by David Weber
“I didn’t what?”
“You got it from the spec sheets we pulled from that military transport we hit off Boniface, didn’t you?” Jalla demanded. “Damn it, Guzarwan—if they know 9-Rs are used in Solarian missiles, they’re definitely going to be wondering the wrong direction.”
“Would you kindly relax?” Guzarwan growled, starting to get annoyed. What was Jalla so wired up about this for, anyway? “The Solarians aren’t exactly in the habit of giving out their missile specs to every backworld navy in the galaxy. The farthest Eigen’s going to go with this is to wonder if we got an impeller upgrade, and how we could afford something like that.”
“And if he asks?”
“If he asks—which he won’t—I’ll reluctantly confess I’m trolling for a cheap 9-R so I can resell it back home.”
“You already said we need it.”
“So I lied.”
Jalla’s nose crinkled.
“I don’t like it,” he declared. “If Eigen decides to get suspicious, we’re going to be in deep. Really deep. Dhotrumi’s already said his team probably can’t crack the weapons codes in the time we’ve got. Even if he can, do we even have anyone who knows how to fire a Havenite missile or laser?”
“We could figure it out,” Guzarwan said, tapping his teeth thoughtfully with the tip of the antique Fairbairn-Sykes knife he’d taken off the body of one of his first victims so many years ago. “But all we really need is to make sure the Manticorans get neutralized and stay that way.”
“You got a way to neutralize a Manticoran destroyer?”
“’Course I do,” Guzarwan said with grim satisfaction. “The way to deal with a big dog is with a bigger dog.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we just have to tread water until we’re close enough to the planet for a decent signal.”
“And then?” Jalla prompted.
“And then,” Guzarwan said, “it’ll be time for the Havenites to hear from some seriously concerned citizens.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Fifteen and a half hours later, Guardian arrived at Secour.
The place was comfortably crowded, probably as packed as the planet’s orbital space had been since the original colony ships arrived. Along with Guardian there were two Havenite warships: a battlecruiser and a heavy cruiser, plus sections of what looked like a non-hyper-capable corvette that was in the midst of an orbital assembly. Floating near the half-finished ship was the heavy freighter that had presumably brought in the pieces from Haven.
The two larger warships were equally intriguing. The cruiser’s spin section, instead of the usual toroidal or cylindrical shape, was built more like a dumbbell, with a pair of wedge-shaped pieces turning around the amidships part of the main hull. Metzger had heard of such designs—the theory was that the dumbbell could be locked in place vertically during combat, working in conjunction with the pinched-side shape of the compensator field to squeeze out a few more gees of acceleration—but had never seen one in person. Hopefully, that was one of the ships for sale and she would be allowed aboard for a closer look.
The battlecruiser was even more interesting. Instead of a spin section, the amidships habitation area was compact and built close-in to the rest of the hull. Metzger had heard Haven was experimenting with a new grav-plate system for their hab sections. Apparently, that research had borne some fruit.
Elsewhere in the orbital lanes were a pair of fast courier ships, both of them broadcasting Havenite transponder codes. The original invitation had offered courtesy transport for the more hardscrabble systems in the region, and it looked like some of them had taken Haven up on the offer, just as some of Manticore’s neighbors had taken the Star Kingdom up on theirs.
Of course, how a system that couldn’t afford a multi-month trip to Secour could afford to buy even a surplus warship was another question entirely.
Crowded, of course, was a relative term when dealing with the vast amount of space contained in even a set of mid-distant orbital lanes. In this case especially, with all of the orbiting ships except the battlecruiser having already struck their wedges, a casual observer would barely have noticed anything at all was there.
Struck wedges, and nodes that had already gone cold. Apparently, Guardian was running fashionably late to the party. As was Wanderer, whose lower acceleration had now put her about four hours behind them.
“Captain, we’re being hailed,” Alfonse Joyce announced from the com station. “Commodore Jason Flanders of RHNS Saintonge.”
