by David Weber
* * *
“To tomorrow,” Gensonne said, lifting his glass toward the com screen.
“To tomorrow,” Llyn echoed, his image lifting his in turn.
It was an odd dinner, Gensonne thought as he set his glass back on his table. Bizarre, even, if one thought too hard about it. He’d originally invited Llyn to Odin for a last meal together before they reached Danak and Llyn’s promised missile upgrade could begin. Part of the invitation had been to see what additional information he might be able to worm out of Llyn on various subjects; part of it had been to have the option of politely insisting Llyn stay in his sight during the early stages of the operation, just in case.
Maybe Llyn had sensed that second part lurking under Gensonne’s courtesy. Maybe he had preparations of his own to make before Danak and simply didn’t want to be away from his ship even for a couple of hours this close to the end of their voyage.
Or maybe he felt that it was time for him to host one of their infrequent dinners. He’d counteroffered to treat Gensonne this time around, an invitation that the Volsung admiral had likewise found an excuse to decline.
And so here the two of them sat, eating in their individual ships, conversing via com like people in a long-distance relationship.
Still, if the second part of Gensonne’s plan was out, the first was still viable. He’d been watching Llyn’s alcohol intake closely, paying particular attention to the minute but clear evidence of impaired motor skills. Now, as the meal drew to a close, was his best chance at persuading the little man to get talkative.
“So tell me, Mr. Llyn,” Gensonne said as he forked one last bite of steak. “How smoothly do you really think this is going to go?”
“That’s always hard to predict out here on the frontier,” Llyn said with a shrug. He took another sip from his glass and returned it to his table. “I don’t expect any problems, though. The schedule’s a bit tight, but I’m fairly confident Katura will have managed to make it to Nouveau Paris and then back to Danak in time.”
“If he didn’t?”
“Then you’ll have to hang around outside the hyper-limit until he gets back, I’m afraid,” Llyn said. “But aside from the boredom factor, that shouldn’t be anything to worry about. I doubt they’ll be worried if we behave ourselves and the authorization comes through within a day or two. There’s always a little slippage in interstellar arrangements.”
Gensonne nodded. The Axelrod operative had said all the right things about the Volsungs’ future utility to his employers, and what he’d said made sense.
On the other hand, what he’d said before the attack on Manticore had also seemed to make sense.
But Llyn was damned straight that the squadron was staying safely outside the limit if the expected invitation hadn’t gotten back from Haven. Gensonne wasn’t making any commitment until he was positive Llyn hadn’t arranged something nasty under the table.
If he had, then the last thing Gensonne would do before escaping back into hyper would be to send the slippery little bastard straight to hell.
“We’ll just have to hope any slippage is minimal,” he told Llyn. “I’d feel better if I knew exactly which local politician’s palm we had to grease. We will have to grease some politician’s palm, right?”
“I assume so,” Llyn said. “Rather, I’ll have to apply the grease—you won’t need to be involved with that part. Unfortunately, those names and faces often change out here. But the message Katura brings back from the Jerriais office in Nouveau Paris will take care of that.”
“You think we’ll only have to pay off one person?”
“Probably only one politician,” Llyn said. “There might also be a yard foremen or two with their hands out. But that should only be loose change by comparison.”
“And after that how long before I get my missiles?”
“Releasing the missiles shouldn’t take long,” Llyn assured him. “Not more than a day or so for the paperwork. As for the systems installation and then the actual loading, you’d have a better idea about that than I would. How long does a weapons upgrade like this usually take?”
“Depends on how urgently it’s pressed, and who’s doing the work,” Gensonne replied. “In a proper yard accustomed to military work, maybe a couple of weeks. In a civilian yard, it could take a month or longer. I’d feel happier if I knew where Jerriais falls on that scale.”
“No idea, I’m afraid,” Llyn said. “The people who handle Axelrod’s hardware could probably give you a decent estimate, but that’s not my department.”
