Shadow of Victory

by David Weber

  “I’m aware of that, but your people paid almost as heavy a price—heavier, in absolute terms—than Duchess Harrington paid in Grayson. That’s something any Manticoran can admire.”

  Rozsak shrugged again, this time a little uncomfortably, and Abernathy let it drop.

  “I suggest we all sit down and get to it,” Barregos said after a moment, directing his guests to the small conference table. “Would either of you gentlemen like anything to drink? I anticipate being here a while, and snacks are available. On the other hand, Luiz here is something of a cook, and he’s offered to feed us all if we take a break in two or three hours.”

  “According to the Admiral’s dossier, ‘something of a cook’ is something of an understatement.” Ellingsen smiled. “I’ll gladly sit down to any meal he’d care to offer.”

  “I hope you still feel that way after you’ve eaten,” Rozsak said with an answering smile.

  “I’m not too worried about that, Admiral,” Ellingsen replied, and set his small briefcase on the table. He opened the sophisticated security locks and extracted a chip folio and a compact holo unit.

  “It occurred to me that we could save some time by letting Secretary Langtry explain things to you personally, Governor,” he said, and popped one of the chips into the player. A moment later, the distinguished image of Sir Anthony Langtry, Foreign Secretary of the Star Empire of Manticore appeared above the reader. He was seated behind a desk in an obviously formal setting, with the skyline of the city of Landing visible through the window behind his left shoulder. Ellingsen cocked an interrogative eyebrow at Barregos, and, when the governor nodded, pressed the play button.

  “Governor Barregos,” Langtry said, “I appreciate your willingness to continue these conversations with Mr. Ellingsen. Obviously, we—the Star Empire and the Maya Sector—have a great deal to discuss, and we’re not going to get all of it worked through in a single session. I feel it’s important for you to know precisely what we’re thinking here in Landing, however, so I’ve recorded this message. Mr. Ellingsen is fully in my confidence, and he can expand on any point where you feel additional clarification is necessary or desirable.”

  He paused for a moment, as if to allow that to settle, then continued.

  “Essentially, we find ourselves needing all the allies we can get. The Republic of Haven’s willingness to stand with us against Solarian aggression’s been a godsend. Frankly, especially after the Yawata Strike, I doubt our position would be survivable without President Pritchart’s full-blooded support. But ‘survivable’ isn’t necessarily the same as good, I’m afraid, and that doesn’t even consider this ‘Mesan Alignment’ we’ve only recently learned exists. As you and Admiral Rozsak are probably better aware than most, we possess a significant advantage in war-fighting capability at the tactical level. Strategically, our ultimate prospects are far less hopeful. The population base and industrial power of the Solarian League are many times that of the Star Empire and Republic of Haven, combined. Eventually, even Sollies—no offense”—he smiled tightly—“have to recognize our advantages…and seek to acquire the same capabilities for themselves.

  “Given enough time, they will succeed in doing exactly that.”

  Langtry paused again. This time his expression was bleak, and he sipped from the coffee cup on his desk before he resumed.

  “Our best—perhaps our only—hope is to defeat the League quickly, in the shortest possible war. In large part, to conclude hostilities before the League can fully mobilize its R and D against us, but also to end the fighting with as little additional loss of life and destruction of property as possible. The less damage we do, the fewer Solarians we kill, the better our chance of concluding a peace settlement that avoids the sort of revanchism which would send the League back to war with us as soon as its weaponmakers duplicate our advantages.

  “And that’s what brings us to Maya.”

  The foreign secretary looked directly into the camera.

  “It’s become clear the Mandarins will never conclude a negotiated peace. It’s stupid, and ultimately self-destructive, but they appear to be convinced they’ve crawled too far out on the limb to back down. They’re prepared to kill as many people as necessary to buy the survival of their personal power and the system that gives it to them, and the fact that they aren’t answerable to any effective political oversight is what’s allowed them to do that. So for any negotiated settlement to become possible, the Mandarins have to go. And because there’s no political mechanism to remove them, we must create a situation in which the League Assembly—or at least sufficient of the League’s member star system—create that mechanism out of a sense of self preservation.

