was he supposed to say to that? “I haven’t deliberately invited any animosity, Sir,” he said, choosing his words carefully.
“Deliberately or not, you’ve apparently succeeded,” Heissman said. “I’m guessing the latest batch is coming from your time aboard Phoenix.”
Travis felt his lip twitch. Yes; the late Ensign Fenton Locatelli, nephew of the now famous and highly acclaimed hero of Manticore. Even before the battle Admiral Locatelli probably had had enough clout to prevent Travis from getting any awards. Now, it was a foregone conclusion.
But there was nothing Travis could do about it. And even if there was, he wouldn’t have bothered to try. Compared to the sacrifice so many men and women had made to protect their worlds, his own modest contributions seemed pretty small. “I do appreciate your efforts, though, Sir,” he said. “If that’s all—”
“Not quite,” Heissman rumbled. “Let me start with the obvious. I know this sort of thing is a kick in the shin, but I wouldn’t spend too much time worrying about it. There are plenty of political animals in the Fleet. But kilo for kilo, there are a lot more of the rest of us.”
The rest of us meaning those who wanted to do their jobs to the best of their ability? Or was Heissman also including the drifters who really didn’t care where they were as long as they pulled a steady pay voucher?