“Right—your department is hiring mercenaries,” Gensonne said, watching the little man closely. “So what exactly does Axelrod want with Manticore, anyway? Is it something on one of the planets? Some extra-rich ores in one of the asteroid belts? It’s not the treecats, is it?”
Llyn pursed his lips, gazing hard at Gensonne. Gensonne studied his face, searching for signs of intoxication, wishing mightily that he could smell the other’s breath. “Well, I don’t suppose it will be a secret much longer,” Llyn said at last with a small shrug. “Besides, it will be obvious as soon as you get your next assignment. We want to turn Manticore into a staging area for an attack on the Andermani Empire.”
Gensonne sat up a bit straighter in his chair. They were going to take down Gustav?
“Seriously? Why?”
“Oh, now that’s still a secret,” Llyn said with a slightly hazy but distinctly smug smile. “Why, does it bother you?”
“No, no, exactly the opposite,” Gensonne assured him. “I have a bit of history with Gustav Anderman. I hope you’ll allow me to be present at his downfall.”
“Absolutely,” Llyn promised. “Why do you think we chose you for this job in the first place? So I take it you’re fully aboard?”
“Absolutely,” Gensonne said, feeling better than he had in days. In years. Revenge for the embarrassing freak defeat at Manticore and the chance to burn Gustav Anderman down to bedrock? Damned right he was aboard. “What’s our timetable?”
“Patience, Admiral,” Llyn reproved him mildly. “First the missiles, then Manticore, then Anderman.”
“Yes; the missiles,” Gensonne said, forcing his mind away from visions of vengeance against Uncle Gustav. “How exactly do you expect that to work?”
“I thought we’d already covered that,” Llyn said, frowning. “We go to the designated platforms—probably Bergen One since that was their most capable yard as of my last information. Once we arrive—”
“No, no, I mean the sequencing,” Gensonne interrupted. “Surely they won’t be able to refit all eight ships at the same time.”
“Probably not,” Llyn agreed. “It’ll also depend on how busy they are when we get there. Hopefully, they can do, say, four at once. Maybe more, but four’s a safe guess.”
“During which time the rest of the ships will just be sitting there?”
“Or taking a tour of the mining facilities, or going in for a closer look at the gas giant or the Twins, or buying reactor mass and fresh entertainment chips.” Llyn frowned again. “Why, are you worried that you’ll be bored?”
“I’m concerned about awkward questions from people we haven’t bribed,” Gensonne countered. “What’s going to keep those people and their questions off our backs?”
“That’s why we sent Katura ahead, remember?” Llyn said. “All your people have to do is to remember they’re part of the Imperial Andermani Navy.” He wrinkled his nose as he took another sip from his glass. “Though I’ll admit your ship types are a bit of an odd mix. Still, everybody knows—or assumes—Gustav keeps some nonstandard ships tucked away. Plausible deniability, you know, if that becomes necessary.”
“I imagine Axelrod’s also found that approach useful a time or two?” Gensonne suggested.
“Definitely,” Llyn said, his eyes briefly taking on a far-away look. “The point is, nobody’s going to question your ID as long as the paperwork from the home office says that’s who you are. And no on
e wants to get on Gustav’s wrong side without a damned good reason.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Gensonne said reluctantly.
“Of course I’m right,” Llyn assured him. “Oh, and I think I may have forgotten to tell you that they know me here as Max Baird, an agent for a rich Solarian merchant named Rowbtham. So don’t be surprised if you get a call for me by that name.”
“Understood,” Gensonne said. So the slippery little bastard was slippery here as well? Somehow, that didn’t surprise him.
“And now, I should go,” Llyn said, glancing at his chrono. “Big day tomorrow, with important screens to make and field. I need to be at my best.”
“As do we all,” Gensonne agreed. “It’ll be interesting to see how much dock space they have available.”
“If Captain Katura performed as well as he always has in the past, that information should be waiting for us when we check in with Danak Traffic Control.”