“Thank you,” Eigen said, keying his com. “Commodore Flanders, this is Captain Eigen of His Majesty’s Ship Guardian. Greetings, and our thanks to you and the Republic for hosting this get-together.”
The com display lit up to reveal a brown-haired man dressed in the green-and-gray Havenite uniform, a set of commodore’s insignia glittering on his shoulderboards, the ensemble completed by a full and meticulously-groomed beard. “Captain Eigen,” the other said gravely. He wasn’t smiling, Metzger noted, and there were tension lines at the corners of his eyes. “On behalf of the Republic of Haven, and RHNS Saintonge, I’d like to welcome you to Secour. I’m glad to see you’re still getting good service from your Protector-class destroyers.”
“They’re getting a bit creaky, but otherwise are fine vessels,” Eigen said. “I should inform you that another pair of ships, the fast courier Diactoros and her escort, are still on the way. I apologize for their delay—I see you have the meeting already underway. Hopefully, they’ll arrive sometime in the next few days.”
“Not a problem,” Flanders said with a dismissing wave of his hand. “We expected representatives would be coming and going over the entire month, and have planned our discussions and demonstrations accordingly. Diactoros and her assembled delegates will be welcome and brought up to speed whenever they arrive.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Eigen said. “I can’t help noticing you seem preoccupied, Commodore. Is there some other problem?”
“Yes and no,” Flanders said, his voice going a little sour. “I suppose it depends on how accommodating and neighborly we’re all feeling today. I’ve received a communication from one of the delegates expressing concern at the presence of a non-Havenite warship here.”
“You’re joking.”
“Yes, I know,” Flanders said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “I suppose you could take it as a compliment that he evidently thinks a Manticoran destroyer could hold her own against a Havenite battlecruiser. But as I say, he’s concerned about it.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing, yet,” Flanders said. “My first impulse was to suggest he sounded ridiculous and that if he had a problem he was welcome to go home. But that wouldn’t exactly have been neighborly.”
“Not to mention accommodating,” Eigen agreed. “So what shall we do about it?”
“The head of our delegation, Ambassador Boulanger, has suggested we put you in an orbit one-eighty around from the complainer,” Flanders said. “That way, he wouldn’t have to look at you, or whatever it is about you that bothers him.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had my own angry nemesis before,” Eigen commented dryly. “Not sure whether to be proud or ashamed.”
“I wouldn’t bother with either if I were you,” Flanders said, matching his tone. “I don’t think he’s as much angry as he is sniveling.”
“That does take some of the drama out of it,” Eigen agreed. “So we’re to be sent around back to the children’s table?”
“As I say, that’s the Ambassador’s suggestion,” Flanders said. “But I’m not happy with it, on several levels. I was hoping you might have a clever alternative.”
“I’m sure we can come up with something,” Eigen said. “May I ask who this person is?”
Flanders shook his head. “Sorry, but he asked me to withhold his name and world, lest Manticore retaliate for his legitimate concerns, unquote. Whatever paranoid lens he’s viewing you through, it a
pparently stretches far enough to cover the whole Star Kingdom.”
“Sounds like a pretty odd duck to be sent to a multi-system meeting,” Eigen said. “But all right. He’s worried that we’ll make trouble? Fine. Let’s try this. We settle into orbit close in to you—a thousand klicks, say—running ahead of you with our beam to your axis. Then we strike our wedge. First hint that we’re trying to make trouble, you fire up your laser and fry us.”
Someone behind Metzger muttered something under their breath, and Metzger felt her own stomach tighten. That was a terrible position for a warship to be in. Riding that close to a battlecruiser with a lowered wedge was risky enough. But to compound the tactical disadvantage by deliberately lining up with the other ship’s axial laser was as bad as it could possibly get. Surely the offer was simply Eigen attempting to be sarcastic.
Flanders clearly thought so, too. “You’re not serious.”
“Why not?” Eigen countered. “What better way to show that we trust you? Alternatively, if he wants assurance that you’re the alpha dog on this particular street corner, this should ease his fears on that score, too.”
