by David Weber
The ghost of old reflexive fears flashed across Winterfall’s mind. Back when this Mars thing had first started, his unexpected invitation into the King’s presence had been a strange and terrifying thought.
But not anymore. Not with three extra years of Breakwater’s tutelage under his belt.
Now, he simply ducked his head again in acknowledgment, his brain spinning not with panic but with the straightforward task of recasting his presentation for the newly redefined audience.
“I would be honored, Your Grace,” he said. “I’ll look forward to the meeting.”
“As will I,” Burgundy said, an odd note to his voice. “Until this evening, then. You’re now excused, with the Cabinet’s thanks.”
Slipping his tablet into its case, Winterfall left the room. He carefully avoided looking at Breakwater on his way out.
The Chancellor would understand that this was the right thing to do. Eventually.
Hopefully before he flayed Winterfall alive and hung his hide out to dry.
* * *
Despite Burgundy’s casual description, Winterfall hadn’t really expected the meeting’s participants to consist solely of himself, the King, and the Defense Minister.
He was right about that. Burgundy himself was present, of course, and so was Breakwater. The Chancellor seemed to have calmed down somewhat since the Cabinet meeting, but Winterfall could see he wasn’t so much satisfied as he was withholding final judgment. The other two participants Winterfall had thought might be invited, First Lord of the Admiralty Cazenestro and Admiral Locatelli, were conspicuous by their absence. Apparently, Dapplelake had decided he didn’t need to bring in any of his support staff on this.
The one person waiting in the Palace conference room who was a surprise was Crown Prince Edward. Winterfall hadn’t even realized that Edward’s ship, Defiant, was near Manticore at the moment, let alone that the Crown Prince might be invited to the meeting.
Still, Winterfall had faced the King without problem or trepidation. The Crown Prince couldn’t be any worse.
“Thank you for meeting with us this evening, My Lord,” the King said to Winterfall, his voice and manner as gracious as always, as he took his place at the head of the conference table. “We’re eager to hear this story you find too sensitive even for the privacy of the Cabinet chamber.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Winterfall said, bowing deeply across the table. “With your permission, I’d like to start the story with MPARS Phobos’s departure for her posting in the Unicorn Belt. Two days later, with Phobos still en route, the battlecruiser Vanguard, which had been resting in Manticore orbit for several years, was suddenly loaded with new equipment and replacement parts and ordered to prepare for a voyage. The timing, plus the fact that Vanguard was also ordered to Manticore-B, seemed strangely coincidental, especially in retrospect after the incident of Rafe’s Scavenger. I therefore decided to do some checking.”
He paused for a breath, wondering if Dapplelake would call him on that. In fact, Winterfall had been only peripheral in the investigation, with Breakwater and his extensive network of contacts doing most of the heavy lifting. But if the Defense Minster knew that, he apparently didn’t think it worth mentioning. “A search of the Navy and MPARS records, along with a conversation with a member of Vanguard’s crew, showed that—”
“A moment,” Dapplelake interrupted. “On whose authority did you speak with any of Vanguard’s crew?”
“No authority was needed, My Lord,” Winterfall said. “It was a family conversation with my half-brother, Spacer First Class Travis Uriah Long.”
“I don’t care who he is,” Dapplelake growled. “Navy officers and crew are not permitted to speak on the record without express authorization from their CO.”
“Did Spacer Long reveal anything that wasn’t in official Navy records?” the King asked.
Winterfall hesitated. Technically, Travis had indeed said something Breakwater hadn’t found in the record. But in the sense the King meant— “No, Your Majesty,” he assured the monarch. “And as I understand naval regulations, family conversations that don’t violate classification standards are exempt from the usual permission requirements.”
Dapplelake harrumphed, but waved a hand. “Very well. Continue.”