  “We hope to convince them they must take action if the League is to survive. You no doubt know even better than I just how much outright hatred for Frontier Security and the League in general exists in the Verge, and how thoroughly justified it is. We propose to give that hatred, that legitimate yearning for independence from the political and economic system which has raped the Verge for so long, a voice in order to multiply the threats the Core Systems can recognize. We believe a flare of widespread unrest—and calls in Old Chicago from the threatened economic interests for its suppression—will generate a Core World perception, even among those who don’t realize how critical to the League government’s budget the revenues squeezed from the Verge truly are, that the League is sliding towards dissolution. Towards that end we’ve been promoting discussions with…action-oriented reform elements in many of the Protectorates and quite a few nominally independent star systems. It’s been our policy to avoid encouraging anyone we feel has a less than even chance of success, since it would do neither them nor our cause any service to promote rebellions which fail. Where we believe the chance of success exists, however, we stand ready to provide both weapons and naval support.

  “Obviously, I’m speaking to you because we’re aware, in at least a general sense, of your apparent plans in the Maya Sector. We believe an independent Maya under your governance would be a vast improvement over the present arrangement, and it would clearly be in our self-interest to engender friendly relations with such an independent star nation. It would also be in our interest to repair our relationship with Erewhon and generally shore up the strategic flank of both the Star Empire and the Republic of Haven in your vicinity.

  “Because of that, I now formally offer you an alliance with the Star Empire and the Republic. For obvious reasons, this isn’t something any of us would be announcing publically anytime soon. However, Mr. Ellingsen and Captain Abernathy are authorized to discuss with you what sort of military—and economic—support you might require in order to succeed in your…endeavor.”

  He paused again, then smiled slightly.

  “There’s an old, old piece of pre-diaspora political wisdom I think applies to all of the League’s adversaries. ‘If we don’t hang together, we will all hang separately.’ It would seem to me, and to my Empress and President Pritchart, that it would be far wiser of the Grand Alliance and the Maya Sector to hang together at this moment.

  “Langtry, clear.”

  * * *

  “Well, that’s a sight I never expected to see. Or that I never wanted to see rolling towards me, back in the day, anyway,” Captain Loretta Shoupe said.

  She, Commander Ambrose Chandler, and Captain Victoria Saunders stood with Augustus Khumalo in his ancient flagship’s CIC watching the displays. And, Khumalo had to admit he shared her sentiments; it wasn’t a sight he’d ever expected to see, either.

  “Just as glad no one expects me to repel the invasion,” Captain Saunders said dryly. “Hercules is a game old bitch, but she’d be just a bit outclassed by that.”

  She twitched her head at the display, and Khumalo snorted.

  “Vicki,” he told his flag captain, “no disrespect to Hercules, but if you even suggested going up against that kind of firepower, I’d not only relieve you of command, I’d have you committed!”

 
Eloise Pritchart and Thomas Theisman had done Lester Tourville proud when they detached him from the alliance’s Grand Fleet. Although he’d given up Vice Admiral Sampson Hermier’s entire task force and lost one superdreadnought squadron from each of his two remaining task forces, those task forces had each received two additional squadrons of battlecruisers and an additional flotilla of light cruisers in exchange. Altogether, the new, revised Second Fleet boasted two hundred and thirty-one warships. With its fleet train of attached ammunition and service ships, over two hundred and fifty Havenite starships were decelerating steadily towards Spindle…and thirty-two of them were modern SD(P)s, although—like Tenth Fleet’s existing superdreadnought strength—none were equipped with Keyhole-Two.

  “How much do we know about Tourville, Sir?” Saunders asked. “I know he was in command of the lead Peep—Sorry; I guess I’d better watch that. I mean, I know he was in command of the lead Havenite element when they hit Manticore. And I understand he commanded the ambush force that dropped out of hyper to box Filareta when the Sollies hit Manticore.”

  She shook her head, clearly still bemused by the speed with which the implacable hostility of the last five or six decades had disappeared.

