by David Weber
His fellow corporal made no reply, since he couldn’t think of one that wouldn’t be excessively rude. Vlachos should be so lucky. As far as Hernandez was aware, the slob hadn’t had a bedmate in at least six months—even though, being bisexual, he had a wider field than most.
Vlachos was . . . unpleasant. It didn’t help that he snored, bathed no more often than regulations required, chewed his food with his mouth open, made invariably stupid jokes, the list went on and on. How the man had ever made it beyond private was one of the mysteries of the universe.
“Leaving in fifteen seconds,” came the voice of the Hali Sowle’s captain over the com. “If you haven’t secured yourself by then and something goes wrong, don’t come whining to me.”
Bohuslav grinned. Ganny El, on the other hand . . . There was an old lady with ungracious manners, an abrasive personality, a well-nigh total disrespect for protocol—and a way with fools that was one of the wonders of the universe.
He checked to make sure he was strapped into the bunk, then looked over at Supakrit again. The sergeant, alas, had not secured himself before falling asleep. On the other hand, he looked so placid and boneless that Bohuslav figured he’d probably survive any mishaps that were survivable at all. The odds of that happening were microscopic, anyway.
And here we go.
* * *
The personnel tubes and umbilicals detached. The battered and bedamned looking freighter (whose hyper generator had been thoroughly overhauled after its recent maintenance issues, thank you very much) drifted clear of Parmley Station on carefully metered bursts from her maneuvering thrusters. Hali Sowle was in no enormous hurry, and it took several minutes for her to gain enough clearance to go to her main fusion-powered reaction thrusters and accelerate away from the station at a sedate twenty gravities’ acceleration. (Ganny El was frugal—some might even have gone so far as to use the term chintzy—with her reactor mass.) At that rate, it took her a leisurely fifty-five seconds to clear the mandatory three hundred-kilometer deep impeller-free safety zone around the station. The two Turner-class frigates, the Gabriel Prosser and the Denmark Vesey, kept pace with her until all three vessels crossed the perimeter and shut down thrusters. Then they rolled slightly as her heavy-lift tractors reached out, locked them up, and settled them into their jury-rigged nests on her flank.
Three more minutes passed as the frigates each locked a personnel tube to the far larger freighter and tested them for pressure and security. The frigates were fully self-contained and self-sufficient starships, of course, but why should their crews stay penned up inside their tiny hulls when much larger open spaces were available (within reason, of course) aboard Hali Sowle? Pressure checks satisfactorily completed, each frigate’s CO gave the freighter’s command deck the go ahead. Then—
“That’s that, Parmley. We’re out of here,” Ganny El announced over the com. The Hali Sowle’s wedge came up and the freighter leapt instantly to one hundred and seventy gravities. Five minutes later, she was nearly eighty thousand kilometers out, headed for the hyper limit at over five hundred kilometers per second.
* * *
Captain Anton Petersen keyed his control unit and a new set of figures came up on the wallscreen in the conference room. “These are my projections for assembling and training the special units. We need a name for them, by the way. Best way to tank morale I know is to assign someone to a ‘special unit.’ ”
Hugh Arai chuckled. “No kidding. In the BSC, that’s a euphemism for cleaning the toilets.”
Petersen smiled. “It’s got a wider application in the RMN—but none of them bring good cheer to those assigned.”
“Call them the Royal Commandos,” suggested Ruth.
“They’re not anything of the sort!” said Jeremy X scornfully. “These lads and lasses aren’t going to be storming fortresses. Their work will be more along the lines of turning over rocks to see what might be crawling around underneath.”
“That’s sort of what most people’s ‘commandos’ do, Jeremy,” Hugh pointed out mildly. “My own stalwart companions of the BSC come to mind. ‘Storm fortresses’?” He shuddered. “That’s what Marines are for! Not, mind you,” he continued judiciously, “that these lads are likely to be up to BSC standards any time soon. Take some training, some good doctrine, and a lot of experience to get there. So I’ll grant you the ancient and respected title might be just a tad premature at this point.”
