Shadow of Victory

by David Weber

  “Is that us?!” Somerset demanded through her tears as the entire boulevard erupted in exploding vehicles, bodies, pieces of bodies, and spiraling clouds of flame.

  “I don’t know,” Breitbach said hoarsely. “Probably.” He shook his head sharply. “We didn’t tell our people not to participate in the demonstration—we never saw this coming! Damn it, the son of a bitch invited demonstrations with his frigging talk about elections! Who’d have thought even he—?!”

  He made himself stop and draw a deep breath, then turned to look into Somerset’s tear-filled brown eyes.

  “I don’t know,” he said more quietly as yet another Scorpion blew up. “But who the hell else on Mobius has access to antitank launchers? Only us, courtesy of Dabilenaren and his friends!”

  “But you never authorized anything like that!” Somerset jerked her head at the chaos on the HD.

  “No, I didn’t, but some of our cell leaders—Kazuyoshi Brewster comes to mind—might’ve decided to deploy them anyway.” He bared his teeth. “In fact, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if that’s exactly what happened. I know Glenda helped plan the march, and Kaz has access to the weapons cache in Allerton. It would be like him to cover his wife’s bets this way.”

  “And he’s always been a loose warhead,” Somerset said harshly.

  “One way to describe him,” Breitbach acknowledged. “But he’s also a good man, and if Lombroso and Yardley hadn’t pulled this shit”—he jabbed an index finger at the HD—“no one would ever’ve known they were there. I’m not saying I’m not pissed off at him for running that risk, Yolanda. But God knows how many more of those people would already be dead if those launchers weren’t there.”

  “You’re probably right,” she conceded, “but what’s this going to mean down the road?”

  “If I had the answer to that question, I’d be God and we wouldn’t need the Liberation Front to deal with Lombroso,” he replied grimly. “I’m willing to bet he’s going to scream for outside help, though.”

  He climbed out of bed and reached for his clothing.

  “I’ve got to talk to Kayleigh,” he said. “Send her the code for the Bendan Terrace apartment.”

  * * *

  “Well, this sucks.” Commodore Francis Thurgood tossed the hardcopy report onto his desk. “I really, really don’t want to hear this kind of shit, Sadako!”

  “I’m aware of that,” Captain Merriman replied rather more serenely than most of Thurgood’s subordinates would have, given his tone. On the other hand, Captain Merriman had certain advantages those other subordinates didn’t have. “I’m your senior intelligence officer, though, remember? I’m afraid that makes it my job to bring you this sort of news.”

  “I know,” Thurgood growled, leaning back in his chair and running his fingers through his hair. “I know! And however little I may like it, the truth is, I’d a hell of a lot rather have you giving me good intel than the kind of crap Yucel and that bitch Crandall prefer! Or preferred, I guess I should say in Crandall’s case.” He shook his head. “You know, I’m not a big fan of the Manties, but if I could figure out how, I’d send Gold Peak a case of champagne for taking Crandall off the board!”

  “I agree. On the other hand—speaking as someone with a proprietary interest in your continued well-being, as well as as a dutiful intelligence officer—I should probably point out that going around saying that to anyone else might not be the very best idea you ever had.”

  “Point taken.” He managed a genuine smile.

  “Better,” she said, and crossed to perch on the corner of his desk. She was little more than two thirds his height, and she looked absurdly young to be wearing a captain’s uniform. Of course, she was third-generation prolong, and Thurgood was only second-generation.

  “Now,” she continued, “do you want to hear my analysis of what this is likely to mean for us?”

  “I would,” he replied, and meant it. Sadako Merriman wasn’t just the woman he’d fallen in love with; she was also the best intelligence officer he’d ever had.

  “All right. If the Admiralty’s serious about being ‘more proactive’ out in the Verge with these new wonder missiles from Technodyne, we’re probably going to see at least some of them coming our way, given our proximity to the Manties’ Talbott Quadrant. How soon we see them’s another question, of course. And, frankly, if what we’ve been hearing about the Manties’ missiles is anywhere near accurate, I’m inclined to doubt Technodyne just happens to have a real equalizer in its back pocket.”