  “I figure all of that—and the fact that they picked him to command these people”—she twitched a gesture at the display—“indicate he’s pretty good, but I don’t really have a feel for how good.”

  “I think that’s a question for my always well-informed staff,” Khumalo said and cocked his head at Chandler. “Ambrose?”

  “According to reports, Ma’am,” his staff intelligence officer told Saunders, “he’s more or less the Havenite version of Duchess Harrington. Or maybe Lady Gold Peak, actually, since he’s got a reputation as a cowboy, the sort of fellow who’d be comfortable on Montana.” Saunders chuckled, and Chandler shrugged. “I’m inclined to think that reputation’s…somewhat exaggerated, though. After all, there are those who’d describe Admiral Gold Peak the same way—that’s why I said he might be more a Havenite Countess Gold Peak than a Duchess Harrington—and we all know they’d be wrong about her. I think they’d be equally wrong about him, because I doubt a real ‘cowboy’ would’ve compiled the combat record he has. Duchess Harrington’s the only commander who’s ever beaten him, and he’s the only commander who’s ever beaten her, although, to be fair, the odds were sort of stacked in his favor that time.”

  “While you’re being ‘fair,’ Ambrose,” Loretta Shoupe said dryly, “you might want to remember that the last time Duchess Harrington beat him, she had Apollo…and he didn’t.”

  “That’s a valid point,” Khumalo agreed. “But the important thing here, Vicki, is that Admiral Theisman and President Pritchart have sent us the man who’s almost certainly the best fleet commander they have.” It was his turn to shake his head. “I would really, really hate to be the Solly admiral sent out to attack Talbott now that we’ve got both those cowboys—or cowgirls, as the case may be—to kick his ass,” he added in tones of profound satisfaction.

  * * *

  “Governor Medusa,” Lester Tourville said, stopping exactly three meters from Estelle Matsuko’s desk. He braced to attention and bowed ever so slightly—a nice balance, she decided, between the Republic of Haven’s aggressive egalitarianism and the sort of formality most people associated with monarchies. The treecat on his shoulder watched the two-leg ritual with bright, interested eyes…and what she suspected was amused tolerance.

  “Admiral Tourville,” she replied, rising and walking around the desk to extend her hand. “You are a most welcome visitor.”

  “Thank you, Milady,” he replied, shaking the offered hand, and his bushy mustache quivered slightly as he smiled. Then his expression sobered. “I’m afraid Manticorans haven’t always been happy to see me in the past. I hope that’s not going to be a problem for anyone out here.”

  “If it is, I assure you Admiral Khumalo, Admiral Gold Peak, and I will all stamp on it with both feet the instant it rears its head.” She met his gaze levelly, despite their substantial difference in height. “You fought for your star nation just as they’ve fought for theirs, and we all know a lot more now about why we were fighting each other. More to the point, your Navy stood up to confront the Solarian League with us despite how long we’ve been fighting one another. If we have any anti-Haven bigots out here, I want them to show themselves, because as soon as they do, I promise you they’ll be on their way home. And not with any glowing letters of commendation in their personnel files!”

  Tourville glanced from the corner of one eye at the treecat on his shoulder. The ’cat nodded ever so slightly, and Medusa carefully took no note of the interchange. She’d been informed that the treecats had begun providing what amounted to bodyguards for key members of the Grand Alliance’s leadership, although she hadn’t realized one had been attached to Tourville. Obviously, though, he’d already gotten into the habit of letting his six-limbed companion evaluate the sincerity of those with whom he came into contact.

  “I’m deeply relieved to hear that,” he told her soberly. “There are still people in my Navy, some of them on my own staff, who have…reservations about our cooperation with the Star Empire. Not on any sort of political or professional level, but more on a…personal one, I suppose. I imagine that’s inevitable, given how many of our friends and fellow officers—in both navies—have been killed fighting each other. But I assure you that you won’t find any ‘bigots’ in Second Fleet, either. Or, if you do, at least, they’ll be headed home on the same ship as your bigots.”