“Call them the ‘Royal Mousers,’ then,” said Berry.
“That’s preposter—” But the Secretary of War broke off, frowning.
“Kind of like it, myself,” said Hugh.
Ruth sniffed. “Well, of course you do. Currying royal favor, seeing as how if you lose it the consequences are personal and immediate. But I think it’s a little . . . I don’t know. Disrespectful. Well, maybe not dis-respectful. Unrespectful?”
“Pfah.” That came from Jeremy, whose frown was clearing away. “Do them good not to be fawned over. Besides, they’re ex-slaves. Easily pleased by the occasional tidbit. All we need is to come up with a snazzy unit logo and they’ll be purring like—”
Hugh winced. “Please don’t say it.”
“—cats. With fresh-caught rodents squirming in their maws.”
Ruth still looked skeptical, but her always-active mind was intrigued. “How about . . . A snarling cat’s head over . . . What? Crossed swords, maybe?”
“Oh, pfui!” protested Berry. “I don’t want them snarling. Cat’s head, fine—but it should be the Cheshire cat. Better yet, just its grin before it fades away entirely. Over . . .”
Her eyes got a little criss-crossed, as she pondered the problem. “Rodents petrified, staring up—two on each side. And over the grin . . . Crossed lariats, maybe?”
Classic heraldry was something of a hobby for Petersen, but he managed not to wince at the Queen’s suggestion. The Cheshire cat was fine, and so were the terrified rodents. The crossed lariats, on the other hand, wouldn’t do at all.
Fortunately, tradition was at hand. “For the crest, I recommend going with either a pair of lions—sejant or rampant, either’ll work—or crossed keys. To avoid grumbling from the churches, though, if we opt for the latter we should use a different design than the keys of Saint Peter.”
Everyone stared at him.
“What’s ‘sejant’ and ‘rampant’?” asked Berry.
“The terms aren’t used in modern heraldry,” explained Petersen. His tone of voice had a touch of acerbic disdain in it. “Haven’t been used in well over a thousand T-years, in fact . . . except by those of us who really understand the importance of tradition. They’re from the classic forms and are based on ancient Norman—that’s an Old Earth language, one of Standard English’s less reputable ancestors. Not that Standard English has any reputable ancestors now that I think about it.” He shrugged. “Anyway, ‘sejant’ means sitting on guard, and ‘rampant’ shows the beast upright with paws raised as if it were entering battle.”
Berry made a face. “Seems . . . excessive, for a Cheshire cat. Let’s go with the crossed keys.”
“Done,” said Hugh. “Royal Mousers it is.”
Petersen cleared his throat. “I recommend using Royal Mouser Corps instead. The troops in the unit will start calling themselves ‘mousers’ immediately, but they’ll be disgruntled if they don’t have the dignity of ‘corps’ formally attached to the name.”
Hugh looked at Berry. “Okay with me.”
“Me, too,” she replied. “Jeremy?”
“I rather like it. And now that the folderol is taken care of, exactly how large a corps do you envision, Captain Petersen? And organized how?”
“We’ll start with a force of around four hundred officers and enlisted troops—the size of a small battalion—commanded by a lieutenant colonel. They’ll be divided into four companies of one hundred people, each commanded by a captain. Each company, in turn, will be divided into four platoons of twenty soldiers, commanded by a lieutenant, along with
a special platoon of twenty commanded by another captain. That special platoon will consist mostly of intelligence specialists.”
“Seems a little top-heavy,” said Jeremy. “In terms of the officers-to-enlisted ratio, I mean.”
“It is, measured by the standards of combat units.” Petersen shrugged. “But the mission assigned to the Mousers is extremely complicated and will require a lot in the way of individual and small unit initiative. I think it’d be wise to have a heavy cadre of officers and noncoms.”
Jeremy looked at Hugh. “Do you have a problem with that?”