  “So you think this is all moonshine and hot air?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “No, I’m inclined to believe Technodyne really did have something better than they handed Tyler at Monica. I just find it hard to believe they’ve got something—got anything—as good as the Manties’ current-generation hardware. You and I both know there’s nothing magic about the Manties’ missiles, but they damned well spent a long time developing them. There’s no way Technodyne’s come up with matching weapons this quickly.

  “The problem, of course, is that our esteemed Battle Fleet colleagues and civilian superiors are likely to be clutching at straws. Or, rather, the civilians are going to be clutching at straws and Battle Fleet’s head is so far up its collective ass that it’s in acute denial over Manty weapons capabilities. So both sets of idiots are going to push this ‘proactive’ stance, if not for exactly the same reasons.”

  “Which brings us to our immediate civilian superiors,” Thurgood growled.

  “Exactly.” Merriman’s expression turned grim. “I’m not sure what’s going on with Hongbo, and I know Verrocchio’s scared as hell that the Manties are going to come our way if the situation keeps going farther and farther into the crapper. I don’t know if he’s scared enough yet, though, and Yucel sure as hell isn’t. I know the Gendarmerie imposes strict IQ limits on its brigadiers, especially the ones it sends out to the Verge, but she’s exceptionally stupid even for one of them. She’s going to eat this ‘proactive’ stuff up with a spoon, and she’s going to push Verrocchio to think exactly the same way.”

  “And if she succeeds, Verrocchio really is likely to see the Manties come calling,” the commodore said glumly. “At which point, he’ll expect us to do something about it.”

  “Exactly,” his intelligence officer said again.

  * * *

  “Vincent!”

  Vincent Frugoni paused and turned around as someone called his name. A tallish, fair-haired man farther down the slidewalk waved to draw his attention, and Frugoni stifled a frown. What he wanted to do was to keep right on walking; what he actually did was to step off the belt and wave back.

  “Jerome,” he said in greeting as the other man caught up and stepped off beside him. “What can I do for you?”

  “Just wanted to touch base,” Jerome Luther replied, shaking the proffered hand. “I’ve got a lead on the real reason Parkman was screaming for all that extra security the day your sister was killed. And if my source is right, and if I can confirm it, then it was just as frigging stupid as you and your brother-in-law have said it was all along. There wasn’t any credible ‘threat.’ He wanted the paperwork to justify an increase in TSE’s budget here in Swallow, and he figured the memos going back and forth between his people and Karaxis would provide it.”

  “And you really think you’re going to get that confirmed?” Frugoni asked skeptically. There were times he believed Luther truly was determined to unravel the whitewash of Sandra’s death. Most of the time, though, he remembered the newsy worked for the Nixon Foundation. Besides, even if he got his information confirmed, it wouldn’t change anything. Nobody back in the League cared what happened someplace like Swallow, and the Shuman Administration sure as hell wasn’t opening any investigations!

  “Probably not,” Luther conceded. “Not going to keep me from trying, though.” He grinned suddenly. “By now, Shuman, Karaxis, and Parkman have me so frigging pissed I’ll keep right on digging if only to piss them off
back!”

  “Well, that’s refreshingly honest!” Frugoni said with a genuine chuckle. Luther’s charm was one of his stocks in trade, and despite himself, the ex-Marine couldn’t help liking him.

  “Yeah, I guess it is. Well, see you around.”

  “Sure.” Frugoni shook hands again and turned back towards the slidewalk to the air-car park, but Luther snapped his fingers loudly.

  “Oh, almost forgot!” he said. “Picked up an interesting tidbit. Something that might interest your in-laws…assuming, of course, that there was any truth at all to the base canards being leveled against them by the Administration.”

  “What sort of tidbit?” Frugoni’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  “It appears Frontier Fleet’s planning some sort of change in its deployment stance. Something to do with Manticore—or that’s what I hear. And as part of whatever the hell they’re doing, they just pulled out Deston’s destroyers.”

  The Solarian newsy had stopped smiling. His brown eyes met Frugoni’s blue gaze very levelly, and Frugoni reminded himself not to frown. Nobody in Tyrone Matsuhito’s Inspectorate Five would find a chance encounter between him and Luther surprising or particularly alarming, given the newsy’s entire ostensible reason for being in Swallow to begin with. But they might just wonder why Luther was telling him that Commander Francine Deston and her destroyer division—the only Solarian naval units in the entire star system—had been pulled out.