“All right,” Gensonne said. “We’ll talk again after we translate back to n-space.”
“Right.” Llyn reached toward the com control, then paused. “By the way, I trust you haven’t told anyone else about my connection with Axelrod?”
Gensonne felt his muscles tense. Which answer was Llyn expecting? More importantly, which one should he give him?
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “Knowledge is power. Shared knowledge is useless.”
He watched Llyn’s face closely. But there was nothing there but a contented nod.
“Good. My employers would be very annoyed with me if they knew our connection had gotten out. Good night, Admiral. Sleep well.”
“I will,” Gensonne said softly. So he’d given the right answer. Distantly, he wondered what would have happened if he’d given the wrong one. “You, too.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Travis Long felt very, very lonely as he sat at his station on Casey’s bridge.
They were thirty-one light-minutes from the Walther System’s fiery central furnace. Nine hours ago, the entire Andermani squadron had accelerated away, their impeller signatures disappearing from Casey’s sensors an hour after their departure.
Leaving Casey all alone.
He thought back to where this had started, back when he’d suggested that Clegg try to link up with the man they knew then as Captain Kane. Never would he have guessed that this was where it would all end.
What surprised him most was how much he’d grown to like and respect these people.
True, the Andermani could be a little stuffy, and there was that subtle but ever-present sense that they thought the Manticorans still had a lot to learn. But they’d been more than generous about teaching some of those lessons, and in many ways they’d treated Casey’s officers like the equals they definitely weren’t.
And they hadn’t had to agree to Captain Clegg’s request to leave the base and its computer files intact if possible.
Of course, it remained to be seen whether or not they’d agreed in good faith. And if Casey’s proposed tactic for dealing with the missile platforms didn’t work, the whole question would probably be moot anyway.
Those platforms weren’t especially well protected, but they mounted a lot of launchers. If they had the ability to manage that many missiles simultaneously, they were going to be dangerous as hell in a missile engagement. In fact, at that sort of range, the two of them were probably worth at least another battlecruiser, maybe even two.
Clegg’s approval of Travis’ idea for dealing with them had been another surprise. The fact that she’d given him credit even while officially putting her own neck on the line was also more than he had expected.
For his part, Basaltberg had been quick to come on board with the tactic, as well as with Clegg’s own suggested psychological warfare flourish to encourage the mercenaries’ mobile units to stand and fight.
“Lieutenant Lukanov?” Clegg said abruptly into the tense silence.
“Yes, Ma’am?” the astrogator replied.
“It’s time,” the captain said, her voice glacially calm. “Take us into hyper.”
* * *
HMS Casey blasted into normal-space just outside the Walther System hyper limit in a bleeding cascade of transit energy. They had arrived just under two-hundred-seventy-two million kilometers from Walther Prime, Travis noted from his board, and within seven thousand kilometers of Clegg’s designated locus.
And all on a ten-light-minute micro jump.
“Impressive job, Ms. Lukanov,” Clegg said. “Tell me how we line up.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Lukanov said, tapping rapidly on her keyboard. “If we accelerate at two hundred gravities for three-six-seven seconds, we can drop back and be right on profile.”
“Very good,” Clegg said. “Commander Woodburn, take us in.”
Unlike Casey’s first visit to Walther, this time she would make no effort to conceal her presence. She aimed at the point in space where Walther Prime would be in six hours and forty-two minutes and ran Lukanov’s specified numbers. Then, with the ship now exactly on her carefully planned profile, she reduced her acceleration to 190 G and bored straight in.
Travis sat back in front of his own panel, feeling the long hours that now stretched ahead of him. Against all doubts—his own as well as, he suspected, Lady Calvingdell’s—he and Chomps had actually pulled it off. With the backing of Delphi, Delphi’s training and equipment, a lot of hard work, and probably more than a little luck, they’d tracked Manticore’s attacker to his lair.