Hugh scratched his jaw. “Well . . . I understand Anton’s reasoning. We don’t use the same grades, but the BSC has a similar organizational structure—and for pretty much the same reason. What bothers me is that Torch’s armed forces are already strapped for officers, especially commissioned ones. This will aggravate the problem some.”
The Secretary of War looked mildly exasperated. “A straight answer please. Yes or no?”
“Yes, yes. I’m just fretting out loud.”
* * *
Walter Imbesi looked out over Erewhon’s capital city of Maytag. From his vantage point on one of the observation decks just a few floors from the very top of the Suds Emporium, he had an excellent view of Whirlpool Gulf and the harbor area. Both of which were causing him to muse on history, at the moment.
Or, more likely, he was musing on history because of the political situation. The landscape below was just a prop, you might say. Imbesi had a strong sense of irony. Once again, the present found reflection in the past.
Most visitors to Erewhon—most of the planet’s own citizens, for that matter—thought Whirlpool Gulf got its name from the maelstroms that formed in its narrow expanse due to the heavy tide. In fact, the name came from the same whimsy that led those ancient gangsters to bestow the name of Maytag on their new capital and call its tallest and most prestigious edifice the Suds. They planned to launder their reputations as well as their money, but couldn’t resist thumbing their nose at the galaxy while they were about it.
He turned his head slightly. “Is either of you a student of ancient history?”
“Not me,” said Sharon Justice.
“Define ‘ancient,’ ” said Yuri Radamacher.
“Anything pre-Diaspora.” Walter took his eyes away from the view and swiveled to face the other occupants of the observation deck. Which was more in the way of a small and luxurious lounge, really, than what most people thought of as a “deck.” The Suds had been designed with an eye in mind for informal and highly discreet conversations. The material lining the walls shielded the room from most methods of spying, and powerful electronic scramblers did for the rest. Visitors were always welcome to bring their own antidetection gear, of course.
“Specifically,” he continued, “the two centuries between the discovery of atmospheric flight and the first interstellar expedition.”
“Christopher Columbus discovered the moon, right?” said Sharon.
Imbesi winced. “I hope that’s a joke. The moon was ‘discovered’ by australopithecines. Columbus’ discoveries happened almost half a millennium before the development of air flight.”
“Hey, I thought it was funny.”
Yuri ignored the banter. “I know a fair amount about it. Why?”
“Our situation reminds me of one that existed in that period—and I think we can find a solution to our problem there as well. An inspiration, at least.”
“Explain, please.”
“After the first of the great world wars, two of Europe’s major powers—Russia and Germany—found themselves ostracized by the rest for political reasons. The reasons varied between the two, and certainly aren’t close to anything we face today. But the gist of their problem was quite similar. Russia was a vast country with a lot of space difficult for any foreign power to investigate. It was also a desperately poor country with a great need for technical assistance. Germany was almost the polar opposite: highly advanced, for the time, but a relatively small country with little in the way of privacy. It had also been forced to disarm itself as a result of losing the war.
“So, they cut a deal. The Russians allowed the Germans to set up secret development projects far inside its borders, which they used to build and test weapons. They also engaged in military training. In exchange, the Germans gave the Russians technical assistance and advice in creating a modern officer corps for its own army.”
Yuri was frowning slightly. “I knew the bare bones of that. But as I recall, there are a lot of differences . . .”
Walter made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Oh, certainly. For starters, the Germans and Russians were deeply suspicious of each other, which”—here came a gleaming smile—“I daresay is not true of any of us.”
He bestowed the gleaming smile on the fourth occupant of the room, Lieutenant Commander Watanapongse. The Mayan intelligence officer who was doubling here as an informal negotiator for Governor Barregos and Admiral Rozsak had been silent so far.
He now broke his silence. In a manner of speaking. He issued a noncommittal grunt. But there was a definite trace of humor there, as well.
“Like all analogies,” Imbesi continued, “you can only push it so far. For one thing, we’re not proposing a formal military alliance and we’re working with three parties instead of two. For another, the issue of maneuvering room for training purposes isn’t really that important. The galaxy’s a lot bigger than a planet. We can find an uninhabitable red giant system somewhere in which to conduct maneuvers.”