  Of course, I’m not to sure why he’s telling me, the retired noncom thought. Or whether or not he’s telling me the truth. I guess it’s always possible he approves of the CMM. On the other hand, he’s being funded by Rappaport, and Rappaport would love to see Tallulah taken down a peg. The only problem with that is the fact that Rappaport wants to take over from Tallulah, not see us kick all the transstellars out of Swallow.

  “That’s interesting…assuming it’s accurate, of course,” he said, after a moment. “If I happen to run into Floyd, I might mention it to him.”

  “And tell him I still want that interview!” Luther said with another grin. “I’ll even wear a blindfold while you escort me up into the mountains!”

  * * *

  “Well now, that’s right interesting,” Floyd Allenby said. He whipped the tip of his fishing rod expertly, and the fly landed exactly in the eddy from the mountain waterfall. “’Pears to me might be an opportunity here.”

  “Makes me nervous, Floyd,” his cousin Jason MacGruder replied, looking up from where he was cleaning the four sunburst trout Floyd had already reeled in. “Seems just a mite too…convenient, if you know what I mean.”

  “That’s because you’re a pessimist by nature, Jase,” Vincent Frugoni told him. The ex-Marine sat leaning back against a sunbaked boulder, open beer in hand while he watched the cousins work. “Mind you,” he continued, “pessimists are disappointed a lot less often than optimists.”

  “Why, thank you, Vinnie,” MacGruder said. “Soon’s I figure out whether that’s a compliment or an insult, I’ll know whether or not you get to eat tonight.”

  Frugoni chuckled, but his eyes were serious as he turned back to Allenby.

  “All I can tell you for certain, Floyd, is that all our contacts inside the Army, SFC, and Tallulah agree that Frontier Fleet’s pulled Deston out of the system.” He shrugged. “Obviously we can’t take that as gospel—our contacts could be wrong, or they could’ve been turned. And we don’t have as many of them as I’d like, anyway. But when all the ones I’ve been able to check with agree, then I think we have to go with the assumption that it’s probably true.”

  “And if it is?” Allenby asked, his eyes on his fishing fly. “You’re thinking it’s time for that—what did you call it? ‘Trojan horse,’ wasn’t it?—of yours?”

  “Maybe it is,” Frugoni said seriously. “We’ve got more people than we ever had before. Thanks to Eldbrand, we’ve got guns for them. Thanks to Lazlo and Rachel, we’ve got the pilots. And if the Manties come through with the naval support, we’re golden.”

  “Mighty big ‘if’ in there, if you don’t mind my sayin’,” MacGruder observed.

  “Gonna be a pretty fair-sized ‘if’ in anything we do, Jase,” Allenby replied thoughtfully. “And Vinnie’s got a point. Haven’t had our skies clear of Frontier Fleet bastards in a long time, and this time we’ve got the guns and the bodies to take advantage of it. Assuming Vinnie’s brainstorm works, of course.”

  “And also assumin’ we can take out Karaxis’ HQ on schedule. Hope you didn’t forget that minor detail.” MacGruder seemed extraordinarily placid about the possibility.

  “No. No, haven’t forgotten,” Allenby said. “Haven’t forgotten a thing.”

  JUNE 1922 POST DIASPORA

  “Damn. Wish he’d been smarter.”

  —Master Sergeant Alexandra Mikhailov

  Solarian League Marines (retired)

  Chapter Forty-Five

  “Clearance readiness from Junction Central, Ma’am,” Lieutenant Sughavanam announced. “We’re number ten for transit.”

  “Thank you, Traxton,” Ginger Lewis responded as the scarlet “10” appeared beside Charles Ward’s icon in her maneuvering display. Technically, the next few minutes were Dimitri Nakhimov’s responsibility, but no captain ever let someone else make her first wormhole transit. So instead of Nakhimov, she raised her eyes from the display to look at Angelina Dreyfus.

  “Put us in the outbound lane, Chief.”