“A search of the records revealed that the orders for Vanguard’s new equipment had actually begun several weeks before Phobos was certified and commissioned,” Winterfall said. “Again, the timing raised suspicions, so we looked deeper into the lists. Buried among the rest of the equipment was a full set of repair parts for Vanguard’s tractor system. A system that I’m told has been inoperable for most of the past decade.” He looked squarely into Dapplelake’s eyes. “A system that would be necessary for her to tow a crippled ship like Phobos.”
The room went suddenly still. “What are you implying, My Lord?” Dapplelake demanded into the silence.
“I’m suggesting, My Lord,” Winterfall said, “that elements within the Navy realized ahead of Phobos’s commissioning that there was a dangerous flaw in its design. Those same elements permitted the sloop to head out, knowing it would fail, and arranged for Vanguard to be in position to retrieve the soon-to-be crippled ship and bring it back to Manticore.”
“You realize what you’re saying,” Dapplelake said, his voice dark. “You’re accusing the Royal Manticoran Navy of deliberate, cold-blooded murder.”
“Not at all, My Lord,” Winterfall said hastily. “I have no doubt that those involved had no expectation that anyone would die. There is some indication, in fact, that specific concerns about Phobos’s impeller ring were voiced early on, but were brushed aside by MPARS and the ship’s designers. I think the plan was simply to allow Phobos to founder and be towed back in disgrace and humiliation. The project would be abandoned, and the remaining battlecruisers left intact.”
“And then Rafe’s Scavenger came onto the scene,” Burgundy murmured.
“Exactly, Your Grace,” Winterfall confirmed. “The miner’s critical situation prompted Phobos’s captain to push her ship’s capabilities to the point where the fatal hull harmonic broke her apart. The rest—” he grimaced “—we all know.”
Again, silence descended on the room. Winterfall stole a sideways look at Breakwater. The Chancellor still wasn’t happy. But at least he seemed to realize now that Dapplelake truly hadn’t been involved. For whatever that was worth to him.
The King cleared his throat. “Who?”
“Who was the person who sat back and let it happen?” Winterfall shook his head. “I don’t know, Your Majesty. I’ll confess that—” we “—I assumed Earl Dapplelake had been aware of the problem and had turned a blind eye to it. But at the meeting this afternoon I realized he had, in fact, been kept completely in the dark. That was why I asked for a more private setting in which to lay out the situation.”
“We appreciate your discretion,” the King said. The lines in his face, Winterfall noted, seemed to have deepened in the past few minutes. “Is there more?”
Once again, Winterfall hesitated. Should he tell them that his brother had come up with a scheme that might have saved at least some of Phobos’s crew?
No, he decided. Vanguard’s official record listed that idea as having come from the ship’s Tactical Officer, and claiming otherwise would look like bragging, if not outright perjury. “No, Your Majesty,” he said. “That’s all.”
Across the table, Dapplelake stirred. “In that case, and with your permission, Your Majesty, I should like to be excused. I have an investigation to initiate, and I’d like to get started as soon as possible.”
“Of course,” the King said. “I’ll look forward to hearing the results of your inquiries.”
Dapplelake smiled, a small, brittle thing. “I’m sure you will, Your Majesty,” he said. “I, of course, will not.”
He turned to Winterfall; and to Winterfall’s surprise, the other actually inclined his head in a bow. “Thank you for not automatically thinking
the worst of me,” he said. “Not everyone in the Lords would have been so courteous.” He flicked a significant look at Breakwater.
“You’re welcome, My Lord,” Winterfall said, matching the other’s tone. “I’m sorry to have been the bearer of such news.”
Dapplelake inclined his head again. Then he bowed to the Crown Prince, Burgundy, and the King. He looked again at Breakwater, hesitating a split second before offering the Chancellor the same courteous nod, and left the room.
“Unless there’s other business, I believe we’re finished,” the King said. “Once again, Baron Winterfall, we thank you for bringing this to light. You and Lord Breakwater are excused. Duke Burgundy, perhaps you’d be kind enough to give me an additional minute of your time.”