“Yes, but—” Flanders strangled off the sentence. “No, I can’t agree. The whole thing is insane. Furthermore, the Republic of Haven is not in the habit of letting minor worlds dictate its policy. Especially policy toward its friends and allies.”
“Accommodating and neighborly, remember?” Eigen reminded him. “We’re the big boys who can afford to humor the new kid in town.”
“Captain—”
“More to the point,” Eigen continued, “that’s the orbital attitude I was planning to take anyway. Except for the part about being directly in your sights, of course. I noticed that your ships are lined up more or less the same direction. I thought it might be prudent to have at least one set of missiles lined up transverse, just in case something unexpected shows up.”
There was a brief pause.
“Interesting,” Flanders said. “Are you expecting something unexpected, Captain?”
“Not at all,” Eigen assured him. “But one of the lessons of history is that trouble seldom announces itself. And if some trouble did show up, its best move would be to come up over the horizon on our flanks.”
“Have you any reason to suspect any such in-system trouble?”
“Again, not really,” Eigen said. “But if there were someone out there who, say, didn’t like this kind of a regional conference, his best move might be to commandeer some armament from the surface and try to catch us napping.”
Flanders smiled faintly. “I see you’re a worst-case-scenario type of person.”
“Probably,” Eigen agreed. “But we don’t see much actual combat in our neighborhood. Mental exercises and borderline paranoia help pass the time.”
Flanders’s smile broadened. “Indeed,” he said. “Very well, then. If we’re going to play to the gallery, we might as well go all the way. In the spirit of cooperation with the Star Kingdom’s trust, and to make sure someone doesn’t hit the wrong button and accidentally slice you in half, we’ll strike our wedge and shut down our forward reactor.”
Metzger felt her eyes go wide. Was Flanders really offering to shut down half his ship’s power just to placate someone’s bizarre delusions about the Star Kingdom?
“That’s hardly necessary, Captain,” Eigen said. From his tone, he was as stunned as Metzger was at Flanders’s suggestion. “Your weapons safeguards are more than sufficient—”
“Especially since we were planning to shut it down for maintenance anyway,” Flanders continued with a touch of sly smile on top of his perfectly innocent tone. “The dorsal radiator system needs some work, and we need it cool enough in there for our remotes to function. We might was well score some points with one of our neighbors while we’re at it.”
Eigen chuckled.
“Well played, Commodore,” he said, inclining his head. “I think we’re in for an interesting visit.”
“It could happen,” Flanders agreed. “And now to more pleasant business. I’d like to invite you to a dinner we’re hosting tonight aboard the heavy cruiser Péridot at twenty-hundred local, Secour Central Meridian time. I trust you’ll be able to attend?”
Metzger glanced at the clock that had been set to the local time’s twenty-three-hour day. It was just after fifteen hundred, which gave them nearly five hours. “I’d be honored,” Eigen said. “May I ask the purpose of this meeting?”
Flanders cocked an eyebrow.
“Do all meetings have to have a purpose?”
“Not at all,” Eigen said. “But when diplomats are involved, that’s usually the case.”
“And so it is here,” Flanders confirmed. “I’d prefer the topic be kept confidential for the moment. But I can assure you it’s of as much interest to the Star Kingdom as it is to the Republic.”
“Interesting,” Eigen said. “We’ll be there.”
“Thank you,” Flanders said. “One other thing. The ambassador has requested that this be a small gathering, with no more than two members from each represented system, and one of them an official government delegate if possible.”
“Which we can’t provide,” Eigen reminded him.
“Understood,” Flanders said. “Not a problem—Ambassador Boulanger can brief your delegate and the others you’re transporting whenever they arrive. I mostly wanted to alert you that you and your guest may be hemmed in by stuffy government types.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Eigen said with a wry smile. “But we’ve faced our own politicians and survived.”
“Glad to hear it,” Flanders said. “Until twenty-hundred, then. Saintonge clear.”