  “Aye, aye, Ma’am,” Dreyfus replied. Skilled fingers played the control buttons set into her joystick with a maestro’s skill, and the three-million-ton starship responded with thistledown-grace. Ginger watched the icon on the maneuvering display settle exactly into its proper position, and then Dreyfus looked up from her own display.

  “In the lane, Ma’am.”

  “Nicely done,” Ginger acknowledged and switched her attention to the visual display.

  There was a strangeness to the traffic through the Manticoran Wormhole Junction’s termini. She was far from surprised to see it, but the strangeness still seemed profoundly…unnatural.

  It wasn’t so much that there was less traffic—although there was less of it—than that the inbound lanes were so sparsely populated, without the conveyor belt-like progression of incoming freighters, passenger liners, dispatch boats, and couriers. That was Operation Lacoön, she thought. Manticore’s far-flung merchant fleet had returned home, the traffic serving the Solarian League had ceased entirely, and while the traffic to non-Solarian destinations was actually picking up, there was still far less of it. According to her intelligence briefings, that non-Solarian traffic would be increasing, possibly dramatically, in the very near future, though. The abrupt cessation of the decades of cold and hot war with the Republic of Haven was in the process of opening enormous new economic possibilities for both nations, and a lot of the idled carrying trade was already picking up charters to Havenite destinations. Perhaps as much to the point, there were a lot of independent and nominally independent star systems in the Verge, and many of them would be delighted to trade with Manticore rather than the Solarian League…assuming the Star Empire was still around to be traded with.

  That was a qualifier she didn’t much like, and she told herself once again that she and her crew weren’t deserting their posts. It wasn’t like the CW—at least the crew had settled on that much, she thought, lips twitching in an almost-smile—could have contributed much to the system’s defense when the Solarian battle fleet everyone knew was en route actually arrived. Nor would the sizable detachment of cruisers and destroyers accompanying the CW to the Talbott Quadrant have made much difference to such a clash of titans. Somehow she doubted that made any of them any happier to be leaving at this particular moment than her own people were.

  Besides, she told herself, it’s not like Home Fleet hasn’t found a perfectly suitable replacement for our own mighty armament.

  She snorted mentally at that, her eyes on the endless chain of ships headed out of
the Manticore Binary System. Most were freighters and transports headed for Talbott, or for the repair yards at Trevor’s Star which were being upgraded as rapidly as possible to provide some fragment of the fleet support which had been lost in the home system. Others, however, were headed for the Beowulf Terminus, although there were fewer “freighters” in that transit queue than the casual observer might suspect. Or she hoped to hell any “casual observers” did suspect, anyway.

  Charles Ward moved steadily forward with the other Talbott-bound vessels. The far smaller—and more lethal—cruisers and destroyers ahead and astern of her were minnows beside her bulk, although she was dwarfed by the even larger vessels headed for Beowulf.

  CPO Dreyfus held their place in the outbound queue without further orders, and Ginger punched up Engineering as they neared the departure beacon. Kumanosuke Lawson’s face appeared on the small display by her right knee.

  “Engineering,” he acknowledged.

  “Commander,” she said, rather more formally than she might have spoken to another of her officers. “Stand by to reconfigure to Warshawski sail.”

  “Aye, Captain,” he said. “Standing by to reconfigure.”

  Ginger nodded and watched the cruiser ahead of the CW drift farther forward. The other ship hesitated for just an instant, and then blinked out of existence, and the number on Ginger’s maneuvering display changed to “1.”

  “Cleared to transit, Ma’am,” Sughavanam said.

  “Good. Tell Junction Central thanks,” she replied, and looked back at Dreyfus. “Take us in, Chief.”

  “Aye, aye, Ma’am.”

  Charles Ward drifted ahead at only twenty gravities, aligning herself perfectly on the invisible rails of the Junction, and Ginger watched her display intently. It was a good thing the RMN believed all its engineering officers should be bridge-certified “just in case.” There’d been plenty of times when she’d seriously resented the requirement that an engineer spend time in maneuvering simulators and on actual starships’ bridges. Then again, she’d never expected to find herself commanding a starship, either. Or, at least, not without a stint as a major hyper-capable ship’s XO first!