Breakwater and Winterfall were halfway from the palace door to their cars before the Chancellor spoke. “Nicely done,” he said, his words forming little clouds in the cool nighttime air. “Not only did you cut him off at the knees, but he even thanked you for the honor of permitting him to fall on his sword.”
“He wasn’t involved,” Winterfall reminded him. “There’s no reason for him to take the blame.”
Breakwater snorted.
“Reason doesn’t enter into it. Never has. He’s still the Defense Minister, which means all responsibility ultimately lies at his door.”
“All responsibility, My Lord?”
“Meaning?” Breakwater countered.
“Meaning there are persistent reports that the MPARS station on Gryphon ordered Phobos to get to Rafe’s Scavenger first,” Winterfall said. “If so—”
“No one would ever have given Captain Ouvrard such an order,” Breakwater interrupted. “At worst, someone might have offered it as a suggestion.”
“Perhaps,” Winterfall said. “I’m just saying that, however it happened, there seems to be more than enough blame to go around.”
Breakwater was silent for a few more steps.
“You have a conciliatory spirit, Gavin,” he said at last. “In a job that involves the rescue of stray dogs, that can be helpful. In politics, it isn’t.”
Winterfall threw the other a sideways look. Was that a deliberate swipe at his mother’s business?
“I’m just trying to find the truth, My Lord,” he said, making a supreme effort to brush off the jibe.
“The truth is that Dapplelake will find whoever allowed Phobos to fly, and then he’ll resign,” Breakwater said tartly. “Right now, that’s all the truth that matters.”
Winterfall sighed. But Breakwater was probably right. The House of Lords, it had been said, was built on privilege and pride. Dapplelake’s pride would dictate that he take the blame for his subordinates’ actions.
“I wonder who Burgundy and the King will choose to replace him,” Breakwater continued thoughtfully. “Well, no matter. Whoever it is won’t have Dapplelake’s stubbornness. Especially not after a scandal of this magnitude. No, I think we’re on track to finally crank back the money and personnel sink that our illustrious Royal Manticoran Navy has become.”
“Yes,” Winterfall murmured. Fleetingly, he wondered what effect Breakwater’s proposed budget slashing might have on his brother’s own career.
But he couldn’t afford to think that way. As always, it came down to the greatest good for the greatest number. The Navy had seen its day, and it was time for MPARS and other parts of the Star Kingdom to start getting their fair share of the pie.
Besides, from the way Travis had talked about the frustrations of life aboard Vanguard there was every chance he would simply serve out his five T-year hitch and get out. Whatever Breakwater was able to push through, Travis would be long gone before he was affected by any of it.
“In fact, it might be a good idea to sit down right now and draft a few proposals,” Breakwater said into his thoughts. “We’ll want to have something ready when Act Two of the Phobos scandal hits. I trust you had no further plans this evening?”
“No, My Lord, not at all,” Winterfall assured him.
“Good,” Breakwater said, pulling out his uni-link. “Castle Rock’s still out of town. Let’s see if Chillon and Tweenriver are available.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
With a tired-sounding sigh, Burgundy settled into his overstuffed chair in the King’s Sanctum and shook his head. “Well,” he said.
And stopped.
For a moment his single word hung in the air like a piece of broken insulation floating uselessly in a service accessway. Edward looked surreptitiously at his father, wondering if the King would diplomatically suggest the Prime Minister offer something a bit more useful.
But he didn’t. Nor, Edward suspected, would he. From everything Edward had heard, the Prime Minister had been doing this more and more lately: stopping to think in the middle of conversations and forgetting to start again.
Not that it was a huge loss in most of those conversations. Burgundy was a mousy sort, marginally competent at managing Cabinet meetings, but a far cry from the dynamic, forceful Prime Ministers who’d cracked the whip over the Lords during the reign of Edward’s grandmother. Queen Elizabeth had known what she wanted, she’d found men and women who could made sure she got it, and the Lords be damned if they got in her way.
Burgundy, in contrast, was a doormat. Edward still didn’t know how he’d managed to be elected Prime Minister, but he suspected it was a matter of Burgundy being no one’s first choice but everyone’s second.