Sharon had a sly smile on her face. “I have to say that I find the suggestion Haven is in any way comparable to that dirt-poor, hardscrabble—what did you say the name was—?”
“Russia.”
“Is probably grounds for an affair of honor. Luckily for you, I left my dueling pistols at home.”
Imbesi raised his hands in protest. “I meant to imply no such thing.”
“Best not to,” said Watanapongse, smiling. “The truth is, Haven surpasses us in some areas relevant to military technology. And there’s no comparison at all when it comes to battle-readiness and combat experience. What we could really use from you is something short of a formal alliance—that might stir up sleeping dogs at home we’d just as soon kept slumbering—but as close to it as possible.”
“You’re proposing a secret defensive agreement, is what it sounds like,” said Yuri. “More precisely, a secret addendum to the defensive agreement we already have.”
Watanapongse and Imbesi looked at each other. “That would do it, I think,” said Imbesi.
“As long as we really keep it secret,” agreed the Mayan intelligence officer.
“What would the basic provisions be? In terms of what you’d want from us?”
“In essence—I’m keeping this very brief for the moment; we can draw up the specific language later—we’d want Haven to provide us with a last-resort guarantee of military support—warships, I mean, not just assistance and advice—if all hell breaks loose and the Sollies start sending battle fleets our way with blood in their eye.” He nodded toward Imbesi. “Or if they come at Erewhon. But in this scenario, it’s more likely Maya would be the target.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Yuri. “You want to maintain as long as possible your current pose as neutrals—in the case of Erewhon—or good little OFS types, in yours. But if and when the Sollies see through the façade and decide to punish you, you want Haven to come to your aid.”
“It’ll be ‘when,’ sooner or later,” said Watanapongse. “We’re just hoping ‘if’ doesn’t become ‘when’ until the Solarian League has already crumbled or the Sollies are too weak and disorganized to do very much about it.”
Yuri smiled. “You know, there’s another analogy from ancient history that’s more appropriate here. Did you ever hear of the Monroe Doctrine?”
The Mayan shook his head. Imbesi leaned his head back and laughed. “Of course!” he said.
Seeing Watanapongse’s puzzled expression, he explained. “One of the other great powers at the time, the United States of America, dominated Terra’s western hemisphere. They declared the entire hemisphere off limits to the older Eurasian states.”
Turning back to Yuri, he said: “That’s about right. That would allow us to remain an independent and steadily stronger power center, while you establish that you don’t intend to let any outside interests intervene in the area and create any dangerous instability on your southern flanks.”
“So far, so good—from your point of view,” said Yuri. “But—forgive me for being blunt—what’s in it for us?”
“Goodwill?” That came from the Mayan lieutenant commander.
Yuri shrugged. “I’m not one to dismiss the importance of goodwill, even between star nations. Still, if you want me to pass this along to Eloise Pritchart, a bit of icing on the cake would be helpful.”
Imbesi and Watanapongse looked at each other, for a moment. “It’s your call, Jiri,” said the Erewhonese.
“Barregos’ call, with a lot of input from Luiz,” responded the Mayan officer. “But we already discussed this possibility before I left and my instructions are pretty clear. We can provide Haven with intelligence on the Solarian League that’s way more extensive and deeper than anything you—or the Manties—could turn up on your own.”
He plucked at the sleeve of his uniform. “Seeing as how, not to put too fine a point on it, I am still an intelligence officer in the Solarian Navy. Just as Luiz is an admiral and Oravil is one of the League’s OFS sector governors.”
“Sounds good to me, Yuri,” said Sharon. “Granted, if the wheels come off the provisions of the agreement are weighted heavily in favor of Maya and Erewhon. But we’re already at war with the Sollies and it’s quite possible the wheels will never come off at all. Maya may well be able to slide through the whole crisis without ever triggering off a direct confrontation with the League. At least, one that involves massive military intervention by the Sollies.”