  “That sounds more than fair to me, Admiral,” Medusa said warmly. “And on behalf of myself, Prime Minister Alquezar and his Cabinet, and Admiral Khumalo and the Royal Manticoran Navy, I hereby invite you, your staff, and as many of your senior officers as you’d like to bring along for a banquet this evening. Regular service dress uniform will be fine. This isn’t going to be a tedious formal affair. Instead, Treasury Minister Lababibi has arranged the Spindle version of a clambake.” She smiled. “Be sure to warn your officers they’re likely to be wandering barefoot in the surf before the evening’s done!”

  * * *

  “Well, damn,” Craig Culbertson said mildly. “This is unexpected!”

  “That’s one way to put it, Sir,” Helena Sammonds replied. The chief of staff stood at the seated admiral’s shoulder, gazing at the dispatch on his display. “Sort of wish we’d known it was coming before we sent off your ‘prospectors,’” she added.

  “A valid point,” Culbertson acknowledged. “I wonder if we should send some of our new cornucopia after them?”

  “Probably not a good idea, unless we can scare up enough escorts to look after them, Sir,” Commander Fremont said from the other side of Culbertson’s desk. The admiral looked at him, and the ops officer shrugged. “Given the way our ‘visits’ are going to be stomping on Solly toes left and right, having an unarmed, unescorted transport full of troops turn up on their doorsteps after our task groups have moved on might get messy.”

  “Something to that, Sir,” Sammonds said. “Quite a lot, actually.”

  Culbertson nodded, and he knew they were right, but the temptation was still hard to resist.

  He punched a key and shifted his screen to the direct feed from the main display in the big carrier’s combat information center. It was currently configured to show the entire Montana System to five light-minutes beyond the hyper limit. The green beads of three fleet transports accelerated steadily across it towards Montana orbit, and he shook his head. None of them were exceptionally large—the biggest probably massed no more than a couple of million tons—but according to the dispatch they’d transmitted ahead of themselves, they carried upwards of fifty thousand trained combat personnel and their equipment, including light ground armor, elderly but still effective sting ships and atmospheric aircraft, and copious amounts of ammunition.

  “I sure wish Lady Gold Peak had known this was coming before she headed off for Madras,” he s
aid.

  “And all God’s children said ‘Amen!’” Lieutenant Commander Gert Spinrad, Culbertson’s astrogator put in fervently. At thirty-six, Spinrad was the youngest member of his staff, only about five years older than his flag lieutenant, and he’d spent two years with the Grayson Space Navy.

  There were times Culbertson suspected it had affected his brain.

  Nonetheless, he had a point. Those fifty thousand troops would have been worth their weight in any commodity anyone cared to nominate when Admiral Gold Peak crossed the Meyers alpha wall. But the rest of the dispatch—!

  “Do you think they can really come up with that many more men?” he asked, looking up at Sammonds and Fremont. “A million of them?”

  “Well, Admiral Khumalo did say they’d turned up more manpower than they expected,” Sammonds pointed out with a crooked smile. “And he won’t be providing them to anyone until and unless he can scare up the transport for them. On the other hand, I have to say this does offer a certain…greater flexibility going forward, shall we say?”

  Helena, Culbertson reflected, had quite a way with words.

  * * *

  “That’s an impressive list of ‘supporting elements.’” Captain Edie Habib, Luiz Rozsak’s chief of staff, sat back in her chair, left elbow on the chair arm while she rested her chin on that palm and her right hand toyed with a lock of dark brown, reddish hair. “First time I ever heard of three complete squadrons of wallers ‘supporting’ a dozen battlecruisers!” she said wryly.

  “Agreed.” Rozsak sat in his own chair, tipped back while the two of them studied the force analysis on the briefing room’s main wall screen. “Ellingsen and Abernathy actually offered us a fourth squadron, but I didn’t want to impress our new allies as being overly greedy, so I declined with becoming modesty.”

  Habib chuckled, then sat straighter and looked at her admiral.

  “This is going to make our job a lot easier, Luiz,” she said much more seriously. “When do we get to sit down with them and start serious planning?”