The truly sad part was that he had been more alive once. Back in his early days in the Lords he’d done his share of wheeling and dealing, and had in fact been on Elizabeth’s side on several of the reforms she’s steamrolled through that body.
But the energy had long since faded away. Michael’s ascent to the throne, and his calmer, less confrontational style of rule, had been matched by the fading of Burgundy’s own fire. Perhaps Burgundy was one of those mirror-like men who had no independent political personality, but who could only reflect the light from their leader, mentor, or monarch.
Rather like Winterfall, in fact. Even just seeing the young baron here tonight Edward had had the distinct sense that he was an eager young lord whom Breakwater would inspire, use, and then discard.
And when it was all over, Winterfall would probably even thank Breakwater for the experience.
Burgundy was still staring off into space, with no sign that he would be following up on his original comment in the near future. The King likewise seemed to have descended into a deep rumination. If there was to be a conversation, Edward decided, he would have to take the lead. Clearing his throat, he looked at Burgundy and raised his eyebrows.
“I presume, Your Grace, that you’ll be able to persuade Dapplelake to stay on?”
Burgundy twitched, as if surprised at the break in the silence. “What? Oh. Yes, of course I’ll try. But I may not succeed. Dapplelake has a great deal of stubborn integrity, and you could see that he was taking this whole thing personally.”
“Then he needs to rethink his priorities,” Edward said bluntly. “He’s been the Navy’s chief bulwark in the Lords against Breakwater’s plans to take our ships away and turn the Navy into a social club. You saw him tonight—he was practically salivating at the prospect of getting that impediment out of his way.”
“You have no idea, Edward,” the King said tiredly. “He’s already submitted a new proposal to sell off our battlecruisers, either to Haven or possibly at the kind of warship sale the Havenites are holding at Secour this fall.”
“He isn’t suggesting we take them to the Secour sale, is he?” Burgundy asked, sounding worried. “Those are all supposed to be surplus Havenite ships. I don’t think they’d appreciate us crashing their party with our merchandise.”
“That won’t be an issue,” Edward soothed. “The BCs have spent way too much time in mothballs. We couldn’t possibly get them in shape—for anything—in less than a year.”
Burgundy huffed out a breath. “Thank goodness. We can’t afford to have a
major trading partner mad at us.”
“We’ll be fine,” Edward said absently, his mind suddenly racing. The Secour warship sale had been announced nearly five T-years ago, with the Republic of Haven sending out an open invitation to all interested parties to attend, examine, and hopefully buy. The Republic’s purpose in holding the sale appeared to be twofold: first, to clear out some unneeded but still serviceable warships; and second, to provide a reason for a general get-together of the systems in the region.
The invitation had made it clear that Haven was serious about having as large an attendance as they could get for the proposed month-long meeting. So serious, in fact, that they’d offered to send fast couriers to transport interested parties whose worlds didn’t have hyper-capable ships of their own.
Naturally, Breakwater had moved swiftly to crush any interest in the meeting, arguing that the last thing the RMN needed was more obsolete ships for its trophy room. But for once his tactic had misfired. King Michael had simply ignored the ship-sale aspect of the meeting when presenting it to Parliament, focusing instead on the twin virtues of hospitality and neighborliness. In the end, not only did Parliament vote to send Diactoros, one of the Star Kingdom’s two fast couriers, to the Secour meeting, but also authorized the RMN to offer passage to interested governments in Ueshiba and Minorca, systems too far from Haven to make the Republic’s own transport offer practical. Diactoros and her escort, the heavy cruiser Perseus, had left on their grand circle tour nearly eight months ago, to the small notice of Parliament and the muted annoyance of a Chancellor distracted by the nearing climax of the Mars project.
Given the final debacle of that project, and the subsequent sharpening of both Breakwater’s attention and his attitude, it was doubtful the Chancellor would sit idly by if the Navy asked to send a third ship to the Secour meeting.