And yet, despite the satisfaction of that accomplishment—and despite Chomps’s assertion that Travis was a born spy—he was slowly coming to realize that the tactical officer’s chair was where he felt most comfortable. Sitting here, preparing to put himself, the men and women under his command, and his ship between his Star Kingdom and her enemies, was where he needed to be.
Even more, it was where he wanted to be.
That wasn’t where he thought he would end up when he first enlisted. The Navy had been an escape, both from the desolate wasteland of his life and from the more immediate threat of jail if he’d been incriminated in the robbery he hadn’t known was about to occur. It had offered him a haven, a refuge, and he’d grabbed it with both hands. In time, he’d discovered he was good at it, but in so many ways, it had still been just a job.
Yet even before the Battle of Manticore that had begun to change. Slowly, so slowly that he hadn’t even noticed it until now, the concept of a job or even a career had turned into a calling. Somewhere in those years he’d realized, only subconsciously at first, that there were people and principles he would die to protect.
He had no idea when that had happened. But it was where he stood now, though he would probably be too embarrassed and self-conscious to ever admit it out loud to anyone, except possibly Lisa.
He’d thought he was searching for rules and structure. Instead, what he’d really been searching for were clarity and purpose.
Ahead in the distance were eighteen warships belonging to a mercenary fleet which had already attacked his home once.
Whatever else happened, he thought darkly, these particular ships would never do that again.
* * *
There was really no way, Gensonne knew, that eight warships and a freighter translating into the Danak system in tight sequence could be seen as anything but someone’s military.
Fortunately, that was precisely the role the Volsungs were trying to play in the first place.
Not that he’d mind if the Danak authorities were just a little nervous. Llyn had said the Volsungs would be on the hook for the launchers’ installation, and long experience had shown Gensonne that nervous people were less likely to price-gouge their customers.
Of course, in this case there was an additional reason not to worry about Danakan anxiety. He was supposed to be an admiral of the Andermani Navy, and Emperor Gustav’s people didn’t spend their time worrying about other people’s tender sensibilities.
He scowl
ed at the displays. The formation had come in tight, but their translation locus was almost twenty-one light-seconds off, putting them better than ten light-minutes short of their most probable destination on a least-time course.
A genuine Andermani captain would probably ream someone out for that. Once they were underway, he would see about doing precisely that.
“Spin up our transponders,” he ordered Captain Imbar. “Andermani warships always respect the niceties of interstellar law. Just make sure we’re showing the right ones.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, the reply came.
“Andermani ship Winterfeldt, this is Danak Traffic Control,” a voice said from the bridge speaker. “Welcome to Danak. We’ve been expecting you. Jerriais Operations Manager Dostoyevsky sends her greetings, and Secretary of Industry Charnay has been asked to relay President Nelson’s welcome, as well.”
Gensonne leaned back in his chair, gripping the armrest tightly with satisfaction and released tension. So Llyn’s man Katura had made it to Haven and back with the necessary paperwork. Perfect.
He allowed himself a few seconds to gloat, then pressed the com stud.
“Thank you, Traffic Control,” he replied, giving free rein to the Andermani accent he’d spent years getting rid of. “This is Admiral Koenig of the Imperial Andermani Navy. I assume from your greeting that you know why we’re here?”
He leaned back, busying himself with status reports and fine-tuning the Volsung formation as he waited out the twenty-minute round-trip communications lag.
“We do, indeed, Admiral,” DTC’s voice came right on schedule. “We’ve been instructed to inform you that Master Rowbtham’s authorization for the work on your ships has been approved by the Jerriais office in Nouveau Paris. We only learned about the work order a day ago, but we’ve done some shuffling and I think we’ll be able to fit you in as expeditiously as Master Rowbtham’s requested.”
* * *
“Andermani ship Winterfeldt, this is Danak Traffic Control. Welcome to Danak. We’ve been expecting you.”