Flanders’s image vanished. Eigen keyed off the com from his end and nodded toward the back of the helmsman’s head. “Take us in, Vitoria. Be careful not to ruffle any feathers along the way.”
“I’ll do my best, Sir,” she promised dryly.
Eigen swiveled around. “Comments?” he invited.
“Asking us to play lap dog to the Havenites is an odd request,” Metzger said. “I’m wondering if we can get Flanders to tell us who forced the issue.”
“We’ll look for an opportunity to ask him,” Eigen said. “TO? You look intrigued by something.”
“I was thinking about that Havenite heavy cruiser out there,” Calkin said. “It seems to me that’s way too much warship for someone who’s looking to simply defend his system. For that, he’d do better to buy some corvettes or a pair of destroyers.”
Metzger pursed her lips. Calkin had a point. Heavy cruisers, like battlecruisers, were designed mainly for force projection outside a system’s home territory, with significantly less use as system defenders. The only reason the RMN had so many of the larger hulls was because the fleet had been thrown together in a hurry when the colony had expected to face the Free Brotherhood’s own massive fleet.
“And yet the Havenites brought one,” she pointed out. “That could mean they already have a buyer.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Eigen said. “Another good reason to attend the dinner tonight. Maybe we can find out who that buyer is.” He looked at Metzger and raised his eyebrows. “Since we don’t have an official government delegate, Commander, I guess it’ll be you and me.”
“I’d be honored, Sir,” Metzger said. Earlier, she’d hoped the cruiser was for sale so she could get a look inside. Sometimes, on rare occasions, wishes were granted ahead of anticipated schedule. “Is this considered a perk of rank, or an obligation?”
“I don’t know yet,” Eigen said. “Let’s see what kind of table the Havenites are setting.”
* * *
“Petty officer in Laser One!” Ensign Joji Yanagi’s smooth baritone called out over the hum of the computers and ventilation fans.
Lieutenant Lisa Donnelly rolled her eyes. Yanagi had begun this nonsense a month ago, about the time serious boredom had started to settle in around Guardian’s crew. It was allegedly a loving homage to the classic announceme
nt given when a senior officer entered the bridge, but Donnelly had no illusions as to what the Bosun’s or Tactical Officer’s response would be if one of them ever caught him at it.
She’d toyed with the idea of giving him a small slap in hopes of preempting a more serious verbal flaying farther down the line. But his antics helped defuse the boredom-driven tension in Guardian’s Weapons Department, and there really weren’t any regs against sarcasm unless it edged into insubordination or was fired directly into a superior’s face. Besides, it was no worse than some of the stunts Donnelly herself had pulled back at the Academy.
Still, it was nice when she could occasionally give him a figurative elbow in the ribs. “Yanagi, you thickhead, this isn’t just a petty officer,” she admonished, pulling herself into his view from behind one of the techs working on the half-disassembled missile tracking module strapped to the central work bench. “This is Gravitics Tech Third Travis Long.”
“Really,” Yanagi said, bending backwards at the waist as if to get a better look at the young man floating stiffly in the open hatchway. “Sorry, Ma’am.”
“As well you should be,” Donnelly said as she floated toward them. “Before we came aboard Guardian, Long and I served together on Vanguard.”
She had the satisfaction of seeing the subtle change in Yanagi’s face as he finally made the connection. “Oh,” he said, the faint sarcasm in his voice morphing into equally faint but genuine respect. “Honored to meet you, Long.”
“And you, Sir,” Long said, eyeing the other cautiously.
“Will you take over for me, Mr. Yanagi?” Donnelly continued, nodding back over her shoulder at the gutted tracking module. “Long and I have some business.”
For the briefest fraction of a second she could see in Yanagi’s eyes the question of what kind of business a weapons officer and a gravitics petty officer could possibly have together. But whatever his conclusions or suspicions, he was smart enough not to voice them.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he said. Nodding at Long, he kicked off the bulkhead and flew past Donnelly, threading his way deftly between a pair of diagnostic consoles.